《The Wedding of Eithne》


 Prologue

    Inloth leaned on his walking stick, primmed his lips, and groaned. His hips were sore. His shoulders were stiff. His back ached in places he hadn¡¯t known existed. No matter how he twisted his neck, he couldn¡¯t get a crack to relieve the pain. Hmph, he grumbled. Maybe willow bark tea this evening.


    Rain trickled from the leaden sky that hung like a doom over the northern mountains, but the air at last befitted a spring day. Inloth fussed with his woolen cloak. Better than yesterday, thank Belenos. Frigid winds had fallen from the still-snowy heights through the night. Nothing worse than a bone-chilling wind through rain-soaked blankets.


    The weather was just another of the wretched difficulties from which Inloth and his band of pilgrims had suffered on their long journey. Since setting out from the southern coast more than a fortnight ago, robbers and bandits had harassed them, and chieftains who were little better than both had taxed them. The changeable spring weather had teased them with summer¡¯s warmth before plunging back into a wintery mix of rain and cold. Faith and courage had seen Inloth and the eleven priests of his mission through it all, but many of the pilgrims who¡¯d set out with them had deserted along the wayside.


    That morning¡¯s gruesome march had been particularly difficult. Some battle had been fought¡ªthat very morning, said the ragged survivors they¡¯d met¡ªalong the trail. Deserters skulked among the pine branches and the oaks coming into their spring leaves. Fresh corpses littered the trail, mangled and crow-plucked. More manly scavengers filched boots and coins from the bodies.


    ¡°Your Reverence?¡± Finntonn, one of Inloth¡¯s assistants, tugged at his elbow. ¡°Who are those men?¡±


    Dark-haired men wearing the heads of wolves and wildcats for hoods picked through the carnage. Clad in brown and black leather harness, they arrested survivors, and put those beyond saving to a merciful end with their swords and javelins.


    Inloth pursed his lips at the mangy sight of their shaggy fur cloaks. ¡°Those¡¯re Huntsmen. Warriors and woodsmen who guard the shrine of the Abred-Mother in the Vale. They protect and guide lost travelers and honest peasant-folk hereabouts.¡± His heart sickened to see the aftermath of so much violence.


    Snatches of song, somber and grave, drifted through the rain. Blue-robed priestesses roamed the battlefield with herbs, poultices, and linen bandages. They chanted the healthful prayers of the Abred-Mother as they bound the wounds of the survivors.


    Inloth pointed them out to Finnton. ¡°Sisters of the Vale. Medicine and chirurgery have been carefully studied at the shrine since the earliest times.¡±


    Inloth noted the tartans among the bodies. Most wore none to identify their kindred and seemed like nothing more than lordless brigands. But others wore colors that caught his eye.


    ¡°Those are the white and red colors of the Cailech tribe.¡± He put a scented cloth against his nose to ward off the stench, and directed Finntonn¡¯s eyes to another unsightly body, the skull smashed and a limb missing. ¡°And that was a man of Droma. The Droma and the Cailech are neighbors.¡± Inloth hadn¡¯t been back to his homeland in many years, but things hadn¡¯t changed much, it seemed. ¡°Not very friendly neighbors.¡±


    A long line of some three-score warriors in tartans of white and red stood idle along the trail ahead.


    ¡°Mind yourself. More Cailech-men,¡± whispered Inloth as they picked their way past.


    Ragged and sullen-eyed, the tribesmen fingered their weapons and appraised the pilgrims like hungry wolves.


    Inloth swallowed a knot in his throat, blessed them as he passed, wished them peace. His junior priests took him for a model and did the same.


    At the head of the column, a man in furs and tartans kneeled over one of the slain. The corpse had once been a stout fellow, a stern warrior in life no doubt. Inloth noticed the eyes had been plucked from the head.


    The kneeling man looked up from the corpse, assessed the band of pilgrims, then rose to his feet, a big, brutish man who towered over Inloth. His dim, piggish eyes betrayed neither sorrow nor grief, but anger. ¡°He was me sister¡¯s son.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss.¡± Inloth made a blessing over the corpse to speed the soul on its way to the otherworldly feast of Tirn Aill.


    ¡°Thank ye, Drymyn.¡± The brute laid a meaty hand on Inloth¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m Dunchath, King of the Cailech. Find our camp in the Vale and I¡¯ll be glad to repay yer kindness.¡± He spat in the direction of Huntsmen who had taken a red-and-white tartaned survivor into custody. ¡°It¡¯s more¡¯n these bastards¡¯ll do for him.¡± Then he turned to his men, barked an order¡ª¡°Burial detail!¡±¡ªand marched away down the column.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Inloth led his pilgrims on through the carnage.


    The Huntsmen took other Cailech-men into custody, and a handful of the lordless brigands as well, but never the Droma-men, Inloth noticed.


    ¡°Whatever happened here,¡± he remarked to Finntonn, ¡°the Huntsmen seem to have taken exception to the Cailech¡¯s part in it.¡±


    Then, at the top of the pass at last, he set his eyes upon the village of the Vale.


    Or rather, what the village became once a year. The village itself was a tiny collection of houses and a few shops, not unlike a hundred other hamlets in the Five Kingdoms. But for these few days of the feast of C¨¦tshamain, the village swelled out into all the surrounding fields.


    Everywhere, people rushed about their business. Pavilions were pitched, market stalls sprang up. Carpenters built stands beneath awnings so the nobility could watch contests in comfort. Targets were erected for archery, a sand floor made for the swordsmanship duels, a circuit drawn for chariotry. Paddocks appeared, as did wattle pens for ducks and swine, sheep and kine. Butchers sharpened their knives, and ovens were built brick by brick.


    Inloth judged the sun¡¯s position through the clouds. He¡¯d been strict about the proper observance of the daily hours through formal prayer throughout their pilgrimage. He saw no reason to shirk that duty, no matter how weary, nor how near the end of their journey. ¡°It¡¯s time for Sixth Hour.¡±


    Finntonn nodded and directed the other ten priests to their duties. The pilgrims knelt in the rain.


    ¡°O Belenos¡ª¡± Inloth made a sign with his right hand, three fingers pointed downward, representing the light of inspiration descending from the sun. ¡°¡ªcymst oth m¨ªn ¨¢rst?fes.¡±


    The pilgrims, heads bowed, intoned the response: ¡°O Belenos, efestest forstandan mec.¡±


    Together, Inloth and his twelve priests sang the paeans to their sun-god, Belenos, and the pilgrims responded. In the Old Tongue of the Shynn, the words of their song whispered through the trees and the rain.


    O Fair Shining One, O Lord of Light,


    Who orders time and change a-right,


    Who sends the early morning ray,


    And lights the glow of perfect day¡­


    On and on their voices droned. They sang the paeans, they praised Belenos, they recited the appropriate verses from the sacred scrolls, and they prayed the proper prayers of their wise men.


    Then, with a groan and an effort, Inloth straightened himself upright, raised his staff, and addressed his followers in a loud, stentorian voice. ¡°Behold, my children! The Vale of Thayn¨²! Holy Mother of the God, Belenos!¡±


    A weary cheer for the god Belenos rose from his pilgrims.


    Inloth extolled them to caution, and to virtue. ¡°Yet be wary, my children! There is no more wretched nest of Karnite wickedness in all of Iathrann! Be wary, I say! Neglect not our sacred mission! Bring enlightenment to these poor benighted people! Teach the wisdom of the Lord Belenos, advance the righteousness of His ways!¡±


    Despite their losses, new pilgrims had joined their cause along the High King¡¯s Road. Altogether, he was proud to bring some eighty followers of Belenos, including the younger priests, not to mention pack-mules and carts for what remained of their meager belongings and supplies.


    ¡°Master?¡± The blonde sister, Trebithu, had addressed him. With her, eight of his most zealous followers, with their girdles of brass-studded scourges wrapped around dark blue robes over thick goats-hair shirts, walked in a knot. They wore smiles, as always, and in spite of their weariness and the surely nettling hairs of their small clothes.


    He was unsure when they¡¯d joined the pilgrimage, for he didn¡¯t know them from his congregation at T¨®bar-na-Mela. But they¡¯d proven invaluable on the journey. They heartened the weary, encouraged new followers by their ceaseless work in service to Belenos, and exemplified their commitment to the faith by publicly flagellating themselves every morning and night. Of the eight, the three weyward sisters, strangely enough, seemed to lead them. ¡°Yes, my dear?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d like permission to move through the fair, Master. To bring the word of Belenos to those who know Him not.¡±


    He laid a hand on her cheek. ¡°Well, of course, my dear. I should have thought you¡¯d seek your rest first?¡±


    The black-haired woman, B¨¢nd¨ªgal, who put her fist to her breast and bowed her head. ¡°To see so many to be brought into the Light of Belenos, it moves the spirit in us, Master.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, we¡¯re eager to spread the Light.¡± The ginger-haired lass with the curled tresses, Tn¨²th¨¦t, clasped her hands before her and stood a-tiptoe.


    ¡°So may we begin, Master?¡± Eagerness lit the face of blonde Trebithu.


    ¡°Indeed, you may, but have a care. I was raised among these savages, before the great M¨¢ed¨®c rescued me from their pagan country ways. They are a fierce people, and none too patient with those of other tribes.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we will, Master, we will,¡± the three women assured him, and led their little band of eight on ahead.


    Inloth watched them go with satisfaction and remarked to his assistant: ¡°I tell you, Finntonn, if we had a legion of such servants here in Iathrann, our mission would be done.¡±


    Finntonn, his assistant priest, nodded after them. ¡°Indeed, Master, their zeal, it¡¯s impressive.¡±


    Inloth raised his walking stick once more. ¡°Come, my brothers and sisters in Belenos! The way before us is at an end! Only a little farther to our well-earned rest!¡±


    He waved the staff forward and hoisted his pack¡ªOww! A stab of pain ran through him. Damn it all. He grimaced and rubbed at the base of his spine. Willow tea this evening, for certain.

 Chapter One, Scene One

    As if through the fog of a dream, the white marble stone walls rose to a cathedral¡¯s height over Eithne¡¯s head. The grotto was twice as long as it was wide, bordered by a double row of columns on each side, columns of true wood that put out leaves like natural living trees.


    Eithne tried to blink, to shake her head, to rid herself of the fog over her mind.


    At one end of the grotto rose a circular white marble platform, a single step high. Upon it, a yard-wide cauldron yawned. It gleamed with the white glint of a metal that was somehow both silver and gold at once, while forever being neither.


    Beneath it, a fire had been kindled, and steam arose from it.


    Eithne couldn¡¯t move. Couldn¡¯t so much as lift a hand. Curse that old witch. Her teeth ground together at the back of her jaw.


    At the other end of the vast hall was a semicircular pool filled with pure, clear spring water. The pool was fully ten yards across and another yard deep. Four more of the tree-like columns with their living leaves lined the pool.


    Despite her frustration, Eithne felt placid and dreamy, as if she dozed in the morning sunshine of a holy day, with no daily tasks ahead of her. She¡¯s ensorcelled me. Even the thought of it had no force, no rancor, only the bland truth of fact. She knew she should be angry. She wanted to be angry. With the wave of a hand, the high-priestess of the Drymyn Order¡¯s sisterhood had sapped all her free will from her, and she couldn¡¯t even protest.


    From her place inside the wide, arched entrance to the grotto, Eithne overheard an argument in the shadows at the far end. Corchen, the high-priestess, scolded a blue-robed novitiate.


    ¡°Do what I told you. Go prepare for the Rite of the Oracle.¡±


    The young woman protested. ¡°But Grandmother, I haven¡¯t been prepared.¡±


    ¡°Go and do it now, Sister Kerridwen. Even you should be able to do this. The rest of us will be along presently.¡±


    The girl¡¯s hissed reply¡ª¡°Fine, Grandmother¡±¡ªtold Eithne that the High-Priestess was certainly the girl¡¯s grandmother, and that the matter was certainly not fine.


    The young priestess left with a thunderous look, followed by two other girls.


    Eithne wished she had even enough self-possession to sport such a look for herself. A strand of her copper-red hair fell across an eye and tickled her nose, and she couldn¡¯t move it away, couldn¡¯t even sneeze.


    Corchen emerged from the shadows of those strange tree-like columns, her grey-hair crowned by a spring laurel, her wrinkled hands folded on the plump belly under her stark white-robe. She took note of Eithne and raised a finger to someone behind her line of sight.


    Two grim-looking Huntsmen with sheathed swords and boar-head hoods, warrior-guardians of the shrine, flanked Eithne.


    At the center of the spring-water basin, against the wall on a pedestal, stood a white stone statue. Soft, slender, curved and graceful¡ªthe form of a beautiful woman carved in white marble. Ringed around her neck was cunningly twisted torc of silvery metal. The statue seemed fixed in place, as if it had been carved from the living rock. A soft pearly light radiated from it, illuminating the hall.


    From the wall on either side of the statue, spring water bubbled and cascaded down into the pool.


    In the pool of spring water, nine priestesses in pale robes knelt. There was something floating there between them in the water.


    It was a body. A man¡¯s body. Bearded, broad-shouldered, bear-chested, narrow-hipped and naked. Blood and gore floated around him in the water.


    She wanted to gasp with shock, Eowain. But she could make no sound.


    She wanted to run to him, to draw his head from the waters and hold him. But she could make no move.


    Her intended husband and king, if the drymyn priests and priestesses had their way.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for this, but it¡¯s necessary. Keep silent please.¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Two of the Huntsmen took hold of her arms.


    Corchen made a gesture, and Eithne was free again. She shook the wyrd fog from her head, pulled against the grip on her arms. ¡°What is the meaning of¡ª?¡±


    Corchen raised a finger. ¡°Silence, please.¡±


    Eithne felt no more sorcery or glamour then, yet the stern tone of the High-Priestess, the still strangeness of the chamber¡ªthe haunting sense of a greater presence¡ªcompelled her to silence.


    She watched, restrained by the two Huntsmen, as the priestesses wrapped Eowain¡¯s ursine form in long white funereal linens.


    What madness is this? Eithne strained at the Huntsmen¡¯s grip, but they pulled her back roughly. But Corchen said he lived, that he survived the betrayal of his cousin and the bandits that plagued our journey here?


    Anxiety clutched at Eithne¡¯s throat, knotted her guts. She yanked again at the grip of the Huntsmen, but they were unyielding. Is he dead after all?


    Nine squat, ruddy-visaged brutes in hairs and furs entered the grotto from the two arched passages. They were silent as they passed between the columns, and arranged themselves in a line at the edge of the pool. The priestesses finished their work and lifted the swaddled head of Eowain up out of the pool. One of the brutes took the head and stepped back, drawing more of his body from the water. Two more brutes stepped in and took the shoulders, then two more, and two more again, until the final pair of squat little men took up the feet and together, the nine of them raised Eowain¡¯s body over their head.


    Her eyes fixed on his wrapped hands. Hands that had once gathered away a spider that had startled her. Hands that had killed men that had threatened her. She wished she could hold them to herself. Her own hands clutched the air helplessly.


    Corchen began to chant.


    Bread of the Cult of the Dead in its Place I eat


    In the Court prepared


    Water of the Cult of the Dead in its Place I drink


    A Queen am I, Who has become estranged to the Cities


    She that comes from the Lowlands in a sunken boat


    Am I.


    I AM THE VIRGIN GODDESS


    HOSTILE TO MY CITY


    A STRANGER IN MY STREETS.


    Corchen raised a silver sickle to the white marble statue of the woman overlooking the pool. ¡°Oh, Spirit, who understands Thee? Who comprehends Thee?¡±


    The dark brutes hefted his body up, carried it with grave ceremony to the silvery cauldron that boiled at the far end of the grotto. The priestesses, their white robes drenched with spring water and clinging to them, rose from the pool and followed after them.


    The plates of the cauldron had been hammered from within to push out the wyrd metal surface. From the facets of the boiling pot, mystic coelbreni runes and curvilinear pictographs stood out in the glow from the statue at the other end of the chamber.


    The ancient image of Karn, god of the forest, was on that cauldron. He wore roebuck antlers and sat with goat-legs crossed beneath him. In his right hand, he held a torc, and with his left gripped a horned serpent behind the head. To the left was a stag with antlers similar to those of the god. Dogs, cats, and cattle surrounded the scene. Some faced the god, others faced away. Between the antlers of the god was the motif of a tree. The antlers of the god reminded Eithne of the massive rack that hung over Eowain¡¯s hearth in D¨²nsciath. That seems so long ago and far away now. How strong and fierce and handsome he looked. And now¡­ Tears welled into Eithne¡¯s eyes, no matter the guards, the people. Helplessness and defeat overwhelmed her.


    The brutes raised Eowain¡¯s linen-wrapped body high in the air. The cauldron bubbled with herbs and mystic roots. On another of its plates was the bust of a torc-wearing woman, flanked by two six-spoked wheels and what seemed to be two elephants and two fierce, winged gryffins. Beneath the the woman¡¯s bust was the image of a terrible lion. The ancient chants of Corchen and the priestesses rose in a feverish spiral through the grotto.


    Eithne shrieked a little as his linen-wrapped body sizzled into the scalding water. She had not thought it possible, for those short men to reduce his whole, bearish, war-like body, his whole life, into that cauldron. It seemed not nearly so vast as to contain the man she¡¯d come to love.


    And yet they raised him over their heads and folded him down into the waters until he was submerged. His body, wrapped in sodden linens, gleamed with a spring-green pallor in the shadows, as the waters of the cauldron boiled, bubbled, toiled, and troubled.


    Then the linen-wrapped form stood up from the cauldron.


    Revulsion clutched at her throat. How¡ª? But¡ª? Even if he had not been dead before, surely the boiling cauldron had killed him. Eithne yanked again at the grip of the Huntsmen. She had to go to him, to pull aside the linens and see his face, to prove to herself it was truly he that arose from those scalding waters.


    Corchen spoke urgently. ¡°Now. Get him out of there. Get him upstairs.¡± The priestesses helped him from the waters, the short brutes carried the bandaged body away.


    Eithne struggled against the stern hold of the Huntsmen, but could do nothing save watch him go. The fight faded from her and dread overwhelmed her. She whispered, ¡°He is alive again?¡±


    Corchen shook her head. ¡°He was never dead. But it was a close thing.¡± She raised her hands in open supplication to the shrine. ¡°The Goddess is restless tonight.¡± She furrowed her brow, as if she listened to some sound lost in the grotto¡¯s stones and waters. ¡°The goddess is restless indeed!¡± Her eyes went wide. ¡°Put Lady Eithne in the novitiate¡¯s quarters. Tell the Hunt-Lord to double the guard. Turn all the men out.¡±


    The implacable grip of the Huntsmen pulled Eithne away from the arch through which Eowain had been taken. ¡°Wait? Why can¡¯t I go with him? What¡¯s happening?¡±


    Corchen¡¯s face was grim. ¡°The Dragon is coming. Go now. There is more villainy afoot this night.¡±

 Chapter One, Scene Two

    The high-priestess seemed haggard. Her grey hair, loose and fallen about her shoulders, was dull, her face ashen. The golden torc about her neck gleamed in the firelight of the many braziers mounted around the long, white-walled grotto. With a short gesture, she dismissed the Huntsmen, and Eithne with them.


    To either side, the anonymous, boar-hooded Huntsmen pulled Eithne down the rows of living trees that formed the columns of that strange underground shrine.


    ¡°Where are you taking me?¡± Eithne pulled against the grip on her right arm, but they drew her from the hall and out into the torchlight corridor. ¡°What of Eowain? Is he well?¡±


    The Huntsmen turned her left, back the way she¡¯d come. ¡°Silence,¡± said one. His tone was terse, his leather-bound body strong and stout.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a child, I¡¯ll not be hushed like one.¡± Eithne tugged again at their grip as they passed up the hall.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be silent.¡± The other Huntsman spoke through gritted teeth and redoubled his hold on her arm.


    The Huntsmen on her left looked down at her. ¡°The B¨¢n-Dr¨²m¨®r commands.¡± The face Eithne saw beneath the hood was young but stern and rigid.


    The corridor turned once, then again, and they led her through two iron-bound oak doors with torches on either side.


    Beyond, a strange, disembodied light glowed above an altar of stone. Set into alcoves on either side stood beautiful robed women, statues carved in pale granite. One held a sheaf of grain. The other a jug as for water. Ahead stood another, a white- robed woman bearing shield and spear.


    ¡°I said, let go of me.¡± Eithne tugged again at her arms as they drew her past the altar.


    ¡°Sorry, my lady.¡± The Huntsman on her right dug fingers into Eithne¡¯s biceps. Eithne winced at the pain. ¡°The B¨¢n-Dr¨²m¨®r wants you safe and settled. You must come.¡±


    ¡°I will, you needn¡¯t drag me!¡± Eithne strained and struggled.


    ¡°You mustn¡¯t be down here any longer. It¡¯s forbidden.¡±


    ¡°Forbidden by who? Damn it, where¡¯s Eowain? Is he still here in the shrine?¡± She¡¯d passed before through those familiar halls under Corchen¡¯s dream-magick, her attention dulled. She cast then about for other ways, other passages, anywhere to which she might escape if she could just get free¡ª


    They came to an arched section of rock. Inside it was blackness.


    The Huntsmen stooped and entered, pulling Eithne along. Together, they had to squeeze through the narrow opening.


    All at once, the roof lifted and Eithne could stand straight.


    It was absolutely black, as if a door that didn¡¯t exist had been shut behind them. There was no light. The dark seemed to press like wet cloth on her open eyes.


    Eithne reached out, her groping hands touched damp, rough-hewn rock. The Huntsmen tugged her back.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    She whispered, as one does in the the dark, ¡°Didn¡¯t you bring a light?¡± The air that had been close touched her face then with cooler dampness. Faint movements in it gave the sense of a vast expanse.


    ¡°Light is forbidden here.¡± The Huntsman¡¯s voice too was lowered, his whisper sharp. It had an odd sound, as if he were frightened.


    Even as he said it, Eithne knew it must be so. There was the very home of darkness, the inmost center of night.


    Eithne¡¯s heart jumped, the blood pounded in her throat, but she said to herself, fiercely: I¡¯ll not be afraid!


    Eithne took a few cautious steps forward into the utter blackness. A pebble slipped under her sandaled foot, struck another pebble, and the tiny sound wakened echoes, many echoes, remote, and more remote. The space seemed immense, high and broad, yet not empty. Something in its darkness¡ªsurfaces unseen¡ªshivered the echoes into ice-cold fragments.


    They went forward, there was no other way to go. ¡°Here, we are beneath the Stones.¡± The Huntsman¡¯s whisper ran out into the hollow blackness, frayed into threads as fine as spiderweb, and lingered to the hearing for a long time. All the weight of the hill above them, with its jagged crown of standing stones, pressed down on that darkness. ¡°These are the Barrows. Come. We can¡¯t stay here.¡± He led them to the right. ¡°Follow the wall, to the second opening.¡± His whisper hissed, and tiny echoes hissed after it. He didn''t like it there, in those caves, in the dark. It wasn''t his place, he didn''t belong there, and Eithne knew he was afraid.


    The Huntsmen breathed heavily, their garments brushed and scraped against the rock.


    Ahead, firelight glowed and their pace quickened. They squeezed together through another arch, and a square chamber of granite blocks, with a slab of stone in the center, opened around them. A fire burned in a hearth set into the wall on Eithne¡¯s left.


    The young Huntsman whispered to the elder, ¡°The Goddess¡ª Do you think she¡¯s truly angered?¡±


    Eithne yanked again at their grip. ¡°Why? What¡¯s happening? Where did they take Eowain?¡±


    The grim Huntsman glared at the younger, set his jaw and revealed nothing.


    ¡°Damn it, I¡¯ve had enough!¡± Eithne twisted her right arm. She pulled free of the elder Huntsman, then turned and shoved at the younger.


    But the younger wouldn¡¯t release his grip.


    Strong hands grabbed Eithne¡¯s shoulders from behind and shoved her down on the stone altar. The stout Huntsman seized Eithne¡¯s free arm and wrenched it painfully behind her back and hissed in her ear. ¡°Enough, my lady!¡±


    They hauled her from the altar and spun her about, propelled her away the hearth, toward an upward spiral of wooden stairs. The stout Huntsman seized her around the neck and choked her.


    She put her feet against the stone walls, pushed back against them, hissed, ¡°Let¡ªme¡ªgo!¡± through the pressure on her throat. They twisted, and pulled her back. Her feet came away from the wall and she fell to the floor.


    The stout Huntsman knelt into her back. In a rush, darkness crowded her vision and she¡­


    ¡­awoke as the stout Huntsman shoved her into a small cubicle.


    Eithne¡¯s knees struck a wooden frame. Vertigo lurched in her stomach. She fell.


    And sprawled heavily across a reed-matted bed.


    ¡°Stay here! For your own safety, my lady.¡±


    A door closed, Eithne gained her feet again, metal bolts and cylinders rattled, and Eithne lunged across the room and seized the knob.


    She yanked, the door rattled in its frame. But it held firm against her.


    Damn it! She beat on the stern oak planks with both fists. ¡°Where am I? Why are you holding me? Where is Eowain? Where¡¯s my father?¡±


    The door offered no answers.


    ¡°Damn you!¡± She kicked the planks, turned and fell back against the door.


    The stone-walled room before her was small, three strides on a side. Two of the reed-matted beds stood on opposite walls. At the foot of each bed was a small wooden chest, banded with iron. On one stood a brass candlestick. Flame flickered from a beeswax candle set in the socket. A squat earthenware decanter and cup sat beside the candle.


    She turned again and battered the wood. ¡°Open this door, damn your eyes! Open it now! I know you¡¯re out there!¡±


    But in fact, she wasn¡¯t sure at all.

 Chapter One, Scene Three

    The sun had passed west beyond the ridge of the mountains that surrounded the Vale. Though it was still many hours before setting, twilight crept down the slopes to the village.


    Adarc, a gangly boy in a brown robe, all knees and elbows, roamed the edges of a camp on the skirts of the little hamlet. He carried a blackthorn stick, and was too tall for his feet, so hitched his robes up lest he overturn himself. A formless leather bag depended from a band across his chest and hung at his hip.


    Three large caravans of traders had made their way to the Vale and settled in a rough circle around a well dug amid a wide meadow. The caravans were a mix of natives from across the Five Kingdoms¡ªLarriochts and Laigheans from the south, Muvain- and Gruin-men from the west, and Mainachs like the Droma from the east.


    The brown-robed acolyte searched the faces of passersby anxiously, then found the merchant¡¯s apprentice along the edges of the camp. ¡°There you are.¡±


    The merchant¡¯s apprentice, Corentin, wore a high-collared white linen tunic, filigreed with black silk thread in an intricate design of flowered patterns upon the breast, and a sleeveless black robe trimmed with a similar pattern. His black hair was pulled back into a tail at the base of his skull, and his moustache and curled goat¡¯s beard where trimmed and oiled. He regarded Adarc with mild surprise. ¡°Hwar else would be I?¡±


    ¡°You should be back in camp. Sure and I¡¯m supposed to be keeping an eye on you.¡± Corentin¡¯s trade caravan hadn¡¯t planned on a long detour through dangerous territory and was waiting out the high mountain snows in Droma, Adarc¡¯s homeland, before proceeding over the passes to their final destination. But information being a trader¡¯s most valuable stock in trade, Corentin¡¯s father, master of that caravan, had sent his son out to learn more about the countryside and its commercial needs.


    Corentin furrowed his brows. ¡°Hwas more new can I learn in zhe camp of our own?¡±


    Beside Corentin stood another Foreigner, tall and tow-headed, his long hair and beard braided and knotted. The metal of the bodyguard¡¯s steel-ringed shirt, worn over a stout leather jerkin, glinted in the dwindling light. He held a spear in one hand, and a round, iron helm with a nose-guard under the other arm.


    Adarc inclined his head to the Foreigner. ¡°Evening, J?kull.¡±


    The bodyguard replied in his own rough tongue. ¡°Aptann, Prestr.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t have admitted it, but Adarc was relieved to find them. The Droma-men had camped near the Mainach caravan, to be near somewhat friendly folk. The men of other lands owed fealty to other kings, and the tribes of the Five Kingdoms weren¡¯t always friendly with each other. Adarc had feared his charges might run a-foul of one faction or another.


    The nobility were only just arriving, and noble-warriors and their retinues were wandering about looking for lodgings. Two men a dozen yards off¡ªIveans by the look of them¡ªshoved a third man in white, gold, and green tartans out of their way. Their victim cursed at their backs, but the other men went on negligently.


    Corentin pointed. ¡°Is zhat not one of your men of Droma, one of your drovers? Hwarjis are zhose men, to treat him zhus?¡±


    ¡°Th¡ª Th¡ª.¡± Adarc had known the merchant nigh on a month and tried to teach him better Gallavach, but he still insisted on sibilants where natives used thorns. ¡°Those men. They are Iveans.¡±


    Corentin frowned at him. ¡°Ivea? Did we not supper in Ivea on zhe road hence?¡±


    ¡°We did, yes.¡±


    ¡°Zhey are not friends to Droma-men?¡±


    Adarc shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ complicated.¡±


    ¡°Hw¨¢iwa complicated?¡±


    Adarc sighed. ¡°The Iveans and the Droma, they¡¯re of different tribes, and different federations. The Iveans are of the Fiatach tribes¡ª¡±


    ¡°Like zhe Lady Eizne?¡±


    ¡°The Lady Eithne, yes. While the Droma, they¡¯re of the Mainach tribes.¡±


    Corentin frowned at him. ¡°Yes, yes. The chopping of wood, rather than the buzz of bees. But zhe¡ªthe Mainach, they are the kings of the East, are they not? Are we not in the East?¡±


    ¡°We are, but the Mainach conquered the Fiatach, who use to rule the east. The Fiatach still resent bending the knee.¡±


    ¡°And so they are rude to your Droma-man because he is Mainach?¡±


    Adarc¡¯s face pulled into a frown. ¡°Yes, among other things. But come on. It¡¯s getting late. Sure and we shouldn¡¯t be abroad from the camp after dark.¡±


    The camp of the men of Droma lay upon the southwestern side of the fairgrounds, with pilgrims and traders on their east and north, while open meadow and a stand of trees rolled away across the Vale to the south and west.


    The deep ditch that would encircle their camp was already half-dug, and the woods full of Droma-men lopping branches from birch trees to sharpen into stakes. It might be an affront to the Vale chieftain¡¯s guarantee of peace, but Lord Lorc¨¢n had insisted. After the battles the Droma-men had fought just to make it to the fair, their captain wouldn¡¯t let his men sleep in an unfortified camp.


    Within the perimeter, tents went up in orderly rows, and King Eowain¡¯s own tall pavilion at the center, the the king himself was not in residence.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Adarc gazed at the smoke rising from the cookfires and sighed. The weary men of Droma were stacked fairly close. Most of them, being good soldiers, were already asleep. Some were still wound up from the action of the last few days and spoke quietly together. The wounded quietly suffered as they waited their turn with the priestess-healers. A trio of seasoned veterans broke out a cup of dice and began playing, despite the gathering twilight.


    The mood wasn¡¯t as joyous as it could have been. Ninety-three men of Droma¡¯s Company of the Shield had marched out of D¨²nsciath, bound to the Vale to see their king married. Of them, forty were wounded, and ten had died. Altogether, the hale and healthy survivors of their journey numbered only forty-two.


