Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  Gyan recognized the slave as Rudd, one of the most skilled of the slaves at Arbroch. Small wonder he’d been up on that ladder. He was lying on the ground and very much alive. His head was thrashing, and groans escaped from between gritted teeth as he flailed both fists against the ground in obvious pain. The physician was massaging his legs, which were curiously still. More than once, he asked Rudd to try moving them, but despite the slave’s exertion, nothing happened. Rudd’s wife, Gweneth, knelt at his head, stroking his temples as tears coursed down her cheeks. The children, none older than ten, stood quietly behind their mother, their faces displaying a mixture of sadness, confusion, and fear.

  She approached her father and gave him a questioning look.

  Fingers to chin and frowning, he slowly shook his head. “It’s bad, lass. His back—he’ll never walk again.” He laid a hand on Gyan’s shoulder and Per’s. “Come. There’s nothing more we can do here.” Sorrow dominated his tone. His hands fell away as he turned to leave. Per fell into step beside him, but when Gyan didn’t, Ogryvan glanced back. “Gyan?”

  As with the impulse to fetch the physician, she felt a distinct urge to stay. But what more could she do? The children. The sight of the poor waifs, with their father lying in crippled agony before them, wrenched her heart. Fist in mouth and eyes wide, the youngest shrank from Gyan to cling to her mother’s tunic, but the older two didn’t seem to mind when she knelt to wrap an arm around each of them. Blinking away tears and afraid her voice might betray her, Gyan gazed up at Ogryvan with a look she hoped would convey the idea that she would leave only after she had given what comfort she could. With a nod, he motioned for Per to follow him to the training area.

  The physician rose and ordered the construction of a litter. The movement from the work party in response to their overseer’s commands seemed obscene when weighed against the fact that one of their number would never be able to do even the simplest tasks.

  “You’re giving up?” Gyan asked the physician.

  “I might be able to help his pain, but—” Sighing, he ran a hand through his graying hair. With a glance at the grieving family, he beckoned Gyan to join him. She gave the children another hug, stood, and walked to where he had moved, a few paces away from the man’s feet. He whispered, “My lady, I’ve seen this sort of injury before. Too many times. Different variants but all with the same result.” Helplessness and frustration invaded his gaze. “The best physician alive couldn’t heal an injury like this.”

  Though she wanted to deny it, for the sake of Rudd and his family, her heart confirmed the stark truth of the physician’s statement. She glanced at the stern-faced Vergul, then at Rudd. There was no use asking for divine intervention. No Caledonach priest would pray for a Breatan. And even if the gods consented to listen to Gyan, she could pray all day and half the night to no avail. As a Breatanach slave, Rudd laid so far beneath the Old Ones’ notice, he might as well have been born a sparrow.

  And yet, Gyan realized with growing incredulity as she peered past the physician’s shoulder, praying was exactly what Gweneth seemed to be doing. Gweneth had shifted to cradle Rudd’s head in her lap, palms pressed flat to his cheeks. Her head was bowed so far that her chin rested on her chest. Her lips were moving, but if any sound was emerging, Gyan couldn’t hear it. Even the children had struck similar poses.

  Didn’t they realize the futility of their actions?

  The sound of running drew Gyan’s attention. Dafydd, fresh dirt caked to his hands and fresh grief marring his face, was approaching. His family—what was left of it—wasn’t far behind him. Apparently, they’d returned from burying their bairn to learn of the accident; with as many people as Gyan had had to chase from the scene, she wouldn’t have been surprised if all Caledon found out within the sennight.

  But what did surprise her was to see Dafydd drop to his knees, clasp Rudd’s hand without taking the time to wipe the dirt from his own, and begin to chant. Soft and reedy at first, the sound gradually swelled until his voice seemed to pulse with confidence. Katra and Gweneth blended their higher voices with his, to stunning effect. It didn’t matter to Gyan that the words were unknown to her. If this divine-sounding music couldn’t charm the One God into helping this unfortunate man, then nothing could.

