14. The Gift of a Prince #3
Silence surrounded the creatures. The raven stared at him, waiting, as did the hounds. They stood twice as large as the king's dogs. The raven's head would reach his waist, large as a great eagle of the mountains.
"Lady and lords, gods of the land and waters and air and beasts, I offer my power to you, my skill and magic, all my honors and rank and name if the curse will lift from this land, if the debt will be satisfied with my offering.
" He shivered like a birch in the wind, almost unable to play the notes without fumbling.
His legs trembled like a man who had run from the eastern waters to the western seas.
The raven spoke, the red-eared hounds spoke, all as one, words that shook the night and shivered the ground. "Power and pledge, both to the fire. Power and pledge and fire to cleanse the land."
No! He could not— Tuathal hesitated, pain in his hands like touching fire, throat aching.
"Power and pledge, both to the fire. Power and pledge and fire—or blood of a king and his kindred born."
Tuathal stood, cradling the harp in his arms. Shaking, every part of him fighting, he walked to the great fire.
Power watched, power cold and implacable, power of a man's curse, power of the gesh looming like a great sea wave over the shore.
The flames rose as he walked into them. Agony as he'd never felt before crashed down, ripping something from him, tearing, rending.
A scream forced itself from his throat but no sound save roaring of flames reached his ears.
The harp burned, he burned, no words for it.
The flames died. He stood in ash that swirled up, stinging his eyes, eyes dry and parched like his throat. Of the harp and flame nothing remained. Of his gift—nothing. Emptiness echoed inside where once words and songs had flowed. He dared not speak.
The harp, the borrowed harp— Not even ash or melted metal clung to his hands or marked the ground.
He looked at his hands. Black stained them, the marks of his gesh made visible to all.
Weight like a falling mountain bore down on him, the full weight of his curse resting on him.
No tears soothed scratched and burning eyes, no moisture came into his parched mouth and throat.
Tuathal stared at the gray and black drift around his feet, then walked from where the fire had been.
No one tried to stop him. The priests remained on their knees.
He placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the path from the grove, away from men.
The king hesitated, went pale and drew back, as did Aisling the Bold.
Into the darkness he walked, into silence.
No night birds or wind moved in the darkness.
Night? Was it night? Or had his eyes burned with his gift, the harp, his life?
Did it matter? The fosterlings lived, the land lived.
That he knew. Dead yet living, he plodded.
He walked until his legs could no longer carry him, then found a hidden place and slept.
Sometime later he roused and began to walk once more.
He drank from streams, once from a neglected well.
The water did not soothe his throat. A dead man surrounded by life, he walked under sun and moon, rain and wind.
Two spans of time passed, or so it seemed.
He walked, a dead man walking, until the night of the half moon.
At last, a rounded, dark shape rose ahead of him, black against the stars and waning moon.
He could not return the harp. He had broken his gesh, had borrowed something without returning it as he had received it.
Tuathal's steps slowed as he drew near the mound.
The grave of a long-dead hero or king? Not his the praise, not his the honor.
Words did not come, had not come since the flames surrounded him and consumed the ancient clarsach.
Bitterness filled his mouth, the first taste after the flame.
Dry as a sun-scorched rock, dry as the smith's forge fire, he approached the mound.
He had nothing to return, no gift to offer.
He hesitated, steps faltering. Still silence surrounded him, still he heard no sounds of the night or of men.
The darkness opened, a door into the mound.
Tuathal froze. He could not— Fear drew the last strength from his body, and he collapsed.
The King of the Mounds had to be told. He would not be pleased.
Tuathal shook, could not stop himself. Death held no terror.
Death passed as men passed into another form.
But what waited for him in the dark king's court?
At last he shuddered, then crawled, legs unwilling to aid.
He had sworn on his honor. That alone remained to him.
Like an animal, lower than an animal, he crawled into the open doorway in the mound.
Faintly, perhaps, a voice called from behind him.
The door closed, and nothing surrounded him.
He dragged himself forward until even that grew too hard, and he sank onto cold, damp stones.