by Headlee, Kim
Yet the impossible had occurred.
A gust wrestled with the flames as she approached the priests. Their faces were impassive in the wild light, as secretive as the stones. Gyan gave her torch to an attendant and knelt, head bowed, in ritual submission before the High Priest. The feathers of her robe whispered their own prophecies in the wind. Gnarled hands settled lightly upon her head.
The High Priest’s voice sounded subdued and sad: “A powerful chieftain of Breatein is fated to bring you great joy and great sorrow.” His voice dropped to a rasping whisper she had to strain to hear. “And death.”
Chapter 8
STIFLING ANOTHER COUGH lest Cynda overhear and scold her for being out of bed, Gyan braced against the window ledge. Cold seeped from the stone into her hands, but she paid it little heed. She had more important worries than mere illness, even though this bout had kept her abed for a sennight already.
Outside, the pines were staggering at the mercy of the leonine winds. There was no snow yet, though the clouds’ sullen threats grew more ominous by the moment.
Another day, another year, she would have smiled at the bleak beauty of the battling pines. Their refusal to break under the ruthless attacks had always won her admiration. Today, her heart felt heavier than the leaden skies.
She turned her back on the annual skirmish and reached for the poker. The flames hissed like angry serpents as she prodded them into action. She set the poker aside, hugged arms to chest, and began to pace the bedchamber. Her frown deepened as a cough tickled her throat. Now the eighth day of her confinement, she could be free if not for this blasted cough. She snatched the mug from the small bedside table to drown it with a swallow of Cynda’s herbal tea. The warm, honeyed concoction soothed the scratchiness well enough.
Too bad it couldn’t do the same for her spirits. But, she admitted to herself, this illness-imposed imprisonment was not the true cause of her melancholy.
She sat cross-legged on the floor before the hearth, chin resting on one fist and cup clenched in the other, and stared into the flames, but they failed to sear away the picture of the High Priest’s face on Àmbholc night. Wreathed by fitful torchlight, dire words spilling from the age-cracked lips, it was a picture she would never forget.
Every sword stroke and javelin cast was a pointed reminder that she might die at the hands of the enemy one day. She had long ago accepted that fact, so contemplation of her death didn’t bother her. No greater glory could a warrior hope to win than death in honorable combat. These fortunate souls joined the Otherworldly ranks of fallen sword-brothers to fight eternal battles in the realm of the gods.
Death was inevitable. Its reminders lurked everywhere: in the lambing shed and cow byre, the sickroom, the feast hall, the forests and meadows and streams, in the great dance of the seasons. Death was the mother of life.
What disturbed Gyan was that Urien would somehow cause hers.
It had to be Urien, she reasoned. He was a Breatan. One day, he would become chieftain of a strong clan. No enemy could bring joy as well as sorrow; only a husband wielded that power. Did this mean her husband would betray her? Become her enemy and strike her down in battle? Or, worse yet, would she be denied a warrior’s final honor? Perhaps to die in childbed, like her mother?
Maybe the augury was wrong. No, priests’ predictions were never wrong. The impossible betrothal to a foreigner had come to pass as foretold. To doubt the power of prophecy was to doubt the Old Ones themselves. Not a wise path to travel.
Hoping the herbs had the strength to clear her reeling brain, Gyan inhaled deeply of the tisane’s pungent aroma. It seemed to help. With the last swallow sliding down her ravaged throat, she reflected upon her options.
She could select another consort. By law, it was her right. But did this also grant her the right to risk starting a war with Móran and the other clans of Dailriata, perhaps all Breatein too, if the Pendragon got involved?
For the first time in Caledon’s long, bloody history, Caledonaich and Breatanaich were learning to trust each other. Trust was the mortar to build a rock-solid alliance against the marauding Scáthinaich from the southwest, Angalaranaich from the southeast, and Sasunaich from the south. Gyan had to admit that her marriage to Urien was a keystone. Breaking the betrothal might destroy any chance of peace between Caledon and Breatein.
This was not a deed for which she wished to be remembered.
