Dawnflight (24 page)

HEAD BOWED like a prisoner being led to the gallows, Gyan mounted the wide steps. The blue-veined white stone brought to mind what she had seen in the praetorium. She looked up and stopped to stare in awe at the edifice looming in her path. Sprouting from the top of the steps were several tall pillars, supporting an elaborately carved roof crowned with rounded crimson tiles. On top of the roof, as if an afterthought, sat a huge bell, surrounded by its private shelter. The entire building shimmered in the sunlight as though touched by the One God Himself.

“What’s wrong, Gyanhumara? We’re here.”

“This?” She didn’t hide her astonishment as she pointed at the structure. “This is the infirmary?”

Urien gave her an indulgent smile. “No, my dear. This was built as a temple for the Roman god Jupiter, but it’s now called the Church of Saint John the Evangelist.” Gyan mentally translated the latter phrase into Caledonaiche as “Ian the Holy Messenger,” one of the Christ’s closest followers, she recalled from Dafydd’s stories. Glancing sunward, Urien tugged her elbow. “The infirmary is in a back wing of the church. But if we don’t hurry, you’ll have to wait to be seen until after the third-hour office is done.”

By “third-hour office,” she could only assume he meant something that was about to happen inside the church, although she couldn’t imagine what it might be. As the bell began to toll, she got the distinct impression she was about to find out. Its mellow tone seemed to beckon to her. Gladly, she obeyed and continued up the stairs, feeling more of her fatigue drain away with each step she took.

Urien lagged behind. “Where are you going?”

“Inside, of course.” Gyan gestured at the folk, a mixture of soldiers and civilians, who were quietly passing them on either side to enter the building singly or in pairs. “I can, can’t I? Or is this third-hour office only for residents?”

Urien shook his head. “All are welcome.” He stepped up to reach her side. “But disturbances aren’t. Once we’re inside, you’ll have to be quiet.”

As if she were a child! She rolled her eyes. “I do know how to be discreet, Urien.”

Arms crossed, he said, “And that swordfight was your idea of discretion?” He leaned closer, eyes glittering. “Or his?”

Up came her left hand, fingers knotted into a fist, to wave the accursed betrothal-mark before his face. It was all she could do to restrain herself from ramming it where it most needed to go. “This is here by
my
choice.” She jabbed her finger toward the twin mark on his wrist. “So is yours. Don’t forget it.”

He caught her hand in his. She braced herself, physically as well as mentally, for his angry retort. To her immense surprise, it never came.

“Believe me, Gyanhumara, I don’t forget. I can’t. My tattoo won’t let me.” He kissed her betrothal-mark. “But what it reminds me of most is the mark you’ve carved”—he placed her left hand on his breastplate, over his heart—“here.”

“Indeed.” Cocking an eyebrow, Gyan pulled her hand free to rest it on her hip. “Forgive me, Urien, but you seem to have a strange way of showing it.” She tried to curb her cynicism by keeping her voice soft but wasn’t sure how well she was succeeding.

Bowing his head, he sighed. “I know.” As he lifted his gaze to meet hers, earnestness dominated his expression. “I want this marriage to work, Gyanhumara. More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life. Not just for our clans, or for Brydein, but for us. But we—you and me and the cultures that bred us—we’re so—so—”

A list of words popped to mind, and she selected what she thought was the most innocuous. “Different?”

“Exactly.” He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. “Help me, Gyanhumara. Help me learn to overcome these differences.”

Gyan battled a new wave of surprise. Help Urien, when Arthur was the only man she wanted? But since she had hopelessly alienated Arthur with her ill-considered behavior, she no longer had a choice to make.

Or rather, she corrected herself sadly, the choice she had most wanted to make was no longer an option.

“Very well. Ready for your first lesson?” When Urien nodded, she said, “I am not an object to possess, nor merely a means for producing heirs, but a warrior and a chieftainess. And neither is symbolic. If for whatever reason you have trouble accepting me in the former role, then I strongly suggest you try respecting the latter. If you don’t, you will never win the support of my clan.”

