Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  He was beginning to wonder why she had given him the horse at all. A guilt offering, maybe? Because she wouldn’t let him fight in the Abar-Gleann campaign?

  A memory threatened to destroy his mood. He pushed it away.

  Stonn was all that mattered. As he drew the stiff bristles over Stonn’s coat, he imagined the fine muscles working between his thighs.

  Angusel sighed. For though Stonn was his in name, other men knew the feel of those muscles. Usually, one of the Caledonach horse-warriors took the stallion out for his daily exercise. Angusel had never been on Stonn’s back, and no one at the fort knew.

  Sustaining the fiction was easy enough. Tanroc’s Breatanach inhabitants didn’t concern themselves with the comings and goings of a foreigner. Angusel used the excuse that his studies kept him too busy so he could prevail upon someone to exercise Stonn. The only person who might have noticed that things weren’t quite as they seemed was the chieftainess, but she usually stayed later at the monastery. He was confident that his secret was safe. But that didn’t make it any easier to live with.

  Today would be different! It was early. The stable hands sat at their midday meal. Chieftainess Gyanhumara was not due for some time yet.

  He left the stall, replaced the brush, and headed into the tack room. Lifting Stonn’s bridle off its peg, he briefly considered taking the saddle, but that would only complicate things.

  Stonn perked his ears forward as Angusel approached, bridle in hand. Putting it on posed no problem, since he’d seen it done often enough. His hands trembled with excitement as he gathered the reins to lead his horse into the shimmering afternoon.

  The stables were situated well away from the living areas. Behind the stables, butting up against the southwestern palisade wall, was a small training enclosure. It was seldom used, since most riders preferred to exercise their mounts across the hills and valleys beyond Tanroc’s gates. For Angusel’s purposes, it would be perfect.

  He was leading Stonn around the end of the building when a shout drew his attention. His heart plummeted.

  “Angusel!” Smiling brightly, the chieftainess strode toward him, clad in her riding leathers. Evidently, her lessons had also finished early. “I’m taking Brin out too. I wouldn’t mind the company, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

  His brain raced through a list of excuses while she fixed her steady sea-green gaze upon him. Even before reaching the end of the list, he knew he was trapped. “Nay, my lady, I don’t mind.” He tried his best to sound more cheerful than he felt. “I don’t mind at all.”

  “Good.” She glanced at Stonn. “Bareback riding today?”

  “Aye, my lady. I—” He broke into a crooked grin. “I’ve never tried it before.”

  “It’s a bit different. Your backside may be complaining tomorrow.”

  No doubt about that, whether he used a saddle or not, but he put on what he hoped was a brave face. “I was going to take Stonn to the ring to get used to the feel of it.”

  “Good idea. I’ll meet you there when I’m ready.”

  As she disappeared into the stables, Angusel hurried Stonn over to the training ring. With any luck, they’d have several minutes to themselves.

  He stopped his stallion next to the rail fence and climbed it. Having grown up around horsemen, he knew the proper way to mount, but it seemed best to go slowly at first.

  Stonn stood amazingly still as Angusel eased onto his back from the fence. Heart hammering, he wanted to shout for pure joy.

  Imitating a motion he’d seen every other rider use, he touched the stallion’s sides with his heels. As Stonn obediently stepped forward, Angusel straightened. The reins went taut. The horse stopped. Then Angusel remembered what pulling back meant.

  “All right, Stonn,” he whispered into one black-edged gray ear. “Let’s try again. I think I’ve got the way of it.”

  He kicked Stonn into a walk. After a couple of turns around the ring, getting used to controlling the horse’s direction, he dared a trot and immediately regretted it. Never mind the jolts to his backside. He thought his teeth would bounce out of his head. Worse yet, his knees were losing their grip. Wrestling to maintain balance, he accidentally touched Stonn’s sides with his heels. The stallion leaped into a canter. With a startled cry, Angusel fell.

  As he rolled onto his back, Stonn walked over and nuzzled his face. Nothing really hurt except his pride. He put up a hand to caress the soft nose.

