Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  ARTHUR’S EXIT from the chieftainess’s chambers did not go unnoticed.

  In the shadow of another doorway, the corners of Morghe’s mouth twitched into a sly grin. After her brother’s footsteps echoed into silence, she scurried to the room he’d left and slipped inside.

  BEDWYR MAP Bann strode the central corridor of the officers’ wing, mentally reviewing the details of his battle with the Scotti fleet. Eventually, Arthur would want a written report, of course, though the gods alone knew what he ever did with all that parchment. But Bedwyr had standing orders to give Arthur an oral summary as soon as possible. That is, if Arthur could be found, which seemed to be somewhat problematic this evening. After searching the captured Scotti encampment, the field hospital, and the Dhoo-Glass dignitaries’ inn and feast hall, Bedwyr had finally tracked his commander and best friend to this building.

  His persistence was rewarded with the sight of Arthur emerging from an intersecting corridor. “There you are!” Grinning, Bedwyr quickened his pace.

  Arthur glanced his way and pulled up short. A startled look crossed his face, but only long enough for a smile to take its place. “Bedwyr, well met!” When Bedwyr was close enough, Arthur added to his greeting a firm arm grip and a clap on the back. “Well met, indeed. I was just thinking about you.”

  Arthur’s smile darkened into a more secretive look. And Bedwyr knew better than to try tugging those secrets from him. So, with his lips stretching even wider, he reverted to his usual rebuttal tactic. “Ah, you thought I’d drowned out there today?” His long hair whispered across the back of his battle-tunic as he shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. It’ll take more than a few hundred Scots to be rid of me.”

  As they resumed course for the entrance nearest the feast hall, Arthur laughed. “Careful. More insubordination like that, and it’s to the port barber with you to get that tail of yours hacked off. In fact, I may save you the trip.” His hand groped reflexively for his sword hilt, but he wasn’t wearing Caleberyllus. That in itself wasn’t odd. That he had forgotten, though, was.

  Bedwyr arched an eyebrow. “So this means I’m safe for now?”

  “For now.” All trace of humor vanished. Eyes forward and pace brisk, Arthur ordered, “Report.”

  After reciting his battle summary, Bedwyr pondered Arthur’s actions. Something was amiss, to make Arthur abandon their friendship behind a wall of military protocol to hide his embarrassment over being caught in an insignificant slip. He had tolerated a lot of quirky behavior from Arthur over the years, but he sensed something different about this situation, and that Arthur needed to talk about it. Since the corridor was deserted, with most of the building’s inhabitants doubtless partaking in the victory feast, here seemed as good a place as any. Hoping Arthur would take the cue, Bedwyr halted.

  Arthur did not.

  He cast around for a reason Arthur might have visited this wing. “One of the officers is wounded,” he offered into the widening gap. “How bad?”

  Arthur gave a short jerk of his head. Ah, Bedwyr mused in silent triumph, a direct hit amidships. Lengthening stride, he asked himself who might produce such a reaction in the Pendragon, a leader who normally accepted the misfortunes of battle as well as anyone.

  The name that came to mind made his stomach twist. He lunged at Arthur from behind, latched onto his arm and spun him around. Arthur glared. Bedwyr ignored him. A pox on the man’s precious privacy; he had to know. “Oh, gods, Arthur, is it Cai?”

  Arthur sighed, and his glare dissolved. “Cai is fine. Our casualties were minimal.”

  “But I’m right, don’t deny it. Who, then? Will he recover?”

  Bedwyr bore Arthur’s inspection for what seemed like half an eternity, with no clue to what Arthur might be seeking. Finally, he replied, quietly, “She should.”

  “She—Morghe?”

  “Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”

  Those two words made more sense to Bedwyr than anything he’d heard all evening.

  Up sprang memories of his brief meeting with the vivacious Caledonian warrior woman. Recollection of his response when he discovered she’d feigned ignorance of the Brytoni tongue made his lips twitch in amusement. The incident had caused him to respect her intelligence and abilities all the more.

  His smile faded in the face of his concern about her present condition. “What happened?”