  Careful not to give any outward sign of what she was doing, she added her own silent prayers for the man’s recovery. To whom she was praying, she wasn’t sure. The Old Ones couldn’t be bothered with the plight of a foreign slave, and the One God certainly had no reason to heed her, either. But that didn’t prevent her from hoping some good would come from her supplication.

  A bizarre thought crossed her mind to ask Rudd to move his feet. Skepticism wrinkling her brow, Gyan glanced around. The physician was directing the placement of the completed litter, the slaves were doing his bidding, Dafydd and the women were singing, Vergul was regarding the singers with patent disgust, and the work party’s overseer was standing several paces away, looking increasingly impatient to get his men back to their roofing work. Where, Gyan wondered, had that thought come from?

  But when it repeated, stronger, she acted upon it. Two slaves stooped to move Rudd to the litter, but she ordered them to wait, knelt beside him, and gave voice to her strange mental command. Rudd winced and clenched his fists. When no movement occurred, she was disappointed for him but not surprised. After a few seconds, a look slowly spread across his face—not of pain but of consummate joy.

  One foot twitched, then the other.

  Gweneth gasped and burst into tears. Faces and palms turned skyward, Dafydd and Katra began singing one word, over and over: “Alleluia.” As Gyan and the rest of the onlookers watched in stunned silence, Rudd pushed himself to a sitting position to embrace his wife. With her help, he gritted his teeth and proceeded, slowly and shakily, to gather his feet underneath him and stand.

  The physician was the first to shed his astonishment. He poked and prodded every handspan of Rudd’s back and legs. What he sought, Gyan had no idea. Since Rudd admitted he was still in pain, though clearly not as much as before, the physician advised him to go to the infirmary as originally planned. The overseer reluctantly agreed. With the physician supporting one arm and Gweneth the other, Rudd started his journey on uncertain feet, but at least they were moving.

  The overseer told two men to carry the unused litter to the infirmary and ordered the rest back to work. As they cheerfully obeyed, he approached Gyan. Vergul was not far behind him. “It seems our Rudd wasn’t as badly injured as we all thought, Chieftainess.”

  Dafydd, swiping at his eyes with the back of a hand, rose and joined them. “I believe he was. And that he was made whole,” he said in Caledonaiche, not so much to the overseer as to the priest, “by the power of Almighty God.”

  The overseer gave Dafydd a contemptuous grunt, bowed to Gyan, and returned to his duties.

  Arms crossed and eyes narrowed to slits, Vergul asked, “And what do you believe, Chieftainess?”

  Gyan wasn’t sure, but this priest was seriously starting to irritate her. She strove to keep her tone even. “I believe that whatever the reason, Priest, we should all be thankful Rudd will be all right.”

  She turned and stalked off. Her mind was reeling with the events of the day—the death of Dafydd’s bairn, the injured slave, and, behind it all like a low but persistent drumbeat, the prophecy. Soon she could think of nothing else. What she needed was some hearty physical exertion to clear the confusion. She strode toward the nearest practice field.

  Her brother, standing at the rail while Ogryvan was sparring with Mathan, gave her a questioning glance. “Rudd?”

  “Will recover. Completely.”

  Per’s jaw dropped. “But how? He—his back—”

  “Whatever happened, he’s walking now.” Shrugging, she clapped hand to hilt. “I thought you wanted a match.”

  “If you think you’re ready, dear sister.” His grin was pure impish delight. “I’m always ready to give you a mud bath!”
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  “I hope you enjoy eating those words,” she retorted with a lilt that sounded at odds with how she felt.

  If Per noticed the hollowness of her challenge, he made no comment. On the training ground, their banter ceased. Combat, even for practice, was serious business. Only a fool made light of it. In battle, fools rarely lived long enough to learn from this mistake.

  Like a pair of charging bucks, Gyan and Per crossed weapons with a fearsome clatter.

  There had been other days when her body was slow to obey her commands but nothing like this. Reflex and instinct did little to lighten the leadlike weight of her sword; she felt as though she were wading hip-high through a river of mud. Only raw determination kept her arms and feet moving.

