Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  A Lucky Bat Book

  Dawnflight

  by Kim Iverson Headlee

  Second Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Kim Headlee

  All rights reserved

  Interior art copyright © 2012 by Kim Headlee

  Cover design copyright © 2014 by Natasha Brown

  Published by Lucky Bat Books

  ISBN 1-939-05119-3

  Publication History:

  Sonnet Books, Simon & Schuster, 1999

  ISBN 0-671-02041-2

  Copyright © 1999 by System Support Services, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, with the exception of brief excerpts for the purpose of review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  IT WAS A wild night, the eve of Samhainn. A biting gale roared down from the north, spitting snow. It tore through the trees like some mad thing, stripping away the last of the dead birch leaves and tangling in the pine boughs to make the trunks sway and groan. The snow and leaves whirled together in a frantic dance to the howls of the raging wind.

  But the ghostly music was not loud enough to compete with the screams of the woman in labor.

  Ogryvan mac Glynnis, Chieftain of Clan Argyll of Caledon, paced the circular stone room next to the family’s living quarters. The midwives had refused to let him be at his wife’s side during her ordeal. As her cries sundered the night, his anger and frustration grew. He quickened his pace in a futile attempt to dispel the mounting tension.

  The room’s only door creaked open. In raced a small child. Ogryvan scooped his three-year-old stepson into his arms. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear, and tear tracks stained his pale cheeks. He buried his head against Ogryvan’s burly chest.

  “Papa, where’s Mama? Wind noisy!”

  Despite his concern for his wife, her son made him smile. Peredur hadn’t reached two summers when Ogryvan had defeated the boy’s father in the dubh-lann for the right to become Hymar’s consort. Too young to remember his real father, Peredur had readily accepted Ogryvan, and in response, the chieftain had been pleased to treat the boy as a son of his flesh.

  He brushed away the tears on the lad’s cheeks. “The bairn is coming, Peredur.”

  “Bairn! Can I go see?”

  Ogryvan shook his head. “It’s women’s work, son. We men must wait until it’s done.”

  “When, Papa?”

  “Soon. I hope.”

  Another scream ripped the night, longer and more shrill than the rest. Peredur squirmed. “Lemme go!” He pummeled Ogryvan’s chest with impotent little fists. “They hurting her!”

  He squatted to set the child down but did not release his hold. “Your Mama will be all right.” He hoped.

  “My lord?” came a tentative half whisper from before him.

  Ogryvan glared at the door. A young servant stood just inside the room, eyes downcast, wringing her hands. He knew her: Cynda, who had lost her bairn and her husband three days earlier to the fever.

  He rose to his full height, holding Peredur. “Well?”

  “A girl, my lord. But there was too much blood. Chieftainess Hymar is—” The woman sucked in a breath. “My lord, she is dying.”

  Ogryvan thrust the boy into Cynda’s arms and strode down the hall.

  The birthing chamber was swarming with women, their frantic activity reminding him of slaughter day at the chicken pens. He riveted his gaze to the still figure on the bed. No one dared stop him as he waded through them to kneel at Hymar’s side.

  She was lying on her back, knees drawn up and apart, naked from her swollen waist down. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Agony etched its grim story across her lovely face. More than anything, Ogryvan wished he could wipe that pain away, and he despised his wretched powerlessness.

  Gently, he gathered her into his arms while one of the women replaced the crimson-stained bedclothes with fresh ones. He laid her down and pulled up the sleeping fur.

  Hymar’s lids fluttered open. “Ogryvan…” Her smile was as pale as her voice. “My dearest love…a girl-child.” Grimacing, she drew another gasping breath. “To carry on. After me. Now.”

  He picked up her hand and lightly ran his fingers along her forearm, over the pair of blue doves that was the mark of Clan Argyll. “Nonsense, Hymar,” he protested quietly. “You will get well.”

  “I see her, Ogryvan. The Hag. There…by the fire.”

