Dawnflight (53 page)

With bloodless knuckles, she gripped the short sword as she waged war against her battle fury and tried to concentrate upon the fight raging before her. Being taller, Arthur had the greater reach. Otherwise, the men were closely matched in skill, speed, and strength. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed watching the deadly poetry of the two swordmasters.

Fervently, she prayed for Arthur’s victory. The clause governing the dubh-lann overrode her legal right to select her consort, leaving her no choice but to accept the victor of this combat.

A lifetime with Urien would redefine the word “misery,” however short that lifetime might be.

The prophecy of the High Priest of Clan Argyll slammed into her mind, and she redoubled the urgency of her prayer.

The duel’s clamor brought guardsmen running from both ends of the corridor. Without explanation, Gyan forbade them from interfering and ordered them back to their posts. The men crowded into other doorways along the corridor. Though this wasn’t complete obedience, she was satisfied. She shouted a new command for them to prevent anyone else from getting in the way. The guards nodded their agreement. Two men edged away from the fight to secure the building’s entrance.

Both warriors were sweating and panting. Blood oozed from countless places where hard leather had yielded to the bite of steel, yet neither man would relent.

Urien made a low lunge. As Arthur tried to whirl clear, the blade tore a gash in his shield-side thigh. Gyan stared in shock as the injured leg collapsed and Arthur dropped to one knee.

Crowing triumphantly, Urien charged.

Arthur scrambled to a crouch. As Urien rushed in, swinging his sword overhead for the deathblow, Arthur sprang. The sword’s point sketched a cut across Urien’s forehead with lethal accuracy. Blood cascaded over his astonished face.

The blinded Boar of Móran roared with rage, trying to dash the blood from his eyes. Arthur struck away Urien’s sword, drove his shoulder into Urien’s chest, punched him in the gut, and shoved him onto the stone floor, pinning the heaving chest with his foot. The point of Arthur’s borrowed sword came to rest on his adversary’s throat.

All at once, Gyan wanted to laugh, cheer, and sigh with relief. Instead, she sheathed the short sword and grinned at Arthur, who was too busy trying to control his breathing to do much more than nod.

“Renounce your betrothal vow,” he said between breaths, “Urien map Dumarec of Clan Moray of Dalriada.” When Urien mumbled his reply, blood sprang from under the blade. “Louder, Tribune, so all may hear.”

“I said, I withdraw my claim to the hand of Gyanhumara, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll of Caledonia,” came the sullen response. “And may you never have a day’s happiness with her. My lord.”

“Don’t wager on that, Tribune.”

“What other treaty terms are you going to dissolve?” Urien’s sneer was grotesque through the bloody mask.

“A wise man does not deliver insults from the business end of a sword,” said Arthur coolly.

“And a wise man does not interfere in the affairs of others,” Urien retorted.

“You would do well to remember that yourself.” The deadly warning rang clear. Without removing the sword, Arthur continued, “Incidentally, the solution to our—little dilemma, as you put it, is for you to take the hand of my sister, Morghe.”

Urien laughed mirthlessly. “Have I a choice?”

“No.”

“Then I accept your gracious offer, Lord Pendragon.”

“Excellent decision. We will finalize the details later.” Arthur lifted the sword and took his foot from the chest of his future brother-by-law. Unassisted, Urien rolled to his feet, swiping at his bloody forehead with the back of one hand. “At Caer Lugubalion.”

“What?”

“I am recalling you to headquarters, effective immediately.”

Urien seemed taken aback by this development. “But who will take over here?”

“I will appoint someone. It is no longer your concern. You are dismissed. All of you,” he added to the guardsmen, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Back to your duties.”

When the corridor was clear, Arthur dropped the sword and lurched into Gyan’s arms.

URIEN STOPPED by the infirmary to have his head wound dressed. Fortunately, the attending physician was wise enough to refrain from asking questions, and Urien did not volunteer an explanation.

By the time he reached his quarters, his fury had cooled enough to permit rational thought. After stripping off boots and tunic and breeches, he sank onto the bed. But sleep was the last thing on his mind. He stretched out on his back, hands clasped behind his bandaged head. As he studied the age-darkened ceiling timbers in the glow from the room’s only lamp, he tried to pinpoint where his strategy had gone awry.

Why he had lost the swordfight was not difficult to explain. He had never sparred with Arthur before. The few times he had observed the Pendragon in one-on-one action had been in training situations with opponents of vastly inferior skill—including that accursed match Arthur had fought against Gyanhumara. If he had known then what was going to happen tonight, he’d have yielded to his impulse that day to run Arthur through, and dealt with the consequences later. But indulging in that fantasy did him no good. He railed at himself for committing the basic mistake of underestimating the enemy.

A second basic mistake came to mind: he had let his wrath blind him. Absent those two factors, he should have won the encounter, easily.

What he had ever done to drive Gyanhumara into Arthur’s arms remained a complete mystery.

Losing the duel didn’t rankle half as much as being forced to give up the woman. His plan to establish himself as overlord of Dalriada and Caledonia—and his bid for the Pendragonship itself—lay in ruins.

With one blow, he could have had it all! Now he had nothing. No Gyanhumara, no Argyll, no Caledonia, no command…probably no rank at all, for that matter. Nothing.

