9. Confrontations #2
Before the flow stopped, more priests lifted the body and hurried it to the marshy, bog-touched bank.
They pushed the now-limp form into the dark waters.
Tuathal glimpsed what might have been bubbles, the last breath and spirit leaving the pale body.
Two of the grey-robed figures beckoned, and Fiachta strode down to where they stood.
They pointed, then swept their hands sideways.
Fiachta nodded once. With a single, swift cut he removed the head from the body as the priests lifted it from the waters.
Then the men shoved the remains of what had been Pyder NoFiann deeper into the mire.
His spirit would not return—a double death ended the cycle.
One of the local priests turned to Fiachta and his warriors. "Take what is yours, but leave the gifts of the bee, gifts of the sheep. Beasts, yes, but not fleeces. They belong to the gods, and as they return to the land, fertility will return."
Fiachta gestured agreement. "So shall it be. Grain, captives, goods and weapons, but nothing of honey and no fleeces."
Later that day, Cathal built a hot fire, and the other warriors killed the weapons of the dead men, then gave them to the gods of the waters as was proper, blades twisted, iron softened and useless.
"... he did not give it to the gods, that I do know," a priestess said as Tuathal studied the boxes and sacks heaped in the yard of the hall. "Nor did his older brother, again that I know. It was not seen done."
Eoghan turned and gestured. Tuathal drew nearer. "Did you see any bronze last fall?"
"No, wise one." Tuathal shook his head. "No mirrors, no blades, nothing of the shining metal. I did not ask about it. I do remember seeing it during the last year of Fiann's lordship, and the first of the brother's years—swords, mirror, and a small shield."
Eoghan gestured once more, dismissing him.
Tuathal left before his tongue revealed his thoughts.
This was not the day to sharpen his wits on Eoghan's patience.
It might not be Eoghan who spoke with his voice, and angering the wise ones ...
No. He had his satisfaction, and the nameless one had paid for his failures, as had those who had not forced him to do his duty or removed him.
The warriors rolled the casks of honey and mead out the gate as far as the closest field.
The priests used an ax and broke the casks.
The bees' labor oozed or flowed onto the ground.
Soon other bees, flies, and their ilk took a share of the golden sweetness.
The road steward directed the hall's bondservants to carry the fleeces out to the fields.
Under Eoghan's watchful eye, the servants tore up some of the fleeces, scattering the wool.
Odhran had built a fire, and more fleeces turned into smelly ash, to be scattered on the fields by the winds.
Daithi, one of the younger warriors, opened his mouth as if to protest, but Rian and Darragh together dragged him away before he spoke folly.
That evening, once things quieted and the warriors tended to weapons and beasts, Tuathal found the road steward once more. He waited for the man to finish giving orders to the cooking women. The steward turned to him and bowed. "How may I serve, master allav?"
"Have any of the hall's servants or bondsmen spoken of the farmers and herders under the hall's lordship?"
A very long quiet came in reply. Tuathal waited.
At last, eyes narrowed, the road steward turned his head to the west, as if considering the remaining daylight.
"Honored master allav, as many as could departed for other farms and masters, or so I was told.
Some may return as word of the lifting of the blight spreads, if a lord claims the lands properly. "
The notes under the man's words sang a different tale. A touch of chill brushed Tuathal's neck. "Thank you. I had wondered, given what I saw of land plowed but not sown, and pastures without beasts." He took himself off before the road steward could reply.
The dead man had said that he'd ordered the men of the land to make offerings.
Had he offered some of them, instead of doing his own duty?
Tuathal looked toward the river marsh. The Brytheen priests had stories of their own about such things.
The stories did not end well for the false giver.
The gods and the land knew. If the nameless one had done that, it explained much about the awan's curse, and the priests' unhappiness.
That night Tuathal played songs of victory and valor as the warriors feasted. He did not sing of the recent doings, not yet. He needed to sift words and melodies, knead them together into a proper loaf.
The next morning, Tuathal left camp with darkness still over the world.
He climbed a small, grassy ridge to watch the light of the sun's truchai bring color and life to the land.
Day flowed like water down the high peaks and slopes, touching green with gold and white.
Pale red and gold clouds faded to white that gleamed like snow, or like the skin of the fairest women of the Dunalaid and the western island.
As he watched the day unfold, from behind him a worn voice rasped, "I had wondered." The harsh words broke the word spell, scattering Tuathal's morning gathering.
He turned to face Eoghan and the two who came with him, and inclined in a slight bow. He held silence, waiting.
"Why you leave camp, do not wait for your king?"
"Some words and songs come best in quiet, wise one."
"True." The eagle overhead made more sound than the priests. At last, Eoghan said, "Summon your power, the awan." Something lay under the command, something of danger and secrets.
Tuathal spread empty hands. "Awan comes and goes as it wills, wise one. It is as a woman, not a faithful dog. Only the bardic gift comes freely."
The two priests behind Eoghan leaned together, cloak hoods hiding their whispers.
Eoghan lifted his staff. He thumped it onto the stones under his feet.
"As I suspected—we suspected. A true allav controls all of his gifts.
You may be called a bard by the easterners, but not here, among the Dunalaid. "
Pride stinging, Tuathal started to speak, then caught the words before his lips even moved.
"As we thought, Tuathal mother's son." Eoghan spun and marched down the hill. The younger priests let him pass, watching him. Then they too followed, far more slowly, murmuring to each other.
The three grey-robed priests turned north, into the woods. Did they know about the boar? They should, since they read animal signs as well as the leaves. If not, he could not warn them from so far away.
He returned to watching the land. A few white spots drifted over green, sheep now in their proper pasture.
Once he'd heard one of his fellow students grumble that watching sheep would be less taxing than learning the skills of making and mending harp, drum, and pipes.
Bears did not eat harps, nor did they attack drummers in the hall, unlike shepherds in the high mountain pastures.
Well, once he'd wished a bear might eat a piper, because the boy tried to play inside the small hall of learning.
He'd played loudly and badly. "The bears likely ran as far as the northern islands," Tuathal muttered at the memory.
Would a bear eat Eoghan? Not after the first bite. The bitterness would drive even eaters of the dead away. Tuathal savored the thought, then set it far, far aside, hiding it away as the earth hid metal.