Morning's Journey (51 page)

She removed her tricolor dragon badge, unwrapped the object she’d brought from her chambers, and pinned it in the other brooch’s place. “I have demoted myself.” She gave him the gold brooch and fabric. “Keep it until you’re ready to confer its true significance upon its bearer.”

“What is this?” Glaring, he rapped a fingernail against Urien’s discarded legion brooch. “Martyrdom?”

“I intend to resume my duties as a cohort commander.” Fists on hips, she thrust out her chin. “If the Pendragon has no objections.”

“What of Argyll and your duties here?”

“Ha.” She rolled her eyes. “I am of no use to Argyll at present.” Closing her fingers over her sword’s sapphire, she said, “I intend to be of use to the legion.”

Again, she bore his scrutiny. “You cannot escape the past.”

“No,” she conceded. “But I don’t need its perpetual reminders.”

Sighing, he nodded. “I understand.” He stroked her arm, swathed in his traveling cloak, the only reminder she had intended to bring. “Where are you going?”

“Maun.”

His hand stilled. “Out of the question. Unless you plan to deliver yourself into Urien’s hands?”

He had a point, one she hadn’t considered. It tempted her to change her mind, but her desire to get away outweighed all else. Only on Maun had she ever felt completely at peace.

She squared her shoulders. “Just let him try to take me! He has much to answer for.” She folded her arms and shrugged. “With the Móran chieftainship so new on his shoulders, I presume he has more than enough to occupy him in Dùn At.”

Arthur stared at her for what seemed like an eon. Once, their gazes had held naught but love. Not today, she realized miserably. But she resolved to remain firm.

Finally, he relented. “I will make the necessary arrangements on two conditions. First, that you take ship from Caerlaverock.”

“Dùn Càrnhuilean? So Ygraine can counsel me?” Having her consort and blood-kin and the prioress prying into her grief, she could understand, but including a woman made kin by marriage pressed matters too far. “I think not.”

“I suggest it for your health,” he snapped. “A plague has decimated Caer Lugubalion. I cannot deploy the full legion against the Angli until spring. Providing they don’t attack Dunpeldyr first.”

The frustration soaking his voice made her overlook his use of those Breatanaiche names in their Caledonaiche conversation. “Attack Loth directly? I thought border-raiding was their game.”

“It was. Until Loth summoned me, and what forces I could muster, based on a false report.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes glittered icily. Whether his anger was directed at Loth, the Angalaranaich, or herself, she couldn’t tell. “It may prove to be a costly mistake for us all.” Quieter, he continued, “As to your traveling by way of Dùn Càrnhuilean, my mother does know the anguish of losing a child.”

Gyan’s cheeks flushed. She almost quipped that Ygraine had been reunited with her child but thought better of it. “And the second condition?”

“Gyan, lass—your hair! By the gods, what did you do?”

Arthur and Gyan turned to find Ogryvan striding toward them, with Per and the rest of his contingent in his wake. Gyan explained her vow and her decision to return to Maun. The fact that she hoped to escape her roiling emotions she kept to herself. Eyes downcast, she concluded, “Father, I am truly sorry for the hurt I have caused Argyll. And…you.” Ignoring the sting in her eyes and nose, she looked up. Pain and compassion flooded her father’s gaze, and her chin began to quiver.

“Ach, lass, I forgive you.” Ogryvan folded her into a hug.

She buried her face against his chest, soaking his tunic with her tears. His arms tightened, and he swayed her gently like a bairn. Fresh grief shuddered through her body.

She stepped back, drying her face with her tunic sleeve. That her father had to do the same didn’t surprise her. “I will miss you, Gyan. We all will.” He glanced at the surrounding men, who answered with nods and words of affirmation. Arthur alone remained silent, which ripped open another wound, though Gyan fought to mask her hurt. “But I must admit your absence should make it easier for me to smooth Alayna’s ruffled feathers.”

“I don’t think anything can help that,” Gyan said, rage and regret facing off within her soul, “short of recanting what I did to her son.” Rage won again; she couldn’t deny the stark reality of Angus’s—
Aonar’s
—failure. “Which isn’t going to happen.”

“What Alayna wants from Argyll is the one thing she has always wanted,” Ogryvan said. “She lost no time in reminding me of it.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“She wants me as Alban’s exalted heir-begetter,” Ogryvan said. “That would rob Gyan of her rightful rank, son, and you of yours. I cannot do that to either of you.”

Gyan raised her hands in supplication. “Father, I don’t care about my rank”—
or my consort’s
—“if it means more suffering for Argyll. If that’s the only way to buy peace with Alban—”

“Nay, lass.” He smiled briefly, brushing the graying Argyll Doves on his sword arm. “Your dear mother’s grave bears witness to my vow that I shall never unite with the exalted heir-bearer of another clan.” Ogryvan hugged her again. “You go and do what you need to do, Gyan. Don’t worry about Argyll. Or me. I can handle Alban.” After releasing her, he stared at Arthur, eyebrows furrowing. “I want my daughter back in one piece.”

“I intend to post Argyll warriors to Maun with her, sir,” he replied crisply.

“Your other condition?” Gyan asked Arthur as his announcement won exclamations of appreciation from the men.

“Yes.”

Ogryvan shifted closer to Arthur. “See me privately before you leave, then. I have a—contribution for you.” He held his son-by-law’s gaze as if in challenge.

