Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee Page B

the full weight of her dual burden. She could not in good conscience put personal desires ahead of the welfare of the clan.
    Like a dew-spattered web, Cynda’s question hung in the air between them. So fragile, the slightest puff might drench the leaves below. And like a careless hand, the wrong answer could wreak irreparable damage.
    Did Gyan want this son of a Breatanach chieftain?
    Passion seemed so important to the serving lasses as they prattled about their lovers. Even Hymar had chosen Ogryvan for love, not duty. Ogryvan had returned her love a hundredfold and was still demonstrating that love by refusing to unite with the àrd-banoigin of any other clan. A twinge of envy pinched Gyan’s heart.
    Inwardly, she searched for this fabled passion and found none. Perhaps she didn’t want Urien in that sense, but it scarcely mattered.
    She was chieftainess of the most powerful clan of the Caledonach Confederacy, not some silly maidservant whose only hope was to find a man who could bring enjoyment to the marriage bed. And she was not her mother, who had been able to afford the luxury of a love match.
    What Gyan wanted most was a mate whose gift to her would be peace and prosperity for Argyll. If Urien could grant that wish, she would be satisfied. She hoped.
    Did she want Urien? Ruthlessly, she shoved aside the doubts. She stood, shoulders back and head high, and proclaimed, “Yes.”

    “I MUST—what?” Urien’s stallion jerked his head. Urien stroked the silvery blaze between Talarf’s eyes and lowered his voice. “Are you sure, man?”
    Dafydd nodded. “Yes, my lord. Chieftain Ogryvan said—”
    “This is absurd! He can’t be serious.” With the iron currycomb, Urien gestured at Dumarec. “Explain it to him, Father.”
    Dumarec’s lips cracked a wry smile. “What’s to explain? It’s their custom.”
    “Their law, my lord,” said Dafydd.
    “It’s barbarism.” Urien resumed his work on the mane.
    “Who’s to say they don’t think the same of us, son?”
    “We are not in the habit of painting weird marks on our bodies.”
    “No,” Dumarec said. “But I’m sure we do a few things that would raise Picti eyebrows a fair measure.”
    Did he hear aright? Was his father taking the Picts’ side in this matter?
    Leaning across Talarf’s withers, Urien studied the two men standing beside the stall’s door. The younger was, for the most part, a stranger. The other was swiftly becoming one.
    “So. I am to have blue birds drawn on my arm this evening.” And doves, no less, although he kept that to himself. The Clan Moray priests probably would object, since the dove was a sacred symbol to them. Then again, with that lot it was always easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.
    “Lord Urien,” Dafydd began, fingering the small wooden cross at his neck, “you won’t be receiving the Argyll clan-mark tonight.”
    “What? But you just said—”
    “The clan-mark comes later, son, during the wedding ceremony, after Gyanhumara returns from Maun. Then she will be tattooed with the Boar of Moray to make your union official.” Thumbs hooked in his gold-studded belt, Dumarec chuckled. “You wouldn’t be so confused if you would take your ears out of your trousers once in a while.”
    Urien scowled at his father before turning his attention upon Dafydd. “You told me I was to be getting a tattoo at tonight’s feast. Is this a lie?”
    “No, my lord. You will receive a tattoo.” Though his tone was soft, the man did not flinch under Urien’s glare. “A thin band around your wrist to represent your betrothal.”
    The heir of Clan Moray gave a grunt as he traded currycomb for brush to scrub the dried mud from Talarf’s coat.
    Tattoos, he grumbled to himself, though he took care not to let his mood interfere with his horse’s comfort and went lightly over Talarf’s tender spots. Of all the Picts’ idiotic customs, this had to take the prize. It was one thing to marry a Pict. Now it seemed the