The low king returns from the place of sacrifice, and Tuathal’s question is, perhaps, answered.
Come the morning, Fiachta returned alone in his truchai, as he had the year before. Again blood marked his face and clothes, the blood of three pigs, a cow, and a fine ewe, lives given in thanks, along with finest bread and honey. The wise ones had declared that the gods desired only what they had given, not the life of a man or woman. Even so, the king’s people watched in fearful silence until he stepped down from the light, two-wheeled battle chariot. “The gods accept our gifts. Four days and the time for slaughter will come,” he called, voice as harsh as Tuathal’s own had been on his return from the hidden lands.
That evening, Aelfyn played songs of harvest. Fresh mushrooms of four kinds, served with sweetened barley bread and the last of the old peas, filled the men’s stomachs. It was proper fare for the end of the year and the start of the new. Tiernan, the king’s steward, had built the fire high, easing the chill that had seeped into the great hall. The arms men and others moved slowly and spoke quietly, for all that they had not labored that day. The work of harvest left all weary, the servants and bondsmen and women most of all. Tuathal felt again the weight of exhaustion he had carried as he labored for the King under the Mound. He needed to test the tune he’d been given, but not now. The time would come.
He sought his bed earlier than usual. If any suspected why, they did not make a sign. He was not alone. Meren came in after he stripped. “Rest this night, not pleasure, will you have from me,” he warned.
She joined him. “Rest is a pleasure, generous master bard,” she whispered as she eased under the blankets. Indeed, she fell asleep almost the moment she lay down. The women of the court worked as hard as men, harder before feasts, or so it seemed. And with slaughter starting soon? All the more reason to sleep.
Forchal and the woman wise met him two days later, as he drew close to their gateway. “Away from ears,” the gray-cloaked priest commanded. Tuathal inclined in a part-bow and walked beside them. Warmth had returned, although the sharp edge of the clouds to the north warned that it would not stay for long. More geese and other birds hurried down the skies, down from the north to the warmer lands. How far did they travel? To the edge of the world? A few feathered ones sang from the trees, songsters that stayed, or perhaps rested on their journey. The dry leaves hissed and whispered as they moved, falling in drifts of brown, red, and gold. The dark of pines stood out here and there among bare branches. Wood replaced grain in the wagons that groaned toward the hall.
“Your question,” Forchal said at last. He stopped and turned so they stood face to face. The priestess moved to stand at his right shoulder, beside her senior. Forchal had aged as well over the year, but wore his authority lightly. Perhaps Eoghan’s death had released the strain among the wise ones, the way removing a bow string allowed the bow to rest.
Tuathal held out empty hands. “Has the penalty for breaking my gesh lifted entire, or is there more to be done, if it can be done?” None of the songs spoke of such, save the tale of Gwydion and his fellow magic worker undoing his nephew’s transformation and unjust injury.
“We do not know.” The woman’s voice carried no feeling or sense. “The signs do not speak to us of this, neither the birds nor the leaves nor the waters.” She frowned for the space of the beat of his heart, then her face unclouded.
Forchal leaned forward and studied his hands, as if reading the dapple of light playing on them from between the leaves of the oak tree beside them. He straightened. “Your gesh came about why?”
Tuathal had to smile. “The tale is strange in the telling. I borrowed a hand drum and beater from the bard in my mother’s sister’s court. Not long after, she was elevated to high queen among the Brytheen. During that time, the beater failed from a crack in the wood. I carved one of blackthorn and polished it, then returned beater and drum at the proper time.
“The bard played the drum, then cast the gesh on me for not returning the broken beater with the drum and the new.” He shrugged. “I did not ask why his wrath was so great, only fled before he hurled more than just angry words and his shoe at my head.”
Neither of the priests spoke, but shared confused looks. Forchal shrugged as well and held the hand not on his staff palm up. “Blackthorn is as oak for such, is it not?”
“It is, and perhaps harder, but I heard no difference in the sound when I played the drum, nor did my master.”
Four leaves dropped from the oak, all landing with thunks rather than rustles. The priests exchanged another look, and the air chilled, grew hard, or so it felt. The green-clad woman intoned, “Seek out the ones in blue, brown, and gray, the ones solid in years. From them comes an answer.” Her voice flowed as water over stone, not as a mortal woman.
He swallowed hard and bowed. “My thanks for the words, oh wise one. I will do as you say.”
“Good.” Forchal turned to attention his companion, a gesture of dismissal.
Tuathal bowed again and hurried back by a different path, not slowing his steps until he stood under open sky and sun. Who where the ones in blue, brown, and gray? Merchants? Bards on the road? The priests did not wear brown, and rarely blue among the Dunalai people. He glanced to the north. The sharp edge of the clouds had come closer, cutting the sky into hard blue and dark gray. The wind wandered, now south, now east, summoned by the coming storm.
He still had no answers that night, as the wind sang ancient battle songs and cries around Fiachta’s hall. Revelry and feasting filled the hall, along with the scents of roasting meat and good beer. Tuathal savored the smoked sausage and mushrooms. Far better that the arms men take the hero’s portion of the boiled and roasted meats. Sausage with the last of summer’s mushrooms carried a warmer flavor, rich with herbs and tales of distant lands, of cattle raids and legendary boars with golden bristles and ever-growing flesh.
“What say you, múinti Allav?” Rian, one of the arms men, demanded.
He raised his cup to the king and queen in their seats of honor. “I say that the kings of the east look at their treasures with unhappiness when they hear of the treasures in men held by Fiachta NoDomnail. The women of the Isle of Apples weep from envy when they hear tell of the skills and beauty of Aisling the Bold, queen of the Dunalaid of Dunad, and of her ladies. The warriors of the Finna hesitate before speaking ill of the bench men of the king of Dunad.”
Broad smiles and cheers rose from the warriors, and the low king smiled wider still. “Great indeed is the king whose praises are sung by such a one as Tuathal the Open Handed,” Aisling called, her voice filling the hall.
“As bard, as king; Fiachta who rivals Rhydderch in his generosity and prowess as king and warrior, wise as Cieran the Learned in Law,” Tuathal replied.
The cheers grew louder still as Aisling nodded acknowledgment of his praise.
“Open the hands of the king truly wise,
“Wise the warrior who takes the gift,
“Gifted the hands overflowing with skill,
“Skilled the ones who serve such a king,” he sang, then raised his now-full cup to the pair.
Oh, his head ached the next morning, pounding a dance tune out of keeping with his inability to walk. Mead and stout cider had followed the beer. He was no arms man to drink the casks dry, then rise and fight come the dawn! Tuathal relieved his urgency, then returned to bed. One of his fellow students had suggested that songs about cider mornings should be sung in a whisper, without harp or drum. He found no reason to disagree! Fiachta had inherited the full share of their father’s ability to drink, a full share and more.
(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved
This is the last excerpt from Bard’s Kings that will be posted.
