6. Turning of Winter, Warnings of Spring #2
Where had the bronze in Pyder's hall gone?
No mirror for a guest to use, no swords, no vessels to gleam in the light of the fires, no lamps returning the light two-fold ...
Tuathal stroked his mustache. Not seeing a mirror in the great hall came as no surprise, but Pyder's father had been proud of the ancient treasures that had passed into his kin line through marriage and conquest. Tuathal frowned.
The absence meant something, but what? And did it matter to him, save that Pyder sought to make him his enemy?
Perhaps. He turned his thoughts and attention back to the warriors around him.
"What knows a bard of fighting?" Rian demanded, with a laugh.
Tuathal smiled back. "Of battles long ago and more recent? A good amount. Of the use of sword and knife, staff and spear, arrow and sling and hound? Enough to know when to stand my ground and when to climb the nearest good tree."
That brought more laughter. Odhran, standing behind the others, arms folded, nodded his agreement. "I've seen Tuathal NoDomnail fight with staff and with sword when forced. He yet lives, with his head on his shoulders, aye?"
"I've not yet starved on the road, even in the empty lands between queens and kings," Tuathal stated, tone mild. "Although I freely admit that neither roast boar nor yearling stag graced the spit over my fire." He'd grown almost tired of hare, caught in snares, and ground-runner bird meat.
Chuckles and nods followed his words, and a few knowing winks and elbows among the warriors.
"Sometimes a man's glad for meat that didn't try to kill him first, aye?
" Rian said. Cathal glared at the crimson-haired swordsman, then relaxed.
Was it a private story, a hunt that ended poorly, or a boast that failed?
Tuathal noted the look but held back his questions.
"You like lamb so much, then, do you?" one of the other men demanded with a lop-sided grin. Laughter filled the afternoon, and the tales began anew.
Before the evening meal, Tuathal studied the bronze in Fiachta's great hall.
Two swords so old none knew their story hung behind the seat of kingship.
They had the shape of some from the lands to the east, the mainland, the padding and wood from their hilts long vanished, leaving bare metal behind.
A helmet rested on the shelf above the box of trophy heads, decorated with twining spirals and leaping hounds, and dotted with red and green enamel like that of the southeastern kingdoms. A shield had once hung with the swords, but Fiachta had given it to the river's waters as a gift of thanks for Aisling's life after her last birth.
At least ten bronze mirrors could be found in chambers and chests.
Tuathal had seen more in his mother's hall, but the Brytheen kept closer to the old ways than did the men of Dunalaid.
Had Pyder given the mirrors to the gods?
Or had his father? Tuathal found a place to watch the servants and others work, and turned his memory back.
Pyder had come to his lands ... When? The summer of the burning bog, that was it, five summers ago.
No, he caught himself, three. Pyder's older brother had been named to follow their father five summers ago, and had gotten in a fight with one of the island lords and died in the winning.
Three years, Pyder had been lord of his lands, then.
Bronze had gleamed on the walls then, and shone in the guest chamber, and twenty and more benches had his fighting men filled.
Tuathal tucked the thoughts away for now. The scent of meat teased him.
There was nothing for it. Tuathal drew the harp string between his fingers, feeling the wear.
It would snap soon, and no longer held tune well.
He could hear it, feel it, and soon others would notice the flaw.
That made three wires to be replaced, and four that would soon fail, or had already failed.
Wire sang more brightly and loudly than did gut or hair or flax, but could not be tuned or replaced so easily.
He needed Master Gobodin's skills, or use of the small forge.
All harpers knew how to make strings, and in his case wires, but it had been ...
three years since he'd needed to. "Time passes, need arises," he murmured, releasing all tension on the clarsach.
Harps left too tight pulled themselves apart, as did harps of weak joints and poor glue.
The next day Tuathal ventured to the smith's domain.
The sun grew stronger, but the wind warned that winter had not retreated too far yet.
Plastered in and out, the walls of the greater forge house bore streaks of soot around the door and window, rock coal or charcoal from the fires.
