Dawnflight Read Online Free PDF Page B

it had almost caused a diplomatic disaster.
    He spared a glance for his friends and was thankful they were too far away—and too engrossed with flirting with two more serving women—to have overheard the exchange. Two months was enough time to heal flesh wounds but not enough time to salve Cai’s pride for having to endure Arthur’s public rebuke in order to preserve the fragile peace. He returned his attention to Urien. “Do not forget that your charge was carried out under my orders.”
    Urien glared but let the remark pass. “The Picts have been a menace to our borders for time out of mind. Why didn’t you—”
    “The same can be said about the Saxons, Angles, and Scots.” These last two Arthur spat like the curses they were to him. The Angli had killed his father. And the Scots…he banished a grisly memory with a long blink. “None of them have demonstrated a willingness to negotiate with us for peace. The Caledonians were willing, and Brydein will be getting a much stronger cavalry as a result.” Arthur grinned. “You should thank them for your promotion.”
    Urien grunted. “By the way, I thought it was quite magnanimous of you to word the treaty to preserve the Picti woman’s customary right to choose a husband, providing he’s a nobleman on this side of the border. So if you’re so set on this alliance, Lord Pendragon, why don’t you see if she wants to marry you?” He gave an elaborate shrug. “But I forget. By the terms of your own treaty, you don’t qualify. How clumsy of me. Sir.” His smile was so thick with insubordination that, had they been anywhere else, Arthur would have settled the matter with Caleberyllus. And then he’d have renamed it Urienfwlch .
    “Yes, Tribune, it was.” He let enough warning seep into his tone to convey his irritation without alerting anyone around them.
    What irritated him far more than his subordinate’s attitude was the fact that, because Clan Cwrnwyll had never waived the illegitimacy of Arthur’s birth, Urien was absolutely right.

    “I DON’T like it.”
    Gyan glanced up to see Cynda, hands on hips, scowl at the pattern of rushes and crushed lavender strewn across the floor of the guest chambers. These rooms would soon house men who, as recently as midsummer, had been Argyll’s sworn enemies.
    The slave girl clutching the shallow basket of lavender looked up, startled. The basket tipped. A pile of petals fluttered to the floor. With a squeak of alarm, the girl tried to scoop them back into the basket.
    Cynda softened her gaze. “Never mind that, dear, just spread them around now. Ach, that’ll be fine.” She pointed toward the window. “Perhaps a wee bit more over there.”
    The slave bent to her work. In moments, she finished and, bowing, scurried from the room.
    “What is it, then?” Gyan smoothed the wool-lined wolfskin sleeping fur on one of the beds. “Have we forgotten something?”
    Stepping back, she surveyed the chamber. Everything seemed to be in place: fresh linens and furs on the beds, a fire snapping in the fireplace with a generous stack of wood nearby, clean rushes on the floor, an empty trunk for clothes against the far wall, a basin and pitcher of water on the table, the lamps lit and brimming with oil. Anything else Chieftain Dumarec or his son might need could be sent for easily enough.
    If something were amiss, Gyan couldn’t see it.
    “Nay.” Cynda made a gesture of impatience with her hand. “The reason for all of this. That’s what I don’t like. Sheltering enemies at the Seat of Argyll, it’s unheard of!”
    “They are not our enemies now.” Gyan wasn’t completely prepared to accept that a collection of strange scratches on sheepskin could be taken as proof, but she kept that confession to herself.
    “Oh, aye, if you can believe the words of a flock of thick-witted men who spend most of their time fighting and drinking and wenching.”
    Gyan laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell Father what you think of his