7. The Cattle Raid of Fiachta
The Cattle Raid of Fiachta
He should not have waited so long to return to hard riding.
Tuathal made himself ignore the aches as he guided the gelding left, then right, struggling to stay in the middle of the beast's back.
A warrior rode in a truchai. Those who warred with words?
He could not run alongside the truchaine as had the women of legend.
The horse stopped, almost sending him over its head.
The laughter from beside the pasture wall did not help his relearning.
Fiachta had been eating after hearing cases of law when Tuathal left the hill.
The king now leaned on the wall, watching.
The sun shone gold on hair and torc. Tuathal worked the horse a little longer, then dismounted without grace.
He traded reins for halter rope and led the horse to the waiting servant, then went to where the king stood.
"You ride like a sack of grain," Fiachta said with a smile.
"No, oh king, a sack of grain carries itself with more grace than I do. My skill is in head and hands, not legs."
A snort and laughter greeted his words. "Come."
Going over the steps in the wall hurt. He should have heeded Odhran's words better and begun riding at the year's turn, not waited for spring.
He hid a wince and followed at his half-brother's right shoulder.
The warm sun felt easy and rich, full of spring's fire and life, promising better as the days grew longer and summer drew closer.
The air smelled of grass and plowed earth, forge smoke and life.
Green covered the brown and black trees, green washed to the hills and over their shoulders like a long plaid or cloak.
He glanced down and tried to brush off some of the short gray hairs covering his trews.
Trees shed in winter, beasts shed in spring.
Fiachta stopped under a great oak tree and turned, arms folded. Tuathal waited. "When will you take to the road?"
A question he could not answer. "I know not. The awan does not push me." He smiled a little. "Nor does an angry father."
The king's smile matched his. "Her child looks just like Rian's brother, the smith, or so I am told." The smile disappeared like the sun behind a storm. "Eoghan speaks poorly of you."
Spoke without skill, or spoke things unkind and unflattering? He weighed words, then said, "We have a difference."
"He does not like that you speak of the laws and that the king consults a bard instead of a priest on such things."
Tuathal waited. Something swirled in the king's words, something dancing and dangerous.
"He says that the gods will send signs of their disfavor if—" Fiachta stopped, gazed toward the hill of kingship and the places beyond. "If something is not done."
Something? Three birds sang at once, from south, west, and north.
All three fell silent once more. A cow lowed.
A light breeze from the west ruffled the hem of Fiachta's long plaid, rippling fabric like water before hurrying about its business.
Tuathal listened to all, and to that which resided inside himself.
"The other priests ... disagree, or so it appeared when we spoke this dawn." The king's gaze returned to Tuathal's eyes. "He said not what the gods' sign might be."
Defeat in battle? Bad crops? Illness? Fire? Storms out of season? Again he weighed words. "Would my leaving your lands appease the gods, oh king?"
"He did not say. From what he has said before, I suspect not.
" Fiachta moved, arms folded, walked to the edge of the grass and back.
"Stay, ride with us, but be wary." He came closer and lowered his voice, after glancing at the hawk perched on the tree beside the path to the east. "He mistrusts brother-faith between us, and your power. "
"Ah." Tuathal bowed his head as the king moved back two paces. "Much is made clear, my brother. Priests shed kin lines when they take up their training, do they not?"
Blue eyes narrowed as a battle-scarred hand stroked a sun-gold mustache. "They do." The hand lowered and a small smile bloomed below the mustache. "It is otherwise with an allav."
Tuathal gestured agreement. "Yes. During training, the master is father, brother, mother, and king. After mastery?" He shrugged. "Some go alone, others remain in their kindred but not of it." Meaning they acknowledged blood connections but were not bound by kindred duties in the same way as before.
"That ... thank you, Allav. Your words bring clarity."
Tuathal pretended not to notice the arms men and Brian as they approached. He bowed a little to the low king. "Wise is the man who seeks clarity. Muddied waters fade faster after the foot leaves the stream."
"And a wise rider sheds less horse hair than the horse." Brian's voice carried amusement, not insult, so Tuathal nodded acknowledgment.
