Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  “My beliefs are not the issue here, Priest,” she growled, praying he wouldn’t start asking questions about the Christian ceremony to follow this one, and extremely thankful he and his brethren wouldn’t be attending it. “Artyr’s loyalty to Argyll is.”

  “Aye! The Pendragon is prepared to prove his loyalty in a manner that is acceptable to his people.” Ogryvan’s glare as he regarded first the priests, then every member of the assembly, was charged with warning. “I trust it will be acceptable to ours.”

  No one dared to disagree.

  Facing her consort, Gyan thrust out her open-palmed hand. Caleberyllus emerged from its scabbard. Arthur offered her the hilt, removed the linen strip that padded his neck, and went to one knee at her feet.

  This sparked another round of muted murmurs.

  “You swore never to dishonor the clan, Chieftainess.” Vergul trembled with the effort to retain control. “Yet what do you call this—this blatant disregard for—”

  “Enough, Vergul!” At Ogryvan’s roar, the priest shrank back a pace. “I have no objections. Neither should you.”

  With an impatient wave, Vergul gathered his brethren around him. Their whisperings reminded Gyan of so many snakes competing for the same stretch of sun-baked stone. At last, the hooded heads nodded. As the priests parted, Vergul stepped forward.

  “So be it. From this day forth, let Artyr mac Ygrayna, Exalted Heir-Begetter of Clan Argyll, be known by the fealty-mark. Chieftainess, you may proceed.”

  Gyan grasped the hilt with both hands, ignoring the pain in her wounded arm and bridling the urge to stand agape before the magnificent weapon. Its physical beauty was complemented by its perfect balance and flawless twin edges. A rush of power flowed into her fingers to course through her body. No surprise there; Arthur’s sword was imbued with his vital essence.

  Truly a sword worth dying for.

  This was the quintessential core of the Oath: the ultimate surrender of self. With Angusel, who had made his pledge with a borrowed sword since his had been miles away, it had been different yet sufficient.

  With Caleberyllus burning in her fists and Arthur’s steady sapphire gaze locked to hers, she was smitten by the full impact of understanding. This insight destroyed her doubt.

  She raised Caleberyllus to within a handbreadth of her face in salute and lowered it to his left shoulder. A shaft of sunlight pierced the circle of oaks, hit the blade, and exploded into a brilliant silvery flash. The company’s hushed reaction conveyed naught but approval for what they clearly considered a manifestation of divine blessing.

  Perhaps, she thought with a ghost of a smile as she tightened her grip, they were not wrong.

  ARTHUR MAP Uther had knelt in ritual submission once before: to the conclave of Brytoni chieftains, presided over by Merlin, who had sworn him into the office of Dux Britanniarum. But Merlin had not commanded him to bow his head. Nor had the man of God—not bishop then but priest and one of Uther’s few surviving generals—pressed Caleberyllus against his neck.

  “An dean thu, Ròmanach Artyr mac Ygrayna Càrnhuileanach Rhioghachd agus Àrd-Ceann Teine-Beathach Mór Bhreatein, an Geall Dhìleas chugam, Gyanhumara nic Hymar Banrìgh h’Argaillanaich Chaledon, gus a’bàsachadh?”

  Gyan had rehearsed the ritual at length with him the night before, so those Caledonian words were no mystery. Nor did he have any question how to respond:

  “A chaoidh gus a’bàsachadh!” Ever unto death!

  With his head bowed, he could only imagine the scar on the underside of her right forearm, the mark that had been wrought by his hand on the sword she now held. He recalled that day in all its exhilarating, confusing, frustrating detail. The irony forced a smile to his lips. That was the mark that had bound his heart to hers.

  He said in his birth tongue, only loud enough for her ears, “I, Arthur, son of Uther the Roman and Ygraine of Clan Cwrnwyll of Rheged, Pendragon of Brydein, swear the Oath of Fealty to you, Chieftainess Gyanhumara nic Hymar of Clan Argyll of Caledonia, ever unto death.” He meant every word, to the depths of his soul.

  If Niniane had ever told him that she had Seen him on the morning of his wedding day kneeling before his wife, feeling the terrible, wintry tooth of his own sword, he would have thought the prioress had taken leave of her senses.