Another possibility presented itself. She could ask the High Priest to intercede with the gods on her behalf—for a modest fee, of course. While this didn’t guarantee success, any action was better than blithely accepting the whims of fate. Yet what could she tell the High Priest to pray for? Not to escape her destiny; that was the coward’s solution. She would play the dice as they fell, and woe to him who falsely accused her of doing otherwise!
Besides, if the tales were true, the Old Ones usually didn’t take much interest in mortal affairs. There were stories aplenty of Nemetona blessing a favorite warrior with extra strength for an important battle, Clota influencing the selection of a clan ruler, and the like, events worthy of divine attention. Nothing as mundane as helping a woman survive a doomed marriage.
How much would the gods be willing to do for her?
More to the point, how could she admit to the High Priest that she needed his help? In all her previous dealings with him, he’d seemed kind enough. But as chieftainess, her relationship with the spiritual leader of Clan Argyll was crucial, and she suspected an admission of this nature would diminish his respect for her ability to handle the other facets of clan rule. The law empowered the High Priest to remove any man or woman deemed unfit for leadership. Such cases were rare but not without precedent. Could this, she asked herself with trepidation, happen to her?
The lump in her stomach was the only answer she needed.
Recognizing Cynda’s cheerful humming in the anteroom, she rose and faced the door. In moments, Cynda bustled into the bedchamber.
“Gyan! What are you doing out of bed?” Cynda deposited the tray on the table to plant her hands on ample hips.
“I’m feeling fine.” Her voice croaked the betrayal. “Really, Cynda, if I don’t see something other than this room soon, I’ll go mad!” It wasn’t far from the truth.
“Hmph.” She viewed Gyan suspiciously. “You still sound terrible. But your color is much better, I’ll grant.” With a short nod, she retrieved the tray, which held a fresh mug of tea and a piece of parchment. “Your tisane first,” Cynda insisted as Gyan set down the empty cup to reach for the message.
After drinking enough to satisfy her self-appointed physician, she examined the parchment. It was folded twice, and the edges were sealed with a sea-blue dragon.
How odd, she thought. Even if there were a Caledonach clan that claimed this creature, messages were always delivered orally. It had to be from a Breatan, then, but who? The Pendragon’s symbol was a dragon, but the wax on his treaty was scarlet.
She smacked her palm against her thigh. “Curse this sickness! I should have been there to greet the messenger!” This touched off a coughing fit that left her doubled over and wheezing.
“Easy, Gyan, or it’s back to bed with you.” Cynda steadied the trembling shoulders and lifted the mug to Gyan’s lips.
The coltsfoot and honey did their work, and the coughing subsided. Gyan broke the blue dragon to read the message. And crumpled it into a ball and flung it at the flames.
“What’s wrong? The message—”
“Was from the commander of the Pendragon’s war-fleet.” Gyan watched in satisfaction as the parchment blackened, ignited, and collapsed into a heap of smoking ash. “Bedwyr map Bann of Caerglas.” When Cynda looked at her blankly, she explained, “We call it Dùn Ghlas. That’s where we’ll be spending one night of our journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh, which the Breatanaich call Caer Lugubalion.”
“And for the different Breatanach names you torch the message?” Cynda grinned wickedly. “What’s next? Declaring war on the
Pendragon?”
In no mood to surrender to Cynda’s spirit-lifting tactics, Gyan rolled her eyes. “According to this Bedwyr map Bann, not all of us will have the benefit of shelter inside his fort.”
“I’m sure he didn’t intend offense.”
“Indeed! Then do guests have such little honor in a Bhreatan home?” Cynda recoiled, but Gyan’s ire burned too hotly for her to stop. “Or do they think we are no better than dogs?”
“Of course not. Think on what you’re saying. You will be marrying a Breatanach chieftain’s son. Would they treat you with anything less than the highest honor?”
“A slight to even one of my clansmen is a slight to me.”
“I don’t think Bedwyr meant this as a slight to anyone. Did he explain?”
