Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee

base of his neck. She removed it, and he sat up.
    Firmly, he took her hand to regain his footing. She handed him his sword. He said something that sounded like “Good bout.” Whatever it was, he followed it with a wink and a grin.
    This was not the first time she had disarmed him during sword practice.
    “I have a strange feeling about this,” she murmured to her brother as Urien strode, whistling, toward the javelin field. “I think he’s letting me win.” She inspected her blade for dirt and blood—though she knew there was none, it was a habit Ogryvan had drummed into her—and slid it into its sheath. “You saw our match. What do you think?”
    “That you’re imagining things, dear sister.” Per gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Urien fought well. But you fought better.”
    Her thanks were shortened by a shout sailing from the far end of the field.
    “Ghee-an-huh- mah -rah!”
    It had taken the better part of a day and a cartload of Dafydd’s patience for Urien to grasp the proper pronunciation of her name. Now, at least, it was recognizable. Barely.
    Javelin in hand, he was waving to attract her attention.
    She waved back. He shouted something else that she couldn’t understand. She glanced at Per, who shrugged. Urien beckoned.
    “I think he wants us to join him, Per. Ready for some javelin practice?” As with many Caledonach horse-warriors, casting a javelin from the back of a charging horse was Per’s preferred method of fighting, and well did she know it.
    “Always, Gyan. Always!”
    They reached the field to find Urien mounted and armed. His javelin, like the rest, was wickedly sharp.
    She’d seen Urien’s chestnut mount on the first day of his visit, but this didn’t stop her from admiring the animal anew. Clean of limb, deep of chest, sleek of coat, taller than the Highland horses by a forearm’s length, the stallion had a build that sang of speed and strength and stamina. Its eyes mirrored courage and intelligence: truly a mount worthy of a god. With a troop of these horses, no wonder the Breatanaich had outflanked the Caledonaich at Abar-Gleann.
    While she stroked the proudly arched neck, Urien controlled his horse with a casual ease that bespoke countless hours in the saddle.
    Per sent a stable hand after their horses, and Urien joined the wave of Argyll warriors thundering toward the hapless strawmen. At the prearranged signal, the warriors let fly their missiles. Urien’s disappeared into the center of the target halfway up the shaft.
    “Certainly has an arm, doesn’t he?” remarked Per.
    “An arm”—Gyan’s admiration was undisguised—“and an eye to match.” She doubted whether she would ever match Urien’s skill with the javelin.
    As he retrieved his weapon and cantered toward Gyan and Per, the tone of his Breatanaiche words carried his excitement. With a smile, she nodded her approval. Urien’s face gleamed with obvious joy.
    “Come on, Gyan, let’s go!” Per vaulted into Rukh’s saddle, seized a javelin from the nearby rack, and nudged his mount toward the line that was reforming for another charge.
    Urien dismounted. He laced his fingers as though he wished to help Gyan into the saddle. She firmly shook her head. He seemed hurt by her refusal, but her smile made him brighten. Soon she was settled on Brin’s back, javelin in one hand and reins in the other. He vaulted onto his chestnut, and together they cantered over to the other riders.
    Gyan preferred the sword to any other weapon. Yet there was a certain thrill to the feel of Brin’s powerful muscles bunching and stretching between her thighs and the wind whistling its song in her ears. The satisfaction of hitting a target from several dozen paces away was a feeling no swordsman could ever know.
    She drew back her arm to make the cast. Her eyes narrowed on the target as she judged the distance. Urien and his stallion pounded the turf close beside her. Too close! To her horror, she realized Urien had