  Chapter 33

  “HOW AM I supposed to weave these blasted twigs into your hair if you won’t sit still?” Cynda fussed.

  “I can’t help it.” Gyan rubbed the new tattoo again. “My arm itches.”

  Cynda sighed. “Keep that up, and you’re going to make your arm red and ugly.” She set down the comb and laurel cuttings and selected a small clay pot from the clutter on the nearby table. “Here, use this. Mind you don’t get any on your gown.”

  Gyan uttered a short laugh as she spread a dollop of lavender-scented ointment across the rampant dragon. The cool salve soothed the itch miraculously well.

  “There.” Cynda pressed the polished copper mirror into Gyan’s palm. “What do you think?”

  Cynda had twisted Gyan’s hair into a single plait and wrapped it like a dragon’s tail around her head. The laurel twigs were braided into its blazing coils as if to camouflage the beast.

  This was no Caledonach bridal crown but a Ròmanach symbol of victory. Arthur had suggested she wear the laurel by right of her triumph over General Niall. Gyan, who once had despised even the mention of Ròm, had been pleased to comply.

  “It’s lovely, Cynda.” She smiled toward the mirror. Her former nursemaid’s teary-eyed face appeared over her shoulder. Gyan turned. “Cynda?”

  Sobs erupted. Gyan set the mirror aside, rose from the chair, and folded Cynda into an embrace.

  “Nay—your gown!” Cynda tried to push away.

  “Don’t worry.” Gyan refused to let go. “You won’t hurt it. Why all the tears?”

  Drawing a shuddering breath, Cynda dried her eyes with trembling fingertips. “Oh, Gyan, my wee dove, you look so much like your mother did when she—she and your father—” She bit her lip and buried her face in Gyan’s shoulder.

  An image flickered in her mind’s eye. Whether a true picture or not, Gyan would never know. As she patted Cynda’s back, she regretted that she had been denied the chance to know the woman to whom she owed her first life-breath. But regret was soothed by the balm of confidence that Hymar would have been proud of her daughter: Gyan had forged a union that meant not only peace for Argyll and others but peace for herself.

  With a final squeeze, the women parted.

  “And look at me.” Cynda reached for a cloth to dry her face. “Bawling like a bairn when I should be helping you finish dressing.”

  She marched to where Arthur’s gifts lay on the bed and picked up the first: Braonshaffir, a double-edged sword commissioned of Wyllan, the same Manx smith who had forged Caleberyllus. Cynda laid the sheathed weapon across Gyan’s outstretched palms and went to retrieve the sword belt from the oaken armor-chest.

  Gyan grasped the sapphire-pommeled hilt with her left hand, since the half-healed wound on her sword arm was still troubling her. The blade whispered free of its bronze scabbard. Though not as long as its cousin by a hand’s length, Braonshaffir possessed the keen edges, delicate balance, and fierce beauty that distinguished Wyllan’s finest creations.

  Sheathing the sword, she imagined the thrill of feeling the awesome blade shear through enemy flesh.

  Her bronze dragon sword belt had been cleaned and polished for the joining ceremony. Cynda gave the dragon’s head a swipe with her tunic sleeve before cinching the belt around Gyan’s waist over the high-necked azure gown. Gyan beamed as Cynda fastened Braonshaffir, couched in its dragon-etched scabbard, to the belt. Most folk doubtless would regard the armor and sword as odd accessories for a bride; she never would have considered being parted from them this day.

  To complete her joining-day attire, Gyan had ordered a special clan mantle. Though woven of the traditional Argyll saffron-and-scarlet pattern over midnight blu
e, its edges were scalloped with threads of gold to match Arthur’s gold-trimmed legion cloak. She stooped for Cynda to drape the cloak about her shoulders.

  A sharp rap rattled the door.

  “That will be your father.” Cynda pinned Arthur’s final gift, an enamel-ringed, sapphire-eyed gold dragon brooch, to the cloak and smoothed the last wrinkles from Gyan’s gown. She opened the door.

  Ogryvan strode into the antechamber, resplendent in his clan tunic and ebony leather leggings and boots. His silver-trimmed mantle was fastened at the shoulder with a silver dove brooch. The gold neck and arm torcs, like his daughter’s, also bore the Argyll Doves.