  “She fought the Scotti invasion commander. He opened a deep gash on her sword arm.” Arthur’s gaze seemed tinged with amazement. “And she relieved him of his head.” Bedwyr felt his eyebrows lift. Arthur nodded. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. But she lost a fair amount of blood, and the physicians decided she should recover here, where it’s more quiet and comfortable—and private—than in the field hospital.” The sapphire sparkle in his eyes transformed him into the Arthur Bedwyr knew best. “I was making sure they were right.”

  Clearly, Arthur felt a lot more toward Gyanhumara than respect. Given her relationship with Arthur’s greatest rival, that was nothing short of a war in the making.

  Yet Bedwyr didn’t bother forming arguments to steer Arthur from his chosen course. Experience had taught him that bucking a headwind on the open sea was easier than confronting the will of Uther’s son. But, experience had also taught him that no matter how dire the situation, Arthur would never let him down.

  “If there is anything I can do for you, Arthur, for both of you…”

  Arthur seemed to ponder this for a moment, then shook his head. “But I appreciate that, Bedwyr.” His smile deepened. “So, I think, would she.” As Bedwyr prepared to take his leave, Arthur raised a hand. “In fact, there is something you can do for me. And for her.”

  “Name it, Arthur!”

  “Send a ship back to headquarters with a dispatch for Gyanhumara’s brother, Centurion Peredur of Seventh Ala.” Arthur’s secretive smile returned. “Tell him that she is alive and well taken care of.”

  Chapter 25

  KNEELING ON THE cold stone floor of the priory’s chapel during compline meditations, Prioress Niniane tried to remain oblivious to the rustlings and whisperings of the other sisters around her as they prayed. A vague sense of unease disturbed her concentration. But other than the muted murmur of the sea and the soft scrape of a branch upon a window ledge, the night was quiet.

  “You sent for me, Tribune Urien?”

  “Yes, Centurion. I’ve decided what to do with the murderer.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and she swiveled her head toward the intruders’ voices. Moonlit shadows of the apple trees shifted across the chapel floor. None of the sisters showed any sign of having heard the sounds.

  It must have been the wind. An owl, perhaps. She closed her eyes to resume her prayer.

  “He must die. In the viper pit. At dawn.”

  Niniane was hit by a blast of fury so intense, it sent her mind reeling. She pressed a hand to her temple to still the ache.

  To be troubled while sleeping was bad enough, but this? A waking visitation? Was it possible? Or was she truly going mad?

  “But, sir, the Pendragon will—”

  “Do you presume to question my authority, Centurion?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Inform the prisoner at once.”

  This was too much. God’s gift or not, the torture had to stop!

  Slowly and quietly, to avoid alarming the sisters, she slipped out of the chapel. Once outside, she gathered her skirts in both hands and dashed across the narrow courtyard toward the infirmary. She would make herself a draught to end these nightmares, even if it meant drinking it day and night for the rest of her life.

  Her fingertips slid across the neat row of fist-size jars, stopping first at her favorite. She shook a few dried white chamomile flowers into the granite cup that served as a mortar. But she wanted to ensure sleep. Grimacing, she added a pinch of grated valerian root, with a generous portion of apple-mint leaves to counter the bitterness.

  As she ground the herb
s together, she felt a rush of dizziness. Shaking her head to ward off the sensation, she continued with her work.

  She measured a portion onto a small square of cloth, tied up the corners, dropped it into a mug, and bathed it with a dipper of water from the pot over the fire. The water swirled into a mossy brown as the herbs were coaxed into releasing their healing essences. With trembling hands, she raised the mug to her lips.

  “But I’m innocent, Centurion Bohort. I swear it!”

  “I’m sorry, lad. Those are my orders.”

  The golden-brown eyes registered a parade of emotions: shock, disbelief, fear, anger…and, finally, resignation.

  The crash of shattering pottery wrenched Niniane to her senses. Her hands were empty. The sleeping draught puddled at her feet. Shards poked through the steaming liquid like tiny islands.

  She knew that lad. It had been barely a week since he had visited Rushen Priory with Chieftainess Gyanhumara, seeking shelter from the thunderstorm. And the face she had just Seen looked no older.

