CHAPTER
2

In a torchlit procession, men of the bride’s party escorted Draya to the dwelling of the Chief of Chiefs, which was always in the lord city of Vindraholm. Horg’s possessions had been hastily removed, and the longhouse had been thoroughly cleaned by Fria. She had burned all the bedding, replaced it with new. The mattress was scented with perfumed oil, and women had spread flowers over the blankets.

Draya’s friends led her to the dwelling. Once there, they removed her shoes and stockings, her surcoat and her dress, leaving her linen shift. She left the fond embraces of her friends and slipped demurely under the blankets and waited in heart-throbbing anticipation for her new husband.

The groom’s procession—considerably rowdier than the bride’s—came next. Skylan had drunk a considerable amount of mead and ale, and he was unsteady on his feet. He draped his arms around his friends, and they lurched toward the longhouse, bawling out the bawdy songs that traditionally accompanied the bedding.

Draya was not so drunk as Skylan, but she had also been drinking. The honey mead was sweet on her lips, and she looked forward with thrills of desire to more sweetness still. She had been unable to take her eyes off her handsome young husband. Draya did not even mind that Skylan was drunk. Unlike Horg, who was mean and surly when he was drinking, Skylan was boisterous and cheerful, fond of boasting of his exploits in battle to her or anyone who would listen. He even acted these out, jumping to his feet at one point during the feast to demonstrate with an eating knife how he had decapitated the ogre godlord.

Draya’s friends opened the door to allow the men into the dwelling. Skylan’s friends removed his tunic and pulled off his boots, leaving him in his shirt and trousers. Then, lifting him up, they tossed him bodily onto the bed, where he lay roaring with laughter while his new wife lay blushing at his side. Men and women called out parting ribald jests and then left to return to the feast, which would last far into the night.

Skylan lay on the bed, laughing and singing to himself. Draya’s blood burned. She drew near him. Sliding her hand beneath his shirt, she bent over to kiss him.

“My husband . . . ,” she breathed.

The room was well lit, for the gods were meant to witness the consummation of the marriage. Skylan blinked at her blearily in the candlelight, as though only just now aware of her presence. He heard the husky note in Draya’s voice, saw the glow in her eyes, and felt her body tremble as she pressed against him. Skylan realized suddenly that Draya was in love with him.

“I need a drink,” he mumbled. Scrambling out of bed, he left the bedchamber and stumbled into the kitchen, where he found a drinking horn and filled it with ale. He drank it off at a gulp.

Skylan was shocked. A woman who had seen more than thirty winters had no business falling in love with any man! It was . . . unseemly. And she was a Priestess! She should be thinking of higher matters. He had not expected her to want to make love to him, and he was shaken. Hearing footfalls and the rustle of her gown, he poured himself more ale.

“My husband,” said Draya, “my lord. Come back to our bed.”

He turned to see her smiling at him, and then she lifted her hands and began to take off her shift, baring her breasts. Her breasts were small, the nipples covered with dark hair. She cupped her breasts with her hands, playfully offering them to him.

I wish you joy! Aylaen had said to him.

Skylan’s stomach heaved. He had made love to many women since he had come to manhood, but not since he had pledged himself to Aylaen. He tried telling himself Draya was just one more, but he couldn’t even look at her without disgust, much less touch her.

It wasn’t just her age, though that was a factor. It wasn’t that she wasn’t Aylaen, though that was a major, major factor. Draya was Kai Priestess. He could still see her, pale and majestic, kneeling over Horg’s bloody corpse.

“Go back to your bed,” he told her harshly. “I will sleep on the floor.”

“My lord, don’t be silly,” said Draya, laughter bubbling in her voice. She stole up behind him and slid her hands beneath his shirt. Her cold fingers caused his flesh to shrivel. “You need not be afraid of hurting me. I am not a maid. I know how to please a man.”

And as though to prove it, she slid her hand into his trousers, reaching down to fondle his privates.

She smelled of sweat and perfumed oil, and her smell, combined with the mead and ale he’d been drinking, made him nauseated. He broke free of her embrace and angrily rounded on her.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he told her. “A woman of your age behaving like a whore! I would as soon think of bedding my own grandmother!”

Draya’s face went livid. Her dark eyes against the pale skin were enormous and seemed to swallow him.

