long ago, he would have been arrogant enough to consider that title appropriate. A better title would be the Song of the Venjekar, he thought. He would have to remember to tell young Farinn.
Not that the title would matter if neither Skylan nor Farinn nor any of the rest of his people were alive to sing it.
* * *
Aylaen descended into the hold. She lit a lamp, made of cloth soaked in olive oil, to help her search. The ship was well stocked for their journey. They had flour, olives and olive oil, salted pork, beef in brine. When Sigurd and the others, herself included, had believed Treia’s lie that she was going to help them escape, they had packed the hold of the Venjekar with supplies enough to last for a long sea voyage.
Aylaen was glad to escape the sight of the others. She needed some time to herself, to try to sort out her new feelings for Skylan. She stood at the bottom of the ladder, in the fog-bound darkness, and realized that these feelings weren’t new. That was the problem. She had always loved Skylan. She had loved Garn more, or so she had told Skylan—and Garn.
Aylaen closed her eyes and turned her gaze inward. In that moment, she was forced to see the truth. Her grief over Garn’s death was not because she had loved him well. She grieved because she had not loved Garn well enough. She had loved him because she was afraid Sigurd was going to arrange a marriage to some stranger. She had loved Garn to escape her home and her stepfather’s abuse. She had loved Garn because she had wanted a baby. She had loved Garn because—and this shamed her—she could control Garn. He would do anything she asked for love of her. And ever since she had been a little girl and knocked him flat on his ass for teasing her, she had loved Skylan.
Skylan—brash, handsome, bold. Skylan, who had a string of women hanging from his line like fresh-caught fish. Skylan, who had claimed to love her, but who had really been in love with war and honor and being a hero and rising to power among the Vindrasi. Looking into his blue eyes then she had seen a boy’s arrogance, confidence, the idea that he could do anything he wanted, have anything he wanted.
Now when she looked into his blue eyes, she saw the shadow of grief and loss and the bitter knowledge of his own failure. She saw a man trying to make up for his misdeeds, trying to earn the right to call himself a leader instead of claiming it, trying to regain his lost honor. She saw his love for her, a man’s love for a woman …
He has changed and I have changed, Aylaen thought. We were children then. We are children no longer. We have waded through blood and ridden through fire. We fought the Vektia dragon side by side. He owes his life to me. I owe my life to him. We are bound together by our love for Garn and by grief at his death.
What truly saddened Aylaen and filled her with guilt was that Garn had understood all of this. He knew that she was using him and he had gone on loving her because he also knew that she needed him. He had come back from the dead to make her understand, to make her let go.
She was standing in the hold, lost in her thoughts, when a hand snaked out of the mists and grabbed her wrist. A shrill voice made her heart lurch.
“Is Skylan going to kill me?”
“Treia!” Aylaen gasped. “You scared me half to death!”
Aylaen had forgotten her sister was down here. Treia gripped her, hard.
“Is he going to kill me?”
Treia’s face was livid. Her hair was wet and tangled. The thin robes of a priestess of Aelon clung to her body, revealing her breasts and the bones of her thin, spare frame. Her eyes were large and burned with a frightening luster.
Aylaen shivered in the chill, dank closeness of the hold. The armor she wore was cold and it pinched. She tried to pull away.
“No, of course he’s not going to kill you,” Aylaen said sharply. She tried to behave normally around her sister. All she could think of was Keeper’s body
Not that the title would matter if neither Skylan nor Farinn nor any of the rest of his people were alive to sing it.
* * *
Aylaen descended into the hold. She lit a lamp, made of cloth soaked in olive oil, to help her search. The ship was well stocked for their journey. They had flour, olives and olive oil, salted pork, beef in brine. When Sigurd and the others, herself included, had believed Treia’s lie that she was going to help them escape, they had packed the hold of the Venjekar with supplies enough to last for a long sea voyage.
Aylaen was glad to escape the sight of the others. She needed some time to herself, to try to sort out her new feelings for Skylan. She stood at the bottom of the ladder, in the fog-bound darkness, and realized that these feelings weren’t new. That was the problem. She had always loved Skylan. She had loved Garn more, or so she had told Skylan—and Garn.
Aylaen closed her eyes and turned her gaze inward. In that moment, she was forced to see the truth. Her grief over Garn’s death was not because she had loved him well. She grieved because she had not loved Garn well enough. She had loved him because she was afraid Sigurd was going to arrange a marriage to some stranger. She had loved Garn to escape her home and her stepfather’s abuse. She had loved Garn because she had wanted a baby. She had loved Garn because—and this shamed her—she could control Garn. He would do anything she asked for love of her. And ever since she had been a little girl and knocked him flat on his ass for teasing her, she had loved Skylan.
Skylan—brash, handsome, bold. Skylan, who had a string of women hanging from his line like fresh-caught fish. Skylan, who had claimed to love her, but who had really been in love with war and honor and being a hero and rising to power among the Vindrasi. Looking into his blue eyes then she had seen a boy’s arrogance, confidence, the idea that he could do anything he wanted, have anything he wanted.
Now when she looked into his blue eyes, she saw the shadow of grief and loss and the bitter knowledge of his own failure. She saw a man trying to make up for his misdeeds, trying to earn the right to call himself a leader instead of claiming it, trying to regain his lost honor. She saw his love for her, a man’s love for a woman …
He has changed and I have changed, Aylaen thought. We were children then. We are children no longer. We have waded through blood and ridden through fire. We fought the Vektia dragon side by side. He owes his life to me. I owe my life to him. We are bound together by our love for Garn and by grief at his death.
What truly saddened Aylaen and filled her with guilt was that Garn had understood all of this. He knew that she was using him and he had gone on loving her because he also knew that she needed him. He had come back from the dead to make her understand, to make her let go.
She was standing in the hold, lost in her thoughts, when a hand snaked out of the mists and grabbed her wrist. A shrill voice made her heart lurch.
“Is Skylan going to kill me?”
“Treia!” Aylaen gasped. “You scared me half to death!”
Aylaen had forgotten her sister was down here. Treia gripped her, hard.
“Is he going to kill me?”
Treia’s face was livid. Her hair was wet and tangled. The thin robes of a priestess of Aelon clung to her body, revealing her breasts and the bones of her thin, spare frame. Her eyes were large and burned with a frightening luster.
Aylaen shivered in the chill, dank closeness of the hold. The armor she wore was cold and it pinched. She tried to pull away.
“No, of course he’s not going to kill you,” Aylaen said sharply. She tried to behave normally around her sister. All she could think of was Keeper’s body
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