Morning's Journey (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 2)

by Headlee, Kim

  “Your turn, Commander.” Winking, Rhys brandished a javelin.

  She snapped out of her uneasy reverie to stare at him. He held the javelin toward her. Shorter and slimmer than its cousin the spear, the favored weapon of Caledonach horsemen was balanced for throwing rather than thrusting. A shower of these deadly missiles could send a squad of foot troops screaming for cover.

  Learning to fight with her left hand had proved more difficult than she’d hoped but better than observing the proceedings, waiting for flesh to knit and strength to build. She grasped the ashwood shaft with her left hand and trotted Macmuir to the end of the field, where the turma was assembling for another charge. Rhys followed her.

  He halted his mount near children who’d gathered to watch and cheer the charges. “Remember, my lady. It’s no different than using your right arm. Concentrate!” His words grew fainter as she kneed Macmuir into formation. In the calm before the charge, one last shout burst through: “You can do it!”

  “Come on, Macmuir.” Crouching low over the creamy neck, she whispered into a swiveled-back ear, “Give me everything you’ve got!”

  The stallion sprang toward the line of straw targets with the rest of the turma. Hefting the javelin, she took careful aim, cocked shoulder and wrist, and threw. The javelin joined its kind in the race for the targets…and fell harmlessly short.

  The javelin’s quivers seemed to accuse her of not trying hard enough.

  Rhys cantered up to her as she jerked the weapon from the ground. “My lady, don’t fret. It will come with time and practice.”

  “Ha!” She slapped at the barely healed flesh on her sword arm. “I would be doing just fine but for this.”

  “Aye. But think of the advantages, my lady. Not many warriors can boast of being skilled with both hands.” He thumped his leather-clad chest. “I cannot.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “You will, and soon.” Wheeling his snow-footed black mare around, he said, “Sword practice?”

  “Gladly.”

  After she returned her javelin to the rack, she and Rhys spurred their mounts to a training enclosure for a bout of mounted hand-to-hand combat. They drew their swords, with Gyan again using her left hand, and closed upon one another.

  Sword sparring on foot was difficult enough, but adding horses to the mix made it nigh unto impossible. Trying to kill the opponent had to be easier, by any reckoning. Curbing her stallion’s battle instincts to prevent injury to her clansman and his mount while wielding her sword in directions that went counter to her basic reflexes presented a monumental challenge.

  Yet she and Macmuir acquitted themselves well against the veteran Rhys and his fiery mare until a frightened woodcock darted across the field. To avoid the flapping, screeching menace, Macmuir made an abrupt sideways leap. Dropping the sword, Gyan clung to his foam-streaked neck. The bird switched directions. Macmuir swerved again. Burning pain lanced her wounded arm. Her grip loosened, and she found herself slipping, falling, yelling…

  Like a candle, the world snuffed out.

  NINIANE SIPPED from the plain green glass cup while the merchant looked on in hopeful expectation. The liquid’s sharp taste burned her tongue, and she swallowed hard, resisting the urge to spew it out. To consider it wine required more imagination than she could summon. She set the cup on the rough-planked table.

  Behind her hand, she coughed and cleared her throat. “I was hoping to find something a little easier on the palate.” Though she looked forward to entering heaven one day, being poisoned by the Holy Eucharist wasn’t quite the means she’d envisioned.

  “Ah, yes, of course, Prioress.” The swarthy merchant bobbed his head and invited her to follow him to the other side of the stall where several more amphorae stood, supported by racks specially designed for their pointed bottoms. He flashed an apologetic grin. “The better grades do cost more.”

  She felt her brow furrow, and she gestured at the basket looped over her arm. “I have brought the priory’s best salves, blessed by the Keeper of the Chalice, Abbot Dafydd.” She smiled, recalling the abbot’s chagrin when she’d informed him of this duty. She didn’t believe the Chalice or its Keeper’s blessing enhanced the medicines’ healing properties, but if the patients did, then so much the better for them—and if this merchant did, then so much the better for her.

  The merchant’s expression sobered as he crossed himself. “Please,” he said, pointing at the tall, glazed jars, “select whichever of these suits your needs.” He tossed a glance at a trio of moderately well-dressed women who were approaching the stall and leaned closer to whisper, “For you, dear Prioress, no extra charge.”