"A wiser rider chooses a dark horse, or walks during spring."
All the men chuckled at the jest. Tuathal bowed lower to his brother, then took himself away before he grew too stiff to return to the royal hall. His legs protested mightily as he walked, proclaiming his folly with all their might.
He pretended not to notice Eoghan's dour glare as he passed the gateway of the wise ones' holding.
"Will you carry a sword, allav?" Cathal asked the next day as Tuathal returned the wooden practice sword to its proper place.
Would he? Tuathal considered, then shook his head.
"No, unless the king asks. If attacked by an enemy, I defend myself, but I do not seek battle glory or a warrior's renown.
" Some held that bards had no need of weapons other than wit and song.
His master had not numbered among them, so Tuathal and the others learned blade skill.
Snares and arrows brought food, but a bard did not hunt the great beasts like bear, wolves, or boar.
Cathal's expression shifted to one of approval, and he returned to his earlier task. After pulling on his vest once more, Tuathal went to the spring and drank of the cool water.
Spring seemed eager to hurry into summer.
Cold rain would return once the warriors began the journey south, of course.
Allav Amlod had called spring "the womanly season," both for the changeability and for the passions it inspired in men.
And in women, but Amlod had avoided women's company lest his gesh come upon him.
Had the curse also touched the students with him when it was cast?
Tuathal considered as he returned the bucket to the hook.
He did not care to find out that it had.
He'd cautioned Meren that he offered no marriage pledge or agreement.
She'd considered, then accepted his words and remained a welcome bedfellow.
She'd not visited him the previous night.
As sore as he'd been, he did not truly regret the lack of companionship.
The allaven of the high king's court rode in truchaine.
They also had bond servants and others to tend to them.
He looked to the western hills, and the tiny tongue of the sea lapping the marsh.
Perhaps he would go to the western isle, learn and listen, or to challenge.
Perhaps not—now was not the time. Larks sang from the hedge, and three cloaked crows passed overhead.
He watched them as they flew to the south.
Had he worn their shape? Would he? If he had, no memory remained.
He was not Gwydion or Meriddin to remember all that he had once been, and foresee what he would become.
"And what you will be is a fool if you do not repair the strap," he told himself, shaking free of the reverie.
Having the case of the clarsach fall off his back or shoulder...
If he were to fail to do so basic a task, Amlod would compose an ode that would send him fleeing to the sea's depth for refuge, only to find the fish laughing at him!
Strap mended, Tuathal made certain that the rest of the case remained sound, just as he tended the instrument held by the case.
He also found his traveling drum and studied the thickness of the hide on the frame.
It had always had a flaw, still had the flaw, but looked and felt no weaker than before.
The beater showed no cracks, not that it should.
He picked the drum up by the cross bars under the head and began tapping out a rhythm on head and frame, slowly, then faster and faster, testing all parts of the skin.
It was not as loud or deep sounding as a hall drum, but fit in a horse pack.
He changed his grip, muting the head with the fingers of his left hand while plying the beater with his right, a softer sound.
Clarsach, drum, pipes, six-stringed crwth, and flute, the tools of a song maker, but clarsach above all.
The next few days he rode, reaching a truce with the gelding.
His body remembered what to do, just as his hands knew certain songs.
Brian, the master of horses, watched but offered no words of instruction or of praise.
A few of the warriors watched with amusement, perhaps pity, but said nothing.
Some of the men of the lands east of the isles fought while riding, or so far-travelers had said. He had not seen such.
Now, he watched Brian teaching a very young horse. The man moved slowly and smoothly, never startling the colt. He rubbed it with a rough cloth, then lifted one foot, held it, and lowered the foot. The horse chewed, red-brown ears flicking, but did not fight or kick.
"What would you do should you see a fine lady on a horse with green and silver trappings?"
Tuathal turned and bowed to Aisling. The queen came closer, smiling a little. He smiled in turn. "I would watch, and sing of her beauty and of the grace and speed of her steed, but not follow."
"You do not seek a wife?"