Dawnflight (35 page)

Before, her visions had mostly concerned Arthur. Sometimes others. In fact, the Sight hadn’t troubled her in months, which had been heavenly bliss.

Three nights ago, it had begun again in earnest, as though trying to make up for its absence. This time, there were unfamiliar pairs of dream-eyes to See from, and being whirled from one perspective to another in quick succession was particularly exhausting.

Eyes closed, she inhaled deeply of the chamomile tisane’s applelike fragrance and took a tentative sip. The herb’s characteristic bitterness was masked by the soothing sweetness of mint and honey. Silently blessing Marcia for remembering these additions, she took another sip.

With the ache in her temples beginning to subside, she returned to her work: creating sketches of the medicinal herbs. She knew she was doing her eyes no favor, toiling by lamplight. But she was anxious to finish her latest drawing, the hollyhock, before retiring for the night, so she could begin afresh on the hyssop in the morning.

Or so she tried to make herself believe. In reality, any activity that could postpone her nightly appointment with the future was welcome.

Absorbed with attempting to capture the likeness of the model plant with the greatest possible accuracy, and lulled by the rain pattering against the window’s shutters, she did not respond to the frantic tapping right away. She glanced at the door, wondering who could possibly wish to see her at this hour.

Niniane straightened from her work and tucked an errant chestnut lock under the wimple. “Enter.”

Marcia appeared in the doorway. The rainwater sliding off her cloak puddled on the stone floor. Her wringing hands and wide, flaxflower-blue eyes betrayed fear.

“What is it, child?” Niniane crossed the workroom toward the girl, who was shivering like grass in a windstorm. “Why did you go outside on a night like this?”

Marcia, too flustered to remember her curtsey, blurted, “Visitors, Prioress. Two warriors, a young man and a woman, both armed and mounted.” She shuddered. “They wish to spend the night.”

“Are they Brytons?”

“They speak Brytonic. At least, the woman does. The other didn’t say anything. Just…looked at me. I think they’re foreign, my lady.”

Niniane pondered the information, fingering the slim silver cross that hung at her breast. Last night, she had Seen a lady warrior fighting another lady warrior in the midst of a great battle. The Sight had not revealed the outcome. It rarely did in a single visitation but presented tiny pieces of a vast puzzle in capricious order.

“Marcia, this holy house has never turned away anyone in need of help. Nor shall we break tradition now. Show them to the stables, and then—”

“B-but, Prioress, they’ll slit our throats while we sleep!” Marcia buried her face in her hands to hide the flood of tears.

Ignoring the distraught girl’s sodden mantle, Niniane drew her into an embrace. “Of course they won’t, child.” Stroking Marcia’s damp head cradled against her shoulder, she wondered what manner of folk could so terrify her. “God’s hand protects us, so even if they try, well, so much the worse for them.”

With firm fingers beneath the novice’s chin, Niniane made her look up. “You are a daughter of God. You needn’t fear anything, or anyone. Do you understand?”

Blinking back the tears, Marcia nodded.

Niniane smiled her approval. “Good. Now, help them see to the comfort of their horses, and bring them here to me. Then you may retire. After I’ve finished speaking with them, I will show them to the guest chambers myself.”

Returning to the table as Marcia left, Niniane gazed mournfully at the now-cold cup. Though temperature did not affect its healing essence, the herbal drink would have been much more enjoyable hot on a raw night like tonight. She drained the mug and lost herself in her work.

No drug on earth could have prepared her for the warriors who were ushered into her presence.

The lad carried himself with a catlike grace quite at odds with his apparent age of thirteen summers. There was something hauntingly familiar about the curly black hair and golden-brown eyes. Whether Niniane had Seen him as an older man, she could not be certain.

But of the woman she had no doubt. Tall and lithe as a maple sapling, crowned with autumn braids, the bronze dragon blazing across her trunk; Niniane had Seen her, and not just through other eyes. The arm wielding the sapphire-headed sword against the enemy woman with such savage strength had been painted with woad doves. Every aspect of the lady warrior was startlingly familiar, except the sword. No gem adorned the pommel of the weapon riding her hip.

