14. The Gift of a Prince
The Gift of a Prince
The next days passed swiftly. "They have not sent for supplies. In truth, no one has seen them for three days," Tiernan said to one of the hall's under-stewards as Tuathal passed. "They go to discern wisdom, and their servants won't say where, or for how long."
They probably didn't know, especially if the priests argued among themselves.
Tuathal hurried away before someone asked him if he knew anything.
He smiled a little, recalling the great master bard Aineran's answer when asked if he knew "anything.
" The recounting of anything had taken all the rest of the day and much of the night.
And that had only been the "anything" that all men might know, not the great store of the master's doings and of wisdom, lore, and song.
At least the young beasts no longer suffered.
Those that had ailed recovered their health, while the others grew as they should.
Young children likewise. The loss of a year's worth of beasts would cost everyone dearly.
He'd heard from his mother's aunt of the time when cold storms came after the start of summer and killed all of that season's lambs and half the calves.
The people had suffered for a handful of years after.
As many children had died as had young beasts, or so she had declared.
The Brytheen had lost crops too, those who lived on the lands near the sea.
No, he did not care to see that for himself.
He brought the dark king's harp to the great hall and opened the case.
The instrument waited as it should. "Not all tales are always true," he reminded himself as he lifted the instrument and settled it properly against his shoulder.
Not everything from under the mounds turned into leaves or mist come the light of the sun's truchai.
Still ... He had to smile a little. The smile faded as his hands brushed the strings.
Two had lost tune more than they should have.
Being away from the dark king's hall did not agree with it, perhaps.
He adjusted the strings as he would any clarsach, and tried once more.
Now the notes sang as sweetly as the finest honey, casting the light of sound into the empty hall. "Ah."
He played the song of the horse race, fingers leaping from string to string as the horses leapt from the starting place.
Did he hear a faint echo from the walls of the king's hall?
No, only what the strings and his voice sang.
The clarsach would produce beauty even if played on the dung heap.
What was the wood? Something from far away, perhaps?
Or so old and age polished that no man could know the tree?
"What tales might you tell?" The harp sang at his touch, but not its own song.
That evening, after the meat had been passed and all had eaten, he took his place and sang the song of the horse race.
Cathal smiled as broadly as the king, and well he should.
His team had won the first half, but Fiachta's skill with the bow and his horses' final surge had gained him the victory.
Both warriors deserved all honor. Tuathal let the notes ring, then rested both palms on the strings, stilling the sound.
Silence stretched, stretched, then cheers as the men and women shook off the song magic.
"The finest warriors, the finest horses, and the finest bard all reside here," Fiachta called, raising his cup.
Louder cheers followed his words, and the beer pitchers passed from hand to hand.
Tuathal bowed and returned to his earlier seat.
He slipped the harp into its case, lest something spill on it or other misfortune befall the instrument.
He would return it as it had been loaned.
As he did, the door of the hall opened and three gray-cloaked figures walked in. The laughter and riot stilled as the wise ones approached the central fire. They saluted the flames, then passed around the hearth sunwise until they stopped before the king. Fiachta stood and waited.
"It is agreed." Eoghan spoke, displeasure clear in his words and the tight grip on his staff.
"The bard's gift will be tested to see if it is sufficient to satisfy the Lord of the Land.
" He turned to Tuathal. The ice on the peaks in winter, the wind from the sea at the turning of the winter, both carried the heat of the smith's forge compared to the wise one's demeanor.
"Two days, at the end of the day, the test. Should it fail, then the prince must give his blood to repay the harm. "
Before any could speak or act, Eoghan turned and stalked out of the hall. His associates followed more slowly, giving space between themselves and the oldest of the priests. They did not agree with his parting words, that even a blind man could see.
Fiachta turned, once the trio had left, and beckoned. Tuathal stood and followed him to the far end of the hall, beside the trophy heads of their father's day. "What did he mean?"