    And of the eighteen men of Dolgallu, kinsmen to the Lady Eithne who had traveled with them, five were wounded, and two had died.


    No matter how thankful each man was to have survived thus far, that gratitude was tempered by knowing others hadn¡¯t been so fortunate. So, no. Sure and there isn¡¯t much joy, thought Adarc. Relief, certainly. Relief that it was over. Relief that the Morrig¨² hadn¡¯t chosen them that day. Relief that they were going home when all the feasting of C¨¦tshamain was over.


    But there was nothing like joy.


    Adarc shivered in his brown robes. The air was still damp from days of rain, and the warmth of the day fell off quickly as the sun retreated. He found his master Medyr at the fire-pit before the king¡¯s pavilion. Off-duty sergeants of the Company of the Shield sat on rough-hewn logs and sipped from steaming wooden cups.


    Medyr, Lord-Drymyn of the Droma-men, patted the tree-bark beside him. ¡°Adarc, come, lad. Sit. You too, Merchant.¡±


    Cold damp soaked through his brown robes and small-clothes and shivered his skin as Adarc sat. Medyr handed him a steaming cup. ¡°Willow tea. With mint. It should take the sore and the chill out.¡±


    The acolyte cupped the warm wood in his hands and leaned forward over the hot steam. Och, sure and that feels good. The fire was a welcome heat on his face.


    Medyr handed another cup to Corentin. ¡°You¡¯re both alright?¡±


    Corentin affirmed that his wounds were no reason for concern. Adarc put a hand to the poultice strapped to his ribs. The rank smell of vinegar and sage wrankled his nose. ¡°Aye, Master. Bruised ribs, and a few cuts and scrapes. I was lucky.¡±


    Medyr lit a long thin twig from the fire and put the flaming brand to his long clay pipe. ¡°Damned foolish, more like, staying behind like that. You both might have got your damn necks broken.¡± Medyr puffed at the bowl of his pipe. The sweet smell of linden leaf rose in blue-grey clouds around him.


    Adarc blew on his steaming cup. ¡°But sure and the king needed all the help he could get.¡±


    ¡°Eowain has a bodyguard for that.¡± Medyr took a deep breath from the pipe, held it, let it go in a long plume. He handed the pipe to the man beside him. ¡°Isn¡¯t that right, Gaeth?¡±


    The scar-faced man took the pipe and grinned. ¡°Aye, reckon so, Your Reverence. But our king, he¡¯s not the sort what waits for his guard to catch up.¡± He puffed on the pipe and closed his eyes. ¡°Thank ye, Drymyn.¡±


    Medyr waved the pipe away toward the other men. Scar-faced Gaeth handed it to the barrel-chested fellow on his other side. ¡°¡¯Ere, Mahon.¡±


    The Lord Lorc¨¢n, a large man in a shirt of steel-ringed mail over a thick leather shirt, sat down next to Adarc and Corentin. ¡°Och, thank Gods I¡¯m so tired. Sleep¡¯ll be a blessing, with none of the ghosts of the men we¡¯ve lost to haunt my dreams.¡± There were groans and mutters of agreement from the men around the fire. The former king of Droma waved with a three-fingered hand to barrel-chested Mahon. ¡°Pass that here when you¡¯re done, eh?¡±


    Mahon finished a long draw, then reached the pipe to him. ¡°Aye, my lord.¡±


    A guard approached the bench, saluted Lorc¨¢n. ¡°Forgive the intrusion, my lord.¡±


    Lorc¨¢n groaned. ¡°What is it?¡± He handed the pipe, unsmoked, back to Mahon.


    ¡°A column from Dolgallu has arrived, sirs,¡± reported the guard. ¡°A man named Fethgna sends greetings.¡±


    Lorc¨¢n rubbed his face with weary hands. ¡°More of the Lady Eithne¡¯s kinsmen.¡± Then he told the guard, ¡°Send for the Lord Ciaran.¡± Together, he and Medyr rose from the log.


    Adarc and many other Droma-men, as well as Corentin and his guard, followed after them, curious.


    The bridal party of the Gwynn arrived at the Droma camp under the dwindling light of day. Four white oxen pulled a heavy, curtained wagon, around which ten men¡ªstrong, rough-looking denizens of dark mountain forests¡ªrode on shaggy ponies, with their hands on black-iron swords. Tight-lipped and sharp-jawed, their eyes shifted beneath stormy brows and they scowled at the ways of low-land¡ªso-called civilized¡ªmen. Their baggage train and a dozen or more rough-bearded men on foot with spears and knives trundled along at their rear.


    They came in silence, save to hail the guard at the perimeter, and ushered themselves, orderly and well-disciplined, into the enclosure of the Droma. Altogether, some twenty-five fighting-men with jingling harness and gleaming chain arrived in the firelight of their camp.


    Hunting wolves howled from the dark, pine-forested hills.


    The tall, spare figure of Ciaran, chieftain of Dolgallu and lord of those men, joined Lorc¨¢n and Medyr. Behind him came the odd-dozen Dolgallu-men already in the camp.


    The new arrivals, their kinsmen, spread out into a wide cordon around their wagon and baggage, and made rough with a too-slow serving-boy. The Droma-men¡ªspears at the ready¡ªnodded professional respects to the rough mountain men.


    Lorc¨¢n approached the party. ¡°Peace, and welcome to the Vale.¡± He bowed and introduced himself.


    A tall, broad-shouldered man with a fiery shock of red hair and beard in a pale-blue robe, walked his horse forward. ¡°I¡¯m Fethgna of the Gwynn of Dolgallu.¡± He nodded to Ciaran. ¡°Greetings, Father.¡±


    Ciaran smiled on his son. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you, lad.¡±


    Lorc¨¢n bowed once more. ¡°Glad we all are to see you, my lord. I regret His Grace the King of Droma can¡¯t be here to welcome you himself, but please, dismount, be at ease.¡± With an ironic roll of his eyes, he added, ¡°A wedding should be a joyous event.¡±


    Fethgna gave him a dark, dubious look and cast eyes once more about him.


    Adarc could imagine what he thought: A hard fight to get clear of this place. Adarc prayed it wouldn¡¯t come to that.


    The howl of wolves sang out again from the misty evening hills.


    Ciaran tugged at an earlobe and reassured him: ¡°It¡¯s alright, Fethgna.¡±


    Fethgna scowled and signaled¡ªdismount¡ªwith a gesture. His men were brisk about it. The shaggy pack-animals and war-ponies were unloaded into the muddy camp. They saw to their own animals and tack, and kept curious hands from their things with snaps and snarls. The Dolgallu-men, like feral dogs, had neither a love for civilized men, nor any place among them.


    The curtained wagon opened and Fethgna¡¯s mother, the Lady Goldeboro, stepped down from the wagon with great care, her skirts held clear of the mud.


    After her, Lady Fidelm, aunt to Fethgna, dismounted. She wore a shirt of steel-ringed mail over a jack of leather and a sword on her belt, like the men.


    Lord Ciaran kissed his wife on the cheek and embraced his sister.


    Lorc¨¢n indicated the king¡¯s pavilion. ¡°Come, join us in some ?l. We¡¯ve much to discuss.¡±

 Chapter Two, Scene Four

    The stronger members of their pilgrimage worked to dig posts for the tent-poles. Inloth envied their brawn and grieved for his own youthful vigor. Forty-six years will take their toll, he lamented, rubbed at his back.


    Finntonn brought him a steaming earthen cup. ¡°Willow tea, Master.¡±


    He palmed it in both hands, ¡°Bless your heart, Finntonn,¡± blew across the mouth of the cup, and took a sip of the stringent brew through his cracked lips.


    ¡°Looks like they¡¯ll have the shrine erected by morning, Master.¡± Finntonn nodded to the canvas being laid out by another group of pilgrims, and the ropes being unpacked by still others.


    ¡°Mmm, yes, I should hope so.¡± Inloth savored the warmth as it trickled down his throat. ¡°We¡¯ve had enough practice these past weeks.¡± In every major stop along their pilgrimage, they¡¯d performed altar services, preached the word of Belenos and the benefits of the reformation, and offered opportunities to venerate the sacred Arm of Moelrhonos, all from that same canvas-sided pavilion.


    Inloth caught the attention of his other assistant, B¨¦cc. From a crate full of wood shavings and cloths, he was unpacking a bronze statue depicting a strong, handsome young man with a sickle in one hand. The figure was seated and cloaked, his long hair held back from his bearded, beneficent face by a band adorned with a sun-disk. A torc rested around his neck, an arc of solar-flames encircled him, and a bundled sheaf of wheat stood at his left.


    ¡°Have a care with Lord Belenos now, lad,¡± said Inloth, then chided himself for being too diligent an overseer. They all know their work, let them do it, he told himself. ¡°Come, Finntonn, let¡¯s have a walk about, get the lay of the land.¡±


    Together, Inloth and his chief assistant walked away from the site of the emerging camp. He¡¯d selected a place near the largest of the trading companies that had come to the Vale. A caravan of Larriocht tradesmen, nearly three hundred strong, if he was any judge. They spoke the southern dialect familiar to many of Inloth¡¯s followers, acknowledged many of the same tribal kings, and some of the traders were even Belenosians themselves.


    The Larriocht traders held fully half a circle around a water-well set aside by the locals for just such occasions. The Vale of Thayn¨² was an important¡ªalbeit remote¡ªdestination for pilgrims, sacred to the Abred-Goddess herself, and her cult was popular.


    So the traders were no fools. Their camp lay between the well and the sacred hill overlooking the Vale. To reach the holy site where so many of the ceremonies and rituals would take place in the coming week, nearly all the other visitors and pilgrims would have to pass through the alleys of wares they¡¯d erected.


    On the west side of Inloth¡¯s camp, another band of pilgrims had settled, devotees of Br¨ªgh from the Fifth of Laighan. The goddess of their cult was one of the more important daughters of Thayn¨², the Abred-Goddess. Being from the southwest of Iathrann, the Laighan-men had benefitted from and adopted many of the practices put forward thirty-five years ago by reformers like Inloth¡¯s own master. Their priests and priestesses displayed heads shorn of hair, save for a top-knot, their robes were dark, with a black overtunic, rather than pale-blue or white.


    The proper S¨²thrhaman practice, Inloth was proud to see, and nodded appreciatively at the Br¨ªghians as he passed the fringes of their grounds.


    To the north and east, vacant pastureland rolled gently toward the sacred hill, and crops of beans and corn rose from the well-tended soil across the low stone walls that divided the village¡¯s fields from its pastures. As twilight approached, the farmers made their slow way in from their fields, and shepherds drove cattle and sheep from their pastures to their byres.


    Inloth pointed out the eight penitents in their dark blue robes and iron-studded girdles to Finntonn.


    Man and woman alike, they approached the farmers and shepherds with a friendly greeting, a smile, and an enthused and excited manner. ¡°Hello, my friend, how are you today?¡± They went in pairs, introducing themselves, shaking hands. ¡°Can we get just a moment of your time?¡ªIs a close, strong family important to you?¡ªDon¡¯t you think multiple marriages should be a crime?¡ªWhat about the intrustion of layman into the religious offices of the Brotherhood?¡ªLet me tell you about why we¡¯re all here on Abred¡ªWe always like to start with a word of prayer...¡±


    The penitents preached the good stories of Belenos, promoted His reformation, and invited their listeners to come to the shrine to learn more. They inspected and admired the farmers¡¯ stock and the shepherds¡¯ flocks, offering the animals treats from their own hands.


    ¡°I tell you, Finntonn, it brings me almost as much joy to see their zeal at work as it does to see men grow and thrive.¡± He waved a hand to the thick blanket of forest upon the slopes of the Vale. ¡°To see men strive against weather and all of nature¡¯s other random cussedness and grow stronger. To watch farms grow and flourish from wasteland turned at last to productive use, despite the harsh wilderness all about them.¡± He slapped a hand against his belly and rocked back on his heels. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s the true joy of our mission, to see the fruits of Belenos¡¯ teachings flourish and take root.¡± The scent of farmland and cattle, sheep and pig drifted on the air, and he took a great breath of. ¡°I love the smell of fresh-turned Abred in the evening, don¡¯t you, Finntonn?¡±


    His assistant drew a deep breath as well. ¡°Indeed, Master.¡±


    Inloth spoke words of encouragement to his outlying followers as he rounded the perimeter of their camp with Finntonn. Along their southern fringe, Inloth¡¯s camp abutted another band of newcomers, the Cailech-men in their red and white tartans, hastily preparing their camp.


    ¡°I grew up in Ivearda, not far from the Cailech-men, did you know that, Finntonn?¡±


    Finnton looked over their rough camp. ¡°You might have mentioned it, Your Reverence.¡±


    ¡°Well, I remember when F¨ªngen was king of the Cailech. He was a few years my senior. My own master and I preached the reformation to his court once¡ªgods, that must have been twenty years ago.¡±


    ¡°Drymyn!¡± A young man in the Cailech camp raised a hand and waved. ¡°Drymyn!¡± He jogged toward them and bowed. ¡°My king of Cailech invites you to call upon his hospitality. We have a fire, and chickens roasting. Will you join him?¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Our own camp is still far from arranged. We¡¯d be grateful to you. You have enough for my assistant?¡±


    The young man bowed to Finntonn. ¡°And to spare, Drymyn. This way, please.¡± The young man led them across the camp to a round pitfire over which poultry sizzled on the spit. Three burly guards with spears and swords stood before a large nearby pavilion. They saluted the young man with fists to breastplates, nodded to Inloth and Finntonn.


    ¡°¡ªDamn it, Yochy! I¡¯ll have the head of that villain Eowain on a damned spike!¡±


    Inloth ducked his head through the flap of the tent. Inside, furs and small field chairs were arranged around a brass brazier in which smoldered another, smaller fire. Dunchath, the large, burly King of the Cailech paced as he shouted at another, older man, grizzle-bearded and hawk-eyed, seated in a field chair. A third man, of a generation with the elder, whip-thin and moustached, sat cross-legged on a pile of furs. A servant-boy with an earthen ewer was doing his level best to remain unobtrusive by the wall of the tent.


    ¡°Your Grace,¡± said the herald. The king and the seated man looked up. ¡°The Drymyn from the trail. The one that blessed poor Toryn.¡±


    Inloth knelt. ¡°How do you fare, Your Grace?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re here at least. And none too happy with the journey.¡± Dunchath extended the right hand of peace.


    Inloth took it and nodded soberly. ¡°The battle on the trail. Your kinsmen were involved?¡±


    ¡°Worse than involved. Defeated.¡± Dunchath spat a profanity on the ground. ¡°Damned Droma-men.¡± Then he shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Drymyn¡ª?¡±


    Inloth smoothly answered the unspoken question. ¡°Inloth of Tarawd, Your Grace. Steward of the Sanctuary at T¨®bar-na-Mela.¡±


    The king blinked at them from piggish eyes.


    ¡°In Larriocht, Your Grace.¡±


    He blinked again.


    Clearly, geography¡¯s not your strength, thought Inloth. ¡°Yes, Your Grace. From the south, near the sea.¡±


    ¡°Of course, yes. Well, thank ye for your blessing on me nephew¡¯s soul. Doubt those Droma bastards did him so much courtesy.¡± He snarled and pounded a palm with his fist.


    The elder two men, richly dressed in ermine-trimmed cloaks and chain-mail shirts, narrowed their eyes at the Cailech king.


    Inloth¡¯s cracked lips pursed with curiousity. ¡°If I may ask, Your Grace, what hand did the Droma-men have in this?¡±


    ¡°You might well ask,¡± growled Dunchath, then: ¡°Oh! Me manners.¡± Dunchath snapped his fingers. ¡°Drink for the Drymyn.¡± The servant-boy fetched cups and poured ?l of the stout, black variety so popular locally. Dunchath told of how his nephew had sought to repatriate some misplaced cattle back into Cailech lands when he¡¯d been humiliated by the Droma-king.


    Inloth suppressed a chuckle. The nephew and his men had been chased off by the very herd of Droma cattle he¡¯d sought to steal.


    The elder man in the field-chair coughed, and took up the story. ¡°So the damn fool ran off north when he heard about Eowain and his bride, and got himself and a lot of good Cailech-men killed.¡± He rose and bowed. ¡°I¡¯ll just introduce myself. Yochy, King of the Celtair, the Fiatach, and Old Hagall.¡±


    Inloth¡¯s eyes widened, and he dropped to his knee again, pulling Finntonn down beside him. This was no mere hedge-king of a tribe, but a great-king, master of several related tribes. ¡°Your Highness.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± mumbled Dunchath. ¡°Sorry, Your Highness.¡± The king pressed his lips together until they turned white.


    Yochy of Celtair went on smoothly, ignoring Dunchath, and gestured to the other man seated on the furs. ¡°And this is my cousin, Dafyd, King of the Ivea.¡±


    Inloth knelt again. ¡°Your Grace.¡±


    Dafyd inclined his head, but made no move to rise, nor to speak.


    It was no easy thing keeping track of the tribal kings. Dafyd¡¯s Iveans were a hedge-tribe of the Fiatach, and so kin to Inloth¡¯s own Iveardans. Yochy was king over his own Celtairans, as well as both of the lesser hedge-tribes of the Fiatach. But why are they meeting with the Cailech king? The Cailechs are a Mainach tribe.


    Dunchath would not be ignored, and stabbed his finger in the vague direction of west. ¡°But they have to pay the eraic!¡±


    Yochy of Celtair grunted. ¡°And you¡¯ve every right to demand your nephew¡¯s honor-price. But I¡¯ve no authority over the Droma. And there¡¯s the peace of the fair to consider.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk to me about no, ¡®peace of the fair!¡¯ I¡¯ll give him a piece of me spear!¡±


    Inloth cleared his throat. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but what¡¯s happened? Who is Eowain?¡±


    Dunchath growled. ¡°The usurper of Droma, that¡¯s who he is. Me nephew joined up with the rightful king of Droma to put this Eowain back in his place, that¡¯s what.¡± Dunchath scowled and the cheeks beneath his beard flushed.


    ¡°Usurper?¡± Inloth¡¯s pilgrimage had passed through Droma on the High King¡¯s Road. He¡¯d heard mixed reports of their new king, mostly favorable.


    Yochy stood, laid an arresting hand on the vehement Dunchath¡¯s chest, and interjected smoothly, ¡°Eowain¡¯s the son of the Droma¡¯s former king, and brother to its last king. But neither he nor his brother before him were elected by the chief landholders of their tribe.¡±


    Dafyd, eyes bright and thoughtful, added, ¡°Their cousin was older, more experienced. He had every right to expect he¡¯d be elected, but elections were never held. Eowain assumed power without any legitimate authority.¡±


    Yochy went on, ¡°And so Dunchath¡¯s nephew sided with this Eowain¡¯s cousin to take back the Droma throne. Hence the recent unpleasantness.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Inloth scratched his chin. Inloth shook his head. All the work my master did for the Reformation, and these savages have backslid into their old heathen ways. But maybe I can turn this to some advantage. He knelt again before the two kings. ¡°Then it is the will of the Gods that we should meet, mighty Kings. You¡¯ve heard of the Reformation, no doubt?¡±


    ¡ª33¡ª


    Thanks for reading!


    There''s a lot of information about the interrelationships between tribes and kings in this scene. The chart is provided to clarify these relationships, but please let me know: Is the text too dense?


    The Five Kingdoms of Iathrann are known jokingly by foreigners as "the land where every man''s a king," because there are ranks of kingship (similar to the ranks of nobility (baron, earl, duke, etc) in the traditional British peerage).


    Tribal (aka, "hedge") kings are the least rank in this hierarchy of kings, with higher ranks of kings (over-kings) ruling over their own tribes as well as local federations of other interrelated tribes.


    These federations are then grouped under a "Fifth-King" into the larger "Fifths" of Iathrann (the so-called Five Kingdoms), and each of these Fifth-Kings hypothetically pays tribute to the High King of Iathrann (an office won through political alliances and military strength, rather than a centralized, hereditary succession).


    Please don''t forget to vote, tweet, post, pin, share, and otherwise help get the word out about this exciting new Adventure in Indie Publishing! A few simple clicks can make a world of difference!


    Want to learn more? Check out the book page on my website at MDellertDotCom/blog/The-Wedding-of-Eithne.


    Look out for the next installment in this Continuing Tale in the Matter of Manred: The Wedding of Eithne! New episodes post every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday!


    And by all means, let me know what you think. I''m still a few months from publication, and I can use all the help I can get to make this story even better!

 Chapter Two, Scene Five

    Eithne cursed at the door and gave it another futile kick, then went to the earthen decanter on the chest and sniffed at it, poured a dram into the cup and eyed it with suspicion¡ªbut no need. It was only cool, clear water.


    Gods but a spot of ?l would be welcome, she thought, then filled the cup and drank.


    The room around her lacked any personality. The stone walls, floor, and ceiling were dank and everything smelled of mildew. It might have been some time since the room had last been used, and the previous tenants had left little to define them. An hourglass full of sand, a hairbrush, and a small hand-mirror of polished brass stood upon the second chest.


    Idly, she overturned the glass to set the sands running and drained her cup. How long do they think they can keep me cooped like a hen?


    She moved the candle, flipped open the first chest, and rummaged through its contents. Nothing but personal items, clothing, and religious articles. The second chest was much like the first.


    Eithne closed them again and sat on one of the reed mats. The sands of the hourglass ran into the lower bulb. She poured herself a second cup of water.


    Gods, this is intolerable. She wondered what had become of the previous tenants. Died of boredom, no doubt. She tapped her fingers on her knee. How did I get here?


    She¡¯d heard reports that Eowain was killed fighting bandits, kinsmen, and rival tribesmen. And then she¡¯d been told he lived, but so near to death that he might expire at any moment. Then he was bathed in the spring-waters, and boiled in that terrible cauldron, and¡ª Now by some miracle he¡¯s hale and whole again? I mean, Gods be praised, but¡­


    There was a touch on her skin, at the back of her hand. She looked down idly and¡ª


    Went rigid.


    A spider¡ª! The body was brown and muddy-red, with a lighter middle line on its sternum, and six light spots on each side.


    A giant house-spider¡ª! Eithne¡¯s throat closed. She knew its kind. They lived mostly in caves, or dry forests under rocks. And a common enough spider in people''s homes too.


    Which is this, cave or home, here under this hill¡ª! The nape of her neck tingled. It¡¯s as big my damn finger¡ª!


    The conspicuously hairy legs and palps tested her flesh.


    With a little shriek and a shudder, Eithne stood and shook the infernal thing off her. It flew away to a far corner and disappeared.


    Oh, I will not remain cooped up with that! She pounded on the door, called out to her jailors. But if any heard, they did not answer.


    She kicked at the stone wall, paced three strides to the opposite side and kicked at the opposite one for good measure. Is this any way to treat guests? Locking them up with great, big, hairy¡ª!


    The bolt scraped.


    Eithne jumped.


    The door swung open and the ban-drymyn Alva Damar stepped through. The same ban-drymyn who¡¯d lived a hermit¡¯s life in the forested mountains near Eithne¡¯s village. The very one who¡¯d pronounced the geas upon her as a child.


    ¡°Are you ready to behave like a woman, or will we have more of these tantrums?¡± The ban-drymyn¡¯s voice was stern and grim.


    ¡°Tantrums? I¡¯m not accustomed to being dragged about like a poppet, Sister!¡±


    ¡°Sit down.¡±


    There was no force of magick behind the command. ¡°I¡¯ll stand, thank you.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself then, child.¡± Alva closed the door to the cell and the bolt clicked into place behind her. She sat wearily down, took up the earthen cup, tossed the remaining sip to the floor, and poured a new draught from the decanter.


    Eithne crossed her arms over her chest. ¡°Why am I a prisoner? Where¡¯s Eowain?¡±


    ¡°Stop being stupid, girl.¡± Alva sipped from the cup. ¡°Your hedge king is safe for the moment. Resting, here in the temple. He¡¯ll sleep for some time. And you¡¯re not imprisoned. You¡¯re protected.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°From what? Eowain defeated his cousin and the bandits.¡±


    Alva nodded. ¡°Aye, and the Cailech men, and a sorcerer besides.¡± She sipped again at the cup, put down the cup, and pulled up her hair to braid it as she spoke


    ¡°Then why am I¡ªprotected? The danger has passed.¡±


    Alva shook her head and braided her plaits. ¡°Not past. This sorcerer, K?lkak, he was somewhat to reckon with. Gods only know what mischief he set in motion before he died. And now there¡¯s¡ªsomething else.¡± She furrowed her brows.


    ¡°Something else?¡± She scoffed at the old woman. ¡°Is that the best you¡¯ve got?¡±


    Alva shook her head again, finished her braid, and took up the cup again. ¡°No.¡± She drank. ¡°The danger¡¯s not yet passed. There¡¯s been¡ªan upset¡ªin the ?ther.¡± She looked grim, but waved it away as if unimportant. ¡°More to the point, factions have gathered in the Vale, each with many men, and many reasons to oppose this marriage. Not to mention the king of the Cailech, whose kinsmen your hedge-king just murdered.¡± She drank again, then put down the cup. ¡°You¡¯re far too lovely and talented a girl to sleep among such cutthroats.¡± She glanced up at Eithne. ¡°Stop slouching.¡±


    Frustration boiled up from Eithne¡¯s breast. ¡°I am not slouching.¡± She squared her shoulders. ¡°And you are not my mother. And my father and his men and the men of Droma are not cutthroats. I¡¯ll be as safe with them as here.¡± She stabbed at finger at Alva. ¡°Don¡¯t forget it was you that brought us here, old woman. Five months ago, you told my father the portents for this marriage were favorable.¡± She threw her arms in the air. ¡°What part of all this seems favorable to you?¡±


    Alva narrowed eyes at her. ¡°I don¡¯t make the omens, girl. You were prohibited to marry, from the day you were born and until the portents were favorable.¡± She closed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose. ¡°Even then, you¡¯d still have your choice not to wed. If it suited you. So said the coelbreni when I threw them. I don¡¯t order the signs, I just read them.¡± She sighed. ¡°And favorable is what they said five months ago.¡± She raised her hands and shrugged. ¡°What would you have me do?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve waited seventeen years for these favorable portents of yours! Most of my contemporaries are married, with children of their own already.¡± Eithne punched the door. ¡°I gave up on such omens a long time ago.¡±


    Alva sulked. ¡°Not my fault you haven¡¯t got more faith. I blame that father of yours¡ª¡±


    ¡°But¡ªOh!¡ªSurprise!¡± Eithne threw her arms in the air and waved her hands. ¡°This would-be hedge-king needs a bride, and we can settle some old clan feud, and suddenly the portents are favorable!¡± She snarled at the old witch. ¡°Damned convenient.¡±


    Alva snorted and her tone grew dangerous. ¡°Which part¡ªof any of this¡ªseems convenient to you? The journey here from his kingdom was one disaster after another. Twelve men died. Your own handmaiden Breda was killed by war-dogs. There wasn¡¯t a one of us that wasn¡¯t almost killed. Including me, you fool girl!¡±


    ¡°I am not a girl!¡± Eithne pounded her fists against her thighs. ¡°And I still haven¡¯t agreed to any of this!¡±


    ¡°Och! Gods save us from stubborn little fools.¡± Alva closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples. ¡°You are your mother¡¯s daughter.¡±


    ¡°You leave my mother out of this!¡± As if Eithne wanted anything in common with that woman. ¡°Open this door! I don¡¯t need or want your damn protection.¡±


    ¡°Glad to hear it.¡± Alva slapped her knees and stood up. ¡°Nevertheless, you¡¯ll stay here, for your own safety.


    Eithne closed her eyes, clenched her fists, took a deep breath. It was all too familiar. Old women telling her what to do, what to think. Mother does the same damn thing. Talks circles around me, as if I¡¯ve said nothing.


    Alva went on. ¡°Anyway, the Dragon is coming, and¡ª¡±


    ¡°What is that? The Dragon?¡± The high-priestess had made similar cryptic references to such a thing. ¡°You don¡¯t mean¡ª¡± Eithne waved her hands like wings through the air. ¡°A dragon?¡±


    Alva shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s of no concern to you what it is. It¡¯s coming, and until it does and the time for your wedding¡¯s at hand, you¡¯re best kept safely here.¡±


    Eithne put her fists to her head. ¡°I haven¡¯t agreed to marry!¡±


    ¡°Really now, why wouldn¡¯t you? He¡¯s a stout lad.¡± Alva leered at her. ¡°Would that I were thirty years younger.¡±


    ¡°And he¡¯s done nothing but nearly get me killed ever since I heard of him.¡±


    Alva pursed her lips. ¡°He was nearly killed himself on your account, don¡¯t forget.¡±


    Eithne rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ¡°By his own cousin. Surely that makes it worse, not better. His own people hate me.¡±


    ¡°Stop whinging, dear.¡± Alva smoothed a wrinkle in her pale-blue robes. ¡°Hate¡¯s such a strong word. They just don¡¯t know you yet.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t want to know me.¡±


    ¡°Pick, pick, pick.¡± Alva pointed at Eithne¡¯s brow. ¡°You¡¯re going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.¡±


    ¡°Will you stop that?¡±


    Alva blinked at her like a wide-eyed owl. ¡°Stop what, dear?¡±


    There it is again. Does this withered old woman have no idea how she sounds? Is she really so oblivious? Eithne took¡ªone, two, three¡ªdeep, calming breaths. ¡°I am not a child. Stop treating me like one.¡±


    Alva shrugged. ¡°Stop acting like one.¡±


    A knock from the other side fell on the door. Alva rose, went to it, and ushered in a priestess in pale blue robes with a tray of cold meats and fruit. Beyond, two Huntsmen stood watch.


    ¡°Ah, good,¡± said Alva. ¡°Just set the platter there.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sister.¡± The priestess made a curtsy and set the tray on a chest, then bowed out.


    Alva eyed Eithne. ¡°I¡¯m quite serious, girl. You¡¯re better off here. You have food, and drink. I trust you¡¯ve settled yourself? Just stay here, until the situation has calmed itself. I don¡¯t want the door bolted again.¡±


    Eithne considered the old woman. She could certainly force her aside. Except that Alva had more than once stayed Eithne with naught but a word. And she was a priestess of the Order. The merest hair on her knotted white head was sacrosanct. To do violence to her would bring the Gods¡¯ own curses down on her.


    Eithne sighed heavily, smoothed her dress, schooled her manner, and curtsied. ¡°Yes, Sister.¡±


    She¡¯d have to think of some other way out.

 Chapter Three, Scene Six

    Eithne picked at the cold meats, the early spring berries, and felt guilty.


    Lying to a drymyn wasn¡¯t as bad as striking one, but that didn¡¯t make it right.


    Damn it.


    She had to admit to herself that old Alva meant well. There Eithne was, warm, fed, watered, safe for the first time in¡ªGods, when was the last time I felt safe?¡ªyet she couldn¡¯t help but feel trapped. The room was close and narrow, the walls made of stone, the air mildewed, and a single candle was all she had for light. She didn¡¯t even know what hour of the day it was. Was it noon? Evening? She¡¯d come to the temple near dawn, but she¡¯d been underground ever since. The hourglass, its upper bulb nearly empty, signified nothing.


    And where did that spider get to¡­? She shuddered at the thought, glanced around for any sign of the hairy-legged little beast.


