Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [125]
He was going to retrieve the spiritbone and give it to Skylan, but there was the dragon’s head, propped up against the hull right over the hiding place.
Wulfe wavered a moment in his decision, then, getting a firm grip on his courage, he approached the dragon, taking care not to come too close to the mouth with its newly painted white fangs.
Wulfe recalled with a shudder the time the head had broken off and swooped down on him. The head, resting against the hull, had only one red eye visible. That eye was glaring at the boy.
“I don’t mean to bother you, Kahg,” said Wulfe politely. “I would just like to check to make certain the spiritbone is safe. If you could move a bit to the left . . . ?”
The dragon did not move. Wulfe could have shoved the prow to one side, but he would have sooner thought of shoving a real dragon. He was going to plead, when he noted that the red eye was no longer looking at him. Wulfe followed the dragon’s gaze and saw someone walking toward the ship, walking fast and purposefully.
Wulfe gulped. “Treia!”
He knew at once she was coming for him. If she caught him, she’d hand him over to Raegar and that would be the end.
Wulfe muttered a word of thanks to the Dragon Kahg for the warning and raced for the hold. He pulled open the hatch and dove down the stairs, searching frantically for a place to hide.
His usual hiding place was the wooden chest where Treia and Aylaen kept their clothes. But Treia knew that he always hid there. That would be the first place she’d look.
A pile of blankets was more inviting. He pulled the blankets over his head, curled up among them. When he heard steps on the deck, he froze, hardly daring to breathe. His heart thudded as the footsteps came nearer and nearly leaped out of his chest when the footsteps descended the stairs. Treia was going to search the hold.
Wulfe huddled among the blankets, waiting fearfully for her to find him. His daemon began clawing at him, urging him to attack her and rip out her throat. Wulfe considered this, but he was fairly certain the Dragon Kahg would not approve of him murdering Treia and he didn’t want to anger the dragon.
Wulfe kept firm hold on his daemon and, after a moment, he was glad he did, for Treia didn’t come over to the pile of bedding. He heard her rummaging about and he peeped from under a corner of the blanket. Treia had opened the lid to her chest and was looking for something inside. Wulfe went limp at the thought that he’d very nearly hidden in there.
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Treia began to undress, taking off the gown of a priestess of Aelon and tossing it to the deck. She took from the chest the ceremonial robes of a Kai Priestess, put them on, and then knelt down awkwardly.
The interior of the hold was dark, the air cool and moist. Treia thought she heard a sound coming from a pile of blankets and she turned to stare in that direction. Her weak eyes saw nothing. The sound was not repeated.
Probably a rat.
Treia clasped her hands together, her fingers pressing against the knuckles. She was nervous. She had never before spoken to the god, Hevis, but she knew the ritual prayer.
Once a year, the Kai Priestesses dedicated a day to Hevis, not so much to honor as to placate him. Hevis was the god of fire and smoke, deceit and hidden acts. The son of Volindril, the goddess of spring, and the five dragons of the Vektia, Hevis was devious and dangerous, treacherous and destructive. He was also necessary to the very survival of the Vindrasi. His fire cooked their food and kept them warm in the harsh winters of their land.
“Hevis, creator and destructor, I bring to you my prayer of supplication.” Treia unclasped her hands and traced on the deck a rune symbolizing fire. “I beg you come to me, Hevis. I am in need.”
Treia waited in the darkness. The wooden floor of the deck bruised her knees and she thought back to the many times she had been forced to kneel on the floor of the Hall of Vindrash during Draya’s prayers.
The voice, when it answered,