8. The Lay and the Land
The Lay and the Land
The next morning, before the others stirred, Tuathal added wood to the fire, waking it early and gently.
Sullen red brightened, grew golden as the flames licked the dead branch.
Emboldened by food, the fire rose higher.
He sat back on his haunches, staring past the flames as he warmed his hands.
The cool, mist-damp morning grew lighter as the sun's truchai neared the edge of the world.
Awan moved. He stood and walked half-way around the spring and pool.
He stared into the water. A shape formed, the last stars drawing together into a man's form shining with kingship.
The figure carried sword and spear. A red star gleamed on the tip of the spear, red that swelled, swallowed the king.
The waters turned red as blood, red as the eastern sky.
"You see it." Tuathal spun around, then nodded as Eoghan glided toward him.
"I see red waters, yes."
The priest stared into his eyes, then turned and swept his arms out, taking in all around them. "The one who claims lordship did not his duty to the land. No sharing of sovereignty, no gifts of honor."
Before he could stop it, the awan moved once more.
He heard himself chanting, "Red as the blood, red was the morning.
Dark as a night, dark was their grief. The waves hiss curses at the son of Bedarwi who took without giving and died without heir.
" He staggered, almost caught himself before he fell into the water.
Eoghan grabbed his arm and pulled him farther from the pool and spring.
"My thanks," Tuathal managed, once he caught his breath.
Eoghan let go, watching through narrowed eyes. His scowl chilled the morning air around them. The priest stalked away. Tuathal waited, gathering his strength, then glanced back at the pool.
Pale blue and pink graced the gently rippling surface, and a few wisps of mist rose like distant dancers. A morning breaker and two singers-of-dawn chanted their praises of the rising sun, flowing rises and falls of notes. A crow added his raucous complaint, then departed for more solemn company.
The warriors had begun to stir. He retraced his path through the dew-gleaming grass and joined them.
"Tonight, the cattle and any horses and bondsmen with them," Fiachta said. "We hold them, wait for Pyder's decision." Broad smiles greeted his declaration.
"And if Pyder seeks their return?" Cathal asked, still grinning.
"If he does his duty before us, in our sight, we give back some. If he refuses, we fight. He has failed the duties of kingship." All humor and jest disappeared from the king's face. "He denies guest right and allav right, has not joined himself to the land, and the land and water reject him."
Tuathal nodded as the others growled. On the opposite side of the group, Eoghan and the other priests signaled their agreement.
A shadow seemed to surround them as the trio turned their steps south and east and began walking toward the river and Pyder's hall and lands.
He'd seen that shadow before, when the high queen of the Brytheen died and a new queen succeeded her.
The cool morning chilled further, then warmed once more.
Two fore-goers met them that afternoon, not long after the warriors stopped to rest and water their horses. The boys had ridden ahead to learn where Pyder's herds and flocks might be found. Tuathal left his mount with one of the horse servants and joined the king and Odhran.
"And how many watchers?" Fiachta asked.
"Not enough, sire," the older boy said. He glanced to the other scout, then added, "Three for the cows, one for the oxen and two sheep."
"Almost thirty beasts and four watchers. " Fiachta sounded thoughtful as he stroked his mustache. "Both are too few for a wealthy lord."
The younger of the two lads hesitated. When no one else spoke, he blurted, "Only half the cows had calves, sir. I looked as best I could, but only saw ten and one calves, an' one of those was weak-looking. Not sickly, just little," he added in a rush.
Neither land nor beasts prospered. How badly had the curse struck the sheep and the hives? Had only Pyder done the harm, or had his elder brother failed his duty as well? Tuathal listened as the warriors muttered among themselves.
"Are the beasts cursed?" Darragh demanded. "I want no part of cursed cattle, lessen the curse is lifted."
"No." Tuathal spoke so his voice carried. "Pyder, yes. This past year's fleeces and honey, yes, they are cursed. Not the beasts themselves."
None questioned his words. Fiachta gestured to the warriors.
"We move closer, then camp. If Pyder refuses to do his proper duty still, we take beasts and heads, no honey, wool, or hides and meat.