A strange look crossed his face, as though he’d never considered that point before. He stroked his chin. “Our cultures really are different, then. For a Brytoni woman to rule a clan is rare.”

She thought of Arthur’s mother, while struggling not to think of the woman’s son. “But not unheard of. Am I right?”

“You are absolutely right, my dear.” His smile could have charmed a squirrel out of its winter hoard. “And I see that I’ve been acting like a—”

“A cù-puc?” she offered, grinning.

“Is that Caledonian for ‘selfish oaf’?”

“Roughly.” Sunlight glinted off his dragon cloak-pin, turning the bronze golden. Her heart lurched, jolting the grin from her face. The image of Arthur’s face seared through her mental defenses. Not as she had seen it last, but when Arthur had almost kissed her—a kiss that, despite the probable consequences, she would have welcomed with every fiber of her being. “Lesson two: if I say I need to be alone for a while, I mean it.”

“Now?” He looked disappointed.

She nodded. “Meet me back here after…” Something occurred to her, for which Ogryvan would have chastised her soundly had he been present. With a rueful laugh, she pointed toward the training ground, where she had left some of her gear. “After you do me the favor of taking my helmet, shield, and practice sword back to the mansio. Please?”

“I’ll do better than that, Gyanhumara.” Urien spread his hands. “Give me your battle sword, and I’ll arrange to have all your gear cleaned and polished.” When she hesitated, he said, “Weapons aren’t permitted inside the church anyway.”

Despite his argument’s validity, misgiving chilled her soul. For a Caledonach warrior, the surrender of the sword implied the surrender of self. She knew Urien wasn’t asking this of her; he was merely trying to be helpful, and a part of her appreciated the unexpected offer. But this was one custom she vowed never to teach him.

Murmuring her thanks, she unhooked the sheath from her belt and laid it across his upturned palms. Since the Caledonach Oath of Fealty ritual was performed with the naked blade, giving Urien the sheathed sword dispelled all but her most stubborn qualms. She watched his progress down the steps and back the way they’d come, until she was certain he was indeed going to fulfill her request.

Her heart churning in turmoil, she turned and raced up the remaining steps two at a time, slipped between the columns, and headed toward the church’s arched entryway. She stopped to regard the oak doors before her, standing open as though inviting her to enter. Out spilled strains of musical chanting that reminded her of Dafydd’s songs, magnified a hundredfold. And a hundred times more compelling. As she crossed the threshold, the sound grew, resonating throughout the huge vaulted stone chamber and deep into her soul.

Urien needn’t have worried about her creating a disturbance. As though in the grip of an invisible power, she stood motionless except for her head as she marveled at the details of her surroundings.

A spicy aroma permeated the air. She looked up to study the ceiling’s gilt mosaics. It didn’t matter that she had no clue what people and scenes they depicted; they were wonderful to behold. The vast floor was overlaid with black slate, interrupted at intervals by white columns. Beside each column sat a table holding a score of lit candles. Engravings and statues adorned the many recesses along the walls, where some people knelt or stood with bowed heads and clasped hands. The rest were kneeling before the cloth-draped altar, where a robed priest was standing with his back to the sanctuary, doing something with his hands that she couldn’t see.

He turned, and Gyan gasped. In the next breath, she decided she shouldn’t have been surprised. The priest was Merlin, called Bishop Dubricius in this setting, she reminded herself. She met the bishop’s gaze and noted his flicker of surprise.

In one hand, he held a dish with a loaf; in the other, a cup. Both arms were raised aloft as he chanted. With the choir singing a response, he slowly lowered his arms, and the people began making their way to him to share the meal he was offering.

This, she realized, was the rite Dafydd had spoken of but could never conduct in her presence at Arbroch. Just the sight of the loaf and cup in Merlin’s hands filled her with a hunger that far surpassed mere physical need. That hunger warred with profound sorrow: she could not accept the bishop’s invitation to dine at this sacred table without running the risk of her clansmen—and ultimately Argyll’s priests—finding out.

