by Headlee, Kim
Chapter 19
FINGERING HIS SWORD’S pommel, Urien rounded on Angusel. “I would like to speak to Gyanhumara. Alone.”
“You could apologize first, Urien.” She suspected he would ignore her suggestion, but it was worth a try. “That fight was your fault.”
“How could I know the man was going to react that way?”
“Ha! You think a commoner is going to play by the rules?” She left the disdain in her tone undisguised. “They know none.” She spun and strode away, with Angusel close behind her.
“Gyanhumara, wait.” Urien pitched his voice over the throng. “Please!”
The Caledonach warriors stopped.
After catching up, Urien thrust out a hand. “I apologize, Angusel.”
Angusel clasped the proffered arm.
Neither warrior saw Gyan’s eyebrows twitch.
“Thank you, Urien,” she said. “Now, you wish to speak to me?”
“Yes, my dear.” Urien turned his attention upon Angusel. “Can I trust you to stay out of trouble for a while?”
Angusel’s scowl slowly relaxed. As Arthur’s ranking officer on the island, Urien had the authority to curtail his freedom. Gyan was glad to see that Angusel had the sense to remember this and abandon any further attempts to jeopardize his position.
“Aye, sir,” he replied, eyes lowered.
In Caledonaiche, she said, “Don’t worry about him, Angus. He barks more than he bites.” Looking up, Angusel smiled briefly. She gave his shoulder an affectionate pat. For Urien’s benefit, she switched to Breatanaiche. “Go ahead and explore the rest of the market. I’ll meet you later this afternoon.”
“Gyanhumara, surely you’re not thinking of riding back to Tanroc so soon? We haven’t seen each other in a week,” Urien said.
And what a blissfully uneventful sennight it had been. Ever since their arrival on the island, Urien seemed to be slipping back into his old arrogant ways; today’s incident with Angusel was just the latest of many. She had hoped to escape back to Tanroc without Urien being any wiser, but his appearance in the market had destroyed that plan. There was no sense in fabricating an excuse to leave. Best to fuel the fiction, especially since he had chosen to act in a halfway civil manner.
“Why, you’re absolutely right, Urien.” To Angusel, she said, “Meet me in the stables after dinner. Now, off with you.”
She followed Angusel’s progress until he disappeared into the crowd. Urien took her hand. Forcing her lips to curve into a smile, inwardly she steeled herself against his touch. She ached for the caress of a hand that was forbidden to her by distance and duty. Desperately, she fought to will the pain away.
“Was that really necessary?” Urien was asking.
With heartrending effort, she exiled Arthur’s face to glance at her betrothed. “What?”
“Speaking to Angusel in your tongue.”
She shrugged. “Certain ideas don’t translate well.”
“I’ve missed you,” Urien said as they resumed their course between the market stalls.
To avoid an awkward response, she dodged behind the question that was uppermost in her mind. “How did you know I was here?”
“My dear, you are not exactly the type of woman who can blend into her surroundings.” His chuckle grated in her ears. “Once the gate guards reported your arrival to me, all I had to do was ask around.” The mirth gave way to a harder look. “Why didn’t you let me know you were here? I hope you weren’t going to try to slip away without paying me a visit.”
“Oh, no, Urien. I would never do that.” The lie left a vile taste in her mouth, and she hated herself for it. Yet, to keep peace, she could think of nothing else to do.
They neared a wharfside tavern, which was overflowing with patrons of questionable origin. Sailors, presumably. Sea-stained clothes and rolling gaits and coarse mannerisms and even coarser speech were shared by most of the men. A few merchants graced this group, notable by their rich robes and expansive smiles. Every face wore a look of veiled danger.
“Shall we stop here for refreshment, Gyanhumara?” Without bothering to wait for a reply, Urien strode through the salt-eaten doors.