" Daithi, one of the younger men, frowned as if he wished to challenge the low king's words, but dared not.
They found a good place and camped just outside a pasture with a white-headed spring.
No sheep or cattle used the grass yet. Tuathal leaned against an ash tree and listened, watching the servants and warriors prepare for the evening and night to come.
Two eagles drifted across the sky like boats on water, slicing the air with their wings.
Crows called a challenge, but the mighty birds continued on their way unhindered.
Smaller birds in the woods and bush behind him chirped quietly.
Gwydion had understood their speech, or so some songs claimed.
Master Allav Aineran had not been so certain.
Tuathal smiled a little to himself. Would he desire to know what the birds discussed and argued over?
Likely the same things as men and women—nests, mates, claims to land.
Several of Fiachta's warriors had been speaking, some shaking their heads, others making signs of uncertainty.
Should he go see what they discussed? Before he decided, Rian left the group and came toward him.
Tuathal moved a little forward from the ash's trunk, drawing the fair-haired warrior's eye.
Rian drew closer. "Ride you with us tonight, Allav? "
Tuathal shook his head. "No. I steal tales and kisses, not cattle," he said, smiling.
Rian smiled as well. "I thought not." He hesitated, then waved at the empty pasture to the west. "Can you guard?"
"Yes. If I am needed, I'll take the second watch, the long one." For cattle there'd be at least three watchers—he'd not be the only guard as he'd been with the sheep in the south.
That got him a puzzled look, one that Rian quickly concealed. "Good to know, master allav." The warrior nodded and hurried back to where the others still stood, now looking to the south and waving their hands about something.
He'd be more hindrance than help on a cattle raid. The arms men knew their business, had done this before. He had not—at least not with them. "Three great follies of the Isle of the Mighty: a warrior's weaving, a shepherd's sea-craft, and a bard's reaving."
As the others raided Pyder's herds, what of them had been found, Tuathal fitted words to songs, polishing them as a woman polished her mirror.
He brushed the clarsach's strings, feeling more than hearing the notes.
No, it needed ... Yes, there, a sourness to soften the sweetness, bitter like hay smoke, like the sour black waters of a growing bog.
"Water black, fishless darkness of the Barrachan's lands.
"Peat covered, red floating, faithless land.
"Black as the heart of a traitor, faithless as one forsworn,
"So was the Nameless who forsook his prince on that day."
Even the Barrachan had not wanted the name-stripped one, and his body had lain on the surface of the bog, untouched by beasts, until at last the peat swallowed it.
And yet even that was not counted as one of the Three Great Betrayals of the Island of the Mighty, at least not yet.
Tuathal finished the song and returned the clarsach to its case.
He warmed his hands near the king's fire, then drifted farther into the night, away from camp.
Why had Pyder not wed the land, or accepted offers of marriage?
Tuathal let his steps wander with his mind.
Surely Pyder was not under a gesh that kept him from marrying?
He'd not have become lord had that been true.
The priests had not spoken of such, but did they know?
There's been one gesh-bound high king of the western island, but his gesh also held for all of his men, those who had insulted a woman with child and forced her to race the king's horses.
She'd cursed them and rightly so. That had come after the king had been wed to the island and acclaimed high king, and had not interfered with his duties as king.
Tuathal turned his eyes up to the stars.
They held no answer, at least not one this night. Perhaps on the morrow.
He stopped beside the sheep-gap in the wall around the pasture.
Someone had made a new gate, well-fitting and solid.
He shook it a little. It wiggled but not easily.
That was good. He needed to find hazel or rowan and make rods, but not this night.
He'd seen wild pig tracks as they came through the forest. Rowan dipped in a white-headed burn's waters to lift any spell or curse on the cattle.
Hazel at least revealed the traces, if not lifted them entire.
Would the priests object? Pyder bore the curse, not his beasts, so no.
No god punished beasts in that way, at least not that he'd ever been taught or heard tales of.
The shrieking curse that killed in the womb had struck all living things, not Pryderi's cattle and sheep only.
Tuathal considered the fence, and the burn inside the pasture.
A faint gurgling dance of water sounds came from the spring and burn.