The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Ten, Scene Twenty-Eight

Eithne picked up a white stone and considered the fickle board. They were well into the second phase of the game, and Alva Damar pressed on the King Stone at the center. Eithne struggled to hold off the ban-drymyn's assault.

They were in a night's camp at the very border of the Vale of Thaynú. A few small cook-fires were all they permitted themselves as the last hours of the night lingered toward the dawn.

"But what is love, then, Alva, if one can't expect one's wishes to be respected? There was no need for Eowain to send me away as if I were made of some rare Narician glass. You and my father know just as well that the fray holds no terror for me."

Eithne placed the white stone, blocked Alva's advance, and stole away one of her black stones.

"I don't think His Grace doubts your heart, my lady. That is simply not the manner of wife he needs right now. One of the duties of a wife and queen is to manage your lordship's kingdom and properties when he is away on his overlord's business. If the rumors are true and the Gruin-men attempt an incursion this summer, he may be away for weeks at a time on campaign. It will fall to you to stand his ground at home and secure the integrity of his kingdom. Then you will find combat enough, as you wrangle with the fractious cattle-lords for the full-share of their taxes and the full measure of their war-like young men."

There was a call from their perimeter, a challenge from one of their guards. There was a murmured reply. A moment later, a boy was led into the camp. "He comes from Eowain," announced his escort.

Eithne waved him close to the fire. The lad was out of breath and sweating. Eithne summoned a cup for him. "What news?"

The messenger, short of breath, accepted the cup and took a long drink before he made reply.

*****

Eowain put down a black stone. Across the fallen log they used as a bench, Medyr, wan and haggard in the firelight, raised a white stone and considered the board between them.

Eowain was satisfied that he'd secured at least two possible paths to the edge against Medyr. With his latest move, he'd unhinged the Lord-Drymyn's defense and threatened the King Stone at the center.

The sun had set some hours earlier. The night around their campfire was full of shadows and darkness. Ól came around and Eowain poured himself a cup, passed the skin to Lorcán's three-fingered grasp.

It had been a long day. Eowain ached in places he hadn't known he had.

A quiet murmur of talk floated around the camp. The men were weary. Eowain sat up, stretched his aching lower back. With that move came pain to his bruised and battered chest and shoulders.

Medyr placed the white stone and called Eowain's attention back to the game. His Lord-Drymyn had acquitted himself well on the field, with nothing but his blackthorn stick. Eowain rebuked himself for ever doubting the man's loyalty. "Are you well?"

Medyr nodded wearily. "When They are not forgetful, They demand a steep price." He put two fingers to his nose and squeezed at the bridge.

"Are you still sure this is the right thing to do?" Eowain nodded to his brother. "Lorcán has his doubts."

"Are you sure yourself, Your Grace?"

Eowain shook his head and considered the board that Medyr had left him. "I won't lie. She hasn't accepted the pledge of my troth. It makes me wonder. She's a Fiatach, and a Gwynn. Could this be some ploy to weaken Droma? Have the Fiatach made cause with the Cailech or the Gruin-men? Is this whole action meant only to bleed us?" He took a black stone and placed it aggressively, threatening the King's Stone at the center. "Old Time, he is a-flying. She should not be so coy in times like these."