  He saw only Cynda, cradling at her breast the wee pink creature that was his infant daughter. The baby fed greedily, obviously unaware of anything save her primal need. Peredur stood at Cynda’s feet, gazing up at his half sister in wide-eyed wonder.

  Ogryvan beckoned to Cynda. Slowly, to avoid disturbing the bairn, she approached the bed. Little Peredur marched straight to his mother’s side. As Ogryvan drew the boy into the shelter of his arms, Peredur wriggled an arm free to reach for Hymar’s hand. Turning pain-hazed eyes upon him, Hymar summoned a sad smile for her firstborn.

  “Here is your Hag, Hymar,” Ogryvan replied as Cynda bent down with the baby. “What shall we name her?”

  Hymar’s face melted into joy as she beheld her daughter. “She is…my rarest song…Gyanhumara.”

  She raised her hand to touch the child. Gyanhumara’s tiny fist closed around her finger. Hymar sighed, smiling, eyes transfixed upon the infant. Her chest did not rise again.

  All movement in the birthing chamber ceased. Silence descended. With a grief too heavy for words, Ogryvan bowed his head, pressing the limp hand of his beloved to his cheek. Peredur’s soft whimpers drowned in the sleeping fur that covered his mother’s chest.

  The storm battered the building’s stone walls, screeching its rage at being denied entry. Terrified by the noise, the new Chieftainess of Clan Argyll uttered a piercing wail.

  Chapter 1

  THE COMBATANTS CIRCLED warily in the churned mud of the practice field, blind to the swelling audience and the chilling autumn rain. One, a giant of a figure, was the teacher. The student was neither as tall nor as well muscled but moved with the speed and agility of youth. The mud splattered on both bodies was mute evidence of the length of the session.

  “Keep up your intensity!” Ogryvan swiped at his opponent’s midsection. “Always! Lose your battle frenzy, and you’re dead!”

  Neither was fighting in true battle frenzy, but the younger warrior understood. Smiling grimly through the rivulets of sweat, the student danced out of reach, whirled, and made a cut at Ogryvan’s thigh. The blunted practice sword could not penetrate the leather leggings but was sure to leave a bruise precisely over the wound he had taken at Abar-Gleann two months before.

  Although the swordmaster gritted his teeth against the pain, his opponent sensed satisfaction in the accompanying nod. The reason for the sign of approval was clear: the student had made an excellent choice of moves. Exploitation of the enemy’s weaknesses was a basic tenet of the warrior’s art. Mastery of this principle would serve Ogryvan’s pupil well in the years to come.

  “Strive to outthink your foe. Stay one move ahead,” he advised between feints. The cl
atter adopted a dancelike rhythm as the opposing blade deftly met each thrust. The onlookers shouted their approval.

  The youth answered with a powerful counterattack, silent but for the creak of leather and the hollow thunks as sword met shield. The swordmaster staggered backward. His disciple quickened the attack.

  And grew careless. The shield sagged. Ogryvan landed a blow to the unguarded left shoulder. Startled, the youth lost footing in the treacherous mud and fell.

  The laughter sparked by the mishap, from teacher and audience alike, was not unkind, yet it did not comfort the mud-painted student.

  The Chieftainess of Clan Argyll hated to lose.

  The reason rankled like that awful brew Cynda called spring tonic: she’d not done her best. She didn’t need her father to tell her that carelessness had caused the loss.

  In battle, such a mistake was fatal.

  She began to pick herself up, seething, only to be unceremoniously shoved face-first into the mud. Before she could twitch, her father’s foot pinned her down. His sword at the base of her neck chilled her to the core of her being. It was too easy to imagine what might happen next.

  Ogryvan whispered, “Pay attention, Gyan. This is my favorite part.” His rumbling voice poised on the brink of a chuckle. “All hear and beware! The Ogre takes no prisoners!”