Given a choice, she never would have selected this establishment. The rough patronage she could handle by letting her sword do her talking; the tavern itself gave her chills. Smoky gloom bred shifting shadows. The One God alone knew what was creeping through the stale straw underfoot. Her first instinct was to keep walking and deal with Urien’s reaction later. But roasting beef and baking bread competed with the ale and cheap wine to send temptingly fragrant arrows aimed straight at the vitals. Her stomach demanded to stay. Hand casually resting on her sword’s hilt, she followed Urien.
He claimed a table in the far corner of the room, beckoning curtly to the tavernkeeper in passing as though the man were a personal servant. For all Gyan knew, he might have been. The man seemed to know Urien’s preference without asking. Each fist clutched an ale flagon.
“I hate ale,” she informed the tavernkeeper, smiling pleasantly. Per’s advice about guarding her back sprang to mind as she settled into a chair against the wall. In this place, there was no question about the strategy’s necessity. “You may bring me some wine instead. Your best, of course.”
Bowing, the tavernkeeper snatched up the unwanted flagon and melted into the shadows.
To Urien’s questioning look, she stated, “I see no point in accepting something I don’t want.”
“Ah.” He sat in the chair beside the adjacent wall, took a pull from his flagon, and dragged the back of a hand across his lips. “Yet you accepted the sword belt.”
“Yes.” She didn’t add that she had been prepared to trade anything for it, short of her life.
“You know my clan’s sign is the boar,” Urien said. “I’m sure Al-Iskandar must have had others.”
“I didn’t think to ask.” Her annoyance began to rise. “This was the first piece he showed me. The dragon is magnificent.” Her fingernail made a dull thunk against the bronze.
“The dragon”—Urien’s eyes became slits—“is Arthur’s symbol.”
As if I don’t know it! “Then it is all the more appropriate. I am one of his warriors. Or will be,” she amended with frustration, “if I ever see any action other than town brawls.”
Urien’s right hand closed over her left forearm, and he bent her arm up. His left arm shot across to grasp her hand. Their betrothal-bands fused. Gyan’s stomach knotted.
“See these, my dear? First and foremost, you are mine.”
More than once, she had wondered how much of his high-handed arrogance she could swallow before making herself sick. Now she had her answer. She wrenched free of his grip and stood. The chair smacked into the wall.
“Not necessarily, Urien of Dalriada!”
GYANHUMARA BRUSHED past the startled tavernkeeper, who had returned with her wine.
“Set it down, man,” Urien ordered. “It won’t go to waste.”
The proprietor obeyed and retreated from the table. Through narrowed eyes, Urien watched his woman stalk away. She paused at a table near the door. He couldn’t identify the table’s occupants in the gloom. When the door swung open to admit more customers, the waning afternoon sunlight briefly shone across the face of the man with whom she was conversing. It was the merchant, Al-Iskandar. The other men at the table were strangers to Urien, though he imagined they must be traders. They all wore that same greedy look as they regarded Gyanhumara with undisguised interest. She ignored them.
His anger mounted as he saw her bestow upon Al-Iskandar what appeared to be more gratitude for the gift, to the merchant’s obvious pleasure. Finally, without a backward glance, she strode from the tavern. While she was never the easiest of women to understand, sometimes her behavior was downright mystifying to him.
After taking another pull, he set the flagon down with a heavy thump. Several drops slopped onto the table. A few heads swiveled toward him and quickly turned away. He finished the
brew.
“That woman!” he spat into the empty vessel.
But, he reminded himself, eventually that woman would become his wife, whether she welcomed the union or not. She had to marry him. Too many of his plans were hinging on it.
THOUGH THE sun had sunk behind a horizon-hugging cloudbank, Gyan was in no mood to stay the night at Port Dhoo-Glass and risk another encounter with Urien. Fear didn’t drive her decision to leave. She simply could not trust what she might have said—or done—to him.
Angusel was lingering near the arms merchants’ stalls. She tersely informed him of their imminent departure.
“I thought we were staying for supper. I’m starved!”
“We’ll eat when we get to Tanroc. You can thank Urien for that.”