  She smiled her thanks, and the wine merchant turned to greet the other customers. As she gripped the handles and peered into the first amphora, her vision blurred. She closed her eyes. The odors of sweat and horses and harness leather enveloped her. Knifelike agony sliced her upper right arm. A confusion of sounds assaulted her ears: hoofbeats, a squawking bird, terrified whinnies, and a woman’s scream.

  Afraid the scream might have been hers, Niniane peered around. The merchant was engrossed in assisting the other women, who remained focused upon tasting and discussing his wares.

  The Dhoo-Glass marketplace teemed with activity, odors and noises, but the leather merchants conducted business two lanes away, and no frightened horses, raucous birds, or screaming women cavorted in the wine shop’s vicinity.

  Another visitation of the Sight, then. Lord in heaven, would it ever end?

  Strangely, she had Seen nothing but infinite blackness.

  She rubbed her arm. Though it bore no marks, the skin felt tender. Someone had been badly hurt. She couldn’t ignore the anguished plea, but whose was it?

  Bracing both hands against the amphora’s cool rim, she drew a breath and gazed past her reflection in the wine.

  The blackness surges forth with suffocating intensity.

  A man shouts, his voice hoarse with fear.

  Niniane couldn’t understand his words. Except one.

  “Gyanhumara!”

  The tattered echoes waver like a sobbing sigh and dissolve into nothingness.

  Her head throbbing as if caught in a vise, she released the amphora and reeled back. It tipped and would have fallen out of the rack, had the merchant not lunged to steady it. Wine splashed the dust and spattered her robe.

  “Prioress, are you ill?” Wringing his hands, he looked at the amphora and back at Niniane.

  Pressing fingertips to temple and blinking, she shook her head. The pain dissipated quickly, praise God. Chieftainess Gyanhumara was in danger, but when? Now, or sometime in the future? And where? Belatedly, she realized the merchant hadn’t stopped regarding her worriedly. “Please forgive me for the spill.”

  “Take the whole measure, Prioress.” When she began to protest, he said, “Please. I insist.”

  She had to find out what the Sight was trying to tell her. “You are most kind, good sir, but I—” A blur of movement in the lane caught her eye. She turned.

  Arms pumping and chest heaving, Angusel darted between market stalls and people and animals at a dead run. He made eye contact with Niniane and came to a skidding stop. “Prioress, thank the gods!” He gripped her hand with extraordinary strength and began running back the way he’d come. “Hurry—Gyan is hurt!”

  They both broke into a dash.

  In front of the apothecary’s shop, she breathlessly commanded Angusel to halt. Reluctantly, he obeyed. She inhaled deeply to steady her voice and asked, “What sort of injury?”

  “Her head. There’s a lot of blood.” He reached for her hand again. “Please, Prioress, we must hurry!”

  “And I must have the right medicines.” She lifted the basket of salve pots. “These are for muscle aches and sprains, not wounds. Go back and ask the wine merchant for a skin full of the first vintage he was going to sell me. He’ll know what you mean. If he insists on payment, please tell him I’ll settle it later.” Her taste buds cri
nged, but the vinegary liquid would be far more suitable as a wound cleanser than a beverage. Aware that Angusel hadn’t divulged their destination, she added, “Meet me back here.”

  While Angusel bolted away, Niniane entered the shop to barter two pots of salve for a bandage roll and bunches of dried betony, valerian, and lavender, items the priory’s infirmary possessed in abundance. A pity the Sight’s timing hadn’t been better.

  She shrugged off the irony and stepped outside with the supplies. Angusel rejoined her. “How did you know to find me at the wine merchant’s?” she asked as they resumed their course.

  “I didn’t,” he replied between breaths. “I was on my way to fetch Cynda. You were closer.”

  Niniane presumed this Cynda was another healer but didn’t press the matter. If Angusel was as preoccupied as he appeared, staring fixedly into the distance while striding as briskly as Niniane’s skirts would allow, she doubted he’d appreciate chatter.

  They passed the last houses and continued through the gates. The Brytoni-uniformed guards exchanged terse greetings with Angusel, which seemed odd. With their commander injured, surely they’d have demonstrated more concern. Perhaps they didn’t know, but if not, why not? For whatever reason, their behavior didn’t faze her guide.

