10. Return and Triumph #2
Meren joined him that night. He gave her the gold ring from the south.
Her eager thanks more than made up for the last few weeks of empty blankets.
Afterwards, he stroked her shoulder as she slept beside him.
He'd never been one to chase away a willing companion after a tumble.
Too, she had a comfortable presence, unlike some women he'd bedded. He fell asleep not long after.
Come the morning Tuathal broke his fast, then took one of the cloak brooches to the woodlands.
He went far into the dappled shade, listening to the trees murmur among themselves.
At a low, stone-edged mound he stopped. No one else had come recently, including the wise ones.
That was very good. He walked around the long mound until he found a spot where the rocks grew darker and the grass thinner.
He crouched and brushed aside the earth.
A flat stone, half hidden in the old leaves and soft dirt, came into view.
He used his knife to pry the pale stone from the red-brown soil.
A hole appeared, or what seemed to be a hole.
"Thanks to the Lord of the Land for bounty.
Of what I was given, I give. Of praise I received, I return.
Metal to earth, stone to stone, thanks for grain and grass, herbs and fruits, all that take of the soil.
" He dropped the brooch into the darkness.
How far it fell he did not dare guess. He replaced the flat rock and covered the place, patting the dirt and grass back where they belonged.
Offering made, he retraced his steps, then wandered east and north, far from where the wise ones directed servants to pile wood.
Aelfyn too had found a place away from Eoghan's eyes, or so Meren had whispered.
The harper had not been seen since the king's return.
Tuathal did not blame him. Especially since the senior priest seemed determined to deny the rights and shield of bardic training.
Would washing in the first dew make him more handsome?
Tuathal snorted as he followed the trail up onto the shoulder of the ridge, avoiding the sheep and biting flies farther down.
How would any know? He'd been assured that his face did not merit songs, unlike the great bards and kings of the past. Too dark and small for the Dunalaid, too red of hair for the Brytheen, he was as he was, a bit of both.
He held his breath and hurried through a cloud of swirling gnats.
They followed anyway, then blew away on a bit of wind.
He stopped and drank from a small burn. From there he continued north, away from the hill of the hall and the place of bone fires and sacrifice on the ridge.
Below, to the west, what looked like solid land stretched away from the king's hill, north almost to the end of the ridge.
Green-brown covered the area, but not the green of grass.
A few stones rose through the green-brown, clusters of pale gray fingertips reaching for the sun and moon.
They had once stood as tall above the land as did the stones on the eastern side of the ridge, or so the oldest fragments of song claimed.
Rushes, peat, and black water now swallowed the stones and the mounds they guarded.
Was it true? He was not the one to search the bog's secrets. The high ground held safety.
At last he reached a hut used by the shepherds in winter.
Now they watched the sheep in less sheltered areas with good summer grass.
Tuathal opened the door and ducked into the little stone dwelling.
All was well. Three good sniffs revealed nothing more than faint damp-stone scent.
He did not touch the sealed jars in the wall niche or glance in the stone trough that would serve as a bed come winter.
"My thanks for shelter, for a place of rest," he chanted, then set his clarsach's case down on the floor.
Come midday on the morrow he would return to the king's hall.
Now, quiet and solitude served. As warm as the day's sun shone, he'd not need a fire in the night.
That was good. Tonight's fires belonged to the priests to kindle if they did not burn already.
Tuathal folded his cloak and used it as a pad on the stone and wood bench just outside the door.
Clarsach tuned, he resumed work on the song of Fiachta's raid.
Had Pyder kept his name, the work would be easier, or at least the word patterns simpler.
Tuathal let his word-hound chase that hare, then returned to his task.
The cattle raid proper came easily, as did the low king doing his duty to the land by ensuring that the other lords also made proper offerings and kept the laws.
The battle ... Tuathal shook his head. The nameless one had shamed his men when he yielded to fear and sought to flee.
One who truly thought the gods supported his claim would not have dropped his weapons and run.
Tuathal took back words and rewove the song, leaving a hint of the man but keeping the tale with Fiachta and his warriors.
Indeed, that flowed better, Fiachta and the nameless one's faithful men, the men who stood by their vows.
Twice he stopped to move, to study the birds and any beasts that passed.
The wind sang a little as it raced up the ridge from the west, ruffling the grass where stones hid it from sheep and deer and other eaters.
An eagle soared high. He reached for it and saw men working in the fields to the east. My thanks.
He returned to himself. No one sought for him.
That was good. He bounced on his toes and basked in the heat of the day.
Oh, how men dreamed of summer when winter winds sang around the king's hall.
Tuathal finished the new song just before the sun slid behind the western hills.
He left the clarsach on the bench and walked back and forth, returning life to his legs.
Birds crossed the sky, seeking their places of rest. He descended the ridge far enough to find good water.
He crouched and drank. A little metal flavored the waters, but did not tint the clarity of the spring's flow.
It came from the hidden lands, or so it tasted.
"Thanks for water, for the dance of stream and light on the land," he whispered to the stones and spring.
As the first star appeared in the sky, a flower-like red flame bloomed on the hill to the north.
He eased to where he could see south to the hill of the king.
Two more fires appeared as he watched, lit from the wise ones' fire.
Soon men and women would leap the flames, those who dared, and drive cattle and sheep through the smoke to ward off trouble and spells of ill will.
He smiled a little. He'd done it several times at his mother's court, and once here, then spent the rest of the night in the woods, gathering herbs or enjoying the attentions of a woman, or both.
He'd tended the fires once. The changing wind had ensured that he'd been well smoked by the time the sun rose and the last flames faded to coals and ash.
He should be at a fire. Yet ... He tipped his head back to see the first light of the stream of stars. Something warned against being near the wise ones this night. Better to stay here.
He returned to the clarsach, checked the tune of the wires, and drew a gentle flow of notes from the harp.
He let his hands move as they would, and a lullaby murmured into the growing darkness, followed by a soft ballad of love newly stirred.
He turned it into the first notes of a song from the Brytheen lore, a tale of their coming and of the reasons they left their old lands to the east and south.
"Ahhhh," a pleased sigh, or flow of wind, whispered past him. "More of the past, oh Muanti Ollaf."
He bowed his head, acknowledging the request. The notes grew stronger but still quiet, and he sang with the clarsach, spinning the tale of the Brythonic voyagers and their first steps on this land, of the earliest battles with the creatures who lived on the easternmost shores of the Isle of the Mighty.
Blood both red and yellow had flowed in plenty, and the ravens and others feasted at their leisure until they grew sated on flesh, so many had died.
At last, a woman of the Brytheen had chanced to learn the secret of the monsters, and so the battles turned and the beasts retreated to the hidden places.
The King of the Mounds had turned his blade against the creatures as well, or so the tales claimed, until only a few beasts remained, haunting the wildest lands far from the paths of men.
"Aaaaahhhh, a strong tale indeed, Maunti Ollaf.
" The whisper came from his left, or did it?
He did not seek the speaker. Instead, he bowed lower where he sat, and shifted so he balanced the harp without needing hands.
His fingers ached a little from playing for so long, a warning to stop before true pain followed.
"Long hassss it been sssince ssso fine a telling. My thanksssss." A form, dark gray in the darkness of early night, folded into a bow and flowed away. The words sounded as if the speaker came from far to the north, one of those who used dark sounds for light.