She retrieved Brin from his stall, bridled him, slapped the saddle in place, and cinched it. Once she’d led him from the stables, she mounted and spurred him into a canter through the city gates. She scarcely noticed that Angusel was keeping pace. Her only concern was to put as much ground as possible between herself and her tormentor.
“Urien!” Unwittingly, Angusel uttered the last name she ever wanted to hear. “I still can’t believe what he did to me in the market.”
“It happened. Believe it.” With luck, Angusel would sense her ill humor and leave her in peace.
But luck had fled with her cheer. “First, he shoves me into that cattle herder. Then he distracts me—”
“I was there,” she snapped. Would his mindless prattle never cease? “Save your tale for someone who wasn’t.”
“Gyan, what’s wrong?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“You’re not angry with me, are you? For getting into the fight?”
His earnest expression drove spikes of guilt through her soul. “No.” The murmur was nearly lost under the drumming of the horses’ hooves.
He lapsed into silence. She retreated into the cave of her thoughts, only to find the company to be much less comforting than she’d hoped. Arthur’s image served as a blunt reminder that her heart’s desire was so miserably far from reach.
A mile later, Angusel ventured another question. “Is it Urien?”
“Angus, I said it’s none of your concern.”
“But it is! You’re my countrywoman and my friend. Forget what he did to me. Anyone who makes you so unhappy is no friend of mine.”
An angry reprimand died in her throat. “I appreciate your support, Angus. I really do.” A brief, wan smile was the best she could manage. “But this matter is between Urien and me. I don’t want you to get involved. What I said earlier, about his bark and bite, I said to cheer you. Believe me, if you cross him, he will shackle you so fast, you won’t know what happened until it’s far too late.”
This seemed to satisfy him for half a mile. “I don’t understand why you ever consented to marry such a mannerless dog-pig of a Breatan.”
“Angusel mac Alayna! Guard your tongue.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
Who knew better than she did? But truth and diplomacy seldom trod the same path.
“Never insult your allies. Even if you don’t think they can hear you.”
“Some ally,” he muttered. “If he upsets you so much, why don’t you break your betrothal?”
“You don’t know how much I wish it could be that simple.” She realized that for a lad his age, there was no such thing as middle ground. After transferring the reins to her sword hand, she held up her shield arm. The fingers clotted into a fist. “But duty binds me tighter than this betrothal-mark. And sometimes duty can be a poor companion.”
Frowning, he cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
What, indeed? How could she tell him that she was in love with someone else but was powerless to do anything about it? That his face lived in her dreams to torture her with the visions of what she could not possess? And barring that, how could she tell him that the man who imprisoned her heart, mind, and soul was his jailer too?
She shook her head with a sigh and studied the darkening western sky, licked by a forked tongue of lightning. She reined Brin to a halt. Angusel pulled Stonn in beside them.
“Tanroc’s gates will be shut for the night at any moment with this storm coming on.” The first heavy drops battered the ground. “If they’re not already. Dhoo-Glass’s too. I hope you don’t mind sleeping in the mud.”
“What about Rushen Priory? They let travelers in at all hours.”
“It’s a women’s place, though, isn’t it? Will they let you stay too?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I could always sleep in the stable.”
His crooked grin won her soft chuckle. So this was what having a younger brother might have been like.
“Very well, Angus, let’s go!”
She pulled up the hood of her cloak to ward off the quickening rain as they spurred their horses toward the promise of shelter.
THE NOVICE set the mug on the tabletop over the spot indicated by Niniane’s gracefully tapered finger. “Will you be needing anything else this evening, Prioress?”
“No, child, thank you. If I do, I can get it myself.”
Marcia bobbed a curtsey and slipped out of the room, easing the door shut behind her.
Niniane breathed a sigh as she reached for the steaming cup. Chamomile: just the thing for many ailments, including a throbbing head.
It was not easy, having the Sight.
