Dawnflight (2 page)

She launched herself down the path, bruises forgotten in the autumn mist.

THE CHIEFTAIN of Clan Argyll stood alone on the practice field. Pride pulsed anew for the two promising young warriors, racing like colts toward the family’s living compound. Per, Ogryvan observed with critical interest, was gaining. Arms pumping, Per drew abreast. Too close: Gyan’s scabbard bounced into his leg. His stride faltered. With a whoop of triumph, startling a cloud of pigeons from their perches on the timbered roof, she flashed past him into the long, low stone building.

Ogryvan shook his head in amusement. She was so like her mother. Winning at any cost was one of his late wife’s dearest passions. How often had Hymar played some mischief like that? When they galloped their horses beside summer-slim streams, her favorite move had been to drive her mare at full speed into the shimmering water. He could still hear her bright laughter as he spluttered his protest at the unexpected dousing.

Time finally had eased the pain of his loss. Mercifully, his most cherished memories remained intact.

With a glance at the leaden skies, he hoped Hymar was somehow watching. If so, certainly she ought to be sharing his pride.

He began shambling down the path after the youths when his boot crunched against something hard. All but invisible to the casual eye, Gyan’s rectangular oak shield nestled in a muddy bed. Stooping to retrieve it, he resolved to chide her about neglecting her gear.

She ought to hearken well to his words if she had a mote of sense, her father mused. Per too. They would be far beyond the reach of his guidance soon enough. The sorrow of this knowledge clutched his heart like a merlin’s claw over a mouse.

To honor the treaty made after the Battle of Abar-Gleann with Arthur the Pendragon of Breatein, Per and hundreds of other Caledonach warriors would be riding south after spring planting to join the Breatanach army at Dùn Lùth Lhugh. Gyan was finished with her basic martial training; the rest she would have to learn through constant practice, and in battle. But she would not be joining her brother. Her part in fulfilling the treaty terms would take her elsewhere, beginning with the Breatanach school on the island they called Maun.

She didn’t know this yet.

Ogryvan resumed his course for the building. He had dodged the issue for two turnings of the moon, and time had become his enemy.

Caledonach children born into the warrior caste were raised on the heroic stories of clan lore. Battles and wars, victories and defeats, incredible acts of strength and bravery: tales as sweet as mother’s milk. Gyan had devoured the teachings more eagerly than any child Ogryvan had ever known, especially the hard lessons learned from the ancient Ròmanach War. And, most recently, Abar-Gleann.

That she seemed willing to swallow her inborn hatred of the Eagle of Ròm was an eloquent measure of how much she wanted to fight beside Per and her clansmen, even though they would be wielding their weapons on behalf of the Ròmanach warlord, Arthur.

BEHIND GYAN, the thudding of Per’s booted feet on the corridor’s flagstones announced that he had recovered his stride and hadn’t given up. Yet this victory was hers! And she savored every moment.

Their laughs no more than breathless gasps, Gyan and Per clattered to a halt before his chambers. He leaned on the door to step inside.

She caught his tunic sleeve. “Wait, Per. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh, aye.” He bent double in an elaborate bow. “You have bested me in a fair race, my lady. I am yours to command forever.”

“Ha! Begone, rogue!” She smiled her delight. “Save your charm for the ladies.”

“Aye, but I have.” As he reached for her hand, the mockery in his grin yielded to affection. “The best lady in all Caledon.”

He gave her braid a quick tug and fled into the room. The oaken door thumped shut behind him.

“Beast!” she hurled at the ironbound timbers. His only reply was a burst of muted laughter.

Brothers! What to do with them?

Or without them?

Chuckling softly, she set off toward her chambers at the far end of the corridor.

Normally, the afternoon would be devoted to horsemanship and mounted javelin-throwing. Gyan could sit a horse better than most men could, but flinging a slim barbed shaft at a target from a bobbing back was another matter entirely. She didn’t relish the idea of missing even one chance to practice this basic Caledonach battle tactic, and today marked the third day of departure from her routine.

The reason was a hard lump to swallow. A Breatanach chieftain, Dumarec of Clan Móran, was due to arrive soon, perhaps even this day. Chieftain Dumarec was bringing his son, and Gyan was expected to look her feminine best.

Illness or injury would have been better, without question. Let the other women strut about, she thought scornfully, prettied up like overgrown dolls to snag a mate. Such was not her way.

But these days following the devastating loss at Abar-Gleann could scarcely be called normal.

“Cynda,” she called upon entering the antechamber.

The short, plump, black-haired woman emerged from the bedchamber with an armload of Gyan’s soiled clothes. Sighing, she rolled her eyes in a familiar gesture of long-suffering patience.

“By the gods, Gyan, you get dirtier than anyone I know! Per included.” The accusation was delivered with a merry laugh.

“You should see Father!”

Cynda, who had nursed the infant Gyan after the death of her mother and had seen her through the bumps and scrapes of an active childhood, dropped her burden near the door.

