Tuathal does a bard’s duty at the feast.

No, he was not needed for the slaughter. The sun rose over hard, dry land, without mist save over the waters, and that kept low and humble. “Ye could use a star for the blade,” Tiernan breathed, smoke his words as he pointed to the sky. The morning star and stone shared hardness. 

“Aye. Winter’s here, and let none gainsay her arrival,” Tuathal answered. The first light tinged his words pink and gold. False praise, that—he was not Gwydion or Múintid Amlod. Water splashed, the last into the great cauldrons. Fires already burned beneath them, boiling the water to seethe the hairs off the swine and set the hairs on the cow. The sheep would be skinned and the skin tanned fleece on, unless the butchers found a flaw in the wool. Or Aisling did. 

Fresh meat filled the great cauldron in the hall that day. Tuathal preferred the sausages smoking over the fires in the places for such. The hero’s portion was not his, not today. Winter would be long, and warring with words against arms men? He had not the skill of Tarlen of the Swift Wit. 

Tuathal took his seat near his younger half brother, but not the place of honor. That belonged to Aisling the Bold. King and queen, warrior and loaf-bringer, one could not be truly whole without the other. He glanced at the clarsach, then at the maid servants and bond maids waiting for the call to serve. It was said that among the old ones, bards had wed. That was then. Too, the gesh that touched his teacher might have laid its hand on him as well, making courtship and marriage doubly unwise. Seren’s favors were sufficient, as long as she wished to give them.

After the giving of the hero’s portion and other meats, and after his first cup of beer, Tuathal considered songs. The tender beef melted on his tongue. Whatever the cooks had done to the old cow, it had made her as mild to the tooth as the ripest fruit of summer. Several guests in the hall raised their platters in praise to Aisling and her women, praise well deserved indeed. Hard cheese on good bread cleared his tongue, as did a sip of sharper beer. 

The mood in the hall calmed for a moment. Tuathal stood and bowed to Fiachta and Aisling. “Open of hand was Baglan the Giver, but not so open as Fiachta NoDomnail. Skilled of hand was Niamh Golden-Needle, but the works of Aisling the Bold far outdo her.” He turned to the hall. “Great are the tales of the deeds of the men of Fionn and his war band, but oh, so greater the deeds of the men of Dunath, men of Fiachta.

“Fiachta the king, light of step as the deer of Mayo, keen of eye as the eagle of Bledaiwy, bold in battle as Fionn the Fearless, wise of words as Caradog Thought-herder. The salmon of wisdom knows no more than does Fiachta, and Caolan the Just yields his seat of decisions to the justice of Fiachta. Like the great cauldron of Durnach is the pot on the hearth, boiling meat for none lacking in boldness and courage. Aisling the Bold, holder of all the virtues of womanhood, mother of many, blessing of all.” Tuathal bowed low to the king and queen.

Fiachta smiled, as did his lady. “It is said that you have sung in other halls,” Aisling replied. “Tell to us of your travels.”

He smiled broadly, then sobered. “Indeed, honored lady. One of memory is that of Pyder of the Ford. Great is the generosity of Pyder. He gives grain and garment to the least welcome of guests, and fleas pay him homage. So generous is he that his herders skin the ticks on his cattle and render the tallow of them. Pyder welcomes the rain into his hall through the roof as well as the doors, offering it his hospitality. His horses ride the truchaine while his drivers pull.” 

Laughter rose at his words, and the arms men elbowed each other. Several women chuckled, or hid laughter behind their hands. 

“So brave is Pyder that even his shadow fears him. Or was it the other way? No man dares challenge him, and his sword grows soft, or so attest all the women in his hall.” 

Oh, the laughter that filled Fiachta’s great hall, swirling around the room and lifting to the roof like smoke from the fire. Tuathal struggled to stay properly sober, as if he sang praises in truth. “The name of Pyder of the Ford is known through the land. No beer or mead goes untasted by the lord of the hall, and he takes for himself the hero’s portion, so great is his valor.

“Fiachta of Dunath gives the portion to a true hero, to men of proven valor and high birth, strong of arm and fast of blade. The king of the high fortress, blessing on his land, leader of great warriors, judge of discernment, and wise in the law, Fiachta of Dunath, son of Aiden of the line of high king Domnail.” Tuathal bowed to his half brother. 

