by Headlee, Kim
Where was this all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful God when Loholt was murdered? Why didn’t He act to prevent it? Didn’t He care?
No answers came.
A tentative knock on the door wrenched her from her tirade. Cursing her stupidity for not bolting the door to the outer chamber, she called out to be left alone.
The knocking persisted. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara? I’d like to speak with you, if I may.” Not Caledonaiche words but Breatanaiche. “Please?”
Gyan had no wish to see anyone, but her instincts objected. After swiping the back of a hand across her face, she rose and opened the door.
Prioress Niniane glided into the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. She held out a hand, palm up. “As a servant of the One God, I grieve with you, Chieftainess.”
The One God. Gyan squeezed her eyes shut, wrapping an arm around the bedpost. Whatever Niniane had to say Gyan didn’t want to hear.
Yet it stood to reason that Niniane’s vocation put her into closer proximity with Him. Closer, surely, than Gyan felt. Perhaps the prioress could learn the answers Gyan had failed to obtain.
Regarding Niniane evenly, she fired her questions—except the one about Urien, which by its nature demanded silence. Several times, she paused to wipe her face or take a deep breath.
Sinking onto a nearby chair, Niniane murmured, “I’m sorry, my lady. Those matters are beyond my knowledge.”
Hands on hips Gyan asked, “Why did the One God cause this misery?”
“He didn’t. He loves us. He wants to see us happy, not miserable.”
“Ha.” Folding her arms, Gyan narrowed her eyes. “If the One God isn’t responsible, then who is?”
“The prince of this world.” Who did Niniane mean? Urien? The prioress continued, “The evil one. Lord of Lies. Ha’satan, the Adversary.”
At her mention of the Adversary, Gyan shivered. Caledonaich called Lord Annàm “the Adversary” of his twin brother and Lord of Light, Annaomh. Their eternal battles across the groves and glens of the Otherworld bled into this one to spark conflict among mortal kind. Whether truth or fantasy, however, it made no difference. Gyan couldn’t punish a bodiless manifestation.
On the verge of ordering the prioress to leave, she vented her frustration with a sigh. “Why mock me with your ignorance?”
Niniane shook her head. “Your husband sent me. ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’” Briefly, her eyes closed. “But I’m not much of a comforter, I fear.”
In an odd way, though, Niniane was helping. “Talking…keeps my mind from—from…” Her chin started quivering, and she clamped her jaw shut. With her gaze fastened on Niniane to avoid looking at the empty cradle, Gyan sat on the bed. “Oh, Arthur…” she whispered. “I thought he’d hate me for what I’ve done.”
For not dealing with Urien in a way that would have averted this tragedy, for failing to follow her instincts, for banishing Angusel and alienating his clan…for failing to be the wife Arthur needed or the mother Loholt needed. She loathed herself.
“My lady, please don’t believe that.” Niniane stood and crossed to the bed. She gathered Gyan’s hands in her own as she sat beside her. “He knows this wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” Gyan pulled free. “My inattention gave the abductors their opportunity.” In more ways than one, she thought miserably. Gyan felt tears welling and blinked hard. Because of her selfishness and stupidity, she would never see her son again.
“That may be true,” Niniane said gently, “but God forgives you. So does Arthur.” Gyan couldn’t believe any of it. Tears flowed anew. Niniane wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You need to learn how to forgive yourself.” A waver in Niniane’s voice made Gyan look at her. To her surprise, she saw tears glistening on the other woman’s cheeks. “Forgiveness of self is a lesson I must learn, as well.”
The prioress didn’t elaborate, and Gyan didn’t ask. Gyan’s own problems weighed too much. Her anguish had spawned political strife, the very thing she’d most feared that Urien would accomplish.
“I—I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”
“It isn’t easy, sometimes.” Niniane gazed at Gyan hopefully. “Maybe we can learn together. That is, if you want me to stay.”
Gyan considered the merits of Niniane’s suggestion. She missed her chats with Dafydd about the One God and sensed she needed more.
