Eowain's company slogged backwards uphill in the rain through another whole day and night. The bandits continued to pick at them with archers, but the stream in its gully on their left and Eowain's work with his cavalry on the right prevented any breakthroughs. The steed of smoke and shadow had not been seen again, and neither Cael nor Tnúthgal had appeared on the field.

Dawn could barely be perceived beneath the overcast skies. Rain continued its light, steady thrum on the canvas of his tent. A servant brought in three wooden cups of hot birch tea. Eowain took one for himself, and waved for Lorcán and Medyr to sit by the fire with theirs. He ushered out the servant, taking a look at the dreary landscape before pulling the flap closed. "Unless I'm wrong, Eithne's company should be safe in the Vale by now, or will be before the day is out."

Lorcán nodded agreement.

Medyr seemed unfocused. Pale and haggard, he slouched and stared into the fire. A tight linen bandage showed a rust-red splotch of blood on his upper arm. He'd been praying and fighting in the front rank with the men again, and taken a gash from a blade for his trouble. "What's that?" He looked up from the flames, then nodded agreement. "Oh, aye," he murmured. "Even if the rain slowed them down yesterday, they'll surely make the Vale today." His gaze drifted back to the flames and he slouched once more into silence.

Eowain gestured to the flap of the tent. "It looks like we'll have another day of rain. Cael and Tnúthgal must know by now that they're only hope for scuttling the marriage is to break through and face whatever defense the Vale can muster to get at Eithne, or to kill me. And I'm certainly near-to-hand."

Lorcán's face was grim. He took a sip from his tea. "You should go on to the Vale. Let Medyr and I hold the line here."

Eowain gestured with his cup. "No. If anyone's going on to the Vale, it's Medyr."

Medyr looked up from the fire. "Me? But why, Your Grace?"

"You're worn out, Medyr. We can all see it. If you stay here, you certainly can't be fighting on the line anymore. A weary mind makes mistakes, and a mistake will get you killed." Eowain pointed to the bandage.

"But, Your Grace—."

"I'm not really asking you, Medyr. What kind of king would I be if I let my drymyn get himself killed?"

"But the sorcery, Your Grace?"

Lorcán shrugged. "We saw no sign of sorcery all yesterday, nor any day before that. Perhaps they have no more?"

Eowain chewed at his lip. He didn't relish the thought of facing black magick without Medyr. But neither was he willing to see what further price the Gods would demand of his drymyn. If he could send Medyr to safety, he'd feel better about what must surely come. "No matter. We'll face whatever they bring against us and continue our withdrawal, holding them back from the Vale as long as we can. If there's more you can do, Medyr, then use it to prepare the Vale's defense to receive us. We'll likely arrive with wolves on our heels."

Medyr tried to rise in protest. He put a hand to his back, winced, and sat back down heavily. "Fine." He accepted Eowain's decision all unwillingly. "I'll take my acolyte with me?"

Eowain agreed. "And that merchant's apprentice. He's a brave lad, but this isn't his fight. We need no trouble with his father back home. Take his pet Foreigner too. And the scout, Corvac. Just to be safe." He paused a long moment. "And tell Eithne..." Tell her what? A welter of confusion arose in him. They'd come so far, through so much already. What was left for him to say? "Tell her I wish I had loved her better."

Lorcán raised eyebrows at him.

Medyr shook his head. "No. Tell her yourself, Your Grace. Love is an act of courage, after all. An act of faith. And you certainly do not lack for courage. Nor, I suspect, for love."

Eowain grunted at the Lord-Drymyn. "Hmph. Time will tell."

Before taking his leave, Medyr insisted on heaping blessings on him once more. He purified Eowain with smoke, and wrapped a tiny strip of white cloth around his arm, held in place by sticky tree sap on its ends. Then he handed Eowain a whitish-metal coin. Eowain turned it over in his palm as Medyr chanted. It bore the likeness of a horse's head in profile upon the one side, and a woman's likeness on the reverse.

