Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  Angusel realized then who had ordered his death.

  The strengthening light heralded the start of the day fated to witness the end of his life. Moving underneath the high window, he searched the domain of the gods. From this angle, he could see only a sliver of the sky. How could any of them see him? Or know where to look? Or care? The ancient tales of the gods walking the earth to help heroes were just that: tales. Not history, as some folk preferred to believe, just some worm-riddled storyteller’s fantasy, inspired by too much ale.

  Besides, he was no hero. True heroes might be captured in battle and imprisoned, aye, but their actions were never confused with crimes by their supposed allies. And the motives of a hero were never questioned.

  Angusel turned from the window and slid down the night-chilled stone wall. His injured knee sent stabs of pain through the rest of the leg. But he didn’t mind the cold or the pain; they were signals that he was still alive, signals soon to be stilled by a serpent’s sting.

  Hugging knees to chin, he gazed upon the small clay drinking cup. He picked it up, summoned the face of Urien map Dumarec, and heaved it. The cup burst into a hundred red-brown shards as it collided with the wall. The satisfaction lasted only an instant. Sighing, he rested chin on knees again.

  His biggest sorrow was that he would die in ignorance of what had happened to Gyan. That she had acquitted herself well against the invasion of Tanroc, he had no doubt. Fate had stolen his one opportunity to fight alongside his mentor and friend—and, he realized with no small shock, his sister. Not by blood but in spirit.

  Ignoring the thought of being overheard, it was with a kinsman’s outpouring of grief that Angusel of Clan Alban mourned the passing of the Chieftainess of Clan Argyll. For if the Scáthinaich had thrown the bulk of their force against Tanroc, her chance of survival would have been slim, no matter how brilliantly she might have fought. Even the greatest warriors knew there came a point when skill could not overcome the weight of numbers.

  And the accursed Scáthinach michaoduin had made sure to surpass that point tenfold.

  Maybe he would meet her in the Otherworld, and together they could fight unearthly foes forever. His lips twitched into an echo of a grin as he pictured putrid Samhraidhean monsters with gory fangs dripping poison, wickedly curved talons that could rip bones from living flesh, unblinking yellow eyes that froze the soul in a single glance. And deep in the midst of this ravening evil, he and Gyan and the Army of the Blest, all clad in dazzling armor, swinging swords forged by the gods.

  Death might not be so bad after all!

  The slap of sandals on stone in the corridor outside the cell shattered the visions. Angusel raised his head. The door creaked open to reveal a pair of guards. One carried chains looped over his shield arm. Both held spears.

  Angusel rose.

  “Gitcher arse out ’ere, pris’ner,” ordered the man with the chains.

  Silently, he obeyed. Nor did he bother to resist as his arms were yanked behind his back and shackled. The lock snapped shut with deadly finality. A spear point jabbed between his shoulder blades, and his last march began.

  “Sure is a quiet ’un, Brychan.”

  “We’ll see ’ow quiet ’e is in the pit, Erec, won’t we?”

  Angusel ignored the coarse laughter. Perhaps he’d even show them a thing or two about courage, the Breatanach curs. And where was the leader of their flea-ridden pack? Surely, he’d want to be here to gloat. If the guards knew, they showed no sign, and Angusel wasn’t about to ask them.

  Each soldier gripping one of Angusel’s arms, the trio trudged abreast down the dank corridor. Guttering torches along the walls shed more greasy smoke than light. A small, furry shape darted between their feet and fled, chittering, into the shadows. From somewhere came the plink of water dripping onto stone. The men’s rhythmic footfalls and rasping voices sounded unnaturally loud, and Angusel began to wonder whether they could hear the desperate pounding of his heart.

  Out of the hazy gloom at the end of the corridor appeared the outline of a door. Its features sharpened as they neared. There was neither lock nor bolt, only a plain handle.

  This was it, then: the entrance to the viper pit.

  What if holy Lord Annaomh wouldn’t take him into the Great Hall of the Otherworld because he hadn’t proved himself worthy in battle? Would he be denied a place in the Army of the Blest? Consigned to the ranks of Lord Annàm’s vile Samhraidhean, to fight against Gyan and the Blest for all eternity?

