Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  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.”

  He dipped his head in greeting. “I was just leaving, my lady.”

  By turning toward his horse, he hid his face, but the slope of his shoulders betrayed his sorrow. She stretched out a hand. “Dafydd.” He straightened under her touch, and she let her hand fall away. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thank you, my lady.” His thin smile seemed tinted with sadness. “But no. You’ve already done enough for my family and me. More than enough.” He patted the chestnut’s flank.

  “But your child, surely he needs a proper lament.”

  “Samsen is with God.” He passed a hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. “If you want to do something, my lady, help me put aside my grief by rejoicing with me to know that he will be safe and happy forever.”

  “Will he?” With a frown, she surveyed the cerulean sky. “If children lived in the Otherworld, there wouldn’t be enough room for anyone else.” Or so her priests had always taught. Then again, they were also quick to preach the power of the Old Ones, about which she was having serious doubts.

  “God’s dwelling place has many, many rooms, my lady. More numerous than the stars. He has prepared a place for all who follow the light of His eternal lamp.”

  “Wee bairns too?”

  “Yes. The Lord Iesseu has issued a special invitation for them.”

  There was no trace of doubt or madness in Dafydd’s steady blue eyes that she could discern. He was twice her age, but those eyes seemed to reflect an ageless wisdom. Her gods would not—or could not—stir a finger to alter mortals’ destinies. Rudd was given back the use of his legs through the power of fervent prayer. Obviously, Dafydd’s god would intervene, even in the life of a slave. He surely ought to be able to help her.

  What was she thinking? This was blasphemy! Even to consider abandoning the Old Ones…she wondered if moon madness had smitten her too.

  Perhaps. But she couldn’t ignore what had just happened to her in the Nemeton. Her faith in the Old Ones felt as empty as that stone circle. And just as cold.

  Slowly, she said, “Tell me about your god.”

  “YOU’RE TERRIBLY quiet this morning, Gyan.” Ogryvan snaked an arm across the table, past the cheese wheel and brown bread and pitcher of frothy milk, to pat her hand. “Anything wrong?”

  Without looking up, she shook her head. “Just thinking, Father.” First batch of the day, the bread was wonderfully warm and fragrant. She finished a thick slice and chased it with a long swallow of milk. “About my journey.” A journey of sorts, but not the one that was the subject of everyone else’s discussions.

  “Ah.” Both hands on the tabletop, he pushed to his feet. “Then perhaps some sword practice will help clear your mind.”

  Once that might have worked for her.

  As Ogryvan headed toward the door leading from the kitchens to the outer courtyard, another figure entered. The chieftain paused to accept a word of greeting from Dafydd and glanced back at his daughter. “Coming, Gyan?”

  “In a while, Father.” Nodding, Ogryvan left. She beckoned Dafydd to join her and switched to Breatanaiche. “I have some questions about the One God.”

  “That’s perfectly natural, my lady.” He cut a slab of cheese, took a bite, swallowed. “Lord willing, I shall try to answer them for you.”

  At the hearth, a slave was basting the boar fated to be the main attraction of the evening feast. Others were busy scouring pots, kneading dough, plucking partridges, skinning hares, slicing vegetables, all under the scrutiny of their Caledonach masters. The kitchens were entirely too crowded for Gyan’s taste.

  She motioned for Dafydd to accompany her outside. When they were well beyond the kitchens, she continued, “I understand that a god may take on different forms. Our Life-Goddess cloaks herself in the shape of Maiden, Mother or Crone as the need arises.” She locked her gaze with his. “But not all at once. How can the One God be Father, Son, and Spirit at the same time?” Dafydd hesitated, and she plunged ahead. “How can a mortal woman be both maiden and mother? How can a man born of this woman walk the earth—sometimes the sea—as a man and be a god too? How can the death of this one man atone for the wrongdoings of all people, even those not yet born?”