  A chuckle greeted him. He scrambled to his feet. Outside the dusty enclosure near the gate stood Brin. Chieftainess Gyanhumara straddled his back with a casual, confident, and thoroughly enviable grace.

  “Angusel mac Alayna! Where on earth did you learn to ride like that?” Her tone carried more surprise than reproach.

  He gathered Stonn’s reins and shuffled toward the gate, trying to give himself enough time to think, but there was no way around the question except the truth.

  “I taught myself, my lady.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. “Today.”

  “You mean you’ve never—but your mother—” She drew a breath. “Clan Alban has some of the finest horse-warriors of the Confederacy. Why did no one teach you? By your age, I was already a good rider, and learning to break and train horses.”

  It was true about his clan’s horsemen. Caledonaich were born in the saddle. They lived and fought and died in the saddle, and Clan Alban boasted the best. Angusel shrugged.

  “Abar-Gleann campaign preparations, my lady. Everyone was too busy training and making weapons and armor and gathering supplies. No one had time to spare for someone who wouldn’t be fighting.” He studied the hoofprints around his feet as the memory invaded. The argument he’d had with his mother about going to battle rang as loudly in his mind now as it had the first time. She had even refused to let him participate in the defense of Senaudon; not that another spear would have made a difference…

  “Not even the clan’s exalted heir?” she asked softly.

  Still staring at the ground, he shook his head. “And afterward, when I was sent here, there wasn’t anyone I wanted to ask to teach me.” He looked up. “Except you.”

  “Me? Oh, no, Angusel. You want someone with combat experience. Urien, perhaps.”

  “I need the basics, first,” he argued. “You could teach me that. Please, my lady?”

  She looked at him for a long, stern moment. Finally, she smiled. “Let’s find someplace outside the fort where we can practice without being disturbed.” She held up a hand to cut off any reply he might have made. “But first, let’s make an agreement: no more of this ‘my lady’ nonsense. My friends call me Gyan.”

  He beamed. “And mine call me Angus.”

  THUS BEGAN a custom that continued as spring blossomed into the crystal days that heralded the advent of summer. Gyan was immensely pleased with her decision to help Angusel learn to ride. Those afternoons afforded excellent opportunities to explore the Isle of Maun, with its sparkling beaches, stark cliffs, rolling pastures, warm lowlands, and apple-shaded river valleys. And over all loomed the gray-green Mount Snaefell. That such diversity existed on so small an island was a constant source of delight.

  In truth, Maun offered Gyan everything she could possibly ever want, except her father and brother, her clan, her home—and Arthur.

  “GYAN, IT’S market day at Dhoo-Glass,” announced Angusel one day as they saddled their mounts. “Can we go there this afternoon? Please?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Need? I just want to look!” He smacked fist to palm. “I’m tired of all this practice, practice, practice!”

  “Boy, it’s practice that will make you into a better warrior. Not gawking at the merchants’ stalls.” She chuckled at his tragic face. “Very well. I could use a new sword belt. You can practice jumping obstacles with Stonn on the way.”

  Angusel groaned. “More practice!” He spied Morghe approaching them and waved. “Morghe, we’re going to the market at Port Dhoo-Glass. Want to come
?”

  Regarding the pair with a neutral expression, Morghe shook her head. “Perhaps some other time, Angus.” She raised her empty basket. “I must gather herbs for the infirmary’s stores.”

  Angusel turned to watch Morghe disappear into her mare’s stall. After a moment, he whispered to Gyan, “I’d sure like to know what’s wrong with her these days. She isn’t much fun anymore.”

  As the recipient of Morghe’s frosty attitude many times, Gyan had a fair idea of what was bothering her. But in response to Angusel’s comment, she merely shrugged.

  True to her word, she made him jump his mount over shrubs, rocks, fallen trees, and anything else she could find to stretch his skill. At times, their path wound back and forth across the rivers Neb and Dhoo. He whooped at each challenge he conquered. She noted his improved attitude and skill with a smile of approval. When the port finally came into sight, her pride was soaring with the gulls. For the first time since his equestrian training had begun, Angusel had not fallen once.

