Free Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee Page B

not unkind, and not without a hint of pity. Poor, deluded Dafydd…perhaps she ought to share her beliefs of gods who ruled the lightning and summoned the seas, whose chariots were drawn by the winds. Of goddesses whose fingers lay upon the pulse of mortal events, deities truly worthy of worship.
    But there would be plenty of time for these stories later.
    “I think we ought to begin the lesson.” She gestured at the smelly, sooty heap between them.
    “As you wish, my lady.” The fire in his eyes dimmed but did not die. He tucked the cross into the neck opening of his tunic. Selecting a hide scrap measuring perhaps two handbreadths by three and a slim piece of charcoal, Dafydd bid her to do the same. He said, “Parchment is more refined. But these hides and charred wood pieces will do nicely for practice, my lady. How did you know?”
    She grinned at the approval in his tone. “Cold ash leaves a mark on your skin.” She passed over one blackened lump for one that fit more comfortably in her hand. “And what are hides, after all, but animal skins?”
    Caledonaich left their marks in nothing less durable than stone, and only for such important monuments as grave and battle markers. The memorization skills of the seannachaidhean, preservers of law and lore, called “bards” in Breatanaiche, left no reason to do otherwise. But Dafydd had taught her that the Breatanaich and other folk who had fallen under Ròmanach rule used different methods.
    “Excellent, my lady. Now, the letters.”
    By the time for the evening meal, she could write her name in the manner of the Breatanaich. Her letters seemed wobbly and uncertain compared with Dafydd’s skilled strokes. He assured her this would improve with practice. Yet the accomplishment was heady: to see her name peering back at her, disguised in another tongue, a name that, paradoxically, meant “white shadow.”
    Gwenhwyfar.

Chapter 7
     

    W HEN DAFYDD ARRIVED for Gyan’s usual morning lesson, he found she had donned her rabbit-fur cloak and fur-lined boots.
    “My lady! Surely you don’t wish to have your lesson outside today. Why, the snow has to be knee-deep.”
    She laughed lightly. “Of course not, Dafydd. Come.” She could barely contain her excitement as she strode toward the door. “Before we begin, I have something to show you.”
    After stopping at his quarters so he could retrieve his outer gear, they stepped from the relative warmth of the building into a world of frozen white, where children and dogs romped and adults trudged as they performed their appointed tasks. About the snow’s depth, Dafydd hadn’t been exaggerating. But the main courtyard had been trampled to a more navigable level, and shoveled paths led between the buildings to the other areas around the fortress.
    Off to their left, near the gate, clustered most of the slaves, carrying picks, shovels, food, and watered ale. Several priests surrounded the group, talking and gesturing. There was no mystery about what they were doing; this event occurred each year. For today was the eve of Àmbholc, the great festival of winter’s end, and the way to the Nemeton up in the hills overlooking Arbroch had to be cleared. Studying the activity, Gyan picked out the forms of her father and brother, standing near the priests. She wondered which of them would satisfy the law by accompanying the workers this year. Her answer came soon enough as Ogryvan clapped Per on the shoulder, and her brother moved off with the group, at the rear of the procession beside one of the priests. Ogryvan headed toward the feast hall and his waiting breakfast, Gyan presumed.
    She felt a twinge of envy as she watched Per pass through Arbroch’s gates. The four seasonal rituals were held at night. The only time she had visited the Nemeton in daylight was the midsummer day of her confirmation as àrd-banoigin. She lifted her gaze past Arbroch’s walls to the hills beyond, trying to conjure an image of how the double ring of