Inadvertently, her gaze found the cradle. Fresh pain bolted through her body, and she gritted her teeth. Removing the bairn’s things would avail nothing. She’d know where every toy, every swaddling cloth, every stick of furniture had been. She would still hear his cries, his laughter, his coos, and his sighs.
Gyan rose, crossed to a chest, and hunted around inside before finding the object she sought. After closing the chest, she strode to the door and turned to face Niniane. “Coming, Prioress?” Though wrapped in fabric, the metal imbued her with a sense of purpose.
The holy woman frowned. “My lady?”
“There’s no need for you to stay here.” Gyan gazed at Arthur’s traveling cloak, debating whether she could live with the memories it evoked. Finally, she lifted it from its peg and folded it over her arm. “We shall both return to Maun.”
OUTSIDE THE feast hall, Angusel braced himself against the timbers, eyes closed. His head wound throbbed unmercifully. Yet what was fleshly pain compared with the destruction of his world?
“Baby-killer!” someone rasped.
Angusel opened his eyes to see the men of First Turma, Sixth Ala, Horse Cohort marching past him toward the stables, many of whom he’d befriended during the weeks of cattle raiding for Chieftain Loth. Had one of them spoken with such vehemence?
Aye, the Pendragon’s sister-son, Gawain map Loth. Though Gawain had moved on to keep in step, Angusel would have recognized that straight raven hair and stocky build anywhere.
He sighed. First Gyan—and he always would remember her by her familiar name. Then his own kin, now Arthur’s. Only the gods knew who else despised him for his failure. His belly felt as though someone had thrust in a hot knife and twisted repeatedly.
Sundown tomorrow, she’d said. He wanted nothing more than to leave this gods-cursed place at once. And so he would, as soon as he could gather his belongings and horse and figure out where to go.
He couldn’t hate Gyan. Not for the attempted execution, shattered oath, rage, or public humiliation. Or for taking from him the only things he’d ever wanted, the only things that had lent meaning to his life: being her sword-brother and friend.
For she’d been right. He had failed Loholt and, by extension, her. He knew it; she knew it. To his disgrace, everyone knew it.
Bandits might have him.
Yet even as the thought formed, he rejected it. He’d rather starve than resort to law-breaking. Better to live out the name he’d given himself.
“Angusel. I don’t agree with what she did to you.”
He turned and rubbed a hand across eyes that felt too wet for anyone else to see. “Lord Pendragon! I didn’t hear you approach.” He stared at the dusty ground. “Call me Aonar, sir. Please.”
“I will not.” The Pendragon’s forceful tone made Angusel look up. “Call yourself whatever you like, but you are not alone. And you may use my given name. This isn’t a battlefield or a legion post.” He shook his head. “I’m not the one who insists on being unreasonable.”
Angusel couldn’t have disagreed more. “I failed her.” He felt stinging in his eyes and looked away. “And you.”
“So. You lied, then? Ran away before the first blow?”
“Nay, sir!” Words tumbled forth in a rush, describing every move, every grunt and thrust he could recall of the fight. “But when I woke up and found the blanket—” He averted his gaze.
A hand gripped Angusel’s shoulder with a familiar, tingling warmth. “I grieve for Loholt, too.” Arthur’s features hardened into the mask Angusel knew well. “But grieving won’t
bring him back. You aren’t to blame for this. Those people you saw are. Possibly others you didn’t see.”
“What do you mean, sir?” He had his guesses but craved Arthur’s opinion.
The Pendragon gave a rueful smile. “Speculation can cause a lot of trouble.” He set off toward the stables. After taking a few strides, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Well, Angusel? Are you coming or not?”
“With you?” Angusel hurried to catch him. “Where?” He wanted to ask why but couldn’t bring himself to voice it.
“The staging area,” said the Pendragon, resuming his pace.
“Senaudon?” Angusel’s astonishment stopped him. Had Arthur gone mad? “I’m sorry, my lord. I can’t.”
“Horse dung. You’ll be in the legion. Officially.” Arthur tapped his own fealty-mark. “You didn’t break your oath. She is only refusing to accept your service. You still want to serve her, don’t you?”
Do I?
An hour ago, he knew the answer.
