14. The Gift of a Prince #2
Tuathal snorted very quietly as he tested the sinew before working it through the holes in the drum head and stretching the head properly over the wooden frame once more.
No man with sense sought the attention of the high king, the gods, or the northern raiders.
Perhaps of the gods, if he had a need or desired to repay them for their favor and ward off ill will, he amended.
The high king, according to all the tales, left none pleased when he gave judgement or settled other disputes.
And the less thought of the northerners, the better.
They raised few crops, raided the settled lands, and their songs carried a wildness with them that scratched and bit other singers.
If Eoghan thought to gain standing among the wise by drawing the eye of the high king on the Western Isle, he did not truly listen to the songs and tales.
Tuathal began to tighten the hide across the drum's frame, keeping the pressure even as he did.
He'd watched a fellow student ruin a hide by not taking care when drawing it taut over the frame.
Glanmore had paid for that with his own hide, and had not leaned against anything for six days and more.
The low kings of the Isle of the Mighty would hurt as much as Glanmore had, perhaps, should the high king and his warriors come, and the wise might not escape the pain.
Once all seemed well, Tuathal tried the drum, first with hand and then with the beater.
It sounded as it should, first quiet and dull, then loud and brash.
He played around the thin spot, then added it to the pattern.
Alas, it had not mended itself. Was there any magic that could thicken a flawed hide?
Gwydion and his ilk had known the secret, perhaps.
He looked up from the drum to see Aelfyn watching intently. "Yes?"
"Múinti allav, sir, how do you move your hand?"
An odd question. Tuathal considered, then played once more, more slowly. The harper leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he watched. He tried to mimic the motion.
"Here." He stood and offered drum and beater to Aelfyn.
"Take them, and hold them as you were taught.
" The easterner did as told. "Play a three pattern as I did.
" Something sounded off. "No, do not touch this," he pointed to the thin spot.
"Three pattern around that. Curve your wrist more, lighter on the beater. "
The younger musician tried again. "Release what you hold in your wrist. Like so," Tuathal let his own wrist flop like cloth draped over the drying rods. Aelfyn mimicked him. "Yes, good. Now do that as you roll your hand for the beats."
This time the drum sounded as it should. "Good. Practice that, always letting the beater do its own work, not your arm."
"Thank you, generous múinti allav. I heard the difference, but could not see it." He smiled. "And my wrist doesn't hurt."
It should not. That he'd been able to play as well as he had ... A feat indeed. "You are welcome. As we are taught, so should we teach. Now go do that, on your own drum, so you can feel the difference."
The younger harper bowed and hurried off.
Tuathal tried a complex dance rhythm, one from the eastern lands past Kallia.
The one who'd played it said that a single pipe played the tune around the drum, but could not whistle or sing it.
The pattern changed mid flow, slowing to a quarter of the original, then leaping back to the first speed.
Perhaps a sword dance, or another leaping figure?
His feet were not so nimble. A rueful smile creased his lips.
Grace and lightness of foot were not among his attributes.
Meren came to him that night. After they took their pleasure, he held her close. "What do you want from me?" he murmured.
She shook her head, hair brushing his skin like summer-warm water after a long day's travel on a dusty road. "I ask nothing, great sir."
"I am not great. Do not call me so. What do you want?" She had his favor. "Do you seek a child?"
Tears, bitter, silent weeping shook her and she buried herself against his flesh.
She'd not spoken of pregnancy for all that they'd coupled so often, especially during winter's cold.
Was she barren? He kept silence, stroked her head until the tears faded into slumber.
He should go out, study the skies, recite songs and tales that he would never sing again.
Instead he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep himself.
Come the morning he stopped her as she prepared to go.
"Take these." He gave her the rest of the gold Fiachta had given him, save for the torcs.
"And this." The blue and brown embroidered cloak followed.
"Find a good man, if that is what you desire.
Buy your freedom, or your kin's freedom if that is what you labor for.
" He had not asked, and Aisling the Bold had not spoken of such, but unfreedom carried many forms and causes.
