Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [84]
Which left Draya with a terrible decision to make. Could she entrust the future of her people to gods who were fighting for their very existence?
Kneeling before the statue of Vindrash, Draya brought her question to the goddess and waited, trembling, for the answer.
The eyes of the goddess were empty. There was no life in them.
“Don’t do this to me!” Draya cried out. She beat on the floor of the Great Hall with her fists. “Tell me that I can trust you!”
She heard the hiss of the wind through the chinks in the wooden walls. She heard the laughter of children and the squabbling cries of seabirds quarreling over a dead fish. She heard the scream of a swooping hawk.
Draya curled in on herself, wrapped her arms around her knees, and moaned. She was so very tired. The darkness was so very dark. She was so very alone.
“Give me an answer!” she prayed.
The response was silence.
Draya sat back on her heels.
Perhaps that was the answer. . . .
That evening, the Heudjun Priestesses assembled in the Great Hall of the Gods. The young acolytes were excited. They did not understand the terrible import, and they viewed the Vutmana as a holiday. The older women were more subdued, for they recognized that whatever the outcome, life for the Heudjun would never be the same.
“If Horg is judged innocent, we are in trouble,” Sven told his wife. “He will take the opportunity to avenge himself on those of us who opposed him, and there will be nothing we can do to stop him.”
“You did what you had to do, Husband,” Fria said practically. “Horg gave the sacred torque to our enemies to save his own flabby skin. You could not condone such a heinous crime.”
She gave her husband a hug. “No matter what happens, my love, I am proud of you. You did right, and so the gods will judge.”
“I did right when I married you,” Sven told his wife fondly, and he kissed her on her forehead.
The Great Hall buzzed with conversations, each woman relating what she knew of the ceremony. Draya had never presided over a Vutmana. Neither she nor any of the Bone Priestesses of the Heudjun had ever seen one. Horg had become Chief of Chiefs upon the death of his father, the former Chief. There had been no challengers. Too late they realized their mistake, and now they were paying for it in shame and humiliation. Horg’s dishonor was their dishonor. The possibility that the Torgun, the poorest clan among the Vindrasi, would gain ascendancy over the Heudjun, their Chief becoming Chief of Chiefs, was a bitter draft to swallow.
Vindraholm had been chosen lord city long ago by the fabled Kai Priestess Griselda the Man-Woman to settle a feud between the Heudjun Clan, who resided in Vindraholm, and the Svegund Clan, who wanted their city, Einholm, to receive the honor. Griselda had traveled to each of the cities. On the day she arrived in Vindraholm, the sun shone brightly. When she went to visit Einholm, the city was hit with one of the worst storms in recent memory. The will of the gods was clear.
The Heudjun Clan would remain the guardians of their ancestral homeland, but they would no longer be the city’s dominant clan. That honor would go to the Torgun. If Norgaard won, he would move from Luda into the Chief’s longhouse in Vindraholm, bringing with him his household and many warriors. Already the Heudjun were getting a taste of what this would be like, for the Torgun were setting up camp on the beach. Torgun warriors would soon be swaggering through the streets.
“We must hold the Vutmana as soon as possible,” Draya told the assembled Priestesses, “or there will be trouble.”
The Priestesses were in agreement. They were aware of the mood of