Rolling over, he caught sight of the bronze dragon brooch glaring up at him from its perch on the discarded leather tunic. He yanked it free, tried to crush it in his fist, and succeeded only in spearing his palm with the pin. As he sucked the bead of blood from the puncture, his other hand sent the brooch spinning across the floor. It hit the wall and careened into a corner. The jet eye chipped, but the dragon refused to break.

Urien shook his head in frustration, only to be rewarded by a stab of pain. He spat a stream of curses against Gyanhumara, Arthur, and the world in general. Finally, the pain abated. The curses did not.

And then there was Morghe: some consolation. Shutting his eyes, he tried to conjure her face. The one to heed his summons had emerald eyes framed by copper hair. That image would never be expunged.

Still, the thought of marrying Arthur’s youngest sister was not completely unpleasant. This new alliance would open avenues with Arthur’s other brothers-by-marriage, Loth of Dunpeldyr and Alain of Caer Alclyd.

Taking Morghe would not be a bad move at all.

But revenge upon Gyanhumara would have to proceed subtly, to make it appear as though Clan Argyll had provoked him. The seeds of a new plan were beginning to germinate, and the first idea to take root was a way to remove his father from the Seat of Moray. As chieftain, Urien could escape from under Arthur’s thumb, free to develop and implement the details of his plan.

With Arthur supporting Gyanhumara, timing would be critical.

He could wait. A lifetime, if need be. The woad tattoo encircling his left wrist and the scar he would bear across his forehead were his assurances that he would never forget the humiliation he had been dealt at swordpoint this night.

ARTHUR’S ARM lay heavily across Gyan’s shoulders as she helped him along the deserted corridor to her quarters. His drawn face betrayed how much pain he was suffering, which he had hidden from Urien and the guards.

He could have met eternity on Urien’s blade. The stark realization echoed and reechoed in her brain, threatening to drive her mad. And he had risked that danger only for her, to set her free.

Inside the anteroom, they paused for Gyan to bolt the door. She returned to his side, and he embraced her.

“Let’s see to your leg first. Before you bleed to death on me.”

“What, from this? I’ve had worse. This is just a scratch.”

“Right.” She smiled briefly. “And I’m Iulius Caesar.”

“God, I hope not!” They resumed their hobbling pace toward the sleeping chamber.

Despite her concern for his condition, she chuckled. She made him sit on the bed while she locked the inner door and began hunting around the sparsely furnished chamber for something resembling a bandage.

“Here. Use this.”

Gyan turned. Arthur’s tunic lay in a heap on the floor at his feet, and he was holding out his scarlet linen undertunic. His tanned chest gleamed like living bronze in the soft lamplight, like an ancient god. But the netting of white scars crossed by crimson scratches belied the notion of immortality.

Yanking on the reins of her racing heart, she stepped forward to take the garment. While she tore strips from the undertunic, he removed his boots and, grimacing, eased off his leather leggings to expose the wound. Blood welled from the gash.

“You ought to get this looked at by a physician tonight,” she advised as she applied the bandages as tightly as she could. Rocking back on her heels, she locked her gaze to his. “Promise, Arthur?”

“Later.” He clasped her hands. They felt refreshingly cool. He marveled that there didn’t seem to be any task she couldn’t do. “Thank you, Gyanhumara.” He drew her up to sit beside him on the bed.

“Please—just Gyan.” His near-nakedness made her shy. To stave it off, she forced herself to speak. “And thank you. For winning. It was an excellent fight.” Frowning, she considered the darker implications. “Except for sparing him.”

Arthur recalled Cai’s quip about dead men being unable to attack and wondered if he had indeed made a mistake. He regarded Gyan earnestly. “It would have given me tremendous pleasure to drive that sword through his throat. But at present, he is more valuable to me alive.”

“He would have killed you.” The grim image of a different outcome flashed across her mind, and she couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“I know, Gyan.” He hugged her close, kissing her neck, immensely thankful for this opportunity. Urien had come closer to winning that fight than Arthur cared to admit, especially to her. “I know.”

“So who is to take his place here?”

“You.”

“What? Me?” She pulled away to search his face for signs of the jest but found only solemn sincerity. “Arthur, you can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am.”

“There must be others who are much better qualified.”

“In terms of combat experience, yes.” A dozen names, in fact, occurred to him, capable leaders all. “But they will have opportunities for advancement soon enough.” He ran slow fingers through her hair, reveling in its silkiness. “You have proven that you can live and train and fight alongside your former enemies without holding that past against them. If my—” He grinned; with Gyan at his side, he’d have to get accustomed to a whole new way of thinking. “If
our
Brytoni-Caledonian force is to become truly unified, I will need your help. On Maun. And I believe you’ll do just fine, Gyan.”

“Perhaps.” As he leaned to kiss her, she put a hand against his chest. The heat of his flesh sparked a burst of nervousness, but she mentally shook it off. “I don’t understand why you can’t leave Urien here and take me with you instead. I could do just as much good at your headquarters.”

He shook his head. “I want him where I can watch him. As far away from you as possible. And I do trust you to do a good job for me here.”

“We’ll be apart for so long, Arthur. Now that I have you, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Nor I you.” He raised her hand to kiss the backs of the fingers lingeringly, unlike that first time, on the eve of her departure for Maun. And unlike that first time, the smile that spread across her face was one of boundless joy. “But my decision is made. Besides, it will only be until summer’s end.”

Smile fading, she lowered her gaze. “It may as well be forever.”