Dawnflight (13 page)

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!”

“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

N
OTHING 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 breeze. 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.

Dafydd knelt, facing the cross, chin to chest, hands pressed together. The chanting had stopped sometime during Gyan’s ride from the Nemeton. His lips moved slightly, but she heard no sound.

Certainly a strange way to talk to a god.

Yet this would seem to be no ordinary god. If Dafydd had spoken truly, he followed a god who died to live again. A god whose symbol was a pair of crossed sticks, who heard prayer without speech.

Moon madness! Pity welled in her heart for Dafydd, who professed to believe this nonsense, and for herself, for thinking this god could help her. But that didn’t deter her from offering comfort.

He glanced up and stood as Gyan neared.

“Forgive me, Dafydd. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”