  Outside the gates, he turned left onto a wide, well-trodden track hugging the wall. As they neared a field, she needed no one to tell her that the object of her worry lay in the center of the crowd of mostly Picti warriors. She couldn’t help but recall a similar incident. Unlike Angusel’s accident, however, the Brytoni soldiers seemed more curious than anxious, which troubled Niniane deeply.

  Angusel pulled her into a run, waving and shouting something in his native tongue. An avenue quickly opened.

  The chieftainess lay on her back with arms and legs everywhere like a discarded rag doll, her lovely face whiter than sea foam. On her left temple, a bruise had begun to flower around a cut. Blood streaked her face and stained the hard-packed dirt. If her chest moved beneath her boiled-leather armor, Niniane couldn’t detect it.

  A wickedly sharp rock bore the crimson evidence of its role in the accident. A black-bearded warrior bent to scoop it into a gloved hand. He grunted, his sinews bulging with the effort to pulverize the rock. Failing that, he hurled it at the wall, and it shattered. When he gazed upon Gyanhumara, his eyes mirrored an emotion transcending simple concern. A swift glance at the other faces showed her that this Picti warrior didn’t suffer alone.

  Lord willing, she wouldn’t betray their trust.

  Kneeling beside Gyanhumara, Niniane asked for a dagger and got a dozen. She selected the shiniest and carefully angled the blade under Gyanhumara’s nose. A slow succession of tiny clouds formed and vanished. Niniane laid the dagger aside and closed her eyes for a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Prioress, is—is she…?”

  Angusel’s tone, his fear-rounded, golden-brown eyes, his very words sparked a memory. She had Seen him as a much older man, never far from this flame-haired lady warrior tattooed with the woad dragon and doves.

  Niniane banished the future’s bleak shadows to deal with present reality. “She lives!”

  Relieved sighs rippled through the throng.

  Palpating the neck and as much of the upper back as was not covered in armor revealed no hidden injuries. The rest of that examination would have to wait. Niniane tore a length of bandage, soaked it in wine, and dabbed dirt and blood from the head wound. Gently, she turned Gyanhumara’s head to one side and sluiced the wound with more wine. Tension creased the young woman’s face, but she didn’t wake. She bound Gyanhumara’s head and probed for more injuries. On her right arm, tender pink flesh around an older wound had torn open, probably from the fall. After finding no other sign of hurt, Niniane sent another prayer heavenward.

  She said to Angusel, kneeling beside her, “She must be carried inside and kept warm.”

  This prompted the offering of eight shields and the saddle blanket off every horse within shouting distance.

  She directed the warriors’ efforts to rig a litter and accompanied the unconscious chieftainess to her quarters, where a woman who appeared to be one of Gyanhumara’s personal servants met Niniane. Or rather, ignored her. Spouting a stream of anxious-sounding Picti words, the woman had eyes only for the limp form being gingerly transferred to the bed.

  After Gyanhumara had been stripped of boots, weapons, and armor and settled to the woman’s satisfaction, she began to shoo everyone else from the room, Niniane included.

  “Angusel, tell her I’m a healer. I must stay and keep watch.”

  “If you stay, Prioress, then so do I.” Those young eyes burned with frightening intensity.

  “Very well.” If he was destined to become Gyanhumara’s right arm, how could Niniane deny him? “Just speak to her. Please.”

  While Angusel conversed with the servant, Niniane rummaged through her basket. The mild, sweet betony would make a good tea to ease the inevitable headache once Gyanhumara awoke, along with a pinch of the powerful valerian root if she complained of severe pain. Now, Niniane needed the jar of dried lavender blossoms to fold into a compress for performing their healing magic while Gyanhumara slept.

  Niniane withdrew the lavender and a length of clean linen and looked up to find the servant giving her a stern appraisal. Jabbing thumb to breast, the woman spoke again to Angusel.

  He translated, “Cynda agrees, but she wants the first watch.”

  Niniane took the older woman’s measure. “Thank you, Angusel. Please tell her that I agree. It will give me a chance to prepare my medicines.”

  And the vigil began.