  With grim effort, she summoned reserves for a rapid series of feints and slashes.

  Everyone knew that battle madness drove a warrior to perform feats far beyond mortal expectations. Innocent of real battle, she had no idea how the madness felt. Surely, this was close enough not to make much difference. Some remote part of her hoped this could strike the High Priest’s words from her mind. Yet even as the thought formed, she knew it would be impossible. The prophecy might as well have been etched in granite.

  Per retreated before her onslaught but refused to quit, although she had him on the defensive. As she tried to press the advantage, the well of her strength ran dry. In an eyeblink, their positions reversed. She struggled to defend against her brother’s merciless advance.

  “Enough, Per!” Point buried in the ooze at her feet, she leaned on her hilt and gasped for breath. “I concede.”

  An arm came to rest across her shoulders. She slumped against Per’s chest.

  “I say it’s a draw.” Quiet pride rang from each syllable. “Illness or no, this is the best you’ve ever done against me.”

  Gyan did not feel like celebrating.

  Chapter 9

  NOTHING COMPARED TO the first ride through the countryside after spring flung off winter’s dreary cloak. The wind shed its icy claws to caress face and hair and hands with a lover’s touch. Colors gleamed brighter: the crisp blue of the sky, the vivid white and yellow and purple of the crocuses, the light green of infant leaves. Cheerier temperaments seemed to thrive in the greetings of folk tilling the fields as their chieftainess flashed by.

  For the sake of appearances, a smiling Gyan returned their waves. But her emotions churned like the snow-swollen stream beside which Brin was racing.

  In less than a fortnight, she would depart from Arbroch. She was running out of time—and options.

  Beyond the meadows, she steered Brin onto the track that would lead them into the foothills. Yet this was no pleasure ride. Today would find her where no one outside the priesthood dared to tread. Were the priests to find out, the Nemeton’s altar might soon be bathed in human blood: hers.

  But she had to take that risk. The alternatives were sure to bring heartbreak and ruin to more people than she could possibly imagine. There was no turning back.

  Time and again, the winding track tested the mettle of horse and rider. Budding boughs tried to bar the way. Rocks and roots seemed to appear at will around Brin’s hooves, and his footing grew less sure with each stride. Still, Gyan urged him on, drawing comfort from his faithful obedience.

  She almost missed the holly-hidden rock that was engraved with a tiny pair of Argyll Doves. The marker’s placement within the evergreen thicket was no accident. Strangers were not meant to stumble upon the clan’s spiritual heart.

  Gyan dismounted to lead Brin off the main track, tethered him where the trees would screen him from view, and slipped through the deer-size break in the wall of trees.

  As she picked her way toward the site, she recalled the morning she had received the Mark of Argyll, a memory she was glad to relive. At dawn, the priests had taken her to the temple for the rite of purification. While the clan-mark was taking shape on her sword arm beneath the eternal glow of the Sacred Flame, the rest of the clan assembled at the Nemeton to witness her confirmation as àrd-banoigin. How proud her father and brother had sounded as they raised their voices with the clan to greet her. On that day, she could have conquered the world!

  She rounded the final turn in the path. Cold and forbidding, the Nemeton’s granite sentinels reared before her. The memories fled. Into the void rushed a feeling of utter vulnerability.

  The clearing was tomb-silent. No breeze stirred the boughs. No bird flew overhead. No creature rustled through the brush. No insect hummed in the grass. It was as if the Old Ones had banished every mortal thing from their holy place.

  Gyan approached the stones. The sound of her boots against the gravely ground crashed in her ears. Anyone within a half day’s ride ought to hear it too. But even the thought of unwanted visitors failed to halt her progress. She located the stone she sought, careful not to step inside the Sacred Ground, for to do so without the permission of a priest would spell certain death.

  “E-Epona?” She pressed fingertips to the lichen-crusted stone and stroked the engraving of the prancing mare. Her affinity for Brin made her feel especially close to the patroness of equestrians.

  Silence.

  She cleared her throat. “Epona?”

  Still no response.

