Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [2]
Parents frowned at their children, warning them to take heed. The children brushed this lesson aside in anticipation of the rest of the story.
Farinn paused a moment, then said softly, “The wise say it was Skylan’s wyrd.”
The hall was hushed. The men and women silently nodded their heads.
The wyrd is spun by the Norn, three sisters of the god Gogroth, who came at Torval’s summons to plant the World Tree. His three sisters sit beneath the tree, one twisting the wyrd on her distaff, one spinning the wyrd on her wheel, one weaving the wyrds of gods and men on her loom. When the thread that ties a babe to the mother is cut, the thread of that child’s wyrd begins. Every person has his own wyrd, as does every god. The wyrds of men and gods together form the tapestry that is life.
A single thread is fragile. The tapestry itself is strong.
Farinn went on to relate the various adventures and misadventures that befell Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs.* The tale was a long one and when the old man’s voice began to give out and the children were unable to stifle their yawns, he brought the tale for this night to an end.
“The Bone Priestess, Treia Adalbrand, sister to Aylaen, the woman Skylan loved, accused Skylan of having cheated in the Vutmana, claiming he had treacherously murdered Horg Thekkson and thus robbed Torval of his choice.
“Skylan had by this time come to believe that his misfortunes were due to the curse of the god, Torval. Plagued by guilt, Skylan confessed to the crime of having murdered Horg Thekkson—ironically, the one crime among many of which Skylan was truly innocent.
“The Torgun turned on Skylan. They made him a prisoner and threw him into the hold. Justice done, the Torgun warriors prepared the funeral biers for their dead warriors. As the smoke rose, carrying the ashes and the souls of the dead to heaven, the Torgun were ambushed by soldiers of Oran, Empire of Light. The Torgun were captured and made prisoners on their own ship.
“And that is where the tale ends for tonight,” said Farinn.
Even though they were dropping from sleep, the children wailed in protest. Farinn smiled and took a long pull from his mug.
Benches scraped along the floor as people rose. Fathers lifted their sleepy children in their arms and carried them out of the hall. Mothers walked alongside, draping blankets over the smallest children to fend off the night’s chill. The young unmarried men stayed behind in the hall to finish off the cask of ale and tell their own tales of valor. The young women, demurely accompanying their parents, glanced over their shoulders to make sure that the young men were watching.
Farinn rose stiffly from the stool on which he’d been seated. His grandson tried to take his arm, but Farinn irately shook off the assistance.
“I might be old and I might be slow, but I can still walk on my own two feet,” he said testily.
Farinn made his way to his long house. He did not go to bed. He did not require much sleep these days. He fixed himself a honey posset to sooth his throat and, sitting before the fire, he thought back to that time when young Skylan Ivorson, once Chief of Chiefs, had been made a slave. Farinn would resume the telling of the tale tomorrow night. He always liked this part.
This was where Skylan’s story took an unexpected turn.
* * *
*For those who have not been fortunate enough to hear the Talgogroth recite it, the tale of Skylan Ivorson begins in the book Bones of the Dragon, Volume One, Dragonships.
CHAPTER
1
* * *
BOOK ONE
The Vindrasi believe that every person has his own wyrd, as does every god. The wyrds of men and gods are intertwined, often to the detriment of man, for the gods are all-seeing, whereas man is blind. But sometimes the gods discover that foresight is a curse, not a blessing. For though a god may believe he is sure of the future of creation, no god can ever