  Chapter 9

  ARTHUR GRIPPED THE slick rail, ignoring his cramping fingers as he mentally willed the warship to go faster. The sounds of swearing and grunting and creaking behind his back, driven by the faster-than-usual drumbeat, told him how vain a wish he’d conceived.

  Another wave broke against the bow. He pulled back, but his eyes stung—not entirely from the salty spray. He couldn’t do a damned thing for his wife, trapped in this endless heaving netherworld between land and sky. Or, his pragmatic inner demon taunted, once he finally reached her side.

  He knew only how to end lives, not heal them.

  Even his father’s death hadn’t made him feel this powerless, and he despised it more with each breath.

  Closing his eyes and tilting his head, he allowed the westering sun to warm his face, but it gave him no comfort. By all reckoning, her accident had been his fault. Never mind that ill-trained demon-spawn of a stallion, it was his fault for letting her out of his sight and for failing to deal with her enemy—their enemy—decisively enough to render this separation unnecessary. Chin to breast, he prayed for her as fervently as he knew how.

  A hand gripped his shoulder. Fewer than half a dozen people would dare such a gesture. One lay gravely injured at his destination port and another was minding the legion’s affairs at headquarters for him.

  Blinking, Arthur turned to regard his fleet commander. Bedwyr withdrew his hand, but his expression remained somber. He acknowledged Bedwyr’s sympathy with a short but appreciative nod.

  “How soon? Within the hour?” He tried to bleed the raw plea from his tone.

  Bedwyr’s gaze flicked out across the horizon, toward the slowly growing landmass. As he nodded at Arthur, compassion flooded his expression. “Want some company?”

  “What I want is more speed. I’d grab an oar if I thought it would help.” Not a bad idea, in fact. He could spell one of the men. If nothing else, the exertion might blunt his worrying. He stepped from the rail.

  Bedwyr caught his arm. “Save your strength. Gyan will have greater need of it.”

  Scowling, Arthur pulled free, but Bedwyr had a valid point, damn him. He stared at the too-small island, resuming his prayer.

  His best friend adopted a similar stance. Whether praying or not, or to which god, Arthur had no idea. Nor did he inquire. Details of faith belonged betwee
n a man and his Maker. He found it comforting that Merlin and perhaps Bedwyr, Niniane, Abbot Dafydd, and others were offering supplications on Gyan’s behalf, and it strengthened his feeble, distracted efforts.

  After what seemed like a millennium, the docks and buildings of Port Dhoo-Glass hove into view, growing larger by the stroke. Bedwyr excused himself to direct the crew for the journey’s final leg. With each command Bedwyr shouted, Arthur felt his tension increase, as though he were a stretching bowstring.

  The instant the warship docked, Arthur vaulted over the side, landed in a catlike crouch on the planking, sprang up, and sprinted toward the fort. He ignored the curious glances and queries, treating everything and everyone as either scenery or obstacles to negotiate. He tried to ignore his personal demon, who scolded him for his unseemly behavior; folks had learned to expect a calm and reserved Pendragon.

  Calm and reserve could bloody well be hanged!

  As the distance lessened, his mental picture intensified. Gyan lay bruised, bleeding, feverish, unconscious…dying…

  God, no!

  He dashed moisture from his eyes with the back of a hand and lurched onward. Across streets, through courtyards, around buildings, down corridors, up stairs, past doorways; he scarcely registered his location but let memories steer him. An ache flared in his chest.

  Upon rounding a corner, he glimpsed the door to Gyan’s chambers and halted, panting hard. Several of her clansmen had congregated outside. To a man, their faces and postures and hushed tones conveyed stark worry. The ache pierced Arthur’s heart again, and he rubbed the spot with his fist.

  He drew a breath, let it out slowly, and drew another. While he fought to regain composure, Bedwyr joined him. Arthur shot his winded friend a wan smile, tightened his jaw, and strode briskly forward, with Bedwyr gasping and trailing in his wake.

  One of the men glanced their way and snapped a salute. Quickly, the others imitated his example. Wading into their midst, Arthur hunted the brambles of his memory for a Caledonian greeting and uttered it as he reached for the handle and pulled. Locked! The soldier who’d seen him first thumped on the door, shouting something. The only word Arthur could make out was the Caledonian form of his name, “Artyr.” His heart clenched.