The stronger members of their pilgrimage worked to dig posts for the tent-poles. Inloth envied their brawn and grieved for his own youthful vigor. Forty-six years will take their toll, he lamented, rubbed at his back.
Finntonn brought him a steaming earthen cup. “Willow tea, Master.”
He palmed it in both hands, “Bless your heart, Finntonn,” blew across the mouth of the cup, and took a sip of the stringent brew through his cracked lips.
“Looks like they’ll have the shrine erected by morning, Master.” Finntonn nodded to the canvas being laid out by another group of pilgrims, and the ropes being unpacked by still others.
“Mmm, yes, I should hope so.” Inloth savored the warmth as it trickled down his throat. “We’ve had enough practice these past weeks.” In every major stop along their pilgrimage, they’d performed altar services, preached the word of Belenos and the benefits of the reformation, and offered opportunities to venerate the sacred Arm of Moelrhonos, all from that same canvas-sided pavilion.
Inloth caught the attention of his other assistant, Bécc. From a crate full of wood shavings and cloths, he was unpacking a bronze statue depicting a strong, handsome young man with a sickle in one hand. The figure was seated and cloaked, his long hair held back from his bearded, beneficent face by a band adorned with a sun-disk. A torc rested around his neck, an arc of solar-flames encircled him, and a bundled sheaf of wheat stood at his left.
“Have a care with Lord Belenos now, lad,” said Inloth, then chided himself for being too diligent an overseer. They all know their work, let them do it, he told himself. “Come, Finntonn, let’s have a walk about, get the lay of the land.”
Together, Inloth and his chief assistant walked away from the site of the emerging camp. He’d selected a place near the largest of the trading companies that had come to the Vale. A caravan of Larriocht tradesmen, nearly three hundred strong, if he was any judge. They spoke the southern dialect familiar to many of Inloth’s followers, acknowledged many of the same tribal kings, and some of the traders were even Belenosians themselves.
The Larriocht traders held fully half a circle around a water-well set aside by the locals for just such occasions. The Vale of Thaynú was an important—albeit remote—destination for pilgrims, sacred to the Abred-Goddess herself, and her cult was popular.
So the traders were no fools. Their camp lay between the well and the sacred hill overlooking the Vale. To reach the holy site where so many of the ceremonies and rituals would take place in the coming week, nearly all the other visitors and pilgrims would have to pass through the alleys of wares they’d erected.
On the west side of Inloth’s camp, another band of pilgrims had settled, devotees of Brígh from the Fifth of Laighan. The goddess of their cult was one of the more important daughters of Thaynú, the Abred-Goddess. Being from the southwest of Iathrann, the Laighan-men had benefitted from and adopted many of the practices put forward thirty-five years ago by reformers like Inloth’s own master. Their priests and priestesses displayed heads shorn of hair, save for a top-knot, their robes were dark, with a black overtunic, rather than pale-blue or white.
The proper Súthrhaman practice, Inloth was proud to see, and nodded appreciatively at the Bríghians as he passed the fringes of their grounds.
To the north and east, vacant pastureland rolled gently toward the sacred hill, and crops of beans and corn rose from the well-tended soil across the low stone walls that divided the village’s fields from its pastures. As twilight approached, the farmers made their slow way in from their fields, and shepherds drove cattle and sheep from their pastures to their byres.
Inloth pointed out the eight penitents in their dark blue robes and iron-studded girdles to Finntonn.
Man and woman alike, they approached the farmers and shepherds with a friendly greeting, a smile, and an enthused and excited manner. “Hello, my friend, how are you today?” They went in pairs, introducing themselves, shaking hands. “Can we get just a moment of your time?—Is a close, strong family important to you?—Don’t you think multiple marriages should be a crime?—What about the intrustion of layman into the religious offices of the Brotherhood?—Let me tell you about why we’re all here on Abred—We always like to start with a word of prayer...”
The penitents preached the good stories of Belenos, promoted His reformation, and invited their listeners to come to the shrine to learn more. They inspected and admired the farmers’ stock and the shepherds’ flocks, offering the animals treats from their own hands.
