Dawnflight (11 page)

It was futile, of course. At this game, Ogryvan the Ogre never lost.

The couple entering the center ring, the fifth since the dance had begun, could have been herself and Urien. And later, in the privacy of their chambers, the union with Clan Móran of Dailriata would have been made complete. Relief washed over Gyan at the thought of this temporary reprieve.

As the cool heather beer soothed her parched throat, she recalled for the hundredth time the night of her betrothal. Urien had seemed to accept the betrothal tattoo willingly enough. She wondered how he would have reacted today.

She gazed at the blue-robed couple standing back-to-back with their candles at the center of the dance, a secret voice scoffing at her foolish fears. Marriage to Urien would bring peace, not problems. Yet she remained unconvinced. Why, she had no idea. Perhaps this odd reluctance truly was born of foolishness. She tried to wash it away with another gulp of beer.

Sunset signaled the end of the dance. The wheel halted. An expectant hush fell over the gathering as the feast hall emptied.

Outside, the priests arranged the procession according to ancient custom. The High Priest and his attendants formed the head. Behind the priests walked the five couples to be wed, followed by Ogryvan, Gyan, and Per, then the families of warriors, hunters, farmers, craftsmen, traders, and servants.

The High Priest led the procession to the temple, where each adult lit a torch from the Sacred Flame. With the lighting of the final torch, the droning chant began.

Wind enticed the smoke and flames into the sky as the procession snaked its way up the path to the Nemeton. The chanting swelled as the procession approached the clearing. The priests clustered around the brush-covered altar. The five couples stepped between the outer and inner stone rings, and each man faced his bride across the gap. Ogryvan, Gyan, Per, and the rest of the clan circled the outer ring in ranks that spread through the clearing like waves around a rock dropped into a still pond.

At the High Priest’s hand signal, the first couple entered the Most Sacred Ground. Together they thrust their torches into the brush, and the Sacred Flame devoured the twigs. Cheers drowned the chanting as the newly married couple kissed. The High Priest intoned his blessing and delivered a prophecy, doubtless, Gyan mused, about the number and sexes of their children. The Sacred Flame danced ever higher as the four remaining couples were wed.

Upon completion of the joinings, the High Priest called for the sunderings. Weddings performed on Àmbholc night could be broken the following year with no shame clinging to either person. This year, no pair stepped forward for the sundering. More cheers raced skyward.

The congregation lined up to receive personal blessings and prophecies. As Gyan watched her father cross the Most Sacred Ground to dip his torch to the Sacred Flame, she tried to guess what the High Priest’s words to her would be. A year ago, he had spoken of betrothal to a foreigner. She recalled the depth of her disbelief, for there had been no alliance with the Breatanaich then, just seemingly unquenchable hatred.

Yet the impossible had occurred.

A gust wrestled with the flames as she approached the priests. Their faces were impassive in the wild light, as secretive as the stones. Gyan gave her torch to an attendant and knelt, head bowed, in ritual submission before the High Priest. The feathers of her robe whispered their own prophecies in the wind. Gnarled hands settled lightly upon her head.

The High Priest’s voice sounded subdued and sad: “A powerful chieftain of Breatein is fated to bring you great joy and great sorrow.” His voice dropped to a rasping whisper she had to strain to hear. “And death.”

Chapter 8

S
TIFLING ANOTHER COUGH lest Cynda overhear and scold her for being out of bed, Gyan braced against the window ledge. Cold seeped from the stone into her hands, but she paid it little heed. She had more important worries than mere illness, even though this bout had kept her abed for a sennight already.

Outside, the pines were staggering at the mercy of the leonine winds. There was no snow yet, though the clouds’ sullen threats grew more ominous by the moment.

Another day, another year, she would have smiled at the bleak beauty of the battling pines. Their refusal to break under the ruthless attacks had always won her admiration. Today, her heart felt heavier than the leaden skies.

