The sun had passed west beyond the ridge of the mountains that surrounded the Vale. Though it was still many hours before setting, twilight crept down the slopes to the village.

      Adarc, a gangly boy in a brown robe, all knees and elbows, roamed the edges of a camp on the skirts of the little hamlet. He carried a blackthorn stick, and was too tall for his feet, so hitched his robes up lest he overturn himself. A formless leather bag depended from a band across his chest and hung at his hip.

      Three large caravans of traders had made their way to the Vale and settled in a rough circle around a well dug amid a wide meadow. The caravans were a mix of natives from across the Five Kingdoms—Larriochts and Laigheans from the south, Muvain- and Gruin-men from the west, and Mainachs like the Droma from the east.

      The brown-robed acolyte searched the faces of passersby anxiously, then found the merchant’s apprentice along the edges of the camp. “There you are.”

      The merchant’s apprentice, Corentin, wore a high-collared white linen tunic, filigreed with black silk thread in an intricate design of flowered patterns upon the breast, and a sleeveless black robe trimmed with a similar pattern. His black hair was pulled back into a tail at the base of his skull, and his moustache and curled goat’s beard where trimmed and oiled. He regarded Adarc with mild surprise. “Hwâr else would be I?”

      “You should be back in camp. Sure and I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you.” Corentin’s trade caravan hadn’t planned on a long detour through dangerous territory and was waiting out the high mountain snows in Droma, Adarc’s homeland, before proceeding over the passes to their final destination. But information being a trader’s most valuable stock in trade, Corentin’s father, master of that caravan, had sent his son out to learn more about the countryside and its commercial needs.

      Corentin furrowed his brows. “Hwâs more new can I learn in zhe camp of our own?”

      Beside Corentin stood another Foreigner, tall and tow-headed, his long hair and beard braided and knotted. The metal of the bodyguard’s steel-ringed shirt, worn over a stout leather jerkin, glinted in the dwindling light. He held a spear in one hand, and a round, iron helm with a nose-guard under the other arm.

      Adarc inclined his head to the Foreigner. “Evening, Jôkull.”

      The bodyguard replied in his own rough tongue. “Aptann, Prestr.”

      He wouldn’t have admitted it, but Adarc was relieved to find them. The Droma-men had camped near the Mainach caravan, to be near somewhat friendly folk. The men of other lands owed fealty to other kings, and the tribes of the Five Kingdoms weren’t always friendly with each other. Adarc had feared his charges might run a-foul of one faction or another.

      The nobility were only just arriving, and noble-warriors and their retinues were wandering about looking for lodgings. Two men a dozen yards off—Iveans by the look of them—shoved a third man in white, gold, and green tartans out of their way. Their victim cursed at their backs, but the other men went on negligently.

      Corentin pointed. “Is zhat not one of your men of Droma, one of your drovers? Hwârjis are zhose men, to treat him zhus?”

      “Th— Th—.” Adarc had known the merchant nigh on a month and tried to teach him better Gallavach, but he still insisted on sibilants where natives used thorns. “Those men. They are Iveans.”

      Corentin frowned at him. “Ivea? Did we not supper in Ivea on zhe road hence?”

      “We did, yes.”

      “Zhey are not friends to Droma-men?”

      Adarc shrugged. “It’s… complicated.”

      “Hwáiwa complicated?”

      Adarc sighed. “The Iveans and the Droma, they’re of different tribes, and different federations. The Iveans are of the Fiatach tribes—”

      “Like zhe Lady Eizne?”

      “The Lady Eithne, yes. While the Droma, they’re of the Mainach tribes.”

      Corentin frowned at him. “Yes, yes. The chopping of wood, rather than the buzz of bees. But zhe—the Mainach, they are the kings of the East, are they not? Are we not in the East?”

      “We are, but the Mainach conquered the Fiatach, who use to rule the east. The Fiatach still resent bending the knee.”

      “And so they are rude to your Droma-man because he is Mainach?”

