Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [148]
“I will stay with Skylan,” Aylaen said.
Skylan tried to dissuade her. “Aylaen, there’s no need—”
“There is need,” she said calmly. She looked at him steadily, met his gaze for the first time since Garn’s death. “I have to tell you the truth.”
“I don’t think we should leave anyone behind,” said Bjorn.
“No one gives a crap what you think,” Sigurd snarled. “Skylan, take that brat of yours with you. Keeper, you’re with me.”
Keeper looked uncertainly at Skylan.
“Go, my friend,” said Skylan. “They need you.”
“I will lead them to the shrine,” Keeper promised. “Then I will come back for you.”
“Make haste, Skylan!” Acronis said urgently. “We must hurry.”
He raised the oil lamp to light the way into the house. He shut the door and there was a hollow, grating sound—the lock falling into place.
“You came dressed for the Para Dix,” Acronis said, glancing at their swords. “Good. That will please her.”
Acronis walked in front. They were alone in the entryway. Skylan could stab him in the back. He and Aylaen could catch up with their comrades.
The thought flitted into his head and was as quickly gone.
Acronis walked swiftly, and Skylan and Aylaen had to hurry to catch up with him. Wulfe kept close to both of them. The boy kept glancing fearfully into the shadows.
“The lemures are here,” said Wulfe. “But they’re not mad at us. They won’t hurt us. They’re waiting. . . .”
They hastened through the villa. Aylaen had never before been in the house and she slowed her steps, gazing in wonder. Oil lamps had been lighted in the living areas and she marveled at the large vases filled with cut flowers, the indoor ponds with the glistening, golden fish, the couches and chairs, the beautifully painted porcelain.
They reached Chloe’s room. Acronis opened the door and ushered them inside.
CHAPTER
9
* * *
BOOK THREE
The bedchamber was ablaze with light. Every oil lamp in the house had been brought in to drive away the darkness. The heat was stifling.
Chloe lay on her bed, grimly, stubbornly awake. She had refused to take any more of the poppy syrup, and the physicians left in offended ire, saying there was nothing more they could do. She had sent Rosa away for “blubbering.” Her hands plucked at the silken coverlet, sometimes clenching the fabric when a spasm of pain shook her.
Her body was frail and weak, her spirit indomitable. Skylan first felt pity. He was soon moved to admiration. Zahakis stood beside her bed. His face was stern, his jaw clenched tight.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, Chloe turned her head.
“Father, did Skylan come?” she asked eagerly. “Is he here?”
“Yes, my dear. He and Aylaen and”—he glanced with some bewilderment at Wulfe—“a boy . . .”
Acronis stood aside for them to enter. Wulfe shook his head violently and pulled away.
“Lemures,” he told Skylan in a whisper. “They’re standing around her bed.”
“Wait for me,” said Skylan.
Wulfe nodded. “I’ll wait. I promise.”
Skylan walked inside and met Zahakis’s piercing gaze. The Tribune either knew or guessed that the Torgun would be taking this opportunity to escape. Skylan unbuckled his sword belt and wordlessly handed over the weapon. Aylaen was about to do the same when Chloe stopped her.
“Is that the sword blessed by your goddess? The sword that frightened the fury and kept her from attacking? My father told me. May I see it, please?”
Aylaen looked stricken. The weapons Treia had delivered to them were not their own weapons. Aylaen had grabbed a sword and sheath and belt from the pile.
“Show her the sword. Make something up. She won’t know the difference,” Skylan whispered.
Aylaen drew the sword from its scabbard. Her eyes widened. She stared wildly at Skylan, then back at the sword. The hilt with its intricate pattern shone like the sun on the scales of a dragon in the lamplight.
“It is lovely,” said Chloe, awed. “Tell me about your goddess. Is she beautiful? Does she know Torval, Skylan’s god?”
“Her name is Vindrash,” said Aylaen. She had to stop to clear her throat. “She is the goddess of dragonkind and the