Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  Around them, soldiers labored to purge the camp of the chaos left in the wake of the previous day’s battle. But his brief smile in response to the gentle tease was only for her.

  “This”—he patted Caleberyllus’s leather-sheathed blade—“is all I need.”

  When they were well out of earshot of the camp, plodding along the beach at the donkey’s pace, they shrugged off all pretense of formality.

  “A plain leather scabbard? Don’t tell me fortunes have been that bad for you, Arthur.”

  “Not quite.” He chuckled. “It’s by choice. Having this apple on the pommel is bad enough. I don’t need the scabbard drawing attention too.”

  “I thought that was why I gave you the sword. As a symbol for your men.”

  “True. They needed it then.” Gazing out over the restless waters, he watched a fishing boat battle its way up the windswept coast. He empathized with its captain. At times, it felt as though he were fighting headwinds too, and not making any forward progress. “But I’ve learned in the past two years that men don’t follow a piece of metal. They follow the hand that holds it. And only as long as that hand brings victory.”

  “There will come a time when you will not need Caleberyllus for battle because there will be no one to fight.”

  He gave her a sharp glance. “You have Seen this, Niniane? Or are you just speculating?”

  SHE SMILED ruefully. “With the Sight, it amounts to a little of both.”

  “I think it’s going to take more than a campaign or two to make my enemies respect my territory.”

  Niniane arched an eyebrow in response to the way he had referred to the land protected by the men under his command. “All I am saying is that when the time does come, you will need to find something else for your hand and your sword to do. Perhaps then it will be time to trade the old nicked, scratched battle scabbard for one that’s more in keeping with Caleberyllus’s value.”

  “But then maybe the people will need to be reminded of those nicks and scratches, and how they came about.”

  “Maybe,” she said. But having already Seen the battle signifying the demise of his realm—decades hence, she hoped—she knew that no number of reminders would help him repair bonds shattered by envy, mistrust, disloyalty, and treason.

  THEY LAPSED into silence for a time, guiding their mounts through the inrushing waves. Scores of curlews scurried after the endlessly rising and receding waters, hunting with their long, curved beaks whatever bits of food the sea cast upon the beach. When the riders approached a flock, the birds scattered, squeaking, only to settle back into their timeless routine once the danger was past.

  Angling away from the sea, Niniane and Arthur headed into a deep draw that broke the pale face of the surrounding cliffs. Tucked against the throat of the draw, the pristine priory walls peeped from behind shady apple boughs. Over the surf’s bass thunder rose the serene treble of the sisters’ singing as they went about their appointed tasks: washing laundry and hanging it to dry on ropes stretched between the trees, harvesting the leaves and flowers of the herbs growing around the compound, tending the large outdoor bread ovens.

  A small group of nuns toiled in the vegetable garden, skirts hitched up to their knees to permit greater freedom of movement. Some of the nut-brown calves, Arthur observed, were quite shapely.

  Hand to back, a sister straightened and glanced up. Seeing Arthur, she uttered a startled cry and began fumbling with her skirt’s knot. The others soon discovered the reason for her distress and followed her example.

  He looked away, as much out of consideration for the embarrassed women as to conceal his quiet amusement. There was no need for them to fear unseemly conduct from him, but, of course, they had no way of knowing this. There was only one lady to whom he wished to devote his amorous attention. She had no way of knowing, either.

  Apparently scenting home, the donkey pricked his ears and surged forward with renewed vigor. Arthur nudged his mare to match the new pace.

  “Thank you for what you did for Angusel this morning, Niniane. I know you didn’t have to.”

  “Oh, but I did. When the signals are that strong, one must obey.” Her eyes shone in the soft sunlight. “And pray that it is the right thing.”

  “Today you did the right thing,” he said. “Because of you, I saved an ally’s life. And discovered someone who can’t be trusted.”

  “You mean Urien?”

  “Yes. I don’t like lies, no matter how small. Small ones spawn bigger ones.” He frowned at the memory of the meeting, and the fact that Urien had lied about when the execution order had been issued. “But I couldn’t dress him down for it without exposing your secret.”

