Tuathal does bard things and contemplates the season to come.
The chill west wind hissed around Dunad—the hill of kingship—, turning his light cloak into a wing. Tuathal smiled, savoring the scents of the land and water. Beyond the blue-gray hills, the ship-road rolled, storm stirred with the coming of winter. Not yet, but soon, so warned the wind.
Two hawks passed over, followed by a handful of cloaked crows. The hawks ignored the crows’ rude calls. He reached for the second hawk, saw through its eyes. Animals moved below, too large to eat, and perhaps dangerous. He withdrew with thanks for the warning, and returned to himself as the wind swirled once more.
Words moved in him. He waited, patient, as the song settled. Geese and swans on the water, songs in a bard’s ken, the two shared much in common.
“Year turning, harvest coming, gold the sun and gold the grain
“Wind singing, winter coming, silver the wind and silver the rain.
“Birds singing, winter coming, red the apple and red the sun,
“Reaper singing, harvest coming, brown the cattle and brown the dun.”
He turned the words over in his mind, humming the melody. To hum hurt, but not as much as before. That he could speak, sing, and hum at all was one of the Three Wonders of the Isle of the Mighty, perhaps. The wind sang as well, sang a warning of winter and storms on the wing.
He returned to the corner of the king’s hall where his wire strung harp, the clarsach of a master bard, waited. Three of the strings gleamed more brightly than the others in the dim firelight, strings replaced while the harp resided with the King of the Mounds. They sounded as sweet as their fellows, or did they? He settled onto his seat, lifted the harp, and tested the tune. It needed no work.
He considered his hands. The harp callouses would return with playing. His fingers remembered their skill, even if he could not achieve it yet. Six months—or had it been six years—without playing … They were past. The mark of his gesh had faded from all but the palms, the skin gray-black as if he’d held charred wood. What meant it? His harp had returned from the court of the King of the Mounds, yet the soot-stain of the binding remained. Perhaps the wise ones, priests of the gods, knew. He had not that secret, nor did he need it just now.
He settled the clarsach against his shoulder and touched the wires. They sounded, quiet and pure of note as the waters of the spring on Ceridwin’s mountain. He played basic patterns, loosening fingers and wrists once again, then began one of the double dances of the Brytheen queens’ courts. The notes wove in and out, then shifted tone and rhythm, slowing yet speeding. The music sparkled like sun on water, turned to a cloud-dark sky, then gleamed once more.
Tuathal stopped. Servants moved with soft, sure steps as they prepared the low king’s hall for the evening. He rested his hands, moving shoulders and wrists to ease strain. Six months without playing … The scars of his other labor would not fade so fast as had the marks of his gesh. Too, how long had it taken him to build strength and endurance when he was a student at Múinti allav Amlod’s feet? Like harp strings, like harper, tightness led to trouble. He ignored the servants and arms men watching from the dark edges of the chamber. All felt as it should in his hands and arms. His voice …?
“Strong the power, strong the life, silver the scales in the waters.
“Salmon of knowledge swimming mightily, silvery keeper of power.
“Word-fed swimmer of secret deeps, old as the great oak of Mathonwy,
“Silent speaker of silvery secrets, scales of silver richer than gold,
“Mighty salmon of wisdom.”
His voice touched his own ears, deeper, rougher perhaps, yet not harsh? He had not the words for the sense. Still his throat ached if he spoke too much, sang too long without due care. The wise ones had heard, and Forchal had nodded with knowing, but of what? Other listeners, even harpers and lesser bards, showed no rejection or sign of dislike when he ventured to sing. He shrugged to himself. It was as it was. The gods had returned his gifts to him. A grateful guest did not question the gift or the giver.
After another pause, he let his hands move as they would. A darker song flowed, heavy with foreboding, the tale of Dotha NoFionn, Dotha the Greedy, and the gesh that led to the unmaking of the people of Yles. Water and stone covered Yles, hiding what had been. Did stone truly soften and flow like smith-poured bronze? Did he want to see? Tuathal played, reciting the tale to himself.
More servants worked, and the low king’s steward built the fire higher. Tuathal released tension on the strings and slid the clarsach into its case. Rest he needed, and to make way for those who worked. Oh, how well he now understood the slow steps of the bond servants and others! For an instant he felt again the lash of the dark king’s anger, sharp and cutting as a rope on a bare back. The memory passed. He stood, saluted the fire in the hearth, and went to his place among Fiachta NoDomnail’s household. Cool water and rest, both would be welcome.
A traveling bard joined the court that night. After the giving of the hero’s portion, Fiachta called, “What news bring you?”
The man stood and bowed, “That this court prospers above all, most generous king, and that the tale of Tuathal the Open-handed, bard of your court, has reached east and south.
“Trouble moves in the south, oh king. One called Fyon the Black seeks word of a kinsman, or one who was once kinsman before he joined the ranks of the wise. Fyon also raided the lands of Ronan Red-Beard to regain his honor and cattle. Ronan had lifted two tens of cattle from the lands of Cao, sworn to Fyon, in repayment for the blood of kindred.”
Fiachta glanced toward Tuathal. He nodded. That explained why Cao had been on Fyon’s lands, and why the dead man had been able to pay a high bride price. Raid and return, that should end it, perhaps.
The bard continued, “Ronan killed Fyon’s second son, the bard, or the one who claimed to be a bard.” The man sounded puzzled. “None trained him, or knew with whom he had studied. None had heard him play or recite, so we,” he touched his chest, “do not know aught of the son.”
Now the man smiled, “Three green sheep were seen dancing with a deer. The wise ones forbade anyone eating or brewing the rest of the grain and burned it.” Wry grins and chuckles, along with a few winces, followed the news. No, beer and bread should not be made from sour grain. “The harvest in the south is not so good as last year, but no more sheep sicken. Fewer traders come from the eastern land, because of storms and a war near the Tongue of Armoric. A southern king fights for land, or so it is said.”
Tuathal listened, turning the man’s words over in his mind. Fyon’s son. How could he be a true bard if he had not trained under a master? Even Gwydion had studied to polish the gift he’d gained before his rebirth as Gwydion. And who did Fyon seek among the wise? Something stirred in his memory, then sank back into hiding, perhaps a fragment of tale.
Would he sing of the lands under the mounds? No. That was not for telling. Perhaps after the death of the year, or the turning of winter, but this was not the time. Now was the time for harvest, for thanks to the Lord of the Land and the other gods for the bounty of the land, and perhaps for other things. He’d speak with Meren soon, and Queen Aisling. But not this night. This was a night for feasting, and listening. The bard brought new songs from the south and east, new melodies to be learned and shared. He sipped beer, ate bread spread with butter and the last soft cheese of the summer, and listened.
Meren joined him when he returned to his chamber. She had not come to him since his return, and even now hesitated. He smiled and took her hand. She relaxed, drawing close. He brushed the work-roughened fingers with his thumb. She wore one of the rings he’d given her, and he smiled wider still. “What will you?”
Her kiss and embrace gave the answer. Afterwards, he stroked her hair and the warm skin of her shoulder as she lay between him and the wall. “What will you?” he asked again.
The head under his hand moved back and forth. “Nothing,” she whispered. “How can I ask more than what you already gave?” He heard nothing but honesty in her voice. She had never asked for anything but his touch, never put herself above other women despite his favor. Why? Now was not the time to learn. He stroked her shoulder once more. Her breathing deepened, slowed as sleep surrounded her. He followed her into dreams.
(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved
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