A cup of fresh beer and bowl of meat and other good things waited beside his seat when Tuathal returned to his place. Ellfyn and a drummer began to play a dance, and some of the men and women took up the tune with light, nimble steps. Tuathal made note of the tune. He’d heard it before, or had heard the mother tune. He rested his hands and sipped the beer, then ate more. A wheat cake with dried fruit and honey followed the meat. 

Once the men began to tire, Ellfyn and the other musicians gave way for Tuathal. He stroked the clarsach’s strings, drawing a sigh like a soft summer wind through the trees. “Once a great calamity swept the land, a curse of hunger and weakness the likes of which no man had seen or heard tell of before those days, a curse that could only be lifted by the bravest of heroes and wisest of women.” The notes turned bold and clear. “Hear now the tale of Ruari and Delyth, of the years of yellow skies and yellow grass, of the three great shouts that shook the Isle of the West.” 

By the time he finished, the fire had begun to weaken. Tiernan added three pieces of dry oak and the flames brightened. The steward bowed to the king and returned to his place. The harp’s notes swirled to an end. Tuathal stood, bowed, and returned to his seat. A bundle of cloth waited beside it, bound with a fine leather belt. Aisling caught his eye and nodded. He bowed as he sat. Let none say that Fiachta did not know the proper reward for a master bard. Tuathal drank more beer and watched without watching. None of the men and women in the hall lacked for proper clothing, even if what they had was plain and patched. The servants walked straight backed, not hunched like wood carriers. None scuttled, crablike with fear. Indeed, his half brother was a good lord for this land.

Feasting and celebration went well into the night. At last men and women began to tire, and Aisling and her women retired to their own place. Tuathal sang twice more before men began to fall asleep on their benches, or joined with women and left the hall. Fiachta stood, poured the last drops of his mead onto the stones of the hearth as a thanks gift, and departed. Tuathal followed, going to his own place. Seren did not join him. He yawned. He missed her warmth, but perhaps it was as well. Sleep he needed this night, and she had been working the last two days preparing the feast. Even servants had to sleep, at least men and women did. He did not entirely believe the stories of poppets bound by magic to do tasks. Tuathal stripped and fell asleep.

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

The year ends, the year begins. What of the low king?

Just as he finished, he heard a cheer. He looked to the west. Red and yellow appeared in the middle of the air, no, on the crest of the ridge that ran between the marsh and the sea. A much smaller flame hurried down the hill then disappeared into a twist of mist, a messenger running toward the waiting watchers. 

Tuathal nodded, but remained where he was. Avoiding the priests’ attention outweighed the need for companionship or warmth. He was a bard, an Allav, true. That meant nothing if Eoghan and the others had word from the gods that they desired the gift of a man’s life as payment for harvest and the bounty of the land in addition to the cow and other gifts. Too, Eoghan frowned on anything touched by hands from under the hills, frowned more on those who accepted such gifts. Tuathal remained where he was. His cloak and boots kept the chill at bay.

The sky grew lighter, the mist thicker, but the fires on the hills continued to burn. The sun hesitated, farther south than at the day of equal light. Yet it rose, turning the mist in the valley as red and pink as the fairest rose, soft as the finest wool of a young lamb. Tuathal watched until the golden fire of the sky rose above the eastern hills, then made his way up the proper road to the gate of his half-brother’s fortress. To the east, a few traces of the strongholds of the old ones remained. Once he’d spent the night in one, on a wager. He’d awoken neither dead nor mad, nor a better poet. Sore and wet, yes, and stiff from the dew, but no better or worse than before. Had the old ones made use of this hill? Some said yes, pointing to the cleft in the stones and the footprint of kingship worn in the rock, larger than that of any man now living. Tuathal waited until the man on watch beckoned before entering the half-open gate.

Tuathal drank a bit of water from the cistern, then made his way to the great hall. A boy fed the fire, easing well-seasoned wood into the coals. Had it gone out, they’d have to relight it with coals from the priests’ bonfire, something that boded ill for Tuathal’s comfort. He’d tended the fires in the bards’ hall in the eastern lands, as was proper for a student, and once as master when the need arose. He warmed his hands, but stayed back from the hearth. 