“I am your wife!” she said.

“In name only!” Skylan shrugged, dismissive. “All know our marriage is cere . . . cere . . . ceremonial.” It took a couple of tries for his mead-numbed lips to form the word, but he managed. He gestured. “Besides, I am pledged to another. Go to your bed and do not trouble me.”

“Another?” Draya flared with anger. “You are my husband. By law, you must lie with me!”

She was right. A husband was bound by law to consummate the marriage, as a wife was bound by law to submit to him. But this marriage wasn’t a real marriage. It was ceremonial. She was an old woman. He didn’t want to look at her. He certainly didn’t want to make love to her. He just wanted her to go away and leave him alone to dream of Aylaen.

“Law?” Skylan drew himself up proudly. “I am the law, lady. I am Chief of Chiefs. You will do as I command!”

“You stupid boy!” Draya slapped him across the face. The blow was hard, stinging, and Skylan tasted blood on his lip. Her voice shook. Her dark eyes burned with soul-consuming fire. “If it were not for me, you would not be Chief of anything!”

Skylan laughed. “Torval gave me the victory. I killed Horg.”

“No, you didn’t,” Draya cried. “I did! The wine Horg drank was poisoned. I poisoned him!”

Skylan stared at her in alcohol-fuddled bewilderment, unable to comprehend her words.

“The wine you both drank before the battle,” Draya continued feverishly, hardly knowing what she was saying. “I gave you the drinking horn—then I wiped it with a cloth. In the cloth was a vial containing a slow-acting poison. I poured it into his wine.”

“You lying bitch!” Skylan gasped. He could feel the hair rise on his arms in horror. His throat closed. He could scarcely breathe. “Stop lying to me. I killed Horg!”

Draya jeered derisively. “Horg was a man fighting a boy! He could have slain you three times over. He drew first blood, didn’t he? I let the fight continue because I knew the poison would burn his gut and foul his senses. He would eventually make a mistake, and then you would be able to kill him.”

Skylan remembered Horg grimacing and rubbing his gut. He remembered Horg’s faltering steps and how he had doubled over, clasping his stomach and groaning, and Skylan knew with sickening certainty that Draya was telling the truth.

The woman had murdered her husband. She had stolen Skylan’s victory. Worst of all, she had usurped Torval’s judgment!

Draya suddenly realized what she had been saying. She moaned and covered her mouth with her hand. Then she hurried toward him, her hands outstretched. “My love, my lord, I did it for you!”

“Get away from me!” Skylan was cold and shaking, overcome with horror.

Draya pleaded with him. “I did it for our people!”

“Get away from me!” Skylan repeated, and he backed into a corner. He lowered his head, unable to look at her.

“Horg was an evil man,” Draya said. “He was a coward and a bully. He offended the gods by giving the ogres the Vektan Torque. He cheated the day of the Vutmana. I saw him kick you. I knew that Torval wanted you to be Chief of Chiefs, but . . .”

Draya faltered, fell silent, stood gazing at Skylan with pleading eyes.

“But what?” Skylan yelled at her.

“I dared not take the chance that Torval might make a mistake.” Draya faltered. “This was too important. This meant the survival of our people and of the gods! We need a strong, brave, courageous Chief of Chiefs. I had to make certain of the outcome. Don’t you understand, my love?”

Skylan didn’t understand. All he knew was that she had murdered Horg.

“Torval will curse you!” Skylan licked dry lips. He was trembling all over. “He will curse me!”

“Horg was a sacrifice,” Draya said. “Torval understands. Vindrash understands. Don’t you, Vindrash?”

Skylan stared at her. She was talking to someone else, and there was no one in the room. She was Kai Priestess. Perhaps the gods were here now! Skylan had faced death many times in the shield-wall. He’d known fear then, but he’d never known fear like this. He sank to his knees.

“Horg had to be sacrificed for our people to survive. For our gods to survive. And so I put the poison in his wine. . . .”

Skylan’s glance went to the drinking horn he was still holding in his hand. Draya was going on about the survival of the people, the survival of the gods. All he knew was that he’d been drinking her ale. He crawled toward the slop bucket and slumped over it and vomited, spewing up ale, spitting it out of his mouth. He kept vomiting until his stomach was empty and he brought up nothing, and then he heaved some more.

