After the skirmish, Eowain and his company marched ahead to Maraydanayd. The beautiful forest slept peacefully about them, as if unconcerned about the violent affairs of men. Leafy green trees with silver and white trunks stood in grandeur as far as Eowain could see. The bright red, blue, and yellow of abundant woodland flowers punctuated the forest's carpet of ferns and deep green bushes. A stark contrast to the bloody business of the afternoon.

      The fight had cost them about an hour's delay, but Eowain and his company arrived with some daylight to spare, ahead of the hour of evening prayers. Maraydanayd was a small place of barely a hundred residents who scratched their existence from the rugged foothills. Several faces mirrored the grace and delicacy of the woodlands through which they'd come, but most were drawn with the worry and care of daily life. Beyond their village, a mountain of grey stone rose up from their meadow grasses.

      Eowain met with the village chieftain, a rough-handed older man with a wife of exceptional youth and a young son. He'd received word from the Bán-Drúmór herself, and from their king at Midachath, to treat Eowain with all due hospitality. With great relief, Eowain and his party shared the evening meal with the chieftain.

      But the chief worried that Eowain's company would bring Cailech raids down on them. Maraydanayd was close to their savage borders, and there were rumors of a hosting of warriors coming north.

      That news worried Eowain. There was a long, lonely stretch of the trail ahead that ran perilously close to the boundary stones of the Cailech. But what robber-lord of the Cailech would risk war with both the Gwynn and the Donnghaile?

      The next day dawned brisk and frosty.

      Eowain shook his head as he looked up at the morning sky. Clouds, grey and low, had gathered overnight. Medyr and Alva Damar puttered over their coelbreni, but Eowain didn't need them to tell him rains were coming. "Damn it."

      He stood on the plank-wood porch outside the headman's home. A mountain breeze carried scents of wild mountain avens and black medicks.

      Lorcán rubbed the stumps of his missing fingers as if they pained him. "What can we do?"

      Eowain looked to the Lord-Drymyn. "Is there nothing?"

      Medyr glanced to Alva, but she shook her head. "It's another eighteen and some miles to the Vale," he said. "Even if the Gods were so inclined, which is always unlikely, that is too vast a distance. Such a great change in the way of things would have... consequences." He didn't elaborate, but his face was grave.

      Alva nodded her knotty-haired head. "Even together and with the aid of the Lord-Drymyn's acolyte, we should not dare ask the Gods for such a beneficence."

      Eowain growled at them. "It's only because of your Order that we're making this damned journey. I would've been just as pleased to have the wedding in Droma, but you tell us the Gods want us at the Vale, and They can't even see fit to give us fair weather for the damn journey?"

      Sheepish, Medyr shrugged. "The Gods, they are forgetful, Your Grace."

      "By the Gods, I'm sick of hearing that!" He dismissed them. Lorcán put a hand on his shoulder, then went as well, to see to the day's preparations.

      "You should have more care for the Gods' servants." Eowain turned toward the soft voice. It was Eithne, dressed already for the road in armor and breeks, with the black, red, and gold of the Gwynn tartan over her shoulder. Her small left hand rested on the hilt of the sword on her hip.

      Eowain raised his arm and rotated his left shoulder. It ached, and he felt the tightly woven bandages resist his stretch. "If the Gods had more care for us, I might." He put his face in his hands and pulled, as if he could remove his worries. "I know," he admitted at last. "We finally have proof of Tnúthgal's treachery, and he disappears. We face many more miles of rough country ahead, and it threatens to rain. We defeat Cael's bandits in a skirmish, and the chieftain here tells us the Cailech are restless on his borders." He shrugged and sighed. "If it's not one thing, it's another. I'm just frustrated."

      "Blood's been spilled. Tnúthgal stabbed you in the back. Breda is dead." She put a gentle hand upon his arm. "We're all frustrated. Tired. Angry. We've been a week in the saddle already, and you even more than that, with that business at Gluin Hill. But I can't believe the Gods would put these obstacles in our path if our marriage is truly Their will."

      "Then—if not the Gods—who? What terrible spirit have we offended? I'd gladly appease it, if only I knew." He rolled his shoulder back and winced.

