Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  Gwenhwyfar.

  Chapter 7

  WHEN DAFYDD ARRIVED for Gyan’s usual morning lesson, he found she had donned her rabbit-fur cloak and fur-lined boots.

  “My lady! Surely you don’t wish to have your lesson outside today. Why, the snow has to be knee-deep.”

  She laughed lightly. “Of course not, Dafydd. Come.” She could barely contain her excitement as she strode toward the door. “Before we begin, I have something to show you.”

  After stopping at his quarters so he could retrieve his outer gear, they stepped from the relative warmth of the building into a world of frozen white, where children and dogs romped and adults trudged as they performed their appointed tasks. About the snow’s depth, Dafydd hadn’t been exaggerating. But the main courtyard had been trampled to a more navigable level, and shoveled paths led between the buildings to the other areas around the fortress.

  Off to their left, near the gate, clustered most of the slaves, carrying picks, shovels, food, and watered ale. Several priests surrounded the group, talking and gesturing. There was no mystery about what they were doing; this event occurred each year. For today was the eve of Àmbholc, the great festival of winter’s end, and the way to the Nemeton up in the hills overlooking Arbroch had to be cleared. Studying the activity, Gyan picked out the forms of her father and brother, standing near the priests. She wondered which of them would satisfy the law by accompanying the workers this year. Her answer came soon enough as Ogryvan clapped Per on the shoulder, and her brother moved off with the group, at the rear of the procession beside one of the priests. Ogryvan headed toward the feast hall and his waiting breakfast, Gyan presumed.

  She felt a twinge of envy as she watched Per pass through Arbroch’s gates. The four seasonal rituals were held at night. The only time she had visited the Nemeton in daylight was the midsummer day of her confirmation as àrd-banoigin. She lifted her gaze past Arbroch’s walls to the hills beyond, trying to conjure an image of how the double ring of sentinel stones would look in their snowy shroud, surrounded by whitened oaks and pines. In truth, she could have asserted her right to escort the work party, had she wished. But today more important concerns commanded her attention.

  Beside her, Dafydd sighed. His gaze was also directed toward the group, barely visible beyond the gate and shrinking quickly as they made good progress across Arbroch’s vast meadows, scattering snow to either side of the path. Dafydd’s expression was thoughtful. Gyan realized this was the first year he and his wife were not required to perform this duty.

  “You wish you’d joined them?” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her tone, but a wee bit slipped past her control. Of all the slaves’ tasks, clearing the path to the Nemeton had to be one of the most tiring and tedious.

  He gave her a startled look. “My lady, I’m sorry, I—no.” Into the silence spilled the faint sound of singing, ethereal and hauntingly beautiful. The slaves had broken into song to lend rhythm to their work. It was a strangely compelling yet comforting sound. Dafydd’s look grew wistful. “Well, maybe I do, a little.”

  She could scarcely blame him; those people were his friends, and his duties as her mentor didn’t allow him much time to see them beyond perhaps once a sennight, on their day of rest. She bade him accompany her toward the area of the settlement reserved for craftsmen and their families, hoping that the surprise she’d arranged would lift his spirits.

  “My lady,” he said as the smithy came into view beyond the craftsmen’s quarters. It seemed to vibrate with industrious-sounding clanks and hisses, as well as the occasional ill-tempered word, and he pitched his voice to carry over the din. “If you don’t mind, there’s a small matter I’d like to speak with you about, on behalf of my people.”

  “Ah, yes.” His mention of the other Breatanaich, along with the divine singing they’d just heard, reminded her of something she had been meaning to ask him for quite some time. “How do you—that is, your people—worship your god?” In response to his confused look, she said, “We have our temple and, of course, the Nemeton.” This was accompanied by a nod, tossed over her shoulder in the direction they had just come.

  “The carvings on the Nemeton’s standing stones—is it true, my lady, that each one is the likeness of one of your gods?”

  Gyan shook her head. It wasn’t like him to evade a question, but she let it pass without comment. Perhaps the customs of his religion were too personal to share. She resolved to be as open to him about her beliefs as she knew how. “Not a likeness, but a—” Frowning, she tried to think of the right Breatanaiche phrase to express the concept. None presented itself, so she reverted to Caledonaiche. “A familiar spirit. Mare of Epona, Bull of Lugh, Salmon of Clota…” She searched Dafydd’s face for signs of disbelief or ridicule and found none. “You believe the Old Ones exist?”

  He spread his hands in a gesture that seemed half shrug and half acquiescence. “Many Breatanaich hold similar beliefs to yours, and the ancient writings of my God do mention other gods.” His gaze did not waver as he pointed skyward. “But these writs describe the Lord God Almighty as the Supreme Ruler of all. That I do believe.”

