Free Morning's Journey by Kim Iverson Headlee Page A

whickering of the horses, she wondered what else might be stowed in the belly of the huge cargo vessel.
    Before she could voice her question, Per said, “You look wonderful, Gyan.” Switching to Breatanaiche, he added, “Marriage favors you.”
    Without thinking, she also switched tongues. “So. I imagine Arthur told you…” She looked at him, astonished. “When did you learn Brytonic?”
    In Caledonaiche, he said, “All of us had to learn enough to get by. Cavalry commands, where to piss, how to get meat, ale, women—”
    “Peredur mac Hymar! You are terrible.” She laughed. “I wager you ran right out to test that newfound knowledge of yours.”
    “I didn’t have to run.” His smile deepened. “My tutor was quite pretty and willing.”
    “Ha!”
    “I never could keep secrets from you.” Draping an arm across her shoulders, he leaned closer. “But for her, I would have been bored out of my skin. Nothing but drills, drills, drills. New tactics, new formations, and new gear, like those saddle toe-loops.”
    “Hard to believe something so simple can help a horseman so much.” Gyan nodded pensively. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
    If the Caledonaich had possessed such devices, the Ròmanaich never would have troubled the Highlands.
    Nor would she have met her soul’s mate.
    “Aye, amazing wee things they are. And I cannot forget those backbreaking stints on wall and road repair—gods!” Hand to neck, he stretched as though reliving a particularly painful event. “You have seen all the real action this summer.”
    “Ha.” She rolled her eyes as they trod the path their clansmen had taken. “If you expect to escape repairs, think again. Tanroc’s palisade is far from being finished. Not for lack of effort, either.”
    “Tanroc’s palisade can wait.” Per paused at the tavern’s door. “Care to join me? The salty air has given me a powerful thirst. Besides, now that we’re not caught up in bondings and joining ceremonies and cavalry games and the like, I want to hear about your battle.” His gentle elbow found her ribs. “According to the latest tales, you stand ten feet tall, wear three skulls for a headdress, and wield a firebrand for a sword.”
    “Indeed! I don’t know where people come up with these stories.”
    “It’s the stuff legends are made of, Gyan.” His abrupt seriousness banished the teasing banter.
    “Me? A legend? Ha! You need that drink, Per.” She tugged on his tunic sleeve. “The sun and sea have addled your wits.”
    He pulled open the door, and she stepped inside to a chorus of shouts and cheers. Her clansmen, grinning through foam-flecked mustaches and beards, raised flagons in salute.
    “You planned this!”
    “What of it? They are here and so are we. Go on in, Gyan.” Per gave her a nudge. “They have saved us some seats.”
    Indeed they had, she observed with wry amusement, in the center of the gathering.
    Conall called for her story of the Scáthinach invasion. The rest escalated the chant, punctuated by the drumming of fists upon tabletops, until the noise threatened to blow the timbers from the tavern’s roof. Gyan shot her brother a teasing I’ll-get-you-for-this-later look and stood. Silence descended.
    “Tavernkeeper,” she called, in Breatanaiche. “Please bring out the jars. Another round for everyone.” Her upraised hand forestalled the cheers. “One round while I tell you my tale, mo ghaisgich.” My heroes. And she meant it. “Then it’s to work.”
    Good-natured groans melted into grunts of pleasure as the ale went around.
    In Breatanaiche, the words rushed forth: her capture by the Scáthinaich, imprisonment on the rainy ridge, rescue by Arthur, the ensuing battle, the wound inflicted upon her by General Niall, and that duel’s final result. The story unfolded easier than she’d expected, perhaps because in a month’s time she’d gained enough distance from the harrowing events.
    “And you may see the Scotti cù-puc,” she