4. Trouble Follows
Trouble Follows
Two hands of days had passed before Tuathal reached the turning of the road.
Twice he'd met other bards, traded songs and news, and warned them of Fyon and Pyder.
"I have heard twice now of Pyder's foolishness," the younger bard had replied.
"It is said that Fyon's own son is his bard, but none know the son's teacher or múintid.
" The young man had shifted, discomfort clear.
"I know not the truth of the tale, sir."
"I have not heard such, but I know the eastern múinti better than the western," Tuathal had replied. "I do know that I will avoid both halls until they make amends for their lack of hospitality."
The other bards had pledged to do the same, and would warn any they met.
Now Tuathal stood at the turning of the northern road under a sun that gave less heat with each passing day.
One branch of the road continued north, into the higher lands of the wild clans.
He turned his steps to the west, toward the Land of the Blessed, and the court of Fiachta NoDomnail, his younger half-brother.
The road faded to a trail for two days, then widened.
Dark and light stones marked the edges of what had once been a great road, one of the oldest of old ways, perhaps.
Had the old ones a god of the roads? The men of the south had, perhaps, but none still living knew of a name.
Tuathal wondered, then turned his thoughts to the road and the coming of winter.
A cool mist filled the valleys between the hills, softening the stones and hiding the distant farms and forests.
This part of the road had been smoothed by the men of the south before they retreated behind the wall, or so some claimed.
The tales differed from east to west and north, and he accepted all.
The sky paled, and he felt a touch of wind on his face.
It smelled of sea and land and neither. Not much farther, then.
Good. He tired of walking and of sour milk.
The mist swirled. For a breath a face and form appeared, then only mist blew on the wind.
Gray and green and the black of the land's bones, bones of the mother of mankind.
Words came, and he stepped from the road, humming and setting them in memory.
Not awan, but close and worthy of respect.
The hills softened. Grass replaced bramble between the gray-brown rocks, and dirt smoothed stone.
Dirt-darkened cream and brown moved on a distant slope.
Sheep, their voices carried from him by the wind.
A dwelling crouched beside the road, but back a respectful distance, not crowding the way.
Age-grayed thatch covered the roof. He noted the thickness and nodded with approval.
On his sire's lands, even sheep-servants' houses stood proof against the wind and rain, unlike what he'd seen elsewhere.
He glanced down, then eased to the side, away from muddy ruts. The wagon should have waited.
Ahead, the road curved around a rough, jagged little peak of black rock.
Crows came and went, black hoods the same shade as the stone, ashy cloaks flashing against green and blue.
A few tufts of white-topped grasses clung to the flat tops of stone columns, those too low to sport nests or perches.
Here and there, splashes of rusty red brown marked the peak, as if the rocks had once burned.
Tuathal studied the place as he passed. The burning stones used by smiths to the east gleamed, slick and smooth.
Rough edges and pits marred the hill's surface. Not the same, then.
A faint vibration came through the leather under his feet. He stepped farther to the side. He adjusted his cloak so the golden brooch could be seen by all. The snake-iron knife remained out of view, for now. If all went well, he'd not need it.
Now he heard hoof beats, a two-horse truchai, hurrying along the road.
Tuathal did not glance back. He'd know soon enough who approached.
As fast as the horses ran, they'd be into the sea before they stopped.
Chiming of metal made Tuathal smile, but not with pleasure.
He moved farther onto the grass. Cathal's driver matched his master.
"Way! Give way for a warrior!" came the bellow from the road.
Tuathal glanced at the green gap between his feet and the road and continued on.
A pair of bright brown horses cantered past, fast as birds flew, pulling a gold-touched wicker truchai.
A man balanced on the yoke pole as his driver crouched in the truchai.
The light, swift battle cart bounced but Cathal remained balanced, cloak fluttering behind like his horses' tails.
No, some men neither learned nor changed.
The truchai raced around the curve and out of sight and hearing.
Tuathal shrugged back one shoulder of his cloak.
The day had grown mild for so late in the year.