“I tell you, Finntonn, it brings me almost as much joy to see their zeal at work as it does to see men grow and thrive.” He waved a hand to the thick blanket of forest upon the slopes of the Vale. “To see men strive against weather and all of nature’s other random cussedness and grow stronger. To watch farms grow and flourish from wasteland turned at last to productive use, despite the harsh wilderness all about them.” He slapped a hand against his belly and rocked back on his heels. “Yes, that’s the true joy of our mission, to see the fruits of Belenos’ teachings flourish and take root.” The scent of farmland and cattle, sheep and pig drifted on the air, and he took a great breath of. “I love the smell of fresh-turned Abred in the evening, don’t you, Finntonn?”
His assistant drew a deep breath as well. “Indeed, Master.”
Inloth spoke words of encouragement to his outlying followers as he rounded the perimeter of their camp with Finntonn. Along their southern fringe, Inloth’s camp abutted another band of newcomers, the Cailech-men in their red and white tartans, hastily preparing their camp.
“I grew up in Ivearda, not far from the Cailech-men, did you know that, Finntonn?”
Finnton looked over their rough camp. “You might have mentioned it, Your Reverence.”
“Well, I remember when Fíngen was king of the Cailech. He was a few years my senior. My own master and I preached the reformation to his court once—gods, that must have been twenty years ago.”
“Drymyn!” A young man in the Cailech camp raised a hand and waved. “Drymyn!” He jogged toward them and bowed. “My king of Cailech invites you to call upon his hospitality. We have a fire, and chickens roasting. Will you join him?”
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“Our own camp is still far from arranged. We’d be grateful to you. You have enough for my assistant?”
The young man bowed to Finntonn. “And to spare, Drymyn. This way, please.” The young man led them across the camp to a round pitfire over which poultry sizzled on the spit. Three burly guards with spears and swords stood before a large nearby pavilion. They saluted the young man with fists to breastplates, nodded to Inloth and Finntonn.
“—Damn it, Yochy! I’ll have the head of that villain Eowain on a damned spike!”
Inloth ducked his head through the flap of the tent. Inside, furs and small field chairs were arranged around a brass brazier in which smoldered another, smaller fire. Dunchath, the large, burly King of the Cailech paced as he shouted at another, older man, grizzle-bearded and hawk-eyed, seated in a field chair. A third man, of a generation with the elder, whip-thin and moustached, sat cross-legged on a pile of furs. A servant-boy with an earthen ewer was doing his level best to remain unobtrusive by the wall of the tent.
“Your Grace,” said the herald. The king and the seated man looked up. “The Drymyn from the trail. The one that blessed poor Toryn.”
Inloth knelt. “How do you fare, Your Grace?”
“We’re here at least. And none too happy with the journey.” Dunchath extended the right hand of peace.
Inloth took it and nodded soberly. “The battle on the trail. Your kinsmen were involved?”
“Worse than involved. Defeated.” Dunchath spat a profanity on the ground. “Damned Droma-men.” Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Drymyn—?”
Inloth smoothly answered the unspoken question. “Inloth of Tarawd, Your Grace. Steward of the Sanctuary at Tóbar-na-Mela.”
The king blinked at them from piggish eyes.
“In Larriocht, Your Grace.”
He blinked again.
Clearly, geography’s not your strength, thought Inloth. “Yes, Your Grace. From the south, near the sea.”
“Of course, yes. Well, thank ye for your blessing on me nephew’s soul. Doubt those Droma bastards did him so much courtesy.” He snarled and pounded a palm with his fist.
The elder two men, richly dressed in ermine-trimmed cloaks and chain-mail shirts, narrowed their eyes at the Cailech king.
Inloth’s cracked lips pursed with curiousity. “If I may ask, Your Grace, what hand did the Droma-men have in this?”
“You might well ask,” growled Dunchath, then: “Oh! Me manners.” Dunchath snapped his fingers. “Drink for the Drymyn.” The servant-boy fetched cups and poured ôl of the stout, black variety so popular locally. Dunchath told of how his nephew had sought to repatriate some misplaced cattle back into Cailech lands when he’d been humiliated by the Droma-king.