  To cool their sweating horses, they dismounted outside the city gates and led them to the stables. Gyan left instructions with the stable hand to feed and water the animals, and she and Angusel set off for the market square.

  Angusel clearly yearned to stop at every stall, but Gyan made a beeline for the armorers. To take care of her business first, she explained. Pacified with her promise of plenty of time to browse afterward, he tagged along.

  An entire line of stalls and tents boasted the furnishings of war. As everywhere else in the market maze, the folk visiting this section were a mixture of clients and the curious, with one marked difference. Here the true customers were easy to identify. Without fail, they bore evidence of their work, if not by the overt presence of battle-gear, then by an abundance of scars or the swaggering manner that seemed the special province of the warrior caste.

  Gyan was the only woman. This did not go unnoticed.

  She paid no heed to the whispered remarks and sidelong glances that kept pace with her from stall to stall. Men too ill-mannered to shutter their rude thoughts weren’t worth the effort of a response.

  Instead, she concentrated on the task at hand. And what a task it was! Every armorer offered belts by the score, segmented rectangles to encircle the waist and metal-studded baldrics that looped across the chest. Gold and silver and enamel and jewels decorated the ceremonial belts. Their working cousins displayed sterner faces of iron or bronze.

  None came close to what Gyan sought. She wanted something to guard her middle as well.

  The word at every stall was the same. If Adim Al-Iskandar of Constantinopolis did not sell it, such a thing simply did not exist. Bypassing the remaining armorers, she threaded her way to Al-Iskandar’s stall.

  “Ah, my lady, I believe I can be of service to you,” crooned the fat, brown-skinned merchant in response to Gyan’s query. “I have been saving this piece for just the right owner.” Grinning broadly, he bowed and ducked into the tent behind his stall.

  He reemerged a few moments later, carrying in both hands the finest piece of armor she had ever seen. More than a sword belt, it was a work of art. What caught her eye was the dragon cleverly worked in relief across the front, and not only for the excellence of its craftsmanship.

  Al-Iskandar let her scrutinize the belt while he spoke Breatanaiche in a lilting accent about its origins and features.

  “Bronze, for maximum durability.” He gave it a resounding thump with bejeweled knuckles. “Based on a design favored by the Ostrogoths, only better. The middle part rides higher, here, to protect more of your vitals. And you can see there is a place in front where you can attach a short-sword or dagger sheath.”

  Sparing a glance for the crowd swelling around his stall, he asked, “Would my lady care to try it on?”

  In reply, she unbuckled her belt. With deft fingers, the merchant fitted the bronze piece around her waist, over her leather tunic, and cinched the fastening thongs across the small of her back. He removed the scabbard from her old belt and attached it to the new one. The onlookers breathed a collective gasp of admiration.

  Her hand dropped to her sword hilt as if to draw the weapon; in reality, she was judging the scabbard’s placement. It was perfectly comfortable. Everything about the piece was perfect. Yet to haggle the price down, she had to discover some flaw. It simply would not do to take it at asking price. Folk might wonder. Specifically, Urien.

  “I would need someone to help me put it on,” she said. “Not very convenient in a surprise attack.”

  “A small price to pay, my lady, for the vastly superior protection it offers you.” Al-Iskandar’s teeth, bared in a wide grin, glistened like pearls against the natural darkness of his skin. “I daresay a warrior of your eminence should have the way of it mastered in no time.”

  In response to the shameless flattery, she suppressed her grin. Some merchants would go to any length to make a sale. Doubtless, this man could outdistance the best.

  “Gyan, it’s fabulous!” Angusel exclaimed.

  “Indeed,” said a new voice. The crowd parted to make way for Urien.

  “Gyan—Chieftainess Gyanhumara? This lovely lady is your betrothed, my lord Urien?” She could have sworn the merchant’s surprise was an act.

  Urien didn’t seem to notice. Nodding, he reached her side and pushed Angusel away, none too gently. Angusel stumbled back against a one-eyed herdsman. Laughing coarsely, the man planted a hairy paw between Angusel’s shoulders and shoved. Angusel whirled and drew his dagger against the offender.