  Had this been actual combat, her head would have become the newest addition to Ogryvan’s private collection. Such was the Caledonach way. Not only was the foe defeated in death, but to the victor went possession of the soul. Well honored was the warrior who boasted the largest array.

  Long years of training had hardened Gyan to this aspect of warfare, yet the prospect of someday ending up on display in an enemy’s feast hall was grisly at best.

  By the shifting of his foot on her back, she knew her father was posturing for the crowd. They rewarded his performance with gleeful claps and shouts. The official practice session was over, of course. But she wasn’t quite finished.

  Her sword hilt nestled in the palm of her outflung hand. She carefully tightened her grip. In a burst of movement, she writhed and scissored with her legs, twisted free, rolled to her feet, and brought the sword up in both hands. Ogryvan toppled into the mud. The resounding wet thud of his landing was chorused by the guffaws of the audience.

  She grinned, holding the point of her sword to his throat. “Neither does the Ogre’s daughter!”

  No nectar was as sweet as the joy of winning, and winning before an audience of her clansmen tasted even sweeter. One day, she would lead them into battle; events like today’s added another brick onto the foundation of trust. Their heartfelt adoration warmed her like the summer sun.

  She sheathed the sword and offered a hand to her father. “Even?” Her voice was huskier than usual from the exertion of the morning.

  Ogryvan took the proffered hand to regain his footing. “Even.”

  The crowd drifted back to their various duties around the settlement, but one man remained at the edge of the field. She strode toward him, swatting mud from her thighs and chest.

  “Well, Per, how did I look?”

  “Like the fen-spirits Cynda used to try to frighten us with.” Her half brother reached for a glob of mud lodged in her braid.

  “Ha!” She playfully slapped his hand away. “You know what I mean.”

  Per beamed at her. “You did well. I don’t think I could have fooled Father like that. Or held him off for so long.”

  She didn’t believe him for an instant. They had sparred with each other often enough to know who was the better swordsman, but she rewarded his flattery with a brilliant smile and a challenge: “Race you to the house!”

  She launched herself down the path, bruises forgotten in the autumn mist.

  THE CHIEFTAIN of Clan Argyll stood alone on the practice field. Pride pulsed anew for the two promising young warriors, racing like colts toward the family’s living compound. Per, Ogryvan observed with critical interest, was gaining. Arms pumping, Per drew abreast. Too close: Gyan’s scabbard bounced into his leg. His stride faltered. With a whoop of triumph, startling a cloud of pigeons from their perches on the timbered roof, she flashed past him into the long, low stone building.

  Ogryvan shook his head in amusement. She was so like her mother. Winning at any cost was one of his late wife’s dearest passions. How often had Hymar played some mischief like that? When they galloped their horses beside summer-slim streams, her favorite move had been to drive her mare at full speed into the shimmering water. He could still hear her bright laughter as he spluttered his protest at the unexpected dousing.

  Time finally had eased the pain of his loss. Mercifully, his most cherished memories remained intact.

  With a glance at the leaden skies, he hoped Hymar was somehow watching. If so, certainly she ought to be sharing his pride.

  He began shambling down the path after the youths when his boot crunched against something hard. All but invisible to the casual eye, Gyan’s rectangular oak shield nestled in a muddy bed. Stooping to retrieve it, he resolved to chide her about neglecting her gear.

  She ought to hearken well to his words if she had a mote of sense, her father mused. Per too. They would be far beyond the reach of his guidance soon enough. The sorrow of this knowledge clutched his heart like a merlin’s claw over a mouse.

  To honor the treaty made after the Battle of Abar-Gleann with Arthur the Pendragon of Breatein, Per and hundreds of other Caledonach warriors would be riding south after spring planting to join the Breatanach army at Dùn Lùth Lhugh. Gyan was finished with her basic martial training; the rest she would have to learn through constant practice, and in battle. But she would not be joining her brother. Her part in fulfilling the treaty terms would take her elsewhere, beginning with the Breatanach school on the island they called Maun.

