15. Into Darkness #2
He tasted herbs, beans, and a little meat, then slowly chewed the tough black bread. Nothing in the king's hall had such wonderful flavors as the meal. Water was enough to drink.
"Any news?" the woman asked once the men finished.
"Tcheas says that th' priests are lookin' for more, and say th' king's not certain. Best cow and three good ewes should be enow, since it's not turnin' of th' year." The old man looked to Tuathal. "Ye know any priest doins'?"
Tuathal shook his head, hands spread a little.
That served as enough of an answer for his host, who also shook his head. "Some say the bard's blood was enough, an' at's why summer finished sa' good. Tcheas heard story 'at th' priests don' agree wi' eachother." The old man fell silent.
Tuathal caught himself before he showed his thoughts. He was on Fiachta's lands. The curse had lifted, his gift had been enough, thanks be to the gods for accepting the gift.
The old woman's voice broke his thoughts. "Tcheas say aught 'bout th' missin' sheep?" She glanced into the churn and rocked it a little more. "Butter's done."
"Aye. Found 'em up th' road, like usual.
" The old man sounded resigned, and Tuathal smiled a little in the dimness of the hut.
Sheep always went where they were not wanted, even if the grass in their pasture was better than the roadside grass.
The man creaked to his feet and found a large bowl for the butter.
Tuathal stood as well and helped steady the churn as the woman deftly separated the butter from the whey, pouring the whey into a rough pitcher once the butter rested on a shelf in the corner.
"Stay th' night," the old man said. "Got room." The couple banked the fire in the hearth and lay down on a pile of blankets in the corner. Tuathal found space near the door. The dirt floor wasn't as hard as the stones of the floor of the dark king's kitchen.
His thoughts chased in circles. What divided the priests, and why did they make sacrifices now?
The start of fall wasn't a time of blood but of first fruits and grains.
Was that what he had been commanded to speak of?
But everyone knew the proper gifts to the Lord of the Land, the gods of grain and of beasts, and to others.
Fatigue overcame all else and he fell asleep at last.
Wakefulness arrived before the sun did. He tended the fire, adding a little wood to wake it gently, then left.
He needed to go south, along the sheep-path on the ridge above the bog.
Something pushed him to move, to go now.
He crept out of the bothy, saluted it, and hurried as best he could on legs stiff and sore from walking and working.
What was he to say, to whom, when he had no voice.
"How, dark king?" he tried to whisper. Pain and a sound like a crow with an aching throat came instead.
At least more cold water soothed the physical soreness.
The morning light gave way to cloud. Mist gathered over the bog despite the wind on the ridge.
That should not be. Something dark moved in the mist, or did it?
This was a time for light, for harvest and reaping, for gathering in the fruits of the land.
After the death of the year came mist and low cloud and darkness in the sky.
The air tasted of ... What? He breathed deep, mouth open.
Death? No, not the metallic scent of death or the foulness of decay, but not-goodness.
He had not the word for the sense that raised the hair on his neck and sent the urge to flee coursing through his bones.
It took the length of the morning for him to hurry down the ridge to the lands in sight of the royal hill.
As he did, the sense of discomfort and ill-will in the air grew stronger.
What moved? No fires of war burned that he could see, no eaters of the dead circled above a field of slaughter.
The few sheep he saw acted nervous, not resting as they should, but clumped together, hurrying away from him as a group when he came past.
As he reached the end of the ridge, he sensed a man ahead.
He stopped and crouched low, hiding in the tall grasses and reeds near the rocky spring, a stone among stones.
The gray-cloaked figure chanted, staff in one hand, a rust-red blade in the other.
The voice he knew, Eoghan. Darkness surrounded the priest, not the darkness of Morag or Barcha of the Waters.
The chanting carried a sense of wrongness.
"Dark of darkness, hear my plea," Eoghan sang. "Blood of blood I give./ Lady of darkness, queen in three,/ blood I give, blood to thee."
What was that? To whom did he sing? Nor Morag or any other goddess known to the Dunalai or Brytheen, or the ones under the mounds. Tuathal held still, breathing as quietly as he could.
"Dark of darkness, death's great queen/ Royal blood I give to thee./ Bring your shadows to this land/ As I kill at your command. Royal blood to you I vow/ Queen of darkness fill me now!"
A raven, but not a proper bird, dove down from the heavy sky. Something evil and old followed it, and settled on Eoghan. Tuathal clamped both hands over his eyes and made himself small. No, he did not see, would not see. What had Eoghan summoned?
A hint of story, a fragment small as a bit of broken pot, teased his mind.
No. Surely not. Even the King of the Mound did not consort with that power.
When the ones before the Brytheen and Dunalai came to the island, a deeper, older power born of evil had lurked in the north, something that stalked the ones who raised the stones.
Was that what Eoghan had called to himself?
Tuathal shook like the reeds around him.
Only after Eoghan had strode down the trail toward the king's hall and passed well out of sight did Tuathal dare move.
Oh, his legs screeched at him for crouching for so long.
Better that than be seen by the power that filled the wise one.
No, not so wise if he trucked with such darkness.
No wonder the mist and clouds came out of turn.
Tuathal crept as fast as he could. His dark, rough clothes blended into the land, thanks be.
How to warn, to tell the others of what he'd seen and heard?
Now tears, bitter tears of frustration came to his eyes.
None save the wise ones knew the signs of meaning, and even he had not learned them all, if they remained in his memory.
Eoghan knew them far better, could discern if he tried to leave marks.
Fast moving men came toward him. Again he ducked, this time behind a low hedge. They ignored, or had not seen. "I don't like it," Rian hissed.
"No, but he's the eldest, most learned of the wise ones." Doubt in Cathal's voice belied his words. "He speaks for the gods, the Lord of the Land, Lady of the Waters, aye?"
No, Tuathal cried silently after them. No, not for the gods of the Dunalai, or of the ones under the mounds. He followed. Why did none seek to stop him, to challenge? Oh, what was going on?
He found the bond servants and others in a swirling, murmuring crowd near the gate of the king's hill, dark clothes turning them into a flock, a flock that swirled like the grain-grabbing birds.
He eased closer. "I don't know," one of the women whispered behind her hand to a companion.
"Why do the gods call for the king's death, the queen's as well, if all prospers. Wasn't the bard's taking enough?"
"It was for summer," a different, younger woman hissed, quiet as she could be. "Now?"
The death of both king and queen? That— He sensed motion and caught a hint of gray robes moving toward the bog and the place of offering. Tuathal slipped around the worried men and women and made his way after the warriors and others.
"You! What are you doing?" He ignored the sound, sped his steps. "Stop that one." Rough hands grabbed at him from behind. He twisted, shook free, half ran a little closer to the last of the priests.
Weight dropped him to the ground, and before he could more, rope bound him, arms twisted behind his back. "Who are you?" Cathal demanded.
Tuathal tried to speak, couldn't. Not even a croak or wheeze.
"Bring him," one of the other arms men hissed. "Maybe his blood would do. He looks eastern, a stranger."
"Dressed like a bond servant?" But they dragged him forward, toward the priests and Fiachta.