Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [15]
Vindrash flung open the door. The fierce wind blew the snow inside. The goddess turned to Aylaen and pointed out into the night.
“You must leave now,” said Vindrash.
Aylaen shrank from the darkness and the cold and the sounds of battle. “I want to stay here, where it is safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” said Vindrash.
The wind buffeted Aylaen. She shivered. “But I have no cloak. I did not know winter was coming!”
“Yet winter always comes,” said Vindrash. “If you were not prepared, that is not our fault.”
“It is your fault!” Aylaen cried angrily, forgetting herself. “I loved Garn and you took him from me!”
“Thus the bard sings, ‘The thread is twisted and spun upon the wheel. Then I snip it and he dies.’ What is the song about?” Vindrash asked her.
“Death,” said Aylaen bitterly.
“Birth,” said Vindrash. “Creation. Remember that.”
Aylaen stared at her. She stared around at the other gods. They stared back, impassive, unmoved.
“I don’t understand.”
Vindrash dragged Aylaen to the door. “You do not belong here. You must leave.”
Aylaen clung to her. “When I was little, you came to me and held me and gave me comfort. Why won’t you do that now?”
“Because I have no comfort to give,” said Vindrash. “What I do have to give you is that song. Remember it, if you remember nothing else.”
Vindrash seized hold of Aylaen and flung her out into the snow and the night.
Aylaen awoke, shivering with the cold. She felt a qualm of terror, thinking she had fallen into a snowbank and was going to freeze to death, only to find that she had done nothing more than kick off her blanket.
Still shivering, she wondered how long she had been asleep. The sun still shone, gleaming through the chinks in the planks of the ship’s hull. By the way the shadows fell, it must be late afternoon.
Treia was seated, straight-backed, on a box near the door, her arms crossed over her chest, her feet flat on the floor.
Aylaen did not want to talk to her. Moving stealthily, she took hold of a corner of the blanket and slowly drew it up over her. She shifted position, as quietly as she could, but apparently not quietly enough.
Treia said sharply, “Aylaen! Are you awake?”
Aylaen kept silent.
“I know you are,” said Treia sharply.
Aylaen sighed and rolled over. “I had the most horrible dream.”
Treia snorted. “You and your dreams.”
Aylaen wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. It seemed very real. Vindrash came to me. The goddess spoke to me—”
“The goddess is always speaking to you!” said Treia angrily. “Why not me? I am the Bone Priestess. I spent my life on my knees, praying for the goddess to talk to me! Never once! But she speaks to you, and what did you ever do? Pretend to want to become a priestess so you could be with your lover!”
Hurt and astonished by her sister’s sudden rage, Aylaen had no idea what to say. Fortunately she was saved from responding by the sound of the key in the lock.
“Raegar?” Treia called eagerly, and she forgot Aylaen and sprang to the door.
Raegar did not enter. He remained in the doorway. The two whispered together for a moment, then Treia left with him, shutting the door behind her.
Aylaen sat staring into the darkness, thinking of the dream, hearing her sister’s words and the sad strains of a song.
“The thread is twisted and spun upon the wheel . . .”
CHAPTER
4
* * *
BOOK ONE
Upon his return to the ship, Tribune Zahakis reported to the Legate that the Venjekar had been repaired and could once more take to the open seas. The makeshift rudder was crude, but would serve the purpose.
“The problem, my lord, is that we do not have men to sail her,” said Zahakis. “My soldiers know nothing of sailing and would be far more likely to send the ship to the bottom of the ocean than they would be to row it safely to Sinaria. Not to mention the fact that it will take every single man I have to guard the prisoners. I never saw