Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee

physician, she examined the parchment. It was folded twice, and the edges were sealed with a sea-blue dragon.
    How odd, she thought. Even if there were a Caledonach clan that claimed this creature, messages were always delivered orally. It had to be from a Breatan, then, but who? The Pendragon’s symbol was a dragon, but the wax on his treaty was scarlet.
    She smacked her palm against her thigh. “Curse this sickness! I should have been there to greet the messenger!” This touched off a coughing fit that left her doubled over and wheezing.
    “Easy, Gyan, or it’s back to bed with you.” Cynda steadied the trembling shoulders and lifted the mug to Gyan’s lips.
    The coltsfoot and honey did their work, and the coughing subsided. Gyan broke the blue dragon to read the message. And crumpled it into a ball and flung it at the flames.
    “What’s wrong? The message—”
    “Was from the commander of the Pendragon’s war-fleet.” Gyan watched in satisfaction as the parchment blackened, ignited, and collapsed into a heap of smoking ash. “Bedwyr map Bann of Caerglas.” When Cynda looked at her blankly, she explained, “We call it Dùn Ghlas. That’s where we’ll be spending one night of our journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh, which the Breatanaich call Caer Lugubalion.”
    “And for the different Breatanach names you torch the message?” Cynda grinned wickedly. “What’s next? Declaring war on the Pendragon?”
    In no mood to surrender to Cynda’s spirit-lifting tactics, Gyan rolled her eyes. “According to this Bedwyr map Bann, not all of us will have the benefit of shelter inside his fort.”
    “I’m sure he didn’t intend offense.”
    “Indeed! Then do guests have such little honor in a Bhreatan home?” Cynda recoiled, but Gyan’s ire burned too hotly for her to stop. “Or do they think we are no better than dogs?”
    “Of course not. Think on what you’re saying. You will be marrying a Breatanach chieftain’s son. Would they treat you with anything less than the highest honor?”
    “A slight to even one of my clansmen is a slight to me.”
    “I don’t think Bedwyr meant this as a slight to anyone. Did he explain?”
    “Oh, yes.” Eyes closed, she visualized the Breatanaiche words and hunted for Caledonaiche substitutes. “He said that the crews of the ships haven’t yet left Port Dùn Ghlas for their spring patrolling runs.”
    A frigid blast spewed snow into the room. Cynda scuttled to the window to refasten the leather window coverings.
    “With this wretched weather, I’m not surprised. Dùn Ghlas must be too crowded to handle two hundred extra warriors and their horses and supply wagons.” She wagged a finger at Gyan. “You can’t blame the man for something beyond his control.”
    “I suppose not…” A glance at the flames caused another matter to clamor for attention. As Cynda turned to leave, Gyan caught her hand. “Cynda?” So far, no one knew about the prophecy, not even Cynda, who’d been privy to all Gyan’s secrets.
    “Aye, my dove?”
    The woman’s advice had helped Gyan more times than she could count. Yet what could Cynda say this time? No words could change the one fact that was the hardest to bear: Gyan was a captive of destiny. Words might ease the torment, but comfort was not what she sought. She wanted no pity, only freedom.
    No one owned the key to her prison.
    She swallowed thickly and cleared her throat. “I’d like some more tea.” Cynda hesitated, as though attempting to read her thoughts. But this was one burden she would have to shoulder alone. “Please, Cynda.”
    Cynda left the room. The secret remained locked within Gyan’s heart.

    THE FOLLOWING morning dawned as bright and calm as its forebear had been dismal and wild. A mantle of snow was proof, despite the tradition that declared Àmbholc as the first day of spring, that winter remained unbroken. But the sun’s radiant promises streamed from the heavens. Like the cycle of death and birth, the