    She beat her fists against her knees as she sat down on one of the beds. The way they discount and undermine me? I don¡¯t need their protection, no more than I needed Eowain to risk his damn fool neck for me. I know how to fight.


    Her father¡¯d seen to that, taught her sword-play and spear-work until she was as good as any man in their village.


    Eithne had never wanted to be any good at spinning and carding and other so-called, ¡°women¡¯s work.¡± Yet Mother would¡¯ve chained her to the spinning wheel¡ªif she could have¡ªand droned on and on through all the days of Eithne¡¯s life about the glittering courts of the kings of Larriocht and what it meant to be lady-like. The life of a mountain-lord¡¯s wife in a remote village, that wasn¡¯t the life she¡¯d wanted for herself. It wasn¡¯t the life she wanted for Eithne.


    Never mind what Eithne wanted for herself.


    There¡¯d been no sound from the hall since Alva left. Eithne rummaged through the chests again. A masher, a small knife, a small can of fuel oil, a tinderbox, and a clay smoking-pipe were among the personal effects.


    She pocketed the knife. Just in case. Gods only knew where her sword, armor, and other gear had gone.


    A cape, linen undergarments, a tunic, a woolen scarf, and a smock. A light blue robe, such as the lesser priestesses wore. A small wreath of mistletoe, holy to the goddess Thayn¨², and set of small tin bells.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    She put the light blue robe on over the plain linen gown she¡¯d been given, took up the candle, and lifted the latch. The door opened.


    A guard turned toward her. Eithne dropped her chin. ¡°Excuse me, sirs.¡± She made to pass them, but one put out a hand.


    ¡°Hold, my lady.¡±


    Eithne¡¯s throat clutched.


    The other guard growled at her. ¡°We¡¯ve our orders. You¡¯re not to leave. Not until Her Eminence says other¡ªyowse!¡±


    Eithne¡¯s right hook snapped his nose. She threw her flaming candle into the surprised face of the other, and ducked under his arms. Then like a bow-shot, she was past them.


    She had to find the Commemoration Hall, with the tapestries on its walls. She¡¯d entered the temple through there and knew no other way out.


    Already booted footfalls followed after her.


    A dark opening loomed on her left¡ªbut that wasn¡¯t how I came¡ªthen another empty place on her left. At the far end, the light of fiery braziers flickered through an archway, and she could see a glimpse of tapestry beyond. The Hall! She skidded around the corner.


    Down that corridor, up a short flight of carved stairs, and through the arched passage, into the wide hall. Four tapestries hung from the walls, and bronze statues of the mythical summer and winter kings stood in their alcoves. Booted heels and a hoarse shout pursued her.


    From the wide hall, another short flight of carved stairs descended. Four Huntsmen stood guard, two on each side at the top of the broad stairway, with their backs to her. Long, fine swords sheathed in leather depended from their girdles.


    The four guards turned, round-eyed. Hands went to sword-hilts.


    Eithne leaped between them and down the carved steps like a spring doe.


    ¡°Damn it!¡ªGet her!¡ªSound the horn!¡±


    She ran and skidded around the corner into a long narrow vestry, with rows of blue and white robes hanging from pegs on either side. She took up one in each hand, threw them in the air. Her pursuers caught them in the face. The urgent, high-pitched blasts of a horn echoed from the stones¡ªonce¡ªtwice¡ªagain.


    Eithne turned through an illumined archway into an octagonal shrine, lit by four burning braziers. Five women in pale blue robes, their prayerful chants interrupted, stood at a stone altar, round-eyed. Set behind them in the wall was a bronze statue of a beautiful woman with a sheaf of grain crooked in her elbow.


    From beneath the altar, clear spring waters gushed from the hill. A channel of stone blocks bisected the chamber. The water frothed through the channel and out under the wall to her right.


    Yes, I¡¯ve been here before!


    Two stout oaken doors, banded with black iron, stood on each side of the channel.


    I came into the shrine through those doors!


    One of them opened. A Huntsman came, sword drawn, in answer to the alarum horn. Across the channel, the other door opened. Another Huntsman, sword drawn as the first. Behind her, muffled curses and the stamp of booted feet.


    She leaped into the channel. Her limbs went numb, the spring water rose over her head, the current swept her feet out from under her.

 Chapter Three, Scene Seven

    The waters carried her under the black stone wall.


    Eithne¡¯s face broke the foaming surface of the lustral waters of the spring for a moment. She gasped for breath. The waters rushed through the center of the outer hall and plunged down from the hill on its stony course into the valley below.


    She tumbled with the cataract over the precipice. Her leg and arm banged against one wall of the stone channel, her back buffeted against rough bricks. The watery spume filled her nostrils, stung at her eyes.


    Then water closed once more over her head.


    Her feet hit the soft muddy bottom. She flexed her knees and pushed off, up, toward the surface and the air. The sodden blue robes and linen gown dragged at her.


    She broke surface and gasped air.


    The sun lingered behind mountainous walls around the Vale. Dawn? Dusk?


    The sodden robes pulled her down. The pool was deep enough to drown her.


    The waterfall of spring water at her back splashed into the pool.


    The waters run down the south side of the hill, she recalled. The sun was to her right. To the west. Dusk, then.


    Above on the hill, she heard shouts over the racket of the cascade. They¡¯re coming for me.


    She kicked hard for the soft bank of reeds that surrounded the pool and dragged herself from the waters. She shed the blue priestess-robe and ran out into the fields that rolled down toward the village and the fairgrounds.


    Men bounded down the steps cut into the hill, swords and javelins in hand, hooded with the heads of bears and wolves. Horns blasted from atop the hill.


    The red gloaming-fires still flickered at the top of the mountain wall, but the Vale itself was already dark. The chirrup of insects and the croak of frogs filled the air.


    Eithne was leaving a trail a child could follow, she knew, but from such men, there was no hiding, not when they were so close.


    Mud sucked at her sandaled feet, she slipped on grass, but on she ran.


    Across the deep purple sky, shadows swooped and swirled. Bats at their evening feast, squeaking and chittering.


    The bray of horns broke the night air again. There were shouts behind her and to both sides.


    They¡¯re strung out across a line. So not to miss me in the gloaming.


    The footing grew firm. Open ground to run, and she did. She had to stay ahead and lose them in the gathering dark.


    Eithne¡¯s mother had always demeaned the strength of her body. ¡°A lady should be soft,¡± she would say. ¡°A man doesn¡¯t want a muscle-bound wife.¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    But surely, Eithne was glad for those muscles then. Glad of the hours she¡¯d spent running against the other men of the village. Her legs were strong, her wind good. Even weighted as she was in sodden clothes, on she went through the chill evening air.


    From the hill of the Goddess, the land rolled south gently and descended toward the farm settlement that supported the temple. She could see the lights of the village already, and the broad swath of campfires that blanketed the horse-fair, pilgrims and merchants and nobles come for the high-spring holy day.


    Somewhere among those lights was her father. Father, who¡¯d always encouraged swords and shields and woodcraft. Father, who¡¯d always had a good word for her, even when her mother hadn¡¯t. Father will know what to do, she thought. Father would take care of her.


    She set her teeth and ran on.


    A horn blasted the air thrice behind her. High-pitched. A summoning. She¡¯d been sighted.


    Come on! Run! She lowered her head and leaned in.


    She leaped over hummocks and rocks hardly seen in the dimness. The campfires bobbed and jumped in her vision. Her legs burned with exertion.


    Shouts and cries chased her, drew closer. Her cold, clammy clothes dragged at her limbs.


    Almost there! Almost to the crowded camps. Her father would be there somewhere, among the cook-fires with his men. Her father would defend her.


    Her breath grew ragged, her step faltered. Run, damn it all!


    Out of the sky, a great dark shadow swept down. Piercing shrieks filled her ears, each new long wailing cry¡ªhigh and thin and cruel¡ªmore unbearable than the last.


    Ye Gods! Her hands went to her ears. Blackness came into her mind, and she could think no more of running, but only of falling, hiding, crawling.


    Agony clamped down on her shoulder¡ªknocked her from her feet¡ªtumbled her through the meadow grass.


    A huge shadow-shape passed over her.


    She landed on her back with a thud.


    In the sky above, three more dark shadows flitted thither and yon.


    Bats, Eithne realized. But bats more monstrous huge than any she¡¯d ever known. The wings were as broad as a wagon-length, the body as big as a dog.


    Her hand found a tree branch in the meadow grass. She rolled to her feet and raised the branch like a club.


    The shadows flitted in circles, then plunged at her, one after another.


    The pain of their keening shrieks, like steel nails over chalk, nearly blinded Eithne. She dropped the branch from nerveless fingers, grabbed at her ears, and fell to her knees. The first bat¡¯s swooped over her.


    The second bat seized her right arm in its fangs, dragged her up from her knees. The third struck her in the back. The jaws of another clamped down on her leg.


    Their wings tangled, and her weight was greater than they could bear. Together, they plunged and pinwheeled across the dark meadow.


    Javelins flew out of the dimness. Two burrowed down and quivered in the grass. Two more pierced the beasts on the ground.


    The injured ones screamed and staggered on awkward legs and wings. The third released Eithne¡¯s arm and shrieked across the meadow.


    Through the blinding pain, she stumbled to a knee, then a foot.


    Huntsmen! She caught a glimpse of them before the black dog-sized body yet airborne flapped down between them and her.


    The two ungainly monsters scrambled into flight.


    Eithne stood and kicked the blunt, upturned snout of the nearest bat. Blood exploded over her sandled foot. The beast blinked and shrank back.


    Like a bolt from a bow, Eithne was away. Black forms swept down out of the sky, passed over her.


    Behind, the shrieks of the bats mingled with the shouted curses of the Huntsmen.


    The village and its camps were just ahead.


    Run, damn it! Eithne lowered her head and shoulders. The hummocks flew away under her feet. Run!

 Chapter Three, Scene Eight

    Twilight fell across the Vale. Above the torches and campfires that burned bright among the lanes of the merchant caravans, streaks of blue, purple, red, and gold lingered among the clouds and gloaming flickered from the peaks of the western mountains.


    Adarc looked up over the stalls of the market. Upon the crown of the hill that dominated the Vale, a circle of ancient gray stones thrust up into the darkness like jagged teeth.


    King Eowain is up there somewhere, he thought. Taken for healing to the temple beneath the hill. No news had yet come from the temple about Eowain¡¯s condition.


    Adarc gnawed at his lip. The maiming of the king¡¯s brother had left Lorc¨¢n ineligible to hold the throne, and the treacherous death of their cousin Tn¨²thgal eliminated one of the half-dozen eligible cousins. Who might take the throne next, if Eowain died?


    But news that men of the Fiatach and Cailech where abroad in the Vale did nothing to improve the humor of the Droma-men. Lorc¨¢n had set more men to picket duty, and word had spread that Droma-men should stay close to camp.


    Adarc gathered up cups and the ewers of ?l and wine for which he¡¯d been sent, and returned to the king¡¯s pavilion. Bats on the wing swirled through the twilit sky.


    Inside the pavilion, Eithne¡¯s family was gathered with Lorc¨¢n and Medyr around the central fire.


    ¡°What do you mean, Ciaran? You don¡¯t know where our daughter is?¡± Lady Goldeboro was a thin, small woman, with a neck long and wrinkled as a chicken¡¯s. She glared at her husband from under the fringe of her black and grey bangs.


    Lord Ciaran gave her a hard look. ¡°I told you, wife,¡± he said through gritted teeth. ¡°She was taken to the temple at start of day, by the Mother Corchen herself. What should I have done?¡±


    Lorc¨¢n interjected his voice into the thunder gathering between the two. ¡°Like our king, my lady, we¡¯ve heard no news of them since this morning.¡± He accepted a cup from his hand, and Adarc poured ?l for him.


    Goldeboro was anything but placated. ¡°And where is Alva? She told me she¡¯d watch over Eithne personally.¡±


    Medyr looked uncomfortable. ¡°I¡¯m afraid she¡¯s also been up at the temple, my¡ª¡±


    ¡°I thought this was to be a wedding, not a war!¡± Goldeboro swatted away the cup Adarc proffered to her.


    ¡°Really, Goldie, you need to calm down.¡± The Lady Fidelm took her cup¡ª¡°Wine, if you please¡±¡ªand went on while Adarc poured. ¡°No one could have predicted that Mother Corchen would insist on having the wedding here at the Vale.¡±


    Goldeboro regarded her sister-in-law with disdain. ¡°Well, if they had all just stayed in Droma, none of this would have happened!¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Lorc¨¢n plucked a slice of a cheese and a chunk of muslin, the hard trail biscuit of barley, rye, and bean flour they¡¯d been eating for days, from a wooden platter. ¡°If wishes were fishes, my lady, we¡¯d all have dinner,¡± he grumbled.


    Goldeboro harrumphed. ¡°There¡¯s no need to be rude.¡±


    The Lady Rathtyen, aunt to Lorc¨¢n and the king, took her own cup from Adarc, preferring ?l. ¡°No one¡¯s being rude, Goldeboro. But done is done, and we¡¯ve had a long enough journey.¡±


    Adarc remembered Lady Rathtyen¡¯s shrieks and complaints over every rut in the road her wagon was forced to navigate. Compared to the foot-soldiers and horsemen marching through rain and combat, she¡¯d traveled in luxurious comfort.


    ¡°Wine, please.¡± Lord Fethgna held out a hand, and Adarc put the thought from his mind, handed the noble his cup, and poured for him. The young lord scowled beneath his moutstaches. ¡°Mother, the high-priestess must have had her reasons. Father and Eithne¡¯s hosts have done the best they can in difficult circumstances. You may not like it, but you have to trust the Order.¡± By his light-blue robes, Fethgna was one of the lesser brethren in the Drymyn Order himself.


    Lady Goldeboro let go an exasperated breath. ¡°Trust the Order? I¡¯ve been trusting it since Eithne was just a baby. I was told a suitable match would be made for her, once all this portent business was over with.¡± She fixed her husband with a hard look. ¡°That witch Alva promised us.¡±


    Lorc¨¢n wiped cheese and bread crumbs from his beard. ¡°Are you suggesting my brother¡¯s not a suitable match?¡±


    Goldeboro stiffened and primed her lips. ¡°Well he¡¯s hardly one of the great lords of the Five Kingdoms, now is he?¡± She waved away her words with the back of her hand. ¡°Just another hedge-king.¡± She pointed to her husband¡¯s attention. ¡°King Yochy still has a grandson. He¡¯s single, you know. Eligible to be king of all the Fiatach, and overking of the Narada, too.¡±


    Ciaran groaned. ¡°Goldie¡ª¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t come all this way just to re-negotiate my brother¡¯s wedding arrangements.¡±


    Lady Fidelm raised a calming hand. ¡°Peace, Lorc¨¢n. The S¨¢r¨¢n-Gwynn honor their word.¡± She glared at Goldeboro. ¡°Isn¡¯t that right, sister?¡±


    Goldeboro harrumphed and lapsed into silence.


    Ciaran shrugged. ¡°Forgive my wife. She¡¯s just concerned for our daughter¡¯s safety.¡±


    ¡°And I for my brother¡¯s. Don¡¯t hear me bit¡ª.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll do, nephew.¡± Rathtyen put a hand on Lorc¨¢n¡¯s arm.


    Adarc¡¯s master looked up at him from his place around the fire, rolled his eyes. ¡°You didn¡¯t bring any of that uisce, did you, lad?¡±


    ¡°Sure and I didn¡¯t, Master,¡± he whispered. ¡°Would you like¡ª?¡±


    Medyr waved a hand. ¡°No, never mind.¡± He took the last cup. ¡°Just ?l if you would.¡±


    Adarc poured for him as Lord Ciaran spoke. ¡°The S¨¢r¨¢n-Gwynn have never had a part in the Donnghaile¡¯s feud with our Gwynn cousins. But we¡¯re as glad as any that this marriage will lay the feud to rest.¡± He glared at Medyr. ¡°And if it should also please the Drymyn Order and satisfy their oracles, then we¡¯re doubly-honored by the Gods blessings and attentions on our daughter.¡±


    The Lady Goldeboro sulked. ¡°The Gods, they are forgetful.¡±


    All the lords and ladies served, Adarc retreated to the wall of the pavilion. Sure and it was a hard place they were all in. A company of the main line of the Gwynn family were in the fairgrounds as well. The Donnghaile of Droma had been feuding with them for a generation, and old injuries were hardly forgotten. If Eowain died, or the marriage-contract was broken, there was little more than the promised peace of the fair between them. Sure and the Gwynn¡¯s Chremthain cousins of Ivea and Celtair would take their side, and the Droma-men would be all outnumbered. Adarc prayed to Karn, chief god of his cult, that his master and Lord Lorc¨¢n could keep the peace there in that tent.

 Chapter Four, Scene Nine

    ¡°Eowain¡¯s here to marry a lady of Ivearda. All the drymyn hereabout are keen on it.¡± King Yochy screwed an eyeball at him. ¡°You haven¡¯t heard of this wedding? It¡¯s been the talk of the northeast all winter.¡±


    Inloth hadn¡¯t. ¡°As I said, we came from the south, Your Grace. These drymyn, the ones who are keen on this marriage, are they good S¨²thrhamans? They¡¯ve accepted the reforms of M¨¢ed¨®c? Particularly those regarding marriage?¡±


    ¡°Bah!¡± Dunchath waved an annoyed hand. ¡°How¡¯re we supposed to know? All ye drymyn sound the same.¡±


    But Yochy seemed to understand him. ¡°Interesting thought, Drymyn. I do happen to have a grandson, Diarmait¡¯s his name.¡± King Yochy tugged at his beard. ¡°The S¨¢r¨¢n-Gwynn girl¡¯s just a bastard cousin, but having her for a wife and hostage in my house instead of the Donnghaile¡¯s might keep the rest of the Ivearda aligned with me. They¡¯ve been far too friendly with the Mainach since Murdach became king of the east.¡±


    His cousin Dafyd rose from the pile of furs and paced around the room with his hands behind his back. His chin drooped to his chest. ¡°That would tighten our relations with the main Gwynn clan. Re-unite the whole of the Fiatach for the first time in a generation.¡± He nodded while he calculated. ¡°It would hedge the Narada into the northeast. We¡¯d have a choke-hold on their trade with the rest of Iathrann, maybe force them back to the table.¡±


    ¡°I have a son, too.¡± Dunchath furrowed his brows. ¡°He¡¯d make a good husband¡ª¡±


    ¡°Quiet, Dunchath.¡± Yochy waved a hand in the air. ¡°We¡¯re thinking.¡± He looked up at Inloth. ¡°And you say you¡¯d support us if we contested this wedding?¡±


    Inloth nodded. ¡°The drymyn here in the east are all Karnites. They practice their own rites, rites no one else in all the Abred practice. Yet they call themselves ¡®S¨²thrhamans¡¯ like the rest of us. Why should they share in the rights and privileges of our Universal Order if they do not share in our practices? Without the proper blessings, properly performed, she¡¯d be no proper wife, and her children nothing but bastards. You owe it to your kinswoman to rescue her from such a fate.¡±


    Yochy looked uncomfortable. ¡°You know, we¡¯re all Karnites here, Your Reverence. Only makes sense for us, what with Gruath as Great Oak of the Circle hereabouts.¡±


    ¡°Gruath¡¯s a cheater and a thief,¡± hissed Inloth with venom. He¡¯d stolen the office of Great Oak from Inloth¡¯s own master in a fickle game ten years ago, and Inloth had never forgiven Gruath for treating his master thus. ¡°I¡¯d just as soon see him burned for an apostate.¡± But then he smoothed his manner. ¡°If you promised to adopt the reforms and swear your allegiance to the only true ways of the S¨²thrhaman Brotherhood, of course I¡¯d be obligated to support your case. After all, I share your spiritual concerns. It would be a tragedy if this delicate flower of Fiatach womanhood was to be led like a sacrificial nanny-goat into the wickedness of these Karnite heresies.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s an ¡®apostate¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Peace, Dunchath. The grown-ups are talking.¡±


    ¡°Ye ain¡¯t my over-king, ye know.¡±


    Yochy narrowed his eyes at the big man, then looked at Dafyd. ¡°What do you think, cousin?¡±


    Dafyd nodded to himself a moment more. ¡°Most of the West and the South have adopted the S¨²thrhaman practices, anyway. The High King hasn¡¯t endorsed them, but¡­¡± He waved a negligent hand in the air. ¡°No one really cares what old Turloch thinks anyway. The kings of Laighan, Larriocht, and Muvain only suffer him because they fear Murdach.¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Yochy put up a hand and scowled. ¡°My mistake. I don¡¯t actually want to know what you think, Dafyd. I want to know your conclusions.¡±


    Dafyd smiled thinly at him. ¡°If we align ourselves with His Reverence¡¯s reforms, and he supports our counter-proposal to this wedding, and we win our case, we unite the Fiatach, force the Narada back into tribute, and gain friends in Larriocht, which has no more love for Murdach than we do. It strengthens our position against the aggression of tribes like Droma and Cailech.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡±


    ¡°For the Gods¡¯ sake, Dunchath! Hush!¡±


    ¡°But yer makin¡¯ alliances against me.¡±


    Yochy shook his head. ¡°Not at all.¡± He looked to Dafyd. ¡°You¡¯ve a daughter, haven¡¯t you? The one what was just widowed?¡±


    Dafyd frowned. ¡°Eneuawg. Yes.¡±


    ¡°And your son¡ªWhat¡¯s his name?¡±


    The big man frowned as well. ¡°Tuathal.¡±


    ¡°There you go.¡± Yochy clapped his hands and spread them apart. ¡°Tuathal marries Eneuawg, and we¡¯re all friends again.¡±


    Inloth watched Dunchath trying to calculate the risks and benefits of such a marriage. I think I smell smoke, he thought.


    ¡°We¡¯re agreed, then? Good!¡± Yochy rubbed the calloused palms of his old hands together. ¡°Then it may be we can do business, Your Reverence.¡±


    Inloth smiled and bowed. ¡°Yes, Your Highness.¡±


    After a drink to seal their bargain, Inloth returned to his flock well-satisfied. Dunchath, king of the Cailech, was hardly the brightest star in the vast firmament, but Yochy and Dafyd understood the way of things. And if Inloth could convert such wicked old Karnites as them, and change the balance of power in the East into the bargain, he¡¯d prove the reformation was still something to be reckoned with.


    In his absence, a large fire had been kindled in front of his own tent. As he and Finntonn approached, Inloth heard chanting.


    Around the fire, the eight penitents of his company were on their knees, stripped to the waist, and cried out between each lash of their barbed brass scourges. ¡°O Belenos, You are the Love and Life of my soul. I find true peace and real happiness only in Your love, in Your service, and in the imitation of Your virtues. I offer myself to You; do what You will with me; henceforth my motto shall be, ¡®All for Belenos!¡¯¡±


    Flagellating oneself to bear witness to the truth of Belenos had become a Narician custom, but where they¡¯d learned the practice, he couldn¡¯t say. Certainly they all spoke the southern dialect of Iathrann like natives, and Inloth¡¯s own mission didn¡¯t preach such mortification of the flesh.


    But each dawn and dusk, those eight penitent women and men devoted to the practice exposed the bloody welts and lacerations on their backs¡ª a testament to the depths of their faith¡ªto the other pilgrims as an inspiration. The women had even woven crowns of thorns for themselves and tangled them into their hair. Blood streamed down their faces and across breasts that shook with each torturous lash.


    Well, if such is their dedication to the teachings of Belenos, far be it from me to fault them. After all, the Ard-D¨¢ra himself, High Oak of the entire Drymyn Order, had commended such displays of faith.


    One of Inloth¡¯s other pilgrims¡ªAlisoun by name, a gat-toothed, somewhat deaf woman, widow of five husbands and fond of bright scarlet red stockings¡ªbrought an earthen cup toward him.


    ¡°Your Reverence!¡± The ginger-haired penitent woman leaped to her feet. ¡°Is she bothering you? Alisoun, why are you so flimsy?¡± She shouldered poor Alisoun aside, took the cup, and bounced on the balls of her feet. Her bare, blood-smeared breasts jiggled. ¡°Your Reverence, will you take some ?l before dinner?¡±


    Finntonn went to help Alisoun back to her feet.


    Inloth took the cup. ¡°That¡¯s kind of you, Tn¨²th¨¦t, thank you, but I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve eaten.¡± He patted his stomach. ¡°The Cailech king¡¯s generous hospitality.¡± He sipped from the stout draught.


    Tn¨²th¨¦t pouted. ¡°Oh. But you¡¯re so gentle and elderly, Your Reverence. You shouldn¡¯t be out in such a chill.¡± She pressed against him and wrapped her own arm around his. ¡°Let me take you inside and get you a blanket.¡±


    The dark-haired lass, B¨¢nd¨ªgal, pressed herself against his other arm. ¡°Hush, Tn¨²th¨¦t. Surely, after such a long day, His Reverence¡¯s back needs hot compresses and a firm rubbing.¡±


    ¡°Now, now, ladies, please.¡± He gently pushed them away, mindful of his propriety. ¡°Another cup of this fine ?l, but I¡¯ve much to think on before the morrow.¡±

 Chapter Four, Scene Ten

    Eithne dashed for the homely fires of the camps. Her wounded leg ached. She limped and stumbled to a gasping halt as she came at last to the outskirts and sat hard upon the ground. At last, she dared to look back.


    Across the pastures, four of the Huntsmen struggled against the flapping, snapping beasts with javelins and swords.


    Serves¡ª them¡ª right, she gasped.


    She hung her head between her knees and gulped air for several moments.


    My hand¡ª feels wet? Indeed, blood ran down her left fingers. She became aware of the sharp pain in her left shoulder. She pulled at the sleeve and found the rip where a beast had sunk its fangs into her. And the other pain in her right calf. The skirts of her linen gown were soaked with almost as much blood as water.


    Oh, and my back. She rubbed at that ache too, then probed at the wound on her shoulder, the lacerated flesh of her leg. Not serious, but they may fester. She had to get to the Droma camp, where she could clean the wounds. Her father would be there, if the old witch told the truth.


    She looked back as shadows gathered around the ancient stones that crowned the sacred hill. Alva and Corchen, all the priestesses, and the Huntsmen too, they¡¯d all underestimated her.


    She grunted. I¡¯ve fought and run with boys and men my whole life. Father saw I had a talent for it, nurtured it. Treated me like an actual person. So I¡¯d become something more than just a girl.


    Eithne spit in the grass, lurched to her feet and limped in among the tents and alleys, past traders and journeymen and mercenaries. Free men. Men of means. Men with ambitions, however petty.


    A trollop leaned from a tent and importuned her. A passing soldier made a lewd comment.


    Eithne hurried past, wondered if that was all the drymyn wanted, to make a whore of her in one way or another. The men of her home village respected her¡ªthe lord¡¯s daughter, of course, but they knew her worth too.


    Other men though¡ªwomen too¡ªthey always seemed to think she was incompetent, or foolish, or powerless.


    She thought of the close, easy relationship she¡¯d had with Father when she was younger. She¡¯d watched his work about the village, how he organized their defense, taught the young men sword and shield and spear. He¡¯d taught her what it meant to really fight for something. Father will know what to do.


    She limped the twisted, muddy street, past ?l tents and pepper-vendors and shops with hanging poultry and strings of ramson bulbs. People jostled past. Wives stocked large clay pots. Men carried sacks of grain. The prices whitewashed on the boards outside shops were predictably outrageous. Passersby noted her blood-soaked gown, then looked away, not eager for trouble.


    Eithne stumbled into a wide, flame-lit space. A homely camp fire. A jovial, balding fellow called for tales and fables from those gathered near the fire. A brash and drunken man interrupted him, demanded his tale should be next. ¡°Oh, and me tale of the carpenter, I guarantee i¡¯sh the most vulgar tale ye e¡¯er heard, cuz i¡¯sh true!¡±


    A gat-toothed old woman in bright scarlet-red stockings leaned toward him, hand cupped to ear. ¡°Eh? What¡¯s that?¡±


    She saw no tartans at all among them. Neither the green, white, and gold tartans of Droma, nor the black and red tartans of Ivearda, but also not the tartans of the Ivea, or the Celtair, or the Cailech. In fact, they wore only common travel clothes, as if there were no ranks or factions among them.


    Eithne hesitated at the edge of the quaint and peaceful tableau. Three women, blonde, black-haired, and red-headed, smirked at her. They wore dark blue woolen robes, with brass-studded scourges cinched tight about their slim waists, rested heavily on their broad hips. Something in their manner was more suggestive than such robes should allow.


    ¡°Well, look what we have here, ladies. If it isn¡¯t the Bride of Ceugant herself?¡± The blonde cocked a hip and flipped hair back from her shoulder.


    ¡°Hush, Trebithu,¡± said the red-head. ¡°You¡¯ll frighten the poor lass.¡± She pouted at Eithne. ¡°Are you frightened, little girl? Don¡¯t be. We¡¯re harmless.¡±


    ¡°Mostly,¡± said blonde Trebithu with a light laugh.


    ¡°Mostly not.¡± The black-haired one¡¯s visage was cold and grim.


    ¡°Oh, B¨¢nd¨ªgal, come, play nice.¡± The red-head nudged her dark-complexioned companion. ¡°Give the girl a smile.¡±


    B¨¢nd¨ªgal of the black hair looked side-wise at the red-head, then smiled wolfishly at Eithne.


    ¡°There now. Isn¡¯t that better, lass? You see, B¨¢nd¨ªgal means well.¡±


    Eithne felt a gnawing sense of disquietude near these three, like fear barely restrained, as if she should flee. And the pain in her shoulder and her leg had sharpened with time.


    Yet they beckoned her, teasingly, a bit mockingly, toward their warm, inviting fire.


    ¡°Come, sit with us,¡± said the red-head.


    She sought a polite way to decline, but¡ª


    ¡°We won¡¯t bite.¡± The dark-haired woman flashed that wolfish grin again. ¡°Oh, are you hurt?¡± She plucked at the blood-stained sleeve of Eithne¡¯s sodden linen gown.


    She pulled her sleeve away from that touch. ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Really, I should just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Come now. We¡¯ve a chirurgeon here.¡± She looked around the fire and beckoned.


    A spare, middle-aged man joined them. ¡°Oh,¡± he said, ¡°Yes. Let me have a look at that. I know all the medicines, drugs, humours. Astrology too. I tell you, I earn a lot of gold during plague season.¡± He hovered, with a benign, distant smile on his face.


    ¡°Oh, Tn¨²th¨¦t, perhaps she¡¯d like a cup of wine?¡± Blonde Trebithu put her hand suggestively on the red-head¡¯s knee, then nodded and leaned toward Eithne. ¡°You¡¯d like a cup of wine, wouldn¡¯t you, lass?¡±


    ¡°Wine? No, thank you, I¡¯ve got¡ª¡± She reached for the pain in her¡ªblinked¡ªput her hand to her throat. Such a thirst¡ª?


    The red-head, Tn¨²th¨¦t, nodded as well. ¡°Of course you would.¡± She drew an earthen cup from a nearby sack and squeezed wine from a skin into it. ¡°Here now, come sit by the fire.¡±


    ¡°Drink with us.¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°You look like you¡¯ve had the Fiend¡¯s own night of it.¡± Tn¨²th¨¦t waved her fingers thither. ¡°Come, get warm.¡± Her hazel eyes shimmered in the firelight.


