Free Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee

“What say you, Dafydd?”
    The flash of Dafydd’s grin was eclipsed by his deep bow. “Chieftain Ogryvan, Chieftainess Gyanhumara, it would be my greatest honor. And my pleasure.”
    “Good.” This was the best piece of news Gyan had received this morning. She could scarcely wait for the day she could speak with Urien privately. Perhaps then she would find the answers she craved. “When do we start?”
    Dafydd gave a short laugh. “As soon as I can decide how best to go about doing this. If my lord and lady will excuse me?”
    “Of course, Dafydd, of course.” Ogryvan thumped Dafydd’s back. “Take all the time you need, lad.”
    “But before you do one more thing, Dafydd,” Gyan said as he began to leave, “I want you to gather up your family’s possessions in the slave quarters and speak to Cynda.” She nodded toward the Móranach contingent across the field. “I happen to know of some fine guest chambers that will be vacant on the morrow.”
    “My lady, you are most gracious.” She couldn’t begin to measure the depth of his gratitude. Besides being in closer proximity for Dafydd to conduct her lessons, the guest quarters would be a much more comfortable place for Katra to have their bairn. She wondered if Dafydd was thinking of that as well. “How can I—we—ever repay your kindness?”
    “Teach me well, and I’ll consider that payment enough.”
    As she watched him stride off, humming, toward the slave quarters, groans of disappointment issued from the crowd around her. She faced the field to see Per and Urien, both standing, their weapons sheathed. The contest, she guessed, must have ended in a draw. Per approached her, staggering and panting heavily. Urien, slowly making his way toward his clansmen, didn’t appear to be in much better shape.
    “Too much last night.” Per looked sheepish as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand. “Finish later. Almost had him, though.”
    This won shouts of encouragement from his clansmen.
    Urien, it seemed, was making a similar speech to the Móranaich, who had split to surround their future chieftain as he crossed the field toward Gyan.
    He emerged from the knot of Móranach warriors to join the Argyll group. Per and Urien clasped forearms, then faced Gyan. Urien’s look echoed the triumph she’d seen on his face the night before. Her instincts renewed their silent tirade. Yet she managed the expected smile. Urien took the cue and folded her into a crushing embrace, like a falcon stooping to the prey.

    BREATANAICHE CAME easily to Gyan. She was amazed at the similarities to the ancient tongue of her people. And the words with no Caledonaiche equivalent were not difficult to memorize. In weeks, she and Dafydd were conversing freely in Breatanaiche. The other inhabitants of the Seat of Argyll grew accustomed to the sight of their chieftainess with the shorter, darker man as the pair spent hour upon hour in animated, incomprehensible conversation.
    She was pleased with the speed of her progress but was not satisfied with learning only the speech. As the snows deepened and the sun grew ever more reluctant to stay aloft in the sky, she began to hunger for the written word as well.
    One bitterly cold afternoon found her arranging hide scraps on her work table in the antechamber beside the pile of charcoal salvaged from the ashes of the previous night’s fire. Chafing her hands, she began to pace. Her wool-lined rabbit-fur cloak couldn’t repel all of the breath-stealing chill.
    Not for the first time, she imagined the conversations she and Urien would share. There was so much to ask him: about his family, his battles, his education, his likes and dislikes, his desires and dreams. About his responsibilities as a Breatanach chieftain’s son and the customs of his people. His opinions about marriage and children and about having a wife who could wield weapons and ride horses as well as he could.
    As she mulled the questions, each spawned a