Fighting the trembling of her chin, she tore her gaze from the bishop. As if the inability to partake of the loaf and cup weren’t difficult enough, what she saw next pierced her heart. Suspended by drawn gold wire from the ceiling over the altar was a life-size oak carving of the tortured Christ, arms outstretched as though to embrace the entire world. Sunlight streaming from the side windows illuminated the face’s details. The sculptor had given his subject ragged hair circled by a band of thorns so realistic that Gyan could visualize blood streaking the scratched forehead. Hands and feet were pinned to the beams by thick nails. He looked anguished and vulnerable, this Christ, yet imbued with the calm strength born of the certainty that, even through the vale of death, a glorious future awaited beyond.

Gyan had no such certainty. In fact, she had never felt more uncertain in her life. The only thing that seemed clear was the stark reality of the Christ’s sacrifice. A flash of insight told her that while on earth, He had been, in a sense, His Father’s sword incarnate, and He had offered Himself to His enemies in the ultimate act of surrender and love. And as proof, He bore not one mark but many. The enormity of this selfless act threatened to overwhelm Gyan. But it was heartening too; death truly had no power over Him, as evidenced by the empty tomb. Like a true leader, the Christ had entered first into the abyss so that His people could follow in safety, under His guidance. When Dafydd had helped her through that first faltering prayer and in the days afterward, she had not fully comprehended what it meant to follow this Christ, this Leader of leaders and Lord of lords. Now she did.

As she sank to her knees, tears washing her cheeks even as her spirit felt buoyed by the voices of the unseen choristers, she begged Iesseu the Christ to guide her steps and share a wee bit of His strength with her.

BACK AT her chambers in the mansio, Gyan lay on her stomach across the bed, slowly stroking the neatly applied bandage that hid the clan-mark as well as the cut on her sword arm. Urien had been right; the physician who had dressed her wound was excellent. Even Cynda hadn’t been able to find fault with the job.

What a day this had turned out to be, she mused. After the service, Merlin had approached her to offer his assistance. She’d regained her composure and footing—and her wits—by then and dismissed her emotional response as a product of exhaustion and awe. It was the only portion of the truth she dared confess to Arthur’s adviser, kinsman, and friend.

Urien had caught up with her shortly after that and displayed more of his newfound kindness while escorting her to the infirmary and later, while giving her a tour of the fortress. To fill the time, she’d asked about his home and upbringing, which seemed to please him immensely. In a few short hours, she learned more about Urien map Dumarec, Clan Móran, and the clan seat at Dùn At—Dunadd and Clan Moray, in his birth-tongue—than she had ever bargained for, including a practical reason for uniting her clan with his. With the exception of Maun and the lands along the Argyll border, Clan Móran possessed mountainous islands that were fit for pastures but not much else. The bulk of Argyll’s wealth came from its excellent croplands, but suitable pastures were in short supply. The combination of these lands through Gyan’s marriage to Urien would bring prosperity to both clans.

But signs of the Pendragon were everywhere they went: banners, carvings, and the badge on the cloak of every soldier they met. Not to mention the one Urien wore. Each sigil was an agonizing reminder of the one man on earth she wanted but could never have. Unable to bear it any longer, she had excused herself on the pretense of wanting to rest. The kiss Urien had given her at their parting was as tender a kiss as she could ever desire…had Arthur never invaded her heart.

Maybe Urien really did believe she loved him, which was probably for the best. Sighing, she laid her cheek against her crossed arms. The rough bandage provoked memories of the morning’s encounter. She knew the bandage would come off and the cut would heal in time. But with the inevitable scar as an ever-present reminder of Arthur, she doubted that her heart ever would.

Someone knocked. She ignored it. Another knock rattled the door, longer and more urgent sounding. “Go away.”

“Gyan, my dove.” Cynda’s muffled voice filtered through. “There’s someone here to see you.”