So the Sight had left another mystery. With a soft sigh, she rose and stepped forward to greet her guests.

“Your pardon for the intrusion, Prioress,” began the woman. “I am Chieftainess Gyanhumara, and this is my companion, Angusel. We seek only a bite to eat and shelter from the storm. Rain or no, we shall leave at first light.”

So these were the Caledonians studying with the brethren at St. Padraic’s. Niniane had guessed as much. Though neither looked much like a scholar, she knew looks could deceive. “It’s no intrusion, Chieftainess. The priory is honored by your visit.” She flashed a smile. “Our fare and lodgings are humble, but you may have anything within my power to give you. Here we welcome all who are loyal to the Pendragon. Now, if you will please follow me—”

“If you please, Prioress,” Angusel said, “I’d like to hear about the Pendragon’s sword.”

The chieftainess turned a sharp look upon him. They exchanged words in what Niniane assumed was their native tongue. A reprimand, judging by the woman’s tone and the lad’s contrite response.

Switching back to Brytonic, Gyanhumara said, “Please forgive him, Prioress. He is young and sometimes forgets his manners. I’m sure you’re as anxious to retire for the evening as we are.”

“Well, I did promise you anything within my power.” Niniane extended an open-palmed hand. “Come. Let us make ourselves comfortable by the fire.”

It was the first image she had ever Seen, the forging of the sword that was said to slice through stone like cheese. She had been a little girl then, terrified by the white-hot fire and incessant ringing in her dreams, and the screaming ache of arm and back upon waking, curls matted to her forehead by rivers of sweat. Even a quarter century later, she could feel the intense heat and hear the hammer’s rhythmic clang. And the furious hissing, like a mighty serpent, as glowing steel violated icy water to beget billowing mist.

The vision had stayed with her as she grew older, but she had shared it with no one for fear of being branded a lunatic—or worse. At last, she was driven to seek counsel secretly from Henna, the village wise-woman. Henna recognized Niniane’s gift for what it was, and not the beginnings of madness as Niniane had feared. She taught Niniane how to focus the Sight and interpret the visions.

With Henna’s help, Niniane discovered that she must obtain this weapon for the man destined to unite all peoples of Brydein: Arturus Aurelius Vetarus, called Arthur map Uther.

She did not tell her guests how she had come to learn of the sword. Only a trusted few knew of her gift. In truth, it was the primary reason behind her entry into the Church. She had desperately needed reassurance that the power was a gift of the Lord of Light, not the Lord of Lies.

Instead, she spoke of how she had “heard” of the sword, of how she had found it upon the forge of Wyllan, the most famous smith of Brydein, whose smithy lay in the bosom of Mount Snaefell. Of how Wyllan had been instructed in a dream to entrust his finest creation to a holy woman and had given the sword to Prioress Niniane.

Angusel listened with rapt attention. Even Gyanhumara’s attitude reflected more than polite interest. Perched on the edge of the low wooden bench, she did not look down as she slowly traced a long, pale scar on the underside of her right forearm.

Then Niniane spoke of the Council of Chieftains, the rulers of the northern Brytoni clans that had assembled shortly after Uther’s death to elect a new Dux Britanniarum.

As in the days of the legions, the holder of this office commanded all forces stationed between the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus. This army had disbanded upon the withdrawal of the legions to the Continent. Most of the forts were abandoned when the native Brytoni auxiliaries, such as Niniane’s great-grandfather, had gladly returned home to hang up their weapons and turn helmets into cooking pots.

Those pots would have been better left as helmets. Into the vacuum created by the legions’ departure rushed enemy peoples from all sides, eager to claim the verdant Isle of Brydein for themselves. Angles, Frisians, Jutes, Saxons, and others from the Continent attacked the south and east. Scots from Hibernia raided the villages along the west coast. And, of course, there was the blue-painted menace from the north, the very reason the emperors Antoninus Pius and Hadrian had ordered construction of the walls bearing their names.