  They resumed their walk past the feast hall, along Arbroch’s inner perimeter wall. Gyan’s clansmen had become so accustomed to the presence of Dafydd at her side that they no longer paid him heed. She answered their waves and words with feigned cheerfulness.

  Dafydd displayed a rueful smile. “Those are good questions, my lady. Wiser men than I have pondered them through the centuries.”

  “What? Either the One God is all he claims to be, or he is not.” She felt her eyes narrow. “And if not, then he must be a fraud.”

  Dafydd’s intensity ignited. “He most certainly is not a fraud.”

  “Indeed. Then kindly explain all these impossible feats.”

  “God is all-powerful. He knows and sees everything.” Dafydd shrugged. “A better answer than that, my lady, I cannot give you.”

  All-powerful? Surely this couldn’t be true. The Old Ones possessed special skills. Only by working together could they keep the world in balance. Such a burden was too great for a single god, wasn’t it?

  She gave voice to her doubts.

  “My lady, God can do anything, no matter how big. Or small.”

  Gyan searched his face, looking for deception and finding acceptance that seemed childlike in its simplicity. “You truly believe this, don’t you?” Dafydd nodded. “If this god is so powerful, why didn’t he cause us to free all our Brytoni slaves at once?”

  “He could have, if He’d willed it. No army can withstand Him. The army of Egypt drowned in the Sea of Reeds while trying to pursue the Children of Israel. God caused the sea to dry up just long enough for His people to cross safely, and when the Egyptian charioteers drove onto the seabed, God sent the water back.”

  Egypt? Sea of Reeds? Children of Israel? Gyan had no idea what Dafydd was talking about, other than the fact that he seemed to be describing a miraculous retreat. Resolving to ask him more about it later, she kept to a subject with which she was quite familiar. “Then why didn’t this god do something dramatic like that to make us free all our slaves?”

  “I don’t know, my lady. No man can know the mind of God.” Head bowed, his voice drifted into a reverent whisper. “I only thank the blessed Lord Iesu for our release and pray that freedom for the others will be granted soon.” He looked at her and smiled. “But I do know from experience that God seems to delight in working through the ordinary events just as much as the extraordinary.”

  Dafydd was raising more questions than he answered. Gyan lapsed into uneasy silence as she wrestled with her doubts.

  Ahead loomed the steeply pitched roof of the open-air temple, perching atop four carved stone pillars like a giant timber falcon. Beneath its peak sat the great bronze dish that cradled the Sacred Flame. Vergul was pacing around the dish, chanting the words that would keep the Flame burning ever brighter. He acknowledged Gyan’s approach with a nod and resumed his prayer.

  Recalling their earlier confrontation with this priest, Gyan made sure she and Dafydd were out of sight from the temple before she stopped and faced him. “As chieftainess, I am expected t
o attend all the high rituals—Samhainn, Àmbholc, Belteine, Lugnasadh. Do you think the One God would mind?”

  “The ancient texts tell us he is a jealous God. He commands that we worship no other.”

  “But I wouldn’t be worshipping the Old Ones, exactly,” she protested. “Just watching the ceremonies.”

  “That would be between you and God, my lady. I cannot speak for Him.” Dafydd spread his hands. “I know my answers haven’t been much help to you. But I am sure of this: anything you ask in the holy name of His Son, Iesu, He will do for you.” His steady gaze captured hers and would not let go. “Anything.”

  “But Dafydd, didn’t you plead for the life of your bairn?”

  At once, she regretted the remark. He jerked his head and looked down. “I did. God knows how I—” His voice caught. When he regarded her, determination creased his brow. “Please forgive me, my lady. I don’t mean to mislead you. Sometimes—” He sighed. “Sometimes the answer to a prayer is no. But whatever the answer, you can be sure it will be rendered according to God’s perfect will. He does have our best interests at heart, despite how it may appear.”