The year died as men died, as all died save the gods, and perhaps they too died. He had not those secrets, that knowledge. Once he’d attended the rites of sacrifice, standing for Gwri, his mother’s brother’s son, when the younger man could not. Did Fiachta feel the same things he had felt? Tuathal shrugged to himself and departed the great hall. His place was outside this day. Restlessness moved in him, pulled or pushed by the passing of the year and the birth of the new. “Many things was I before I took this form: wolf and deer and shining fish, oak tree in a storm, raindrop gleaming in the sun, river to the sea, when I drop the shape of man, who knows what I might be?” He put no gift behind the whispered words—they were not his to claim. 

His steps took him to the northern ring of the outer wall of the keep, a place he could watch. A few bushes grew inside the wall, not quite a hedge, but tolerated for reasons of power. He pulled his cloak a little closer, blending in with the hedge and stones. People moved behind him, bonds men and women working quietly. The smith and other free men rested or did small tasks that made little noise. The death of the year and the birth of summer both encouraged discretion until the priests finished giving thanks for the year’s gifts and offering apologies and recompense for any slights.

Tuathal let his eyes unfocus, taking in the swift rise and fall of the birds, the flash of white from gulls coming and going. None of the greater birds moved yet, the eagles and hawks. A raven croaked, sleek darkness against the milky blue of the sky. Tuathal nodded but did not reach. He had no need. Too, more than a raven’s essence might ride the wind on wings of shining black, shining like the sea-stone raven in pendent form worn by the high queen in the east. 

Words moved in him. He listened with inner ear but did not test them for trueness. Now was not the time. Eoghan might take such as a challenge or insult. Could the priest sense awan? Those of his mother’s court did. Two also held the bardic gift, perhaps that made them aware of others. Tuathal considered the words and tucked them away.

He shrugged once more and went to the place of weapons. That he could do, should do. He set cloak and vest aside. Again the wooden practice sword came to his hand, again he struck unseen foes. Other men observed as they came and went, but none challenged him or offered words. 

The midday meal of barley bread, dried meat soaked in hot water, and the last greens of the summer filled the belly but did not satisfy. A good reminder of the lean times, and much like the meals of sacrifice without the bitter berries. Again Tuathal drank water from the cistern, then found quiet places to be, where he could gaze at the land and sky. As he watched, a truchai drawn by trotting horses came toward the stronghold from the south. Two men rode in it, both wearing wool-colored cloaks splashed with something darker. The truchai slowed, and one figure stepped down from the still-moving vehicle. The horses returned to the trot as the driver guided them toward the proper road. 

Not until he knew who guided the horses did Tuathal go to meet them. “The king returns,” a watcher called. Tuathal glanced left and right. He was not alone in his relief, if the expressions and sagging shoulders of the men and women around him told truth. Fiachta was liked by his people, and the land prospered under his hand. That the king returned alone boded well. Still, Tuathal held back in the shadows of the inner wall, watching and quiet. 

Aisling the Bold met her husband as he stopped the horses. Brian, the horse master, took the reins himself once Fiachta unwrapped them from around his waist. He stepped down as softly as a falling feather, with nary a creak or protest from the light, wicker-work truchai. Blood splashed his cloak, but not his. Patterns of drying blood marred his fair face, but not his blood. 

“The gods accept our gifts,” the king called, voice rough as if from battle cries or smoke. “Both blood and grain. Tomorrow will come cold and clear.” 

“Thanks to the gods, to the Lord of the Land, to the Goddess of the Waters, to Morak of Horses and Cirianis of the Land of the Sun,” came a call from among the people of the hill. 

“Thanks be,” Aisling replied, voice carrying over heads and rustles. “Return to your work, that the young year begins well and prospers.”

Should he work on the new song that had come to him? No, not yet. The priests yet lingered, perhaps, and the day did not feel right for such work. Come the morrow, if he was not needed to slaughter, then he would labor as song smith at the word forge.

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

In which Tuathal confirms the priests’ suspicions of his behavior.

