Morning's Journey (50 page)

Her dear, sweet bairn was dead.

Gyan flung herself facedown on the bed, sobs wracking her body. Memories plunged her further into the abyss. She grabbed fistfuls of shorn hair and yanked, but it couldn’t displace the pain lancing her chest. Worse than any fleshly wound, it wouldn’t abate.

Why, she beseeched the One God, had Loholt been abducted? Why couldn’t Angusel have saved him? Why had she let Cynda convince her nothing was amiss? Why did her bairn have to die so horribly? Why did he have to die at all? Why hadn’t Urien gone after her instead,
why
?

Where was this all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful God when Loholt was murdered? Why didn’t He act to prevent it? Didn’t He care?

No answers came.

A tentative knock on the door wrenched her from her tirade. Cursing her stupidity for not bolting the door to the outer chamber, she called out to be left alone.

The knocking persisted. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara? I’d like to speak with you, if I may.” Not Caledonaiche words but Breatanaiche. “Please?”

Gyan had no wish to see anyone, but her instincts objected. After swiping the back of a hand across her face, she rose and opened the door.

Prioress Niniane glided into the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. She held out a hand, palm up. “As a servant of the One God, I grieve with you, Chieftainess.”

The One God.
Gyan squeezed her eyes shut, wrapping an arm around the bedpost. Whatever Niniane had to say Gyan didn’t want to hear.

Yet it stood to reason that Niniane’s vocation put her into closer proximity with Him. Closer, surely, than Gyan felt. Perhaps the prioress could learn the answers Gyan had failed to obtain.

Regarding Niniane evenly, she fired her questions—except the one about Urien, which by its nature demanded silence. Several times, she paused to wipe her face or take a deep breath.

Sinking onto a nearby chair, Niniane murmured, “I’m sorry, my lady. Those matters are beyond my knowledge.”

Hands on hips Gyan asked, “Why did the One God cause this misery?”

“He didn’t. He loves us. He wants to see us happy, not miserable.”

“Ha.” Folding her arms, Gyan narrowed her eyes. “If the One God isn’t responsible, then who is?”

“The prince of this world.” Who did Niniane mean? Urien? The prioress continued, “The evil one. Lord of Lies. Ha’satan, the Adversary.”

At her mention of the Adversary, Gyan shivered. Caledonaich called Lord Annàm “the Adversary” of his twin brother and Lord of Light, Annaomh. Their eternal battles across the groves and glens of the Otherworld bled into this one to spark conflict among mortal kind. Whether truth or fantasy, however, it made no difference. Gyan couldn’t punish a bodiless manifestation.

On the verge of ordering the prioress to leave, she vented her frustration with a sigh. “Why mock me with your ignorance?”

Niniane shook her head. “Your husband sent me. ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’” Briefly, her eyes closed. “But I’m not much of a comforter, I fear.”

In an odd way, though, Niniane was helping. “Talking…keeps my mind from—from…” Her chin started quivering, and she clamped her jaw shut. With her gaze fastened on Niniane to avoid looking at the empty cradle, Gyan sat on the bed. “Oh, Arthur…” she whispered. “I thought he’d hate me for what I’ve done.”

For not dealing with Urien in a way that would have averted this tragedy, for failing to follow her instincts, for banishing Angusel and alienating his clan…for failing to be the wife Arthur needed or the mother Loholt needed. She loathed herself.

“My lady, please don’t believe that.” Niniane stood and crossed to the bed. She gathered Gyan’s hands in her own as she sat beside her. “He knows this wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” Gyan pulled free. “My inattention gave the abductors their opportunity.” In more ways than one, she thought miserably. Gyan felt tears welling and blinked hard. Because of her selfishness and stupidity, she would never see her son again.

“That may be true,” Niniane said gently, “but God forgives you. So does Arthur.” Gyan couldn’t believe any of it. Tears flowed anew. Niniane wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You need to learn how to forgive yourself.” A waver in Niniane’s voice made Gyan look at her. To her surprise, she saw tears glistening on the other woman’s cheeks. “Forgiveness of self is a lesson I must learn, as well.”

The prioress didn’t elaborate, and Gyan didn’t ask. Gyan’s own problems weighed too much. Her anguish had spawned political strife, the very thing she’d most feared that Urien would accomplish.

“I—I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”

“It isn’t easy, sometimes.” Niniane gazed at Gyan hopefully. “Maybe we can learn together. That is, if you want me to stay.”

Gyan considered the merits of Niniane’s suggestion. She missed her chats with Dafydd about the One God and sensed she needed more.

Inadvertently, her gaze found the cradle. Fresh pain bolted through her body, and she gritted her teeth. Removing the bairn’s things would avail nothing. She’d know where every toy, every swaddling cloth, every stick of furniture had been. She would still hear his cries, his laughter, his coos, and his sighs.

Gyan rose, crossed to a chest, and hunted around inside before finding the object she sought. After closing the chest, she strode to the door and turned to face Niniane. “Coming, Prioress?” Though wrapped in fabric, the metal imbued her with a sense of purpose.

The holy woman frowned. “My lady?”

“There’s no need for you to stay here.” Gyan gazed at Arthur’s traveling cloak, debating whether she could live with the memories it evoked. Finally, she lifted it from its peg and folded it over her arm. “We shall both return to Maun.”

OUTSIDE THE feast hall, Angusel braced himself against the timbers, eyes closed. His head wound throbbed unmercifully. Yet what was fleshly pain compared with the destruction of his world?

“Baby-killer!” someone rasped.

Angusel opened his eyes to see the men of First Turma, Sixth Ala, Horse Cohort marching past him toward the stables, many of whom he’d befriended during the weeks of cattle raiding for Chieftain Loth. Had one of them spoken with such vehemence?