  She couldn’t imagine how it could be in everyone’s “best interests” for a free child to sicken and die while a slave had his health restored. But for Dafydd’s sake, she kept it to herself. Instead, she asked, “How can you be so sure?”

  “He has given us His Word.” Dafydd’s lips twitched in a slight smile.

  Word—honor—was a concept she knew well. A warrior whose word couldn’t be trusted was a warrior who died alone. And the word of a god could not be lightly dismissed.

  “And all I have to do is ask?” Dafydd nodded. She didn’t bother to hide her disbelief. “That sounds too easy. Surely there’s more to it than that. A payment? Or a task to perform?”

  “The only payment God requires has been made, in full, for all time.” Her confusion must have been apparent, for he continued, “The blood of His Son.”

  That again. Blood sacrifice she could understand. But that the blood of a single man could suffice as payment for all she found difficult to believe, and told him so.

  “That’s where faith takes over, my lady. You need only believe that God’s promises are true and present your petitions to Him based on that belief.” Dafydd’s gaze seemed to unfocus briefly. “Please be assured that He knows what’s best for us and delights in giving us what we need, though not necessarily what we want.” He regarded the cloud-laced sky. “His ways are far above our ways, mysterious but wonderful to behold.”

  Mysterious and full of wonder, most certainly. She got a reminder of that every time she caught a glimpse of Rudd in a work party.

  Hope pulsed anew within her. What she needed more than anything was help to face a doomed marriage and do whatever was necessary to keep that doom from spilling over onto her clan. She felt certain that the One God wouldn’t deny this heartfelt request.

  But what of the Old Ones and the only religion she had ever known?

  Presuming they even existed, if they wouldn’t bestir themselves to punish her for profaning their holy ground, why should they care what she did?

  She signaled Dafydd to follow her toward Arbroch’s gates. The walls would offer shelter from the curious eyes of her clansmen. Outside the settlement, they found a deserted spot out of sight from the gates, shaded by an oak branch that cascaded over the wall. She seated herself in the grass and gazed up at her mentor. “I need the One God’s help.” A memory intruded, and she frowned. “But there’s no stream here, and we have no bread or wine.”

  “Trappings only, my lady. Reminders. What God cares about most is what’s in here.” He tapped his chest.

  Like the Oath of Fealty between warriors, she mused, but without the sword or its accompanying mark. “Show me what I must do.”

  FROM HIS angle in the temple, Vergul saw the chieftainess passing through Arbroch’s gates, accompanied by the Breatanach interpreter. He didn’t need to hear them to know what they were discussing. Again.

  He shed his vestment. Naked to the waist and caring nothing for what others might think of his behavior, he stepped over to the trunk of the oak growing near the wall. On his way up, he prayed that he might be able to gather evidence to support his suspicion that Gyanhumara had abandoned the faith. The trunk’s rough bark hid his smirk as he imagined the uproar his discovery would cause, not to mention his certain advancement among the brethren.

  Upon climbing as high as he dared, he was rewarded with the sound of whispering voices, a man’s and a woman’s, close. Vergul inched forward, licking his lips, to peer over the wall. What he saw almost made him lose his grip on the bough.

  Chieftainess Gyanhumara was kneeling next to the Breatan. Both heads were bowed, both sets of hands were folded as he had seen the slaves do many times. Though he could not make out their words, his heart screamed the truth.

  Unlike any other crime, proving religious treason required having at least two other priests as witnesses. The law was absolutely clear on this point. But as his mind raced to recall the locations of his brethren, Gyanhumara and the Breatan rose to leave.

  Vergul pounded the branch. The rattling leaves seemed to mock his failure. A priest could be stripped of rank for even suggesting something like this without proof. Disappointed beyond measure, he started the downward climb.

  His only option was to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut, and bide his time. The Old Ones were patient, their memories eternal. Sooner or later, the traitor would pay for abandoning them.

  He retrieved his vestment, slipped it over his head, and resumed his role as guardian of the Sacred Flame. The gods in their abundant generosity would reward their faithful servant Vergul.