  “C’mon, boy. In ye go.”

  Angusel sighed. Nothing could be done about it now.

  Erec tugged on the handle, and the door opened on groaning hinges. A blast of fetid air made Angusel’s eyes water, though it didn’t seem to bother the guards. They snatched torches and pushed him into the chamber. The door thumped shut behind them.

  The room wasn’t much larger than his cell had been. But unlike the cell, the floor was wooden, and those planks were the only things separating Angusel from death.

  Near the door stood a barrel. Beside it, a lever sprouted from the floor. The lever’s function Angusel could guess. He might have wondered what was in the barrel, but his only concern was for this grim business to be ended.

  “Lessee wot the buggers be doin’,” chortled Brychan as he reached for the lever.

  Erec produced a strip of black cloth from a pouch at his belt. “Blindfold, lad?”

  Angusel shook his head. No one would accuse him of failing to face the Hag of Death. Erec shrugged and stashed the cloth in the pouch.

  Grunting, Brychan yanked the lever. With a screech, a section of the floor fell away. The hissing of a hundred serpents burst from the shadowy depths. He clamped his hand on Angusel’s shoulder and forced him to look down the hole.

  “There be yer new ’ome, boy. Lotsa company for ye.”

  Angusel stared in morbid fascination at the writhing mound of black bodies, glimmering faintly in the fitful torchlight. Company, indeed. The bones scattered among the adders bore mute testimony to the fate of the pit’s last resident.

  Another hand drew him back. “Here now, Brychan, the lad’ll be down there soon enough.”

  “I can ’ave me fun, can’t I?” Brychan reached into the barrel and pulled up a bucket. “Time to wake up, me beauties.” He dumped the contents into the hole. As the sand spattered the snakes, the hissing grew even louder and angrier. Brychan glanced at Erec. “Where be the key?”

  “Tribune’s not here yet. Oughtn’t we wait?”

  “No ’arm in gettin’ the boy ready.” Brychan extended an open hand. “Let’s ’ave the bloody key.”

  “I’ll do it m’self.” Erec lifted a ring from his belt. It jangled with a score of iron keys that to Angusel looked identical. One by one, Erec began fitting them into the lock that held the chains.

  The door slammed open, and the quest for the key halted. Urien shouldered between the guards. Contorted with rage, his face looked demonic in the shifting light. Angusel stood unflinching under his captor’s glare.

  “Angusel of Caledonia, you are hereby granted a reprieve.” Urien spat the words like venom. “I am here to escort you to the Pendragon for further questioning.”

  Urien spun and strode from the chamber. Angusel stared after him, scarcely daring to believe what he’d heard.

  “You deaf, boy? Gitcher arse movin’!” Brychan prodded him with the butt of his spear. “The Pendragon don’t like to be kept waitin’.”

  “Ease off, Brychan!” Erec planted a hand in the middle of Angusel’s back to propel him from the chamber. “Come, lad. Brychan, can you secure the pit?”

  His only answer was a halfhearted grunt.

  Accompanied by Erec, Angusel followed Urien. With each step, his heart lightened. Not even surly Brychan’s return could stunt his growing joy.

  The procession drew stares from townsfolk and soldiers alike as they quick-marched through town and into the camp. Angusel didn’t mind the stares or the pace. He was too busy delighting in t
he feel of the cool, clean morning air against his skin. Everything seemed somehow clearer and brighter. Even the birdsong, to which he’d never before given a moment’s thought, was infinitely precious.

  Surely, once the Pendragon heard the true story, he would order Angusel’s release. There might be restrictions, probably even punishment. But nothing as irreversible as what he had just faced. For one wild moment, Angusel wanted to join the birds in their song.

  The rippling Scarlet Dragon marked the headquarters tent. The men at its entrance withdrew their spears at Urien’s command. After dismissing Erec and Brychan with a curt nod, he grabbed Angusel’s arm and dragged him inside.

  “The prisoner, as ordered. Sir.” Urien pushed Angusel forward.

  “Unchain him.”