“Your oath,” Arthur said sternly, “binds you to serve Gyan by any possible means. If you join the legion, you will be serving me.”
“And by serving you, I’ll be serving her, is that it?”
“It’s the only viable option you have.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you are an oath-breaker.”
“Nay! But I—I’m not sure I’m ready to join the legion.” Especially if he had to live at his birthplace, outcast.
Aonar.
“It won’t be easy,” said the Pendragon. “Think it over while you visit the physician and collect your gear. I leave within the hour.” Arthur glanced at the stables, which were teeming with soldiers, servants, groomsmen, stable boys, and horses. “I need men who take their duties seriously. Not boys who choose to wallow in self-pity.” He smiled slightly. “A wise man told me that having guilt is natural, but allowing it to consume you isn’t. Today, you acted every inch the man I’ve expected you to become. I would be pleased to welcome you into the legion.”
Duties, Angusel thought morosely. Mere days ago, Gyan had told him to join the legion at Senaudon. Yet he’d insisted on performing his deuchainn na fala first. If he’d obeyed Gyan, as duty demanded, she wouldn’t have banished him today.
But there wouldn’t have been anyone to try to save Loholt.
He sighed. The sword of duty cut both ways, but he deserved its every wound.
“I will join the Dragon Legion. The self-pity stays here.” He stabbed a finger downward and regarded his new commander solemnly. “Arthur, I promise to serve you to the best of my ability.”
The Pendragon grinned and extended his sword hand. As they clasped forearms, Angusel offered a tentative smile.
“Your best, Angusel, is all anyone can ask of you.”
Perhaps, but that didn’t free him from demanding more of himself. He vowed to become the best warrior ever. Not for his own sake or even Arthur’s, but for Gyan. He prayed she would forgive him one day and allow him to serve her openly. That fragile hope sparked the volition to journey with Arthur to Senaudon and beyond.
Chapter 26
GYAN SUMMONED PRIORESS Niniane’s escort to the stables and was overseeing the preparations for their departure, amid the tumult created by Arthur’s unit, when Arthur arrived. She stiffened at his approach, unsure of how he would react to her decision.
Hell would vanish before she’d let him stop her.
“Gyan, well met.” He clasped her hands and drew her into an embrace. As his lips brushed her cheek, he whispered, “I didn’t expect to have the chance to bid you farewell.”
She laughed mirthlessly. She hadn’t planned on taking her leave of him, either.
He nodded pointedly at Prioress Niniane’s escort. “Isn’t she staying?”
“They are my escort, too.”
He released her hands and stepped back, his gaze radiating intense appraisal. “What do you mean?”
She removed her tricolor dragon badge, unwrapped the object she’d brought from her chambers, and pinned it in the other brooch’s place. “I have demoted myself.” She gave him the gold brooch and fabric. “Keep it until you’re ready to confer its true significance upon its bearer.”
“What is this?” Glaring, he rapped a fingernail against Urien’s discarded legion brooch. “Martyrdom?”
“I intend to resume my duties as a cohort commander.” Fists on hips, she thrust out her chin. “If the Pendragon has no objections.”
“What of Argyll and your duties here?”
“Ha.” She rolled her eyes. “I am of no use to Argyll at present.” Closing her fingers over her sword’s sapphire, she said, “I intend to be of use to the legion.”
Again, she bore his scrutiny. “You cannot escape the past.”
“No,” she conceded. “But I don’t need its perpetual reminders.”
Sighing, he nodded. “I understand.” He stroked her arm, swathed in his traveling cloak, the only reminder she had intended to bring. “Where are you going?”
“Maun.”
His hand stilled. “Out of the question. Unless you plan to deliver yourself into Urien’s hands?”
He had a point, one she hadn’t considered. It tempted her to change her mind, but her desire to get away outweighed all else. Only on Maun had she ever felt completely at peace.
She squared her shoulders. “Just let him try to take me! He has much to answer for.” She folded her arms and shrugged. “With the Móran chieftainship so new on his shoulders, I presume he has more than enough to occupy him in Dùn At.”