  Wielding the ceremonial dagger was the only reward he desired.

  Chapter 10

  THE DISARRAY REVEALED by the flickering oil lamps might have startled a visitor to Gyan’s workroom. Parchment covered the tabletop. Ink pots and unused goose quills fought for their share of space. Broken quills poked from between the floor rushes.

  Hunched over the documents, Gyan steadily scratched her quill across the parchment. At intervals, she glanced up to reach for fresh ink or for her dagger to sharpen the quill’s point. Time and again, she paused, fist to chin, while trying to puzzle out the meaning of the treaty’s obscure Breatanaiche words.

  A knock broke her concentration. She bade the person to enter, unsure whether to treat the interruption as a blessing or a curse.

  The door opened to reveal Dafydd, cradling a small cloth-wrapped package. She was pleased to count his arrival as a twofold blessing.

  “Here is your extra parchment, my lady,” he said in Breatanaiche. He crossed the room to set the bundle on the table. “How is the work coming?”

  “Slowly. I’m finding many words I don’t know.” She frowned. “Too many.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, my lady. Treaties are like that. Show me which ones.” She pointed to the first, and Dafydd bent to squint at the page. “Ah, ‘engagement.’ You would say ‘banais-geall.’”

  She nodded curtly; he’d affirmed her guess. Her finger stabbed at another word in the same sentence. “And ‘nobleman’?”

  “That’s Brytonic for ‘rìgh.’”

  The meaning of the passage crystallized. And she did not like its implications one bit. “Or ‘macanrìgh’?” The words grated out between clenched jaws.

  “That’s right, my lady.” Dafydd seemed as quietly unperturbed as ever. “Do you need help with any other words?”

  Brave man.

  “Not now.” Her tone teetered on the border of civility as she slapped the quill onto the tabletop and stood. “I must find my father. Have you seen him?”

  “In the Common, my lady.” He stepped aside, bowing, to let her pass.

  She heard the shuffling of parchment behind her as she strode to the door. Evidently, he was satisfying his curiosity about the reason for her questions. Behind the fickle candle shadows flirting w
ith the ivory page lurked the first Breatanaiche word he had taught her to write. But whether he discovered it or not, she didn’t care.

  GYAN’S WHITE-KNUCKLED hand on the handle of the Common’s door trembled with her effort to retain self-control. It was no use. With a savage shove, she burst into the room.

  Ogryvan was palming a whetstone across his sword. He was alone. But even if the room had been overflowing, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  “Father!” she howled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Calm yourself, Gyan.” The sword whined as it disappeared into its scabbard. “Sit down. What didn’t I tell you?”

  She ignored the command. “The treaty! I am named—in Breatanaiche, but it’s there in the treaty. Gwenhwyfar ferch Gogfran—‘daughter of Ogryvan,’ in that barbarically backward way of theirs! For all the world to see. And you never breathed a word of it. I knew marrying a Breatan would be politically sensible, Father, but this—this treaty clause! Why did you keep it from me?” Fists on hips, she shot the words at him like steel-barbed arrows. “You didn’t think I needed to know?”

  Ogryvan set the whetstone and sheathed sword on the ledge, rose from his firepit seat, and lumbered over to his daughter to lay a hand on each shoulder. “I didn’t want the knowledge to taint the process of selecting your consort.”

  “Indeed! I’m not a child anymore!”

  “I know.”

  Sorrow creased his face. This was the man who had authored her life, gifted her with strength and knowledge and courage and skill. Through the years, he had given of himself selflessly and without reservation. Soon she would be going where he could not follow. And what was she doing, ungrateful wretch that she was? Trying to salve her wounded pride at his expense.

  “I’m sorry, Father.” She stepped into the comforting circle of his arms. “But why? Why the marriage?” Staring at the firepit’s dead ashes, she rested her cheek against his chest. “And why only me?”