Inloth suppressed a chuckle. The nephew and his men had been chased off by the very herd of Droma cattle he’d sought to steal.
The elder man in the field-chair coughed, and took up the story. “So the damn fool ran off north when he heard about Eowain and his bride, and got himself and a lot of good Cailech-men killed.” He rose and bowed. “I’ll just introduce myself. Yochy, King of the Celtair, the Fiatach, and Old Hagall.”
Inloth’s eyes widened, and he dropped to his knee again, pulling Finntonn down beside him. This was no mere hedge-king of a tribe, but a great-king, master of several related tribes. “Your Highness.”
“Aye,” mumbled Dunchath. “Sorry, Your Highness.” The king pressed his lips together until they turned white.
Yochy of Celtair went on smoothly, ignoring Dunchath, and gestured to the other man seated on the furs. “And this is my cousin, Dafyd, King of the Ivea.”
Inloth knelt again. “Your Grace.”
Dafyd inclined his head, but made no move to rise, nor to speak.
It was no easy thing keeping track of the tribal kings. Dafyd’s Iveans were a hedge-tribe of the Fiatach, and so kin to Inloth’s own Iveardans. Yochy was king over his own Celtairans, as well as both of the lesser hedge-tribes of the Fiatach. But why are they meeting with the Cailech king? The Cailechs are a Mainach tribe.
Dunchath would not be ignored, and stabbed his finger in the vague direction of west. “But they have to pay the eraic!”
Yochy of Celtair grunted. “And you’ve every right to demand your nephew’s honor-price. But I’ve no authority over the Droma. And there’s the peace of the fair to consider.”
“Don’t talk to me about no, ‘peace of the fair!’ I’ll give him a piece of me spear!”
Inloth cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but what’s happened? Who is Eowain?”
Dunchath growled. “The usurper of Droma, that’s who he is. Me nephew joined up with the rightful king of Droma to put this Eowain back in his place, that’s what.” Dunchath scowled and the cheeks beneath his beard flushed.
“Usurper?” Inloth’s pilgrimage had passed through Droma on the High King’s Road. He’d heard mixed reports of their new king, mostly favorable.
Yochy stood, laid an arresting hand on the vehement Dunchath’s chest, and interjected smoothly, “Eowain’s the son of the Droma’s former king, and brother to its last king. But neither he nor his brother before him were elected by the chief landholders of their tribe.”
Dafyd, eyes bright and thoughtful, added, “Their cousin was older, more experienced. He had every right to expect he’d be elected, but elections were never held. Eowain assumed power without any legitimate authority.”
Yochy went on, “And so Dunchath’s nephew sided with this Eowain’s cousin to take back the Droma throne. Hence the recent unpleasantness.”
“I see.” Inloth scratched his chin. Inloth shook his head. All the work my master did for the Reformation, and these savages have backslid into their old heathen ways. But maybe I can turn this to some advantage. He knelt again before the two kings. “Then it is the will of the Gods that we should meet, mighty Kings. You’ve heard of the Reformation, no doubt?”
The Tribes of the East and their Relationships © 2017 Michael E. Dellert [http://www.mdellert.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/Tribes_of_the_East-web.png]
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There's a lot of information about the interrelationships between tribes and kings in this scene. The chart is provided to clarify these relationships, but please let me know: Is the text too dense?
The Five Kingdoms of Iathrann are known jokingly by foreigners as "the land where every man's a king," because there are ranks of kingship (similar to the ranks of nobility (baron, earl, duke, etc) in the traditional British peerage).
Tribal (aka, "hedge") kings are the least rank in this hierarchy of kings, with higher ranks of kings (over-kings) ruling over their own tribes as well as local federations of other interrelated tribes.
These federations are then grouped under a "Fifth-King" into the larger "Fifths" of Iathrann (the so-called Five Kingdoms), and each of these Fifth-Kings hypothetically pays tribute to the High King of Iathrann (an office won through political alliances and military strength, rather than a centralized, hereditary succession).
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