Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [38]
“I tried to go inside,” said Aylaen. “Something’s blocking the door.”
Garn looked grim on hearing this, and Aylaen’s heart lurched. Treia was not an easy person to get to know, much less to love, but Aylaen was doing her best. She liked having a sister. Having grown up with the boys, she had never made friends with girls her age. Most of the time, Treia was stiff and cold, but sometimes, in rare moments, she would relax and forget the grudge she bore the world, and she and Aylaen would talk confidingly as sisters talk. They discussed their mother and her problems, shared memories of their dead father, and acknowledged the hatred both felt for their stepfather. Aylaen cherished these moments, and she was afraid for her sister now.
“Treia!” Garn called, knocking respectfully on the door. “Bone Priestess, the Chief requests your presence at the feast. It is important that you attend.”
He waited, but there was no response.
Garn handed the torch to Aylaen, who put it into the iron sconce on the wall. He put his shoulder to the door and shoved. The door moved a little, opening a crack. Aylaen put her eye to it and tried to see inside, but all was dark.
“It will take both of us,” said Garn. “Put your weight into it. Now—”
“No, stop,” came Treia’s cold voice. “I will let you inside.”
They heard something heavy being dragged across the floor, and then the door swung open. Treia had been sitting in the darkness, apparently, for no light burned inside. Her face was stark white in the torchlight.
“Treia, what’s wrong?” Aylaen asked, alarmed. “What’s the matter? Have you been here all this time in the dark?”
She took hold of her sister’s hands, rubbed them with her own. “You’re freezing! Where’s your cloak?”
Garn carried his flaring torch inside. The flame cast a pool of light around them, leaving the rest of the Hall in shadow.
“Treia, Norgaard requires your presence at the feast,” Garn said.
Treia stood stiff, unmoving. Her face was drawn and haggard. She did not respond. She gazed at the firelight, did not appear even to have heard him.
Garn and Aylaen exchanged perplexed glances. They had no idea what to do. Garn could not very well drag Treia to the feast, yet it was of vital importance that she attend.
“Treia, dear sister—,” Aylaen began in soothing tones.
“Look!” cried Treia suddenly, savagely. She pointed a quivering finger at the altar. “Look! Look there!”
Garn held his torch closer, and light flowed over the altar. Aylaen blinked, not certain if she was seeing things. The flickering light of the torch was causing the shadows to dance, playing tricks on her eyes. Garn drew nearer still, holding the torch directly above the altar. Aylaen sucked in a horrified breath. The statue of Vindrash had split in two. The goddess lay in pieces on the floor.
Every clan had a statue to honor Vindrash, generally reproductions of the beautiful jadeite statue of the goddess found in the Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm. The Torgun’s statue of Vindrash was carved of wood, larger than the jadeite statue, coming to about a man’s waist. Vindrash was portrayed as a dragon rearing up on muscular hind legs. Her long spiked tail wrapped gracefully around her scaled body. Her wings thrust out from the shoulders, and her head was raised in fierce dignity, the fanged mouth gaping wide in a silent roar.
The statue was said to be nearly as old as the original statue, and now it lay broken. A crack ran lengthwise, dividing the head, sundering the body. One of the wings had fallen off when the statue hit the floor, and it lay to one side.
“The ogres are right,” said Treia in a shaking voice. “The gods are dead. This proves it!”
“Nonsense!” Garn said sharply. “This proves that the statue was very old and fragile and it fell apart. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more . . . ,” Treia murmured. She continued to stare at the statue.
She has been here all this time, Aylaen realized, sitting with the broken statue, believing the gods are dead.