At the mention of the Caledonian threat, her guests exchanged a glance. Niniane suspected they knew more about the history of that conflict than she and elected to keep her biased knowledge of it to herself.

She described instead the scheme of the power-drunk tyrant Vortigern, who attempted to keep the Scots and Caledonians at bay using Saxon mercenaries. This plan worked only as long as Vortigern’s wealth held more sway over the Saxons than their desire to snatch land for themselves. One night, his Saxon wife stabbed him in his sleep in an attempt to aid her people’s cause. Vortigern’s death went unlamented by his countrymen.

Shortly thereafter, two Brydein-born Roman brothers, having grown to manhood in Armorica, just across the Narrow Sea on the Continent, returned to Brydein with an army at their backs to assert their claim over the Island of the Mighty.

The brothers, Ambrosius, called Emrys, and Vetarus, called Uther, plunged into the chaos and attempted to restore order using disciplined Roman ways. This was effective enough against their foreign-tongued enemies, but it only served to alienate the chieftains of the southern and western Brytons. These men had no desire to bear again the yoke of Rome, however remote the possibility. Once the immediate threat to their lands was removed, they summarily withdrew their allegiance.

Emrys and Uther relocated their force in the north, between the walls, where the fighting was long from finished. The chieftains of the northern Brytoni clans were more appreciative of the brothers’ efforts, if not overly thrilled at having Roman neighbors again. Emrys revived the position of Dux Britanniarum to ease relations with his allies by underscoring the fact that his authority was more military than political. But he did not bear the title of Pendragon for long. Illness claimed his life, leaving Uther to finish the work.

This work had yet to be completed when, a score of years later, Uther’s last earthly sight was that of an Angli spear sprouting from his chest, with his men falling in panic-stricken confusion around him. If he watched his son transform the rout into an orderly retreat to save as many lives as possible, it was not with the eyes of this world.

Uther’s death served as a brutal reminder to the chieftains that their lands were by no means safe. They could not hope to stand against their enemies fragmented and unassisted. After interring Uther beside his brother with due honor, the Council convened.

What a wild week that had been! In three days, the initial field of candidates dwindled to two. The Council became deadlocked. The Dalriadans stood unswervingly behind their choice, Urien. Most Lowland clans backed Arthur. But with several chieftains unwilling to commit, neither candidate owned a majority. Bribes flowed as freely as ale, producing similar, and sometimes disastrous, effects.

Niniane with her Sight-aided knowledge sought out Arthur. The army, what was left of it, was desperate for a sign of new hope after Uther’s devastating defeat and did not care how the Council would vote. With one thunderous voice, they acclaimed Arthur as their Pendragon at first sight of the peerless Caleberyllus in his fist. The army’s support swayed the undecided chieftains to Arthur’s side.

As she finished her tale, Niniane watched a smile grow upon Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s lips, mirrored in the summer-green eyes.

Chapter 20

C
UCHULLAIN OG CONCHOBAR, Laird of the Scáthaichean, stood in his war-chariot at the Doann Dealghan waterfront. His matched pair of jet-black mares fretted in their silver traces, pawing the ground and tossing their heads and causing his charioteer, Lagan, a great deal of trouble. At last, they quieted under the man’s patient touch, and the silver-and-green-enameled chariot ceased its boatlike rocking.

Around them eddied the clamor of commands and the clattering of equipment as warriors piled by the score into the wolf-prowed warships. Cuchullain’s smile, as he rested one hand on his sword’s hilt, hid his disappointment. He sympathized with his fiery beauties. More than life itself, he wanted to go with the men, to wreak havoc on Bhratan flesh. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as far as his beloved Dierda was concerned—the renewed Aítachasan threat bound him to these shores.