“I can imagine. Strip off that leather and set it aside to be cleaned. I’ll get the basin and towels. And put your linens onto the pile, there.”

As Cynda left the room, Gyan moved to obey.

Standing naked in the privacy of her bedchamber, she regarded herself in the shield-size polished bronze mirror. All her life, folks had crowed about how much she resembled Chieftainess Hymar. Yet it had always made her wonder…

Was she as tall as her mother had been? Or as slim? Was her hair as lustrous? Were her eyes as deeply green?

Most importantly, would she prove to be as wise and just a ruler as Hymar was said to have been?

She squeezed her eyes against the stinging threat of tears. These were questions she had lived with for as long as she could remember, questions destined to remain forever unanswered.

As she gazed into the mirror, her vision blurred with the remnants of her sorrow. For a moment, she saw not a lovely young woman in the bloom of adulthood but a child scampering gleefully through spring meadows, stopping now and again to climb a tree or toss stones into a chuckling brook. Her brother was never far behind; Cynda always gasped and grumbled about the pace.

Those were the special days, just after spring planting each year. Duties were light, spirits soared high, and the sun and breeze and wildflowers conspired to lure the unwary into realms of carefree delight.

Those days resided in the forsaken chambers of her mind while other matters competed for her attention: matters that promised to alter the path of her life forever.

There was no mystery to the timing of the Bhreatanaich visit. To show support for the new alliance, Ogryvan wanted Gyan to select a Breatanach lord for a consort. Dumarec’s lands adjoined her people’s to the west, and that border had been violently disputed for generations, so his son was a logical choice.

Yet she was under no obligation to accept the suggested match. Such was the privilege of the clan’s àrd-banoigin, the woman through whom the line of succession was determined. Caledonach law also dictated that whoever shared the bed of an àrd-banoigin was entitled to the woman’s lands. Gyan controlled more land than any of her peers. Thus, she’d been trained from the first day of womanhood to be selective in her choice of consort.

This son of Dumarec would have to prove himself her equal with sword and horse, no easy task for any man.

But she was also learning there was more to life than battles and bloodshed. The serving lasses were always happy to fill her ears with stories of their bedchamber exploits. Usually, the answers to her questions came in blunt, vivid detail. Something stirred within Gyan during those stories, no louder than a breeze whiffling through a pile of leaves.

She closed her eyes and ran tentative fingers over her breasts, wondering how a man’s touch would feel.

Would she ever know the caress of love, if her consort were chosen for political reasons?

The sound of someone bustling into the anteroom shattered her reverie. She wrapped herself in a sleeping fur and opened the door.

Mardha, the prettiest of the serving lasses, was bearing the water and washing linens. She greeted Gyan with a saucy smile and a wink. Cynda followed with towels and a gown.

Gyan would much rather have seen Cynda carrying a fresh tunic and breeches and said so.

“You know your father’s orders, young lady.” Cynda organized the bathing implements with a practiced hand.

Gyan sighed.

The wolfskin slid to the floor at her feet as Cynda and Mardha each grabbed a wet washcloth and set to work.

Chapter 2

O
GRYVAN DUCKED TO cross the threshold into the living quarters.

A smear on the gray granite flagstones caught his eye, and he squinted at the floor. The smear resolved into a double set of boot marks. One track stopped at the nearest closed door, Per’s chambers. The other continued down the deserted corridor and disappeared into the shadows.

He presumed that Gyan and Per had gone to get themselves cleaned up. In his present mud-caked condition, this seemed like a fine idea. His daughter’s lecture would have to wait.

Hefting both his shield and Gyan’s, he shouldered open the door to his private chambers. The slave tending the fire scrambled to his feet as Ogryvan entered the room.

“Ah, Dafydd. Well met. I need towels and water.” Dafydd bowed and started to leave. “Fresh clothing too,” added Ogryvan on his way into the inner sleeping chamber.

He left the shields against a wall, shed the muddy leather gear and sweaty undertunic, and stretched on his bare stomach across the bed, eyes closed. Memories flooded his brain of the children, not as he saw them today but years ago: Gyan, always driving herself to keep pace with her brother, and Per, the son of his heart though not of his flesh, forever striving to stay one step ahead. The two of them, running, climbing, riding, fighting, shouting, always together, always laughing.

Well, almost always.

Arbroch without Gyan and Per was not going to be the same.

Creaking hinges announced Dafydd’s return. The hot, moist towels soothed Ogryvan’s complaining muscles. Gyan had certainly given them good reason to complain.

A pity the heat couldn’t salve his spirits.

One by one, the towels came off, leaving a tingling echo of their presence. With a twinge of regret, he sat up. Across Dafydd’s palms rested a thigh-length blue tunic and matching trews. Ogryvan accepted the proffered garments with a nod.

Painfully easing the trews over the purpling thigh bruise forced to mind the disaster at Abar-Gleann, and he grimaced. Those memories refused to budge.