Free Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee Page A

dozen more, enough to fill a lifetime!
    A soft knock on the outer door nudged her thoughts. At her command, the door swung open. In the corridor stood Dafydd.
    He was not late, she reminded herself, but boredom had driven her from her fireside seat. She strode to the table. “Here, Dafydd.” She dumped an aromatic load of hides and cold charred wood into his arms. “Let’s have our lesson in the Common. Today you will begin teaching me how to write your speech.”
    Gyan scooped up the remaining scraps and headed out the door before he could acknowledge the change of plans. She smiled to hear him break into a trot to catch her.
    The Common was a large, circular room at one end of the clan rulers’ private living quarters. The domed stone structure had been built soon after the clan’s occupation of the Ròmanach fortress. Its arm-thick walls had no windows and only one door. In this it was akin to the buildings constructed at settlements farther north, many generations earlier, to serve as easily defended refuges during raids.
    There all similarity ended. At Arbroch, this building and its granite brethren were used year-round. The Common featured a central raised firepit, vented through a tin chimney tube disappearing into the hole in the dome. The door opened onto the narrow corridor that ran the length of the wing of living quarters. The room was a popular gathering place for Gyan and her family, especially during the hottest and coldest days of the year.
    Today the room was packed. Near the firepit, Ogryvan and Per were discussing the journey to Dùn Lùth Lhugh with Rhys, Airc, Conall, and Mathan, who represented the rest of the Argyll warriors chosen to join the Breatanach ranks. On the far side of the room clustered Cynda and Mardha and many of the other female servants. The clack of the loom and the whir of the spinning wheels sang through the occasional lulls in the various conversations. Gyan recognized the pine-colored fabric on the loom as the cloth for her new tunic. The male servants, she guessed, were seeing to the comfort of the livestock.
    Nods and smiles greeted Gyan’s entrance. Her armload of hides and blackened wood won a few quizzical looks. To these folk, she murmured a promise to explain later. The lure of learning was tugging too strongly.
    At the firepit, the warriors made room for Gyan and Dafydd. She dropped her burden and removed cloak and boots, for the room was comfortably warm. She folded her cloak to use as a cushion on the dirt floor.
    As Dafydd sat, something slipped from the neck of his tunic. A pair of crossed oak sticks dangled from a leather thong. The wood around the brass pin fastening the sticks was dark and shiny with age. The longest stick was no bigger than a finger. It seemed an odd adornment for a man. For anyone, she silently amended.
    Pointing to his chest, she gave voice, in Breatanaiche, to her curiosity. “What sort of charm is that, Dafydd?”
    “This?” His fingers curled around the trinket. “It’s not a charm.” A gentle smile suffused his face. “It’s called a cross. A symbol of my Lord, Iesu the Christ. In Caledonian, His name is Iesseu.”
    Although the word “Christ” held no special meaning for her, and she had never heard of this Iesseu, she guessed Dafydd was talking about a god. But two crossed sticks? When most gods chose powerful animals or the wild forces of nature?
    “What does it mean?”
    Head bowed, his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When he opened them, they seemed to burn with a calm intensity at odds with the Dafydd she knew, more like a lion on a leash.
    “My lady, it’s a reminder of how He died.”
    “Died? But the gods don’t die. They can’t!” She felt her eyebrows lower. “Else they’re not gods at all.”
    “Mine did.” There was no shame in the admission, only quiet pride. “And conquered death to live again.”
    To die and return to life? Impossible! How could anyone believe such obvious nonsense?
    Her smile was