As Medyr finished his chants, Eowain held up the coin. "What's this?"

"Findruinne, Your Grace. What the ancients called 'white bronze,' though there's no bronze in it. An alloy of white gold and silver."

Eowain didn't know much about metallurgy, but he thought he knew that much: "You can't alloy gold and silver."

A wan smile touched Medyr's lips. "No, you can't, Your Grace. Not without magick." He nodded to the coin. "It will act as a focus for Echraide's special blessing on you. Perhaps it will encourage her to be less forgetful of you. You are the Goddess's husband, after all." He patted Eowain on the shoulder and left to gather his acolyte and the merchant.

Lorcán snorted. "I found the Goddess to be a damned negligent wife." He clenched the three fingers of his left hand.

Eowain considered the coin. The goddess of Droma had done little enough for his brother's kingship, it was true. But safe was better than sorry, he supposed. Eowain put the coin into the purse on his belt.

Medyr's acolyte and the merchant's apprentice approached. The merchant seemed displeased. "I should not go, Your Grace. It would be zhe first honor to stay and fight wiz you against zhese savages."

"These," corrected the acolyte. The merchant scowled at him.

"Your bravery is admirable," said Eowain. "But your father will want you back alive. This is not your fight."

"But sure and it is my fight, begging Your Grace's pardon." The acolyte straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I'm a man of Droma, sure as any here."

Eowain shook his head. "You're a man of the Drymyn Order. You and Medyr shouldn't be fighting at all. Your Order is usually quite stern about its neutrality."

"Sure and this isn't politics, my lord. We're fighting bandits and raiders." Adarc set his jaw and crossed his arms.

"Ja, Your Grace." The merchant crossed his arms as well. "And the bandits, they are the hazard to the trade, and so it is my fight too, ja?"

Eowain looked at the two of them, obstinate in their protest. He glanced at the merchant's Foreigner in his steel-ringed jack as he stepped up behind his charge. The Foreigner seemed hard-bitten, no stranger to war. Eowain had noted his work over the last several days. I know his name... From the meeting in my hall. When Eithne told me what the hag from Gluintír had done. Corentin was the merchant, Corvac the scout. What was the mercenary's name? "Yokel."

The mercenary looked at him strangely and grunted. "Do not speak zhee Gallavach."

The merchant slapped the mercenary on his broad chest. "You don't have to speak, Jôkull. Just stand there and look menacing. It's what you're good at."

The scout, Corvac, hovered nearby as well, and scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot.

Eowain pursed his lips. "Are you all resolved on this then?"

The Foreigner simply raised eyebrows at him and shrugged. Corvac nodded, but said, "I'm at your command, Your Grace."

"Ja. We are ráidjana, as you say. Resolved."

Eowain conceded. "We'll be honored to have you fight beside us."

"Well," said Medyr. "It looks like we're ready then." He'd come up behind Eowain. He hemmed, and his head and neck moved forward with a twisting motion as he looked down. His eyes closed, and his lips went thin and pulled back at the corners. "Eowain—."

A horn sounded from downslope. The bandits were coming. "No time." Eowain jerked a thumb at the merchant and the acolyte. "Go on, you lot. Find a place on the line." Eowain clapped Medyr's shoulders in his hands. "Go, Medyr. Gods be with you."

"And with you, Your Grace." Medyr's voice was husky. He sketched a holy sign in the air between them.

Eowain nodded, then slapped Medyr once more on the shoulder before he turned down the hill, drew his sword and called for his horse.

If we can just hold them one more day, just make it back to the Vale before sunset... The knot of fear in Eowain's belly ached, as it always did before battle. He glowered at the raining, gray sky. If we can just get a little luck.

Eithne's face came to mind. Knowing green eyes. Fair skin, high cheeks. Rose red lips. Luck will only save a man so long as his courage holds. He remembered the Lord-Drymyn's words. Love is courage.

—33—

Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.

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