  Her smile looked decidedly grateful as he dismounted to help her down. He led the donkey into the pen and secured the gate.

  “GOD BE with you, Arthur.”

  “And you too, Prioress.” He pressed her hand between his. “I leave Maun in two days. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Niniane chewed her lip. With a full life stretching before him, this was not the time to speak of his final battle. But there was the matter of his youngest sister. Nothing that she had Seen, just her knowledge of Morghe’s deep anger toward him, which might manifest in any number of potentially dangerous ways.

  She studied his face: so young, yet responsibility was beginning to etch its indelible mark. She did not have the heart to cause worry to lodge there too. It would come knocking soon enough on its own. But something had to be said. Lord willing, a few words would be enough.

  “When you get ready to leave, I think you ought to consider taking Morghe with you.” In the silence wrought by his surprise, Niniane explained, “She is terribly unhappy on Maun. And she hates you for it.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “I sent Morghe here for her own good.”

  “When do any of us see the good in something we despise because we are forced into it?”

  “We must all do things we don’t like.” The subdued assurance made her wonder what unpleasant task was invading his thoughts.

  The call rang out for third-hour prayer. The prioress cast a glance toward the chapel as the sisters obediently set aside their work to heed the bell’s summons.

  “She misses her home,” Niniane said. “I know you sent her here because you care about her, but she doesn’t see it that way. If you let her go now, it may not be too late to change the way she feels about you.”

  The bell seemed to become more insistent, and she knew she had to hurry. But surely the Lord would forgive her a few minutes’ tardiness just this once.

  “Arthur, please don’t sacrifice your relationship with Morghe this way.”

  He looked away and did not respond for several moments. When he returned his gaze to her, the brief but unmistakable flicker of pain made her want to weep.

  “I will consider your advice.”

  Smiling her relief, the prioress hurried for the chapel. The tierce bell’s echoes were drowned by the crying gulls and moaning surf.

  BACK IN her quarters in the officers’ wing later that morning, Gyan had an unexpected visitor.

  “Gyan! Gyan, I’m so glad you’re all right,” exclaimed Angusel as he burst into the antechamber.

  They exchanged the warriors’ arm grip, before impulse urged her to draw him into a sisterly embrace.

  “Well, of course I’m all right, Angus. What did you expect?” Thinking of Morghe’s earlier words, she added, “Better leave the door ajar.” Angusel cocked a questioning eyebrow. “It’s a long story. For later, back at Tanroc.” As he went to obey, she noticed the limp. “What happened to your leg? And where were you when I needed you?”

  He returned, and they each dragged a chair to the table.

  “You didn’t hear about how Urien tried to kill me?”

  “What?” Fists clenched, she shot to her feet.

  “Gyan, please, it’s all right.” He caught her hand and tugged. Reluctantly, she sat. “But that’s a long story too. Hones
tly, I’m sick of telling it. Let’s just say that I didn’t see as much of the action as you did.” After a moment, he brightened. “I came to hear about your fights.”

  Although his reticence aroused her curiosity, she let the matter drop. He would tell her what had happened to him when he was ready, just as she would eventually explain her aversion to closed doors.

  So, for most of the following hour, she recounted the events of the past two days. It wasn’t easy to strip the emotions from the facts to give him an accurate description of her capture and the battle. With the help of his persistent questions, she clarified as many details as she felt he ought to know about—which did not include her personal encounters with Arthur or the argument with Morghe at dawn.

  “But they said you killed a hundred Scáthinaich and wounded twice that many.”

  “Oh, come now! Do you really believe that?”

  “I suppose not. But I think you could have if you’d wanted to.”

  She laughed lightly. “Such faith!” She reached out to tousle his curly black hair. “Angus, what am I going to do with you?”

  The spirit of seriousness seemed to descend upon the young warrior. “Let me always fight by your side, Gyan. That’s all I ever want to do.” He spied the Scáthinach sword leaning sheathed in the corner, retrieved it, and offered her the hilt. “This isn’t mine, but that doesn’t change my feelings.”