    Despite herself, Eithne relaxed of a sudden. They¡¯re only being hospitable, after all. Fellow women on a cold night in a strange place. Shame blushed her cheeks. She regretted doubting them. ¡°Yes.¡± No. What am I¡ª? ¡°Yes, alright. Just for a moment, I suppose.¡±


    Trebithu smiled at her. ¡°That¡¯s a lass.¡±


    ¡°Come, sit by B¨¢nd¨ªgal.¡± The red-head gave the black-haired woman a gentle push. B¨¢nd¨ªgal moved over on the log and Tn¨²th¨¦t patted the place beside her. ¡°Come, right here between us.¡±


    They arranged themselves to welcome her, Tn¨²th¨¦t and B¨¢nd¨ªgal on the log, blonde Trebithu upon the ground, her knees drawn up. The fire was warm, inviting after the cold, dank halls beneath the hill.


    Eithne sat between the dark-hair and the red and they handed her the earthen cup of wine. The bouquet of it reached her nose and made it tingle with heat. Her anxiety melted away.


    One of the women flicked a hand, and the chirurgeon drifted away.


    ¡°It¡¯s a delightful red. We have it from the hills north of Rhyanos, in Sasana.¡±


    Eithne¡¯s brows rose. ¡°That¡¯s so far away.¡±


    ¡°Not so far, as the night¡¯s wind blows,¡± said B¨¢nd¨ªgal.


    Tn¨²th¨¦t scowled at B¨¢nd¨ªgal. ¡°Perhaps it is.¡± She shrugged and smiled again. ¡°We have it from a trader.¡±


    Trebithu put a hand on Eithne¡¯s knee. ¡°They grow vines there with tight-clustered, pine cone-shaped bunches of dark purple fruit. Rows upon rows of them, in the hot summer sunshine.¡±


    ¡°With the warm, strong dragon winds sweeping up the valley from the great bay of Manannyn.¡± B¨¢nd¨ªgal leaned against Eithne, their shoulders touching. ¡°Oh, it is delightful.¡±


    Tn¨²th¨¦t put a hand on Eithne¡¯s thigh. ¡°Indeed, if you haven¡¯t been, you really must.¡± She nudged Eithne with an elbow. ¡°Try it, dear. You¡¯ll love it. We promise.¡± She raised her own earthen cup to her lips and her eyes glittered in the firelight.


    Eithne swirled the wine in the cup, then raised it to her lips. The rich smell of cherries, blackberries, and cloves filled her nose. The taste was powerful. It filled her mouth with a silky taste of raspberries and blackberries, then slid into a long, flavorful finish. ¡°Mmmm,¡± she moaned. ¡°It¡¯s¡ª Oh, it¡¯s delicious.¡± All her pain and fear lifted away. She bobbed her head to her hostesses. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t I say?¡± B¨¢nd¨ªgal pointed a finger at the blonde. ¡°Older means more intense flavor.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I like them younger.¡± Trebithu giggled.


    Tn¨²th¨¦t shook her head. ¡°No, older is better. We should never have doubted you, Sister B¨¢nd¨ªgal.¡± She squeezed Eithne¡¯s thigh. ¡°Have another sip, lass. Tell us what you taste.¡±


    ¡°Is it nutmeg?¡± Eithne swirled another mouthful over her tongue and savored the flavor. ¡°And cloves?¡±


    Tn¨²th¨¦t smiled broadly. ¡°You have a fine palette, dear.¡± She leaned in close, whispered in Eithne¡¯s ear. ¡°Some think it tastes of plums as well.¡±


    ¡°Mmm, yes.¡± Eithne nodded around another mouthful. ¡°Yes, I taste that.¡±


    ¡°And it has a bit of heat on the nose.¡± B¨¢nd¨ªgal flicked her slender finger down on the tip of Eithne¡¯s nose, playful and coy.


    Trebithu raised an eyebrow. ¡°A bit of heat everywhere, I should say.¡± She leaned back and took a long drink from her own cup. Her robes fell gracefully along the line of her breasts and hips. She rubbed her drawn-up knees together. ¡°Mmm, yes. Every last where indeed.¡± She wiggled her rump on the ground.


    Eithne squirmed. The wine rose to her head. Beside her, B¨¢nd¨ªgal and Tn¨²th¨¦t relaxed, gave her some room on the log. ¡°So¡ª¡± Eithne searched for conversation. ¡°Where are you from?¡±


    Tn¨²th¨¦t shrugged. ¡°Here and there.¡±


    ¡°Mostly there.¡± B¨¢nd¨ªgal waved a negligent hand.


    ¡°Oh. How did you come here to the Vale?¡±


    ¡°We traveled north from Larriocht,¡± said Tn¨²th¨¦t.


    ¡°In the pilgrimage of Drymyn Inloth,¡± added Trebithu.


    B¨¢nd¨ªgal nodded. ¡°From his new sanctuary at Tobar-na-Mela.¡±


    ¡°That means, ¡®well of honey,¡¯ you know.¡± Trebithu licked her lips. ¡°I do love some creamy honey on the tongue.¡±


    ¡°He just laid the foundation for it two years ago.¡± Tn¨²th¨¦t took another sip of wine.


    ¡°Already, it¡¯s one of the richest beehives in Iathrann.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the blessing of Belenos for you.¡±


    ¡°Bees are fine on their own¡ª¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯s nothing in nature that the hand of man can¡¯t improve on¡ª¡±


    ¡°Bring order to¡ª¡±


    ¡°And beauty. What¡¯s lovelier than well-tended bee-hives¡ª?¡±


    ¡°All those workers, going about their business, knowing their duty¡ª¡±


    ¡°Their place in the hive¡ª¡±


    ¡°Their role in the whole¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really quite remarkable.¡± Tn¨²th¨¦t squeezed Eithne¡¯s thigh again and pressed her breasts against Eithne¡¯s shoulder. ¡°And you know,¡± she whispered conspiratorially, ¡°They all serve a great queen.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true.¡± B¨¢nd¨ªgal leaned in from Eithne¡¯s right, clacked her earthen cup to Eithne¡¯s own. ¡°They¡¯d give their very souls for their queen.¡±


    Trebithu raised her cup to Eithne. ¡°She has such pretty hair.¡± She cocked her head and looked at Eithne¡¯s head. ¡°It¡¯s an even lovelier shade of ginger than yours, sister.¡±


    Tn¨²th¨¦t took a strand of Eithne¡¯s hair and held it up to the firelight, where it glittered like burnished copper. ¡°Do you think so? Lovelier than mine?¡±


    ¡°Oh, it certainly is.¡±


    ¡°Absolutely.¡±


    Tn¨²th¨¦t tugged.


    Ow!


    ¡°Lovelier hair than mine?¡± She wrapped the strand around a finger and tugged again, harder. ¡°Who¡¯d have thought it?¡±


    Eithne pulled her head back, put up a hand, and smoothed the hair back into place, free of Tn¨²th¨¦t¡¯s finger. ¡°Ugh, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s not. I must look like a drowned rat. But, I¡ªuhm¡ªYour hair¡¯s very nice.¡± What are these three on about? And wasn¡¯t there somewhere I had to be?


    She tried to remember something. Something forgotten.


    Across the fire, a very old and irritable man proclaimed himself once a carpenter and loudly resented the brash, vulgar man¡¯s tale about a stupid old carpenter. Another man stirred at a pot that bubbled over the fire. A chancre on his chin ran with pus. The savory scent of mutton stew filled Eithne¡¯s nose. Like the mutton stew that Father used to make¡­


    ¡°Oh!¡± Eithne shook her head.


    ¡°What is it, lass?¡± Trebithu¡¯s brows furrowed.


    Her shoulder, her leg, her back, they all ached. What in Annwn am I doing? And her clothes were sodden with blood. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡ª.¡± Father. I have to find father. She handed the cup of wine to B¨¢nd¨ªgal. ¡°I really must go.¡±


    ¡°But you look half a fright, dear¡ª.¡±


    ¡°¡ªthose blood stains all down your tunic¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªStay another moment, we¡¯ll get you cleaned up¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªLovely lass ought not to be running around the night, looking such a fright.¡±


    Eithne pushed herself up off the log. Their hands seemed to cling to her. ¡°No, I¡¯m sorry, no. I have to go.¡± She turned to hurry away¡ªWhat weird women¡ªand collided with an older man in white robes, with a black overtunic. ¡°Oh! I¡¯m so¡ª¡±


    ¡°What have we here, ladies?¡± His cracked lips split into a gentle smile beneath a reddish varicose nose. His beneficent eyes sparkled in the firelight.


    Tn¨²th¨¦t pouted. ¡°We found a stray, Your Reverence. Can we keep her?¡±


    His eyes traveled up and down her body, then settled on Eithne¡¯s eyes. ¡°She¡¯s hurt, Tn¨²th¨¦t.¡±


    Trebithu moaned, ¡°We had the chirurgeon look at her.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Please, forgive our hospitality. Someone ought to have done more than just look at you.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°I am the Drymyn Inloth of Tarawd.¡±


    ¡°Tarawd? You¡¯re of Ivearda?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°I am. Though it¡¯s been some time since I¡¯ve been back. I¡¯m steward of the sanctuary at Tobar-na-Mela, in Larriocht.¡± He came to some conclusion in his mind. ¡°By your accent¡ª You¡¯re Iveardan yourself, or I¡¯m much mistaken?¡±


    By the Gods, a fellow-tribesman. Eithne breathed a sigh. ¡°Aye. Eithne of Dolgallu, daughter of Lord Ciaran.¡±


    His eyebrows rose up and his forehead wrinkled. ¡°My lady.¡± He bowed his head, shaved save for a greying old topknot. ¡°How fortunate that you should stumble into my camp.¡± He rose and gestured to a nearby tent. ¡°Please. I know many healthful prayers and coelbreni for the mending of wounds. I would be a poor host indeed if I did not offer aid to a kinswoman in need.¡±


    Eithne considered the tent, the docile old holy-man. Blood dribbled down her arm and her calf, and the pain of her wounds insisted on her attention. She looked back at the weird women. Maybe they really did mean well?


    She made up her mind. ¡°Yes, fine, thank you.¡± She gathered up what remained of her dignity, straightened her back and shoulders. ¡°Yes, that would be very kind of you.¡±

 Chapter Five, Scene Eleven

    Eithne allowed herself to be ushered into the tent. Behind her, the weird sisters giggled behind their hands.


    Then the drymyn-priest closed the tent flap.


    Two men, one in his late-twenties, the other a lad of her own age, rose from blankets laid out on the ground. Like the older drymyn, they wore white robes overlayed by a black tunic, and their heads were shaved save for a top-knot.


    Inloth gestured to them. ¡°These are my assistants, Finntonn¡ª¡± The elder inclined his head. ¡°¡ªAnd B¨¦cc.¡± The younger followed the example of the elder. ¡°Lads, this is the Lady Eithne of Dolgallu.¡±


    The elder¡¯s eyebrows rose and his lips parted.


    ¡°Yes, Finnton.¡± Inloth coughed. ¡°A noble-woman of Ivearda.¡±


    Finnton bowed more deeply. ¡°Yes, Your Reverence. My lady.¡±


    B¨¦cc seemed puzzled, then followed Finnton¡¯s example.


    ¡°B¨¦cc, bring us some more wine, there¡¯s a good lad.¡± The younger man excused himself and left the tent. ¡°Finntonn, fetch my crane bag.¡± Then Inloth gestured to a field cot of blankets suspended between wooden poles and covered with furs. ¡°Please, my lady, have a seat.¡±


    The tent was homely enough, though spartan. A small brass brazier of burning coals provided light and warmth, and smoke enough to sting Eithne¡¯s eyes as it gathered under the hole at the peak of the tent. The ground was covered with muddied canvas. Leather packs and small crates were piled around the fringes. The strong, astringent scent of wood-sage prickled at her nostrils.


    Eithne thanked the older priest again. ¡°This is very kind of you.¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± replied Inloth. His assistant brought a satchel of leather and linen to him with great dignity. Inloth took it from Finntonn with the same care, opened the satchel, and drew out a green stone as he knelt on the floor before her. ¡°I¡¯ll start with your leg, if that¡¯s alright?¡±


    Eithne pulled back the hem from her injured calf.


    Inloth considered the wound. ¡°These punctures are deep¡­¡± He looked up at her. ¡°Were you bitten by a dog, my lady?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°Don¡¯t ask. You wouldn¡¯t believe me if I told you.¡±


    One brow crawled up his forehead. ¡°Alright then¡­¡±


    Eithne changed the subject. ¡°You say you¡¯re from Larriocht now?¡±


    He replied absently as he drew herbs, oils, infusions and other concoctions from the satchel. ¡°Aye, from Larriocht, my lady. I was companion and disciple to our last Great Oak, M¨¢ed¨®c.¡±


    Eithne almost gagged. A reformer? Here?


    Inloth prodded gently at the puntures made by the bat¡¯s fangs. ¡°Traveled with him to Naricia. Studied at Gialglion for a time.¡± He swabbed at the wound with a linen cloth soaked in oil. ¡°Adopted the faith of Belenos.¡±


    She eyed him closely. Reformationists like him had come to Dolgallu in the past. Father had no patience for them. We have our own ways, taught to us by Karn himself, in the Old Land. He¡¯d dismissed those missionaries from his village without a hearing. Nothing wrong with our ways. Never has been. No matter what the Belenosians say.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The younger lad, B¨¦cc, returned with the wine. Eithne declined, but Inloth took a cup and B¨¦cc poured a draught. ¡°Oh, a bit more liberal, lad.¡± He rubbed at his back. ¡°Good for these old bones, you know.¡±


    The young priest complied, then excused himself as Inloth smiled up at her. ¡°What has you wandering the camps in such a state, my lady?¡± Finntonn hovered behind his master.


    She frowned. Certainly, if anyone would understand her disagreement with the priestesses, the reformationists would. ¡°A dispute. With someone I trusted.¡± Yet distrust gnawed at her. What if Father is right about them? She shrugged it away. ¡°I¡¯m not sure we want the same things.¡±


    Inloth took a healthful gulp of wine and nodded. ¡°And what is it you want, my lady.¡±


    Eithne leaned back on one arm. Indeed, there¡¯s the rub. Frustration boiled up and spilled from her lips. ¡°What I want is freedom.¡± She pinched her nose with the bloody fingers of her other hand. ¡°Freedom to make my own choices. Freedom from this damned geas I¡¯ve lived under all my life. Freedom to choose as I¡¯d like, rather than as I¡¯m told.¡±


    Inloth wrapped the wounds on her calf with oiled linens. ¡°Freedom is overrated. Without law, freedom is meaningless. One must tame the wild chaos of life and make it productive. One must submit to the rule of law.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s not what I want. I don¡¯t want to submit myself to anything. I want to be free.¡±


    The Belenosian pulled the linens tight. ¡°You¡¯re a woman. You can¡¯t be trusted with your own freedom.¡±


    Eithne bridled. ¡°What¡¯s my ghee to do with anything?¡±


    Inloth blushed at the vulgar word, but went on. ¡°The world is a vast and wild place, my lady. Mankind can only ever be safe when it¡¯s brought under the plow. Tamed. Subdued. Women are the embodiment of all that is wild and chaotic.¡± He knotted the linens. Pain flashed through Eithne¡¯s leg. ¡°Look at your own priestesses, the goddesses they serve. They don¡¯t seek freedom, my lady. They promote chaos. Untamed fecundity. Wilderness a-riot with shameless and carefree breeding.¡± Finntonn handed him a linen rag, and he wiped fragrant oil from his hands. ¡°It¡¯s only through law that the world can be tamed. And it¡¯s men who do the work of taming it. Plowing fields, cutting wood, digging stone. Women don¡¯t do this work.¡±


    Eithne harrumphed. ¡°They do where I come from. In Dolgallu, everyone works or nobody eats. Everyone contributes.¡±


    Inloth condescended to smile on her as he rose to his feet and handed the rag to Finntonn. ¡°Do they? I know Dolgallu. I was there once. And I remember you, my lady. You were just a babe then, but I remember. A remote place surrounded by madness and wasteland. Timber palisades around the village, watchtowers and torches on the perimeter.¡± He held out the palm of his hand and laid the edge of the other one across it. ¡°Go this far into the forest, this far up the slopes of the mountain, but no further. Madness will overtake you. Monsters will get you.¡± He snorted. ¡°Superstitions, my lady.¡±


    Eithne remembered the old tales. Don¡¯t go out on Ydrys¡¯s slopes. The ghost of the old astrologer will drive you mad, make you see things.


    ¡°Was anyone in Dolgallu truly free? Weren¡¯t you all constrained by your Karnian priests and priestesses? That¡¯s how they work, you know. They control us by confining us, by letting wilderness separate us, by letting resources remain scarce. That is where they get their power from, scarcity, plague, famine. Belenos teaches that there is nothing about nature that cannot be improved to the benefit of men.¡±


    Eithne¡¯d heard as much from the weird sisters. ¡°But that¡¯s not¡ª¡±


    ¡°What? True? Is it not? Stay in your place. Let the wild rule over you with its fear and its darkness. Consort with whom they tell you. Marry whom they tell you.¡± He clasped his hands behind his back, began to pace the tent. ¡°That¡¯s how they keep their power, by making you afraid of the wilderness. When in truth, there is nothing fearful in the wilderness that can¡¯t be tamed by axe and flame and brought to the service of men.¡±


    ¡°But what freedom is there under Belenos then? You say I¡¯m a woman, I can¡¯t be trusted with my own freedom.¡±


    ¡°No, of course you can¡¯t.¡± Inloth shook his head vigorously. ¡°Women are like the fields of the Abred. Fertile, rich, productive. But if they are not properly managed, if they are not tamed?¡± He held up his hands and crooked his fingers. ¡°Weeds creep in and choke the fields.¡± He put his hands back behind him and smiled down on her again. ¡°It¡¯s not the fault of the field that weeds sprout up, nor the fault of a woman if she can¡¯t be productive in the right ways.¡±


    Then he shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, my lady. Forgive me. I should have a look at that arm.¡±


    Eithne shook her head. ¡°No. Thank you for the kindness, but I should go. My people will be worried for me.¡±


    Inloth shrugged. ¡°Can¡¯t I convince you to stay?¡±


    But Eithne was already up, and the tent flap closing behind her.

 Chapter Five, Scene Twelve

    The defiant voices of the Droma-men rumbled through the darkness.


    Oh-hooo¡­


    You''ll never beat the Droma


    No matter what you do


    You can put us down! And keep us out!


    But we''ll come back again!


    Eithne shook her head at the brave, resilient fools as she limped to the edge of their camp.


    You know we are the fighting Droma


    And we''ll fight until the end


    You know you should have known


    You''ll never beat


    The Droma!


    The sentry on picket stopped her for a moment, then gaped at her. ¡°My lady?¡±


    ¡°Aye. I¡¯m sorry, Gaeth. I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t know the password.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no matter, my lady, no matter.¡± He waved to a pair of passing soldiers. ¡°You there. Escort the lady straight to the king¡¯s pavilion. Hop to it!¡± Gaeth knuckled his forelock. ¡°Good to have you back, mum. Any word of the king?¡±


    She gritted her teeth. ¡°No, damn it. Not yet. But believe me, I intend to get some.¡±


    Gaeth¡¯s eyes rounded at the expression on her face. ¡°Gods help ¡®em when you do, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡± She patted him on the arm as she passed. ¡°As you were, Gaeth.¡± She looked back beyond the sharpened birch stakes of the camp. ¡°There are strange folk abroad.¡±


    The soldiers took her to her father, who sat in council with Medyr and the Lord Lorc¨¢n in the king¡¯s pavilion. The Lord-Drymyn took one look at her and hustled them off before she could get a greeting out of her mouth.


    ¡°Out, both of you. You can see she¡¯s wounded. We all have questions, but questions will keep! Out!¡±


    The first honest relief she¡¯d felt all day flooded through her. Medyr had earned her trust on their long dangerous journey to the Vale. She raised her hand to stay Father¡¯s objections. ¡°It¡¯s alright. Please. I need his attention before yours.¡±


    They scowled deep in their beards, but went as they were told. Medyr found a cup of honest ?l for her and fussed over her wounds.


    She leaned over her knees as she sat on the field cot, sipped at the stout brown drink, and told the priest her tale. Medyr dabbed with a linen cloth at the painful bite on her shoulder, and she winced.


    ¡°You say bats made these wounds?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Monstrous bats.¡±


    Medyr lifted her arm to regard the puncture wounds. ¡°Mmhm. They would have to be, wouldn¡¯t they?¡± He pressed the linen against the fang-marks.


    She winced. ¡°Ow! Are you almost done?¡± She¡¯d pulled off the ruined linen gown to let Medyr do his work, but her bare skin prickled and her nipples hardened in the cool evening air. The fire burning in the pit at the center of the tent did little to keep out the chill.


    ¡°Hush.¡± Keeping his eyes studiously on her wound, he handed her a blanket, then poured a foul smelling linament onto the cloth and pressed at the wound again.


    She hugged the blanket to her chest.


    ¡°There¡¯s a risk of fever, my lady. Less monstrous bats, they are sometimes mad. Like dogs become mad.¡±


    Fear settled into the pit of Eithne¡¯s stomach. Dog-madness was no idle threat.


    He knelt to examine her leg. ¡°That Belenosian priest bandaged this?¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    He harrumphed. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t say he did a bad job of it.¡± He clapped her on the knee and rose. ¡°In any case¡­ I¡¯m finished for now.¡± He dropped the soiled linens into a brass basin. ¡°If you feel any tingling at the site of the wounds, let me know. Gelynion recommends a preparation made from the skull of a hanged man. No doubt we¡¯ll have plenty of those hereabouts before too long.¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    She thought of all the bandits and Cailech-men that had attacked their caravan on the trail. ¡°No doubt.¡± The priestesses wouldn¡¯t judge kindly those who¡¯d brought war to the very mouth of the Vale. There¡¯d be hangings for sure.


    A servant had been sent for her baggage, and Eithne pulled a fresh tunic over her head. It settled on her shoulders lightly.


    Medyr scowled at her as he washed his hands and wiped them on his light blue robes. ¡°You should have stayed at the temple, my lady. You¡¯d be safer there.¡±


    She put her injured leg gingerly into a pair of leather breeks, then the other leg, and stood to pull them to her waist. ¡°Thank you, Lord-Drymyn, but I can¡¯t think of a safer place than with the men of Dolgallu and Droma.¡± She cinched the breeks into place on her hips.


    He gave her a dead stare. ¡°Then you haven¡¯t thought very hard on it, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Tell me something.¡± She squeezed her hand into her leather bracers and tightened them over her wrists. ¡°What quarrel do these reformationists have?¡± Her meeting with the Belenosian pilgrims troubled her. Something about them seems¡­ not right.


    The Lord-Drymyn tugged at his beard. ¡°Well, that¡¯s not so easily told, but I¡¯ll do my best.¡± He leaned back on a table formed of boards and crates. ¡°The invasions of the Sea-Foreigners on our southern shores separated us from our S¨²thrhaman Brethren for many years. Many of their observances and practices have been forgotten. In some ways, we¡¯ve returned to the sacred practices of our ancestors, before we knew S¨²thrhaman ways.¡± He paused to pour himself a cup of ?l.


    Eithne pulled stockings onto her bare feet, and then soft leather boots over them. ¡°So we don¡¯t worship the Gods the way those in other lands worship them?¡±


    Smacking his lips, Medyr nodded. ¡°No, it¡¯s not so much about how we worship the Gods¡ªthey have theirs, we have ours, and each Circle respects the Gods of the other Circles. No, it¡¯s more about how we drymyn do things. Like when we celebrate the feast Damara, or how folks should be married, and how often. Or¡ª¡± He reached up and rubbed at his head where it was shaved from ear to ear across the front, then ran his hand through the hair knotted and braided from his crown to his shoulders. ¡°¡ªhow we should wear our hair.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Anyway, these S¨²thrhaman reforms challenge the ancient practices to which our own Circle has returned.¡±


    ¡°So they would have us practice as they do?¡±


    ¡°Aye, my lady.¡± He lit his pipe from a taper, puffed at it until the leaves burned steadily. The smell of burning mulch filled the tent. ¡°Though we are all Drymynnists in name, the reformers consider us pagans and heretics. They believe there must be a single, universal way for a Universal Brotherhood to practice its rites and rituals.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t agree?¡±


    Medyr shrugged. ¡°It was the practice in ancient days for each Circle of drymyn to govern itself, without foreign interference.¡± He puffed on the pipe, hocked back, and spat into a brazier. ¡°I don¡¯t see why we should change our ways simply because the drymyn of a foreign land couldn¡¯t manage their own affairs.¡±


    Her father¡¯s voice called through the tent canvas. ¡°Eithne?¡±


    She pondered the drymyn¡¯s words a moment, then: ¡°Aye, come in.¡±


    The canvas flaps parted. Father, tall and lean, wore the black, gold, and red tartan of their clan draped over a jack of ringed mail. Behind him came the Lord Lorc¨¢n, her would-be husband¡¯s brother.


    Father¡¯s worried glance took her in, before he turned it on Medyr.


    ¡°She should be watched for fever, my lord.¡±


    Eithne fetched the priest a warning look.


    But the drymyn reassured him. ¡°Otherwise, she¡¯ll be sore for several days, and that¡¯s the worst of it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Lord-Drymyn.¡± Then Father hissed at her. ¡°What were you thinking?¡±


    Eithne reached for her own coat of ringed mail and leather. ¡°I¡¯m fine¡ª¡±


    ¡°Fine? You show up here, muddy, wet, and bloodied¡ª!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine!¡± Anger flashed through her as she winced into the weight of her own harness of steel-rings and leather. ¡°And you¡¯ve no idea what happened up there, Father. I¡ª¡± How can I make him understand? Fear and dread clutched at her throat. ¡°I saw¡ª Unnatural things¡ª¡±


    Lorc¨¢n stood fidgeting beside Ciaran, eyes downcast, but he cleared his throat and interrupted then. ¡°My brother?¡±


    Fear and anger rippled through her at the memory of Eowain, wrapped in funereal linens, arisen from that dread cauldron. ¡°They said he¡¯ll be well, but I don¡¯t know where they took him¡­¡±


    Lorc¨¢n¡¯s concern was not much relieved.


    ¡°But I¡¯m damned well going to find out.¡± She owed Eowain that much at least. He¡¯d been kind to her, fought to defend her. He wanted their marriage to be an agreeable one and honest, not merely some political maneuver. He didn¡¯t deserve to be kept a prisoner.


    She buckled her armor¡¯s weight down over the pain and bandages, then belted on her sword.


    Father scowled at her. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡±


    ¡°Going back to get Eowain. They¡¯re holding him prisoner up there, as they would have held me.¡±


    Medyr snorted. ¡°Nonsense. They wanted to keep you safe.¡±


    ¡°Against my will.¡±


    Father shook his head. ¡°Medyr¡¯s right. You aren¡¯t safe here.¡±


    ¡°So Alva said.¡± She shook her head. ¡°When will you all learn I¡¯m not afraid to defend myself? And someone had to come and tell you what happened up there. We can¡¯t just leave Eowain there.¡±


    ¡°Eithne, be reasonable! Even with the two dozen men Fethgna brought, we¡¯re still not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait¡ª My brother¡¯s here?¡±


    ¡°Aye, and your aunt and your mother as well, but listen¡ª¡±


    A guard put his head through the flap of the tent. ¡°Lord Lorc¨¢n? There are men here from King Ardgar of Ivearda. They insist on speaking with the Lord Ciaran.¡±

 Chapter Five, Scene Thirteen

    The tent of King Ardgar of Ivearda was crowded with people and thick with acrid smoke struggling to find its way through the hole at its peak. Ten men in chainmail shirts and steel helms gripped meaningfully at the hilts of the long swords hung from their belts, and held back the dozen aristocrats and freeholders who¡¯d accompanied their king on his pilgrimage.


    Ardgar himself sat stiff upon a wide, straight-backed wooden seat cushioned with animal hides. He wore scaled mail of hard lacquered leather, and the black, gold, and red tartans of the Gwynn clan. The grim-faced captain of his company stood to one side, and his plump, robed chamberlain to the other.


    The men he¡¯d sent to the Droma-camp hadn¡¯t come with a message at all, but a sternly-worded invitation. The Lord Ciaran and his kindred were to attend upon their king¡ªmost particularly his daughter.


    Lorc¨¢n had remarked sourly on the swiftness of rumor, and there¡¯d been a brief argument on whether Lorc¨¢n or any other man of Droma had a right to attend upon that meeting.


    In the end, Lorc¨¢n had clarified matters for the messengers. ¡°I¡¯m not asking you. I¡¯m telling you. We need to do this thing, so it¡¯s going to get done.¡± The dozen most elite men of his company backed his words.


    Eithne was glad for it. And glad as well to see her brother, Fethgna, and her aunt, Fidelm, whom she embraced warmly.


    But Mother, on the other hand¡­


    The slim, small woman with her salt and pepper hair had taken one look at her, still bedraggled despite the change of clothes, and muttered, ¡°My Gods, look at you. Haven¡¯t you had a comb for that hair of yours? And would it kill you to put on a dress?¡± Mother had a dark, accusing look for Aunt Fidelm, dressed in armor and breeches as well.


    Eithne had given her mother a perfunctory embrace. There were more important matters at hand, after all.


    Together, they¡¯d paraded, with a dozen men of Droma and Dolgallu together, through the alleys and lanes of pilgrims and traders to the camp of the Iveardan king.


    Father and the rest of her kindred knelt before Ardgar.


    Mother plucked at Eithne¡¯s sleeve. He doesn¡¯t deserve the honor. A few years earlier, Mother had sent her away to Ardgar¡¯s court to learn a thing or three about, ¡°a lady¡¯s ways,¡± in service to Ardgar¡¯s chief-wife.


    One of the worst years of my life. But Eithne bent her knee.


    Lorc¨¢n and Medyr were under no such obligation¡ªArdgar wasn¡¯t their king¡ªbut they bowed with stiff formality.


    ¡°Rise, cousins.¡± Ardgar¡¯s use of the word carried no familiarity.


    There was no love lost between his branch of the clan and her own. Ardgar and her father were related only by their common grandmother, who¡¯d whelped a bastard son, Eithne¡¯s own forebear. Ardgar considered his grandfather¡¯s cuckoldry a disgrace, and begrudged any relation to his bastard cousins.


    While in service to his chief-wife, Eithne¡¯d seen for herself the contempt in which Ardgar held her kin. ¡°They say you¡¯ve got monkey¡¯s tails, up there on that mountain, and that all your woman have staves like a man,¡± Ardgar had told her. ¡°I better check and make sure you¡¯re a proper woman.¡± And up her skirts went his hand. As if she had no more dignity than the idiot scullery-maid who drooled on herself and couldn¡¯t tell cocks from hens.


    She wondered if he remembered the arm-twisting she¡¯d given him. Damn near broke his arm.


    Ardgar frowned on her, then on Lorc¨¢n. ¡°Greetings, sir. I¡¯m afraid this is a family matter. Thank you for escorting my cousins safely, but you may go now.¡±


    ¡°Not likely,¡± snarled Lorc¨¢n. The three fingers of his left hand bunched into a fist as he belatedly added, ¡°¡ªYour Grace.¡±


    The crowd murmured and shifted. From behind Ardgar¡¯s seat, two familiar faces emerged. Dafyd, King of the Ivea, whip-thin and moustached, sidled up to Ardgar¡¯s seat like a snake. Eithne and Eowain had supped with him not even a week ago in his own hall.