Gobodin himself stood in the doorway, leaning as he always did.
One leg remained shorter than the other, as he had been born.
The strength of his shoulders and arms made up for his tilted legs.
Tuathal stopped and waited. Gobodin beckoned and he drew closer.
He held out the worn wires, and four more.
The smith squinted, drawing dark gold metal between thumb and forefinger. "Hmmmm." He met Tuathal's eyes. "Not gold."
"No. Ummha—the blended metal." All had heard of harps strung with gold, but even Allav Múinti Aineran had never seen or played such. "Two parts red metal, one gray metal, and a tiny bit of lead, those were the metals in the making."
"Hmmm." Gobodin glanced into the forge house, then nodded. "Return not tomorrow but the day after. We draw wire for other things, red metal, so come then."
Tuathal nodded as well, and dipped his head with respect. "Day after tomorrow I return." He straightened, then departed. Forge magic had its own power and secrets, power all did well to respect. Earth and fire became metal, a process more powerful than turning words into song, or so some claimed.
A day and a night later, Tuathal returned to the forge house.
One of the helpers met him as he entered the low gate and led him around to the smaller forge house, where men shaped white metals—all save iron.
Iron had demands of its own, and the great heat could curse lesser metals such as red metal, ummha, and lead.
White metals had their own secrets. Tuathal bowed to the symbol of Langh, god of crafts and hand creating, then entered the forge house.
A small fire burned in the dimness, and metal strips lay on the stones near the fire.
As his eyes grew used to the shadows, he saw and heard men grunting with effort as they pushed and pulled metal through ever narrower gaps in a heavy bar.
The still-hot metal grew thinner and finer, becoming wire.
"Now," Gobodin commanded, and a boy used an iron blade to cut the end.
The smith set the thick wire on a piece of stone close to the fire to warm, then drew two more strands.
After the third strand joined the others, the smith met Tuathal's eyes. "Now you."
Tuathal nodded and shed cloak and vest. One of the youngsters loaned him a leather apron.
Gobodin handed him a small stone blade. He pricked his right palm, drawing blood, and touched the first coil of wire.
A faint hiss and sting of heat and pain, then he returned the blade to Gobodin.
"You draw," the smith commanded, eyes narrow under brows broken by the touch of fire's fingers.
Tuathal picked up the leather-wrapped tongs and moved to stand in front of the drawing plate.
Gobodin lifted a thin bar of ummha from the heat of fire's edge and pushed it against the back of the plate.
Warm yellow metal appeared in the hole in the dark plate.
Tuathal waited until a longer thread wormed its way free, then grasped it with the tongs and pulled.
The steady, even draw required all his concentration.
He backed and leaned, attention on the growing wire as the smith pushed.
"Cut," the smith commanded. Tuathal shifted his weight forward. He'd tumbled once in a forge house, ruining the string and burning himself as well as other things. With great care he coiled the wire and set it beside the others to warm.
Three more he pulled before Gobodin dismissed him. "We finish. You've done your share."
Now Tuathal bowed. He returned the leather apron, gathered his garments, and departed.
He also left a silver ring on the small table beside the door, a gift and payment for new metal should the old strings not have been sufficient.
After glancing here and there for trouble, he found things to do.
The arms men grew restless, testing themselves and Fiachta.
Tuathal watched, then moved elsewhere, listening to the sounds of the coming of spring, soaking them in as dry ground soaked in gentle rains.
He dared not touch the clarsach until every wire had been strung in place once more.
The next day, one of the smith's boys gave him the new and remade wires plus one that had a different look. "Múinti Gobodin says the metal did not pull true?" The boy's puzzled expression matched Tuathal's own confusion.
"It did not. Thank you, and may your hands always work with skill."
The boy bowed and raced off once again.
In the sunlight, the odd wire appeared more red, as if red metal had not blended properly, or had added too much of itself to the ummha blend.
Tuathal nodded. He could not—dared not—string it onto the clarsach.
Instead he slipped the wire into a pouch on his belt and made his way down the hill and to the marsh.