      She shook her head, a worried look on her fair face. "I don't know, my lord. Perhaps none. As the drymyn said—"

      He put a hand up. "Don't say it. I've had enough of the Gods' forgetfulness already."

      A hurt look passed across her face. He regretted his tone. "I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to help."

      "I understand."

      He tugged at his beard. He had something more to say, something about the sense of foreboding that haunted his chest and belly. But he wasn't sure he wanted to hear her answer.

      She furrowed her brow at him. "What is it?"

      He didn't want to seem weak, or uncertain. He wanted to be strong and confident, and not disappoint her. Yet still, the unanswered question lingered between them. Would she accept him for her husband? Would they truly be wed, after all this, or would she find some fault in him? Gods know, there are enough to find.

      He shook his head. "It's nothing." He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "Just..." He sighed. "Just thinking about my aunt's damn wagon. Rain will make muck of our trail."

      She seemed disappointed. "Oh," she said, in a small voice. "Well, I'm sure you'll find a way."

      "I suppose." The silence between them grew long. Then awkward. "I should attend to the company," he said at last.

      "Yes, of course. I will have my father make our men ready. We'll need every hour today."

      Eowain took his leave with a perfunctory bow, and went to order the march. In the best of weather, he'd expected to make fifteen or sixteen miles with the broad daylight ahead of them. It was enough almost to reach the Vale before sunset, and close enough to march on into the early evening and arrive that very night.

      But with rain? They would still be some ten or more miles from the Vale by sunset. He'd have to camp the company for the night in uncertain lands, near to the Cailech border and far from the Celtair stronghold.

      Eowain tried to count his blessings. If there's any justice, Tnúthgal died of his wounds and Cael has abandoned the chase.

      The chances weren't entirely unfavorable. He'd given his cousin two solid clouts to the head in the skirmish. Even if his cousin's helmet had blunted the blows, men had been known to die from less.

      Eowain looked at the threatening sky. No matter how favorable the chances, he feared they were all against him nonetheless.

      After the morning orisons and the prayers of First Hour, the company lumbered to its feet and struck out across the countryside, just as icy rain began to fall.

      By Third Hour, the day had warmed somewhat and Eowain no longer feared slick ice on the rugged hills. Instead, the trail beneath them turned to mud as the trickle became a torrent.

      Their progress soon became tedious. The thick mire sucked at the hooves and boots of his company, freighting each step. Every few minutes, his aunt's wagon had to be shoved and levered through muck.

      Eithne rode beside him. They each had their hoods up, so that it seemed they each traveled alone, rather than in company.

      By the Gods, I will seem thrice the fool if we slog all the way to the Vale only to find she will not marry. He wanted to put the question to her again, the question he'd asked so many times already: Do you love me? He remembered the first, awkward missive he'd written to her. Tell me, he'd written, And let's clap hands and have a bargain. She hadn't appreciated such a blunt proposal, but he'd have appreciated a blunt answer. Instead, she'd been coy.

      They all want proof, Lorcán had told him once. Proof of what? That they hadn't opened their knees for naught.

      What manner of man did she take him for, if that was her concern? Had he not sworn to honor her? He did not like to think himself a man to make such oaths lightly.

      "Hoy!" Ahead, one of his outriders raised a fist to signal a halt. Eowain looked to Eithne, who returned a wan smile from beneath her rain-soaked hood. He tried to return the smile, then spurred his mount forward.

      "Travelers on the trail," reported the lead rider, nodding ahead.

      Six men, five mules, four heavily-laden carts, and a brightly-painted house wagon struggled uphill through the mire, headed in Eowain's own direction. The way was not wide enough for his company to pass unless they put off into the trees.

      "Shall we shirk them from the trail, Your Grace?"

      Eowain took a deep breath, held it a long, calming moment. "No," he replied. "They're better than halfway up the hill. Let them finish the climb." He sent word back to the company to put scouts out and to bring up a squad of men, then rode up to meet the travelers himself. His riders followed with caution.

      It was only then as he approached that he realized they were tinkers.

      The Travellers slipped and slid in the mud as Eowain approached. Four of them were armed and armored, hands on their sword-hilts. The other two seemed like poor merchants. "Hoy there, m'lord, peace of the road?" Their spokesman, middle-aged and portly, clearly feared they were robbers. He looked familiar to Eowain.