  Greeting Gyan with a wide smile, he offered his arm. “Come, lass,” rumbled the Chieftain of Clan Argyll as the woad doves on her right forearm settled over the identical design on his left. “Let’s not keep the Pendragon waiting.”

  “WHAT THE devil is keeping her, Merlin? I’ve been waiting here for hours!”

  Arthur’s circling in the robing room adjacent to the chancel reminded Merlin of a similar interview three months earlier. The topic then, as now, had been the Caledonian chieftainess. But he knew that the only thing driving Arthur today was typical bridegroom nervousness.

  “Peace, Arthur. You have not.” Merlin reached out to intercept the armor-clad shoulder. “Be still. Watching you makes me dizzy, and I can’t sing if the room is spinning.” With a wink, he added, “And if I can’t sing, you won’t get married.”

  Arthur shot him a hard glance but stopped pacing.

  Merlin sighed his relief. The escalating chatter seeping into the closed chamber told him that St. John’s was nigh to overflowing. He asked the acolytes to help him don his outer vestments.

  The first measures of the kyrie eleison drifted from the choir to herald the entrance of the bishop and the groom. A gradual hush settled over the sanctuary.

  Arthur went to one knee at Merlin’s feet. Smiling, Merlin placed both battle-scarred hands upon the red-gold head in silent blessing. When Arthur rose, all traces of anxiety seemed to be gone.

  The acolytes lit their candlesticks as Merlin opened the door. Side-by-side, the boys advanced to the altar to light the candles at either end. The fat center candle was a stranger to the Christian wedding mass. The chieftainess had requested its addition to honor Caledonian tradition as a symbol of unity. In this case, so her argument went, the unity was not just between two people but between two nations. And she had been absolutely right. So for the sake of diplomacy—and with his own words about the Argyll tattoo needling him with guilt—he had agreed.

  The unlit candle crouched behind the chalice and loaf like a demon among the blest. He wondered whether he had done the right thing.

  The acolytes finished their work and marched to their bench behind the altar. Pushing aside all thoughts save the task at hand, Merlin picked up his cruciform crosier and led Arturus Aurelius Vetarus, Dux Britanniarum, into the chancel.

  STANDING AT the back of the church beside her father, Gyan paid little heed to the glittering array of guests: her kin and Arthur’s, other Caledonach and Breatanach clan rulers and their retinues, clergy, merchants, craftmasters, and anyone else who could produce a legitimate invitation. She barely noticed the army and naval officers, dressed in shining parade uniforms and gripping silver-tipped spears, shoulder-to-shoulder in two long ranks to form an aisle down the center of the sanctuary.

  Her gaze was riveted to the door opening onto the altar area.

  She witnessed the entrance of her consort with great joy. As always, she delighted in the sight of his ceremonial regalia. His gold-feathered torso armor gleamed in the brilliant rays bathing the chancel. Unlike the first time she’d seen him in this uniform, Caleberyllus hung at his side from a gold-studded leather baldric. The knee-length scarlet cloak was pinned by a brooch of the same design as hers. His gold dragon challenged the world through a ruby eye. Like hers, his bare head was crowned with laurel.

  He spun smartly toward her. Even across the twoscore paces separating them, she could discern the barely contained excitement emanating from his gaze and wondered if he could sense hers.

  AS ARTHUR beheld his bride, he fought to control the emotions that must surely be threatening to dominate his expression. Never had she looked more beautiful or more regal. Yet she seemed to wear her beauty and her power easily, like a favorite cloak that was flung on and scarcely given a moment’s thought, and he loved her all the more for it. As much as this ceremony meant to him, he simply wanted it to be done, so he could be alone with her to express his love.

  Merlin’s solo voice began the gloria. The officers raised their spears, and every civilian head turned to watch Gyan and Ogryvan approach the altar. Muted gasps of admiration raced before the bride and her father, punctuated by the rhythmic thumps of spear shafts meeting flagstones as the couple passed each honor guard pair.

  Without moving his head, Arthur studied some of the other faces before him.

  Beside Bedwyr stood Arthur’s mother. Ygraine regarded her only son with a fiercely proud smile. Her daughters and their families clustered around her: Yglais and her husband, Alain, scion of Clan Cwrnwyll, and Annamar and her husband, Chieftain Loth of Dunpeldyr.