  This only fired her curiosity and brought her back to her original question. “You talk about your god often enough, but I’ve never seen you or the others worship him.” A thought occurred, and she halted to regard her mentor. “How can you, if you have no images of this god?” She felt her brow furrow as another possibility came to mind. “Or do you have carvings or drawings that we don’t know anything about?”

  “No, my lady, it’s not like that.” Smiling slightly, he tapped his head and his chest. “He dwells here.” Dafydd stretched out his hand, palm up. “And everywhere. It doesn’t matter where or when you worship Him. In fact, the workers’ singing—”

  “Was a form of worship?” She had suspected as much. As they resumed their walk, she mulled this bit of information. Although she had been too far away to make out its words, the song had borne a distinctly reverent quality. In her mind, she could hear the music, rich and full, as though it were resonating within her soul. It was not an unpleasant sensation. No ritual honoring the Old Ones had ever evoked this reaction in her. “Interesting. But surely singing isn’t the only thing you do?”

  “It isn’t.” This, from a voice behind them.

  Startled, Gyan and Dafydd stopped and turned. One of the newest priests, Vergul, was rapidly closing the distance. When he came near enough to stop, he put fists to hips, his expression grim. Inwardly, she chided her stupidity in failing to switch their conversation back to Breatanaiche.

  “Chieftainess, as a spiritual leader of our people, I am duty-bound to tell you that you tread a dangerous path, inquiring about others’ gods.”

  A priest could advocate the removal of any clan ruler thought to be unfit for the task: never a good enemy to make. But occasionally they needed a reminder of exactly who was in charge.

  “Last time I checked, Priest”—despite her ire, she tried to keep her tone as sweet as possible—“I was free to pursue any line of study I wished.”

  “Indeed.” Vergul’s lips twisted into a parody of a grin. He nodded at Dafydd. “Then tell her, Master Interpreter, about the drownings.”

  Gyan felt her eyebrows shoot up, but she remained silent.

  “A symbol only, my lady,” Dafydd explained. “A new believer is briefly immersed in water, to represent unity with the Lord Iesseu’s death and rebirth.” His gaze adopted a hard edge as he regarded Vergul. “The only form of death that occurs is death to the old, corrupt way of life.”

  Vergul jabbed a finger at Dafydd’s chest. “Explain how you eat this Iesseu’s flesh and blood.”

  “Another symbol?” Gyan guessed.

  Discomfiture crossed Dafydd’s face. “A divine mystery…”

  “Ha. You see, Chieftainess, these folk”—Vergul made the word sound like an epithet—“believe that when they eat bread and drink wine, they consume the flesh and blood of their god. Can you deny i
t?” Dafydd shook his head, gazing at the ground. Vergul glared at Gyan. “Did you enjoy your lesson today, Chieftainess?”

  “Enough, Priest.” She sharpened the words into a command. Vergul flinched. “Dafydd has never reviled our beliefs or customs. It would be to your credit to grant him the same courtesy.” She was gratified to see the priest’s smugness disappear. “I thank you for your concern, but it’s unfounded.” As strange as Dafydd’s beliefs seemed to her, this knowledge didn’t deter her from her original purpose. “Dafydd and I have some unfinished business awaiting us. Good day to you, Vergul.”

  The priest gave her a bow that seemed vaguely mocking. Under other circumstances, she might have tried to puzzle out its meaning, but such irritating men were scarcely worth the trouble, whether clad in holy robes or not.

  After they had gone several paces, Dafydd asked, “None of what you heard bothers you?” His tone was low and urgent, and he spoke in Breatanaiche.

  She shrugged. “Why should it? Your beliefs are your beliefs.”

  What she didn’t say was that sacrifice, human as well as animal, was not unknown to her people, although the practice was reserved for ensuring divine aid in times of famine or drought or plague, victory in battle, and the like. But even in ancient times, the people didn’t partake of the sacrificial flesh; there was never much left after the Sacred Flame had had its fill. Gyan wasn’t at all sure what to make of the practice Dafydd had mentioned, this supposed transformation of bread and wine into divine flesh and blood. To each his own, she decided.

  “My lady, I appreciate that.” His relief was obvious. “Which brings me to that matter I mentioned earlier. Since, in honor of your sacred festival tomorrow, the Brytons will be excused from their duties for the day—and I presume my family and I are excused too?”

  “Of course, Dafydd. What is it you need?”

  “A jar of good wine. Enough so that everyone who wishes to partake can have a taste.”

