11. Feast and Following
Feast and Following
The true feast would come the next day, but now they ate sausages and cheese, warm breads, and mushrooms cooked with fat.
A cup of spring ale sat beside his seat, and Tuathal savored the hints of fruit in the pale drink.
Fiachta wore the embroidered cloak that he'd won.
The horses around the hem pranced and raced in the fire's light as he spoke to the warriors and honored guests.
"You did not leap the fire with us," Fiachta said at last, eyebrows raised.
"A great work needed finishing, oh king, and I leap as a stone, not as a salmon, even at the coming of summer."
That drew a chuckle, and the king accepted his excuse.
After the awarding of the hero's portion and other gifts, Aisling the Bold gestured to Tuathal. He stood, bowed, and moved closer to the fire.
"Great is the renown of the kings of old,
"of heroes mighty, strong, and bold,
"but greater the might of Fiachta.
"South to the ford rode the king and his men,
"South to bring justice to the land and to men,
"South rode the men of Fiachta."
He spun the tale of the raid and the battle, harp murmuring, then roaring with the sound of blade against blade, sword against shield. Bardic power filled his words, drawing all within the sound of the harp into his weaving.
"Red flowed the blood of the men of the south,
"Red as the blade of Fiachta,
"Bright is the sun on the newly-freed land,
"Bright as the fame of Fiachta," he finished.
Absolute silence filled the hall, then a cheer as men roared their pleasure. Two visiting lesser bards stared, awe in their faces. Aelfyn smiled broadly and bowed in homage from where he sat, waiting his turn.
"Truly, a prince among bards graces my hall!" Fiachta's words brought shouts of agreement and acclamation from the warriors and women, praise as heady as the finest mead or beer of summer.
Tuathal bowed to the king and queen. "It is only the subject who makes the song great, oh, king. Men of little courage merit little praise, but men open-handed garner the greatest harvest."
Fiachta's smile threatened to unhinge his jaw, so wide did it spread, Aisling's likewise. At the king's left hand, the steward, Tiernan, declared, "Indeed, a prince who rules a kingdom of song."
Tuathal bowed and sat. A plate of choice meats and honey-soaked bread appeared beside him, and he ate, sipping the bitter-sweet fruit beer that came with it.
Aelfyn played several dance tunes, and a song about the beauties of women.
He did very well. He'd gained skill over the winter, testing himself and trading songs with Tuathal and others.
Tuathal smiled a raised a cup to him. Even in the dimming firelight, he could see Aelfyn's flush before the man bowed.
The next night, the guest bards played first. They did well, singing and playing as a team, harper and drummer, then drum and single pipe.
The older man sang low and solid, a little too solid for some tunes, perhaps.
Tuathal listened carefully to their songs.
One was new to him, a dance from the land south and east of the Isle of the Mighty, perhaps?
It had that sound to it, different tuning and turning of notes than the songs of the Dalriad or Brytheen.
At the king's request, he played the ballad of the raid once more.
Now the arms men nudged their bench-fellows as their names and deeds came, all smiling.
The guests listened closely as well, and Tuathal caught a glimpse of Aelfyn patting the rhythm.
Should the song travel, all the better, so that the glory of Fiachta would be known to all.
By the end of the night, Tuathal marveled yet again how Fiachta could drink so much without losing his head.
Several arms men slept under the benches, others had staggered off to quieter places, yet the king continued the celebration.
Aisling too retired. The songs grew bawdier, including one Aelfyn did.
Sly rhymes hinted at the real words and left those sober enough to understand weeping with laughter, sides aching.
Laughter was good. Soft words and laughter did not bring bloodshed.
He knew songs of those feasts, of ambushes and anger, of merriment that turned to war. That was not this night.
Come the morning, Tuathal sat slowly, head sore enough to warn that now was not the time to play a pipe tune.
Meren had not joined him in bed. He had not asked of her, either.
Her duties to the queen and court came first, alas.
Tuathal lay back down, arm over eyes, before bodily need urged him into motion.
Given the quiet over the hall and hill, he was not alone in rising late and moving with quiet. He glanced outside.
A few clouds softened the morning sun. The air felt rich with water. Perhaps a small rain would visit later.