Meren stared at the treasure, open mouthed. "Sir, I ..." Her voice faded away. She dropped the gifts onto the bed, came to him, and kissed him, weeping once more. "Thank you, oh most generous master bard. Thank you." She finished dressing, took her gifts, and hurried off to her duties.
Now he got some water, and went to the wall to study the skies and land.
The grass and grain, herbs in the garden, seemed greener than before, but still not as they should be for summer.
He thumped the stone of the wall with one fist. Arrogant greed, all that the songs warned against, all that the great tales and the gods themselves forbade, how much woe did it cause? A great deal.
As the sun's truchai passed the peak of the sky, he put on his finest shirt and trews.
After some testing, he took the King of the Mound's clarsach and arranged the case's straps to better fit him.
Whoever had carried it before stood far taller and broader than he did.
Once all felt secure, he walked down the royal hill.
Men and a few women watched him go, but none followed.
Did they know? Perhaps not, or they had been told not to speak or interrupt.
Some rituals demanded only the priest and one other.
Rich scents of summer flowed on the wind, as did the sound of men and women cutting the first hay from the grass meadow.
He reached the place of wood and stone and water well before the appointed time.
Who had moved the stones, or had it been done at the making of the world?
A small ridge of rocks stood alone among the old trees, sacred to the Lord of the Land, Bracha of the Waters, and Morak of War, the horse goddess.
A stream flowed from the rocks, making its way between the trees to the river.
Birds sang, and the wind fluttered the leaves, all shades of green that clattered softly or whispered as their natures moved them.
He uncased the clarsach, perched on a stone outside the grove, and played a quiet tune, one of the first he'd learned.
Simple but strong, a woman's song as she worked.
Then he stopped, returned the harp to the case and rested.
In the quiet of his mind, he recited or sang all the oldest songs, the ones not intended for young ears of the Dunalai or Brytheen clans.
The priests came not too long after he finished the silent songs.
Eoghan snarled, lip raised like an angry dog as he passed into the grove.
The others followed. After some time, as the shadows grew longer, Forchel emerged.
"We build a sacred fire. When the time is come, bring the harp and yourself into the grove. "
He bowed. "I do as you command, wise one."
Just before the sun's truchai touched the land, Fiachta, Aisling, and others arrived. Tuathal saluted, then walked into the grove, harp in arms. A fire burned on the bare dirt of the grove. The wise ones formed a half circle, facing the stones and stream.
Forchel spoke, pointing with his staff to the space between the priests and the flames where a stool now sat. "There, prince of bards. From there, give your gift."
"I shall." He sat, closed his eyes, and began to play, simplest songs first, then more and more complex, dances and tales and laments and all that he knew.
Silence surrounded the grove, as if all the world listened, unmoving.
His hands and arms ached, throat had grown dry. His awan stirred. More was demanded.
Pain filled his hands as he touched the strings of the ancient harp. Tuathal breathed deep and sang as awan filled him.
"Great the harm wrought by greed and power, great the pain brought to the land.
"Great the fault of words and power, great the harm that lies on the land.
"Red the blood that watered the land, black the heart given to the land,
"Golden the fire, golden the gifts, golden the honor of the Lord of the Land."
As he sang, Tuathal poured himself into the words as well as the harp's notes.
He spread thin over the land, flowing across the fields and barren pastures, water-soured earth and blighted plants.
He grew thin, as tired as Branwen at the end of her weaving of the Cloth of Majesty.
Still sound came from strings and tongue.
A cold mist flowed down into the grove like a cloud on the peaks floating down into the lowlands.
The fire blazed hotter and darker as the mist took shape.
A raven alighted between two red-eared hounds, blacker than the black of a starless night, black against the pure white of the hounds.
Behind him he heard a hiss, sensed the priests drawing back and sinking to their knees.
"All praise to the Lady of Ravens, Lady of the gifts of the land," Tuathal sang, mouth dry as ground grain. "All honor to the Lord of the Beasts, lord of hound and hart, boar and bear, wolf and earth-digger. All glory to the Lord of the Land who gives sustenance to all beasts and men."