Eithne dashed for the homely fires of the camps. Her wounded leg ached. She limped and stumbled to a gasping halt as she came at last to the outskirts and sat hard upon the ground. At last, she dared to look back.

      Across the pastures, four of the Huntsmen struggled against the flapping, snapping beasts with javelins and swords.

      Serves— them— right, she gasped.

      She hung her head between her knees and gulped air for several moments.

      My hand— feels wet? Indeed, blood ran down her left fingers. She became aware of the sharp pain in her left shoulder. She pulled at the sleeve and found the rip where a beast had sunk its fangs into her. And the other pain in her right calf. The skirts of her linen gown were soaked with almost as much blood as water.

      Oh, and my back. She rubbed at that ache too, then probed at the wound on her shoulder, the lacerated flesh of her leg. Not serious, but they may fester. She had to get to the Droma camp, where she could clean the wounds. Her father would be there, if the old witch told the truth.

      She looked back as shadows gathered around the ancient stones that crowned the sacred hill. Alva and Corchen, all the priestesses, and the Huntsmen too, they’d all underestimated her.

      She grunted. I’ve fought and run with boys and men my whole life. Father saw I had a talent for it, nurtured it. Treated me like an actual person. So I’d become something more than just a girl.

      Eithne spit in the grass, lurched to her feet and limped in among the tents and alleys, past traders and journeymen and mercenaries. Free men. Men of means. Men with ambitions, however petty.

      A trollop leaned from a tent and importuned her. A passing soldier made a lewd comment.

      Eithne hurried past, wondered if that was all the drymyn wanted, to make a whore of her in one way or another. The men of her home village respected her—the lord’s daughter, of course, but they knew her worth too.

      Other men though—women too—they always seemed to think she was incompetent, or foolish, or powerless.

      She thought of the close, easy relationship she’d had with Father when she was younger. She’d watched his work about the village, how he organized their defense, taught the young men sword and shield and spear. He’d taught her what it meant to really fight for something. Father will know what to do.

      She limped the twisted, muddy street, past ôl tents and pepper-vendors and shops with hanging poultry and strings of ramson bulbs. People jostled past. Wives stocked large clay pots. Men carried sacks of grain. The prices whitewashed on the boards outside shops were predictably outrageous. Passersby noted her blood-soaked gown, then looked away, not eager for trouble.

      Eithne stumbled into a wide, flame-lit space. A homely camp fire. A jovial, balding fellow called for tales and fables from those gathered near the fire. A brash and drunken man interrupted him, demanded his tale should be next. “Oh, and me tale of the carpenter, I guarantee i’sh the most vulgar tale ye e’er heard, cuz i’sh true!”

      A gat-toothed old woman in bright scarlet-red stockings leaned toward him, hand cupped to ear. “Eh? What’s that?”

      She saw no tartans at all among them. Neither the green, white, and gold tartans of Droma, nor the black and red tartans of Ivearda, but also not the tartans of the Ivea, or the Celtair, or the Cailech. In fact, they wore only common travel clothes, as if there were no ranks or factions among them.

      Eithne hesitated at the edge of the quaint and peaceful tableau. Three women, blonde, black-haired, and red-headed, smirked at her. They wore dark blue woolen robes, with brass-studded scourges cinched tight about their slim waists, rested heavily on their broad hips. Something in their manner was more suggestive than such robes should allow.

      “Well, look what we have here, ladies. If it isn’t the Bride of Ceugant herself?” The blonde cocked a hip and flipped hair back from her shoulder.

      “Hush, Trebithu,” said the red-head. “You’ll frighten the poor lass.” She pouted at Eithne. “Are you frightened, little girl? Don’t be. We’re harmless.”

      “Mostly,” said blonde Trebithu with a light laugh.

      “Mostly not.” The black-haired one’s visage was cold and grim.

      “Oh, Bándígal, come, play nice.” The red-head nudged her dark-complexioned companion. “Give the girl a smile.”

      Bándígal of the black hair looked side-wise at the red-head, then smiled wolfishly at Eithne.

      “There now. Isn’t that better, lass? You see, Bándígal means well.”

      Eithne felt a gnawing sense of disquietude near these three, like fear barely restrained, as if she should flee. And the pain in her shoulder and her leg had sharpened with time.

      Yet they beckoned her, teasingly, a bit mockingly, toward their warm, inviting fire.

      “Come, sit with us,” said the red-head.

      She sought a polite way to decline, but—

      “We won’t bite.” The dark-haired woman flashed that wolfish grin again. “Oh, are you hurt?” She plucked at the blood-stained sleeve of Eithne’s sodden linen gown.

      She pulled her sleeve away from that touch. “It’s nothing. Really, I should just—”

      “Come now. We’ve a chirurgeon here.” She looked around the fire and beckoned.