He dressed, drank water after releasing same, and found a place in the morning sun to sit.
Ah, the warmth soaked into his bones, lifting the early chill.
The sun's chariot moved well to the north now, stretching days and leaving much light in the evenings.
He'd heard that even farther north, past the mountains and out in the distant islands where men build with stone for lack of trees, the sun remained in the sky and never slept.
Like men, it rested in winter and labored in summer.
Tuathal closed his eyes and turned his face up, drinking in the light and heat. Words came to him, awan moving.
"Warm the days, short the nights, life ripens as days pass.
"Grain seeks the sun, men seek the sun, all rising, growing together.
"Rise from the sea, rising from darkness, all rising together.
"Warm the days, short the nights, golden the grain heavy headed in the sun,
"Golden the sun in the sky, golden the days of summer."
"You do carry awan, múinti allav," a man intoned, his voice pitched for Tuathal alone. He opened his eyes and beheld one of the wise ones, a young man with a full beard already gray touched, standing to his left. Tuathal rose to his feet as the priest said, "I am called Forchel."
He inclined his head. "It does not always come when called, honored wise one, only if it chooses.
The wise one nodded. "Some powers come when summoned or invoked. Others flow as water over flat stones, now here now there." He nodded and turned, walking with quiet steps toward the main gate of the inner wall.
Tuathal sat once more, then studied the words that had come, fitting them to a tune. He would expand upon them later, perhaps. Today was not the day for heavy work.
"I like not the rain," Meren whispered, two handfuls of nights after the victory feast.
He stroked her hair as she rested her head on his shoulder.
"The feeling is bitter, not good spring rain but as if the sky angers." She shivered, and he pulled her closer, working one arm under her to hold her. She shivered once more before falling asleep.
He could not sleep so easily. She had the right of it. Even now, rain drummed on the roof of the hall, steady and cold. Not every day, but gray clouds had covered the sky most days since the king's feast. Tuathal thought, then forced himself to sleep.
Come the morning, Meren hurried out, returning to the queen's chambers.
Tuathal rose and went to the place of weapons.
He selected a staff heavier than his own, and worked with it until sweat covered him and the morning air no longer had a chill, at least not for him.
He returned the staff to the same place he'd found it.
As he did, Odhran came in. He shook drops of water off his cloak and hung it away from the door. "I do not like the rain," he said.
"You are not alone in that." Tuathal wiped himself with the water in the bowl, tongue between teeth to stop their chatter. Summer water should not be cold unless he stepped into the sea.
"No. Everyone but the fish in the streams grows tired of the rain." The old arms man shook his head and smoothed his mustache. "It comes out of turn, aye?"
The words gave him pause. Tuathal finished pulling on his shirt before he said, "It does."
"The farmers grumble about the barley and wheat, and two shepherds ask to move the flocks higher up in the hills, for fear of the streams rising and washing the health out of the grass.
" Odhran stretched several ways, then undid the strap on his sword and strode into the practice area.
Tuathal pulled on his cloak, raised the hood, and went on his way.
Chill mist swirled around the hill as he looked out over the land.
Meren and Odhran had the right of it. Something in the air ...
A bitterness, not cold of winter but of unhappiness, like the faint keen of a washer at the ford lamenting the death of one who had kept war at bay.
Had the priests, the wise ones, said anything?
He'd not heard, but neither had he sought them out.
He gazed into the distance, at the mist-hidden hills to the south, then crossed the hill to look at the bog.
Who had put the stones in the bog? Or had they once stood on proper land, like those to the east and in the next valley, but been swallowed?
If so, why had the bog devoured the land?
"Under the water sleeps the great hall/Ruin, reminder, prize of the sea.
High pride brought low by white horses/injustice avenged by salty white horses," he hummed.
Had the gods of land and water done the same, with moss and water instead of the sea's waves? He shivered. Why?
Now was not the time to ask of the wise ones, that much he knew full well.
For one, it meant seeking them out in the lowland where they resided.
Wading held no appeal, not until he'd eaten.
Two, they might not have an answer, or not choose to give it.
Eoghan would likely stay silent. Or, they might know, but not be allowed to tell one outside the circle of the wise. Bards did the same.