    Behind him was a woman in heavy, woolen robes of dark blue. The hood obscured the face, save for her narrow chin, her blood-red lips, and the spill of curled black tresses. A brass-scourge cinched her robe close around her narrow waist. One of those weird Belenosian sisters?Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Father cleared his throat. ¡°I believe the Lord Lorc¨¢n has a right to attend, if this meeting concerns my daughter. He represents the interests of his king in the matter of her wedding arrangements.¡±


    Gah! I wish everyone would stop talking about ¡®my wedding arrangments¡¯ as if I¡¯d agreed to them!


    Ardgar raised an objecting finger. ¡°Arrangements that require my approval.¡±


    Her aunt put her left hand to the hilt of the sword she wore on her belt. ¡°Approval you¡¯ve already granted, Your Grace. I spoke to you myself on the matter, some months ago. As did the Drymyn Calcas.¡±


    Ardgar¡¯s eyes flickered for a moment toward King Dafyd. ¡°I¡¯m afraid matters have¡ª changed,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m informed that the marriage to the King of Droma would be invalid, if performed by our own native rites.¡±


    Eithne gritted her teeth. ¡°Invalid?¡±


    Medyr flared. ¡°Whomever says so is a villain and a bastard, a coward and a rascal, Your Grace!¡±


    Dafyd spoke then. ¡°You speak so of the High Oak, the greatest drymyn of your own Order, the Gods¡¯ own delegate in Abred?¡±


    ¡°The High Oak is not here, Your Grace. It is some other rascal who pours these words in your ear. It¡¯s for our own Great Oak of Iathrann to determine what¡¯s proper for the free men of Iathrann, and he has declared our marriage rites valid.¡±


    ¡°But the Great Oak''s predecessor agreed with the High Oak. Is not Iathrann a land of the Universal S¨²thrhaman Order?¡±


    ¡°It is, but¡ª!¡±


    Dafyd¡¯s thin lips smiled without humor. ¡°Then the word of the High Oak should prevail, should it not?¡±


    Ardgar forestalled the argument with raised hand and voice. ¡°Enough!¡± He glared at them all. ¡°Our own King Yochy of the Fiatach has decreed that the Fiatach tribes are to strictly observe the S¨²thrhaman rites. If the Eithne weds Eowain under rites considered invalid, then she¡¯s nothing more than a concubine, a mother to bastards. I won¡¯t allow another woman of our clan to fall into such disgrace.¡±


    Eithne¡¯s anger smoldered and her fists clenched, but Father shot her a warning look to keep silent.


    Medyr stamped his blackthorn staff on the ground. ¡°What of your own wives, Your Grace? I seem to recall you¡¯ve been wed in the Karnian tradition yourself. And often.¡± He counted on his fingers. ¡°Is it three wives you have, or four? I¡¯ve lost count.¡±


    Ardgar shot to his feet. ¡°That¡¯s not the matter before my court, Drymyn!¡± His bearded face was pale and clammy.


    He¡¯s afraid of something, Eithne realized.


    ¡°King Yochy has had a revelation, he says.¡± Ardgar glanced again at Dafyd. ¡°The reforms of the former Great Oak are the¡ª¡± He paused as if to remember what he¡¯d been told. ¡°The only true and righteous practices of the Universal S¨²thrhaman faith.¡±


    Beside him, Dafyd nodded.


    ¡°And those who preach and¡ª Who preach and support the reforms are¡ª¡± He choked on his next words. ¡°Trusted friends and allies to be heeded and protected.¡±


    What¡¯s wrong with him? Eithne¡¯d spent a year in his court and never seen him thus.


    Ardgar lowered himself back into his seat, as though exhausted. ¡°Lord Ciaran, I know your family¡¯s waited a long time¡ªlonger than you should have¡ªto see your daughter decently wed.¡±


    ¡°We were honored to serve the will of the Gods and the Drymyn, and observe the proscriptions of Eithne¡¯s geas¡ª¡±


    Ardgar waved his hand. ¡°By King Yochy¡¯s decree, and on the advice of his drymyn, your daughter is released from her geas. And from the shameful arrangement with the Donnghaile clan.¡±


    Eithne, Lorc¨¢n, and Medyr stepped forward together.


    ¡°What of Eowain¡ª?¡±


    ¡°Your Grace, you can¡¯t¡ª!¡±


    ¡°What drymyn is this¡ª?¡±


    The armed guards went stiff and drew blades half-way from their scabbards. Angry mutters of alarm went around the assembly. Father¡¯s hand on her shoulder drew Eithne back.


    Father stepped in front of her. The men of Dolgallu and Droma were outside the tent. Eithne, her kin, and their allies were alone against a dozen swords.


    ¡°Moreover,¡± shouted Ardgar over the gathering, ¡°King Yochy promises instead the hand of his grandson, Darmat, as husband for your daughter. And twice the bride-price due her from the Donnghaile.¡±


    She goggled at him. After all we¡¯ve been through¡ª! After all the men wounded and killed¡ª! After Eowain nearly¡ª!


    He snapped his fingers. ¡°Guards, take her.¡±


    A handful of Ardgar¡¯s men moved.


    Eithne hocked back, spat her disgust at Ardgar¡¯s feet¡ª¡°F¨®cail to that!¡±¡ªand snatched the dagger with the orange schorl gemstone¡ªthe very blade Eowain had given her¡ªfrom its sheath. ¡°You gutless son of a poxy whore!¡±


    Mother shrieked, ¡°Eithne, no¡ª!¡±


    The Iveardan guards drew swords. Lorc¨¢n did the same. Medyr and Fethgna raised their hands and stepped in front of Eithne, crying, ¡°No, no, wait!¡±


    Fidelm fell back, opened the tent flap, and drew her blade. ¡°Eithne! Go now! Run!¡±


    The Iveardans surged forward to prevent her.


    Eithne swallowed her pride and ran.


    Out of the tent, past the surprised Iveardan guards and the shocked men of Droma and Dolgallu, she ran.


    ¡°Treachery!¡± she swore as she barreled past the stunned faces of scarred Gaeth and barrel-chested Mahon.


    ¡°Treachery!¡± she screamed as she dashed past dumbfounded men of her own village.


    Swords on all sides scraped from their scabbards.


    Eithne didn¡¯t wait to see who chose which side.


    Out into the firelit camps, she ran.

 Chapter Six, Scene Fourteen

    The merchant Corentin was not a Droma-man, and had bridled at the thought of remaining in the camp once night had fallen. ¡°My father, he wanted me to learn of your people, your ways, your trade goods. How do I do this if I am in the camp all the time?¡±


    So Adarc, with a scout for the Company of the Shield named Tommalt, had accompanied Corentin and his Foreigner J?kull into the lanes of trade wagons and stalls. Adarc translated where necessary, smoothed over differences when they grew awkward.


    And most of all, he waited.


    Corentin picked through the wares of the impromptu market at the nexus of the three merchant caravans camped on the horse-fair. The smell of meats roasting and breads baking wafted through the camp from spontaneous brick ovens that had sprung up. Dogs barked and ran between the stalls. Pigs grunted and lumbered across the thoroughfares. Thither was an oil merchant, there a man with bolts of cloth and silk.


    J?kull and Tommalt eyed the pilgrims, mercenaries, drovers, and tradesmen that shouldered through the lanes, alert to any trouble.


    And Adarc, sure and he kicked at pebbles, rocked on his heels, fidgeted with his hands.


    Corentin fingered a glassware from the southern coast, brilliant with blues, reds, and greens. ¡°Zhe glass work, it is good, no?¡±


    Will he never learn? Adarc pinched at the bridge of his nose. ¡°Th-, th-. The glass work is good.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± Corentin frowned at him. ¡°But it is good, is it not?¡± He turned to the merchant in the stall. ¡°Hwan filu? How much?¡±


    The trader, a good Gallavach man from one of the southern tribes, eyed him with suspicion. ¡°For you, Master, I could part with a crate of these for a mere nine-hundred-seventy gold trimmids.¡±


    ¡°Daylight robbery!¡± announced Corentin. ¡°I would not give you much for two boxes!¡±


    ¡°So,¡± added Adarc.


    ¡°So hwas?¡±


    ¡°So much. You wouldn¡¯t give so much for two boxes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, what zhe acolyte says. I would not give so much for two boxes!¡± Corentin puffed out his chest and waved the back of his hand at the glass-trader.


    Sure and that¡¯s probably a rude gesture in his own land.


    ¡°Come, Adarc, we will seek their fortune elsewhere.¡±


    ¡°Our.¡±


    ¡°Hwas?¡±


    ¡°Our fortune. We¡¯ll seek our¡ªOh, never mind.¡± He shook his head and muttered, ¡°Sure and you¡¯re the thickest foreigner I¡¯ve ever met.¡±


    Corentin rubbed his palms together at the sight of a game of dice in an alley. ¡°Krebs-¨¢ug!¡± He smiled at Adarc. ¡°Now some ¨¢iz¡ªsome coin we will see!¡±


    The dice, carved from bone, bounced and rolled across the blanket, knocked against the wooden box, and came to rest.


    Four black enameled pips stood upright on the first, six on the second. ¡°Ten!¡± shouted the stickman, who swept the dice back toward Corentin with a long-handled stick. ¡°Shooter comes out ten!¡±


    Coins and knick-knacks changed hands among the crowd of men who squatted and stood around the blanket.


    Adarc shook his head. ¡°Can we go now?¡±


    ¡°I have only just started. I have the fifty glynnids on this chance.¡± Corentin swept up the dice into his fist and blew on them. ¡°At-gaggan Atta!¡± He threw them across the blanket again, and they thumped against the box at the far end.


    ¡°Eight the hard way!¡± announced the stickman. More coins and baubles changed hands.


    Adarc looked at the men around the blanket. They were a mixed lot, mostly mercenaries, drovers, and traders from the rolling hills and plains of the south. An unsavory crew in rough spun and jacks of leather, with knives at their belts and horns of drink in their hands. They rattled ready coin and small trinkets of value in tight-closed fists, laughed and shouted, and watched the dice and each other with equal suspicion.


    Another roll and a thump.


    ¡°Box six!¡± crowed the stickman and swept the dice back to Corentin.


    More coins and geegaws changed hands.


    ¡°Damned kald bones tonight!¡± Corentin swept up the dice again, offered them to Adarc. ¡°A blessing, Acolyte?¡±


    Adarc frowned at him, but made the sign of fearn, the Alder tree, three fingers straight and sidewise, over the dice. Corentin grinned at him and winked, then threw.


    The bones clattered against the wood and tumbled to a stop. Three pips on one die, four on the other.


    ¡°Wargjath!¡± Corentin cursed.


    ¡°Chaff!¡± cried the stickman.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Mingled cheers and moans went up from the crowd.


    Corentin sulked and paid out his fifty silver glynnids. ¡°What good is having a drymyn if on the blessing of the Gods I can not count?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only an acolyte,¡± protested Adarc. ¡°And the Gods, they are forgetful.¡± Adarc didn¡¯t like the look of the less respectable players. ¡°Come, let¡¯s away from here.¡±


    Corentin shrugged and sighed. ¡°Well enough. The bones, they are kald anyway.¡±


    They wandered together through the more well-lit lanes. Teamsters and journeymen in roughspuns, mercenaries in leather jacks, and whores in little or nothing at all mingled, argued, laughed, traded, and cajoled with one another.


    Five pilgrims in heavy robes of dark blue, cinched around their waists with bronze scourges, wore candied smiles and stopped passersby in the market. ¡°Good evening, friend. We''re here to tell you about His Reverence Inloth''s Strict Observance Drive. We''re building a better tomorrow today, a wave of reform. We need help. No, brother, don''t give money. Give of yourself.¡±


    Corentin pointed to a knot of pilgrims moving among the tents. ¡°Those, they are Belena¨ªwisks.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Belenosians. Reformers.¡± Adarc wrinkled his nose.


    ¡°Hw¨º do you not of them approve?¡± Corentin put a thumb to his chest. ¡°I am the Belena¨ªwisks, you know.¡± He raised his hand up over his head. ¡°We practice the ways S¨²thrhaman. The ways of the Ard-D¨¢ra in Shynnath. Highest of Drymyn, ja?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve practiced the ways of Karn since the Settlement. Why should we change them now?¡±


    ¡°Because yours, they are not the ways S¨²thrhaman. If all other S¨²thrhamans practice faith the same way, hw¨º not you¡ª?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with the way we practice¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hwan can you say that? You do not celebrate the Feast Damara on the right day. Your people, they take as many wives as they please, they divorce as they like. And look at your hair!¡±


    Adarc put his hand to the shaved front and temples of his scalp. ¡°Sure and there¡¯s nothing wrong with my hair!¡±


    A small, caped figure with a long, dangling hood stepped from among the maze of tents. She extended her hands to five men in leather aprons with small tools on their belts¡ªshoemakers by the look of them. The men stopped abruptly and blocked the narrow way.


    Corentin and Adarc pulled up short, and Tommalt and J?kull bumped into their backs.


    A pitiable voice arose from the hood. ¡°Bronze drychid, syrrys?¡±


    ¡°Get outta here, ya tinker scum,¡± growled one of the shoemakers as they tromped to a halt.


    ¡°Jes a drychid, good syrra. ¡®Tis for me poor ol¡¯ damawynn.¡±


    ¡°I that voice know.¡± Corentin frowned. ¡°Hw¨º do I that voice know?¡±


    ¡°I said get.¡± The shoemaker took a swipe at the hooded figure, but the liripipe hood bobbed under his arm.


    ¡°Awww, syrra, why you wanna be mean ta me poor li¡¯l self? Jes a drychid, syrra, for me poor ol¡¯ damawynn.¡±


    ¡°Out of the way, ye miserable li¡¯l sprite.¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t no sprite.¡± The little figure put balled fists to her hips. ¡°I¡¯m a Cockam, I am!¡±


    Corentin put his face in his hand. ¡°Och, n¨º.¡±


    Three large, brightly-clothed men came from an alley. ¡°Oy! What¡¯re ya doin¡¯? Pickin¡¯ on a li¡¯l flogh. Dat¡¯s me nith y¡¯re molestin¡¯.¡± One of them held a deep-chested, broad-shouldered dog on a tight leash. The hound sported a black brindle mask around its eyes, and its drooling jaws were formidable. Sure and it stood nigh on seven hands at the withers, and looked to weigh at least seven stone of thick, heavy muscle under a long, silky, chestnut-colored coat.


    The shoemaker bridled. ¡°What in Annwn is a ¡®neeth¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Me niece, ye talsoghyon.¡± The largest of the men gestured to the fellow that held the growling dog. ¡°The mergh o¡¯ me hanter-kosin.¡±


    From the tents and booths nearby, traders and craftsmen poked their heads. An unsympathetic crowd began to gather. Adarc and Corentin, with their escort, were hemmed in, unwilling witnesses.


    The shoemakers tried to bully their way past. ¡°Then take yer niece and yer mangy cur and bugger off, mate!¡±


    ¡°Brengi ain¡¯t mangy!¡± The little caped figure kicked at a shin.


    ¡°Oy!¡± The shoemaker swiped at her, but the liripipe bobbed out of reach. The dog lunged, snapped at his hand, then barked and strained at the rope.


    Frowns and angry mutters circulated through the onlookers.


    The shoemaker stepped back, arms in the air. ¡°Whoa! Easy there! Look, we don¡¯t want no trouble.¡±


    ¡°If ye don¡¯ wan¡¯ no trouble, ye ought not mess wit¡¯ a poor li¡¯l mos like me nith.¡±


    ¡°Mate, I don¡¯t even know half what you¡¯re sayin¡¯.¡± The cobblers tried to sidle past.


    The three large men moved into the muddy street and blocked the way with their dog. ¡°Ye think ye can jes mess wit¡¯ me nith an¡¯ walk away?¡±


    The shoemakers, unnerved by the gathering attention, settled with the tinkers to the tune of ten bronze drychids.


    Adarc shook his head. Sure and it¡¯s all just a shake-down.


    The tinkers thanked the shoemakers cheerfully as they jogged away down the lane, and the small crowd melted away.


    The big tinker shared out the drychids, three to each man, and one to the little girl.


    ¡°Wha¡¯cha mean I only get one? ¡¯At ain¡¯t fair, Dibenn!¡±


    ¡°Take it up wit¡¯ yer sira, Talwyn.¡±


    ¡°Tasik!¡±


    The man with the dog tossed the leash to her. ¡°That¡¯s lowr, Talwyn. Take Brengi an¡¯ go play. We¡¯re gonna find a few pints. Tell yer dama I¡¯ll be back diwettha.¡±


    The men moved off between the tents. The little girl stomped an indignant foot in the mud. The dog sniffed at the air, swung its large head toward Adarc, sniffed again, posture attentive. Then its face broke into a wide, slobbery grin.


    The girl caught sight of them as well, smiled and waved.


    ¡°Oy! Adarc!¡± The little tinker ran at them, launched herself into a flying tackle, and wrapped Adarc in an aggressive hug.


    Her head struck him square in the stones. ¡°Och!¡± Adarc moaned and bent over.


    ¡°Flok!¡± cursed Corentin. ¡°The enemy, she has found us.¡±


    Adarc firmly removed the girl and sucked air through his teeth. ¡°Och¡­ Hello, Talwyn.¡± He patted the dog on the head as an excuse to kneel and get his breath back. ¡°Hello, Brengi.¡± He scratched the friendly mutt behind the ear. ¡°You¡¯re a long way from Droma.¡±


    The dog licked his face with enthusiasm.


    The girl shrugged. ¡°Travellers go where Travellers go.¡± She looked at Corentin and J?kull. ¡°I members you! Yer the funny-talkin¡¯ men.¡± She stepped back and took them all in with a wide gesture. ¡°Well, wha¡¯choo all doin¡¯ here?¡±


    ¡°We came with the King of Droma. He¡¯s to be married tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°A demedhyans? I love a demedhyans! Me hanter-kosin, she been maryan four times!¡± She held up as many fingers, then bounced on the balls of her feet. ¡°Can I come? Can I come?¡±


    Adarc stood at last. ¡°I¡¯ll put a word in for you, sure and I will.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yer the gwella, ye are!¡± Then she grabbed Adarc by the wrist. ¡°Come¡¯n meet me teylu!¡± With surprising strength for a girl so small, she dragged Adarc away down the lane.


    Corentin rubbed at his temples. ¡°Nothing but trouble, that girl is. Come on then. The acolyte, he needs the rescuing.¡±

 Chapter Six, Scene Fifteen

    For the second time that night, Eithne found herself lost in the maze of tents and booths.


    Damn it all! I should have taken that left turn!


    The fairground was a slovenly camp, gear scattered around smoky fires made of boards. The air stank of cheap ?l, overloaded sewers, and the wind off the stockyards and the river. Aisles of tents filled the pasture. Jugglers and trinket-sellers and artists made their carnival amid a host of sit-down drink sellers and pastry-makers.


    As she rounded a bend, Eithne spotted a circle of brightly painted wagons. The strange, hypnotic, almost sensual music of unseen stringed instruments floated from their midst. The aroma of oddly spiced meats drifted to her nose, an unwelcome reminder of the last fortnight¡¯s journey with little better than trail rations.


    A large family, or so they seemed, dressed in exotic, brightly colored clothing, were seated around a roaring campfire, laughing and drinking.


    Then a small, caped figure with a long, dangling hood pointed at her. Abruptly, all activity stopped, and whispers of, ¡°Alyon,¡± went around the fire.


    A large, burly man approached, followed by another, younger man. His son, judging by the resemblance. Behind them came another man, shorter and smaller, but not less daunting.


    The leader eyed her up and down, taking in her steel-ringed mail and trail-stained leathers, the unadorned short sword that hung from her girdle, and the dagger still in her hand, with its dark yellow schorl. ¡°What do ye want?¡±


    ¡°Lady Eithne? Is that you?¡±


    A brown-robed form, head shorn from temple to temple, with hair long and braided from crown to shoulder, rose from amid the crowd around the fire.


    Dumbfounded, she blinked at him. ¡°Acolyte Adarc?¡±


    The man in front of her scowled and grunted again, ¡°What do ye want?¡± He wore a thick, hard leather vest and put a fist around the hilt of the long sword at his hip.


    Adarc bumbled from his place by the fire, holding his robes to his knees. ¡°Kerron! Kerron! All¡¯s well! She¡¯s with us!¡± From the crowd emerged more faces she recognized; the merchant¡¯s apprentice and his big, Foreigner bodyguard, and a thin man in Droma tartans.


    The scowl didn¡¯t leave the leader¡¯s face. ¡°She don¡¯t look like no drymyn¡­¡±


    Eithne blinked at the man. ¡°Kerron?¡± She knew that name¡­Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Of course! The tinker we met on the trail. Eowain had helped him with his wagons, and he¡¯d camped overnight with the Droma-men just a few days earlier. She put her empty left hand open to her chest. ¡°It¡¯s me. Lady Eithne of Dolgallu.¡±


    His eyes squinted at her. ¡°The arlodhes of the myghtern Eowain?¡±


    Adarc stumbled up beside him. ¡°Aye, it¡¯s alright, Kerron. Sure and she¡¯s a friend. Kowethes. Ta shiu toiggal, nagh vel shiu?¡±


    He grunted at the acolyte. ¡°Of course, I understand.¡± He knocked his head with the heel of his hand. ¡°I¡¯m not gocki.¡± Then his scowl broke into a wide grin. ¡°Vanis karven a''gas dynnergh! Come, ye must drink with us!¡±


    Ignoring the long dagger in her hand, he embraced her as an old friend, and ushered her by the shoulders to his fire.


    The seven men of the Vanis family gathered around the fire welcomed her with a mug of tart cider and friendly slaps on the back. Six or seven children, including the little girl in the liripipe hood, roamed the camp in various states of filth and undress. Eithne could see no women among them, but curtains on the windows of the house-wagons flicked aside from time to time and revealed candle-lit shadows. They keep the women in their wagons?


    Adarc and Corentin were soon beside her. The acolyte¡¯s face was pale with worry, while the merchant¡¯s was alight with curiosity.


    ¡°My lady? What¡¯re you doing abroad? Sure and I thought you were at the temple in the hill?¡±


    She gulped at the cider gratefully and told them all she¡¯d seen and done.


    Kerron and his men listened with great interest, and gabbled among themselves when she spoke of the kings of the Fiatach tribes, and the unknown fate of Eowain, still away under the hill.


    No sooner had she finished than the sound of booted feet, shouts, and jingling mail rose above the general din of the surrounding market. The tinkers¡¯ dogs¡ª a giant, brindle-faced beast, and lurchers descended from sight-hounds and sheepdogs¡ªall started to bark.


    Kerron scowled at her. ¡°This myghtern Ardgar, yer hanter-kosin, he¡¯d want ye back?¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± muttered Eithne. She rose and put her hands to the hilts of her weapons. ¡°I suspect he would.¡±


    Kerron put his hand to hers, shook his head. ¡°No, me arlodhes.¡± He flicked a hand to the girl in the liripipe hood. ¡°Talwyn will show ye away from here. They will not follow.¡± He kissed her on both cheeks. ¡°Ye¡¯re kowethes to the Vanis!¡±


    The little girl grinned as if inviting her to play in some grand child¡¯s game. ¡°Come wit¡¯ me, teg arlodhes. I show ye!¡±


    Adarc tugged at Eithne¡¯s sleeve. ¡°Come, my lady. Follow the girl.¡±


    The little girl led Eithne to one of the house-wagons, and ducked under it. ¡°Come on!¡±


    Adarc dropped down and followed after her. ¡°Sure and it¡¯s safe, my lady.¡±


    Corentin rolled eyes at Eithne. ¡°Doubtful,¡± he muttered. ¡°But better than arrested being.¡± He ducked down as well, and his Foreigner lumbered after him.


    The lean man in the Droma tartan knuckled his forelock. ¡°Tommalt, of Eowain¡¯s own scouts, mum. We¡¯ll see you safe away.¡±


    More shouts rose over the din, and the crash and bang of tents and booths being searched.


    Eithne gritted her teeth. This is hardly dignified, running like this. But she scrambled under the wagon and away again into the night.

 Chapter Seven, Scene Sixteen

    The wind changed through the night, and the dawn brought warmer air from the southwest, but also more clouds, behind which the morning sun sulked. After several recent days of rain, mutters went around the camp that it might do so again.


    Inloth admired the shrine his pilgrims had erected overnight. The tent was large enough to seat about a score of men on the six plank benches hammered together overnight. Fires in small brass braziers offered light and heat. Crates covered with embroidered clothes had been arranged opposite the main entrance, and curtains strung behind the makeshift altar created a small private area in which to store necessaries and prepare for daily services. The statue of Belenos, handsome and strong, was of weathered bronze and stood upon the altar. ¡°A bit more to the right, Finntonn¡­ Ah yes, that looks very good! And now the Arm. Get the Arm, please, there¡¯s a good lad.¡±


    Finntonn pursed his lips as if about to speak, then shook his head and went behind the curtain.


    While he waited, Inloth thought back on the previous evening. So¡­ The Lady Eithne. King Ardgar had let her slip through his fingers, and she¡¯d disappeared into the festival grounds. No matter. She can¡¯t hide long. She has a wedding to attend, if her hedge-king lives. The rumors King Dafyd had collected from his spies were dubious about Eowain¡¯s chances.


    Inloth had been careful to guard his words with Eithne. It was true that he¡¯d known her before, years ago, when she was just a young child. He¡¯d been raised some two days from her home of Dolgallu. Even been to that backward, clannish place once, to preach the reformation with his master.


    Old anger smoldered in his heart. His master was only the Drymyn of D¨²nperedur and Coinnire then, and not yet Great Oak, but his zeal for reform had already effected change throughout the Five Kingdoms.


    But those damned S¨¢r¨¢n-Gwynn¡­ Their bastard clan held a small village at the farthest edge of Ivearda, under the imposing Meirion Mountains.


    The Meirions were haunted mountains. The villagers of the hamlet at their feet said that. They¡¯d warned of vengeful ghosts who led men astray, demons that could appear as wolves and owls, dragons that could take Mannish form.


    Inloth¡¯s master had scoffed at such superstitions. ¡°The men of Dolgallu simply want no visitors.¡± Indeed¡ªif Men they were; the villagers had their doubts¡ªthey turned away all inquiries. Only twice each year, the hamlet left salt and tea and the small things they needed, with small gifts¡ªfruit in season, a few good apples or pears, or fresh vegetables¡ªat an appointed place. Because fear of the men of Dolgallu drove away bandits. And that was the only commerce with the outside world the men of Dolgallu allowed themselves.


    The trail from the hamlet was broad and friendly and sunlit down in the valley when Inloth and his master had set out. But it soon dwindled to a track under the glowering gaze of Mount Ydrys, and finally to a narrow slot among the rounded boulders and tree roots of the forest, winding through steeper and steeper climbs into the mountains. The sun sank and threw the path beneath the trees into deep shade. Inloth and his master, with their stout ponies, had climbed in forest shadow, struggled in the clutch of branches, until the scent of smoke and horse came on the wind and the shape of rustic buildings showed in the twilight.


    From the forests, men in hides and furs with spears and old iron swords had emerged. They brought Inloth and his master roughly to Lord Ciaran and his family. Eithne was but a little girl then, her eyes clear green, her skin fair as milk and dappled with freckles, her hair as copper as autumn and unruled by combs.


    But it had been a short mission. Eithne¡¯s father had cursed Inloth¡¯s master and the reforms, and the men of Dolgallu had driven them back down the mountain in a disgraceful parade of shorn heads, boiling pitch on bare skin, and feathers strewn across pitch-covered bodies.


    Inloth scratched at the remembered itch of that long-ago humiliation as he poured himself another cup of altar wine.


    A self-satisfied smirk crossed his cracked lips. It pleased him no end that it was Ciaran of Dolgallu¡¯s own daughter at the center of his plans with the Fiatach kings. She¡¯ll make Yochy¡¯s son a fine bride, once he breaks her to the saddle.


    Inloth¡¯s assistant returned with a wooden box cradled in his arms. Finntonn knelt and lay the box on the ground, put his hands together under his bowed head, muttered a prayer, then unlocked and opened the lid.


    From the wood-shavings and cloth packing, Finntonn drew out a vessel, nearly a foot and a half long and shaped like a mannish-arm, surmounted with a closed fist. The core of the vessel was made of yew wood, polished and stained with age, and ornamented with elaborate bronze panels decorated with the curvilinear interlacings of abstract animals, highlighted with inlays of silver. The fist was cast in bronze, similarly decorated with notional patterns of beasts and leaves, and the fingernails emphasized by inlaid silver plaques.


    Inloth murmured a prayer as well, then took the vessel from Finntonn and held it up to admire it in the firelight.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    The Arm of Moelrhonos. A reliquary containing the arm bone of a particularly holy drymyn and gardener who¡¯d been murdered more than eight hundred years earlier during a time of persecution. Tales of the reliquary spoke of miracles. Bountiful harvests. Fiery symbols for the persuasion of unbelievers. Prophetic visions and divinations from the Gods Themselves.


    Reverentially, he placed the Arm in a place of honor beside the statue of Belenos, then stepped back and bowed to honor it.


    A cough behind him drew his attention. Red-haired Tn¨²th¨¦t in her dark blue robe curtsied and fingered the bronze-studded scourge cinched about her waist. Her eyelids fluttered up at him. ¡°Your Reverence?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my dear.¡±


    ¡°Some of the local farmers are here. They say their calves and lambs are afflicted.¡±


    Inloth furrowed his brows. ¡°Well, let¡¯s have a look then. Afflicted livestock are no good to anyone.¡± Farming was a particular concern of his god, and Inloth was often consulted on such matters.


    But when he followed her from the tent, he stopped cold and his heart sank. A dozen people had gathered, each with sickly animals in their care.


    And as he moved among them, examining each animal in turn, the pattern that emerged concerned him. Coughs, labored breathing, panting, watery discharge from the nostrils, runny eyes, lethargy. The farmers complained as well that the beasts lacked appetite for their morning feed, and the affliction was not limited to calves and lambs. Adult cattle and sheep showed similar signs.


    He took a sip of his wine and turned to the three weyward sisters. ¡°Tn¨²th¨¦t, B¨¢nd¨ªgal, Trebithu, I saw you with the farmers and shepherds last evening, preaching the good word. You saw no evidence of this?¡±


    The three blue-robed women shook their heads. ¡°No sign at all, Your Reverence.¡±


    ¡°Their stock were healthy only yesterday.¡±


    ¡°Truly, it¡¯s a mystery, Your Reverence. Perhaps a curse, even.¡±


    Inloth rubbed at his cheeks as he considered the beasts. It¡¯s rare for such an affliction to emerge so suddenly among so many beasts. Often there are warning signs, one or three animals afflicted over the course of a few days. Not whole herds and flocks overnight.


    But his doubts quickly fled. The flagellants were trusted friends, after all, their words to be heeded. If they said they¡¯d seen nothing, then there had been nothing to see. The deed is done, in any case. Perhaps a curse, even¡­


    Inloth sent Finntonn for parchment and ink, then spoke aloud as he held up the head of first one month-old calf, then another. ¡°The sputa expectorated is of a blond or livid color, or likewise thin, frothy, and florid. A pleuritic affection, it seems to me.¡± Finntonn scribbled down his words, a record of the affliction for future generations.