      Adarc’s face pulled into a frown. “Yes, among other things. But come on. It’s getting late. Sure and we shouldn’t be abroad from the camp after dark.”

      The camp of the men of Droma lay upon the southwestern side of the fairgrounds, with pilgrims and traders on their east and north, while open meadow and a stand of trees rolled away across the Vale to the south and west.

      The deep ditch that would encircle their camp was already half-dug, and the woods full of Droma-men lopping branches from birch trees to sharpen into stakes. It might be an affront to the Vale chieftain’s guarantee of peace, but Lord Lorcán had insisted. After the battles the Droma-men had fought just to make it to the fair, their captain wouldn’t let his men sleep in an unfortified camp.

      Within the perimeter, tents went up in orderly rows, and King Eowain’s own tall pavilion at the center, the the king himself was not in residence.

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      Adarc gazed at the smoke rising from the cookfires and sighed. The weary men of Droma were stacked fairly close. Most of them, being good soldiers, were already asleep. Some were still wound up from the action of the last few days and spoke quietly together. The wounded quietly suffered as they waited their turn with the priestess-healers. A trio of seasoned veterans broke out a cup of dice and began playing, despite the gathering twilight.

      The mood wasn’t as joyous as it could have been. Ninety-three men of Droma’s Company of the Shield had marched out of Dúnsciath, bound to the Vale to see their king married. Of them, forty were wounded, and ten had died. Altogether, the hale and healthy survivors of their journey numbered only forty-two.

      And of the eighteen men of Dolgallu, kinsmen to the Lady Eithne who had traveled with them, five were wounded, and two had died.

      No matter how thankful each man was to have survived thus far, that gratitude was tempered by knowing others hadn’t been so fortunate. So, no. Sure and there isn’t much joy, thought Adarc. Relief, certainly. Relief that it was over. Relief that the Morrigú hadn’t chosen them that day. Relief that they were going home when all the feasting of Cétshamain was over.

      But there was nothing like joy.

      Adarc shivered in his brown robes. The air was still damp from days of rain, and the warmth of the day fell off quickly as the sun retreated. He found his master Medyr at the fire-pit before the king’s pavilion. Off-duty sergeants of the Company of the Shield sat on rough-hewn logs and sipped from steaming wooden cups.

      Medyr, Lord-Drymyn of the Droma-men, patted the tree-bark beside him. “Adarc, come, lad. Sit. You too, Merchant.”

      Cold damp soaked through his brown robes and small-clothes and shivered his skin as Adarc sat. Medyr handed him a steaming cup. “Willow tea. With mint. It should take the sore and the chill out.”

      The acolyte cupped the warm wood in his hands and leaned forward over the hot steam. Och, sure and that feels good. The fire was a welcome heat on his face.

      Medyr handed another cup to Corentin. “You’re both alright?”

      Corentin affirmed that his wounds were no reason for concern. Adarc put a hand to the poultice strapped to his ribs. The rank smell of vinegar and sage wrankled his nose. “Aye, Master. Bruised ribs, and a few cuts and scrapes. I was lucky.”

      Medyr lit a long thin twig from the fire and put the flaming brand to his long clay pipe. “Damned foolish, more like, staying behind like that. You both might have got your damn necks broken.” Medyr puffed at the bowl of his pipe. The sweet smell of linden leaf rose in blue-grey clouds around him.

      Adarc blew on his steaming cup. “But sure and the king needed all the help he could get.”

      “Eowain has a bodyguard for that.” Medyr took a deep breath from the pipe, held it, let it go in a long plume. He handed the pipe to the man beside him. “Isn’t that right, Gaeth?”

      The scar-faced man took the pipe and grinned. “Aye, reckon so, Your Reverence. But our king, he’s not the sort what waits for his guard to catch up.” He puffed on the pipe and closed his eyes. “Thank ye, Drymyn.”

      Medyr waved the pipe away toward the other men. Scar-faced Gaeth handed it to the barrel-chested fellow on his other side. “’Ere, Mahon.”

