Dawnflight (15 page)

Vergul pounded the branch. The rattling leaves seemed to mock his failure. A priest could be stripped of rank for even suggesting something like this without proof. Disappointed beyond measure, he started the downward climb.

His only option was to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut, and bide his time. The Old Ones were patient, their memories eternal. Sooner or later, the traitor would pay for abandoning them.

He retrieved his vestment, slipped it over his head, and resumed his role as guardian of the Sacred Flame. The gods in their abundant generosity would reward their faithful servant Vergul.

Wielding the ceremonial dagger was the only reward he desired.

Chapter 10

T
HE DISARRAY REVEALED by the flickering oil lamps might have startled a visitor to Gyan’s workroom. Parchment covered the tabletop. Ink pots and unused goose quills fought for their share of space. Broken quills poked from between the floor rushes.

Hunched over the documents, Gyan steadily scratched her quill across the parchment. At intervals, she glanced up to reach for fresh ink or for her dagger to sharpen the quill’s point. Time and again, she paused, fist to chin, while trying to puzzle out the meaning of the treaty’s obscure Breatanaiche words.

A knock broke her concentration. She bade the person to enter, unsure whether to treat the interruption as a blessing or a curse.

The door opened to reveal Dafydd, cradling a small cloth-wrapped package. She was pleased to count his arrival as a twofold blessing.

“Here is your extra parchment, my lady,” he said in Breatanaiche. He crossed the room to set the bundle on the table. “How is the work coming?”

“Slowly. I’m finding many words I don’t know.” She frowned. “Too many.”

“Don’t be discouraged, my lady. Treaties are like that. Show me which ones.” She pointed to the first, and Dafydd bent to squint at the page. “Ah, ‘engagement.’ You would say ‘banais-geall.’”

She nodded curtly; he’d affirmed her guess. Her finger stabbed at another word in the same sentence. “And ‘nobleman’?”

“That’s Brytonic for ‘rìgh.’”

The meaning of the passage crystallized. And she did not like its implications one bit. “Or ‘macanrìgh’?” The words grated out between clenched jaws.

“That’s right, my lady.” Dafydd seemed as quietly unperturbed as ever. “Do you need help with any other words?”

Brave man.

“Not now.” Her tone teetered on the border of civility as she slapped the quill onto the tabletop and stood. “I must find my father. Have you seen him?”

“In the Common, my lady.” He stepped aside, bowing, to let her pass.

She heard the shuffling of parchment behind her as she strode to the door. Evidently, he was satisfying his curiosity about the reason for her questions. Behind the fickle candle shadows flirting with the ivory page lurked the first Breatanaiche word he had taught her to write. But whether he discovered it or not, she didn’t care.

GYAN’S WHITE-KNUCKLED hand on the handle of the Common’s door trembled with her effort to retain self-control. It was no use. With a savage shove, she burst into the room.

Ogryvan was palming a whetstone across his sword. He was alone. But even if the room had been overflowing, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Father!” she howled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Calm yourself, Gyan.” The sword whined as it disappeared into its scabbard. “Sit down. What didn’t I tell you?”

She ignored the command. “The treaty! I am named—in Breatanaiche, but it’s there in the treaty. Gwenhwyfar ferch Gogfran—‘daughter of Ogryvan,’ in that barbarically backward way of theirs! For all the world to see. And you never breathed a word of it. I knew marrying a Breatan would be politically sensible, Father, but this—this treaty clause! Why did you keep it from me?” Fists on hips, she shot the words at him like steel-barbed arrows. “You didn’t think I needed to know?”

Ogryvan set the whetstone and sheathed sword on the ledge, rose from his firepit seat, and lumbered over to his daughter to lay a hand on each shoulder. “I didn’t want the knowledge to taint the process of selecting your consort.”

“Indeed! I’m not a child anymore!”

“I know.”

Sorrow creased his face. This was the man who had authored her life, gifted her with strength and knowledge and courage and skill. Through the years, he had given of himself selflessly and without reservation. Soon she would be going where he could not follow. And what was she doing, ungrateful wretch that she was? Trying to salve her wounded pride at his expense.

“I’m sorry, Father.” She stepped into the comforting circle of his arms. “But why? Why the marriage?” Staring at the firepit’s dead ashes, she rested her cheek against his chest. “And why only me?”

“Argyll is the strongest clan of the Confederacy. Arthur needed a way to ensure that we would not attack the Breatanaich again.”

“By marrying me off to one of his allies.” The ire resurfaced. “I am Chieftainess! By what right did he—”

Ogryvan cupped her face in his hands and forced her to meet his stern gaze. “By right of the strongest sword, of course.” When she made no comment, he added, “Arthur recognized your right under Caledonach law to choose your consort. He didn’t have to.”

As if there’d been any choice from the start. “Remind me to thank him sometime.”

“Would you rather have been surrendered as hostage, like Alayna’s son?”

Up sprang images of what the unfortunate lad must be going through: separated from home and family, thrust among uncaring strangers, the slender thread of his existence controlled by the whims of a single man, a Ròmanach.

