Dawnflight (59 page)

“You’re right. Urien map Dumarec would have done anything in his power to secure Argyll lands, murder included.” She countered his stormy gaze with hers. “My consort is a man of principle.”

“Oh, principle, aye. The sort of principle that calls for disregarding the traditions of his wife’s people.”

His angry echo of her secret doubts wounded like a sword thrust, but she refused to show her hurt. Any sign of weakness would do no good for her cause or Arthur’s.

“Would you have him risk the wrath of his priests?” When her father hesitated, she forged on. “Of his God?”

With a noisy sigh, he dropped to the couch beside her. Clasping her hand, he seemed to engross himself in the study of the repeating pattern of her betrothal tattoo. His thoughts she could only guess. None of those guesses seemed very promising.

At last, he asked, “Would you consider taking another consort?”

“No!” She gentled her tone. “Father, my idea will work. It must work.” Her other hand covered his. “But only if I don’t have to present it to the High Priest by myself.”

“He didn’t come with us. Proclaimed himself too old for the journey.” He shook his head. “Despite my efforts to change his mind.”

“Then obtaining the blessing of his subordinate should be child’s play, if you’re with me in this.” She searched his eyes for some glimmer of agreement and found only sadness. “You are, aren’t you?”

“What you’ve suggested is so different.”

“How so, Father? Warriors—”

“Warriors, aye. But not an exalted heir-bearer and her consort.” He rose and helped her stand. “I know you need an answer, lass. And I wish I could give you one.” Mercifully, his hug was not a bone-crusher.

“I’m sorry, Gyan, but I must sleep on it.”

AT DAWN on the first day of the month named in Ròmanaiche to honor the greatest leader Ròm had ever known—the same leader whose plan to conquer Caledon had failed half a millennium before—a boisterously merry Argyll company rode to the appointed meeting place in the forest beyond Caer Lugubalion. Now and again, horsemen detached themselves from the formation, weapons at the ready, to frighten away flocks of overcurious Breatanaich. The Caledonaich of the other clans knew better than to try to follow but greeted the procession with hearty waves and broad smiles. The ritual bonding of the àrd-banoigin and the àrd-ceoigin was a joyous occasion meant for no eyes outside the clan.

Gyan, riding beside Arthur at the head of the procession, did not share her clansmen’s mood.

Ogryvan had left to oversee the formation of the company before she could speak to him about his decision. And she could scarcely bring up the subject now without having everyone else find out.

In any event, her course was set. But without her father’s support, she wondered if it would be doomed to failure.

Glancing at Arthur, she ventured a small smile. His silent answer warmed her like the sun. If only they could put this day behind them to enjoy the pleasures of each other’s company! The mere sight of him, so handsome in his freshly oiled and polished ceremonial gear astride the proud-stepping Macsen, almost gave wing to her doubts.

Almost.

The track veered into the denser reaches of the forest. A faint hum grew steadily louder, like the chorus of a hundred hives. The last time she had heard such a sound was on the day she received the Argyll clan-mark. Although this type of chanting no longer held any influence over her, she welcomed its familiarity and the pleasant memories it bred.

The large, round pause in the march of trees had been meticulously cleared of vegetation. Fresh knife slashes decorated the trunks of the oaks guarding the perimeter. Shaped into the symbols of the Old Ones, the carvings were reminiscent of those covering the stones ringing the Nemeton at Arbroch. This clearing had been selected to fulfill the same function.

A rough-hewn rock occupied the center of the clearing. Across its flat top lay the knives and needles for the morning’s work, winking brightly in a neat row beside the pot of woad dye. Small heaps of smoldering ash discharged aromatic gray tendrils. Circling the altar’s base was a thick braid of mistletoe and ivy.

“Who is to conduct the bonding?” Gyan asked, in Caledonaiche.

A man stepped forward. “The Master selected me to officiate this ceremony, Chieftainess.” Like the other priests, his face was lost in the shadows of his robe’s hood. But there was no mistaking the oily voice.

“Vergul. Well met.” She resisted the impulse to modulate her tone to match his. “This must be quite an honor for one so newly ordained.”

“Indeed. Although without the Sacred Flame”—he swept an arm toward the cold altar—“I would hardly call this a proper bonding.”

“I have made arrangements, Priest, to occur during the other ceremony.” She raised a hand to still his protest. “Since it’s forbidden to remove the Sacred Flame from the temple—”

“Except to carry it to the Nemeton,” another priest added.

Gyan nodded curtly. “This will have to suffice.”

Vergul answered with that vaguely mocking bow she had come to know so well. Straightening, he lifted both arms to command the attention of his audience.

“The Exalted Heir-Bearer will commence the bonding by accepting the mark of her consort.”

A swift glance at her father produced a wink and a nod. Flinging her arms around his neck, she balanced on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek, to the delighted surprise of the crowd.

Vergul was not amused. “Are you quite through with deviating from the ritual, Chieftainess?”

With her smile, she tried to convey nothing but sweetness and innocence.

She knelt beside the altar and bared her shield arm to the rock. Another priest presented himself to perform the work. Under his cunning fingers, a blue dragon took shape. More details would be added in the days to come; for this ritual, only the dragon’s outline was drawn. Yet even if not another drop of dye touched her skin, the tattoo still would be impressive. Undulating curves spiraled around her forearm from wrist to elbow. At her request, the priest contrived to make the betrothal-mark seem like part of the dragon’s lashing tail. He knew his craft well.

