Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [35]
Skylan thought this over. He had lots of time to think, sitting at the tiller, and he came to the sobering realization that his world, a world he had once proudly thought he ruled, was not a world at all. It was only a small piece of a much larger world, a measly morsel of bread torn from an enormous loaf.
He listened to Zahakis describe the city of Sinaria, capital of the land of Oran. Zahakis told of its wonders, the vast numbers of people who lived there (more people in one city than in all of Vindraholm). Zahakis told him more about the Legate, a man who was so wealthy he had commissioned the construction of not one, but two triremes. He paid for the men to sail his ships and the soldiers who defended them.
“The Legate was a territorial governor for many years. He and his legion defended the north eastern provinces of Oran from the raids of your people and the ogres and Cyclops. Ostensibly the legion was under the command of the Emperor, but being so far away from the capital, the Legate was forced to take control of the legion himself, and, gradually, the men came to look upon him as their commander.
“This was fine while we were far from Sinaria, but then the Emperor, under the influence of the Priest-General, became nervous that the Legate was gaining too much power. He ordered the Legate to return home, where he could keep an eye on him.”
Skylan understood. Horg had feared the Torgun’s rising influence, one reason he had sold them out to the ogres. Men were men, it seemed, whether they had swarthy brown skin or fair skin or hairy skin (like the ogres).
As he steered the Venjekar through the vast ocean, with only sea below and sky above, Skylan saw his wyrd unwinding before him, running straight and true across the sun-spangled water toward the blue haze of a far horizon. He wanted to sail like this forever, leaving everything behind: guilt, murder, lies, regrets, sorrow.
Sail on with the wind in his face . . . and stinging saltwater in his wounds. His skin, rubbed raw by the manacles, burned from the seawater that splashed up onto the deck.
Skylan winced and grimaced and came back to bitter reality with a thud. He wasn’t leaving anything behind. His wyrd bound him to the past, a chain that could never be broken.
All he could do now was to try to set right what had gone so disastrously wrong.
Aylaen watched the sunlight creep through small chinks in the wood planking of the hold, dappling parts of the deck, leaving much of the hold in shadow.
Most of the time, the two women were alone. Zahakis would check on them once a day, always treating them with courtesy and asking if they needed anything. He had given Treia and Aylaen permission to come up on deck to take the air, but only Treia took advantage of the offer. Aylaen didn’t like the way the soldiers stared at her.
Sometimes Wulfe came down to visit. The boy was given free run of the ship. He still didn’t like Treia, but he was bored and being around her was slightly better than being around the soldiers. Aylaen listened to his stories of being raised by his father, the wolf, and his mother, the daughter of the faery queen, and she marveled that he could come up with such amazing lies. But the boy’s visits were an irritant to Treia. She complained to Aylaen and finally Aylaen told Wulfe it would be better if he didn’t come.
After that, the two women wrapped themselves in the shadows and hugged the darkness close.
Aylaen watched the sunlight creep across the floor, marking the passing of time. Treia sat curled up in a far corner, her arms around her bent legs, her chin resting on her knees, her gaze fixed and staring.
She had spent the last two days turning the hold and everything in it upside down, searching for the spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg. Treia hoped that if she found the bone, Raegar would no longer be angry with her. She had constantly scolded and nagged Aylaen into helping her.
But the spiritbone, it seemed,