Dawnflight (29 page)

His enthusiasm made her laugh, the first real laughter she’d enjoyed in weeks. No, that wasn’t true. Someone else had made her laugh like that yesterday morning—which seemed like weeks ago. Someone she vowed to think about as little as possible.

On the hilltop stood their destination, and it was quite unlike anything Gyan had ever seen.

“You may begin by telling me about that.” She pointed at the massive living thorn wall guarding Fort Tanroc.

“The hawthorn hedge? Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Magnificent” was the word she would have chosen. It was taller than two men, and its snowy buds hid the deadly brambles behind a delicate shield. While passing through the main double-gated pine portal, she observed that the hedge was even thicker than it was tall.

“And see those dead brambles over there, my lady?” Angusel gestured toward the thorny bundles stacked neatly inside the hedge beside the gates. “Some are used to hide the gates. The rest can be packed into the portals as a little surprise for an invading army.”

Within easy bowshot of the hedge stood the fort’s thrice-man-height wooden palisade. The gate guards admitted the company with cheerful waves. As most of the children scampered to their homes and evening meals, the troops halted inside the palisade. Those on horseback dismounted. Ready to greet the newcomers, flanked by a small detachment, stood the garrison commander.

And it seemed every pair of eyes was turned solely upon Gyan.

She was smitten by the resemblance between Elian and Urien in face and build and coloring. The major difference was age, for Elian was of Dumarec’s generation, and he had the gray hair, creased brow, and wealth of battle scars to show for it. To Gyan, it was like peering a score of years into a future she had no desire to attain but no hope to avoid.

“Centurion Elian, I am honored to present Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar of Clan Argyll.” Through Angusel’s excellent Breatanaiche, his excitement bubbled like a pot on the boil.

After saluting, Elian started to extend his hand in greeting, appeared to notice Gyan’s bandaged arm, and swept her a deep bow instead. “My lady, permit me to say that the Pendragon’s description does not do you justice. Urien is a lucky man, indeed.” Murmuring her thanks, she wondered how she was ever going to be able to live in close association with the kinsman of the man she didn’t want to marry. “Please permit me, also, to offer my congratulations. Both for your betrothal and your victory.” She gave Elian a questioning glance, and he smiled. “The Pendragon is a difficult adversary to defeat.”

She felt her eyes widen. “How did you—”

Angusel was quicker. “Chieftainess! You defeated the Pendragon?” Something akin to goddess veneration sprang to life in his eyes. “Does this mean I can go home?”

Sighing, she patted his shoulder, hating what she would have to say next but knowing she had no other choice. “I wish it did, Angusel. I truly do.” In more ways than one, she mused ruefully. She withdrew her hand. “But, no. I’m sorry. It was only a practice bout.” As he dropped his gaze to the ground, she banished her reticence. “If you like, I’ll tell you about the fight sometime.”

He looked at her, disappointment chased away by that same worshipful expression, only stronger. “Oh, yes, my lady, I’d like that very much!” His grin returned in full measure.

Elian gave Gyan a grateful glance and favored Angusel with a teasing smile. “Dodging your lessons again, lad? Or are your tutors not giving you enough work to do?”

“Oh, no, sir! Nothing like that. I’d heard the reinforcements were due today, so I asked to be excused.”

Nodding, the garrison commander glanced around the courtyard. “Where is Lady Morghe?”

“East guardroom, sir.” Angusel jerked his chin over his shoulder in the general direction. “Sounded like she wasn’t feeling well.”

“It’s not like her to miss meeting someone,” Elian murmured, apparently to no one in particular. He returned his attention to Gyan. “No matter. I’m sure you will be meeting the Pendragon’s sister soon enough, Chieftainess.”

Gyan swallowed her surprise and dismay. Arthur had a sister? Here? Just what she needed, she thought with a mental sigh: a living reminder of him.

Before she could voice her questions about this Morghe, Elian began barking orders to the guard. There were horses to stable and soldiers to house, and food and drink to supply for everyone. Gyan gave Brin’s reins to a Caledonach warrior. Elian’s men split into two groups, one to lead the cavalrymen and their mounts to the stables and the other to show the footsoldiers the barracks. As the troops marched away, the remaining group dwindled to Elian, Angusel, Gyan, Cynda, Dafydd, and his family.