Gyan shuddered. “I suppose it’s better for me this way. And for the clan.” She pulled away from her father to lean against the lip of the firepit. “But what happens if I decide to marry someone else?”

“Having second thoughts, are you?”

How could he possibly know? But a swift survey of his face revealed the tease. She drowned her surprise with a splash of feigned indifference.

“I want to know what my options are. I must marry a Breatanach chieftain or chieftain’s son, then?”

It was her turn to bear scrutiny. As she battled to maintain a neutral expression, she prayed her hammering heart wouldn’t betray her.

After what seemed like half an eon, Ogryvan nodded. “If he isn’t, he would have to be strong enough to defeat the Pendragon. Breaking the treaty would be a declaration of war.” His face crinkled with mischief. “Or you could marry the Pendragon himself.”

“The Ròmanach? Ha! Be serious, Father!” Her bonds of tension dissolved with a burst of laughter that seemed shrill with relief.

If her laughter sounded odd to him, he didn’t appear to notice. Chuckling, he returned to his seat. He drew his blade, reached for the whetstone, and motioned Gyan into the other chair. She was glad to comply.

“The last of the warriors from the outlying villages are due later today. What about you, Gyan? Are you ready for this journey?”

“Of course.” The prospect filled her with more excitement than ever, making it easier to ward off the lingering doubts about Urien. “Don’t worry. Per and I have everything arranged.”

“Worrying is a parent’s privilege,” Ogryvan retorted. “Let’s go over the plans again.”

She ticked off the points on her fingers. “The wagons are loaded. We don’t have to take a lot of foodstuffs. The Pendragon’s writ will get us whatever provisions we need along the way.”

“You have the document somewhere safe, I hope?”

“It’s in my chambers, along with my copy of the treaty, which is almost finished. I will carry both documents with me when we ride.”

“And the route?”

“Couldn’t be easier. South past Senaudon to the North Wall, then southwest to Dùn Ghlas. We should make Dùn Ghlas by nightfall on the second day. And from there—”

“I know all that, aye. But have you sent word to the Breatanach forts you’ll be passing along the way?”

“Just Senaudon and Dùn Ghlas. I sent information on the company’s size in warriors, number of wagons and extra horses, and when we expect to depart. The Pendragon’s scouts can track our progress from Dùn Ghlas, if they haven’t sighted us before then.” She laughed. “We’ll be as easy to miss as a blizzard on Belteine!”

Ogryvan’s answering smile was brief. “You wrote the messages yourself? I thought you wanted to keep your knowledge of their tongue secret for a while.”

“Tell me, Father. Who would believe that I mastered the written form of Breatanaiche in less than half a year? Speech, perhaps. But reading and writing? I think my surprise is quite safe. Whoever reads the messages will surely think I had help. Now, have I forgotten anything?”

The hand upon the whetstone stilled. He squinted at the sword gleaming in his lap as though searching for the tiniest imperfections in its deadly edge. Stroking his sable beard, he asked, “Who are you taking with you?”

“Personally? Well, Cynda, for one—”

“Out of the question.”

“What? But Father—”

“Nay.” He shoved the chair back, sword in one hand and whetstone in the other, to rise to his full height. “I will not let you rob me of the woman who knows best the running of my household.”

Gyan also stood. It did not bother her to tilt her head to meet Ogryvan’s glare. The very thing Cynda had predicted all those months ago was coming to pass. She stilled the chuckle that gathered in her throat.

“Not even if a suitable replacement can be found?”

His short bark of laughter seemed laced with disbelief. “You can’t train someone overnight what it took Cynda years to perfect.”

“It’s already done. Cynda has been working with her replacement all winter.” More disbelief gamboled across his face, chased by a mote of curiosity. She took that as a signal to continue. “Mardha. You’ve seen her, I’m sure. The pretty raven-haired one?”

A sly smile vanquished the disbelief. The sparkle in her father’s eyes told her all she needed to know.

BY MEANS not divulged to the uninitiated, the High Priest of Clan Argyll had long ago set the date for the departure of the two hundred Argyll warriors and their retainers. And he had chosen well. No mist shrouded the mountains. The air was redolent with the promise of renewed life. Helmets and spearheads and shield bosses winked in the warm spring sun.

Gyan mounted Brin, grateful to be in the saddle at last. The rest of the company followed her lead. Ogryvan stepped toward her. She looped the reins over her shield arm, threw her other arm around his neck, and pressed her cheek to his. As she straightened, she saw that although his face wore a proud smile, his eyes glistened in the early-morning light. The reason hit her like a hard slap.

Per and the other warriors would be home before the harvest, but Gyan was slated to stay on Maun. She fought back the tears to return her father’s smile.

Ogryvan took his place among the onlookers as Per guided Rukh to her side. In Per’s right hand was the spear bearing the Argyll standard: a pair of silver doves winging across a midnight-blue field. Fluttering whitely from the shaft below the clan’s banner was the universally recognized symbol of peaceful intent.

The journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh began to the encouraging shouts of the rest of the clan. Like the first dove of dawn, surging on pearly wings to embrace the sun, Gyan was eager to be away. And when she flew, she spared not a single backward glance.