  What was she expecting? A disembodied voice? A thunderclap?

  “Maybe you and the other gods only speak to priests.” She drew a swift breath to summon an extra measure of courage. “But you can listen to me, can’t you?” She heard nothing, saw nothing to discourage her from continuing. “You—I guess you know I’m betrothed to this Breatan, Urien map Dumarec, in fulfillment of last year’s Àmbholc prophecy. But this year’s—” She swallowed hard as a new thought occurred. “I chose to marry Urien because it seemed our union would be good for the clan. And his. I take this year’s prophecy to mean that he will somehow cause my death. But does this mean harm will befall Clan Argyll too?” Her throat went dry.

  A breeze stirred the tops of the pines. Whether this was a divine answer to her question, she couldn’t begin to guess. An image of Arbroch, defenses breached and buildings smoldering, assaulted her brain. She tried to will it away, and failed. Her own fate she could accept; the fate of her people was another matter altogether.

  “Please, Epona, I—I don’t know what to do.” It was the hardest confession she’d ever made. The rest of the words tumbled out in fervent haste to be heard. “I need your help!”

  A pair of crows blundered into the clearing. Their cackling seemed to mock her prayer. She studied the graven horse before her. Perhaps the birds were not far from the truth. After all, what was she doing? Talking to a rock. An unmoving, unthinking, uncaring hunk of granite.

  Doubt twisted her heart. What if the gods were no better than these weatherworn stones? Did they care so very little about the course of mortal lives?

  An idea formed. Normally, it would have been the farthest thing from her mind; two months ago, she would have been shocked speechless by the suggestion. The part of her that remained loyal to tradition blared its alarm: the plan involved a terrible risk. But her craving for answers outweighed all else.

  Gyan squared her shoulders, thrust out her chin, stepped past the sentinel stones, and strode resolutely into the innermost ring.

  “Epona, I am here! Here, on your Most Sacred Ground. Without a priest to intercede.” Eyes squeezed shut so tightly that she felt tears begin to form, she raised face and arms skyward. “If what the priests say is true, then I am committing the greatest of blasphemies. I must be punished. Epona, hear me! Strike me now!”

  If this didn’t draw divine attention, nothing would. Every muscle tensed for the blow.

  It never fell.

  The crows flapped away, chuckling.

  In dejected misery, she sank to the ground at the foot of the altar. “Epona, where are you?” Her voice was a croaking whisper. “Why don’t you hear me? Now, of all times, when I need you most?”

  A musical chant drifted on the breez
e. Though she didn’t recognize the words, she recognized the effect the chant had upon her. She looked around and was relieved to discover she was still alone. Quickly, she rose to follow the sound past the Nemeton’s outer circle to the far side of the clearing.

  She peered over the precipice. Not far from the base of the cliff was a place she had never visited, although she knew its purpose: the hillock where the slaves buried their dead.

  The solitary singer was too far away to name by sight. But she could have identified his voice even in the dark. The last time she’d heard his prayerful singing, she had witnessed its awesome result. The healing of the injured slave was still a favorite topic of speculation for many, and the consensus among the Caledonaich was that Rudd had faked the severity of his injury to win a reprieve from work. Though Gyan refused to engage in the debate, she knew what she had seen. Rudd’s agony had been real, as real as the power that had made him whole. And to invoke that power, Dafydd had prayed to the One God and the Christ. That much she had been able to discern from the jumble of foreign words.

  Maybe this Christ, having tasted death too, would care enough to help her face her predicament.

  Strengthened by her resolution, she strode from the Nemeton.

  As she sighted her horse, Brin greeted her with a friendly nicker. She released the tether, mounted, and spurred him down the path.

  They emerged from the pines to the distant whinny of another horse. Brin answered. Gyan nudged him to the top of the burial place, slid from his back, and turned him loose to graze. There they found the other horse hitched to a wagon amid the rippling mounds. The graves were unmarked save the crowns of new grass spring had bestowed, though one small mound bore a crudely carved stone replica of the symbol of Dafydd’s god. The cross stood no taller than a forearm’s length.