She turned her back on the annual skirmish and reached for the poker. The flames hissed like angry serpents as she prodded them into action. She set the poker aside, hugged arms to chest, and began to pace the bedchamber. Her frown deepened as a cough tickled her throat. Now the eighth day of her confinement, she could be free if not for this blasted cough. She snatched the mug from the small bedside table to drown it with a swallow of Cynda’s herbal tea. The warm, honeyed concoction soothed the scratchiness well enough.

Too bad it couldn’t do the same for her spirits. But, she admitted to herself, this illness-imposed imprisonment was not the true cause of her melancholy.

She sat cross-legged on the floor before the hearth, chin resting on one fist and cup clenched in the other, and stared into the flames, but they failed to sear away the picture of the High Priest’s face on Àmbholc night. Wreathed by fitful torchlight, dire words spilling from the age-cracked lips, it was a picture she would never forget.

Every sword stroke and javelin cast was a pointed reminder that she might die at the hands of the enemy one day. She had long ago accepted that fact, so contemplation of her death didn’t bother her. No greater glory could a warrior hope to win than death in honorable combat. These fortunate souls joined the Otherworldly ranks of fallen sword-brothers to fight eternal battles in the realm of the gods.

Death was inevitable. Its reminders lurked everywhere: in the lambing shed and cow byre, the sickroom, the feast hall, the forests and meadows and streams, in the great dance of the seasons. Death was the mother of life.

What disturbed Gyan was that Urien would somehow cause hers.

It had to be Urien, she reasoned. He was a Breatan. One day, he would become chieftain of a strong clan. No enemy could bring joy as well as sorrow; only a husband wielded that power. Did this mean her husband would betray her? Become her enemy and strike her down in battle? Or, worse yet, would she be denied a warrior’s final honor? Perhaps to die in childbed, like her mother?

Maybe the augury was wrong. No, priests’ predictions were never wrong. The impossible betrothal to a foreigner had come to pass as foretold. To doubt the power of prophecy was to doubt the Old Ones themselves. Not a wise path to travel.

Hoping the herbs had the strength to clear her reeling brain, Gyan inhaled deeply of the tisane’s pungent aroma. It seemed to help. With the last swallow sliding down her ravaged throat, she reflected upon her options.

She could select another consort. By law, it was her right. But did this also grant her the right to risk starting a war with Móran and the other clans of Dailriata, perhaps all Breatein too, if the Pendragon got involved?

For the first time in Caledon’s long, bloody history, Caledonaich and Breatanaich were learning to trust each other. Trust was the mortar to build a rock-solid alliance against the marauding Scáthinaich from the southwest, Angalaranaich from the southeast, and Sasunaich from the south. Gyan had to admit that her marriage to Urien was a keystone. Breaking the betrothal might destroy any chance of peace between Caledon and Breatein.

This was not a deed for which she wished to be remembered.

Another possibility presented itself. She could ask the High Priest to intercede with the gods on her behalf—for a modest fee, of course. While this didn’t guarantee success, any action was better than blithely accepting the whims of fate. Yet what could she tell the High Priest to pray for? Not to escape her destiny; that was the coward’s solution. She would play the dice as they fell, and woe to him who falsely accused her of doing otherwise!

Besides, if the tales were true, the Old Ones usually didn’t take much interest in mortal affairs. There were stories aplenty of Nemetona blessing a favorite warrior with extra strength for an important battle, Clota influencing the selection of a clan ruler, and the like, events worthy of divine attention. Nothing as mundane as helping a woman survive a doomed marriage.

How much would the gods be willing to do for her?

More to the point, how could she admit to the High Priest that she needed his help? In all her previous dealings with him, he’d seemed kind enough. But as chieftainess, her relationship with the spiritual leader of Clan Argyll was crucial, and she suspected an admission of this nature would diminish his respect for her ability to handle the other facets of clan rule. The law empowered the High Priest to remove any man or woman deemed unfit for leadership. Such cases were rare but not without precedent. Could this, she asked herself with trepidation, happen to her?

The lump in her stomach was the only answer she needed.