“Oh, yes.” Eyes closed, she visualized the Breatanaiche words and hunted for Caledonaiche substitutes. “He said that the crews of the ships haven’t yet left Port Dùn Ghlas for their spring patrolling runs.”
A frigid blast spewed snow into the room. Cynda scuttled to the window to refasten the leather window coverings.
“With this wretched weather, I’m not surprised. Dùn Ghlas must be too crowded to handle two hundred extra warriors and their horses and supply wagons.” She wagged a finger at Gyan. “You can’t blame the man for something beyond his control.”
“I suppose not…” A glance at the flames caused another matter to clamor for attention. As Cynda turned to leave, Gyan caught her hand. “Cynda?” So far, no one knew about the prophecy, not even Cynda, who’d been privy to all Gyan’s secrets.
“Aye, my dove?”
The woman’s advice had helped Gyan more times than she could count. Yet what could Cynda say this time? No words could change the one fact that was the hardest to bear: Gyan was a captive of destiny. Words might ease the torment, but comfort was not what she sought. She wanted no pity, only freedom.
No one owned the key to her prison.
She swallowed thickly and cleared her throat. “I’d like some more tea.” Cynda hesitated, as though attempting to read her thoughts. But this was one burden she would have to shoulder alone. “Please, Cynda.”
Cynda left the room. The secret remained locked within Gyan’s heart.
THE FOLLOWING morning dawned as bright and calm as its forebear had been dismal and wild. A mantle of snow was proof, despite the tradition that declared Àmbholc as the first day of spring, that winter remained unbroken. But the sun’s radiant promises streamed from the heavens. Like the cycle of death and birth, the advent of spring was inevitable, and just as jubilantly celebrated.
Gyan’s cough was gone. Her announcement won a critical stare from Cynda, followed by a flurry of motion as she felt Gyan’s forehead, cheeks, and neck.
“Bad tidings.” As Gyan began to protest, Cynda grinned. “I’m going to have to send you back to your duties. Can’t have you lounging around here with so much to be done.”
Laughing, Gyan flung a pillow at her would-be tormentor, who deftly caught it and tossed it back. Feet draped over the side of the bed, she flexed her arms. “Does this mean everything? Sword practice too?”
“Aye, sword practice too.” Cynda expelled a noisy sigh. “Mind you don’t overdo, though, or you’ll just end up back here.”
Gratefully, Gyan donned her battle-gear for the first time in more than a sennight. Small wonder she hadn’t forgotten how. Hefting her practice sword, she was dismayed at how heavy it seemed.
“Don’t worry, my dove. Your full strength will return soon.” Cynda patted the doves on Gyan’s arm. “Just give it time.”
So this illness was determined to leave its legacy. Gyan knew only one sure remedy: weapons practice. And taking this medicine would be a pleasure. She bid Cynda a cheery farewell and left her chambers.
In the corridor, Per favored her with a warm hug, although for an instant he seemed strangely hesitant, as if he feared she might break.
“Gyan! I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better.” His practice sword bounced against his leather-clad thigh as they resumed their pace. “Are you well enough for a bout?”
Against Per, who always managed to win, even on her very best days? No, it would be much wiser to recover her strength against the practice posts. Per would have to wait for another day.
They reached the main entrance and stepped outside. Snow was beginning to retreat before the sun’s steady advance, leaving glistening mud like the track of a monstrous worm. The yard was a slushy mess from wagons and animals and people passing through. The practice fields didn’t appear to be any better. Yet Conall, Airc, Mathan, Rhys, and several other pairs of warriors were engrossed in mock combat, doubtless glad not to be penned inside the feast hall.
She was about to tell Per of her decision to practice alone when an unusual sight caught her eye.
“Well, Gyan? Are we going—”
“Shh, look.”
Across the compound, a knot of slaves rethatching a building had climbed down to rest. But this was no ordinary rest period. Rather than trying to devour as much food and ale as possible, the men seemed more interested in someone standing in their midst. When the slaves’ overseer ordered them back to work, four Breatanaich remained: Dafydd, Katra, and their two oldest children. They crossed the yard slowly, heads bowed. Their third child, the infant born a few days after Samhainn, was nowhere to be seen.
