Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [54]
“Thank you, Torval!” Skylan was elated. “I will justify your faith in me.”
The god grunted. “We’ll see about that. I am not an easy master, as you will soon find out. Here, drink this.”
He handed Skylan his drinking horn. Inside was a clear liquid. Skylan drank and choked and coughed and kept coughing, his eyes watering so he could not see. When he finally caught his breath, Torval had disappeared.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Garn asked, waking with a start.
He had not meant to fall asleep, but he was worn out from the day’s exertions. He’d leaned his back against the wall near Skylan’s bed, planning to keep watch over his friend. Sleep had crept up on him and captured him without a fight. He glanced outside. The sky was still dark. The stars still shone brightly. Morning was yet some distance away.
“He’s breathing normally,” Aylaen said. “His skin is warm to the touch! Treia was right. Sister, look!”
Treia came over to the bed. She bent down, placed her hand on Skylan’s head and then on his chest. He smiled and let go of the spiritbone.
“Torval,” he muttered, “I am yours!”
“Your prayers worked, Treia!” Aylaen said softly. “What the ogres claimed is not true! The gods are not dead. The broken statue was just a broken statue.”
“I didn’t pray for him,” Treia said.
Lifting Skylan’s head, she removed the spiritbone from around his neck. “I am going to the Hall of Vindrash,” Treia announced, taking up a torch. “Alone,” she added, guessing that Garn would offer to escort her. “I will be safe. After all, the gods are with me.”
Aylaen winced at her sister’s mocking tone and hoped Garn did not notice.
“I will take the good news to Norgaard, and then I will be back,” Garn said. He looked very grim.
He left, heading for the village at a run. Treia walked into the darkness, carrying the spiritbone, clutching it tightly, her fingers curled over it as though she secretly longed to crush it. She kept her head lowered, forced to peer, squint-eyed, at the uneven ground beneath her feet to avoid tripping and falling. The torch flame wavered in the wind.
Aylaen watched from the doorway until she saw the torchlight vanish and she was certain Treia had reached the Hall safely. Sighing, Aylaen shut the door. She drew the blanket up around Skylan’s shoulders and tucked it around him and added more wood to the fire. The room was warm; the heat was making her drowsy. She needed something to do to keep herself awake. Skylan would be hungry when he woke. Garn had brought along some of the boar meat. Aylaen tossed it in the stewpot and began chopping up vegetables. Intent on her work, she was startled to feel that someone else was in the room with her. The presence was not threatening. It was reassuring, warming as the bread wine.
“Treia? Is that you?” Aylaen asked. She turned abruptly and almost cut herself with the sharp knife. “I didn’t hear you come in—”
The door was shut. The room was empty.
Aylaen looked at Skylan, but he lay sprawled comfortably on his back, fathoms deep in easeful slumber.
Aylaen finished her task and sat down. She thought back to a time when she was a little girl and she had run away from Sigurd and his fist and had ended up getting lost in the woods in the night. She had been terrified and had started to cry, and then she had felt a presence as she felt now, gentle and loving. She had imagined wings folding around her, holding her close, keeping her safe. She had fallen asleep. . . .
Aylaen woke with a start.
“Vindrash,” Aylaen whispered, “I am not one of your Priestesses. I know it’s not my place to ask, but as you love your people, please grant Treia’s prayers this night!”
CHAPTER
12
Skylan woke before dawn feeling groggy, his head pounding, as though he’d spent the night carousing, not dodging spears and fighting ogres. He reached immediately for the spiritbone, and not finding it, his eyes flared open