Recognizing Cynda’s cheerful humming in the anteroom, she rose and faced the door. In moments, Cynda bustled into the bedchamber.

“Gyan! What are you doing out of bed?” Cynda deposited the tray on the table to plant her hands on ample hips.

“I’m feeling fine.” Her voice croaked the betrayal. “Really, Cynda, if I don’t see something other than this room soon, I’ll go mad!” It wasn’t far from the truth.

“Hmph.” She viewed Gyan suspiciously. “You still sound terrible. But your color is much better, I’ll grant.” With a short nod, she retrieved the tray, which held a fresh mug of tea and a piece of parchment. “Your tisane first,” Cynda insisted as Gyan set down the empty cup to reach for the message.

After drinking enough to satisfy her self-appointed physician, she examined the parchment. It was folded twice, and the edges were sealed with a sea-blue dragon.

How odd, she thought. Even if there were a Caledonach clan that claimed this creature, messages were always delivered orally. It had to be from a Breatan, then, but who? The Pendragon’s symbol was a dragon, but the wax on his treaty was scarlet.

She smacked her palm against her thigh. “Curse this sickness! I should have been there to greet the messenger!” This touched off a coughing fit that left her doubled over and wheezing.

“Easy, Gyan, or it’s back to bed with you.” Cynda steadied the trembling shoulders and lifted the mug to Gyan’s lips.

The coltsfoot and honey did their work, and the coughing subsided. Gyan broke the blue dragon to read the message. And crumpled it into a ball and flung it at the flames.

“What’s wrong? The message—”

“Was from the commander of the Pendragon’s war-fleet.” Gyan watched in satisfaction as the parchment blackened, ignited, and collapsed into a heap of smoking ash. “Bedwyr map Bann of Caerglas.” When Cynda looked at her blankly, she explained, “We call it Dùn Ghlas. That’s where we’ll be spending one night of our journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh, which the Breatanaich call Caer Lugubalion.”

“And for the different Breatanach names you torch the message?” Cynda grinned wickedly. “What’s next? Declaring war on the Pendragon?”

In no mood to surrender to Cynda’s spirit-lifting tactics, Gyan rolled her eyes. “According to this Bedwyr map Bann, not all of us will have the benefit of shelter inside his fort.”

“I’m sure he didn’t intend offense.”

“Indeed! Then do guests have such little honor in a Bhreatan home?” Cynda recoiled, but Gyan’s ire burned too hotly for her to stop. “Or do they think we are no better than dogs?”

“Of course not. Think on what you’re saying. You will be marrying a Breatanach chieftain’s son. Would they treat you with anything less than the highest honor?”

“A slight to even one of my clansmen is a slight to me.”

“I don’t think Bedwyr meant this as a slight to anyone. Did he explain?”

“Oh, yes.” Eyes closed, she visualized the Breatanaiche words and hunted for Caledonaiche substitutes. “He said that the crews of the ships haven’t yet left Port Dùn Ghlas for their spring patrolling runs.”

A frigid blast spewed snow into the room. Cynda scuttled to the window to refasten the leather window coverings.

“With this wretched weather, I’m not surprised. Dùn Ghlas must be too crowded to handle two hundred extra warriors and their horses and supply wagons.” She wagged a finger at Gyan. “You can’t blame the man for something beyond his control.”

“I suppose not…” A glance at the flames caused another matter to clamor for attention. As Cynda turned to leave, Gyan caught her hand. “Cynda?” So far, no one knew about the prophecy, not even Cynda, who’d been privy to all Gyan’s secrets.

“Aye, my dove?”

The woman’s advice had helped Gyan more times than she could count. Yet what could Cynda say this time? No words could change the one fact that was the hardest to bear: Gyan was a captive of destiny. Words might ease the torment, but comfort was not what she sought. She wanted no pity, only freedom.

No one owned the key to her prison.

She swallowed thickly and cleared her throat. “I’d like some more tea.” Cynda hesitated, as though attempting to read her thoughts. But this was one burden she would have to shoulder alone. “Please, Cynda.”