    Inloth primmed his lips as his probing fingers discovered an unusual mark on the calf¡¯s flank. He smoothed aside the stiff-bristled hairs, and his eyebrows crawled up his forehead. A wound?


    Indeed, a deep prick in the flesh, perhaps a knuckle deep, as if from a razor or¡ª A fang? Were they bitten? He thought of the swarms of bats he¡¯d seen in the previous night¡¯s sky. But the bite of a bat would be much deeper. A fox or a dog, perhaps? But any bite should appear in pairs¡­


    He made a note of the injury for Finntonn, and found similar marks on many of the other animals. He inquired among the farmers for dogs, cats, foxes, wolves, bats or any animal with similar symptoms, or that showed signs of madness.


    None had seen any such thing.


    How strange¡­


    Inloth sent for his fellow priests and their acolytes as he preached to the farmer before him. ¡°Belenos tells us, ¡®The wild spirits of Karn ever seek to destroy the organizing works of men and return him to a savage state.¡¯¡±


    The stoic farmer¡¯s weather-worn face was grim. ¡°Ain¡¯t there nothin¡¯ to be done, Yer Reverence?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve had some success with prayer in Larriocht, when a similar affliction arose there.¡± He brought the calf into the tent and brought the farmer¡¯s attention to the reliquary of the Arm. ¡°And we¡¯ve the aid of the holy drymyn Moelrhonos, a bloody witness to our faith.¡± He pressed the farmer¡¯s arm and reassured him. ¡°We¡¯ll find a cure for this affliction, I¡¯ve no doubt.¡±


    He lit incense and swung the censer over the calf, smudged it with healing vapors. His fellow drymyn-priests mixed powdered comfrey root, horehound, nightshade, and pleurisy root into a bowl of mullein oil. Inloth handed the fuming censer to one of them, put his hands in the bowl until they were coated with the mixture, then laid his hands upon the breast of the first calf and smoothed the oils into the thin, bristled hairs.


    ¡°All-waldands ond arma-hairts Belenos,


    at mahts tha¨ªrh Izwar ana-b?sns,


    us-dreiban af sa stiur alls sa¨²hts


    ond un-h¨¢ili un-hultha¡­¡±


    The warm smile of Belenos fell upon Inloth¡ªI feel it!¡ªthe energy of His presence moving through him.


    But the Gods, They are forgetful.


    Inloth felt the resistance within him, the negligence of Gods toward the plights of men. He pressed against the weight of that dereliction, chanted on and on, drew the vigor of the Sun-Lord into himself from the ?ther-world until it swelled within him, squeezed his heart, clenched at his lungs, threatened to overwhelm him¡ª


    Like a bolt, the rush of energy coursed down his arms, out through the veins and sinews of his hands.


    The indolent animal bleated and scrambled to its feet, to the surprise and delight of the farmer.


    Inloth¡¯s head grew heavy. Red and purple flecks crowded his vision. The muscles in his back ached.


    The farmer led his revitalized calf from the tent and the crowd gathered there cried praise and wonder for the virtue of Inloth and his Belenosian magick.


    An afflicted lamb was brought to him, word began to spread, and the gathering outside grew.


    Nor were the local farmers alone anymore. As the morning drew on, merchants who¡¯d brought livestock for trade soon came to him.

 Chapter Seven, Scene Seventeen

    Eithne and her companions spent a cold night in a shabby old cow-byre, taking turns at sleeping on wet straw between the legs of cattle that snuffled and coughed in the darkness. Even the little tinker girl had stayed with them, determined to see that they stayed safe and hidden.


    They¡¯d abandoned the place before dawn could bring farmers and discovery, and moved out onto the grassy knolls, away from the settlement.


    The acolyte inveigled her to return to the Droma camp, but Eithne didn¡¯t relish going back into that madding crowd. The Gods alone knew what had happened after she¡¯d fled. Were Lorc¨¢n and Medyr alive and at liberty? Her aunt and her brother? Were Mother and Father safe?


    And what of Eowain? She couldn¡¯t abandon him to whatever fate the priestesses held in store for him.


    From a distance, Eithne looked down on the few hundred people that lived within the precincts of the Vale, and their many buildings. The quarters for the wardens, the guards¡¯ barracks and slaves¡¯ huts, the storehouses and sheep pens and goat pens and farm buildings. The camp of traders, pilgrims, mercenaries, and other fair-goers settled on the pasture had swelled the Vale¡¯s population four times over. Among them, knots of armed men could be seen, moving through the lanes. Looking for me, no doubt.


    Eithne¡¯s arm ached. She rubbed at her bandages.


    The merchant noticed. ¡°Attacked by giant bats, you said?¡±


    She made a dismissive gesture. ¡°Aye. So it seemed at least. Honestly, in the clear light of day, I wonder if I didn¡¯t imagine it.¡±


    ¡°Sure and it¡¯s more than passing strange, my lady.¡± Adarc¡¯s face was drawn with worry.


    ¡°More than a few things have struck me passing strange since we came here,¡± she agreed.


    After taking in the sight of the village and the fair and the patrols, she insisted they scout the approaches to the shrine instead. Perhaps there¡¯s some other, unguarded way in. Eithne had no desire to put herself into the power of the priestesses again, but she wanted answers just the same.


    Foremost among them: Is Eowain even alive? Eithne had to know. He¡¯d risked so much for her already. And Gods only know what more his men risked through the night.


    The sacred hill loomed more than a hundred feet over the floor of the Vale. Encircling the whole crest ran a massive wall of rock, laid without mortar and half fallen down in many places. Inside the loop of the wall, several black stones eighteen or twenty feet high stuck up like huge fingers from the Abred.


    Once the eye caught them, it returned to them again and again. They stood there, full of meaning, and yet there was no saying what they meant, crusted with grey and blue-green lichens as if splotched with paint, save for one that was naked and black, with a dull gloss to it.


    The inner cluster was a horseshoe of five trilithons¡ªtwo vertical stones capped by a horizontal lintel. Of them, three complete trilithons still stood, and two were partly fallen.


    Around that horseshoe were the remains of an outer circle. There might have once been thirty stones, but many had fallen and most of the lintels were missing.


    Adarc had whispered awfully at the sight of them. ¡°Sure, and it¡¯s said the stones have stood there since before the time of Men, my lady. That they were planted in the darkness when the lands were raised from the ocean¡¯s depths. That they¡¯re older than the Lost Emperors of the Shynn. Older than the Goddess Thayn¨². Older even than light¡­¡±


    The merchant, still picking the night¡¯s straw from his fine shirt, simply groused. ¡°It looks only like the tumble of old rocks to me.¡±


    A ditch with an inner bank and a smaller outer bank surrounded the stones, low earthworks on the grass-grown solitude. Two entrances pierced the enclosure¡ª a smaller one on the southern side, and a broad grassy avenue to the north-east. That corridor ran a mile or more away toward three snowcapped peaks that rose beyond the rugged valley, and was some forty feet wide between low banks.


    Halfway up the southern face gaped the entrance to the shrine beneath the hill, accessed by the steep stone stairs that framed the tumbledown cataract of spring water.


    She and Tommalt noted the movement of the hill¡¯s guardians. Four Huntsmen patrolled the stones. Four more in their wolf-head hoods stood atop the stairs at the entrance. And Eithne knew there were still others inside.


    ¡°My lady,¡± ventured Adarc. ¡°Sure and it would be wiser for us to go back and learn what has happened.¡±


    Bells from the village tolled the Sixth Hour. Midday had come. Still they¡¯d found no way into the shrine save by the guarded stairs.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Eithne chewed at her lip. ¡°There must be a way.¡±


    ¡°You say swords were drawn. The Lord Lorc¨¢n, my master Medyr, sure and they may need us, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Your king needs us, too.¡±


    Adarc frowned at her. ¡°Sure and King Eowain is safe with the priestesses¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why should we think so?¡± She scowled at him. ¡°They¡¯re up to something, I tell you. All this talk of portents.¡± She didn¡¯t know what the drymyn priests and priestesses were playing at, but surely, the portents and omens were just a ruse. What interest should the Gods take in my love-life?


    But Tommalt disagreed. ¡°Mum, really, we should go back. The acolyte¡¯s right, we ought to find out what¡¯s happened to Lord Lorc¨¢n.¡±


    ¡°What if they intended to hold me for a hostage? What if that¡¯s why they¡¯re still holding Eowain?¡±


    ¡°My lady¡ª!¡± Adarc was aghast. ¡°Why should they do such a thing?¡±


    ¡°Annwn if I know,¡± she cursed. She eyed the movements of the guards around the stones. ¡°Why should they need a troop of elite warriors? Yours is a peaceful Order, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°In an isolated place like the Vale, mum? Bandits, mum.¡± Tommalt pointed into the mountains. ¡°Mountain folk ain¡¯t friendly folk, they say.¡± He remembered where she was from and knuckled his forelock. ¡°Begging your pardon, mum.¡±


    ¡°What if they¡¯re holding Eowain until some ransom is paid? Or some political concession made? Damn it, we can¡¯t leave him¡ª!¡±


    Just then a monstrous crow flew down, black as a tar-barrel. It so frightened them, they quite forgot their quarrel.


    ¡°Oh!¡± exclaimed the little girl. She¡¯d wandered off a little ways, picking spring flowers from the meadow.


    They were standing under a tree, each with an arm round the other¡¯s neck. Two squat, ruddy-visaged brutes, little taller than seven-year-old boys, with hardy little bodies, large-boned but lean. Their pale brown had a reddish tint to it, and each wore a cape of hair and fur, raw-hide leather breeks, and stern leather boots.


    Large eyes of a pale, washed-out blue peered at them from under the left one¡¯s cap of straw blond hair. Between the eyes was a broad hook nose, and below that a tangled thatch of tawny beard. Beneath his cape, he wore a black cuirass of leather-scaled mail, and a belt of small pouches strapped around his waist. A hand ax and a steel headed hammer¡ªblunt at one end, spiked at the other¡ªhad been shoved into the belt.


    His companion had braided hair and beard of flame-like red. Under his cape was a cuirass of many small bronze plates arranged in overlapping rows, like the scales of a lizard. Into the broad girdle around his waist, the haft of a hand ax had also been shoved. From his hip was hung a leather quiver of bolts, and on his back was strapped a small round metal shield. He held a damned big crossbow ¡ªcocked with a fresh bolt¡ªupright in his free hand.


    They stood so still that Eithne and her companions quite forgot they were alive, so unreal did they seem.


    The little man in the brass-scaled vest gabbled at them.


    ¡°I''m¡ªI''m very sorry,¡± was all she could say.


    ¡°You''ve begun wrong!¡±'' cried the one on the left. ¡°If you think we''re alive, you ought to speak. The first thing in a visit is to say, ¡®How d¡¯ye do?¡¯ and shake hands!¡± And here the two little men broke their embrace. Each held out a small hand, calloused and rough, like the hands of mature men who¡¯d spent their lives at labor.


    Eithne stared at the hands, looked for reassurance to her companions. Their dumbfounded expressions reflected her own thought: Surely, this is madness.


    Only the little tinker girl seemed at ease. She stood half a head taller than either of them, stepped forward, and took each of their hands in one of hers. ¡°How d¡¯ye do?¡± She giggled.


    ¡°Quite well, thank you.¡± The first little man put his free hand to his chest. ¡°Dwo,¡± he said with a bow. ¡°Dwo bofnalth¨®lode Boffik.¡± He gestured to his comrade with the crossbow. ¡°Kilim. Kilim bofnalth¨®lode Boffik.¡±


    Talwyn put her fists to her hips and announced proudly, ¡°I¡¯m a Cockam, I am. Talwyn Cockam!¡±


    The little brutes from the grotto¡­ Eithne had seen such men carry Eowain away from the strange cauldron. She looked up at the hill.


    ¡°I know what you''re thinking about. But it isn¡¯t so,¡± said Dwo.


    Eithne frowned at them. Why does everyone pretend to know what I¡¯m thinking? She put her fists on her hips. ¡°And you know who I am, too, I suppose?¡±


    Dwo pointed to her. ¡°Eithne. Eithne bofnalth¨®lode Dolgallu.¡±


    And how in Annwn did they know that? She patted a hand to her own breast. ¡°Aye, Eithne from Dolgallu.¡± Now what¡¯s this all about?


    She crossed her hands under her breasts. ¡°I was thinking,¡± she said, ¡°What¡¯s the best way into the shrine. Would you tell us?¡±


    Dwo shrugged. ¡°There¡¯s a good many ways. Some are better than others.¡±


    Eithne checked herself at hearing something that sounded to her like the growling of a wild beast in the tall grass near them. She backed away from them, pulled the yellow-jewelled dagger from her belt. ¡°Are there lions or bears about here?¡±


    Kilim shook his head. ¡°It''s only the Horned-King snoring.¡±


    Indeed, it was nothing more than wind through the rocks and grass. ¡°The Horned-King? You mean, the God? Karn?¡±


    ¡°He''s dreaming now,¡± said Dwo. ¡°And what do you think he¡¯s dreaming about?¡±


    Eithne said, ¡°Who can guess?¡±


    ¡°Why, about you!¡± Kilim clapped his hands triumphantly. ¡°And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you''d be?¡±


    ¡°Where I am now, of course,¡± said Eithne.


    ¡°Not you!¡± Kilim retorted contemptuously. ¡°You''d be nowhere. Why, you''re only a sort of a thing in his dream!¡±


    ¡°If that there Horned-King was to wake,¡± added Dwo, ¡°you''d go out¡ªbang!¡ªjust like a candle!¡±


    The Foreigner J?kull grunted. Tommalt pointed toward the hamlet. ¡°I ain¡¯t so sure it¡¯s wise to stay here, mum.¡±


    Smoke, black and thick, billowed from the campground. Distant echoes of angry shouts rode the wind. Across the field, a dark knot moved out from the tents into the pastures. Soldiers led by five men in dark blue robes, and three women¡ªone dark, one fair, one ginger.


    One of the women pointed to their position on the knolls.

 Chapter Seven, Scene Eighteen

    It might be an epidemic, worried Inloth. As the time for the Sixth Hour midday service approached, the ache in his head had grown to a skull-splitting pain. Every joint and bone throbbed. His nose ran with blood.


    But outside the tent, more heathens and pagans had gathered. Poor folk oppressed their whole lives by the sway of the Karnites. I can¡¯t, in good conscience, neglect them.


    A great cheer arose as he emerged from the tent. The three women in their dark blue robes praised him. ¡°See how the vile spirits afflict our great master! They bludgeon him! They bruise him! He bleeds! Yet he never surrenders! Belenos sustains him!¡±


    A chant arose from the assembly, ¡°Belenos sustains him! Belenos sustains him!¡±


    Inloth groaned, raised a hand to still their cheers, and forced a smile to his lips. ¡°It brings me joy to see you all here! Great joy indeed to see men grow and thrive, despite the harsh wilderness all about them. To see men strive against weather, famine, disaster¡ªeven plague¡ªand grow stronger.¡±


    The blades and hafts of spears rose upright above the heads of the crowd brought the men in white surcoats at the outer fringes of the congregation to Inloth¡¯s attention. Mercenary soldiers in the employ of the village chieftain and the shrine, hired to keep the peace of the fair. Their surcoats and their white-washed round shields of linden wood bore the green and red wreath-of-mistletoe device. The sign of the Goddess Thayn¨², mother of the Wild God whose practices held sway in the Five Kingdoms.


    Lifting his hands to the light that struggled through the clouds, Inloth went on. ¡°The Rule of Karn would have us believe that men must live in balance with nature, that we must only take so much as we need to survive. That nature¡¯s other creatures have as much right to live and thrive as do men. Like clouds across the warm sun, they teach us there is little to be done against plague, disease, and the affliction of spirits.¡± He put his two hands on the head of a sick calf. ¡°But that¡¯s cow-shite!¡±


    Another cheer arose from the crowd. Inloth¡¯s postulants, a handful of young men in hooded black tunics over white-robes, their heads shaved save for a strange tuft of a top-knot at the crown, moved through the crowd. They inspected the livestock one at a time, directed some toward the tent, where the more capable of his junior priests waited to work their magickal cures on them.


    Inloth smiled on the owner of the calf. ¡°If that was true, men would scrounge in the woods for berries and roots. We wouldn¡¯t build great cultures like Naricia and Sasana and Aukriath.¡±


    Hands reached out to him from the crowd. Among them were men of Ivea and Celtair, and of Cailech, and traders from Larriocht and even far Muvain. The five penitent men in their blue robes formed a cordon to keep them at bay, but Inloth touched the hands, made signs of blessing on the people.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Belenos wants to see all land brought under the plow, all creatures of the Abred made useful to men! There is nothing about nature that cannot be improved by the work of men!¡± He put a fist in the air. ¡°It¡¯s my honor to be the vessel of Belenos! To bring His healing touch to these poor, afflicted animals that give so much of themselves that we might live! To bring order to chaos and bounty to those who have so little!¡±


    The three weyward sisters moved through the crowd, gripped the people by the shoulders and arms, encouraged them to heed his words.


    Those sisters are a miracle. He watched as knots in the crowd, encouraged by their suggestions, shouted sooner and louder than any others.


    Inloth shook his head and put his hands to his heart. ¡°I tell you, my friends, I detest the suffering of the people!¡± He counted off their afflictions. ¡°Famine! Flood! And aye, even plague! All these afflictions can be prevented!¡± He tossed his hands this way and that. ¡°Throw off the barbaric practices of the Karnites! The intrusion of noble sons, daughters, nephews, and cousins into holy offices! The mockery made of holy matrimony! Cast away Karnite paganism!¡±


    The commoners hissed and jeered.


    He reached for the hidden sun behind the clouds. ¡°Embrace the strict observance of the S¨²thrhaman Rite! Embrace the reformed Rule of Belenos!¡± The fiery spirit burned in Inloth¡¯s breast. ¡°Does not the High Oak himself teach that the marriage-ways of Karn are wicked? Men with many wives! Wives lying with any man they please! Divorce for no cause! Yet you have all come here, to celebrate this wickedness, with your C¨¦tshamain weddings of a year and a day! Shame upon you all, I say! Is it any wonder your stock are afflicted? Any wonder that vile sprites of evil move among you?¡±


    Cries for forgiveness and wails of unredeemed anguish arose.


    Inloth clasped his hands together over his chest. ¡°It breaks my heart¡ªBreaks it, I say!¡ªto hear that a fair woman of the Fiatach has been cursed to suffer the old heathen ways! Cursed by acts of wickedness and false oracles to suffer the desecration of an unhallowed matrimony to the hated men of Droma!¡± He raised his fist to the sky. ¡°That the Lady Eithne would flee from righteousness rather than marry an honest man, why it¡¯s an abomination! An abomination, I tell you!¡±


    His own pilgrims waved their fists and chanted, ¡°Abomination! Abomination!¡± They urged those around them to take up the call.


    Soon all the poor, uneducated folk took up the call. Inloth doubted they knew the meaning of the word, but for the zeal that accompanied their ignorance¡ªhe perhaps loved the uneducated most of all.


    The weyward sisters had reached the edge of the congregation. They coaxed, cajoled, and exhorted the peacekeepers to redeem themselves, and the mercenary guardsmen soon raised their voices and shook their spears and joined the cry, ¡°Abomination! Abomination!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the punishment of Belenos upon you and your livestock that you allow such heathens and infidels to dwell safe among you! Those filthy Droma, with their filthy ways! The heathens of Dolgallu, selling away their loose women for coin!¡±


    Many in the mob raised fists and shouted agreement.


    ¡°Down with the Droma! Down with Dolgallu!¡±


    They waved staves and sticks.


    ¡°The Gods will it!¡±


    The blue-robed penitents shouted harsh imprecations and pointed long, wicked daggers to the sky.


    ¡°Find the Maiden of Dolgallu!¡±

 Chapter Eight, Scene Twenty

    Eithne counted a dozen soldiers, as well as the eight blue-robed Belenosians, gaining on them over the pastures. Eithne heard vile imprecations amid their shouts: ¡°Whore! Heathen! Bitch! Pagan!¡± and more besides.


    She knew the merchant could fight, and his mercenary and the Droma scout too, of course. But the girl and the acolyte?


    Dwo strode to her side and cocked an eye at the approaching gang. ¡°Friends of yours?¡±


    The soldiers had spears and wooden batons at the ready. Their white surcoats and shields displayed the green and red wreath-of-mistletoe device of the village chieftain¡¯s guard.


    Eithne pursed her lips. ¡°I doubt it.¡±


    The other little man coughed. She turned to find Kilim had lain himself down on a round rock upthrust from their knoll. He sighted down the length of the heavy crossbow stretched before him. The bolt was aimed at her belly.


    He coughed again and waved her aside.


    Dwo grabbed her wrist. ¡°You wanted a way into the shrine? We know one. A secret way. Come.¡± With surprising strength for one so small, he pulled her away.


    She heard a loud thwack and a bolt buzzed away. Down on the pastures, shouts and confusion rose from the gang. One of their white-coated number went down, the butt-end of the bolt jutting from a head.


    Dwo pulled on her wrist, dragged her along a faint deer-track through the meadow-grass. Up on the hill, the Huntsmen had taken notice of their little band, and the gang that pursued them. The blast of their horn echoed across the Hill.


    The rest of her companions hurried to keep up with Dwo and Eithne. This isn¡¯t safe. I shouldn¡¯t endanger them. Behind them, Talwyn and Kilim struggled to keep up. Their pursuers had fallen out of sight behind the knoll.


    Eithne turned off the path to follow Dwo and the great wall of stone that bounded the circle upon the Hill. The rocks of which it was built were massive. The least of them would outweigh a man, and the largest were as big as wagons. Though unshaped, they were carefully fitted and interlocked. Yet in places the height of the wall had slipped down and the rocks lay in a shapeless heap. Only a vast span of time could do that; the imperceptible, millennial movement of mountains.


    ¡°Here,¡± said Dwo¡¯s deep, basso voice.


    Eithne stopped. The great rock wall reared up thrice her height to the left. On the right, the hill shelved away into a shallow, grassy dell that soon rose again towards the mountains of the eastern range. She looked over all the ground and saw nothing.


    ¡°Under the blue rocks, my lady.¡±


    A few yards down the slope an outcropping of blue-grey rocks made a stair or little cliff in the hill. When she went down to it and stood on the level before it, facing the rocks, Eithne realized that they looked like a rough doorway, just as tall as the little men.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    But it was no use trying to open a door until one knew how the door was opened. ¡°What should be done?¡±


    Dwo took from his belt an iron ring on which hung a small dagger and a dozen keys, some long and heavy, some small as fishhooks. He lifted the ring and spread the keys. ¡°This one,¡± he said, pointing.


    Dwo raised the key, a long shaft of iron with two ornate wards, and placed it in a crevice between two lichen-grey pitted rock-surfaces. He turned it to the left, using both hands, for it was stiff to move, though it turned smoothly.


    Together, Dwo and Kilim pushed at the rough rock face to the right of the keyhole. Heavily, but without catch and with very little noise, an uneven section of the rock moved inward until a narrow slit was opened. Inside was a hole in the ground.


    Eithne stooped and entered. The little men pointed at her, then at the hole in the ground. ¡°Killode dalhig! Ballode!¡±


    Eithne glanced into the hole: a round shaft, straight down into darkness, with iron rails stapled into hardened limestone walls. Clearly no natural hole.


    ¡°Mor¨²kilur!¡± The little man released her wrist and pushed at her from behind. ¡°Mor¨²kilur!¡±


    Eithne looked at the little men, at her companions, at the hole.


    Adarc was wide-eyed. ¡°My lady¡ª? Sure and you don¡¯t know these little men!¡±


    Corentin frowned and shook his head. ¡°N¨º. Ni allis. Nith¨º haldis. I am not down there going.¡± He crossed his arms over his chest. ¡°I will take my chances. I am the Belena¨ªwisks, I do not fear my fellow ga-l¨¢ista. There is not the profit in this foolness.¡±


    Adarc cuffed him on the arm. ¡°Your fellow followers want to marry her off against her will!¡±


    Tommalt narrowed his eyes at the little men. His gaze flickered back toward the approaching shouts, then to Adarc. ¡°I know the Lord Lorc¨¢n told me to watch after you and the merchant. But if the lady¡¯s right, and the king¡¯s in trouble¡­ Acolyte, I¡¯m sorry.¡± He put a fist to his chest and nodded to Eithne. ¡°I¡¯m with you, mum.¡±


    ¡°Ooo! Ooo! Can I go? I wanna go!¡± The little tinker girl shoved her way between them.


    ¡°Talwyn, wait!¡± Adarc missed his grasp on her liripipe hood, and with that, she scrambled down into the hole.


    ¡°Mum?¡±


    She nodded and Tommalt saluted and followed Talwyn.


    Eithne eyed the little men narrowly, then took Adarc by the shoulder. ¡°Listen. I¡¯ll go after her. She¡¯ll be safe with us. But you take the merchant, sneak back to the camp. Find out what happened to my family, and to Lorc¨¢n. You understand?¡±


    ¡°Why should we sneak about, like the thiufs?¡± Corentin snorted through his aquiline nose. ¡°They are Belena¨ªwisks, like me. Not monsters!¡±


    Eithne shook her head. ¡°I hope you¡¯re right, but please, if they know that Adarc is a Droma-man, he may be in danger. You understand?¡±


    Corentin frowned, look to Adarc, then slapped him on the shoulder. ¡°Abraba wa¨ªla. For you, meins qens, I will look after the acolyte. I have the fondness grown for him.¡± He glanced up the hill. The shouts had grown closer. ¡°But you should sk¨ºwjan. Quickly.¡± He tugged at Adarc¡¯s sleeve. ¡°And us too. Us-leithan!¡±


    ¡°My lady?¡±


    ¡°Go, Adarc!¡± Eithne pushed him away with the merchant. The brawny Foreigner grunted and saluted her, then crouched and followed them away around the shoulder of the Hill.


    Eithne stepped forward, fell into the darkness, and grabbed the iron stiles.


    Boy-sized booted feet stepped down on to the rails above. Eithne moved down the rungs to avoid a boot to the head. She heard another thwack and an outraged shout. Movement above made the daylight flicker. Eithne scrambled down still further. There was a grinding sound as of rock against rock, and then darkness plumbed the shaft¡¯s depths.


    She stopped. What in Annwn am I doing?


    A boot came down on her head. ¡°Why are you stopping? Go on!¡±


    ¡°Damn it, I can¡¯t see! Where are we going?¡±


    The boot came down on her head again.

 Chapter Eight, Scene Twenty

    ¡°Stop that!¡± She slapped at the boot.


    The boot tapped more gently on her head. ¡°Bolin. Go on. Please.¡±


    ¡°Damn it, stop that!¡± She felt like a fool arguing in the dark with only two ways to go, and reached with her foot for the next rung.


    She shook her head as she descended. I swear, the world beyond Dolgallu is beyond my grasp. She¡¯d thought she understood a thing or three about the world. She¡¯d always felt superior and impatient with people, especially her mother and all the other ignorant, conniving, destructive women like her. Father had always encouraged her, made her feel competent.


    But since she¡¯d left her home, she felt crippled: traveling in disguise, or in a narrow, closed carriage. Insulted and looked down on. Defended by others, kept from one fight after another for fear she¡¯d shatter like some fragile porcelain doll.


    She felt around in the tight darkness for the next stile. I don¡¯t have Father¡¯s ear now, do I? And what did he ever really give me anyway? A false sense of importance, that¡¯s what. Lot of good that¡¯s done me.


    Longing rushed over her, for recognition, for satisfaction. For even a damned moment¡¯s rest.


    She thought then of Eowain, of all the grief and trouble she¡¯d been to him. Of all the taunts and threats and angry words she¡¯d had for him.


    I don¡¯t really know how to care for anyone, do I? She wasn¡¯t sure she¡¯d ever had the chance to learn. When Eowain offered his protection, all I did was insult him.


    She kicked at the next iron rail and stepped down. The air seemed to change and her questing boot found a floor, closer than she expected. She reached into the darkness. Some sort of opening in the shaft? Then her hand recoiled from slimy, wet, rough-hewn natural rock.


    A boot came down on her head.


    ¡°Gods damn it all, stop that!¡± She put her hand to the slimy wall, stepped from the shaft, and stopped.


    Something gripped her arm.


    She jumped.


    ¡°It¡¯s me, mum.¡±


    Tommalt, in the dark. Damn it. She put her hand on his. ¡°Sorry. Where¡¯s¡ª?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s dark down here!¡±


    And there¡¯s Talwyn. At least she hadn¡¯t run off into the dark. ¡°Talwyn, you need to stay with me, you understand?¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t scared. I¡¯m a Cockam, I am! An¡¯ I ain¡¯t gonna hold yer hand, neefer.¡±


    The bodies of the little men moved around her in the dark. There was a click, then a clack, then a spark in the darkness. The first little man¡¯s face, with his tawny hair and beard, came into sight as he coaxed a flame to life. He lifted the fledgling flame with a thin stick and she marveled at the sight of a small box that seemed to be framed with iron but walled with red-tinted glass.


    He set the oil-soaked wick inside the box a-flicker, and the fire caught, grew, and steadied. The little man closed the glass box, lifted it by an iron ring at the top, and shook away the flame that still clung like a stubborn worm to the stick.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Around her, a rocky chamber came into view, its walls slick with draperies of white flow-stone. She had room enough to stand upright, but it was neither so tall nor so wide as to relieve the oppressive sense of such a tight space.


    The second little man glanced up the shaft behind them with his pale blue eyes, then hefted the mighty crossbow in his hands and pointed it, cocked with a fresh bolt, into the blackness ahead.


    Eithne drew her short sword and pulled the dagger from her belt with her other hand. Tommalt beside her did the same, and even little Talwyn produced a wicked-looking knife from under her hooded cloak.


    Dwo took a steel headed hammer¡ªblunt at one end, spiked at the other¡ªinto his hand, then raised the lantern,gestured with the hammer at the darkness and tapped the head of the hammer against his chest. ¡°Thr¨®gimaim? You understand?¡± He pointed up the shaft again. ¡°That way¡¯s no good.¡± He shook his head. Then he pointed into the blackness¡ª¡°This way?¡±¡ªand tapped his chest again. ¡°This way is good.¡±


    Kilim shook his head. ¡°Eithne thr¨®gimaim bolgimb¨ªmalk.¡±


    Dwo scowled at him. ¡°Bofed¨¦boldal thr¨®gimaim Avac ovar morlode babolain¡­ bukilar¡­ daim¡­ baleovatek.¡± He enunciated slow and clear, exaggerated the care he took with his words.


    Kilim grunted with what might have been a laugh.


    ¡°We¡¯re standing right here, you know.¡±


    Dwo pointed with the hammer into the blackness once more. ¡°This way. Come on.¡± Then he shrugged and tapped Kilim on the back with the hammer head.


    Kilim turned and, crossbow aimed from the shoulder, set off into the dark.


    He shrugged, lifted the lantern, and went off after Kilim. The red light went with him.


    ¡°Ooo, I wanna go!¡± Talwyn skipped down the tunnel after them.


