Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [12]
“I gave it to her before the battle. I thought you were dead! I didn’t care what happened anymore. Aylaen was the one who summoned the dragon to fight the giants. She claims the spiritbone is lost, but I know she is lying.”
“Why would she keep it from you?”
“Out of spite. Jealousy. Because I have you and she has no one now that her lover, Garn, is dead.”
“I will speak to her, persuade her—” Raegar said. He looked as though he might enjoy the persuasion, and Treia felt a twinge of jealousy. She had sometimes seen Raegar’s gaze stray from her to her more attractive younger sister.
“Aylaen is stubborn. But there is a way.”
“Yes, what is that?” Raegar looked dubious.
“We must trick her,” said Treia.
CHAPTER
3
* * *
BOOK ONE
Aylaen slept because being asleep was better than being awake. She felt no pain in her sleep. Garn was alive in her sleep. She was back home in her sleep. Waking was a horrible dream. Sleep was blissful peace.
Until the gods intruded.
Aylaen was walking with Garn on the beach, basking in the warmth of the sun of a late spring day. Suddenly, without warning, the wind changed, shifting from a warm spring breeze scented with sage and flowers, to a fierce, bone-chilling blast. The gray waves crashed onto the shore.
The wind brought with it snow, a few flakes at first, and then a howling blizzard. The snow was so thick it blotted out the foaming sea. Aylaen was dressed for summer in a linen smock. The fierce, cold wind pierced the thin fabric. She was wet through and shivering. She reached for Garn, but he was gone. She could not find him in the heavy snowfall. She called to him. The wind flung her cry back into her face.
Aylaen had to seek shelter or she would perish in the storm. The sea was before her. The village of Luda lay behind her, and she turned her footsteps that direction, slipping in the snow that was already starting to whiten the ground. The wind pummeled her. Ice pellets stung her skin. Her hair was caked with white. The cold made her fingers ache and burn. Her toes were numb. She could not feel her feet and so stumbled and fell.
She staggered on through the raging storm, but could not find the village. She should have reached it by now and she knew, in despair, she must have gone the wrong way. She was so cold and so tired. She longed to drop to the ground and not get back up, to let the snow cover her like a soft wool blanket. She would go to sleep and never wake. She was just about to sink down onto the frozen ground when she saw lights ahead of her.
She recognized the Chief’s Hall, ablaze inside and out with flaring torches. Voices came from within. There were no sounds of revelry, though. No laughing or singing. Not a wedding, then, or there would have been raucous merriment. Perhaps a funeral, honoring the dead. No matter. For her, there was warmth, light, life. She fought her way through the snow toward the hall. With every step, the bitter wind seemed intent on pushing her back.
Finally, she reached the door and it opened to her touch. Light flooded out of the hall, dazzling her. Warmth embraced her. Aylaen hurried inside the hall and the door slammed behind her, shutting out the cold, keeping out the night.
A man sat in the Chief’s place at the head of a long table. The man was old with long gray hair that fell over his shoulders. He was accoutered as though for battle, wearing plate armor and chain mail. His helm was adorned with dragon wings. His shield, painted blue and gold, stood against the wall behind him. His hand rested on the hilt of an enormous two-handed great sword.
The man had a beaked nose and a far-seeing gaze, a strong jaw and jutting chin. His eyes were blue and piercing. He was a mighty warrior. His breastplate and helm were dented. His sword was red with blood. His expression was grim and dour. He glared at her in anger.
Aylaen did not know what she had done to deserve his wrath, but she felt guilty and she looked from him to the other people in the room.
A woman stood beside the man, her hand on