The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Nineteen Scene Fifty

        Eithne disappeared into the press of priestesses, acolytes, and novitiates that came and went. There seemed to be some trouble somewhere, a hushed mumble of panic. Eowain saw Huntsmen among the press with weaponry drawn, directing people to stay calm.

He took the merchant by the collar and watched the color bleed from his olive, Samrabensian complexion. "What's going on out here?"

"Ic ne kunnane," he stammered. "I— I do not know, Your Grace."

Adarc put up a hand to stay Eowain's fury. "My lord, it is the Rite of the Oracle. The Goddess of the Vale herself appeared upon the mound! She took the face of Cátha, Queen of Battles, and pronounced a dread prophecy!"

"What nonsense is this? You and the merchant, fetch me my harness."

He sent them away, then cursed. His head dropped into his hands. What did I just do? He sat upon the bed, amid the clean, fresh linens.

Had she really just said no? After all I've been through for her? He hammered his fist against his knee. The knee that was as fit and as whole as on the day he'd walked out of Droma. Had it all been a dream?

He shook his head. He knew it wasn't. He'd seen her, spoken with her. Eithne was real. He'd seen the look in her eyes as they read back each other's missives over their game of fickle. He'd known her heart in those words. Or thought he did.

How dare she? Rage bubbled through him. He'd faced bandits and war-dogs and more bandits. He'd faced sorcery such as he hoped to never see again. And even before all of that, he'd scaled Glúin Hill and fought off Toryn the Stout's wild Cailech-men.

He'd seen and done the stuff of which legends were written and songs were song.

How dare she? Eowain practically spluttered with fury. He could practically hear the bards singing it in the hall of Dúnsciath, back home, among familiar concerns. Does she not realize that my kingdom has sacrificed cattle and silver, blood and steel, for her bride-price? That I am Eowain the Bear, King of the Droma, who has slain the villain Cael the Viper, the sorcerer Kúlkak, the Cailech hero Toryn the Stout, and my own ambitious cousin, the traitor Tnúthgal? He imagined friends by the fire on a rare night of peace drinking ôl and uisce. The broad rack of the noble Great White Elk of Droma, won by his father, under-lit by the glow of the hearth, shadowed antlers spread up to the stone, timber, and thatch-work of the manor roof.

He'd rise at that feast, with the hero's portion of the hart's haunch in hand. The bards would sing of how he'd faced gloomy mists of shynn-midnight, terrible and relentless foes, treacherous villains, and the evil spirits of the mountain itself.

The merchant and the acolyte returned. "Your Grace." They nodded briskly and laid his harness out on the bed. His leather and woolen breeks and greaves. His stout, hard-leathered boots. The tartans of his clan. The mail of iron-rings, stitched to the padded leather jack. Kilt, surcoat, tunic, hose. And then the Foreigner brought his shield, his sword, his belt of knives and tools, and the spear of his father, Findtan.

Eowain dressed with the efficiency of a soldier called to duty from his bed. He knew the buzz of riot when he heard it.

"Tell me, what's going on out there?"

"Sure and no one quite knows, Your Grace." His eyes darted to the merchant, then to the door of the cell. "Some say the Oracle calls for war against the Foreigners. Others say She foretells disaster for all of Iathrann." He shook his head. "Sure and I'm not sure what to believe, my lord."

"Where's your master?"

"Summoned away, my lord. The Great Moot of the Drymyn will begin at any time."

Eowain strapped on his jack of iron-ringed leather, and the bracers for his arms. He hefted his wooden shield, his coif of chain and his round, iron-cap, his sword, and the spear of his father.

"Your Grace?" Eowain looked up. There was a girl, a young novitiate priestess, with braided hair and eyes, and fair, freckled skin. The mercenary and the merchant skulked back from her. She glowed in Eowain's sight. "Aren't you coming?"

With a dizzying lurch, he found himself then upon a forest trail, as if out for a walk. It was high summer time, on the trail that skirted the mound of the Kings of Droma. Ahead of him, there was a woman, dark-haired, fair-skinned, with lips like rose-petals, in robes of ermine and satin, and the green, gold, and white of the Donnghaile. She rode a pale horse.

"Aren't you coming, Eowain?" She turned away from him.

He ran after her in fury, intent upon catching her, but grew no closer, though neither did the dappled-white horse with the pink ears go any faster.

"Haven't you learned by now?" The woman's voice laughed at him, not unkindly.

"Learned what?" Eowain stopped running and stood stock-still.

The woman on the horse grew no closer, but neither did the dappled-white steed go any slower. Yet it marched on. Hooves clopped on the trail, going neither thither nor yon.

The woman astride the horse frowned at him, her brow dimpled. "You must always be chasing us. You must never be having us."

"But after all I've done—!"

She waved a negligent hand at him. "Fluff-and-stuff, you stupid Man. What did you do today, after all? Bashed about a few bandits? Irritated a malignant evil from beyond the næther-realm of Annwn? Risked your immortal soul to hazard a sorcerer? Pish."

"Yes, that's right. That's what I did!"

"Pish, I said. Did you not hear her words? Love does not boast. Love does not dishonor others. Love isn't self-seeking. It isn't easily angered."

"What are you talking about?"

The figure on the horse aged before his eyes, became wrinkled, and stooped. A hump formed upon her back, her spine twisted. Moles and warts grew upon her face, hairs sprouted from her chin. "Damn it, Man. What color are her eyes?"

Eowain couldn't help himself, he goggled at her. Even as he watched, she transformed again, becoming a young fair maiden once more.

The magnificent white shynn-steed continued to prance, never faster, never slower, never coming any nearer, nor growing farther away.

"I don't understand," said Eowain.

"Her eyes, you blasted fool. What color are her eyes?"

Her face appeared before him, fair and lean and hungry. Her eyes glittered at him. "Why, they're the fiercest green I've ever seen."

"And why are you telling me?"

With another vertiginous lurch, he stumbled and sat heavily upon the reed mat in the cell of a priestess beneath the hill. "My lord?" The acolyte looked closely at him. "Are you sure you're quite well, Your Grace?"

—33—

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

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