      "Aye," replied Eowain. "Peace of the road." He held up his empty right hand, as did his men.

      "Sorry for the trouble, m'lord. We'll clear the way just as soon as we can, sir." He looked up at the skies. "We'd hoped to make the Vale before the rains came."

      "We're neither of us so fortunate today." Eowain stayed on his horse and gave them a wary eye, then looked to the forest by either side of the road. Not a bad place for an ambush. "I am Eowain, King of Droma. We're also on our way to the Vale."

      "Kerron, sir, Kerron Vanis." He gestured to the other men. "My son and his cousins." The men tried to make obeisance, but the footing was treacherous and the result clumsy. "Oh, aye, we'd 'eard ye might be abroad, Your Grace. On yer way to the Cétshamain festival, are ye? As are we, as are we." He slapped at one of the stubborn, two-wheeled mule carts. "There'll be good trading, if only we can get there. But just give us a bit of time and we'll have ourselves out of yer way, Your Grace."

      "No, you've come this far, don't make way until the top. But I'll bring up men to help, if that's alright?"

      The tinker and his young, spare partner eyed him warily. Eowain saw them come to the resigned conclusion that if robbing them was his intention, they really had little choice in the matter. "Aye, Your Grace, we'd appreciate that mightily, I'll tell ye."

      Eowain heard a loud bird's cry from the forest. A heron's cry. Not a bird likely to be found in those rough forested hills. All's clear, that cry told him. No ambusher skulked in the trees. He waved acknowledgment and invited the portly merchant to join him for a mid-morning break with their company. A squad of his men slogged up the hill and went to their work.

      Eowain spotted a pair of roe-buck, half-hidden among the trees. He wished them well and threw a rock to spook them away from his hungry company.

      Eowain's company milled around at the bottom of the hill and waited for the tinkers' carts to be moved. Eowain offered the tinker a seat on a log and a wooden cup of small beer. "Oh, thank you, Your Grace, thank you, that's very kind of you, sir."

      Eowain seated himself beside the tinker. "So, Master Kerron, what news of the road?"

      The tinker swigged at his cup and shook his head. "Little enough of good, I'm afraid. We was at Rath Celtair two days ago. The way down from the mountains was treacherous, I'll tell ye."

      "Any trouble on this trail?"

      "None what we've met so far, Your Grace, but we camped with a hunting band last night. They said there'd been banditry all up the trail, maybe as far as Castas even. Not many are wishing to make the trip to the Vale this Cétshamain, roads being what they are."

      Eowain raised an eyebrow at him. "Yet you expect good trading?"

      He shrugged. "We hear good things, traders from Narada and Ivearda what will be there."

      Eowain found that encouraging. If Iveardan traders did not fear to make the journey, it could mean that King Ardgar, Eithne's cousin, had sent men to secure the trails. And the Naradans of the mountains were a stern people. They would not send traders into the lowlands without a heavy guard. "But the Fiatach king at Celtair? He's not making the journey?"

      The tinker eyed Eowain's company before he replied. "Not so as I've 'eard, Your Grace."

      "But he's sent patrols to secure this trail, surely."

      Kerron swallowed hard. "No. Not as I've 'eard, Your Grace."

      "Please, Master Tinker, what have you heard?"

      He took a drink from his cup. His eyes darted around Eowain's company. "Only, Your Grace, and begging yer pardon, sir—"

      "Yes?"

      "Uhm, only that the way would be dangerous, Your Grace. On account of Toryn the Stout of the Cailech, sir..."

      "What about Toryn the Stout?"

      He swigged what remained of his small beer. "Only, sir, and I'm sorry to say it, sir, but that 'e's sworn that yer company will never reach the Vale, sir. And that, uhm, any who travel with ye are dead men, sir."

      "This trail doesn't pass through Cailech lands. King Eochy of Celtair would let Cailech men raid across his borders?"

      "As I, uhm, as I 'eard it, sir, he wouldn't 'let' them exactly, not so much as he wouldn't stop them, y'see."

      "Yes." Eowain stroked at his beard. "Yes. I see."

—33—

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

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