He glanced to the east. A few gray sky sheep grazed above the hills.
Did they come, or go? He'd learn soon. His destination waited ahead, a hand or so by sun.
The sound of water on rocks caught his ear.
He slowed, then left the way for the water.
Cold, then warm stung his skin. He scrubbed hair and beard, then neck and arms. The rest could wait.
He reached deep into the bag and unwrapped a gold and silver torc.
He settled it around his neck, then pulled on his shirt.
Once more full-dressed, bag and clarsach on back, he returned to the road.
The sun's fire balanced the water's lingering chill as he strode on.
Perhaps now Cathal's man would know him. Or not.
Two more bends in the road led to lush grazing full of fat red cattle.
The guards watched him but held their peace.
Tuathal kept to the road. Chasing startled cattle held no interest for him.
An eagle soared overhead, dark brown and golden brown in a pale sky.
He knew these lands, had no need to borrow another's sight.
Ahead, the hills drew back from a water-rich plain, as if out of respect for the solitary mound that lorded above the land and marked where the sea's touch ended.
A darker hue to the land, more blue in the greenth, warned the wary to stay on the narrow path through the sea-edge grasses and reeds.
Tuathal strode to the low earth wall that set the mound and lands apart from the hedge-edged fields.
A stripling on watch approached the gate.
Tuathal waited. The youngster began to speak, then caught himself, eyes wide.
He saluted and opened the gate. "Welcome Allav, master bard, twice welcome will your gifts be under this roof. "
"May your arm be strong as iron, your blade sharp as winter's wind, and your eye keen as the eagle of Bledaiwy.
" Tuathal entered the gap, nodded to the symbol of Morak of the Horses, and began walking the winding footpath to the great hall atop the mound.
The fresh grass and reeds on the roofs of lesser halls shone gold in the westering sun, white-painted stone walls gleaming under the gold.
He glanced over his shoulder. The gray in the east drew closer.
A storm had followed him. Something stirred in him, not awan but ...
A sense of trouble flowed around him, trouble from the east and south. The moment passed.
As he crossed the wagon way, he heard hoofs coming and turned.
A truchai drew near, walking. The driver stopped the team and bowed.
Tuathal stepped up on the woven leather floor, careful not to unbalance the vehicle.
"Ksssa," the servant commanded, and the storm-dark horses walked at a fast pace up the road to the hall.
Tuathal concentrated on standing without touching the woven reeds and wood of the sides.
Riding the truchai would never be so simple for him as for others.
Nor had he done aught save walk for the last year and more.
As they climbed, the land fell away. To the west, a blue arm of the sea appeared between the hills and the half water.
Once, it had come this far, when his sire had been but a child, the waters storm driven.
Now the sea touched shingle and salt marsh.
Land mingled with water, land brushed sky, and so this hall and the standing stones to the east, here in a place neither land nor water nor sky.
Most fields had been harvested, and he glimpsed a wagon with barrels in it, apples red and green as well as grain and other gifts of a good land.
The horses slowed as they reached the top of the hill. "Cathal's man spoke truth," a deep voice called.
"His eyes are better, and words wiser, than the one he serves." Tuathal hopped down to the ground, bowed, then saluted Fiachta NoDomnail. Fiachta's smile spread under his luxurious golden mustache. They embraced.
"Aye. Cathal is among the bold, not the wise. As soon as the last wagon unloads, we feast. Go put on proper clothes."
In other words, he'd best look like a king's kindred and not a wandering tale spinner. That pleased him greatly, as did not being ordered to help the others.
He went to his usual place in the long, slightly curved stone hall, among the king's household.
Water and proper garments waited for him, as did a servant with shears.
She cut the length of his hair, then trimmed his beard.
After she finished, he stripped, removed more road dirt, and dressed in proper clothes.
Good trews in blue and brown, a soft brown shirt embroidered in white and deep blue, shoes of thick red leather, and a creamy white vest with green and blue embroidered beasts on the collar and beside the seams befitted a master praise singer and brother of a king better than had his road-weary garments.