  Niniane found a rag and stooped to wipe the floor.

  What had Angusel done to earn Urien’s wrath, to deserve death? And when? Six months from now? A month, a week?

  Tomorrow. It had to be. When the visions slashed through the veils of sleep, she Saw events that seemed years away. This was the only logical explanation for the Sight’s urgent intrusion upon her waking hours.

  As surely as she knew her own name, she knew the lad was innocent. And only she could stop his execution.

  In the sunless hour following matins prayers, a lone figure, cloaked and hooded against the damp, guided the half-dozing donkey along the strand toward Port Dhoo-Glass. On their left reared the white-faced cliffs. The moon, a great silver eye, graciously provided all the light they needed for the five-mile trek.

  Niniane stopped her donkey on the rise overlooking the port. Around the walls guttered the torches and dying campfires of a sleeping army. She knew the Manx Cohort conducted field drills, but something seemed decidedly odd. Rather than an orderly array of tents and structures, the camp looked like a vast jumble of canvas and timber, as though a whirlwind had passed through.

  An invasion!

  She made out banner poles in the gloom, but the banners themselves hung limp in the predawn calm. Dear Lord, whose army was it?

  “Who are you?”

  Gasping, Niniane whipped her head around. The donkey brayed. A pair of archers stood a dozen paces away, arrows at the ready. A third man advanced with a leveled spear.

  “Have you no tongue, woman?” demanded the spearman. “What are you doing out at this hour?”

  The moonlight bounced off the contours of the man’s brooch.

  “I am Niniane, Prioress of Rushen Priory.” She played a hunch, fervently praying it was a good one. “I have an urgent message for the Pendragon.”

  URIEN FOUGHT from the depths of sleep to respond to the insistent pounding. He snatched his cloak from a nearby chair to wrap about himself before opening the door.

  In the dim corridor loomed the hulking shape of Arthur’s aide. “Your pardon, sir, but the Pendragon requires your immediate presence.”

  “What about?” Urien scowled. “If this is some sort of jest—”

  “No, sir,” insisted Centurion Marcus. “I was ordered to deliver his summons. And not to return without you.”

  “Wait outside, then, while I dress.”

  Urien slammed the door and groped toward the table to light the lamp. As he shrugged into his uniform, he failed to think of an even remotely plausible reason for having to report to Arthur before cockcrow. This probably was just another excuse to flaunt the authority that should have belonged to Urien from the start.

  So be it. The whore-spawn was only digging his own grave. Not to mention, Urien thought with an inward grin, the political embarrassment Angusel’s execution would cause him.

  At the city wall, the tall gates were cracked wide enough to permit passage of the two men. Urien glanced up at the gradually brightening sky, hoping that whatever Arthur wanted to speak to him about wouldn’t take too long. If nothing else could improve his mood, watching the death of that troublesome Pict certainly ought. And seeing Gyanhumara’s reaction when she found out.

  Afterward, of course.

  The guards flanking the entrance to the Pendragon’s headquarters tent uncrossed their spears at Urien’s approach and saluted. Returning the gesture with no more enthusiasm than could be expected at this uncivilized hour, Urien ducked to step inside.

  Seated behind the lamp-lit, document-strewn field table, Arthur did not acknowledge Urien’s entrance. He remained bent over his tablet, drawing the iron stylus across the wet clay with swift, decisive strokes. Urien could not make out the figures from his position, and not for want of trying.

  After a few moments, Urien cleared his throat. He got no response.

  “Lord—” The unpalatable words lodged in his throat. He coughed. “Lord Pendragon?”

  At last, Arthur looked up to give Urien a long appraisal. “Tribune Urien. Good of you to come. Finally.” Anger seemed to prowl behind that intense gaze.

  Urien swallowed his surprise. Why would Arthur be angry with him? Had he not fought brilliantly yesterday?

  “My lord, I—”

  “Save your excuses, Tribune.” The sharpness of the reply killed any doubt. The Pendragon was not at all pleased.

  And Urien could not fathom why. Unless…“If it’s about my battle report, you’ll have it by midmorning.”

