Tnúthgal sat—despite the rain—a-stride his horse along the High-King's Road. The entourage of the Lady Corchen proceeded past him. She'd arrived in Droma early the previous morning, stayed the day and the night, then turned around to return north. He wondered what business she'd had at Dúnsciath that couldn't have been served as well by a single messenger.

A score of men a-horse, twice their number a-foot, jangled by with armor and weaponry. Not that the Lady needed such protection. To harm her would have condemned a man to damnation, removed from the wheel of life and cast into a pit of fire and darkness, never again to be reborn.

Tnúthgal himself had only a small guard. This was the easternmost edge of his own lands, and he felt secure enough.

Down the road to the south, commoners and free-men alike turned out to cheer. The Ban-Drúmór's presence itself was a blessing. She waved benisons over the crowd as if she tossed out candied nuts to children.

Further south, Eowain's tower overlooked the river and the trees of Tnúthgal's lands. I was so close this winter, he thought. If only that fool Cael hadn't attacked Ruakhavsa.

Eowain's victory over Cael's bandits there had forced Tnúthgal to withdraw his "protective forces" from what might have been a successful siege of Eowain's tower if events had gone differently.

So he'd tipped his hand too far already. He had to be careful. Treachery did not trouble him, so long as it didn't seem like treachery. His brother, Ninnid, had a claim to the throne as well and might rally against any imperfect succession.

Caerrhthyrs, his chamberlain, stopped a seeming peasant.

"I've a message for the lord. From Béobeirid."

Tnúthgal knew there was no such person. It was a word in the Old Tongue. It meant "viper." As in Cael the Viper.

"Let him through." Tnúthgal watched the procession. The Ban-Drúmór's own steed would be even with him soon. "Yes, what has our friend to say?"

"It's not what he has to say. It's what I think you want to tell him."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Word from Dúnsciath has it that the wedding's been moved."

"Moved? Moved where?"

The man nodded toward the procession. "The Lady Corchen insisted. The ceremony's moved to the Vale."

"The Vale of Thaynú? That's fifty miles away, through the heart of Chremthainn country. Why—?" He bit off the question.

The man sniffled. "Seems like it's bad omens or something to have the wedding here."

Tnúthgal didn't need to imagine the whys and wherefores. No matter why, if it was true, Eowain and his precious little harridan would be abroad for at least a week, probably two. In dangerous territory. Any of a number of unlucky mishaps might befall them...

It's true enough that love is only ever obtained by overcoming great obstacles. He thought of the courtship his late wife had given him. The world conspires against true love.

Tnúthgal had no misgivings about being the world's chief conspirator. "The reasons aren't important. But you're right, I would appreciate it if you would convey this news to our friend with all haste. Remind him how vital it is to our plans that certain persons should be made incapable of sitting in certain chairs." He slipped a silver coin from the purse beneath his cloak and handed it down to the man. "I trust that will be sufficient to expedite your message."

The peasant took the coin. "Oh, yes, my lord! Thank you, my lord!" He withdrew into the crowd.

Well, that's good news. He shook the rainwater from the hood of his cloak. The Lady Corchen drew even with his position. She raised her hand, sketched signs of blessing and protection in the air.

He bowed and thanked the Gods. May Echraide smile upon me, and the goddess Thaynú, Mother of All.

Surely, he thought, the goddesses would understand what he did. It was not for himself that he sought the throne. Trade from downriver would bring Foreigner coin and Foreigner interests to Droma, and that would bring Foreigners and their degenerate ways. The morals of their children and the way his people had lived for generations were threatened. What he did, he did for the whole kingdom.

Tnúthgal could understand his cousin Rathtyen's interest in such things. She'd lived many years in the southern lands, nearer to the Foreigner ship-camp at Difelin. She'd been seduced by wealth and wickedness in the house of her late husband.

If she'd only stayed there when he passed, I should not care. But she hadn't. Instead, she'd brought that corruption north and seduced her nephews.

The Ban-Drúmór and her servants and more guards passed Tnúthgal as he thought. I can forgive Rathtyen for her wordly weakness. She is only a woman, after all. But the Lord-Drymyn should be beyond such things. And why would the King of the East countenance such an insult to the laws and traditions of our people?

He had no good answer to that question. The Order was too-often concerned with matters merely spiritual, and short-sighted in politics. Surely, the Gruin-men over the river have not let the Foreign corruption weaken them. He had spies over river. The recent reformations in the Order had offended the Gruin-King. That he planned to launch a summer campaign was hinted. Tnúthgal had to settle matters in Droma before that.

With a nicker to his steed, he brought it about. His guards and chamberlain followed. Tnúthgal summoned his chamberlain Caerrhthyrs to ride close.

"You must send word to Toryn the Stout. We must advance our plans. Cousins Ninnid and Eowain must be diverted from our intent. Tell him Gluín Hill is his, but he must move now, and that I trust he will remember our largess of recent weeks."

Caerrhthyrs nodded. "Yes, my lord. I'll see it done."

"And tell Feoras of Mianmair to come to Crúcavainn. Tonight. Let no one see him come or go."

The chamberlain made an obeisance and turned his horse to trot away.

Yes, thought Tnúthgal. It's long past time to settle matters.

—33—

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

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