“Eowain’s here to marry a lady of Ivearda. All the drymyn hereabout are keen on it.” King Yochy screwed an eyeball at him. “You haven’t heard of this wedding? It’s been the talk of the northeast all winter.”

Inloth hadn’t. “As I said, we came from the south, Your Grace. These drymyn, the ones who are keen on this marriage, are they good Súthrhamans? They’ve accepted the reforms of Máedóc? Particularly those regarding marriage?”

“Bah!” Dunchath waved an annoyed hand. “How’re we supposed to know? All ye drymyn sound the same.”

But Yochy seemed to understand him. “Interesting thought, Drymyn. I do happen to have a grandson, Diarmait’s his name.” King Yochy tugged at his beard. “The Sárán-Gwynn girl’s just a bastard cousin, but having her for a wife and hostage in my house instead of the Donnghaile’s might keep the rest of the Ivearda aligned with me. They’ve been far too friendly with the Mainach since Murdach became king of the east.”

His cousin Dafyd rose from the pile of furs and paced around the room with his hands behind his back. His chin drooped to his chest. “That would tighten our relations with the main Gwynn clan. Re-unite the whole of the Fiatach for the first time in a generation.” He nodded while he calculated. “It would hedge the Narada into the northeast. We’d have a choke-hold on their trade with the rest of Iathrann, maybe force them back to the table.”

“I have a son, too.” Dunchath furrowed his brows. “He’d make a good husband—”

“Quiet, Dunchath.” Yochy waved a hand in the air. “We’re thinking.” He looked up at Inloth. “And you say you’d support us if we contested this wedding?”

Inloth nodded. “The drymyn here in the east are all Kârnites. They practice their own rites, rites no one else in all the Abred practice. Yet they call themselves ‘Súthrhamans’ like the rest of us. Why should they share in the rights and privileges of our Universal Order if they do not share in our practices? Without the proper blessings, properly performed, she’d be no proper wife, and her children nothing but bastards. You owe it to your kinswoman to rescue her from such a fate.”

Yochy looked uncomfortable. “You know, we’re all Kârnites here, Your Reverence. Only makes sense for us, what with Gruath as Great Oak of the Circle hereabouts.”

“Gruath’s a cheater and a thief,” hissed Inloth with venom. He’d stolen the office of Great Oak from Inloth’s own master in a fickle game ten years ago, and Inloth had never forgiven Gruath for treating his master thus. “I’d just as soon see him burned for an apostate.” But then he smoothed his manner. “If you promised to adopt the reforms and swear your allegiance to the only true ways of the Súthrhaman Brotherhood, of course I’d be obligated to support your case. After all, I share your spiritual concerns. It would be a tragedy if this delicate flower of Fiatach womanhood was to be led like a sacrificial nanny-goat into the wickedness of these Kârnite heresies.”

“What’s an ‘apostate’?”

“Peace, Dunchath. The grown-ups are talking.”

“Ye ain’t my over-king, ye know.”

Yochy narrowed his eyes at the big man, then looked at Dafyd. “What do you think, cousin?”

Dafyd nodded to himself a moment more. “Most of the West and the South have adopted the Súthrhaman practices, anyway. The High King hasn’t endorsed them, but…” He waved a negligent hand in the air. “No one really cares what old Turloch thinks anyway. The kings of Laighan, Larriocht, and Muvain only suffer him because they fear Murdach.”

Yochy put up a hand and scowled. “My mistake. I don’t actually want to know what you think, Dafyd. I want to know your conclusions.”

Dafyd smiled thinly at him. “If we align ourselves with His Reverence’s reforms, and he supports our counter-proposal to this wedding, and we win our case, we unite the Fiatach, force the Narada back into tribute, and gain friends in Larriocht, which has no more love for Murdach than we do. It strengthens our position against the aggression of tribes like Droma and Cailech.”

“Hey!”

“For the Gods’ sake, Dunchath! Hush!”

“But yer makin’ alliances against me.”

Yochy shook his head. “Not at all.” He looked to Dafyd. “You’ve a daughter, haven’t you? The one what was just widowed?”

Dafyd frowned. “Eneuawg. Yes.”

“And your son—What’s his name?”

The big man frowned as well. “Tuathal.”

“There you go.” Yochy clapped his hands and spread them apart. “Tuathal marries Eneuawg, and we’re all friends again.”

Inloth watched Dunchath trying to calculate the risks and benefits of such a marriage. I think I smell smoke, he thought.

“We’re agreed, then? Good!” Yochy rubbed the calloused palms of his old hands together. “Then it may be we can do business, Your Reverence.”

Inloth smiled and bowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”

After a drink to seal their bargain, Inloth returned to his flock well-satisfied. Dunchath, king of the Cailech, was hardly the brightest star in the vast firmament, but Yochy and Dafyd understood the way of things. And if Inloth could convert such wicked old Kârnites as them, and change the balance of power in the East into the bargain, he’d prove the reformation was still something to be reckoned with.

In his absence, a large fire had been kindled in front of his own tent. As he and Finntonn approached, Inloth heard chanting.

Around the fire, the eight penitents of his company were on their knees, stripped to the waist, and cried out between each lash of their barbed brass scourges. “O Belenos, You are the Love and Life of my soul. I find true peace and real happiness only in Your love, in Your service, and in the imitation of Your virtues. I offer myself to You; do what You will with me; henceforth my motto shall be, ‘All for Belenos!’”

Flagellating oneself to bear witness to the truth of Belenos had become a Narician custom, but where they’d learned the practice, he couldn’t say. Certainly they all spoke the southern dialect of Iathrann like natives, and Inloth’s own mission didn’t preach such mortification of the flesh.

But each dawn and dusk, those eight penitent women and men devoted to the practice exposed the bloody welts and lacerations on their backs— a testament to the depths of their faith—to the other pilgrims as an inspiration. The women had even woven crowns of thorns for themselves and tangled them into their hair. Blood streamed down their faces and across breasts that shook with each torturous lash.

Well, if such is their dedication to the teachings of Belenos, far be it from me to fault them. After all, the Ard-Dára himself, High Oak of the entire Drymyn Order, had commended such displays of faith.

One of Inloth’s other pilgrims—Alisoun by name, a gat-toothed, somewhat deaf woman, widow of five husbands and fond of bright scarlet red stockings—brought an earthen cup toward him.

“Your Reverence!” The ginger-haired penitent woman leaped to her feet. “Is she bothering you? Alisoun, why are you so flimsy?” She shouldered poor Alisoun aside, took the cup, and bounced on the balls of her feet. Her bare, blood-smeared breasts jiggled. “Your Reverence, will you take some ôl before dinner?”

Finntonn went to help Alisoun back to her feet.

Inloth took the cup. “That’s kind of you, Tnúthét, thank you, but I’m afraid I’ve eaten.” He patted his stomach. “The Cailech king’s generous hospitality.” He sipped from the stout draught.

Tnúthét pouted. “Oh. But you’re so gentle and elderly, Your Reverence. You shouldn’t be out in such a chill.” She pressed against him and wrapped her own arm around his. “Let me take you inside and get you a blanket.”

The dark-haired lass, Bándígal, pressed herself against his other arm. “Hush, Tnúthét. Surely, after such a long day, His Reverence’s back needs hot compresses and a firm rubbing.”

“Now, now, ladies, please.” He gently pushed them away, mindful of his propriety. “Another cup of this fine ôl, but I’ve much to think on before the morrow.”