Dawnflight (48 page)

Her smile looked decidedly grateful as he dismounted to help her down. He led the donkey into the pen and secured the gate.

“GOD BE with you, Arthur.”

“And you too, Prioress.” He pressed her hand between his. “I leave Maun in two days. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Niniane chewed her lip. With a full life stretching before him, this was not the time to speak of his final battle. But there was the matter of his youngest sister. Nothing that she had Seen, just her knowledge of Morghe’s deep anger toward him, which might manifest in any number of potentially dangerous ways.

She studied his face: so young, yet responsibility was beginning to etch its indelible mark. She did not have the heart to cause worry to lodge there too. It would come knocking soon enough on its own. But something had to be said. Lord willing, a few words would be enough.

“When you get ready to leave, I think you ought to consider taking Morghe with you.” In the silence wrought by his surprise, Niniane explained, “She is terribly unhappy on Maun. And she hates you for it.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “I sent Morghe here for her own good.”

“When do any of us see the good in something we despise because we are forced into it?”

“We must all do things we don’t like.” The subdued assurance made her wonder what unpleasant task was invading his thoughts.

The call rang out for third-hour prayer. The prioress cast a glance toward the chapel as the sisters obediently set aside their work to heed the bell’s summons.

“She misses her home,” Niniane said. “I know you sent her here because you care about her, but she doesn’t see it that way. If you let her go now, it may not be too late to change the way she feels about you.”

The bell seemed to become more insistent, and she knew she had to hurry. But surely the Lord would forgive her a few minutes’ tardiness just this once.

“Arthur, please don’t sacrifice your relationship with Morghe this way.”

He looked away and did not respond for several moments. When he returned his gaze to her, the brief but unmistakable flicker of pain made her want to weep.

“I will consider your advice.”

Smiling her relief, the prioress hurried for the chapel. The tierce bell’s echoes were drowned by the crying gulls and moaning surf.

BACK IN her quarters in the officers’ wing later that morning, Gyan had an unexpected visitor.

“Gyan! Gyan, I’m so glad you’re all right,” exclaimed Angusel as he burst into the antechamber.

They exchanged the warriors’ arm grip, before impulse urged her to draw him into a sisterly embrace.

“Well, of course I’m all right, Angus. What did you expect?” Thinking of Morghe’s earlier words, she added, “Better leave the door ajar.” Angusel cocked a questioning eyebrow. “It’s a long story. For later, back at Tanroc.” As he went to obey, she noticed the limp. “What happened to your leg? And where were you when I needed you?”

He returned, and they each dragged a chair to the table.

“You didn’t hear about how Urien tried to kill me?”

“
What?
” Fists clenched, she shot to her feet.

“Gyan, please, it’s all right.” He caught her hand and tugged. Reluctantly, she sat. “But that’s a long story too. Honestly, I’m sick of telling it. Let’s just say that I didn’t see as much of the action as you did.” After a moment, he brightened. “I came to hear about your fights.”

Although his reticence aroused her curiosity, she let the matter drop. He would tell her what had happened to him when he was ready, just as she would eventually explain her aversion to closed doors.

So, for most of the following hour, she recounted the events of the past two days. It wasn’t easy to strip the emotions from the facts to give him an accurate description of her capture and the battle. With the help of his persistent questions, she clarified as many details as she felt he ought to know about—which did not include her personal encounters with Arthur or the argument with Morghe at dawn.

“But they said you killed a hundred Scáthinaich and wounded twice that many.”

“Oh, come now! Do you really believe that?”

“I suppose not. But I think you could have if you’d wanted to.”

She laughed lightly. “Such faith!” She reached out to tousle his curly black hair. “Angus, what am I going to do with you?”

The spirit of seriousness seemed to descend upon the young warrior. “Let me always fight by your side, Gyan. That’s all I ever want to do.” He spied the Scáthinach sword leaning sheathed in the corner, retrieved it, and offered her the hilt. “This isn’t mine, but that doesn’t change my feelings.”

Angusel carried the potential to become a great warrior, a promise that sang in the glitter of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the pride of his stance. And he was the àrd-oighre of a clan nearly as powerful as Argyll.

Solemnly, she stood and grasped the hilt with her left hand—since her wounded arm could not bear the weight—and drew the sword. Angusel knelt, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. She laid the naked blade on his right shoulder. The edge touched the base of his neck in the ancient Caledonach ritual of the giving and acceptance of trust. According to custom, the one holding the weapon was at liberty to decapitate the one making the pledge if there were any doubts about the sincerity of the offer.

Through the turbulent centuries, the Geall Dhìleas had been used for execution as often as not.

Gyan harbored no doubts as she intoned the prescribed Caledonaiche words: “Swear thou, Angusel mac Alayna, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban, the Oath of Fealty to me, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll, unto death?”

“Ever unto death!”

She inflicted the ceremonial scratch on his neck.

