Twilight fell across the Vale. Above the torches and campfires that burned bright among the lanes of the merchant caravans, streaks of blue, purple, red, and gold lingered among the clouds and gloaming flickered from the peaks of the western mountains.

      Adarc looked up over the stalls of the market. Upon the crown of the hill that dominated the Vale, a circle of ancient gray stones thrust up into the darkness like jagged teeth.

      King Eowain is up there somewhere, he thought. Taken for healing to the temple beneath the hill. No news had yet come from the temple about Eowain’s condition.

      Adarc gnawed at his lip. The maiming of the king’s brother had left Lorcán ineligible to hold the throne, and the treacherous death of their cousin Tnúthgal eliminated one of the half-dozen eligible cousins. Who might take the throne next, if Eowain died?

      But news that men of the Fiatach and Cailech where abroad in the Vale did nothing to improve the humor of the Droma-men. Lorcán had set more men to picket duty, and word had spread that Droma-men should stay close to camp.

      Adarc gathered up cups and the ewers of ôl and wine for which he’d been sent, and returned to the king’s pavilion. Bats on the wing swirled through the twilit sky.

      Inside the pavilion, Eithne’s family was gathered with Lorcán and Medyr around the central fire.

      “What do you mean, Ciaran? You don’t know where our daughter is?” Lady Goldeboro was a thin, small woman, with a neck long and wrinkled as a chicken’s. She glared at her husband from under the fringe of her black and grey bangs.

      Lord Ciaran gave her a hard look. “I told you, wife,” he said through gritted teeth. “She was taken to the temple at start of day, by the Mother Corchen herself. What should I have done?”

      Lorcán interjected his voice into the thunder gathering between the two. “Like our king, my lady, we’ve heard no news of them since this morning.” He accepted a cup from his hand, and Adarc poured ôl for him.

      Goldeboro was anything but placated. “And where is Alva? She told me she’d watch over Eithne personally.”

      Medyr looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid she’s also been up at the temple, my—”

      “I thought this was to be a wedding, not a war!” Goldeboro swatted away the cup Adarc proffered to her.

      “Really, Goldie, you need to calm down.” The Lady Fidelm took her cup—“Wine, if you please”—and went on while Adarc poured. “No one could have predicted that Mother Corchen would insist on having the wedding here at the Vale.”

      Goldeboro regarded her sister-in-law with disdain. “Well, if they had all just stayed in Droma, none of this would have happened!”

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      Lorcán plucked a slice of a cheese and a chunk of muslin, the hard trail biscuit of barley, rye, and bean flour they’d been eating for days, from a wooden platter. “If wishes were fishes, my lady, we’d all have dinner,” he grumbled.

      Goldeboro harrumphed. “There’s no need to be rude.”

      The Lady Rathtyen, aunt to Lorcán and the king, took her own cup from Adarc, preferring ôl. “No one’s being rude, Goldeboro. But done is done, and we’ve had a long enough journey.”

      Adarc remembered Lady Rathtyen’s shrieks and complaints over every rut in the road her wagon was forced to navigate. Compared to the foot-soldiers and horsemen marching through rain and combat, she’d traveled in luxurious comfort.

      “Wine, please.” Lord Fethgna held out a hand, and Adarc put the thought from his mind, handed the noble his cup, and poured for him. The young lord scowled beneath his moutstaches. “Mother, the high-priestess must have had her reasons. Father and Eithne’s hosts have done the best they can in difficult circumstances. You may not like it, but you have to trust the Order.” By his light-blue robes, Fethgna was one of the lesser brethren in the Drymyn Order himself.

      Lady Goldeboro let go an exasperated breath. “Trust the Order? I’ve been trusting it since Eithne was just a baby. I was told a suitable match would be made for her, once all this portent business was over with.” She fixed her husband with a hard look. “That witch Alva promised us.”

      Lorcán wiped cheese and bread crumbs from his beard. “Are you suggesting my brother’s not a suitable match?”

      Goldeboro stiffened and primed her lips. “Well he’s hardly one of the great lords of the Five Kingdoms, now is he?” She waved away her words with the back of her hand. “Just another hedge-king.” She pointed to her husband’s attention. “King Yochy still has a grandson. He’s single, you know. Eligible to be king of all the Fiatach, and overking of the Narada, too.”

      Ciaran groaned. “Goldie—”

      “I didn’t come all this way just to re-negotiate my brother’s wedding arrangements.”

      Lady Fidelm raised a calming hand. “Peace, Lorcán. The Sárán-Gwynn honor their word.” She glared at Goldeboro. “Isn’t that right, sister?”

      Goldeboro harrumphed and lapsed into silence.

      Ciaran shrugged. “Forgive my wife. She’s just concerned for our daughter’s safety.”

      “And I for my brother’s. Don’t hear me bit—.”

      “That’ll do, nephew.” Rathtyen put a hand on Lorcán’s arm.

      Adarc’s master looked up at him from his place around the fire, rolled his eyes. “You didn’t bring any of that uisce, did you, lad?”

      “Sure and I didn’t, Master,” he whispered. “Would you like—?”

      Medyr waved a hand. “No, never mind.” He took the last cup. “Just ôl if you would.”

      Adarc poured for him as Lord Ciaran spoke. “The Sárán-Gwynn have never had a part in the Donnghaile’s feud with our Gwynn cousins. But we’re as glad as any that this marriage will lay the feud to rest.” He glared at Medyr. “And if it should also please the Drymyn Order and satisfy their oracles, then we’re doubly-honored by the Gods blessings and attentions on our daughter.”

      The Lady Goldeboro sulked. “The Gods, they are forgetful.”

      All the lords and ladies served, Adarc retreated to the wall of the pavilion. Sure and it was a hard place they were all in. A company of the main line of the Gwynn family were in the fairgrounds as well. The Donnghaile of Droma had been feuding with them for a generation, and old injuries were hardly forgotten. If Eowain died, or the marriage-contract was broken, there was little more than the promised peace of the fair between them. Sure and the Gwynn’s Chremthain cousins of Ivea and Celtair would take their side, and the Droma-men would be all outnumbered. Adarc prayed to Kârn, chief god of his cult, that his master and Lord Lorcán could keep the peace there in that tent.