Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [36]
Seeing her sister absorbed in her own misery, Aylaen stealthily removed the knife from her boot.
She had not found the time yet to use it. Treia was always watching her. True, there were the nights when Treia was asleep and Aylaen, who spent most days sleeping, lay awake, tossing and turning. But it seemed to Aylaen that every time she reached for the knife, Treia would moan in her sleep or cry out or shift restlessly. Aylaen, terrified her sister would catch her, would roll over and lay still.
Now she held the knife in her hand, watching a sliver of sunlight play upon the blade. She turned the knife; the light flashed and faded, flashed and faded.
“What do you think you are doing?”
Treia’s voice seemed to explode around Aylaen like a lightning strike. Her heart lurched, her hand shook. She dropped the knife and made a reflexive grab for it and sliced open the palm of her hand.
“Look what you made me do!” Aylaen cried accusingly.
Treia snatched the knife away and flung it across the deck. She turned Aylaen’s palm to the light to look at the cut.
“This is deep. It will leave a scar,” said Treia, her voice trembling. “You are a fool! A stupid little fool!”
She was truly upset. Aylaen regarded her sister in wonder. She had never thought Treia cared much about her.
“Put pressure on it, like this,” Treia ordered. “I’ll fetch the salve and some bandages.”
Aylaen pressed her left hand over the cut. Blood welled up around her fingers. Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt like a fool, sniveling over a cut on her hand when she had been about to drive the knife into her belly.
Treia came hurrying back, stopping to pick up the knife on the way. She cleaned the wound and rubbed in the salve and then bound Aylaen’s hand tightly with a strip of linen.
“What were you going to do? Kill yourself?” Treia asked.
“I want to be with Garn,” Aylaen said, keeping her head lowered, not looking at her sister.
Treia snorted. “If you believe in such things, Garn has gone to the Hall of Heroes. Do you think he would welcome you there? He would turn his back on you in shame. Torval would pick you up by the scruff of your neck and throw you down to Freilis, who would give you to her daemons for their sport.”
“What about the old songs that tell about wives who were so stricken with grief that they threw themselves into the fire of their husband’s funeral boats? According to the songs, Torval honored their sacrifice.”
“And who wrote such songs?” Treia asked scornfully. “Men wrote them. They would have us think we could not live without them.”
“I can’t live without him,” Aylaen said.
“That is because you are weak,” said Treia.
“When you thought Raegar was dead, how did you feel?”
“I didn’t try to kill myself,” said Treia.
She wrapped the bandage so tightly that Aylaen gave a little gasp. “You need to loosen it. I can’t feel my fingers.”
Treia finished the wrapping and sliced off the end of the cloth with the knife. Blotches of blood began to seep through the bandage. The wound ached and throbbed.
Aylaen sighed. “Garn would be ashamed of me, wouldn’t he, Treia? He would turn his back on me.”
“He would,” said Treia.
“Thank you for helping me.” Aylaen swallowed, then said, “Will you give me the knife back?”
Treia cast her a suspicious glance.
“I’m not going to kill myself,” Aylaen said hurriedly. “To be honest, I don’t think I could have gone through with it anyway. But we are the only two women on a ship filled with men and it’s a long voyage and we should have some way to defend ourselves. . . .”
Treia silently handed over the knife. Aylaen tucked it into her boot, then, impulsively, she put her arms around her sister and hugged her close.
“I love you, Treia! I’m so glad to know you love me!”
Treia stiffened in Aylaen’s grasp. She gave her sister an awkward pat on her shoulder.
“I’ll change the bandage and put more salve on the wound tonight. If that man, Zahakis, asks what happened, make up some story.