Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [91]
“Vindrash, help me!” Draya prayed, and she was about to fling herself forward when she felt strong hands take hold of her.
“The sea is rough, Kai Priestess,” said a voice. “Allow me to assist you.”
Such was Draya’s confusion that she didn’t know which man had spoken. Whoever it was launched himself over the ship’s side. He landed on the rock island, and then, turning around to face her, he extended his hands.
“Take hold of my hand, Priestess,” Skylan told her. “Do not be afraid. I will not let you fall.”
Draya looked down at him, the young man who had chosen to fight the Law of the Challenge in his father’s stead. She had seen Skylan before, but she had not, until this moment, truly seen him.
Sun-gold hair fell to his shoulders. His chest was broad, his back straight, his body strong and muscular. His eyes were sea blue, his skin burnished bronze. Silver bands glinted on his arms. He was the stuff of legend, the hero of girlhood dreams, the embodiment of all the great Vindrasi warriors celebrated in story and song.
“Some god must love him!” Draya breathed.
Skylan looked up at her and smiled. He braced himself and extended his hand.
Draya caught hold of his hand and was walking down the gangplank when her foot slipped and she lurched into him. Skylan caught her, his hands around her rib cage, his fingers brushing her breasts. He lifted her off the gangplank and lowered her gently to the ground.
“Are you all right, Priestess?” he asked solicitously, keeping hold of her until she found her footing.
She could only gasp in answer.
His hands on her were firm and strong, and desire swept over her, its sweet, painful flame melting her heart, burning her blood, consuming her flesh, till there was nothing left of her.
Skylan let go. Inclining his head, he brushed off her confused thanks and left her, running up the gangplank, returning to board the dragonship.
Draya stood on the island alone. No one was allowed on the island until she had prepared for the Vutmana. She was aware of the crowd, tense and hushed, lined up along on the top of the cliff, watching her expectantly.
She was aware of the men in the dragonship, waiting the judgment of Torval.
She was aware of the Dragon Kahg, his red eyes watching.
She was aware of the gods, but only dimly. Whether that was her fault or theirs, she could not say.
She was aware of all of this, yet she was most aware of Skylan’s touch, the sky-blue light in his eyes.
Draya lifted her head and raised her arms, as though she were praying, then turned to the task at hand—preparing for the Vutmana.
“What does she wait for? Why doesn’t she get on with it?” Skylan demanded.
Impatient to start the contest, which he was confident he would win, Skylan was frustrated with all the ritual and ceremony. To him, the Vutmana was simplicity itself: Two champions do battle. Give him a sword and a shield, and let him fight.
Skylan had taken part in three Clanmelds. Three times he had listened to the recitation of the Law of the Challenge, but he had paid scant attention. His mind tended to wander, making plans for a future raid or inwardly chuckling at some jest he’d heard the night before. Thus he had been astonished and appalled to hear the rules of the Vutmana, as related to him by his father.
“You mean I have to stand there and let Horg hit me?” Skylan had asked.
“You can defend yourself,” Norgaard had told him. “You cannot strike back. Not until it is your turn.”
If that is true, then even you could fight! Skylan had thought scornfully. He hadn’t said the words aloud, but Norgaard read his son’s mind.
“Standing alone, waiting, unflinching, for your opponent to aim a deadly blow at you takes courage, requires self-control.” Norgaard eyed Skylan grimly. “Qualities people want in a Chief and in a Chief’s son.”
Skylan thought this over. “What you say makes sense, Father,” he had conceded, adding magnanimously, “In that case, I have no objections.”
“I’m sure Torval will be pleased to hear it,” Norgaard had stated