  Urien left the tent to find Erec and his keyring. As Angusel stood in silence before the Pendragon, his hopes of being released began to flee. If anything, Arthur looked even more forbidding than Urien had. But there was no hatred that Angusel could see. A flicker of hope rekindled.

  Finally, Urien returned with the keys. After a few moments, he located the correct one, and the chains slid to the ground at Angusel’s feet. Angusel rubbed his stiff arms.

  “Thank you, Tribune. That is all.” Urien departed. Arthur’s brow furrowed as he continued, “Angusel mac Alayna, you stand accused of murder. Explain yourself.”

  Swallowing thickly, Angusel began.

  Arthur remained silent, unmoving but for an occasional nod, his face an unreadable mask. It was unnerving for Angusel to be unable to discern where he stood with the man who controlled his fate. That gaze compelled him to reveal everything, even his deepest feelings of devotion toward Gyan, which he had barely acknowledged to himself, never mind anyone else. At that, the Pendragon’s mask seemed to crack a little, letting escape a flash of—what? Sympathy? Compassion? Whatever it was, it heartened him.

  He finished his tale and paused. When Arthur made no move to speak, Angusel summoned the courage to continue. “Lord Pendragon, may I ask a question?”

  “Ask.”

  “Sir, what happened to Gyan—Chieftainess Gyanhumara?” As soon as the words escaped, he wanted to call them back. But he had to know. “Is—is she—”

  “She is here, recovering. You may see her later, if you wish.”

  Gyan, alive! But before he could voice his elation, the impact of Arthur’s second statement hit him. “My lord?”

  “You heard me, Angusel.”

  “Does this mean I’m free, sir?”

  Arthur’s hand closed over a blood-splattered leather pouch lying on the tabletop. He pulled it open and shook something into the opposite palm. The fingers curled into a fist around the shining object.

  He rose and approached Angusel, who was still frozen at attention. “At ease.” Angusel relaxed his stance a little. As Arthur’s hand rested on Angusel’s shoulder, a feeling beyond mere warmth tingled in that touch. “Angusel, if I had more men with a tenth of your loyalty and courage, my task would be easier by a hundredfold.

  “Yes, you are free,” the Pendragon said. “To go home, even, as reward for your efforts. This is yours too.” He pressed a gold brooch into Angusel’s palm.

  Angusel studied the intricately wrought lion, feeling his eyes widen in amazement. Finally, he looked up. “Sir, why this? My freedom is reward enough.”

  “That is your freedom, Angusel.”

  “The herdsman’s payment! How did you come by it?”

  Arthur’s eyebrows twitched, and an enigmatic almost-smile flirted with his lips. “Suffice it to say that my methods of questioning are very thorough.”

  “Sir, this is far too generous of you. I can’t accept it.”

  “Nonsense. The lion is the symbol of Clan Alban, is it not?”

  “Aye, sir, but—”

  “All the more reason for you to have it. And it would please me greatly if you chose to remain in my service.”

  “My lord, I thank you. I’m honored. But what I did, all of it—” Angusel drew a breath. “I was only thinking of her. Chieftainess Gyanhumara. With all respect, sir, I would rather stay here and fight at her side. To go where she goes. And to die for her, if need be.”

  IT WAS not the love of a man for a woman that Arthur saw in the depths of those golden-brown eyes. The emotion kindling there was the love of friend for friend, framed by a good measure of respect, bordering on reverence. Arthur nodded approvingly.

  “So would I, Angusel,” confessed the Pendragon. “So would I.”

  Chapter 26

  GYAN WOKE AT first light. A figure was dozing in the chair beside her bed, and the memory of Arthur’s visit drifted back. How considerate of him to have kept vigil all night. She felt a swelling of love at the thought.

  “Arthur?” Smiling, she stretched out her hand.

  The eyes that flicked open to meet hers were not blue but violet.

  “No, Gyanhumara, your lover is not here.”

  Lover?

  “Morghe!” Despite the pain lancing her wounded arm, Gyan pushed herself up. “How dare you accuse—”

  “How?” Her grin was positively wicked. “By the evidence of my own eyes, of course.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “Is it? Then show me a witness who can tell me what my brother was doing in this room for so long last night, if everything that happened between you was innocent.”

