The Matter of Manred Continues...
I would not sell myself so cheap as to be nothing more than a pawn in such a fickle game. If peace and goodwill are to come of our marriage, then peace and goodwill must go into it first. And so I tell you true, a...
The clouds opened to offer the moon's illumination to light his way. The waning moon, half past full. At least the rains have broken. Eowain murmured thanksgiving for small blessings.
No matter how he wanted to gallop across the kingdom, he'd been reduced to a frustrating slog on muddy trails, lest his horse stumble.
The messenger had seen the attack himself. The Lady's caravan slogged a morning through the rain. They broke their march at Mianmair after midmorning.
Lady Eithne and her guard went up to the chieftain's house for his hospitality. The Lord-Drymyn remained with the troop.
That's when a fire broke out in the thorp. Three dozen fellow-travelers threw off their cloaks and attacked.
The Lord-Drymyn himself threw the messenger in the saddle, and hurried to seek the Lady's safety. But the messenger knew nothing more, neither Eithne's fate nor how matters had since fallen.
Eowain feared the worst. He'd ridden from Gluin Hill with five men as fast as horses would carry them, but he'd met no other messengers since.
Lorcán would settle matters at Gluín Hill. Eowain trusted his brother and personal guard to catch up on foot at Monóc Hill as soon as they might.
But the rain made a muddle of the trails. The stream fords were swollen. The bridge at Drochavaile was clear—a blessing—but the fastest way around the head of Drægan Ridge was by way of Mynnynrainsh, where heavy rains from Drægan's summit washed out the track.
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Sunset caught him only just turned back west toward the Drægan Gorge. Shortly past the Hour of Completion, when any right-minded person had rested their head for the night, he stopped and rested the horses, lest they founder. Only halfway through the Gorge, it was yet three miles farther on to Dúnceap, then three more across Copper Hill to Mianmair.
At least four more hours. He drummed his fist against his knee, but it did no good to ruin the horses.
Three of his men stalked a picket. The others ate a cold dinner of biscuit and water. They were none of them comfortable, abroad in the Gorge at night. The Lord-Drymyn's own acolyte and a small mission of foreign traders had been waylaid there not three weeks earlier. His men all knew the matter of banditry was far from settled. They were grim and watchful.
Eowain paced. The unseasonable heat had broken. The air was near to freezing. His breath misted before him, and frosted the tips of his mustaches.
Despite how little the messenger had known, he could imagine more. The fire and the three dozen attackers had been a diversion. The real attack would have been at the manor house, where Eithne had gone to lunch with Lord Feoras.
Eowain knew this bandit, Cael the Viper, wasn't above kidnapping. No less than six missing in recent months. He'd seized Eithne herself once. It was nothing short of a miracle that Eowain could rescue her, or that she survived the experience at all.
