13. Command from the Hidden Court #2
With some reluctance Tuathal untuned his own instrument.
Was he borrowing the king's instrument? Surely not, since he left his own, like for like.
And he would return the royal harp soon.
He set his clarsach and its case beside the seat of honor, and slipped the king's fine harp into the proper carrier.
He departed as he had come, eyes on the hem of his guide's cloak, then on the ground until he felt and smelled a change in the air.
He looked up and beheld darkness and stars.
He strode ahead, not glancing back at the mound or the way until he reached the foot of the king's hill.
The stars and darkness warned that the second watch had ended, but night had some time left to his reign.
How long had he been in the court under the mound?
Tuathal shivered. The tales held that a year might pass as a day—could the reverse be true?
A mystery not his to learn, at least, not this night.
He made his way back to the gate as the first hint of the sun's coming faded the weakest stars. The young man on watch frowned but did not ask. He opened the hidden door and Tuathal ducked through. He slid the clarsach's case into a half-hidden corner of his chamber, removed his shoes, and slept.
He woke not long after dawn. Cool water from the bowl broke sleep's hold as he washed his face.
He got a little to eat, then descended to meet Forchel.
Should he not come, then what? A question to be answered only should it come to pass.
The morning air around him carried weight, and smoke from the forge fires remained low.
Rain and storms might come later. If here the curse rested but lightly, how much had the nameless one's lands and people suffered? Tuathal eased around a puddle of mud.
As he drew closer to the priests' holding, he saw a gray-cloaked figure waiting in the morning's faint shadows.
Was it Forchel? Yes. The wise one beckoned, and Tuathal joined him, walking the path to the south, past the woodland and outer meadows to the cluster stones part-way up the hill.
The wise one's cloak blended into the rocks, part of the land but moving.
Silence rested between them. Tuathal watched the birds, some cloaked crows and grass-tails, as they flew or foraged.
A rock-squirrel darted from among the stones, furry brown haste in beast form.
The watery morning sun cast shrinking shadows.
"No agreement has come."
Tuathal looked to Forchel. The priest held his staff in crossed arms as he watched the land before them. "Eoghan holds that only blood is a proper gift. Others disagree, or remain silent from uncertainty."
He nodded. "Such also arises among bards, when old words slip from understanding."
"What say you?"
He weighed his knowledge, then said, "A bard's gift, given by a prince, is also a great sacrifice. The curse weighs on lands beyond," he waved, sweeping his hand across the world. "One wise in the ancient ways says that blood is not the proper gift to the Lord of the Lands at this time."
Forchel frowned but did not ask or challenge. Instead, he made a puzzled sound. "Can a skill be given so?"
A hard question indeed. Tuathal studied the stones and grasses at their feet. Tiny pricks of color hid in gray, green, and browns—the smallest of flowers, red and white. A prick, a drop of red on white, a song old and uncertain ...
"There is a song." Tuathal spoke slowly, singing in silence to himself "A song so timeworn none know its creator, about one who gave her gift of words in order to bring peace between the sea and the land.
" He inhaled and sang quietly. As he did, Forchel leaned close, intent as a bardic student learning a new, complex air.
"Very old," the wise one said at last. "That—" He caught himself. Bird song and wind whispers filled the silence. A shift of weight, then, "I can say only that old matches old and brings understanding."
Tuathal bowed to him. "A key that unlocks wisdom is greater than one that merely unlocks treasure."
"But wisdom is the greatest treasure."
"And wisdom without reputation?" He smiled.
An answering smile. "Reputation without wisdom do none desire, but many earn."
They both chuckled. Did Forchel have the same man in mind? Perhaps, perhaps not. All men shared certain weaknesses and strengths, and wise ones studied the same lore and songs as bards for some things.
Tuathal bowed once more. The wise one nodded. Tuathal made his way down the hill, following a different path. Eoghan would not— No, might doubt more Forchel's proposal should he see them speaking together.
The land spread out before him. He stopped at a clump of trees and stepped into the shadows.
"Prince of bards," he murmured, voice fading into the murmur of the leaves above him as they conversed with the wind.
To give his gift ... What did it mean? Not just a new praise song, or singing and playing all that he knew, emptying his memory as an offering.
To shed the blood of the young prince would bring war, raid and counter raid, more bloodshed.
The others in the land would turn against Fiachta and against those who allowed him to violate the laws of hospitality so terribly.
If and only if Tadag attacked, and declared his son's life worth nothing, then Fiachta could slay the boy, or give his blood to the gods in exchange for victory or to assuage them.
So all the tales and the laws commanded—a hostage could not be killed out of hand, especially not a royal prince.
He should leave, now. Tuathal looked toward where the road passed to the east, toward other kings' halls and the Brytheen land.
Nothing bound him here, not as a master bard.
He had done his duty to Fiachta, and no blood tie of kinship truly bound them.
What more did he owe a low king, even one who shared a father?
One of the great golden eagles hunted over the royal hill, broad wings outstretched as it surveyed its kingdom, a king of birds.
Come war, the birds would feast well, as would scavengers on two and four feet.
For a moment he saw Meren, cowering and bruised like the bond servant from the hall of the nameless one, prey for any who wished to take her.
Aisling and her daughter likewise, harried from hall to rock to valley, all men's hands turned against them, cursed seeds of an oath breaker.
"No." He hit the tree with the side of his fist, just hard enough to feel.
"No, I cannot permit more shed blood and war.
" Daithi and the nameless one had begun the woe, but he could stop it.
Would stop it, with words and not swords, since the wise ones did not read war in the future.
That tale would live forever, giving him a name to last no matter what form he next took, or when he shed this life.
He would give his gift, return the harp to the King of the Mounds, and then... He would see. For now, he had duties to tend to, including the song of the horse race to finish. Even he might not be able to play so fast as the king's and Cathal's horses had run.