Someone pounded on the door. Angusel scrambled to his feet. Gyan sheathed the sword and returned it to the corner.

The door banged against the wall. Glowering like the wild boar of his clan’s symbol, Urien of Dailriata charged into the room.

“Urien.” Gyan glared at her unwelcome visitor. “What a surprise.”

“Indeed. Boy, leave us,” Urien ordered without taking his eyes from Gyan.

Angusel looked at her expectantly. She firmly guided him toward the door.

“I won’t be far,” he promised, in Caledonaiche.

When they were alone, Urien demanded, “What did he say?”

“Just expressing concern for my health.” It wasn’t far from the truth. “Which is more than you’ve done, I might add.”

“I did not come here to inquire after your health.”

“Of course you didn’t. You have about as much feeling as a rock. Less, I think.”

Growling, he lunged at her and latched onto her right forearm, below the bandage. She clenched her teeth against the searing pain as he yanked her closer. He grabbed her other arm. His breath reeked of rancid ale.

“Damn it, woman! Is he your lover?”

Despite the pain, she couldn’t resist the temptation to bait him. “Angusel? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That’s not who I mean.” Urien’s grip tightened.

She tried to wrench free. As her struggles died, a grin of malevolent triumph spread across his face.

She refused to give him the victory. “Who, then?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Gyanhumara. You wear his standard across your belly.” His jaw clenched as his gaze flicked down to her belt and back to her face.

“So. You would believe every lie you hear?”

“I believe my eyes! What I’ve been told only reinforces what I saw before the battle yesterday. You and Arthur, on the ridge.”

By all that was holy, how was she going to sidestep this? Then an inspiration hit: “Why, Urien, I was only thanking him for releasing me.”

He spat an impolite invective. “Don’t give me that. I saw what I saw. It was not just gratitude.” His fingers dug deeper. “Was it?”

Sheer force of will bridled her outcry. Disappointment lurked in Urien’s rage-colored eyes.

When she refused to respond, he continued, “If it had been me, would you have done the same?”

“What do you think?”

Urien released her arms and strode toward the door. She swallowed the urge to voice her relief. He whirled to face her.

“Lady, I don’t know what to think anymore. But remember this: I do not lose anything without a fight!”

The timbers of the door and its frame trembled under the force of his departure.

Chapter 27

C
AIUS MARCELLUS ECTORIUS lounged on the low cot in his tent, conducting the planning meeting. In a wide semicircle on the ground sat the centurions of the cohort to be sent to Tanroc’s relief. Eight pairs of eyes regarded him with unwavering respect as he imparted his instructions.

Times like this, Cai thought with an inward grin, were almost as rewarding as the battles themselves.

A shadow darkened the dirt. Cai glanced up at the tent opening, which was blocked by the form of his foster brother. One hand clutched the captured Scotti standard. Recognizing the urgency behind that cool gaze, Cai drew the meeting to a close.

Arthur advanced into the tent. As the centurions filed past him, he gave each man a clap on the shoulder and a few words of encouragement for the upcoming operation. To Cai, it seemed the centurions underwent a subtle transformation that manifested in various ways: a lighter step, a swelled chest, a proudly lifted chin.

It was more than a reaction to the personal recognition of the supreme commander. Cai had succumbed to the influence of that touch often enough to know its magic. It always amazed him how Arthur could have that kind of effect on people. The weapon was as powerful as the ruby-headed sword riding Arthur’s hip.

When the last centurion had departed, Cai slid over. Arthur dropped beside him onto the cot.

“Where were the other two men, Cai?”

Cai gave Arthur a hard stare. “You’re joking, right?”

“Ah, of course. We left those units watching Tanroc.” Arthur shook his head slightly and grinned. Cai could have sworn it was forced. “Sorry. I’ve been a bit…busy. With those other two centuries, plus some of Bedwyr’s warships to cover the seaward flank, you’ll have no trouble tomorrow. When do you leave?”

“Dawn. As soon as you give us a proper sendoff, of course. Just as long as it doesn’t take all day.” Cai’s grin underscored the tease. “I don’t intend to march the men by torchlight.”

As the shared laughter trailed away, Cai pointed to the banner. “What’s that for?”

“This?”

Arthur stared at the green and gray cloth in his fist. In all their years together, Cai had rarely seen Arthur act preoccupied over anything. And when he did, usually trouble was soon to follow. Cai’s senses sharpened for other warning signs.

But the moment passed, and Arthur continued, “It should be helpful at Tanroc.”

The banner fluttered to the ground in two ragged pieces. The loping Silver Wolf was torn precisely in half.

“Of course. More demoralization tactics. You don’t think facing ten-to-one odds will be enough?”

“I prefer not to take chances, as long as I win. If I can win without spending a single life, so much the better.” Arthur glanced up from the Scotti banner. “I know you would rather fight.”

Cai shrugged. “Dead men won’t attack you.”

“They won’t help you, either.”