  Morghe stood a little apart from her mother and half sisters, leaning on Urien’s arm. She seemed to accept her betrothal willingly enough, but Arthur couldn’t forget Niniane’s warning about Morghe’s anger. He hoped that anger was a thing of the past.

  Urien glared at Arthur with thinly veiled hatred. Arthur rested his hand on his sword’s hilt. Urien glanced away. Perhaps he had taken the hint, for when he looked forward, his expression seemed decidedly more subdued.

  Across the aisle, beside Cai, who was serving as honor guard commander, stood the Caledonians: Clan Argyll first, of course, followed by the other clans. Chieftainess Alayna of Clan Alban was not present, though Arthur didn’t find that surprising. But her son stood proudly in Argyll’s front rank, between Cai and Peredur. Upon Angusel’s crimson-and-green-streaked sky-blue cloak prowled the gold lion brooch, the symbol of both his clan and his freedom from being Arthur’s hostage. That freedom, in response to the young warrior’s courage and loyalty, Arthur had been pleased to grant.

  At first, Angusel regarded Arthur with a puzzled frown. It became a smile as his fingers touched the scar on his neck—a similar mark to the one Arthur bore, visible only as a blood stain on the white linen stole. Not that Arthur needed such a scar to remind him of the oath he had sworn to Gyan. Neither, he suspected with an inward grin, did Angusel.

  Gyan and Ogryvan reached the end of the aisle and embraced at the base of the steps. At Cai’s command, the honor guard pivoted to face the altar as Ogryvan kissed Gyan’s cheek and took his place beside Peredur.

  Arthur held out his hand to her. As she clasped it and squeezed, her gaze locked to his. She smiled, and for a moment, the rest of the world and its problems seemed very far away. With his smile, he tried to convey at least some measure of the love that burned within him. Hand in hand, they mounted the steps to the altar, where Merlin waited to finish the ceremony.

  GYAN’S HEART was so uplifted by the glorious music and by the steady presence of her consort that she felt it must surely take wing.

  Every detail seemed infinitely precious: the lulls and crescendos of the harmonious monks…the snowy altar cloth embroidered with crimson Christian symbols…the bishop’s mellow voice and stately movements as he performed the duties of his office…the warm, fragrant bread…the flickering candles reflected upon the golden chalice…the wine’s rich sweetness…the pungent aroma of incense from the acolytes’ censers…the shafts of westering sunlight blazing across the wounded face and body of the dying Christ…the brilliance of united flame as she and Arthur lit the center candle…Arthur’s smile before bestowing the ceremonial kiss…the thunderous jubilation of the crowd when their lips finally met.

  The bejeweled moments tumbled one by one into the treasury of her mind.

  �
��GOD, WHAT a day!” Arthur plucked the laurel wreath from his head and flung it across the room. It hit the wall and burst into a shower of greenery.

  Gyan laughed. “All those toasts—I thought they’d never let us escape from the feast.” She laid her cloak aside, retrieved the copper mirror, and began tugging twigs from her braid.

  “Here, let me help.” To her pleasant surprise, he worked quickly yet gently.

  “Thank you, mo laochan.” Most of her thoughts raced ahead to the moment when they could douse the lamps and lose themselves in the pile of sleeping furs, but one matter required immediate attention. “I really appreciate what you did for me this morning.”

  He paused. In the mirror’s flame-tinted face, she watched him remove the blood-stained linen and trace a slow course over the fealty-mark.

  “I did not swear an empty oath, Gyan.”

  “I know.” The memory of Caleberyllus’s power was one she would never forget. His hands cupped her cheeks. She tilted her head back as he bent to cover her mouth with his. The fires of her passion roared to life, hotter than ever. Such a pity to have to interrupt, but…“Shall we finish with my hair, so we can make ourselves a wee bit more comfortable?”

  He chuckled. More twigs pattered onto the tiles. “You seemed to enjoy yourself in St. John’s, my love.”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t I?” He pulled the last laurel leaves from her hair, and she turned toward him.

  “I thought you might not understand everything. I don’t mean the words,” he amended, silencing her protest with a finger to her lips, “but the symbolism.”

  Smiling, she clasped his hands, glad for the chance to share this secret. “The man who taught me your tongue taught me about…my God.”

  He didn’t hide his astonishment. “But the candle-lighting?”