"Oh king, in order to finish lifting the ill done by greed, a great gift is needed.
What that gift is to be, the wise ones were uncertain, although all agreed that it had to be something of high worth, more than goods.
" He licked his lips, mouth going dry. "The gift of a prince, but what the Lord of the Land truly desired?
" He turned his right hand up. "It will be proven in two days. "
Fiachta's eyes did not leave his. "What gift, bard?" Anger, perhaps fear, frustration all filled his words and gaze.
"I do not know, oh great king. I think, perhaps, all songs old and new, the finest of words and lore, perhaps more, but I truly do not know."
"And the other?"
Oh, that he knew too well. "The blood of Caolin the fosterling, and all that will follow."
The ruddy flush of drink and feeling fled from the king's face.
He gestured to the others in the hall, now speaking quietly among themselves. "You see why the wise sought to learn more and truly understand what the land demands."
"I do. And if I refuse permission for you to give such a gift?"
"You so desire war, oh king? The nameless one's breach of hospitality will be as nothing should you permit the sacrifice of one fostered here for so small a gain. To offset the theft of mead and three fleeces with the life of a peace-bearing prince?"
Fiachta's fists clenched, then relaxed. "No. That war I do not seek, no man would were he not mad. Two days?"
"Yes." Should he? Perhaps. "The like has been done in the past, long past, and the tale tracks true, so say the wise ones. A bard's gift should be enough."
The king rested one hand on his shoulder, gripping tight. "Whatever is needed, is yours, if it lifts the curse and protects my honor."
Tuathal leaned forward in a slight bow. "My thanks, most generous and gracious king, for such a gift and promise." He straightened and smiled. "What I need now is beer."
"Beer we have in plenty, unless Darragh has the pitcher." The king led the way back to their seats. Good beer filled Tuathal's cup, and he drank, savoring the flavors. Ah, summer beer, one of the great blessings of the land and the season.
The ancient song of the gift of the voice for peace did not speak of bodily preparation by the singer.
He shrugged and finished the cup. Even he knew that different sacrifices brought different rituals.
Not his to worry about this night, unless he found a wise one waiting for him.
Since Eoghan had not spoken of such, he would do nothing differently.
Just after midday the youngest of the priests sought him out. "For tomorrow," the lad began, then stopped as his voice faltered.
Tuathal waited, listening, intent.
The priest coughed, swallowed, then spoke slowly, as if confused. "Come to the place of stone and wood and water? Bring harp and gift, and nothing more? Eat nothing after sunrise?" He stopped.
"The place of stone and wood and water, with harp and gift, empty of food."
A hesitant nod, then, "Ah, nothing else was told to me."
He hid a smile. "I will be there, with the harp and gift." He did not envy the lad, caught between Eoghan and Forchel, if that was what passed among the wise ones.
The young man hurried away. Once he left view, Tuathal drank some water and returned to his earlier task, mending the head of his court drum.
The sinew binding the head to the frame had worn almost through.
How had he not noticed? Easily, since he did not play it as often as he once had, and the uneven thickness of the leather head forced him to play around the thin spot, lest it sound out of tune.
No one else would know, but the flaw chaffed his ear.
Now he studied the hide in the sun's light, holding it up and looking through the drum.
No, it could not be remade to conceal the flaw.
Better leave it as it was with the known weakness than try to remake it and add something worse.
As his hands worked, his thoughts flowed, swirling like water around a rock in a narrow stream, or the flocks of grain-stealing birds, forming shapes in the air that only a few of the wisest could read.
What did Eoghan seek? The wise one doubted all of Brytheen blood, that all men knew.
He was not alone in that. Likewise some Brytheen distrusted the men of the Dunalaid.
Yet more than simple dislike moved the wise one.
No other sounded so out of harmony with their fellow priests.
Only Eoghan demanded a blood sacrifice for the land, even knowing what would follow.
Only Eoghan seemed to desire the high king's attention.