  She didn’t know this yet.

  Ogryvan resumed his course for the building. He had dodged the issue for two turnings of the moon, and time had become his enemy.

  Caledonach children born into the warrior caste were raised on the heroic stories of clan lore. Battles and wars, victories and defeats, incredible acts of strength and bravery: tales as sweet as mother’s milk. Gyan had devoured the teachings more eagerly than any child Ogryvan had ever known, especially the hard lessons learned from the ancient Ròmanach War. And, most recently, Abar-Gleann.

  That she seemed willing to swallow her inborn hatred of the Eagle of Ròm was an eloquent measure of how much she wanted to fight beside Per and her clansmen, even though they would be wielding their weapons on behalf of the Ròmanach warlord, Arthur.

  BEHIND GYAN, the thudding of Per’s booted feet on the corridor’s flagstones announced that he had recovered his stride and hadn’t given up. Yet this victory was hers! And she savored every moment.

  Their laughs no more than breathless gasps, Gyan and Per clattered to a halt before his chambers. He leaned on the door to step inside.

  She caught his tunic sleeve. “Wait, Per. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Oh, aye.” He bent double in an elaborate bow. “You have bested me in a fair race, my lady. I am yours to command forever.”

  “Ha! Begone, rogue!” She smiled her delight. “Save your charm for the ladies.”

  “Aye, but I have.” As he reached for her hand, the mockery in his grin yielded to affection. “The best lady in all Caledon.”

  He gave her braid a quick tug and fled into the room. The oaken door thumped shut behind him.

  “Beast!” she hurled at the ironbound timbers. His only reply was a burst of muted laughter.

  Brothers! What to do with them?

  Or without them?

  Chuckling softly, she set off toward her chambers at the far end of the corridor.

  Normally, the afternoon would be devoted to horsemanship and mounted javelin-throwing. Gyan could sit a horse better than most men could, but flinging a slim barbed shaft at a target from a bobbing back was another matter entirely. She didn’t
relish the idea of missing even one chance to practice this basic Caledonach battle tactic, and today marked the third day of departure from her routine.

  The reason was a hard lump to swallow. A Breatanach chieftain, Dumarec of Clan Móran, was due to arrive soon, perhaps even this day. Chieftain Dumarec was bringing his son, and Gyan was expected to look her feminine best.

  Illness or injury would have been better, without question. Let the other women strut about, she thought scornfully, prettied up like overgrown dolls to snag a mate. Such was not her way.

  But these days following the devastating loss at Abar-Gleann could scarcely be called normal.

  “Cynda,” she called upon entering the antechamber.

  The short, plump, black-haired woman emerged from the bedchamber with an armload of Gyan’s soiled clothes. Sighing, she rolled her eyes in a familiar gesture of long-suffering patience.

  “By the gods, Gyan, you get dirtier than anyone I know! Per included.” The accusation was delivered with a merry laugh.

  “You should see Father!”

  Cynda, who had nursed the infant Gyan after the death of her mother and had seen her through the bumps and scrapes of an active childhood, dropped her burden near the door.

  “I can imagine. Strip off that leather and set it aside to be cleaned. I’ll get the basin and towels. And put your linens onto the pile, there.”

  As Cynda left the room, Gyan moved to obey.

  Standing naked in the privacy of her bedchamber, she regarded herself in the shield-size polished bronze mirror. All her life, folks had crowed about how much she resembled Chieftainess Hymar. Yet it had always made her wonder…

  Was she as tall as her mother had been? Or as slim? Was her hair as lustrous? Were her eyes as deeply green?

  Most importantly, would she prove to be as wise and just a ruler as Hymar was said to have been?

  She squeezed her eyes against the stinging threat of tears. These were questions she had lived with for as long as she could remember, questions destined to remain forever unanswered.