5. The Dying of the Year #3
Tuathal drank a bit of water from the cistern, then made his way to the great hall.
A boy fed the fire, easing well-seasoned wood into the coals.
Had it gone out, they'd have to relight it with coals from the priests' bonfire, something that boded ill for Tuathal's comfort.
He'd tended the fires in the bards' hall in the eastern lands, as was proper for a student, and once as master when the need arose.
He warmed his hands, but stayed back from the hearth.
The year died as men died, as all died save the gods, and perhaps they too died.
He had not those secrets, that knowledge.
Once he'd attended the rites of sacrifice, standing for his mother's brother's son when Gwri could not.
Did Fiachta feel the same things he had felt?
Tuathal shrugged to himself and departed the great hall.
His place was outside this day. Restlessness moved in him, pulled or pushed by the passing of the year and the birth of the new.
"Many guises did I wear before I took this form:/ wolf and deer and shining fish, oak tree in a storm,/ raindrop gleaming in the sun, river to the sea.
/ When I shed the shape of man, who knows what I might be?
" He put no gift behind the whispered words—they were not his to claim.
His steps took him to the northern ring of the outer wall of the keep, a place he could keep watch.
A few bushes grew inside the wall, not quite a hedge, but tolerated for reasons of power.
He pulled his cloak a little closer, blending in with the hedge and stones.
People moved behind him, bondsmen and women working quietly.
The smith and other free men rested or did small tasks that made little noise.
The death of the year and the birth of summer both encouraged discretion until the priests finished giving thanks for the year's gifts and offering apologies and recompense for any slights.
Tuathal let his eyes unfocus, taking in the swift rise and fall of the birds, the flash of white from gulls coming and going.
None of the greater birds moved yet, the eagles and hawks.
A raven croaked, sleek darkness against the milky blue of the sky.
Tuathal nodded but did not reach. He had no need.
Too, more than a raven's essence might ride the wind on wings of shining black, shining like the sea-stone raven in pendant form worn by the high queen in the east.
Words moved in him. He listened with inner ear but did not test them for trueness.
Now was not the time. Eoghan might take such as a challenge or insult.
Could the priest sense awan? Those of his mother's court did.
Two also held the bardic gift, perhaps that made them aware of others.
Tuathal considered the words and tucked them away.
He shrugged once more and went to the place of weapons. That he could do, should do. He set cloak and vest aside. Again the wooden practice sword came to his hand, again he struck unseen foes. Other men observed as they came and went, but none challenged him or offered words.
The midday meal of barley bread, dried meat soaked in hot water, and the last greens of the summer filled the belly but did not satisfy.
A good reminder of the lean times, and much like the meals of sacrifice, but without the bitter berries.
Again Tuathal drank water from the cistern, then found quiet places to be, where he could gaze at the land and sky.
As he watched, a truchai drawn by trotting horses came toward the stronghold from the south.
Two men rode in it, both wearing cream-grey cloaks of undyed wool, both splashed with something darker.
The truchai slowed, and one figure stepped down from the still-moving vehicle.
The horses returned to the trot as the driver guided them toward the proper road.
Not until he knew who guided the horses did Tuathal go to meet them.
"The king returns," a watcher called. Tuathal glanced left and right.
He was not alone in his relief, if the expressions and sagging shoulders of the men and women around him told truth.
Fiachta was liked by his people, and the land prospered under his hand.
That the king returned alone boded well.
Still, Tuathal held back in the shadows of the inner wall, watching and quiet.
Aisling the Bold met her husband as he stopped the horses.
The horse master, Brian, himself took the reins, once Fiachta unwrapped them from around his waist. He stepped down as softly as a falling feather, with nary a creak or protest from the light, wicker-work truchai.
Blood splashed his cloak. Patterns of drying blood marred his fair face, but not his blood.
"The gods accept our gifts," the king called, voice rough as if from battle cries or smoke. "Both blood and metal. Tomorrow will come cold and clear."
"Thanks to the gods, to the Lord of the Land, to the Goddess of the Waters, to Morak of Horses and Cirianis of the Land of the Sun," came a call from among the people of the hill.
"Thanks be," Aisling replied, voice carrying over heads and rustles. "Return to your work, that the young year begins well and prospers."
Should he work on the new song that had come to him? No, not yet. The wise ones yet lingered, perhaps, and the day did not feel right for such work. Come the morrow, if he was not needed to slaughter, then he would labor as song smith at the word forge.