Addressing Dafydd, Elian said, “Your quarters are ready, sir. Angusel will show you. The wagon can be kept with the others, near the stables.”

Angusel jumped up beside Dafydd, pointing the way. As the wagon lurched forward, the lad twisted around to honor Gyan with the Caledonach warrior’s salute. Heartily, she returned it, to his obvious delight.

“I will escort you to your chambers, my lady.” Elian gave her an apologetic smile. “Normally, I would offer my arm to such a lovely lady as yourself. But since you’re a warrior too, I suppose it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“It’s all right, Elian,” she assured him. “I do appreciate the thought.”

As she and Elian strode toward the officers’ wing, with Cynda scurrying behind them, a young woman emerged from the guard tower across the courtyard. She was short of stature, and her dark auburn braids cascaded over her figure-flattering violet gown. Although she wasn’t hurrying, she had set herself on a course to intercept them.

“Lady Morghe, well met.” Elian inclined his head as she stopped before them. “Well met, indeed. This is Chieftainess—”

“Gyanhumara. Of Caledonia.” To Elian, she said, “Gwenhwyfar, in our tongue.” She directed her attention at Gyan. “Or Guenevara, if you prefer the guttural noise the Saxons and Angli call a language.” Despite their physical differences, Morghe’s slim smile was so like Arthur’s, Gyan found herself wrestling with her composure. Morghe turned her alluring violet gaze on the centurion. “Elian, be a dear, and let me show the chieftainess her chambers, will you? Please?”

He chuckled. “An excellent idea, Lady Morghe.” Saluting Gyan, he said, “If you need anything, Chieftainess, I am at your service.”

“Thank you, Centurion Elian. You are very kind.” And Gyan meant it.

Elian spun and headed for the barracks, while Gyan and Cynda followed Morghe toward a cluster of low buildings in the opposite direction.

“Well, Gyanhumara—may I call you Gyanhumara? We’ll be studying together, and using titles all the time can be so”—Morghe casually flicked her hand—“tiresome.”

Gyan pondered the sister of the man who owned her heart. Kin and close friends she permitted to use the shortened form of her name. Morghe, so far, was neither, and Gyan wasn’t at all sure she wanted that to change. Something about her made Gyan uneasy. It was as if Morghe was Arthur’s antithesis, and not simply in physical appearance. “You may forgo using my title, Morghe,” she said cautiously.

At the entrance to one of the buildings, Morghe stopped to give Gyan a long appraisal. Finally, she mounted the steps, beckoning Gyan and Cynda to follow. “Our quarters are in here, Gyanhumara.” She turned to point at Gyan’s bandaged arm. “I have several salves that may help, depending on what sort of injury that is.”

Inside the building, Gyan took a moment for her eyes to adjust before moving to catch Morghe. “It’s a cut. From a sword.” Instinct warned her not to mention that Morghe’s brother was responsible.

“Does it trouble you?” Morghe asked.

“The salt spray hasn’t helped it any.”

“Ah.” Morghe’s smile looked so much like Arthur’s that Gyan bit off a gasp. “I have just the thing for it, then.”

She selected a door—her own chambers, Gyan surmised—and pushed it open. Out wafted a heady aroma of herbs too numerous to identify, tickling Gyan’s nose. She and Cynda followed Morghe inside. Every shelf, tabletop, and most of the floor was scattered with parchment, quills, ink pots, piles of bark and berries and roots, several smooth stone mortars and pestles, and an army of tiny earthen jars and their stoppers. Some were empty, and some weren’t. Bunches of herbs were drying suspended from the rafters. A cauldron containing a thick white mixture was bubbling over the fire.

Morghe went to a group of sealed jars, opened one, smeared a trace on her finger, took a sniff, and nodded with apparent satisfaction. “This is the one.” She rubbed the salve between her fingers until it disappeared and brought the open jar to Gyan. The salve had a faint bluish tint.

“What’s she doing?” Cynda whispered to Gyan.

“Being hospitable, I think,” Gyan murmured as she began to unwrap the bandage.

Cynda stayed Gyan’s hand. “I want to know what’s in that salve first.” Gyan cocked an eyebrow. “Go ahead, Gyan. Ask her.”