Arthur stared at her for what seemed like an eon. Once, their gazes had held naught but love. Not today, she realized miserably. But she resolved to remain firm.
Finally, he relented. “I will make the necessary arrangements on two conditions. First, that you take ship from Caerlaverock.”
“Dùn Càrnhuilean? So Ygraine can counsel me?” Having her consort and blood-kin and the prioress prying into her grief, she could understand, but including a woman made kin by marriage pressed matters too far. “I think not.”
“I suggest it for your health,” he snapped. “A plague has decimated Caer Lugubalion. I cannot deploy the full legion against the Angli until spring. Providing they don’t attack Dunpeldyr first.”
The frustration soaking his voice made her overlook his use of those Breatanaiche names in their Caledonaiche conversation. “Attack Loth directly? I thought border-raiding was their game.”
“It was. Until Loth summoned me, and what forces I could muster, based on a false report.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes glittered icily. Whether his anger was directed at Loth, the Angalaranaich, or herself, she couldn’t tell. “It may prove to be a costly mistake for us all.” Quieter, he continued, “As to your traveling by way of Dùn Càrnhuilean, my mother does know the anguish of losing a child.”
Gyan’s cheeks flushed. She almost quipped that Ygraine had been reunited with her child but thought better of it. “And the second condition?”
“Gyan, lass—your hair! By the gods, what did you do?”
Arthur and Gyan turned to find Ogryvan striding toward them, with Per and the rest of his contingent in his wake. Gyan explained her vow and her decision to return to Maun. The fact that she hoped to escape her roiling emotions she kept to herself. Eyes downcast, she concluded, “Father, I am truly sorry for the hurt I have caused Argyll. And…you.” Ignoring the sting in her eyes and nose, she looked up. Pain and compassion flooded her father’s gaze, and her chin began to quiver.
“Ach, lass, I forgive you.” Ogryvan folded her into a hug.
She buried her face against his chest, soaking his tunic with her tears. His arms tightened, and he swayed her gently like a bairn. Fresh grief shuddered through her body.
She stepped back, drying her face with her tunic sleeve. That her father had to do the same didn’t surprise her. “I will miss you, Gyan. We all will.” He glanced at the surrounding men, who answered with nods and words of affirmation. Arthur alone rem
ained silent, which ripped open another wound, though Gyan fought to mask her hurt. “But I must admit your absence should make it easier for me to smooth Alayna’s ruffled feathers.”
“I don’t think anything can help that,” Gyan said, rage and regret facing off within her soul, “short of recanting what I did to her son.” Rage won again; she couldn’t deny the stark reality of Angus’s—Aonar’s—failure. “Which isn’t going to happen.”
“What Alayna wants from Argyll is the one thing she has always wanted,” Ogryvan said. “She lost no time in reminding me of it.”
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “And that would be?”
“She wants me as Alban’s exalted heir-begetter,” Ogryvan said. “That would rob Gyan of her rightful rank, son, and you of yours. I cannot do that to either of you.”
Gyan raised her hands in supplication. “Father, I don’t care about my rank”—or my consort’s—“if it means more suffering for Argyll. If that’s the only way to buy peace with Alban—”
“Nay, lass.” He smiled briefly, brushing the graying Argyll Doves on his sword arm. “Your dear mother’s grave bears witness to my vow that I shall never unite with the exalted heir-bearer of another clan.” Ogryvan hugged her again. “You go and do what you need to do, Gyan. Don’t worry about Argyll. Or me. I can handle Alban.” After releasing her, he stared at Arthur, eyebrows furrowing. “I want my daughter back in one piece.”
“I intend to post Argyll warriors to Maun with her, sir,” he replied crisply.
“Your other condition?” Gyan asked Arthur as his announcement won exclamations of appreciation from the men.
“Yes.”
Ogryvan shifted closer to Arthur. “See me privately before you leave, then. I have a—contribution for you.” He held his son-by-law’s gaze as if in challenge.
ARTHUR NODDED and watched thoughtfully as Ogryvan departed. In Brytonic and Caledonian, he called for volunteers. Enough stepped forward to fill two turmae, including Gawain and Per.