  “Good. But that is not the reason you are here.” He fingered the stylus as though using it to craft his next words. “I wish to reward the one who sighted the Scotti fleet.”

  Urien’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “I suggest you save your reward, then, for someone more deserving. He is a murderer. And he is to die for his crime.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. At sunrise.”

  “Really.” Arthur slapped the writing tool against his palm. “Who?”

  Too late, the reason for Arthur’s summons crystallized. Mentally cursing his stupidity, he braced himself for the worst. “The Pict, Angusel.”

  The stylus hit the tabletop with a crack. Arthur’s eyes glittered ice-blue in the flickering lamplight. “Let me make sure I understand this, Tribune. You are going to execute one of my hostages—the one person responsible for bringing me here to save your neck—without my approval.” The Pendragon stood and stalked up to Urien. “Why?” The word was no louder than the rest, yet its bite was deadlier than steel.

  Urien squared his shoulders and tilted his head to meet his commander’s glare. “He killed a Clan Moray cattle herder. Some of Centurion Bohort’s men found the body on the bluff above the Scotti beachhead. Angusel confessed to the deed. He claimed the herdsman was a spy, but—” Urien’s palms began to sweat, and he resisted the urge to wipe them on his thighs. “He could not produce any proof to support his story.”

  “That is no basis for a death sentence.”

  “There was the body.” His brain raced to keep up with his runaway heart. “And the confession.”

  “Motive?”

  “Revenge.”

  “His word? Or yours?”

  “He lost a fight to that herdsman last week.”

  “Answer my question, Tribune. Did Angusel mac Alayna of Clan Alban of Caledonia confess to killing that man for revenge?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” Arthur’s gaze grew colder, even more intense. “You have overstepped your authority to order the execution of someone who is, by treaty, under my protection, without first consulting me.”

  “I have the right to dispense justice on matters involving my clansmen,” Urien argued hotly. A fresh gust of hatred fanned the blaze. “And my decision was made before your arrival. Sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  As Urien bore the sharp scrutiny, it seemed that Arthur was not going to accept the lie. Yet that was sheer nonsense. Only Bohort knew when
the order had been issued. Since it had occurred well after the gates had been shut for the night, the centurion wouldn’t have had the opportunity to inform anyone in the camp.

  “Halt that execution, Tribune. Bring Angusel to me immediately. If you do not reach him in time, I will have your head.” He turned with a swirl of his scarlet cloak, paused, and faced Urien. “And have the men of that Ayr Point patrol report to me.”

  ANGUSEL CIRCLED his prison cell for what must have been the thousandth time in a day and a half. One pace to the center of the door, another to the corner and the dented, stinking privy pot. Turn. A pace to the edge of the moldy straw pallet, and half a pace to the wall. Turn again. Tramp twice across the rat-gray, rat-eaten blanket under the gash in the stone that passed for a window. Pivot once more, step off the pallet, and take one last half step back to the beginning.

  He could have made the circuit in his sleep—if he’d been able to sleep. The pain in his knee was forgotten as he fumed at the injustice of his fate.

  Sounds of the previous day’s battle had spilled through the window slit. The clamor had changed from the soldiers’ war cries and screams of the wounded and dying beyond the city walls to the jubilant banter of townsfolk passing outside his cell.

  To Angusel, it meant only one possibility: his signal to Arthur had been successful.

  Yet his reward was to be death, and a dishonorable one, at that. He shook his head with incredulity. Surely, even Arthur—who had beaten the Confederacy, forced them into an alliance, wrenched Senaudon from Alban, and ordered Angusel’s exile to Maun—surely even he wouldn’t act so unjustly if he knew the facts. If he knew. If.

  Nay, it didn’t fit. The Pendragon might be many things, but he was not a monster. Abar-Gleann and Senaudon had been won by superior tactics, not by treachery. Afterward, Arthur had treated the Caledonach leaders with respect. The treaty terms, while decidedly favorable to the Breatanaich, weren’t completely one-sided. All things considered, Angusel’s tenure on Maun had been enjoyable, until his encounter with the Móranach spy.