      The Lord Lorcán, a large man in a shirt of steel-ringed mail over a thick leather shirt, sat down next to Adarc and Corentin. “Och, thank Gods I’m so tired. Sleep’ll be a blessing, with none of the ghosts of the men we’ve lost to haunt my dreams.” There were groans and mutters of agreement from the men around the fire. The former king of Droma waved with a three-fingered hand to barrel-chested Mahon. “Pass that here when you’re done, eh?”

      Mahon finished a long draw, then reached the pipe to him. “Aye, my lord.”

      A guard approached the bench, saluted Lorcán. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord.”

      Lorcán groaned. “What is it?” He handed the pipe, unsmoked, back to Mahon.

      “A column from Dolgallu has arrived, sirs,” reported the guard. “A man named Fethgna sends greetings.”

      Lorcán rubbed his face with weary hands. “More of the Lady Eithne’s kinsmen.” Then he told the guard, “Send for the Lord Ciaran.” Together, he and Medyr rose from the log.

      Adarc and many other Droma-men, as well as Corentin and his guard, followed after them, curious.

      The bridal party of the Gwynn arrived at the Droma camp under the dwindling light of day. Four white oxen pulled a heavy, curtained wagon, around which ten men—strong, rough-looking denizens of dark mountain forests—rode on shaggy ponies, with their hands on black-iron swords. Tight-lipped and sharp-jawed, their eyes shifted beneath stormy brows and they scowled at the ways of low-land—so-called civilized—men. Their baggage train and a dozen or more rough-bearded men on foot with spears and knives trundled along at their rear.

      They came in silence, save to hail the guard at the perimeter, and ushered themselves, orderly and well-disciplined, into the enclosure of the Droma. Altogether, some twenty-five fighting-men with jingling harness and gleaming chain arrived in the firelight of their camp.

      Hunting wolves howled from the dark, pine-forested hills.

      The tall, spare figure of Ciaran, chieftain of Dolgallu and lord of those men, joined Lorcán and Medyr. Behind him came the odd-dozen Dolgallu-men already in the camp.

      The new arrivals, their kinsmen, spread out into a wide cordon around their wagon and baggage, and made rough with a too-slow serving-boy. The Droma-men—spears at the ready—nodded professional respects to the rough mountain men.

      Lorcán approached the party. “Peace, and welcome to the Vale.” He bowed and introduced himself.

      A tall, broad-shouldered man with a fiery shock of red hair and beard in a pale-blue robe, walked his horse forward. “I’m Fethgna of the Gwynn of Dolgallu.” He nodded to Ciaran. “Greetings, Father.”

      Ciaran smiled on his son. “I’m glad to see you, lad.”

      Lorcán bowed once more. “Glad we all are to see you, my lord. I regret His Grace the King of Droma can’t be here to welcome you himself, but please, dismount, be at ease.” With an ironic roll of his eyes, he added, “A wedding should be a joyous event.”

      Fethgna gave him a dark, dubious look and cast eyes once more about him.

      Adarc could imagine what he thought: A hard fight to get clear of this place. Adarc prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

      The howl of wolves sang out again from the misty evening hills.

      Ciaran tugged at an earlobe and reassured him: “It’s alright, Fethgna.”

      Fethgna scowled and signaled—dismount—with a gesture. His men were brisk about it. The shaggy pack-animals and war-ponies were unloaded into the muddy camp. They saw to their own animals and tack, and kept curious hands from their things with snaps and snarls. The Dolgallu-men, like feral dogs, had neither a love for civilized men, nor any place among them.

      The curtained wagon opened and Fethgna’s mother, the Lady Goldeboro, stepped down from the wagon with great care, her skirts held clear of the mud.

      After her, Lady Fidelm, aunt to Fethgna, dismounted. She wore a shirt of steel-ringed mail over a jack of leather and a sword on her belt, like the men.

      Lord Ciaran kissed his wife on the cheek and embraced his sister.

      Lorcán indicated the king’s pavilion. “Come, join us in some ôl. We’ve much to discuss.”