The images tormented her sleep with relentless clarity. In a natural dream, she was always a detached observer, swept through a parade of bizarre events soon forgotten upon waking. During a visitation of the Sight, she actively participated in the events, invariably as someone else. She had lost count of the number of times she had awakened with the cold, rough flagstones beneath her bare feet, gasping as though she had just dashed across the island and back. And the scenes could never be forgotten.
Before, her visions had mostly concerned Arthur. Sometimes others. In fact, the Sight hadn’t troubled her in months, which had been heavenly bliss.
Three nights ago, it had begun again in earnest, as though trying to make up for its absence. This time, there were unfamiliar pairs of dream-eyes to See from, and being whirled from one perspective to another in quick succession was particularly exhausting.
Eyes closed, she inhaled deeply of the chamomile tisane’s applelike fragrance and took a tentative sip. The herb’s characteristic bitterness was masked by the soothing sweetness of mint and honey. Silently blessing Marcia for remembering these additions, she took another sip.
With the ache in her temples beginning to subside, she returned to her work: creating sketches of the medicinal herbs. She knew she was doing her eyes no favor, toiling by lamplight. But she was anxious to finish her latest drawing, the hollyhock, before retiring for the night, so she could begin afresh on the hyssop in the morning.
Or so she tried to make herself believe. In reality, any activity that could postpone her nightly appointment with the future was welcome.
Absorbed with attempting to capture the likeness of the model plant with the greatest possible accuracy, and lulled by the rain pattering against the window’s shutters, she did not respond to the frantic tapping right away. She glanced at the door, wondering who could possibly wish to see her at this hour.
Niniane straightened from her work and tucked an errant chestnut lock under the wimple. “Enter.”
Marcia appeared in the doorway. The rainwater sliding off her cloak puddled on the stone floor. Her wringing hands and wide, flaxflower-blue eyes betrayed fear.
“What is it, child?” Niniane crossed the workroom toward the girl, who was shivering like grass in a windstorm. “Why did you go outside on a night like this?”
Marcia, too flustered to remember her curtsey, blurted, “Visitors, Prioress. Two warriors, a young man and a woman, both armed and mounted.” She shuddered. “They wish to spend the night.”
“Are they Brytons?”
“They speak Brytonic. At least, the woman does. The other didn’t say anything. Just…looked at me. I think they’re foreign, my lady.”
Niniane pondered the information, fingering the slim silver cross that hung at her breast. Last night, she had Seen a lady warrior fighting another lady warrior in the midst of a great battle. The Sight had not revealed the outcome. It rarely did in a single visitation but presented tiny pieces of a vast puzzle in capricious order.
“Marcia, this holy house has never turned away anyone in need of help. Nor shall we break tradition now. Show them to the stables, and then—”
“B-but, Prioress, they’ll slit our throats while we sleep!” Marcia buried her face in her hands to hide the flood of tears.
Ignoring the distraught girl’s sodden mantle, Niniane drew her into an embrace. “Of course they won’t, child.” Stroking Marcia’s damp head cradled against her shoulder, she wondered what manner of folk could so terrify her. “God’s hand protects us, so even if they try, well, so much the worse for them.”
With firm fingers beneath the novice’s chin, Niniane made her look up. “You are a daughter of God. You needn’t fear anything, or anyone. Do you understand?”
Blinking back the tears, Marcia nodded.
Niniane smiled her approval. “Good. Now, help them see to the comfort of their horses, and bring them here to me. Then you may retire. After I’ve finished speaking with them, I will show them to the guest chambers myself.”
Returning to the table as Marcia left, Niniane gazed mournfully at the now-cold cup. Though temperature did not affect its healing essence, the herbal drink would have been much more enjoyable hot on a raw night like tonight. She drained the mug and lost herself in her work.
No drug on earth could have prepared her for the warriors who were ushered into her presence.
The lad carried himself with a catlike grace quite at odds with his apparent age of thirteen summers. There was something hauntingly familiar about the curly black hair and golden-brown eyes. Whether Niniane had Seen him as an older man, she could not be certain.