  “C’mon, laddie.” The herdsman beckoned, grinning. “Lessee what yer made of.”

  The spectators cheerfully pulled back to give the combatants more room, and a chorus of encouragement began.

  “Angusel, stop!” shouted Urien.

  Angusel turned. The herdsman landed a clout to the back of his head. The startled warrior fell to hands and knees in the dust, dropping his dagger. The townsfolk roared in appreciation. Loudest among them was the herdsman.

  Looking to Urien for help in gaining control of the situation, Gyan found him to be enjoying the scene as much as everyone else, if not more so. The fires of anger roared to life. This was not the time to play the simpering female! Not with a companion’s honor at stake.

  The sight of an arm’s length of naked steel commanded silence, even from Urien. But the herdsman, doubled over with his good eye closed, kept chortling.

  “You, man! Get out of here. Now,” Gyan growled. “And if I catch you making trouble again, I’ll be seeing what you’re made of.” As she stalked toward the man, the others seemed more than happy to scramble out of her way. “From the inside out!”

  The herdsman opened his eye to find the point of her sword half a handspan away. His glee disappeared. Bobbing his head in a parody of a bow, he stepped back into the crowd.

  Her sword screeched as she slammed it into its sheath. She offered a hand to Angusel, and he hauled himself up, rubbing his head. After retrieving his dagger, he scowled at Urien, whose mouth was still bent in amusement.

  “Peace, Angus,” she hissed, in Caledonaiche. No longer in a mood to barter, she began tugging at the sword belt’s fastenings.

  Scurrying up to her, Al-Iskandar touched fingertips to chest and forehead in a dramatic bow.

  “Please, my lady Gyanhumara, I am grievously sorry for what has happened. I would be deeply honored if you would accept the belt as a gift. A token of my sincerest good wishes. All I ask”—with clasped hands, he displayed an expression that reminded her of a begging dog—“is that you do not forget your humble servant Adim Al-Iskandar when you have need of arms or armor in the future.”

  “Thank you, Adim Al-Iskandar.” She smiled despite her irritation. “I certainly shall not forget your kindness.”

  AL-ISKANDAR SMUGLY watched Gyanhumara and Urien pass through the crowd, trailed by the glowering young warrior. The arms merchant knew that he, Adim Al-Iskandar, would not forget this day, either. He had known from the start
with whom he had been dealing, of course. In all the lands touching the seven seas, Al-Iskandar had never seen the aura of power melded to such an exquisite female form. And he made it his business to learn as much about his clients and potential clients as possible.

  When word of his generosity and the subsequent pledged patronage of the Picti chieftainess became common knowledge, he expected his business on this island would increase threefold at least. Already, several men were crowding forward to examine his wares. He had no doubt his investment in goodwill would be well worth the price.

  “Hai, Adim,” came a harsh whisper from behind him.

  He craned his head around and cursed. To attend the customers, he rousted his apprentice from the tent and motioned impatiently to the one-eyed herdsman. The man followed Al-Iskandar into the empty tent.

  “Idiot! The embarrassment you caused me—” Al-Iskandar never shrank from the judicious use of guilt to achieve the desired effect. “Not to mention the loss of an important sale!”

  “This’ll take care o’yer whinin’, to be sure.” The herdsman drew a smelly scrap of cowhide from the neck of his tunic. Al-Iskandar snatched it out of his hand. “Y’know where this goes, Adim. Collect when y’get there, as usual.” With his uncovered eye, he winked. “Now then, what do y’know ’bout that woman?”

  “Oho, that will cost you, my friend.” Al-Iskandar’s lips pulled back in a grin. “Up front.” Casually leaning one hand on the work table, he extended the other, palm up.

  The herdsman reached into his boot. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the silver-hilted knife lodged in the wood at Al-Iskandar’s fingertips. Al-Iskandar jerked back his hand with a gasp of alarm.

  “There, thief. Take this an’ be done.” He glared at Al-Iskandar. “But if I don’t like what I be hearin’, ye’ll find me other knife in yer gut.”