  Angusel carried the potential to become a great warrior, a promise that sang in the glitter of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the pride of his stance. And he was the àrd-oighre of a clan nearly as powerful as Argyll.

  Solemnly, she stood and grasped the hilt with her left hand—since her wounded arm could not bear the weight—and drew the sword. Angusel knelt, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. She laid the naked blade on his right shoulder. The edge touched the base of his neck in the ancient Caledonach ritual of the giving and acceptance of trust. According to custom, the one holding the weapon was at liberty to decapitate the one making the pledge if there were any doubts about the sincerity of the offer.

  Through the turbulent centuries, the Geall Dhìleas had been used for execution as often as not.

  Gyan harbored no doubts as she intoned the prescribed Caledonaiche words: “Swear thou, Angusel mac Alayna, Exalted Heir of Clan Alban, the Oath of Fealty to me, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, Chieftainess of Clan Argyll, unto death?”

  “Ever unto death!”

  She inflicted the ceremonial scratch on his neck.

  Someone pounded on the door. Angusel scrambled to his feet. Gyan sheathed the sword and returned it to the corner.

  The door banged against the wall. Glowering like the wild boar of his clan’s symbol, Urien of Dailriata charged into the room.

  “Urien.” Gyan glared at her unwelcome visitor. “What a surprise.”

  “Indeed. Boy, leave us,” Urien ordered without taking his eyes from Gyan.

  Angusel looked at her expectantly. She firmly guided him toward the door.

  “I won’t be far,” he promised, in Caledonaiche.

  When they were alone, Urien demanded, “What did he say?”

  “Just expressing concern for my health.” It wasn’t far from the truth. “Which is more than you’ve done, I might add.”

  “I did not come here to inquire after your health.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You have about as much feeling as a rock. Less, I think.”

  Growling, he lunged at her and latched onto her right forearm, below the bandage. She clenched her teeth against the searing pain as he yanked her closer. He grabbed her other arm. His breath reeked of rancid ale.

  “Damn it, woman! Is he your lover?”

  Despite the pain, she couldn’t resist the temptation to bait him. “Angusel? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “That’s not who I mean.” Urien’s grip tightened.

  She tried to wrench free. As her struggles died, a grin of malevolent triumph spread across his face.

  She refused to give him the victory. “Who, then?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Gyanhumara. You wear his standard across your belly.” His jaw clenched as his gaze flicked down to her belt and back to her face.

  “So. You would believe every lie you hear?”

  “I believe my eyes! What I’ve been told only reinforces what I saw before the battle yesterday. You and Arthur, on the ridge.”

  By all that was holy, how was she going to sidestep this? Then an inspiration hit: “Why, Urien, I was only thanking him for releasing me.”

  He spat an impolite invective. “Don’t give me that. I saw what I saw. It was not just gratitude.” His fingers dug deeper. “Was it?”

  Sheer force of will bridled her outcry. Disappointment lurked in Urien’s rage-colored eyes.

  When she refused to respond, he continued, “If it had been me, would you have done the same?”

  “What do you think?”

  Urien released her arms and strode toward the door. She swallowed the urge to voice her relief. He whirled to face her.

  “Lady, I don’t know what to think anymore. But remember this: I do not lose anything without a fight!”

  The timbers of the door and its frame trembled under the force of his departure.

  Chapter 27

  CAIUS MARCELLUS ECTORIUS lounged on the low cot in his tent, conducting the planning meeting. In a wide semicircle on the ground sat the centurions of the cohort to be sent to Tanroc’s relief. Eight pairs of eyes regarded him with unwavering respect as he imparted his instructions.

  Times like this, Cai thought with an inward grin, were almost as rewarding as the battles themselves.

  A shadow darkened the dirt. Cai glanced up at the tent opening, which was blocked by the form of his foster brother. One hand clutched the captured Scotti standard. Recognizing the urgency behind that cool gaze, Cai drew the meeting to a close.

