Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [51]
“Treia, it broke—”
“It broke,” said Treia, “when I touched it.”
Aylaen was shocked, but she tried to devise an excuse. “As Garn said, the statue was old—”
Treia made an angry, impatient gesture.
Aylaen loved and admired her sister, but she was also intimidated by her. Treia was so smart, so clever, always thinking deep and serious and complex thoughts. Aylaen wanted life to be simple. She wanted only to love Garn and be loved by him in return. The gods wanted life to be simple, too. Aylaen had always felt close to the gods, perhaps because as a little girl she had liked making up stories about them and telling them to her friends.
An unhappy child—bereft of the father she had adored, mistreated by her stepfather, and generally ignored by her grieving mother—Aylaen found a father in Torval, who would protect her from Sigurd’s thrashings, and a loving mother in Vindrash. The dragon would let Aylaen ride upon her back, between her wings, and carry her off to heaven.
Aylaen could hear voices outside. The men were coming, bringing with them the unconscious Skylan and the sacred spiritbone.
Treia made no move to rise.
Aylaen sighed. She squeezed her sister’s cold hand and said quietly, “Skylan risked his life to recover the spiritbone. You have to try to summon the dragon, Treia.”
“And let them see me fail again?” said Treia bitterly.
“You won’t fail,” said Aylaen. “The gods know we are in trouble. They will come to our aid.”
Treia shifted her bleary-eyed gaze toward her. Aylaen had often tried to imagine what it would be like to see the world through imperfect eyes. Treia had once told her she saw everything a blur, as though someone had wiped a wet rag across the world.
“I was twelve years old when the Kai Priestess took me away,” said Treia, the words pouring from her in an ugly, bitter torrent. “Only twelve. And I was alone in a strange place, living with strange people, none of whom gave a crap about me. Nothing I did was ever good enough for Draya. All she thought and talked about day and night were the gods. Her husband, Horg, is a drunken pig. He was always trying to force himself on me. Once, when I was fourteen years old, he had his filthy hands all over me.
“I worked like a slave, scrubbing and cleaning and cooking. And all the while, I had to listen to stories of the gods. Draya droning on and on until I wanted to scream. And the sick people! I had to help the Priestesses heal them, which meant I did all the horrid work while they prayed. I can still smell the stink of rotting flesh and the puke and the pus oozing from putrid wounds. I wanted them to die. I wanted them all to die—”
“Treia, stop!” Aylaen cried, frightened.
Treia fell silent. Aylaen could hear the men muttering outside. Having found the door closed, they wondered what was amiss.
Garn raised his voice. “Bone Priestess, open the door.” His tone was respectful, but there was an edge to his voice.
“I’ll let them in, shall I, Treia?” Aylaen asked hesitantly.
Treia sat with her hands clenched in her lap. Her face was like granite, her lips tight. Suddenly she rose to her feet. Pushing past Aylaen, Treia walked to the door and flung it open. She stood on the threshold, gazing out at the warriors, at Skylan, unconscious, lying on his cloak on the plank.
“Bring him inside,” Treia ordered.
The warriors lifted Skylan and carried him into the dwelling. They laid him on the bed—a platform made of wood covered with cushions.
“Return to your homes,” Treia told the warriors. “There’s nothing more you can do this night.”
“The Priestess is right,” said Garn. “Go back to your homes. Get what sleep you can before the battle.”
The warriors departed, some to sleep, but most to make ready for the fight.
Treia frowned at Garn, who settled himself in a corner.
“I’m staying,” he said in answer to her look.
Treia shrugged. Kneeling down beside Skylan, she ordered Aylaen to bring a light. Aylaen lit a candle and held it above Skylan. His lips had a bluish cast. Every so often, a tremor shook his body. His hand was still wrapped around the