  “A witness?” Gyan laughed. “You must be mad. I am not on trial.”

  “No? Your reputation is.”

  “My reputation, indeed!” She creased her brow. “Who would believe that anything—untoward—happened last night? I was half dead of exhaustion.”

  “Really? You were awake enough to know that Arthur had been here.” Again, Morghe displayed a malicious grin. “And something made you think he would be here this morning.”

  “Answer my question, Morghe.”

  “Who would believe me? Why, probably anyone I choose to tell. People are always looking to believe the worst about their betters.”

  A name burst from Gyan’s lips. “Urien.”

  Immediately, she regretted her mistake.

  “What an interesting idea.” Morghe’s grin widened. “Too bad I’ve already thought of it. He’s not very happy with you.”

  “Fine.” Gyan strove to hide her plunging spirits behind a casual demeanor. “Then he can tell me himself.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he will.” Morghe rose from the chair, making a show of fussing with her skirts. “As soon as I inform him that you’re awake and appear to be feeling much better.” With a giggle, she flounced from the room.

  Gyan shook her head at Morghe’s audacity. What could she possibly hope to gain by pouring her poisonous slander into Urien’s ears? His notice, perhaps, or his favor? But why? Did she think she could dislodge Gyan from Urien’s side? If so, Morghe was welcome to him, if he would have her. The heir of Clan Móran had never taken his eyes from Argyll lands.

  She sighed.

  Whatever came of Morghe’s actions was in the hands of the One God. Earnestly, Gyan prayed He would help her cope with the situation—with Arthur’s help too, she hoped.

  Stretching, she assessed her body’s condition. The overall soreness had abated, except where Niall had cut her. No practice blade had ever made her arm throb like this. Even the wound Arthur had given her couldn’t compare. It would be several sennights before full strength returned; this she knew from watching the recovery of her clansmen following Abar-Gleann. Hugging her arm to her chest, she mentally railed at herself for letting the Scáth slip past her guard.

  Excusing that flaw in her performance because of her weakened condition or because of her enemy’s superior skill wasn’t an option for her. Good warriors had no use for excuses. And after all, she had won the encounter to collect her first battle trophy. Her father and brother would be proud!

  Gyan found the trophy wrapped in canvas beside her bed. Gazing at Niall’s bloodless face, reliving the fight, she wished she’
d also had the opportunity to defeat Fergus, who had been instrumental in her capture. But she had not seen him defending the rear of the camp. That one had been a truer leader than the general he had served. Fergus probably had fallen at the forefront of the battle under Urien’s assault.

  She rewrapped Niall, deciding not to display him until he could be cleaned and embalmed. As she put the trophy back, her stomach rumbled. Small wonder; more than a day had passed since her last meal.

  Cleaned of mud and gore, her boots slumped against a pine chest at the foot of the bed. Inside the chest, she found her battle-gear, also clean, cloth bindings for her breasts and loins, and a dun linen tunic and matching breeches. Since the sun streaming into the bedchamber promised a warm day, she chose the linen garments. But the bronze dragon on her sword belt seemed to beckon.

  Gyan picked up the belt, thoughtfully rubbing the ridges and valleys that formed the dragon’s body. She truly was one of Arthur’s warriors, blooded and victorious. After slipping the belt over the tunic, she fumbled with the fastening thongs behind her back before finding the hooks. She hoped practice would make it easier, as the merchant Al-Iskandar had promised.

  With Urien looming over everything she did, she had no way of knowing whether practice would make it easier to say the things she wanted to say to the man she loved. But she refused to let that stop her from trying.

  She caught the faint but unmistakable aroma of frying bacon, and her stomach reminded her of her body’s immediate need. Upon bidding a silent farewell to her vanquished foe, she stalked off toward the kitchens.

  “LORD PENDRAGON, you really don’t have to go to this trouble,” protested the holy woman of Rushen Priory. “I can make it back by myself.”

  “My pleasure, Prioress.”

  Effortlessly, Arthur lifted Niniane to the back of her donkey. While she adjusted herself in the saddle, with both legs draped over one side because of her robe, he vaulted onto his borrowed chestnut horse.

  “You’re not taking any men?” she asked.