  In a flash of clarity, she understood. The slaves’ wine ration came from the dregs of the cask, when it wasn’t commandeered by the physicians to clean wounds. Evidently, Dafydd and the other followers of this strange god were planning a sacred celebration of their own while Clan Argyll was to be occupied with the Àmbholc festivities.

  What would it hurt to spare a bit of wine so these people could honor their god, however odd this ritual might seem? Vergul and the other priests doubtless wouldn’t approve, but they had no need to find out. “Tell the steward when we return that you have my permission to take as much as you require.”

  As he opened his mouth to speak, she raised a hand, and stopped. Beyond the smithy stood her destination: the wagoner’s workshop. She felt a grin form; her surprise seemed to be ready. The wagoner, a mountain of a man with a balding pate and a friendly manner, was sitting atop his newest creation, inspecting the wood of the bench.

  In Caledonaiche, Gyan greeted him.

  He looked up from his work. “Ho, Chieftainess, well met! Well met, indeed. I am finished, as you can see.” With that, he jumped down from the wagon and launched into a description of its features, everything from the whip holder to the rear panel that was hinged for more convenient loading and unloading.

  “Well done, Master Wagoner. This will suit my purposes nicely.” She gave the craftsman a wink.

  “And what say you, Dafydd?” he asked.

  Dafydd stepped toward the rig to run his fingers over the expertly dovetailed joints and the carefully planed and sanded planking. So intent was his examination that he missed the wagoner’s answering wink to Gyan. She signaled to a stable boy who was loitering near the building. The lad nodded and ran toward the stables. Dafydd said, “A fine piece of work, sir. The finest wagon I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at the wagoner, clearly puzzled. “But why ask me?”

  “Because, Dafydd,” Gyan replied, moving to stand beside him, “it’s yours. For your excellent service to me these last several months, teaching me to speak and write Breatanaiche.”

  Dafydd seemed pleased for a moment, before a more somber expression descended. He shook his head. “This gift is too lavish, my lady. I mean, it’s wonderful, but I—I’m sorry, but I can’t accept it.”

  “Nonsense, Dafydd, I insist.” She turned to look at the approaching horse, being led by the stable boy. She took the halter, expressed her thanks to the lad, and dismissed him to his regular duties. Grinning at the gaping Dafydd, she pressed the lead rope into his palm. “Besides, although this is a fine animal, you and your family will not be able to make it to Maun piled onto his back.” She gave the drayhorse’s neck a pat, and he leaned into her touch.

  “I—my lady, I—” Slowly, Dafydd stroked the horse’s muzzle. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about ‘thank you’?” She felt her delight flow into her smile.

  “All right, then. Thank you, my lady.” His soft chuckle enhanced the gratitude she saw in his eyes. “For everything.”

  ON THE day of Àmbholc, no cloud obscured the weak sun. The priests pronounced this a good omen, for the purpose of the ceremony was to greet the spring and bolster the sun’s return. Inclement weather during Àmbholc was never welcome.

  Custom decreed a suspension of duties for all, slave and master alike. The Breatanaich enjoyed their day of rest—and some ceremony of their own, as Dafydd had implied—in their quarters. The Caledonaich were content to spend most of the day crammed with their kinfolk in the feast hall.

  The center of the hall had been cleared of tables and benches to make room for the Dance of the Sun. Symbolic of the Nemeton, men and women formed two nested rings to whirl and clap and shout in a frenzied blur. Only the man and woman at the center, each holding a candle lit from the Sacred Flame, stood immobile.

  From first light to last, the Dance of the Sun did not stop. Any adult could enter the rings, and the rested replaced the wearied in steady succession. But each couple to serve a turn at the hub of the living wheel did so in preparation for marriage, to be formalized at the Nemeton during the evening ritual.

  Those not dancing were drinking, eating, telling stories, arm wrestling, singing, often trying two or three at once; sometimes with success, sometimes not. Those who had collapsed from the heather beer and fatigue were carefully removed to their quarters for the safety of all.

  Mishaps on feast days were ill omens to be avoided at any cost.

  Gyan sank onto a bench along the wall, dashing sweat from her forehead and fighting for breath after spending her third turn in the dance. Her dove-feathered ceremonial robe was oven-hot. She tugged at the high neckline, wishing she could yank the accursed thing off. Silently, she thanked the gods that she didn’t have to wear a winged headdress, like the priests. She reached for the pewter cup.

  Across the hall, her father was boisterously challenging all comers to arm wrestling. The sleeve of his ceremonial robe was hitched up over the elbow of his sword arm, the twilight-gray feathers shaking and shimmering under the force of his effort. A triumphant laugh burst from his lips as his opponent’s arm thudded to the tabletop beneath his. The challenger grinned in amicable admission of defeat, and another stepped forward to try his luck.

  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.