      A spare, middle-aged man joined them. “Oh,” he said, “Yes. Let me have a look at that. I know all the medicines, drugs, humours. Astrology too. I tell you, I earn a lot of gold during plague season.” He hovered, with a benign, distant smile on his face.

      “Oh, Tnúthét, perhaps she’d like a cup of wine?” Blonde Trebithu put her hand suggestively on the red-head’s knee, then nodded and leaned toward Eithne. “You’d like a cup of wine, wouldn’t you, lass?”

      “Wine? No, thank you, I’ve got—” She reached for the pain in her—blinked—put her hand to her throat. Such a thirst—?

      The red-head, Tnúthét, nodded as well. “Of course you would.” She drew an earthen cup from a nearby sack and squeezed wine from a skin into it. “Here now, come sit by the fire.”

      “Drink with us.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

      “You look like you’ve had the Fiend’s own night of it.” Tnúthét waved her fingers thither. “Come, get warm.” Her hazel eyes shimmered in the firelight.

      Despite herself, Eithne relaxed of a sudden. They’re only being hospitable, after all. Fellow women on a cold night in a strange place. Shame blushed her cheeks. She regretted doubting them. “Yes.” No. What am I—? “Yes, alright. Just for a moment, I suppose.”

      Trebithu smiled at her. “That’s a lass.”

      “Come, sit by Bándígal.” The red-head gave the black-haired woman a gentle push. Bándígal moved over on the log and Tnúthét patted the place beside her. “Come, right here between us.”

      They arranged themselves to welcome her, Tnúthét and Bándígal on the log, blonde Trebithu upon the ground, her knees drawn up. The fire was warm, inviting after the cold, dank halls beneath the hill.

      Eithne sat between the dark-hair and the red and they handed her the earthen cup of wine. The bouquet of it reached her nose and made it tingle with heat. Her anxiety melted away.

      One of the women flicked a hand, and the chirurgeon drifted away.

      “It’s a delightful red. We have it from the hills north of Rhyanos, in Sasana.”

      Eithne’s brows rose. “That’s so far away.”

      “Not so far, as the night’s wind blows,” said Bándígal.

      Tnúthét scowled at Bándígal. “Perhaps it is.” She shrugged and smiled again. “We have it from a trader.”

      Trebithu put a hand on Eithne’s knee. “They grow vines there with tight-clustered, pine cone-shaped bunches of dark purple fruit. Rows upon rows of them, in the hot summer sunshine.”

      “With the warm, strong dragon winds sweeping up the valley from the great bay of Manannyn.” Bándígal leaned against Eithne, their shoulders touching. “Oh, it is delightful.”

      Tnúthét put a hand on Eithne’s thigh. “Indeed, if you haven’t been, you really must.” She nudged Eithne with an elbow. “Try it, dear. You’ll love it. We promise.” She raised her own earthen cup to her lips and her eyes glittered in the firelight.

      Eithne swirled the wine in the cup, then raised it to her lips. The rich smell of cherries, blackberries, and cloves filled her nose. The taste was powerful. It filled her mouth with a silky taste of raspberries and blackberries, then slid into a long, flavorful finish. “Mmmm,” she moaned. “It’s— Oh, it’s delicious.” All her pain and fear lifted away. She bobbed her head to her hostesses. “Thank you.”

      “Didn’t I say?” Bándígal pointed a finger at the blonde. “Older means more intense flavor.”

      “Oh, I like them younger.” Trebithu giggled.

      Tnúthét shook her head. “No, older is better. We should never have doubted you, Sister Bándígal.” She squeezed Eithne’s thigh. “Have another sip, lass. Tell us what you taste.”

      “Is it nutmeg?” Eithne swirled another mouthful over her tongue and savored the flavor. “And cloves?”

      Tnúthét smiled broadly. “You have a fine palette, dear.” She leaned in close, whispered in Eithne’s ear. “Some think it tastes of plums as well.”

      “Mmm, yes.” Eithne nodded around another mouthful. “Yes, I taste that.”

      “And it has a bit of heat on the nose.” Bándígal flicked her slender finger down on the tip of Eithne’s nose, playful and coy.

      Trebithu raised an eyebrow. “A bit of heat everywhere, I should say.” She leaned back and took a long drink from her own cup. Her robes fell gracefully along the line of her breasts and hips. She rubbed her drawn-up knees together. “Mmm, yes. Every last where indeed.” She wiggled her rump on the ground.

      Eithne squirmed. The wine rose to her head. Beside her, Bándígal and Tnúthét relaxed, gave her some room on the log. “So—” Eithne searched for conversation. “Where are you from?”

      Tnúthét shrugged. “Here and there.”

      “Mostly there.” Bándígal waved a negligent hand.

      “Oh. How did you come here to the Vale?”

      “We traveled north from Larriocht,” said Tnúthét.