Aye, the Pendragon’s sister-son, Gawain map Loth. Though Gawain had moved on to keep in step, Angusel would have recognized that straight raven hair and stocky build anywhere.

He sighed. First Gyan—and he always would remember her by her familiar name. Then his own kin, now Arthur’s. Only the gods knew who else despised him for his failure. His belly felt as though someone had thrust in a hot knife and twisted repeatedly.

Sundown tomorrow, she’d said. He wanted nothing more than to leave this gods-cursed place at once. And so he would, as soon as he could gather his belongings and horse and figure out where to go.

He couldn’t hate Gyan. Not for the attempted execution, shattered oath, rage, or public humiliation. Or for taking from him the only things he’d ever wanted, the only things that had lent meaning to his life: being her sword-brother and friend.

For she’d been right. He had failed Loholt and, by extension, her. He knew it; she knew it. To his disgrace, everyone knew it.

Bandits might have him.

Yet even as the thought formed, he rejected it. He’d rather starve than resort to law-breaking. Better to live out the name he’d given himself.

“Angusel. I don’t agree with what she did to you.”

He turned and rubbed a hand across eyes that felt too wet for anyone else to see. “Lord Pendragon! I didn’t hear you approach.” He stared at the dusty ground. “Call me Aonar, sir. Please.”

“I will not.” The Pendragon’s forceful tone made Angusel look up. “Call yourself whatever you like, but you are not alone. And you may use my given name. This isn’t a battlefield or a legion post.” He shook his head. “I’m not the one who insists on being unreasonable.”

Angusel couldn’t have disagreed more. “I failed her.” He felt stinging in his eyes and looked away. “And you.”

“So. You lied, then? Ran away before the first blow?”

“Nay, sir!” Words tumbled forth in a rush, describing every move, every grunt and thrust he could recall of the fight. “But when I woke up and found the blanket—” He averted his gaze.

A hand gripped Angusel’s shoulder with a familiar, tingling warmth. “I grieve for Loholt, too.” Arthur’s features hardened into the mask Angusel knew well. “But grieving won’t bring him back. You aren’t to blame for this. Those people you saw are. Possibly others you didn’t see.”

“What do you mean, sir?” He had his guesses but craved Arthur’s opinion.

The Pendragon gave a rueful smile. “Speculation can cause a lot of trouble.” He set off toward the stables. After taking a few strides, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Well, Angusel? Are you coming or not?”

“With you?” Angusel hurried to catch him. “Where?” He wanted to ask why but couldn’t bring himself to voice it.

“The staging area,” said the Pendragon, resuming his pace.

“Senaudon?” Angusel’s astonishment stopped him. Had Arthur gone mad? “I’m sorry, my lord. I can’t.”

“Horse dung. You’ll be in the legion. Officially.” Arthur tapped his own fealty-mark. “You didn’t break your oath. She is only refusing to accept your service. You still want to serve her, don’t you?”

Do I?

An hour ago, he knew the answer.

“Your oath,” Arthur said sternly, “binds you to serve Gyan by any possible means. If you join the legion, you will be serving me.”

“And by serving you, I’ll be serving her, is that it?”

“It’s the only viable option you have.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you are an oath-breaker.”

“Nay! But I—I’m not sure I’m ready to join the legion.” Especially if he had to live at his birthplace, outcast.

Aonar.

“It won’t be easy,” said the Pendragon. “Think it over while you visit the physician and collect your gear. I leave within the hour.” Arthur glanced at the stables, which were teeming with soldiers, servants, groomsmen, stable boys, and horses. “I need men who take their duties seriously. Not boys who choose to wallow in self-pity.” He smiled slightly. “A wise man told me that having guilt is natural, but allowing it to consume you isn’t. Today, you acted every inch the man I’ve expected you to become. I would be pleased to welcome you into the legion.”

Duties, Angusel thought morosely. Mere days ago, Gyan had told him to join the legion at Senaudon. Yet he’d insisted on performing his deuchainn na fala first. If he’d obeyed Gyan, as duty demanded, she wouldn’t have banished him today.

But there wouldn’t have been anyone to try to save Loholt.

He sighed. The sword of duty cut both ways, but he deserved its every wound.

“I will join the Dragon Legion. The self-pity stays here.” He stabbed a finger downward and regarded his new commander solemnly. “Arthur, I promise to serve you to the best of my ability.”

The Pendragon grinned and extended his sword hand. As they clasped forearms, Angusel offered a tentative smile.

“Your best, Angusel, is all anyone can ask of you.”

Perhaps, but that didn’t free him from demanding more of himself. He vowed to become the best warrior ever. Not for his own sake or even Arthur’s, but for Gyan. He prayed she would forgive him one day and allow him to serve her openly. That fragile hope sparked the volition to journey with Arthur to Senaudon and beyond.

Chapter 26

G
YAN SUMMONED PRIORESS Niniane’s escort to the stables and was overseeing the preparations for their departure, amid the tumult created by Arthur’s unit, when Arthur arrived. She stiffened at his approach, unsure of how he would react to her decision.

Hell would vanish before she’d let him stop her.

“Gyan, well met.” He clasped her hands and drew her into an embrace. As his lips brushed her cheek, he whispered, “I didn’t expect to have the chance to bid you farewell.”

She laughed mirthlessly. She hadn’t planned on taking her leave of him, either.

He nodded pointedly at Prioress Niniane’s escort. “Isn’t she staying?”

“They are my escort, too.”

He released her hands and stepped back, his gaze radiating intense appraisal. “What do you mean?”