The Epistles of Eithne & Eowain

The Fifth Missive

Dúnsciath, 19th day of Nion, Year of Settlement 1496

Dearest Eithne,

Your words are well received, your prayers and good wishes most welcome. But I regret to write of this, and on the first day of the Flowering season: the son of Lord Niall, after a mere two days wracked by that terrible illness, did expire. And to compound the tragedy, the mother, upon hearing of her infant's misfortune, perished soon after, as much of grief as of fever, I am sure. The kingdom has known nothing but lamentation since, and Lord Niall has been inconsolable, for he loved his wife and newborn well.

And it shames me to say that the viper Cael not only remains at large, but has stolen away yet another of my people. Yet again, he takes a child, for what fell purpose we know not. My ministers counsel me that we should keep these kidnappings quiet, so as not to a-fear the people, but surely, rumor has its own wings. No doubt every tongue in the tribe wags with speculations for and against me on this point.

Through all of this, I have been away from the kingdom, for my summons to King Murdach's court came due and could not be put off any longer. I tell you, there was little of joy in the task. I had to stand, meek and mild, while I heard both my brother and my father's memory insulted by two of the chief men of Aileach. I was constrained to present my complaint against these men to Murdach himself, but was sent away without satisfaction.

My only consolation is that Murdach has dismissed my cousin Tnúthgal's case against my succession. There is said to be trouble brewing with the Gruin-men across the river, and Murdach wants no more dissent in Droma. I do not delude myself to think this is the end of the matter for Tnúthgal, but it seems I am to remain king yet a while longer.

In kinder news, my good friend, king Ahern of the Hagan came with many men to Dúnsciath to honor and congratulate me for my succession. His progress through Droma was no doubt unwelcome news to King Gaeth of the Khaibe, who seems set against me, despite the recent ruling. Though we are allies in the Airthir Federation, King Gaeth refuses to give up an old grudge against my father. His son seems a more sensible sort, and I trust that age or misfortune will soon put him in his father's place and bring a better measure of peace between us.

By the gods, my lady, I swear I've had an easier time securing my throne than assailing the tower of your love. Will you put me to dancing like a jack-a-napes next? Yet I cannot disagree that these few letters have not yet done justice to what is asked of us. As the days go on, I wonder more and more at what a help-meet you will prove to be, and whether I am worthy of you.

And so, yes to your questions, and let these words prove still more the love and esteem in which I hold you.

It is easier, mayhap, to speak of my greatest regrets than of great accomplishments, for I trust the greatest of the former are yet ahead, and I pray the worst of the former are already behind.

I regret that I am not more suited to my office. My father, there was a king. He would never have allowed Cael the Viper to slither through our kingdom as he does. Even my brother, now my Lord-Captain, has been left flummoxed, unable to divine his location or his movements, no matter what tack he takes. Three children taken in a month, ten raids since my so-called "great triumph" at Ruakhavsa. It is more than I can bear, and taxes me beyond my meager gifts for kingship. Perhaps Tnúthgal has the right of it, and I should call for proper elections, to let the people decide. But I dare not speak of such concerns among my ministers. Medyr remains convinced (so he says) that the Gods have ordained my place upon the throne, and (I should add) our eventual marriage. And Aunt Rathtyen will hear nothing of it. She fears an elected king will be less friendly to her trade aspirations, and more costly to her coffers. I pray the Goddess Echraide every day to guide me to an end of these misfortunes, and bring me greater skill at ruling.

As to my greatest accomplishment, what should I say that would not seem boastful? I play a fair game of fickle, as you know, but perhaps my greatest accomplishment has been on the hurling pitch. When I was still little more than a lad, I was a great champion here in Airthir. There were none in the four kingdoms that could keep me from the goal, and still fewer that could get a goal past me. It's a shame I have no more time for such boys' games, burdened as I am now with thoughts of war and banditry, commerce and crops, or I might by now be the hurling champion of all the Mainach tribes, or even of all Iathrann. If only I could lead a team against Cainnech, I'm sure I could steal away all their honors.

My finest friend in all the world is called Brenan the Fair. Light of heart, quick to laugh, and pale as the belly of a river salmon, he has been my best mate since we were mere lads. Even after our period of fosterage, when we went in different directions to be tutored in the arts of war and court, he and I remained close. When so many other friendships fell into disrepair for want of use, his and mine has grown stronger yet. Whenever I fear I might grow over-proud, he is there to remind me, with kindly good humor, exactly how proud I ought to be, and when I fear I cannot bear another day, he is ever there with a song to hearten me. He is a good and trusted friend, qualities I fear to be in short supply in the world.

As to my greatest enemy, I think you know well enough already the answer to that. My cousin Tnúthgal remains set against me even now. Not two days ago, rumor of yet another plot against me was brought to my ears. And though I still have no proof of his complicity in these intrigues, yet I'm sure (and my ministers agree) that none other than he is their primary force.

My apologies, my lady. Weariness steals over me and it is already well into night here. I feel over-warm, even out of doors, and I ache in every fiber and joint. I trust a good night's sleep (Gods grant me one) will see me fit again by dawn. I shall take up your remaining challenges on the morrow.

***

I fear I have been stricken with the same plague as bedeviled Lord Niall's household. Medyr and our local chirurgeon tell me I am burning up with fever. I feel dizzy and weak, and though I sweat, I shiver with chills and my hands feel stiff and clumsy as I pen this letter. Yet Medyr tells me I should not be concerned, that I certainly have a stronger constitution than a newborn babe. I am confined to my tower rooms with naught but biscuits and hot soup to eat, and I tell you, I like it not at all. I'm told a pair of local merchants have arrived from Uisneach, and I should like to see their goods. And there was another small fire, this time in Hafren. I'm told it was contained without too much trouble, and seems to have been accidental. Still, I would like to see for myself. And yet here I am, cooped up like a chicken.

But I have your letters to challenge me yet, have I not? Never have I shirked from a challenge, no matter what doom threatened. If plague shall lay me low, it shall only find me in battle for your love.

To what day do I look forward? By all the Gods, the day when I am not so dreadful ill, to be certain. But surely that is not what you meant. In all truth, I look forward to the day when there is peace in Droma, and between Droma and all our neighbors. If I can prove the value of my father's policies, yet steer clear of his errors, I think I can accomplish this. With your help, we might bring a watchful peace with the Cailech. With a show of strength and determination, I think I can wring peace from Ivea and the Gruin-men. With good diplomacy, I think I can earn the respect of my fellow kings of Airthir. And on that day, we would for once have peace in Droma. No back-stabbing allies seeking to undermine our strength, no voracious neighbors to prey upon our weakness. That will be a day worth all the troublesome days before it.

As to what I avoid, surely, I have never shirked from any man or beast. Not even spiders. But I tell you, I cannot abide liars nor cheats. Two more vile specimens of manhood I cannot imagine. One has nothing more than one's hands and one's words in this world, and if the one cannot be trusted, how so the other?

And so there it is, your latest challenge discharged in full. How now do you say? Has my assault breached your tower? Is my suit yet sufficient to ease your mind and win your heart?

If not, tell me then, what more may I do? What is it you are troubled by?

And if we must continue at this game, as if it were fickle, tell me then, in what else, besides your cooking and your grandfather's heroic deeds, do you take pride?

Yours, from the cups of my soup,

Eowain.

—33—