Dafydd, Gyan realized as the family approached, was singing. More like chanting, actually, so low that the words were impossible to determine. But even when he drew close enough that she should be able to understand him, she could not. The chant was not Breatanaiche, but it evoked that same sense of the divine she had discerned in the slaves’ song.
In Dafydd’s arms rested a short, rough-hewn oak coffin.
Hand to mouth, Gyan gasped. She turned to her brother. “What do you know about this? When did the bairn die?” Although Dafydd and his family were well out of earshot on their way to Arbroch’s main gate, she didn’t raise her voice above a whisper. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Per took her hand. “It happened three—nay, four days ago. You were so ill, Cynda thought it best not to upset you.”
She pulled her hand away and gazed at the mourners in tortured silence. The bairn, conceived in slavery yet born in freedom, would never know the delights of this world. Or the next. The Old Ones had no use for children in their realm.
Caledonaich believed the spirits of children walked the earth, their bodiless voices creating special music: the whisper of the brook, the sigh of the willow, the wail of the wind. A bleak eternity indeed.
For this reason, the death of a child was beheld as a tragedy, like the late spring frost that kills the flower before it can bear fruit. A Caledonach child was never mourned quietly, and the family never mourned alone.
Not so with Dafydd’s wee son.
Feeling tears well in her eyes, Gyan wiped them away. She couldn’t fathom the calmness of Dafydd and his family in the face of their loss. Didn’t they realize the bairn’s spirit would never know rest? Or did they believe in a kinder fate, one that offered eternal peace even to children?
Could this god of Dafydd’s grant such a wish? For the sake of the child and his family, she hoped so.
Dafydd, Katra, Mari, and young Dafydd disappeared through the gates. Gyan watched even after they were well beyond sight. The bairn’s death triggered the memory of the night of the prophecy in all its brutal detail. For the first time, she fully comprehended how much power the memory—and the prophecy itself—held over her. It was not a welcome feeling.
She shook her head to banish the scene. Letting a handful of mere words control her life was absurd. The High Priest didn’t say when she would die. Each day, then, deserved to be lived to the fullest. Beginning with that swordfight Per wanted.
But before she could move, a sharp crack and a startled outcry caught her attention. She traced the sounds to the building the slaves had been rethatching. A man atop one of the lad
ders had lost his footing when the rung supporting him broke. The ladder lay on the ground, useless, while the man clung to the thatch and his fellow workers scrambled to bring another ladder to bear. Too late; he lost his grip and fell. The ground cut off his scream.
Without realizing where the command had come from, Gyan found herself sprinting, not toward the accident as Per had done, but to the infirmary. At the first physician she saw, she stopped only long enough to blurt out what had happened, and ran off. Only by the sound of an extra pair of pounding feet did she know the physician was following her. But, as Cynda had predicted, Gyan’s accursed sickness spawned an overwhelming urge to cough. When she halted, hands to knees and gasping, the physician stopped beside her, but between coughs she waved him on. The spasm passed, and she continued walking as briskly as she dared.
By the time she reached the scene, her cough was under control, but the crowd wasn’t. She couldn’t believe the number that had gathered in such a short time, children and animals included, and they were leaning forward and writhing and wriggling and standing on tiptoe and shoving and yapping and anything else they could think of to improve the view. Even many of the priests had come to investigate. Of the physician there was no sign; presumably, the people had had sense enough to let him through. Seeing the fallen slave from her position behind the mass of bodies was impossible. But if he were alive, he wouldn’t remain that way much longer if the crowd didn’t back off to give him air.
She cleared her throat and, in the best command voice she could muster, ordered everyone not directly involved to return to his or her duties. Obedience was not swift at first, but as people realized who had spoken, they began, reluctantly but respectfully, peeling away like layers from an onion. She stood her ground, arms crossed and expression stern, until the only folk to remain were Ogryvan and Per, the priest Vergul, the slaves of the work party, their Caledonach overseer, a woman slave with three children, and, of course, the physician and his patient.
