Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee Page A

advent of spring was inevitable, and just as jubilantly celebrated.
    Gyan’s cough was gone. Her announcement won a critical stare from Cynda, followed by a flurry of motion as she felt Gyan’s forehead, cheeks, and neck.
    “Bad tidings.” As Gyan began to protest, Cynda grinned. “I’m going to have to send you back to your duties. Can’t have you lounging around here with so much to be done.”
    Laughing, Gyan flung a pillow at her would-be tormentor, who deftly caught it and tossed it back. Feet draped over the side of the bed, she flexed her arms. “Does this mean everything? Sword practice too?”
    “Aye, sword practice too.” Cynda expelled a noisy sigh. “Mind you don’t overdo, though, or you’ll just end up back here.”
    Gratefully, Gyan donned her battle-gear for the first time in more than a sennight. Small wonder she hadn’t forgotten how. Hefting her practice sword, she was dismayed at how heavy it seemed.
    “Don’t worry, my dove. Your full strength will return soon.” Cynda patted the doves on Gyan’s arm. “Just give it time.”
    So this illness was determined to leave its legacy. Gyan knew only one sure remedy: weapons practice. And taking this medicine would be a pleasure. She bid Cynda a cheery farewell and left her chambers.
    In the corridor, Per favored her with a warm hug, although for an instant he seemed strangely hesitant, as if he feared she might break.
    “Gyan! I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better.” His practice sword bounced against his leather-clad thigh as they resumed their pace. “Are you well enough for a bout?”
    Against Per, who always managed to win, even on her very best days? No, it would be much wiser to recover her strength against the practice posts. Per would have to wait for another day.
    They reached the main entrance and stepped outside. Snow was beginning to retreat before the sun’s steady advance, leaving glistening mud like the track of a monstrous worm. The yard was a slushy mess from wagons and animals and people passing through. The practice fields didn’t appear to be any better. Yet Conall, Airc, Mathan, Rhys, and several other pairs of warriors were engrossed in mock combat, doubtless glad not to be penned inside the feast hall.
    She was about to tell Per of her decision to practice alone when an unusual sight caught her eye.
    “Well, Gyan? Are we going—”
    “Shh, look.”
    Across the compound, a knot of slaves rethatching a building had climbed down to rest. But this was no ordinary rest period. Rather than trying to devour as much food and ale as possible, the men seemed more interested in someone standing in their midst. When the slaves’ overseer ordered them back to work, four Breatanaich remained: Dafydd, Katra, and their two oldest children. They crossed the yard slowly, heads bowed. Their third child, the infant born a few days after Samhainn, was nowhere to be seen.
    Dafydd, Gyan realized as the family approached, was singing. More like chanting, actually, so low that the words were impossible to determine. But even when he drew close enough that she should be able to understand him, she could not. The chant was not Breatanaiche, but it evoked that same sense of the divine she had discerned in the slaves’ song.
    In Dafydd’s arms rested a short, rough-hewn oak coffin.
    Hand to mouth, Gyan gasped. She turned to her brother. “What do you know about this? When did the bairn die?” Although Dafydd and his family were well out of earshot on their way to Arbroch’s main gate, she didn’t raise her voice above a whisper. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
    Per took her hand. “It happened three—nay, four days ago. You were so ill, Cynda thought it best not to upset you.”
    She pulled her hand away and gazed at the mourners in tortured silence. The bairn, conceived in slavery yet born in freedom, would never know the delights of this world. Or the next. The Old Ones had no use for children in their realm.
    Caledonaich