    Tommalt seemed dubious. ¡°Mum?¡±


    The dark closed in around Eithne. Her skin crawled as the tight space and the absolute blackness overwhelmed her. With a last look up the dark shaft¡ª¡°Damn it all¡±¡ªshe followed the light of Dwo¡¯s lantern. Tommalt came along behind her.


    The red light bobbed left and Eithne found that the way jogged there and opened into a larger chamber. The glow receded down a passage from the chamber. As she followed, the shadow of short little Dwo and Talwyn disappeared around a corner to the left.


    Eithne quickened her pace and went around the corner with sword and dagger at the ready.


    Dwo¡¯s silhouette was still ahead with the lantern. He raised a bushy eyebrow at her and shrugged. Talwyn was wide-eyed, her fingers trailing over the rock walls.


    With their longer legs, Eithne and Tommalt soon caught them, but Kilim and his crossbow were nowhere to be seen in the pool of red lantern light.


    Dwo tapped at the wall on their right gently. ¡°Careful. It¡¯s unstable here.¡±


    Ahead on that side, a tumble of rock not yet coated with slime and flow-stone blocked the way.


    Dwo led her left.


    She ducked at the last moment under a round shield of stone that dripped with stony spikes.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Dwo put the hammer to the side of his head. ¡°Mind the ceiling.¡±


    Eithne scowled at him. ¡°Thoughtful of you, thanks.¡±


    Dwo shrugged. He led her around to the backside of the obstruction. The way, rough and twisted, widened and narrowed at random, and¡ªOw! Damn it!¡ªthe ceiling height continued to vary.


    Tommalt¡¯s voice quavered with unease. ¡°Mum. Who are they?¡±


    Eithne¡¯d been wondering that herself. ¡°Old stories come to mind. Stories about an ancient race that lived here long before Men¡ªor even Shynn¡ªcame across the seas. Short, stunted little people called, ¡®Avacs,¡¯ who lived beneath stony-headed hills and built the ancient stone monuments.¡± She pointed up toward the hill that loomed over them. ¡°Like the circle of menhirs on the hill.¡±


    Tommalt¡¯s eyes darted toward the little man with the red lantern. ¡°You really think they¡¯re Avacs, mum?¡±


    She couldn¡¯t think of a better explanation.


    Dwo led them into a cross-way. Kilim came back into the lantern light from the straight path before them and shook his head. ¡°Boforthorim.¡± He shivered and held one of his hands about a foot apart from his crossbow, then wriggled his fingers like many little legs. ¡°Belim bof¨®nalin boforthorim.¡± He nodded to another passage¡ª¡°Thorin gilaim¡±¡ªput his bow back to his shoulder, and led them into the dark.


    Dwo shrugged¡ª¡°Kilim doesn¡¯t like centipedes.¡±¡ªthen went on after his mate.


    Something in the darkness chittered and clicked. ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± said Eithne, entirely unsure that she was. She kept a cautious distance, and her sword and dagger ready.

 Chapter Nine, Scene Twenty-One

    The tunnels under the Abred went on for what seemed a long time. At crossways, Kilim sometimes returned from the darkness and pointed them another way, and then marched off ahead of them again, crossbow at the ready. Dwo spoke seldom, and always in that guttural tongue of theirs.


    Thither and yon, they came upon fungi and lichens that glowed with a weird, greenish sheen and revealed more wonders than could be seen by the lantern¡¯s red light.


    But for long spells, Eithne could see nothing save the walls hard to each side, and the scant dozen yards of empty tunnel before and behind.


    In places, the fate of the tunnels had clearly been shaped by some ancient hand. Long, straight corridors with regular walls and ceilings of crumbling bricks led to stairs with short risers carved into steep inclines. The air was cold and clammy, and tasted like copper, wet stone, and old mildew.


    Yet in other places, nature and destiny had taken their own course, and the natural tunnels weaved back and forth, up, down, around and about.


    Dwo put two fingers to his eyes, then pointed ahead, as if to draw her attention to something. ¡°This is a sight not to be missed,¡± he said. They came around a bend in the tunnel and he lowered the lantern.


    Eithne gasped as a huge, glittering chamber opened before them, its walls and floors a-glow with blue-green lichens. Hundreds of feet above arched the great stone roof, smoky in the mist that eternally a-rose. Huge stalactites hung from the roof in every conceivable shape, in shafts, in domes, in translucent sheets, like tapestries of ice. The melt water of countless millennia had carved out a magnificent colossus beneath the Abred, and built gigantic columns through the ages. Pools of water gleamed green and weird. To their left, a deep, wide crevasse wound away from them across the chamber.


    Talwyn made a slow circle in place, eyes and mouth round. ¡°Whoooooa¡­¡±


    A whispered curse behind her spoke of Tommalt¡¯s own awe and wonder.


    Dwo came to a halt, and a sublime expression of love glowed from his eyes. His comrade Kilim stood not far ahead. He stared in hushed reverence at that mighty cavern, the rapt attention he¡¯d shown to his aim lost. ¡°Dw¨ªdortek norbek,¡± whispered Dwo. Kilim nodded in slow agreement.


    Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and glanced back to Dwo. ¡°Mormalk thugimrak.¡±


    Dwo sighed and made a sign in the air with his fist. ¡°Kiladalrak.¡± The gesture reminded Eithne of the head and shaft of a hammer.


    Kilim raised his crossbow again and went ahead.


    Dwo looked at her. ¡°It¡¯s quite something, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Eithne felt she understood the love he had for all the awe and majesty of that cave. ¡°Aye, quite something.¡±


    He nodded and took it in one more time, then gestured for them to follow along.


    They walked around a colossal column of multi-colored flowstone on their right and and kept back a safe distance from the crumbling edge of the wide crevasse on their left. After a hundred and more paces, the fissure narrowed.


    Eithne sucked in a breath at the sight of a bridge of stone blocks, clearly fashioned in dim antiquity by the work of once-living hands. Columns that might once have resembled dragons¡¯ heads flanked both ends, long-since coated with quicklime and chalky alabaster. The span arched thirty yards over the abyss, with no piles to support it. The decking¡ªwith neither sidewalls nor rails¡ªwas no more than three paces wide.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Kilim, already on the far side, scanned the cavern over the sight of his crossbow, raised an open hand and waved them forward.


    Eithne¡¯s stomach rebelled and she shrank back. Dwo gave her a reassuring nod of his head and tapped hard on the stones with his hammer, eliciting a solid thunk. ¡°Good Avac-work.¡±


    Eithne gave him a dubious look. She stooped for a pebble, tossed it into the dark chasm, and counted: One¡ª Two¡ª. The stone clattered to the bottom before she reached, Three. She shook her head. ¡°I know a fatal fall when I hear one.¡±


    The little man frowned at her. He stepped out onto the span and jumped up and down twice, without setting off so much as a tremor. ¡°No worries, see?¡± He jumped twice more¡ª¡°Come on¡±¡ªwaved for her to follow him, and walked away with the lantern.


    She had no idea how far they¡¯d come, and no faith she could find her way back. He might not be leaving her in the dark exactly, with the glowing lichens and fungi of that vast chamber, but beyond that glow, they¡¯d be lost without his lantern.


    ¡°Wheeee! I¡¯m a bird!¡± Talwyn darted out onto the bridge with a grin and a flap of her arms.


    Eithne¡¯s stomach lurched. She snatched for the liripipe hood and missed. Damn it!


    Tommalt tugged at the collar of his leather cuirass. ¡°Uh, mum? You sure about this?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± She swallowed hard. But if that mad little tinker girl can do it¡­ It wasn¡¯t as if she hadn¡¯t spanned similar heights before. But she¡¯d never done so across an ancient bridge, slick with melt-water, over a fall the bottom of which she couldn¡¯t see, while following two strange little men through the bowels of the Abred. With every step, she was getting farther from Father and everything else safe and familiar. Just focus on the other side, stupid girl.


    With a last, deep breath, step she did, knees flexed, arms akimbo for balance.


    Then another step.


    And again.


    And another.


    Darkness yawned to either hand. A deep, black maw eager to devour her. The rocky floor ready to crack her bones.


    Ahead, Dwo awaited her. She set her eyes on him. The hammer in his one hand, the lantern in the other. Just¡ª The coils of rope across his chest. A few¡ª The ax hung from his belt. More¡ª His tawny beard. Steps!


    Eithne jogged over the last half-dozen strides. As her boots came once more to solid ground, she let go her bated breath.


    Behind her, Tommalt took the bridge with long strides and one hand stretched out toward solid ground.


    His booted foot slipped. He teetered, wavered¡ªcaught his balance on the opposite leg.


    His face was pale, even in the ruddy lamplight. The look he shot Eithne was full of fear and relief. Then he set his jaw and bounded the rest of the way in three long leaps.


    Dwo tapped the head of his hammer gently against her thigh and pointed it up at her with a nod. ¡°Told you so.¡± Then he followed Kilim the long way around a breathtaking drapery of slimy alabaster, with the chasm on their right.


    Eithne glanced back at Tommalt, then at the abyss, and grumbled, ¡°No one likes a ¡®told you so.¡¯¡±


    Tommalt shuddered and agreed.


    From the great, glittering cavern, the tunnels narrowed once more, and the glowing lichens faded until only the light of the lantern guided her way.


    Kilim moved away into the darkness again. How he could see anything, Eithne didn¡¯t know. The little men¡¯s relationship to that strange underground world of tunnels and rock seemed familiar and casual. She wondered if they needed the lantern at all.


    Tommalt muttered behind her. ¡°We should have marked the tunnels, mum. Ain¡¯t no way we can get ourselves out.¡±


    She grunted at him. Indecision gnawed at her. She didn¡¯t know where Dwo was leading them. Kilim was ahead somewhere with that crossbow and could surely hit her out of the dark from a goodly distance. The little men hadn¡¯t tried to hurt them, but she and Tommalt also had no choice except to trust them.


    Shame burned Eithne¡¯s cheeks. She hated being so dependent, on her parents, her family, the drymyn priests and priestesses. On Eowain, and now these little men. Just like a girl, she thought, and hated herself.


    To be like a man¡ªindependent and self-reliant¡ªthat needed strength, power, courage even. I don¡¯t have it in me, she feared. I don¡¯t deserve it, I¡¯m not strong enough. She shook her head, thought again of Eowain. If he ever learns what I¡¯m really like, how scared I am, he¡¯ll never trust me¡­


    Dwo put the fist with the hammer crosswise beside his head, then tapped once on the wall.


    Eithne stopped behind him. ¡°What is it?¡± She whispered, for the darkness seemed close of a sudden, the tunnels narrow, the silence a fearful thing to break.

 Chapter Nine, Scene Twenty-Two

    No answering tap echoed back. Dwo peered ahead into the dark.


    Then a monstrous bellow of rage echoed through the tunnel.


    Eithne jumped.


    Dwo¡¯s pale blue eyes went round. He handed the lantern to Talwyn, then ran ahead.


    We¡¯ll be left alone in the tunnel, with neither beginning nor end in sight.


    Eithne swallowed hard¡ªDamn it, stop acting like a child¡ªthen leaped forward after Dwo, sword and dagger ready.


    Talwyn and Tommalt came behind her. The lantern swung, the shadows wavered.


    Confused roars bounced off the walls.


    The tunnel floor dropped into a broad chamber, lit by flickering torches on the ground.


    Against one wall stood Kilim, cornered, axe and shield in hand, crossbow slung across his back.


    Three hideous creatures crouched under the ceiling of the chamber, each twice as tall as any man, on legs as stout as any tree. Their arms¡ªmuscled and long¡ªended with great fists and hard, ebony talons. Their sallow flesh was mottled with warty bumps of dull brown. They roared through tusked, black teeth, and the rank smell of their skins and furs filled the small space.


    Dwo raced in with hammer and hand-axe.


    I owe these little men nothing. For all I know, they¡¯re kidnappers. But Talwyn and Tommalt¡­


    Eithne went to work with both blades and hamstrung the first beast with quick slashes. Gouts of blood erupted from the wounds. The ogre roared in pain and surprise.


    A meaty fist slapped her like a gnat and slammed her against the wall.


    Dwo battered and chopped with ax and hammer. The hamstrung beast roared and swiped at him. Dwo ducked, rolled, struck again. Kilim screamed a war-cry, battered the beast with his shield and chopped with his axe.


    The two on their feet turned on Eithne. Torchlight cast cruel shadows across their flat, broad noses and slimy black tusks. They lifted their mattock-like fists and cracked their knuckles with gruesome pops.


    Eithne pushed off the wall and brandished her blades. ¡°Alright then,¡± she growled. ¡°Come on!¡±


    They rushed her.


    She ducked and rolled, came to a knee, slashed with the sword, tore open a thigh.


    Another howl echoed through the cavern.


    The hamstrung beast swatted at her. She turned, parried, cut and stabbed at the arm.


    A fist hammered the ground. She twisted and sliced. The arm slapped her from her feet.


    She coiled over her shoulder and came up again, stabbed with the dagger between the knuckles of an oncoming fist. The beast yowled and shook the wounded hand.


    Kilim and Dwo stayed low and worked the knees and ankles with axes and hammer, but the warty hides of the beasts were thick and tough.


    Eithne danced and harried them.


    The hamstrung beast swiped at anyone in reach. The other ogres gyred, circled, and spun after them.


    Eithne and the little men were quicker than the ogres, but their cuts were not nearly deep and deadly enough, and the beasts had better reach.


    We can¡¯t keep on like this. The ogres would simply wear them down.


    Some of the tunnels were low and narrow enough to make Eithne stoop and squeeze. If we can break contact, put a narrow way between us¡ª


    ¡°Run!¡± She sliced and parried. ¡°Fall back!¡±


    Kilim gave her a blank look, ducked a fist.


    But Dwo nodded. He slapped Kilim backhanded¡ª¡°Dalhig dornor¨²gak!¡±¡ªand the two of them withdrew, shoulder to shoulder.


    Eithne slashed, stabbed, feinted¡ªthen turned and dove over the heads of the little men. She rolled back to her feet, sprang up the sloped floor, and pushed stunned Tommalt and Talwyn with the lantern back into the tunnels. ¡°Go! Come on!¡±


    The little men hacked, hammered, and fell back as fast as their short legs allowed.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    From the top of the slope, Eithne sliced over the little men¡¯s heads as they went by her. The beasts recoiled. ¡°Go! Go!¡± She went after Kilim and Dwo into the low-ceilinged tunnel.


    Howls followed her. The lantern ahead swung wildly. Light and shadow dizzied her, flickered over the sandy floor, the scaly walls, the eyes on the ceiling.


    Eyes on the¡ª?


    Talwyn screamed.


    Everyone skidded to a halt.


    Eithne collided with them.


    A lizard, surely twenty feet long, had dug its black claws, powerful and gnarled, into the rock. Limbs heavily-built held fully half its body length coiled around the walls of the tunnel. Its large skull, broad and snub with a crest between the eyes, depended¡ªdownside up¡ªfrom the ceiling. Jaws of serrated, blade-like teeth snapped at Kilim¡¯s head.


    Dwo hammered it to no avail, but his ax gouged a shallow chunk from its scaly hide. The lizard recoiled and hissed. Kilim cursed and fell on his arse. Tommalt stabbed at it and pushed Talwyn behind him.


    ¡°Dornor¨²gak!¡± shouted Dwo. He swung hammer and ax at the beast.


    It hissed, and its fangs scored his arm.


    Kilim scrambled to his feet, hacked at the skull with his ax.


    Tommalt and Talwyn grabbed Eithne¡¯s arms and dragged her back through the tunnel. Dwo and Kilim ran after them.


    Like a corkscrew, the lizard scuttled along floor, walls, and ceiling as though they were all the same.


    Dwo and Kilim hacked and hammered at the snout of the beast.


    ¡°Which way?¡± Panic edged Tommalt¡¯s voice.


    Eithne stabbed at the snout of the lizard.


    The beast hissed and recoiled, then ran up the wall and snapped down from the ceiling.


    The two little men cursed and fought their way backward. The beast hissed after them.


    The two ogres had squeezed into the other end of the tunnel, one behind the other. They bellowed.


    Eithne and Tommalt stabbed and slashed at the ogres. Dwo and Kilim hacked and hammered at the lizard. Talwyn screamed.


    But there was a tunnel to the right. ¡°Follow me!¡± Eithne sliced at the ogres, then dashed into the dark. Harsh breath and footfalls echoed after her.


    The lizard and the ogres met amid shouts and screams.


    Eithne followed the tunnel around a cascade of flowstone. Through a gap, fallen torchlight revealed the ogres locked in combat with the lizard.


    She led them on at a dead run, then skidded to a stop in a large round chamber supported by a thick central column. Three dark openings promised hope of escape, but screams and bellows echoed through the cavern.


    The others staggered up behind her. Dwo and Kilim leaned on their knees, blowing hard.


    Eithne gripped the hilts of her weapons hard. ¡°Damn it all! Which way?¡±


    Dwo led them at a jog around a corner and past a pit in the floor. The way curled under a broad shield of stone suspended from the ceiling. Eithne and Tommalt crouched and shimmied under the obstruction even as Talwyn, Dwo, and Kilim bent nearly double. Beyond, the way split again. To the right, another tunnel twisted into darkness.


    The other way opened into a broad cavern where pale, slimy scales coiled on the floor.


    A stout, sloped head with a ridge down the middle rose from the twisted loops on a thick, sinuous neck. Eyes as dull as a blind man¡¯s¡ªdeeply recessed, covered with skin and scales¡ªfaced the lantern light.


    The loops uncoiled with a strange motion. The skin, loosely attached, moved as if independent, then dragged the body along inside.


    The jaws opened. Powerful, interlocking teeth gleamed in the lantern light.


    From the opposite side of the coils, the tail rose, truncated like the head.


    Then the tail turned to the light as well.


    Another pair of dull, deeply recessed eyes covered with skin and scales regarded them blindly.


    Another set of jaws opened.


    More powerful, interlocking teeth gleamed in the lantern light.


    ¡°Oh, damn me,¡± whispered Eithne.


    Kilim raised his crossbow to his shoulder. The crossbow¡ªthwack!¡ªreleased its bolt. The burnished tip skittered off the strange pale skin.


    The beast hissed. The whole body¡ªsome four or five yards long¡ªcame uncoiled and the dual heads snapped at them.


    Dwo pushed them into the side passage. ¡°Thugimrak! Thugimrak!¡±


    The two heads grabbed each other in their jaws. The whole body threw itself forward and rose up like a wheel.


    ¡°Thugimrak!¡±


    Talwyn lifted the lantern and ran. Tommalt and Eithne followed.


    The tunnel twisted, doubled back like the curve of a snake, then turned and opened into a wide cavern.


    Talwyn stumbled. Tommalt staggered.


    The floor sloped away beneath her boots. Eithne tumbled.


    She hit the stone on a shoulder, rolled once about, and crashed into a white column of pale slimy flowstone.


    Dwo and Kilim came from the tunnel at the run. ¡°Boludallode thrar! Thugimrak!¡±


    The hoop of the two-headed serpent rolled after them. One head released the other, and snapping jaws whipped out at them.


    Dwo shrieked and dove to the ground. The first head lashed over him, and the whole body soared through the cave. Then the second, gnashing head flew past.


    Altogether, the beast crashed to a halt on the floor ahead of them. Both heads rose and hissed.


    Eithne staggered to her feet.


    One head snapped at her.


    She stabbed, blood gouted.


    The other head lashed at Kilim. Powerful, interlocked jaws tore a chunk of flesh from his leg.


    Kilim howled and went down.


    Dwo leaped to his comrade¡¯s defense. His ax cut into the scaly hide.


    Eithne stumbled up the slope. The second head hissed at her, then whipped around the column.


    ¡°Look out!¡±


    It came at Dwo from behind.


    He parried too late with the hammer.


    The jaws snapped a chunk of his arm loose.


    The opposite head seized his other arm. His bones broke with a sickening snap.


    Then froth foamed from Dwo¡¯s mouth. The little man convulsed and thrashed on his feet, then fell in a heap.


    Horror filled Eithne like a deep breath of stale cavern air. ¡°Dwo!¡±

 Chapter Nine, Scene Twenty-Three

    Kilim scrambled up the slope. ¡°Bikilar! Run! Back that way!¡±


    The double-headed snake tore at the heap of Dwo.


    Tommalt and Talwyn pulled her by the arm into the serpentine tunnels. Kilim limped and hopped on his bad leg. His pale brown cheeks lost their ruddy tint, black circles formed under his pale blue eyes. He choked and spat wads of white froth.


    Eithne scolded herself. ¡°I was useless back there! Dwo is dead!¡±


    The way twisted and turned.


    Tommalt tried to console her. ¡°It ain¡¯t your fault, mum. There was nothing you could do. It all happened so damn fast!¡±


    From under a shield-like obstruction, a huge, warty, dead yellow arm swiped at them. ¡°Oy! Zalag! Ki-ne t¨¦sh-me!¡±


    Eithne fell back against the rocky wall to avoid the black-taloned fist. A large, purple eye blinked around the overhang.


    Talwyn screamed. Tommalt stabbed.


    Kilim pulled Eithne down another dark tunnel.


    Shock overwhelmed her. Dwo might be alive if it not for me!


    The lantern light flickered over the walls. Eithne shook her head. Sickness rose in her gorge. No! I never wanted any of this to happen!!


    Kilim paused at a three-tunnel intersection, then pulled her right. They went around a bend and into a narrow way. They turned sideways. The breast of her steel-ringed cuirass scraped the rock wall. Tommalt cursed and shoved himself through.


    Distant, frustrated shouts echoed from the walls.


    ¡°What would Eowain think of me?¡± She felt tears on her cheeks, rubbed at them with the back of a hand. Just another little girl, playing at men¡¯s work, that¡¯s what.


    Talwyn her face pale, tugged at Eithne¡¯s sleeve, eyes round. ¡°You fought, me arlodhes! As well as me breders, as well as any den.¡±


    But Eithne had a vision of her mother, hands on hips, scowling at her from the door of their home. Fighting¡¯s no business for a girl!


    Kilim¡¯s skin had gone pallid and clammy. He staggered on his injured leg, paused, then with a weary whisper, he pointed down a branch in their way. ¡°Thorin gilaim.¡±


    Shouts of ogrish rage resounded through the tunnels.


    ¡°But Dwo¡ª?¡±


    Kilim shook his head. ¡°It is war, lady. Dorak morak Gimain. War unto Death.¡± He put his fist to his heart. ¡°He died well. Dorak will welcome him.¡± Then he pointed again down the branching tunnel. ¡°Thorin gilaim.¡±


    Eithne put a hand on his shoulder, felt his loss in her own heart, like a great gaping wound. ¡°He was very brave.¡± But the words felt empty, meaningless.


    He scowled at her. Growls and shouts of rage still echoed through the tunnels. ¡°Bofugilzak. Come on.¡± Kilim hefted the crossbow and limped on.


    Another huge, glittering cavern of glowing blue lichen opened before them. The vaulted ceiling was obscured in mist far over their heads. An unfathomable pool of wyrd-lit green water lapped at the floor of the chamber. On its shore, a fire of bracken, roots, and branches had been heaped up.


    Beside the fire sat a giant, cross-legged. His black, upthrust tusks ripped at the whole haunch of a roasted cow¡¯s leg.


    Kilim went still.


    The giant¡¯s purple eyes blinked at them.


    The dead yellow skin and warty brown bumps, the wicked black talons of its long arms, all spoke of his kinship to the other ogres. Yet when he lumbered to its feet, they saw he was taller and more powerful than any of them.


    He shook the braised, half-eaten cattle-haunch like a club, and his tyrannical bellow rattled the walls of the chamber.


    Kilim raised his crossbow and¡ªthwack!¡ªthe burnished bolt struck true. The shaft buried itself in the beast¡¯s right knee.


    The bellow rose to a shriek. The knee buckled, the giant stumbled.


    The greasy haunch of beef slipped from his grasp, cartwheeled through the air, and splashed into the pool of water.


    All of Eithne¡¯s training, all her experience with bandits and brigands, all her anger with herself, rushed through her arm. She stabbed the point of her sword straight into the giant¡¯s wyrd white pupil.


    The beast fell to his good knee, howled with pain, and grabbed his ruined eye with both black-taloned hands.


    Eithne danced left around the creature and sliced at the right arm and shoulder. The beast recoiled, but the left knee wouldn¡¯t hold. He teetered, off-balance.


    Kilim cranked the crossbow¡¯s winch.


    Too slow!


    Eithne shoved with all the strength of her shoulder into the giant¡¯s hip.


    The giant tottered, his long arms thrashed.


    Then, slowly, like a tipping tree, over he went into the wyrd green pool and splashed into the unfathomable depths.


    In a frothing cascade, bubbles boiled to the surface.


    The string of Kilim¡¯s crossbow clicked into place. Talwyn bounced on her feet and clapped. Approval gleamed in Tommalt¡¯s eye.


    The last gurgles burst and rippled on the gleaming surface of the pool.


    Kilim pointed along the marge of the pool. ¡°Thorin gilaim.¡±


    Eithne cast a last look at the pool, then followed Kilim. A short tunnel twisted into another large chamber. Many dripping columns depended from the ceiling. The floor sloped into a gully.


    Kilim led them down, then followed the dry bed of the ancient watercourse.


    Weariness burned through Eithne¡¯s whole body. She picked her footing through the rocky gully.


    Talwyn scampered beside her, parried and thrust with her little knife. ¡°Dat was marthys! Yow! Zing!¡± The lantern swayed in her hand. She looked up at Eithne. ¡°Did ye pub prys wanna be a warrior?¡±The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Eithne shook her head. ¡°No, not always.¡± She felt tired, heavy, used up. ¡°When I was your age, I dreamed I¡¯d be carried away by a handsome shynn-prince. I¡¯m named for a woman of legend. Eithne, daughter of the one-eyed giant, Balor.¡±


    Kilim scowled and made a sign with one hand, to ward off evil.


    ¡°Ooo, legends! Tell me! Tell me!¡±


    ¡°In the tale, Balor learned of a drymyn¡¯s prophecy¡±¡ªmuch like Father learned about the geas on me, she thought¡ª¡°A prophecy that he¡¯d be killed by his own grandson. So he imprisoned his daughter, my namesake, in a great tower, away from all men.¡±


    The gully narrowed and the ceiling dropped. They entered another narrow tunnel.


    ¡°Eithne was cared for by twelve women. Their only job was to keep her from ever meeting a man.¡± She grimaced. Much like I was kept in Dolgallu. ¡°But a man named Cian gained entry to the tower. Balor had once stolen a cow from Cian¡¯s father, so Cian wanted to steal a treasure from Balor in revenge.¡±


    Shouts and screams of rage no longer echoed through the tunnels. Perhaps the giants have lost our trail.


    ¡°Well, with the help of a magickal shynn named Bir¨®g, Cian seduced Eithne. Later, she gave birth to triplets. But Balor sent all the babes to be drowned in a whirlpool.¡± Eithne sidestepped a broad boulder. ¡°The messenger drowned the first two, you see, but he dropped the third in the harbor, where he was rescued by Bir¨®g, the shynn.¡±


    Kilim held up a hand and they stopped. He went to the edge of the lantern light, peered ahead, then waved them on.


    She wondered what Kilim might have heard or seen to give him pause.


    ¡°Then what, me arlodhes?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± said Eithne, ¡°Bir¨®g took the child back to Cian¡¯s father, who gave the child to his brother, Gavida the Smith, to foster the boy.¡±


    Talwyn¡¯s eyes were wide. ¡°Uh-huh! Wh¡¯appened next?¡±


    Eithne took it for encouragement. ¡°Well, that boy grew up to be the god Tr¨®gain of the Many Skills. He slew his grandfather Balor in the mighty battle that drove the giants from these lands. And so the prophecy came true in the end, no matter what Balor did.¡± Eithne grimaced. Is this what¡¯s happening? Are Eowain and I caught in such a prophecy, no matter what we do?


    The ground rose again, the ceiling dropped. Eithne stooped and went on. ¡°Anyway. That was my dream. When I was a girl. I thought a handsome shynn prince would make me his wife. We¡¯d have many children, and they¡¯d grow up to be as great as Tr¨®gain Many-Skills.¡±


    Talwyn and Kilim hardly hunched at all as they went on, but Eithne and Tommalt were bent nearly double. ¡°It was a silly dream, to be sure.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t think so, me arlodhes. I¡ª¡±


    Kilim put up his hand again and they stopped. He made a motion for them to stay where they were, then went ahead alone.


    Eithne suddenly felt she¡¯d spent a too much of her life waiting. Peered into the darkness for her father¡¯s lantern light, waited for him to return from the wood shop, smelling of saw dust and cut lumber. Waited for the man of her geas to come and marry her.


    It was as if she wasn¡¯t supposed to figure out what to do with her own life. She should just wait for a man to come, and then live his life.


    And now the moment is here. Eowain is the man, if the drymyn are right. So now what? She had a vision of herself, a young woman, pregnant, waiting to give birth. A matron, nursing their child, waiting for Eowain to return from war. He¡¯d be her link to the world, he¡¯d take care of everything.


    And then what? When will my life begin? What had her namesake done in that great tower all those years, with only twelve women for company? The stories never said. As if it didn¡¯t matter. She might as well have been sleeping. Or dead.


    Kilim came back to the edge of the lantern light. ¡°Belthoruzak. Thr¨®norbek gilaim.¡±


    ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    His expression was puzzled. ¡°I just told you. This way.¡± He turned and went on. Eithne and Tommalt rolled eyes to each other, then followed him.


    The way ahead forked again. Kilim chose the rising branch.


    She wondered where the other branch went. Deeper into the Abred? What¡¯s down there? She thought about the strange matter of choice. A different tunnel taken might have avoided the ogres, or the lizard, might have bypassed the two-headed snake and the death of Dwo.


    In the lantern light, the slimy, natural rock tunnels ended in another well-worn shaft of limestone with iron stiles driven into the wall. Kilim leaned against the stones and bowed his head, then gestured up the ladder.


    Fear filled Eithne¡¯s mouth like bitter bile. ¡°What¡¯s up there?¡±


    Kilim gave her a taciturn shrug. ¡°The shrine. That¡¯s what you wanted, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Is it? Weariness washed over her. She sank down onto the tunnel floor. What damn choice do I have anyway? She gritted her teeth. Resentment welled up in her like a red tide. I didn¡¯t have any choices as a young girl, so why should I have any now?


    Kilim gave her a queer look, gestured up the shaft.


    Tommalt knelt beside her. ¡°You alright, mum?¡±


    Eithne shook her head. ¡°Everything I¡¯ve ever done was to please my father,¡± she said. ¡°But it was never enough.¡±


    Kilim arched an eyebrow at her, and Tommalt frowned. ¡°Beg pardon, mum?¡±


    Eithne put her head in her hands. ¡°Just give me a minute. I just need to rest.¡±


    Kilim plucked at her sleeve and pointed up the shaft.


    ¡°No, damn it,¡± she snapped. ¡°I need to rest. Don¡¯t you ever just need to rest?¡±


    Kilim leaned on his knees and shook his head. Then he staggered down the tunnel away from them. From the dark, his retches echoed back, then went silent. He limped into the lamp light. His complexion was pallid. Even the reddish tinge of his skin had faded to an unhealthy pink.