  Arthur advanced into the tent. As the centurions filed past him, he gave each man a clap on the shoulder and a few words of encouragement for the upcoming operation. To Cai, it seemed the centurions underwent a subtle transformation that manifested in various ways: a lighter step, a swelled chest, a proudly lifted chin.

  It was more than a reaction to the personal recognition of the supreme commander. Cai had succumbed to the influence of that touch often enough to know its magic. It always amazed him how Arthur could have that kind of effect on people. The weapon was as powerful as the ruby-headed sword riding Arthur’s hip.

  When the last centurion had departed, Cai slid over. Arthur dropped beside him onto the cot.

  “Where were the other two men, Cai?”

  Cai gave Arthur a hard stare. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Ah, of course. We left those units watching Tanroc.” Arthur shook his head slightly and grinned. Cai could have sworn it was forced. “Sorry. I’ve been a bit…busy. With those other two centuries, plus some of Bedwyr’s warships to cover the seaward flank, you’ll have no trouble tomorrow. When do you leave?”

  “Dawn. As soon as you give us a proper sendoff, of course. Just as long as it doesn’t take all day.” Cai’s grin underscored the tease. “I don’t intend to march the men by torchlight.”

  As the shared laughter trailed away, Cai pointed to the banner. “What’s that for?”

  “This?”

  Arthur stared at the green and gray cloth in his fist. In all their years together, Cai had rarely seen Arthur act preoccupied over anything. And when he did, usually trouble was soon to follow. Cai’s senses sharpened for other warning signs.

  But the moment passed, and Arthur continued, “It should be helpful at Tanroc.”

  The banner fluttered to the ground in two ragged pieces. The loping Silver Wolf was torn precisely in half.

  “Of course. More demoralization tactics. You don’t think facing ten-to-one odds will be enough?”

  “I prefer not to take chances, as long as I win. If I can win without spending a single life, so much the better.” A
rthur glanced up from the Scotti banner. “I know you would rather fight.”

  Cai shrugged. “Dead men won’t attack you.”

  “They won’t help you, either.”

  “There’s no guarantee living men will do that. Enemies or allies”—Cai’s tone was charged with warning—“or friends.”

  “True. My job is to see that they do. Yours is to give the orders to implement my decisions.” Arthur flashed an engaging smile. “Which you do so well, my brother.”

  It was incredibly easy to fall under the spell of that smile, and Cai was not immune. He doubted whether he would ever be. Or whether anyone would ever be, for that matter.

  He chuckled. “Shall I ask Chieftainess Gyanhumara for Niall’s head?” Cai meant it only as a joke.

  “No. I will.” Arthur’s voice dropped into a husky half whisper. “And there’s a small matter I want you to look into after you secure Tanroc. Her woman, Cynda. If she’s alive, send her here. And if not, well, I’m sure Gyanhumara will want to know that too.”

  Another alarm bell clanged in Cai’s head. He gave Arthur a critical appraisal. It went unseen by the Pendragon, who was studying the damaged Scotti banner.

  Cai uttered a long, low whistle. “Saints preserve us all! The Dux Britanniarum is in love.”

  Up jerked the red-gold head, shaking in violent denial. But Arthur did not meet Cai’s gaze.

  “Oh, yes. Don’t give me that head-wagging routine.” His elbow found Arthur’s ribs. “Come on, Arthur. You of all men ought to know that I’ve been in and out of love so often, I can see the signs brewing ten miles away.”

  Arthur gave a derisive snort. “God, I hope it isn’t that obvious.”

  “Not to anyone who doesn’t know you like I do.” And Cai knew better than to pass judgment or offer unsolicited advice when Arthur was in a mood like this. Still, he had to try. “Arthur, do yourself a favor. Forget her. Mark my words, that woman will bring you nothing but trouble. I can set you up with a nice, biddable woman—”

  Arthur jumped to his feet, grinding the Silver Wolf into the dirt as he stalked away. At the tent opening, he whirled. Even in the wake of last year’s regrettable “Caledfwlch” remark, Cai had never seen those eyes burn with such force. He fought the instinct to retreat.