Morghe grinned. “Elder and valerian, mostly. In a lard base, of course.” Her Caledonaiche was quite good, and Gyan felt her other eyebrow shoot up. Cynda’s surprised expression was downright comical. “And one or two”—Morghe’s grin widened—“secret ingredients.” With the jar cradled in the palm of her hand, she thrust it toward Gyan, who got the distinct impression Morghe was challenging Gyan’s trust.

Gyan wasn’t at all sure she should trust this woman, but she was Arthur’s sister. No good could come from deliberately offending her. She reached for the salve.

Cynda snatched the jar from Morghe’s palm.

“Cynda! I was just going to—”

“I know what you were going to do.” Cynda’s frosty stare was directed solely at Morghe. She said to Gyan, “I won’t have anything foreign touch you until I’ve had a look first.”

Apparently, the double meaning wasn’t lost on Morghe. She adopted a look that was somewhere between annoyance and disgust. Still speaking in Caledonaiche, she said, “Your guard dog needn’t be so vigilant around me, Gyanhumara.”

Cynda, busy with her examination of the salve—which included tasting it—either didn’t hear or chose not to react to the insult.

“Cynda is the only mother I have ever known.” Her fingertips brushed the pommel of her sword. “If you wish to remain on good terms with me, Lady Morghe”—Gyan stressed the title to communicate her displeasure—“then I suggest you treat her with the same respect you would show your own mother.”

Morghe loosed a peal of laughter and dropped Cynda a deep curtsey. “As you command, Chieftainess.” Gyan couldn’t tell whether Morghe was mocking only Cynda or both of them.

It didn’t matter. Gyan had to get out of there before she yielded to the temptation to run this insolent upstart through, Arthur’s sister or not. “If you would kindly tell us where our quarters are, Lady Morghe, we won’t take up another moment of your precious time.” She turned toward the door, and Cynda, holding the salve pot, followed her.

Grinning, Morghe sidled past them. “Oh, no, Chieftainess. I promised Elian that I would take you there, and so I shall.”

Before either Gyan or Cynda could react, she slipped out of the room. As Gyan stepped into the corridor, she saw Morghe standing beside the next door in line, resting a hand on her hip.

Morghe said, in Breatanaiche, “Here are your quarters, Chieftainess Captive.”

“Excuse me. My Brytonic must not be as good as I thought it was. Did you say—”

“That your quarters are in here? Yes.” Humming, she bustled inside. For Cynda’s benefit, she switched to Caledonaiche. “Keep the salve. Use it or not, as you see fit. It should be quite safe.” She splayed the fingers she’d used to sample the salve. “See? These haven’t fallen off—yet.” This was followed by a burst of laughter.

Gyan laid hold of Morghe’s arm and said in Breatanaiche, “That’s not what I meant, Morghe.” Scowling, she folded her arms. “And I think you know it. Did you call me a captive?”

“Ah, that. Didn’t you know? Arthur has quite a distinguished collection of us here. Angusel, me…now you. Welcome to Tanroc Prison, my lady.” Chuckling, she tugged the door shut as she left the chamber.

Morghe must have been joking. And yet it made a certain amount of sense. If not a political prisoner, like Angusel, Gyan was a captive of her own destiny, forced into a marriage that was fated to be her doom, while the one man she did want to marry remained agonizingly out of reach. In stunned silence, she sank into the nearest chair.

“Gyan? You look like someone just stepped on your grave.” Gyan snorted but didn’t reply. “Your arm, my dove?”

She glanced down to see that she was absently stroking the bandage. In fact, her arm had begun to ache, resonating with the ache in her heart. Maybe her ill-conceived love for Arthur was nothing short of folly. Maybe his sister, so like him in a few ways yet so different in most others, had been thrown into Gyan’s path to remind her how futile were her hopes. And maybe, she thought glumly, residing at Port Dhoo-Glass with Urien wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.

Chapter 17

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY dawned bright and fair. Despite the newness of the surroundings, Gyan had slept like the dead and woke feeling better than she had in many a sennight. A talk with Cynda helped her put her thoughts back into perspective. Gyan’s love for Arthur was neither futile nor ill-conceived, Cynda pointed out. Given the proper opportunity, that could all change. Armed with Cynda’s optimism, she resolved to be ready for such an opportunity, however long it might take to present itself to her. Meanwhile, on Cynda’s suggestion, she set about establishing the pattern of her daily routine, hoping to make it intricate enough to ease the pain of separation—from home, from kin, from clan, and especially from the man she loved.