He sank back against the wall, wiping his lips.

“I have to tell my father,” he said groggily. “I have to tell him what you did. . . .”

He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered toward the door, but he didn’t make it. He fell over a stool and landed flat on the floor. Kneeling beside him, Draya put her arms around his shoulders.

“You must not tell your father, Skylan,” she said softly. “You must not tell anyone! Everyone will think we plotted this together. You will be stripped of your honors. We would be executed as murderers.”

Skylan gave a moan and shook his head.

Draya grasped him tighter, whispering fiercely, “You are Torval’s choice for Chief, Skylan. I know it in my heart, and I will prove it. Say nothing to anyone, keep my secret, and we will sail to the sacred Dragon Isles to seek the gods’ forgiveness and their blessing.”

Skylan pictured his shame and humiliation. He could never again look his father in the face. Aylaen would loathe him. He would never be able to marry her. Though he might be able to prove he was innocent of having poisoned Horg, in the eyes of the people, Skylan Ivorson would be the warrior who had tried to cheat the god. His reputation would be destroyed. Men would refuse to follow him into the craphouse, much less let him lead them into battle.

“Vindrash knew what I did,” Draya said to him. “The Dragon Kahg knew what I did, for he is her servant. The Dragon Kahg honored you. He carried you in triumph back to Vindraholm. The dragon disposed of Horg’s body, so that no one would find out.”

Skylan looked at her uncertainly. “Vindrash knows you poisoned Horg?”

“Of course she did,” Draya said eagerly. “Vindrash is my goddess. I tell her everything.”

Skylan was still doubtful. There was something wrong with her words, but he couldn’t think what. His brain was muddled. Garn would know what to do. If there was ever a time Skylan needed his friend’s wise counsel, it was now. And this was the one time he could not seek it.

Skylan roughly shoved Draya away from him. “I will keep your secret,” he said. He placed his hand on the amulet, started to vow to Torval, and then let his hand fall. “Now get out of my sight.”

“We can still be husband and wife,” Draya said in pleading tones.

“I would sooner bed a daemon!” Skylan said harshly.

Draya gave a little whimper. She looked every bit her age and more. Her skin was sallow, cheeks sagging. Her eyes were sunken, her lips bloodless.

“I will keep your secret,” Skylan repeated, “but I will never sleep in your bed. And that will be my secret, one that you will keep.”

Two tears spilled out of Draya’s eyes, rolled down her face, and dropped unheeded onto her bare breasts.

“I want to give you a son,” Draya moaned. She pressed her hand against her belly. “I can give you a son. I know it!”

Skylan regarded her with loathing. “As if I would want a son with your tainted blood in him! Now bring me a blanket, lady, and then go to your bed.”

Draya rose shakily to her feet. She brought him blankets and bedding and arranged them on the floor. Skylan stood in a far corner and watched her. He had a horrible taste in his mouth, and he was parched with thirst, but his stomach recoiled at the thought of drinking or eating anything she had touched. After she made up his bed, Draya gave him a last pleading look. He averted his face and turned away. She went to her room and flung herself on the bridal bed. He could hear her weeping, great choking sobs. Skylan blew out the candles and lay down on the bedding and stared fearfully into the shadows.

Ghosts of murdered men did not rest quietly in their graves. They became walking corpses, known as draugrs, and they returned to haunt those who had been responsible for having cut short the thread of their wyrds. The Dragon Kahg had taken Horg’s body far away, but perhaps he had not taken it far enough. Perhaps Horg would come back to accuse his treacherous wife? Perhaps he would come back to haunt Skylan. . . .

And then the terrible thought occurred to Skylan that perhaps he had more to fear from the living than from the dead. He knew Draya’s guilty secret. He was a danger to her. She had killed one husband. She could easily kill another! How could he live with her, knowing that?

If he hadn’t broken his vow to Torval, he would be back in the feast hall, drinking with his friends, celebrating with Aylaen. His father, Norgaard, would be the one living here. He would be married to this murderess. Skylan groaned aloud.

“You have punished me for my oath-breaking, Torval,” he said. “I accept your punishment. I was wrong.”

Skylan clasped his hand around the amulet and prayed more fervently than he had ever prayed in his life.

“Now you must help me, Torval! You must rid me of my wife!”