Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [52]
“His heart is weak. He needs warmth,” she said. “Build up the fire. Cover him with furs and blankets. I will mix a potion to heat his blood.”
Garn cast a troubled glance at Aylaen. She avoided his gaze, pretending to be busy in gathering up blankets. Her sister’s outburst had left a raw, bleeding gash in her soul. Aylaen had always pictured her sister’s life in Vindraholm as one of serene tranquillity. She had imagined Treia being honored, loved, and cherished—for the Bone Priestesses were revered among the Vindrasi. In a few brief and bitter words, Treia had destroyed Aylaen’s illusions, portraying instead a life of loneliness, fear, and deprivation.
Aylaen was consumed with remorse. Her life with her stepfather had not been easy, for Sigurd was a hard man. But Aylaen had been fortunate to have friends, like Garn and Skylan. For Treia, there had been no one.
Treia crouched over a kettle, engaged in combining various ingredients and stirring them together. Aylaen rested her cheek against her sister’s and put her arms around her. At first Treia stiffened in Aylaen’s embrace and seemed about to rebuff her. Something in Aylaen’s softened expression touched her sister. A faint smile flitted over Treia’s thin lips. She touched Aylaen’s hand, and then she went back to her work.
Garn returned with wood and built up the fire until the room was almost too hot to bear. Aylaen piled furs and blankets on top of Skylan, wrapping him snugly. He remained sunk in the strange sleep.
“He’s still so cold,” she said.
She smoothed back Skylan’s wet hair with a gentle hand, looking with deep concern at the pallid face of her friend. Skylan was dear to her, taking second place only to Garn in her heart.
“Treia should ask the gods to help him,” said Garn.
Aylaen cringed and glanced around, but Treia was absorbed in her work and did not seem to hear.
“I’m certain she knows best,” Aylaen said, and changed the subject. “What Skylan did was very brave. And very foolish.” She shook her head in fond exasperation. “He should have sent someone who didn’t have a gash in his thigh.”
“Skylan is War Chief,” said Garn. “It was his right to accept the danger.”
Aylaen could tell by his tone that he secretly agreed with her, but he would let himself be sliced open and turned inside out before he would say anything against his friend.
“Which is why I love you,” Aylaen whispered, and she brushed her lips against his shoulder as she rose to go see if she could assist Treia.
“Hold this,” said Treia, and she handed Aylaen a drinking horn.
Liquid clear as water simmered in the kettle. Treia filled a ladle and poured the contents into the horn mug.
Aylaen regarded it dubiously. “What is it?”
“It is called bread wine,” Treia said. “It is wine made from grain, not grapes. The process is secret, known only to the Kai Priestess. Draya gave me some to bring with me.”
“It looks just like water,” Aylaen said. “Are you sure it will warm him?”
“It will warm everything inside him,” said Treia dryly. “Taste it, if you like.”
Aylaen tipped the mug gingerly to her lips and swallowed a small mouthful. Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t catch her breath, and she choked and gagged. Treia was right. The liquid burned from her tongue down her throat and into her belly.
“Lift his head,” Treia ordered Garn.
Treia shoved the horn mug into Skylan’s mouth and expertly tilted back his head, forcing the liquid into his mouth and down his throat. Skylan gagged much of it back up, but Treia was persistent and kept pouring it down him.
When the drinking horn was empty, Garn laid his friend back down on the bed.
“Now what?” he asked.
“He wanders the Nethervold,” said Treia, shrugging. “He will either find his way back or he won’t.”
Dark waves washed over Skylan’s head. He swam and swam, but he could not reach the shore. He was cold, bitterly cold, and exhausted and in pain. He kept swimming because he had the spiritbone and his people needed the dragon. He swam until he was so cold that he could no longer feel his arms and