    ¡°Damn it. Here I¡¯m feeling sorry for myself.¡± She¡¯d entirely forgotten Kilim was injured. ¡°Sit down. Let¡¯s have a look at you.¡±


    He frowned at her, shook his head, and gestured up the shaft again.


    ¡°It can wait. Sit down. Let¡¯s have a look at those bites.¡±


    He puffed up his chest and crossed his arms over his beard, shook his head again. Then he blinked his pale blue eyes and wobbled on his feet.


    Eithne put a hand out to steady him. He swatted it away, then fell against the wall. She eased him down to the floor. He protested, but she pushed his hands aside.


    The two-headed snake had taken a chunk from his calf, and though it wasn¡¯t very deep, it was bloody. The leg itself was swollen and bruised, and the wound already festered.


    Eithne remembered Dwo¡¯s convulsions, the froth that had sprayed from his lips before he fell. ¡°Poison.¡±


    ¡°But the snake¡¯s venom killed Dwo instantly. How¡¯s he survived so long?¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t say. But clearly it¡¯s still at work.¡± She took the belt from her waist and cinched it around the leg, just under the knee. ¡°Can you climb?¡±


    He scowled and thumped his chest with a fist. ¡°I¡¯ll damned well climb out of here.¡±


    ¡°Alright, come on then. Up we go.¡±


    Kilim climbed into the shaft above her. Eithne sheathed her sword and dagger, and began the climb. Talwyn scrambled, one-handed with the lantern, and Tommalt followed.


    Trepidation filled Eithne¡¯s heart. The preacher in the black robes¡ªInloth¡ªhe said I was cursed. Is he right? Dwo¡¯s death haunted her. He deserved better than to be left to the appetites of that hideous snake.


    Fear and uncertainty settled on her chest like a stone¡¯s weight. Tightness clawed at her throat.


    But even if he¡¯s right, what choice do I have? I can¡¯t stay in these tunnels forever. I have to learn what¡¯s happened to Eowain, to my people.


    The shaft was narrow, barely half an arm¡¯s span around. Her back scraped against the wall. The limestone was moist with the slime of centuries. She reviled at the touch of the wet, rusty iron stiles in her hand.


    Above her, Kilim¡¯s booted feet stopped and stood on a rung. He fumbled along the wall, then found a knob of limestone, pushed and twisted. A click echoed down the shaft.


    He grunted down at her, then reached over his head and pushed again.


    Stone ground against stone and set Eithne¡¯s teeth on edge.


    Kilim went on up the ladder, then reached a hand down to her.


    Eithne hurried up the last few rungs, eager to be out of the tight shaft.


    Two braziers illuminated a square room of granite blocks. The high-priestess Corchen, with an oaken staff in her hand and white robes on her portly frame, sat on a large, impressive stone seat.


    A man in his middle fifties, in a white drymyn robe with his hair shorn in the Karnite fashion, stood at Corchen¡¯s left hand.


    Seated on a fur-padded stool was another small man. His hair was black and grizzled, his beard braided and impressive. He wore a strange, black suit of steel plates, articulated at the joints, which covered him from the neck to the ground.


    Together, they regarded Eithne and her companions with equanimity.


    Eithne drew her sword and brought it to bear.


    Corchen smiled down the length of Eithne¡¯s blade. Shadows flickered over her face.


    ¡°I see you¡¯ve met our servants.¡±


    Once Talwyn and Tommalt were clear, Kilim pressed at an inconspicuous place on the wall.


    With a groan, the stone slab ground back into place by some hidden mechanism and covered the shaft.

 Chapter Nine, Scene Twenty-Four

    Corchen nodded to Eithne, then turned to Kilim and bowed slightly.


    Kilim bowed in return, then again to the little man sitting on the stool.


    ¡°You know this little man?¡±


    Corchen gesture to the small man on the bench before her. ¡°Of course. One can hardly study the lore of the Abred without coming to know the Avacs who dwell beneath it.¡± She frowned.


    The little man¡¯s eyes rounded, then he cast a suspicious look to Corchen.


    ¡°Aye, that¡¯s her,¡± she said, then to Eithne. ¡°It¡¯s about time, lass.¡±


    With a rattle and a clatter, the little man in the steel plates took a knee and bowed his head to Eithne. ¡°My lady.¡± Then he clunked to his feet and screwed his eyebrows into a knot. ¡°Thordorest bolim Kilim-nalaim?¡±


    For a moment, Kilim¡¯s face twisted with helpless grief, then he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°Dwo d¨ªgilest bolgimb¨ªmalk belaim.¡±


    Corchen¡¯s face twisted with regret. ¡°That¡¯s a shame. He was very brave.¡± She noted the lacerations on his leg. ¡°I¡¯ll have a priestess look after you.¡± She rang a bell.


    ¡°And who do we have here?¡± Corchen regarded Eithne¡¯s companions gravely.


    ¡°I¡¯m a Cockam, I am!¡± Talwyn put her fists on her hips, and her liripipe shook with great dignity.


    Corchen on the seat inclined her head. ¡°Always an honor to have a Cockam in our presence.¡±


    Tommalt gave Eithne a sideward glance. Gray ripples of doubt and discomfort moved just beneath the surface of his eyes. He put his fist to his breast and identified himself.


    Two priestesses in light blue robes entered. Corchen gave them instructions to see after Kilim¡¯s wounds, and to make Talwyn and Tommalt comfortable.


    Talwyn helped Kilim as he shuffled away, but Tommalt objected. ¡°The Lady Eithne, she¡¯s my responsibility, Your Worthiness.¡±


    The white eyebrows of the man in the white drymyn robes rose on his forehead. ¡°You don¡¯t trust us, soldier?¡±


    Tommalt¡¯s eyes shifted to Eithne and around the room, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. ¡°It ain¡¯t that, Your Honor. It¡¯s just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Eowain? We came to find him, not to turn ourselves back into your custody.¡±


    ¡°Soldier.¡± His resonant voice seemed to make the very stones of the hill take notice. ¡°Go with the priestesses.¡±


    The muscles of Tommalt¡¯s jaw twitched and worked. The eyes that glanced to her seemed like passengers on a runaway wagon.


    ¡°Tommalt?¡± Fear choked at her like an ox-yoke.


    But he saluted and left with the priestesses.


    Eithne backed against the wall and drew her dagger. ¡°I¡¯ll gut you both if you try magicking me. I swear to Gods.¡±


    The old man harrumphed and scratched at his beard as he regarded Eithne. ¡°How old is she?¡±


    ¡°Just seventeen circles, Your Eminence,¡± replied Corchen.


    ¡°And you''re sure of her heritage?¡±


    ¡°The great-granddaughter of S¨¢r¨¢n Red Hand, who is of the line of Demna and Grainne from of old. Her lineage is beyond doubt.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re sure she¡¯ll breed?¡± said the old man.


    ¡°The omens are good.¡± Corchen opened her hands and shrugged. ¡°But the Gods, they are forgetful.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯d better breed, and she¡¯d better breed true. I¡¯ve read the coelbreni.¡± The older man looked at Corchen severely. ¡°The time is coming.¡±


    Eithne threatened them with the point of her sword again. ¡°You know I can hear you, right?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± Eithne waved her sword from the little man to the older man. ¡°Who are they?¡±


    The High-Priestess motioned with her open hand. ¡°This is Nalim, Chief of the Boffik Clan.¡± The little man nodded. ¡°And this is His Eminence, Gruath, Great Oak of Iathrann.¡±


    Gruath in the white robes held out his hand, on the finger of which rested a heavy, ornate ring that featured a circle set with antlers.


    Tommalt went to his knees with a gasp, ¡°Your Eminence,¡± and kissed the proffered ring.


    But Eithne refused to be impressed. ¡°So what? What have they to do with me?¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Gruath raised his eyebrows and lowered his waiting hand. Corchen sighed and smiled to him.


    The little man reached into a pouch on his belt, and drew out a package wrapped with linen.


    ¡°Nalim¡¯s kindred found this fifteen-hundred-and-twenty-two years ago,¡± said Corchen. ¡°Before Men ever came to these lands. It comes from deep under the Abred, from the caverns of the v?ttiri, horrid beasts with whom the Avacs have warred for many years.¡±


    Eithne narrowed her eyes. ¡°Horrid beasts? Giant, ogrish monsters?¡±


    Corchen blinked at her, surprised. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know, dear. I¡¯ve never met one. But I imagine they¡¯re something like that.¡±


    With thumb and forefinger, Nalim unwrapped the linen as if its contents would bite.


    Corchen went on. ¡°Their priests told them it was destined for¡ªif my Old Avac isn¡¯t too rusty¡ªthe ¡®Copper-Haired Bride of the Meadow of Groves under Star-Seer¡¯s Mountain.¡¯¡±


    Nalim revealed a shining lozenge-shaped metal plate about the size of her palm amid the folds of the linen.


    Corchen waved toward the east. ¡°Your family¡¯s mountain is named for the giant Ydrys, an astrologer in his own age. And your home, Dolgallu, the name means ¡®Meadow of Groves,¡¯ doesn¡¯t it?¡± Corchen shrugged. ¡°Your hair speaks for itself, I should think.¡±


    Nalim held it up to her.


    Eithne leaned forward. The metal had a silvery lustre, with a hint of golden warmth. On its face was inscribed a single long line, twisted and curved to resemble the upper side of a snail and its shell. The line wrapped around four squiggled arrows and another line that terminated in a round oval. At the left end, the snail-line ended in a small circle, like a head. The other end terminated in a wavy line that resembled a fish tail.


    Eithne scowled. ¡°What does it mean?¡±


    Corchen pursed her lips and shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. The metal is findruinne¡ª¡±


    ¡°Findroo-what-now?¡±


    ¡°Findruinne. White bronze. An alloy of silver and gold.¡±


    Eithne thought she knew that much about metallurgy. ¡°That¡¯s impossible.¡±


    ¡°Aye, without powerful magick, it is. The ancients alone knew the secrets of its manufacture.¡± The High Priestess frowned. ¡°But the sigil itself is unfamiliar to me.¡±


    Nalim held it higher. He clearly intended her to take it.


    ¡°Is it dangerous?¡±


    Corchen regarded it, head cocked to one side. Her gaze became abstracted, as if she peered across a vast distance. ¡°There¡¯s something of magick to it. An abjuration of some sort, I think. It wants to repudiate something.¡± She blinked several times and shook her head as if to clear her sight. ¡°But it¡¯s been dormant a long while.¡± She stepped down from her stone chair. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say it¡¯s dangerous. Not to you at any rate.¡±


    ¡°What does he want me to do with it?¡±


    ¡°Well, he wants you to take it, of course. It¡¯s a wedding gift.¡±


    Eithne shook her head with suspicion and distrust. ¡°Why would their priests, from more than a thousand years ago, even know of me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know, lass. They¡¯re gods are not our gods.¡±


    Though she kept her sword at the ready, Eithne reached out and took the plaque in her hand. Though light, it carried a strange gravity in her hand, and was warm to the touch. She tucked it into her belt without lowering her blade. ¡°Where¡¯s Eowain?¡±


    ¡°Safe, and recovering nicely, I assure you.¡± Corchen raised her hands to take in all the shrine and the hill above it. ¡°Do you know who¡¯s interred here? The first ten Stewards of the Vale. Their sacred bones have lain here for nearly fifteen hundred years. Their wisdom brought our people to these lands. Their wisdom held the Unlimited at bay, and gave your Ancestors their power.¡±


    A shiver went through Eithne. She¡¯d feared the Ancestors all her life. Had even heard them at night, in the howls of the wolves on the mad mountain slopes of Ydrys.


    Her people had burned torches along the outskirts of the village every night, and posted watches on well-lit timber-scaffolded towers, lest the Ancestors should come to the village and take them unaware.


    Yet still, sometimes¡ªnot often¡ªpeople went missing. Eithne had known two such girls. Kigfa and Neava, they were called. She shuddered at the memory of those fearsome nights, two years apart. No one dared show their face amid the snarls and growls and scuffles and screams that ran riot through their dark village.


    ¡°Gone to the Ancestors,¡± that was all the elders would say. Eithne wasn¡¯t sure how, but that was someway different from simply dying.


    Eithne spread three fingers upright, like the branches of a holly tree, a protection against evil. She didn¡¯t like to remember such things.


    Corchen shook her head. ¡°Well you might make Tinne against the Ancestors, but they aren¡¯t evil. Merely necessary.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    White-haired Gruath spread his arms. ¡°All the Manred, all that is known and unknown, the Abred beneath our feet, the blue sky of Gwynfyd over our heads, the infinite Ceugant all about, all these are Bound by the Limit. But the ultimate substance of things is Boundless, the Unlimited Void. It¡¯s the Limit that gives the Boundless form.¡±


    ¡°What in Annwn are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Pay attention, you fool girl,¡± snapped Corchen. ¡°It¡¯s exactly Annwn that His Eminence is talking about. The Unlimited, Boundless Void. The lowest state of being¡ªthe state of not being.¡±


    Eithne had always thought of Annwn as a chthonic realm, a place of stillness and darkness cut off from life and the Gods. But it was still¡ªto her own mind¡ªa place. As firm beneath the feet as the stone hall in which they stood.


    But a state of not being? Eithne frowned and tried to imagine such a¡ªHow does one even call it? An un-place?


    Corchen looked on her gravely. ¡°Make no mistake, girl: the Void exists. It enters the world from the Unlimited breath¡ªThe world breathes in the Void, so to speak. The Void distinguishes the natures of things, one from the others. It¡¯s the thing that separates the successive terms in a series. But without the Limit?¡± Corchen threw her fingers wide. ¡°Poof! All is Void.¡±


    Gruath went on. ¡°Your Ancestors were given the power to maintain the boundary of the Limit against the Unlimited. It¡¯s only by their power that Annwn¡ªthe Abyssal Void of the Unlimited¡ªis kept from blowing in like a dark, terrible wind to extinguish all the light of the world.¡±


    ¡°The blood of the Ancestors.¡± Corchen poked at Eithne. ¡°It moves through you.¡±


    Eithne licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, shook her head rhythmically, side-to-side. ¡°Are you saying I keep the Void at bay?¡±


    Corchen put her hands up and waved them apart. ¡°Not you. The Ancestors. And those descendants deemed worthy of their power.¡± Alva arched an eyebrow at her. ¡°Descendants such as yours, my lady.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t have any¡ª¡± Realization swept over Eithne then, like a cold wind from a dark grave. ¡°You mean¡ª?¡±


    Corchen nodded. ¡°Yes. Your descendants, my lady. Your children. Yours and Eowain¡¯s.¡±

 Chapter Ten, Scene Twenty-Five

    Adarc swallowed hard through the lump in his throat and peered around the corner of a vendor¡¯s booth. Traffic through the market crawled past as the sun sank deeper behind the mountains, behind the black clouds of smoke that still rose from the southwest. Most of the stalls had closed for the day, but many people were still in the markets.


    Adarc tried to keep Corentin and the mercenary J?kull¡ªconspicuous in the best of times¡ªout of sight behind him.


    ¡°Hwas we are doing exactly?¡± A booth displaying eight crates of fine white Madhyal?kan porcelain caught his eye. Corentin wandered toward it.


    Frustration pricked at Adarc¡¯s temples. He caught the merchant¡¯s elbow and pulled him back out of sight. ¡°Sure and we¡¯re trying to get back to the men of Droma and Dolgallu.¡±


    J?kull nodded. ¡°Sem l¨ªtan fr¨®thr.¡±


    Corentin stood up on tip-toe and squinted at the crockery, then gave the mercenary a sour look. ¡°No one asked you hwas seems wise.¡±


    A cart rumbled down the lane, pulled on two iron-rimmed wooden wheels by a skinny man in a ragged tunic.


    Corentin knuckled his forelock to the carter¡ª¡°We are here fooling no one¡±¡ªand tried to catch the pottery merchant¡¯s attention.


    Bloody foreigner. Adarc gave up and waved him away. ¡°Go ahead then. Have a gander.¡±


    The cart rambled past with its load of black iron scythes, hoes, and other implements of agriculture.


    ¡°Do not mind if I do.¡± Corentin turned his nose up, and took J?kull with him over the lane.


    The fairgrounds were a tangled maze of tents, booths, and muddy lanes. Adarc wanted to get them through to the Droma and Dolgallu camps on the other side, but they had stumbled somehow deep into the Belenosian pilgrims. Ahead, an orator in white drymyn robes under a long black over-tunic had seized a crate to stand on, and a crowd of Iveans, Celtairans, Cailech, and Larriochts gathered around him.


    Sure and we should have taken that left turn at the salt dealers! But roaming bands of ruffians had driven them away from their chosen route.


    A crowd had gathered in front of a large tent. Lambs, sheep, calves, and grown cattle were gathered among a thick knot of farmers and drovers. The stench made Adarc¡¯s eyes water.


    A handful of other white-robed men with black over-tunics, their heads shaved save for a tuft of a top-knot at the crown, moved among the crowd. They inspected the livestock one at a time, directed some toward the tent.


    The orator shouted, ¡°And I tell you, these Karnites are dangerous. Do they care for you? Do they care for the common people? Who intrudes laymen into holy offices? Who steals food from your children''s mouths to fatten themselves in luxury? Who robs you of your daughters so their kings can have five and seven wives?¡±


    The crowd was restless. Several men in dark blue robes shouted agreement. Other men raised their fists and their voices grew in number. The speaker attracted more and more people¡ªsome merely curious, and others who agreed with him.


    Adarc understood their anger. The tribes lived inescapably side by side, hated and being hated, killing and being killed.


    The orator raised a bronze-plated wooden reliquary, shaped like an arm and chased with silver, and shook it over the heads of the crowd. ¡°Is it any wonder your stock are afflicted?! Any wonder that vile sprites of evil move among you?!¡±


    Thrown together too often, their jealousies and resentments rankled and grew, fed upon each other. Passions smoldered and burned, fueled by the impulses that set them a-light. His own father had been a man such as those.


    Adarc stopped a man with a kid-goat cradled in his arms. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    Wails of desperate lamentation rose from the crowd.


    The man tried to make a sign of protection with his occupied hands. The kid-goat coughed. Watery phlegm coated its snout and ran from its eyes. ¡°Plague ¡®tis, Brother.¡± He hefted his burden for example. ¡°Overnight, Brother, all through me stock, like a scourge.¡± He jerked a chin at the orator on the box. ¡°Heard said these drymyn been a-healin¡¯. Like a miracle, they says.¡± The man clasped his hands together and looked skyward. ¡°Oh, I hope so! Can¡¯t afford to lose me cheese and milk, Brother.¡± The man moved on into the crowd with his burden.


    Corentin stepped up to Adarc¡¯s shoulder, munching on a fistful of strawberries. ¡°Hwas is it you are hoping to see?¡±


    ¡°I want to get where we¡¯re going, without going out of our way. My master and the Lord Lorc¨¢n, they could already be in trouble.¡±


    ¡°Then hw¨º not just walk straight on?¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Adarc rubbed at the shaved front of his head, then drew his hand down the shoulder-length of brown hair that cascaded to his shoulders. ¡°They¡¯ll know me for a Karnite. After what the Lady Eithne told us, I don¡¯t trust them.¡±


    ¡°I told you, I am the Belena¨ªwisks. The sanctuaries of the Belena¨ªwisks receive pilgrims and travelers. They feed the hungry, heal the sick.¡± Corentin shook his head. ¡°Have you not the trust for me? After all through which we have been?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no quarrel with you, sure and I don¡¯t.¡± Guilt gnawed at Adarc. ¡°It¡¯s them I don¡¯t trust.¡± He pointed at the orator in his monochrome robes, and the four others before him.


    Two young drymyn in white robes and black over-tunics, barely older than Adarc himself, hurried away down a lane. Their heads were shaven, save for a top-knot at the crown.


    Adarc singled them out as well. ¡°And those others. The reformers. A man should have the freedom to follow his own conscience.¡±


    ¡°Conshehnsss¡­? Hwas is this?¡±


    ¡°You would say, ¡®ga-hugds.¡¯¡±


    ¡°You think I have not have the ga-hugds?¡± Corentin jutted his jaw and turned up his aquiline nose. ¡°I think for myself. I am the free man. What of you? The Karnite practice, is this the way of your choice, or the way of your training?¡±


    ¡°Damn it, that¡¯s not what I meant at all,¡± groused Adarc. ¡°I just want to get to the Droma camp without any trouble. And without arguing with you.¡±


    Corentin harrumphed. ¡°It is, as you say it, easily done.¡± He marched off down the lane.


    J?kull¡¯s eyebrows rose up on his head. ¡°Hann munu aldregi fregna.¡± Then he followed after his charge.


    ¡°Wait. What are you¡ª?¡± Adarc hurried after them, holding the hem of his robes up out of the mud.


    Corentin snapped a finger to J?kull. ¡°Clear us a way.¡±


    The Foreigner nodded and lumbered at their fore into the crowd. Cheers rose above the general din of the market.


    Corentin shouted to men in their path. ¡°Let us through!¡±


    Cheers and the sound of wood banging wood.


    An ugly man¡ªsure and his red complexion, pimples, boils, and scaly, infected skin would frighten children¡ªlooked them over, then jutted a chin and turned a shoulder to them. ¡°Hmph. Go ¡®round.¡±


    Indignation colored Corentin¡¯s cheeks. ¡°I am the Belena¨ªwisks, like you, and them. I am Corentin, son of Winoc, of the House Pelan of Aukriath. Stand aside.¡±


    He eyed Adarc, his brown robe, and the cut of his hair, then answered Corentin. ¡°Oh, is ¡®at right? Whoot-dee-doo.¡± The ugly man circled a lackluster finger in the air, then reached that finger to poke Corentin in the chest. ¡°Go round, I says.¡±


    J?kull grabbed the ugly man¡¯s finger and wrenched it. The man went to a knee with a yelp, his finger, hand, wrist, and elbow bent at painful angles.


    A gat-toothed woman in bright, scarlet red stockings turned on them with wide eyes, a gasp, and raised eyebrows.


    ¡°But I¡ªAgh!¡±


    J?kull twisted.


    Angry mutters went back and forth between three nearby men, one huge and uncouth, one drunken, brash, and vulgar, and another with a chancre sore that ran with pus.


    Corentin walked on through.


    J?kull shoved the ugly man to the mud.


    Adarc bustled along behind them as fast as he could. ¡°This is your grand idea?¡± He overtook the merchant and cajoled him. ¡°Come on, come on! Sure and whatever¡¯s going on here, let¡¯s get clear of it.¡±


    Ahead, men in the crowded square of tents cheered and jeered. Fists shook poles, rocks, rotten fruit, daggers, and sloshing cups of ?l in the air. Adarc couldn¡¯t see over the mob. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    Three women¡ªblonde, black-haired, and red-headed, in dark blue robes with scourges wrapped like girdles around their waists¡ªstepped into their path. Two of them crossed arms and set hips at jaunty, insouciant angles, but the black-haired woman sauntered toward them.


    Corentin stopped where he was. J?kull¡¯s face went slack, and he whistled low and quiet.


    She was twenty or so, small and delicately put together, but she looked¡ªdurable. She wore an ankle-length woolen blue robe, cinched tight around a narrow waist. It looked¡ª


    Adarc swallowed and pulled at the collar of his robe. Sure and it looks well on her.


    She walked as if she floated. Her hair was a fine, dark wave cut much longer than was fashionable. Her eyes were slate-grey, with almost no expression as she looked at Adarc.


    She came near them and smiled with her mouth. She had little sharp predatory teeth, as white and shiny as the porcelain on the lane. They glistened between her thin, taut lips. Her face lacked color and didn¡¯t seem healthy.


    She looked away from Adarc, took in Corentin from nave to chops, then settled her gaze on J?kull. ¡°Tall, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Ek a-gera gegna vera.¡±


    Her eyes rounded. ¡°Handsome too,¡± she said. ¡°And I¡¯d wager you know it.¡±


    J?kull grunted.


    She looked at Corentin. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± And when he told her, ¡°That¡¯s a funny name.¡± She bit her lip and turned her head a little and looked at him along her eyes. Then she lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and raised them again. ¡°You seem like honorable gentlemen.¡±


    Corentin blushed uneasily. Heat and a cold sweat rose into Adarc¡¯s cheeks.


    She put a thumb up and bit it. It was a curiously shaped thumb, thin and narrow like an extra finger, with no curve in the first joint. She bit it and sucked it slowly, and turned it around in her mouth. ¡°I need men of honor. And discretion.¡±


    Adarc shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m afraid¡ª.¡±


    She leaned in to them and whispered. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want it bandied about, a girl¡¯s reputation is everything, you know.¡±


    Corentin straightened his collar and bowed slightly. ¡°We the souls of discretion are, meins q¨ºns. Bidjan, continue.¡±


    ¡°Well, you know, this plague, it¡¯s just terrible don¡¯t you think?¡± Those slate-grey eyes looked up and down the street. ¡°We¡¯re looking for some volunteers, to help His Reverence. Men we can count on. Men willing to do whatever¡¯s necessary to put an end to all this suffering.¡±


    Adarc knew they had to get back to the Droma camp, had to find out what had become of Lorc¨¢n and Medyr and the other Droma-men.


    But the black-haired woman seemed earnest. Desperate even. Despite what Adarc thought of the Belenosian reformers, she seemed¡ªseemed¡ª like a friend. An ally. Someone to be trusted, heeded, and protected¡­


    ¡°Won¡¯t you good men help me?¡±


    White surcoats bearing the wreath-of-mistletoe device of the village guard moved in behind them.

 Chapter Ten, Scene Twenty-Six

    Horror and revulsion filled Eithne¡¯s throat. ¡°No.¡±


    Corchen smiled kindly at her. ¡°Yes, dear.¡±


    ¡°This¡­¡± She couldn¡¯t find words and threw her hands around in nebulous gesture. ¡°All¡ªall this¡ªIt¡¯s all part of some¡ªsome¡ª?¡±


    Corchen nodded. ¡°Yes, lass. The geas that you should not marry until the Sixth Apparition of the Dragon. The fate that Eowain should be the one to fulfill the conditions of the geas. It is all thayn, all destined.¡±


    Eithne¡¯s hand went to her belly. ¡°No. No, that¡¯s just sick. You can¡¯t just play with our lives like that.¡±


    ¡°We must, dear. It¡¯s the whole purpose of our Order, to keep the balance between the Limit and the Unlimit. To keep bound that which would not be bound, lest the world be consumed in chaos and in fire.¡±


    Another thought occurred to her. ¡°But you¡¯re saying that the¡ªthat I¡¯m¡ªone of those monsters?¡±


    ¡°What monsters? Who said monsters?¡±


    ¡°Damn it, you know what I mean!¡± But she couldn¡¯t say it, except in a whisper, lest they hear and appear. ¡°The Ancestors.¡±


    Corchen shook her head. ¡°No, you misunderstand¡ª¡±


    ¡°Like Annwn I do! Those monsters threaten our village, kill our stock, steal our children!¡±


    ¡°No, Eithne, let me explain¡ª¡±


    ¡°And now you¡¯re telling me I¡¯m one of them¡ª?¡±


    ¡°Eithne!¡± Corchen slapped her hard.


    Eithne¡¯s head rocked on her shoulders, and she staggered back a step. Her cheek burned with the force of the slap.


    ¡°Calm yourself.¡± Corchen¡¯s voice was stern and full of power.


    But anger surged through Eithne¡¯s breast. Her whole life she¡¯d felt trapped, confined, restrained and restricted. And for what?


    In a low, dangerous voice, her words spilled out, unbidden. ¡°All this talk of portents and geasa and thayn, fates and destinies? This is why I¡¯ve been shut away my whole life? To make babies for your plots!¡±


    ¡°Listen here, girl¡ª!¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°I am not a girl! I¡¯m a woman, by the Gods. Have been, for a damn long time! Watched all my friends married years since, while I was forced to wait!¡± Her voice echoed, as if she stood at the center of a struck bell. She didn¡¯t have to wait, she¡¯d had suitors, despite all of Father¡¯s best efforts. There¡¯d been Borglenn, son of a good Iveardan lord, at Ardgar¡¯s court when she was fourteen. And last summer, before ever she heard of this hedge-king, there¡¯d been Karadow of the Duvda, a dark, loose-bodied, handsome tinker lad. Oh, how I wanted to kiss him.


    She waved her sword at the priest, and the priestess, and the little man in his strange plates of armor. ¡°I thought everything would make sense when you drymyn finally explained what this geas was all about. Father kept me isolated, wouldn¡¯t allow suitors to come and court. ¡®You¡¯re destined for better than all that,¡¯ he told me. And this is it? This is that better fate?¡±


    ¡°Do not make little of your place in the world¡ª¡±


    ¡°What if I say, ¡®no¡¯? What if I don¡¯t want to be anyone¡¯s wife? I¡¯m not anyone else¡¯s anything. I am me, I am Eithne!¡±


    ¡°What are you afraid of?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid of nothing! But is this really what you all want of me? That I become a wife, a mother, and lose myself in the process?¡± Eithne put her hand over her face and sucked air the stifling air of the shrine between her teeth. Certainly, this is all Mother ever wanted for me, expected of me. But Father taught her to be proud¡ªof herself, her ancestry, her people and her tribe. ¡°I am Eithne daughter of Ciaran, granddaughter of Turloch of the S¨¢r¨¢n-Gwynn of Dolgallu. I don¡¯t want to be anyone else.¡±


    ¡°No one is asking you to be other than what you have always and already been.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you? Aren¡¯t you all?¡± She rubbed at her forehead and walked away. But aren¡¯t women meant to be mothers? After all, it¡¯s how the Gods made us.


    She rounded on Corchen. ¡°It¡¯s all enough to drive a lass mad, you know.¡± She slapped a hand to her chest. ¡°It¡¯s my body? It¡¯s my ancient right of choice, to accept or deny suitors as I please. It¡¯s not for the whims of men and priestesses and Gods to decide.¡±


    Corchen nodded. ¡°It is, dear. It always has been. Even the geas spoken over you as a child said so. But every choice has its consequence.¡±


    ¡°I tell you, I have longed for the day this damnable geas could be put to rest. When I could finally live my life as a free woman. Gods, but I thought it would be nice to be free of all that.¡±


    ¡°Well, here it is at last, isn¡¯t it?¡± Corchen shrugged. ¡°If you¡¯re to be wed, it must be here and soon, upon the feast of C¨¦tshamain under the Sixth Apparition of the Dragon.¡± Corchen crossed her arms over her stomach. ¡°So your days of longing for an end to this geas are upon you, will ye or nil ye.¡±


    Eithne had trusted her Father. She¡¯d trusted in the Gods and their servants and their geas. She¡¯d allowed herself to be led to the Vale like a cow to slaughter.


    And all for what? I feel empty! Like a pitcher of ?l drained to the dregs. Like I¡¯ve lost some piece of myself I can¡¯t even name.


    She felt weak, tired, like she¡¯d been bled dry. More than tired; she was weary. Arid and worn out.


    ¡°This was a fearful thing we had to do,¡± said Corchen. ¡°To trust in the portents of the Gods, to hold you back from the world. Not knowing what thayn would bring, if anything at all, we gave you the tools you would need if this day never came. But if this choice is not made, all the world will suffer. I swear it to you. May the spirits of all those who¡¯ve come before me bear witness.¡±


    Eithne felt tricked and betrayed. She¡¯d done everything asked of her. And yet this was the thayn to which she¡¯d been led.


    She felt as if she¡¯d starved herself.