      “In the pilgrimage of Drymyn Inloth,” added Trebithu.

      Bándígal nodded. “From his new sanctuary at Tobar-na-Mela.”

      “That means, ‘well of honey,’ you know.” Trebithu licked her lips. “I do love some creamy honey on the tongue.”

      “He just laid the foundation for it two years ago.” Tnúthét took another sip of wine.

      “Already, it’s one of the richest beehives in Iathrann.”

      “That’s the blessing of Belenos for you.”

      “Bees are fine on their own—”

      “But there’s nothing in nature that the hand of man can’t improve on—”

      “Bring order to—”

      “And beauty. What’s lovelier than well-tended bee-hives—?”

      “All those workers, going about their business, knowing their duty—”

      “Their place in the hive—”

      “Their role in the whole—”

      “It’s really quite remarkable.” Tnúthét squeezed Eithne’s thigh again and pressed her breasts against Eithne’s shoulder. “And you know,” she whispered conspiratorially, “They all serve a great queen.”

      “It’s true.” Bándígal leaned in from Eithne’s right, clacked her earthen cup to Eithne’s own. “They’d give their very souls for their queen.”

      Trebithu raised her cup to Eithne. “She has such pretty hair.” She cocked her head and looked at Eithne’s head. “It’s an even lovelier shade of ginger than yours, sister.”

      Tnúthét took a strand of Eithne’s hair and held it up to the firelight, where it glittered like burnished copper. “Do you think so? Lovelier than mine?”

      “Oh, it certainly is.”

      “Absolutely.”

      Tnúthét tugged.

      Ow!

      “Lovelier hair than mine?” She wrapped the strand around a finger and tugged again, harder. “Who’d have thought it?”

      Eithne pulled her head back, put up a hand, and smoothed the hair back into place, free of Tnúthét’s finger. “Ugh, I’m sure it’s not. I must look like a drowned rat. But, I—uhm—Your hair’s very nice.” What are these three on about? And wasn’t there somewhere I had to be?

      She tried to remember something. Something forgotten.

      Across the fire, a very old and irritable man proclaimed himself once a carpenter and loudly resented the brash, vulgar man’s tale about a stupid old carpenter. Another man stirred at a pot that bubbled over the fire. A chancre on his chin ran with pus. The savory scent of mutton stew filled Eithne’s nose. Like the mutton stew that Father used to make…

      “Oh!” Eithne shook her head.

      “What is it, lass?” Trebithu’s brows furrowed.

      Her shoulder, her leg, her back, they all ached. What in Annwn am I doing? And her clothes were sodden with blood. “I’m sorry—.” Father. I have to find father. She handed the cup of wine to Bándígal. “I really must go.”

      “But you look half a fright, dear—.”

      “—those blood stains all down your tunic—”

      “—Stay another moment, we’ll get you cleaned up—”

      “—Lovely lass ought not to be running around the night, looking such a fright.”

      Eithne pushed herself up off the log. Their hands seemed to cling to her. “No, I’m sorry, no. I have to go.” She turned to hurry away—What weird women—and collided with an older man in white robes, with a black overtunic. “Oh! I’m so—”

      “What have we here, ladies?” His cracked lips split into a gentle smile beneath a reddish varicose nose. His beneficent eyes sparkled in the firelight.

      Tnúthét pouted. “We found a stray, Your Reverence. Can we keep her?”

      His eyes traveled up and down her body, then settled on Eithne’s eyes. “She’s hurt, Tnúthét.”

      Trebithu moaned, “We had the chirurgeon look at her.”

      He shook his head. “Please, forgive our hospitality. Someone ought to have done more than just look at you.” His eyes narrowed. “I am the Drymyn Inloth of Tarawd.”

      “Tarawd? You’re of Ivearda?”

      He nodded. “I am. Though it’s been some time since I’ve been back. I’m steward of the sanctuary at Tobar-na-Mela, in Larriocht.” He came to some conclusion in his mind. “By your accent— You’re Iveardan yourself, or I’m much mistaken?”

      By the Gods, a fellow-tribesman. Eithne breathed a sigh. “Aye. Eithne of Dolgallu, daughter of Lord Ciaran.”

      His eyebrows rose up and his forehead wrinkled. “My lady.” He bowed his head, shaved save for a greying old topknot. “How fortunate that you should stumble into my camp.” He rose and gestured to a nearby tent. “Please. I know many healthful prayers and coelbreni for the mending of wounds. I would be a poor host indeed if I did not offer aid to a kinswoman in need.”

      Eithne considered the tent, the docile old holy-man. Blood dribbled down her arm and her calf, and the pain of her wounds insisted on her attention. She looked back at the weird women. Maybe they really did mean well?

      She made up her mind. “Yes, fine, thank you.” She gathered up what remained of her dignity, straightened her back and shoulders. “Yes, that would be very kind of you.”