When he was finished and Gyan regained her feet, Vergul reached for the wrist of the newly painted arm. He thrust it toward the brightening heavens.

“Be it known this day that Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar wears the sign of the Great Fire-Beast. No other clan in the ancient history of the Hard People has ever claimed this formidable creature for their symbol.” No trace of mockery warped Vergul’s tone. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, may the power of the Great Fire-Beast guard your days and lend you countless measures of its awesome strength.” The sneer returned. “And may you prove worthy of this singular honor.”

“No fear there, Vergul. I shall never dishonor the clan.”

“Let us hope not.” He turned to address the company. “The Exalted Heir-Begetter shall receive the Doves of Argyll.”

“No.” Over the gasps and shocked murmurs, Gyan said, “By the laws of his religion, he is forbidden to wear the Argyll clan-mark.”

“Blasphemy! There is only one true religion!” The other priests vehemently voiced their agreement.

“That is what my consort believes too.”

“Ah.” Grinning, Vergul rubbed his hands together. “And do you share this belief, Chieftainess?”

How could he know that she had forsworn the Old Ones for the One God and the Christ? Or was he only making a shrewd guess? Either way, she could ill afford to fuel his suspicions. Caledonach priests were notoriously intolerant of anything falling outside the bounds of their parochial definition of truth, and just as notoriously merciless when passing judgment.

“My beliefs are not the issue here, Priest,” she growled, praying he wouldn’t start asking questions about the Christian ceremony to follow this one, and extremely thankful he and his brethren wouldn’t be attending it. “Artyr’s loyalty to Argyll is.”

“Aye! The Pendragon is prepared to prove his loyalty in a manner that is acceptable to his people.” Ogryvan’s glare as he regarded first the priests, then every member of the assembly, was charged with warning. “I trust it will be acceptable to ours.”

No one dared to disagree.

Facing her consort, Gyan thrust out her open-palmed hand. Caleberyllus emerged from its scabbard. Arthur offered her the hilt, removed the linen strip that padded his neck, and went to one knee at her feet.

This sparked another round of muted murmurs.

“You swore never to dishonor the clan, Chieftainess.” Vergul trembled with the effort to retain control. “Yet what do you call this—this blatant disregard for—”

“Enough, Vergul!” At Ogryvan’s roar, the priest shrank back a pace. “I have no objections. Neither should you.”

With an impatient wave, Vergul gathered his brethren around him. Their whisperings reminded Gyan of so many snakes competing for the same stretch of sun-baked stone. At last, the hooded heads nodded. As the priests parted, Vergul stepped forward.

“So be it. From this day forth, let Artyr mac Ygrayna, Exalted Heir-Begetter of Clan Argyll, be known by the fealty-mark. Chieftainess, you may proceed.”

Gyan grasped the hilt with both hands, ignoring the pain in her wounded arm and bridling the urge to stand agape before the magnificent weapon. Its physical beauty was complemented by its perfect balance and flawless twin edges. A rush of power flowed into her fingers to course through her body. No surprise there; Arthur’s sword was imbued with his vital essence.

Truly a sword worth dying for.

This was the quintessential core of the Oath: the ultimate surrender of self. With Angusel, who had made his pledge with a borrowed sword since his had been miles away, it had been different yet sufficient.

With Caleberyllus burning in her fists and Arthur’s steady sapphire gaze locked to hers, she was smitten by the full impact of understanding. This insight destroyed her doubt.

She raised Caleberyllus to within a handbreadth of her face in salute and lowered it to his left shoulder. A shaft of sunlight pierced the circle of oaks, hit the blade, and exploded into a brilliant silvery flash. The company’s hushed reaction conveyed naught but approval for what they clearly considered a manifestation of divine blessing.

Perhaps, she thought with a ghost of a smile as she tightened her grip, they were not wrong.

ARTHUR MAP Uther had knelt in ritual submission once before: to the conclave of Brytoni chieftains, presided over by Merlin, who had sworn him into the office of Dux Britanniarum. But Merlin had not commanded him to bow his head. Nor had the man of God—not bishop then but priest and one of Uther’s few surviving generals—pressed Caleberyllus against his neck.

“An dean thu, Ròmanach Artyr mac Ygrayna Càrnhuileanach Rhioghachd agus Àrd-Ceann Teine-Beathach Mór Bhreatein, an Geall Dhìleas chugam, Gyanhumara nic Hymar Banrìgh h’Argaillanaich Chaledon, gus a’bàsachadh?”

Gyan had rehearsed the ritual at length with him the night before, so those Caledonian words were no mystery. Nor did he have any question how to respond:

“A chaoidh gus a’bàsachadh!”
Ever unto death!

With his head bowed, he could only imagine the scar on the underside of her right forearm, the mark that had been wrought by his hand on the sword she now held. He recalled that day in all its exhilarating, confusing, frustrating detail. The irony forced a smile to his lips. That was the mark that had bound his heart to hers.

He said in his birth tongue, only loud enough for her ears, “I, Arthur, son of Uther the Roman and Ygraine of Clan Cwrnwyll of Rheged, Pendragon of Brydein, swear the Oath of Fealty to you, Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar of Clan Argyll of Caledonia, ever unto death.” He meant every word, to the depths of his soul.

If Niniane had ever told him that she had Seen him on the morning of his wedding day kneeling before his wife, feeling the terrible, wintry tooth of his own sword, he would have thought the prioress had taken leave of her senses.

Chapter 33