ARTHUR NODDED and watched thoughtfully as Ogryvan departed. In Brytonic and Caledonian, he called for volunteers. Enough stepped forward to fill two turmae, including Gawain and Per.

He cocked a questioning eyebrow at his nephew.

“I want to return to Tanroc’s infantry unit,” Gawain stated.

“Not one of its turmae?” Arthur asked. “They could use another fine horseman.”

“Call it a respite from the saddle sores, sir.”

Perhaps even a respite from Gawain’s recent Dunpeldyr memories, though now bloody well wasn’t the time to confirm that detail.

The Pendragon approved Gawain’s request but denied Per’s: “The Horse Cohort needs its prefect.”

“Then appoint another one.” Per stood beside Gyan. They exchanged a look; hers was one of irritation underpinned with the barest hint of affection. Per regarded Arthur frankly. “
She
needs me, whether she realizes it or not. Blood is thicker than”—he pulled off the red-ringed bronze dragon and held it up—“this.”

Battling back a sigh, Arthur accepted the piece, wrapped it with Gyan’s, and regarded his brother-by-marriage. “Guard her back well.” His gaze shifted beyond Per, Gawain, Rhys, Conall, Mathan, and the other volunteers. “Gyan, you also have one new recruit.”

The crowd parted. When the identity of this “new recruit” registered, dressed in black Caledonian armor, with freshly bandaged wounds and saddle packs looped over his arms, Gyan looked ready to refuse. Gawain and the Argyll warriors looked ready to lynch the lad.

Arthur leveled a glare at the men, and they eased their stances. Crossing his arms, he regarded his wife. “Angusel goes to Maun, or you, Gyanhumara nic Hymar, do not.”

Angusel’s countenance fell. “Lord Pendragon, I thought I—”

“In the Dragon Legion, soldier, you go where your commander orders.” Arthur directed his gaze upon Gyan. “Understood, Commander?”

Gyan thinned her lips. “Understood, Lord Pendragon.
Aonar
goes to Maun.” She removed Arthur’s cloak and thrust it at him, keeping Urien’s damned badge clenched in her fist.

As Arthur sadly took the garment from her, the fury smoldering in her eyes declared that she would not soon forget his intrusion upon her authority. Or forgive him for it.

SURROUNDED BY his escort, Urien urged Talarf into a trot, anxiety and resentment ravaging his heart. He ran a gloved finger beneath his gold-inlaid leather headband to release the sweat that had collected there. Not even a crown of inch-thick solid gold could make him forget the scar it concealed.

The main road to the God-forsaken Argyll border was the last place he wanted to be, but with Accolon overdue by a week, he needed to learn why.

He’d hoped to meet Accolon along the way. The border, however, stretched for miles. If Accolon were being pursued, he’d surely avoid the roads.

Talarf pricked his ears, tossing his head and wrestling with the bit. Urien tried to listen for other sounds, but the noise made by his company drowned everything else. He squinted down the road.

The traveler appearing from around the bend looked like hell, slumped over his horse’s neck, with his face buried in the mane, one shoulder swathed in a dirty bandage, his clothes torn and dingy. The horse shuffled along, head drooping, barely lifting its hooves.

Urien halted his escort and ordered two men forward to investigate. The traveler raised his head.

“My lord!” shouted a soldier, looking back at Urien. “It’s—”

Accolon
, Urien mentally finished as his guard uttered the name aloud. He couldn’t dismount fast enough.

Mindful of the wounded shoulder and possible injuries concealed by Accolon’s clothes, the men eased Accolon from the saddle as Urien and the rest of the escort approached. While one soldier saw to the needs of Accolon’s horse, Urien waved the others back so he could tend Accolon himself and, with luck, glean some information.

“Chieftain Urien.” Accolon grinned wanly as Urien, supporting his good arm, helped him sit on a fallen log. “Well met.”

“Well met, indeed.” Urien made a show of examining the bandage. “Done?” he whispered.

Accolon nodded. He shifted on the log, grimacing.

“Trouble?” Urien pointed a nod at the wound.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

With this being neither the time nor place to extract details, he deemed it best to concentrate on other matters. “Witnesses?”

“Dead.”

Urien felt his eyebrows lift. “Anyone I might know?” The whore, perhaps, killed in the struggle over her baby? While it would deny him the pleasure of watching her beg for her life, he would not complain if good fortune landed upon his doorstep.

A fly tried to alight on Accolon’s wound. He slapped at it, none too gently, Urien thought. The pest reeled, recovered its flight, and buzzed off. Accolon sucked in a breath, wincing, and slowly blew it out. “No one of consequence, my lord.”

Elation surged through Urien’s veins.

He indulged in the fantasy of seeing Gyanhumara, broken in body and spirit, cowering at his feet. He would take from her what he’d always craved, what had been rightfully his. And, oh, how he would savor the taking.

Pitching his voice for the others to hear, he said, “I can’t do anything more for your wound, Accolon. We need to find a physician.” He gave his friend a reassuring grin. “You’ll be well and whole before you know it.” For Accolon’s ears alone he added, “Then you and I will celebrate your success.”

UNLIKE THE first time Gyan journeyed on this road, she had nothing to celebrate. Then, the world had seemed fresh and exciting, bursting with promise and adventure. The road had led to her soul’s mate.