That night, the great hall sat quiet, dark save for the dull glow of the embers of the central fire. Thick silence filled the darkness, broken only by the breaths of a few sleeping men. Many of the arms men were out, as was their king, honoring the fertile union of earth and sky by sharing the night with a woman. Tuathal crouched beside the fire, staring into the red and black, watching wood slowly transform into grey ash, white gray like sky and sea, wood reborn as fire and earth.

At last he stood and crept out into the night. A veil concealed half the stars. Smoke, sourness of beer gone bad, sharpness of the newly-tended dung heap, wet of waiting mist or fog all touched his nose as he walked the silent night. A dog barked, then fell silent. The faintest howl answered, or did it? He slipped out the hidden, guarded way, nodding to the man on watch. The stripling nodded back but held silence, as he should. To speak now was to draw the attention of those who moved in the darkness between the worlds. The King of the Mounds opened his doors this night and day, the time neither one year nor the next. Another howl came, far to the east. Tuathal shivered despite himself, and despite the rowen and ash wood in his pocket, the oak handle of his knife. 

Oak, ash, thorn, hazel to lift twisting power, purple and yellow gorse blooms to ward off the Folk of the Mounds and other ill wishers, he recited silently. Another sound touched his ears, a woman weeping, then the splash of water and soft thumps of fabric being washed. The keen shifted into a howl, a wolf’s howl. Tuathal released his breath. Not one of his blood, then. Their death washer sang as a bird of summer between her wails. Geese called, and ravens, from overhead, honks that became barks. He made himself small and hurried down to the hedge around the base of this part of the hill. Thorn grew in the hedge, other plants of protection as well. He crouched, then sat on the fog damp grass, slowing heart and breathing, lest the hunters’ hounds hear. The geese called once more, fainter, as they passed to the south. The year died, the geese fled south as had the swans before them.

Tuathal waited until all sounds faded from the night sky, faded as the mist faded the world. He stood and made his way through the darkness, trusting memory and awan to guide him. His steps led east, almost to the hills and the bend in the road, to a low mound and six stones. The mound stood just more than waist high to him, the one time he’d gone close in bright daylight on a neutral day. Now, the stones’ sharp shapes glowed but did not, visible yet casting no light. He carried none of his own. The end of the mound stood open, darker black against the dark green grass and scatter of small, pale rocks along the base of the mound. He bowed but ventured no closer. Instead he found a place at the edge of the sheep pasture and hummed, then began to sing, quietly. 

On the other side of the hills, standing stones danced this night, perhaps. No man went to watch, were he wise, unless invited or from a family with land ties from the days of the old ones. His people were not among them. Far to the east, with his mother’s kin, he’d watched the stones dance once. The tune, wild and cold, heavy for all its swiftness, remained with him still. He did not sing or play it here. 

Instead he sang of the old days, before the coming of his people to this land, when strange beasts left their bones in the stones and the King of the Mound claimed the under-sky land along with that under the hills. “Great was the renown of the King of Annun, and great his giving. None turned away empty from his hall. His cattle bore twins, and his sheep triplets. Full ripe the corn of the King of Annun, white and heavy, heavy as barley in a year of bounty. Great was the renown of the King of Annun.” 

The air shivered. Tuathal bowed his head, acknowledging the request, and began patting his hands together. The rhythm grew complicated, long and short, turning and bowing. He sang without words, a dance for the dance of stone and water, water and air, wind and sea. The mist twirled. He let his eyes rest on the distance, not looking too closely or watching too well. Quietly he shifted the tune, slower but no less intricate, this a combination of dance and song of praise. “Beauty walks in their steps, the women of the hidden lands. Fair their hair and dark their eye, quick their steps and nimble their fingers. Beauty walks in their steps, the women of the hidden land. Snow is dark against their skin, blood is far paler than the red of their lips. The gifts of their hands put the finest flowers to shame, the fineness of their spinning and weaving leaves all the world in awe. Beauty walks in their steps, the women of the hidden lands.” 

A long sigh passed, flowing around him from everywhere and nowhere together. The night fell still, and fog thickened. Tuathal ceased his singing and tapping. Eyes closed, he waited. Pressure on his shoulder twice, like a pat of praise, then the night’s sounds returned. At last he opened his eyes. 

The world looked as it should, save for the sharp-edged standing stones that cut the darkness. The wind hissed through the trees on the hill to the east, sending a few leaves tumbling and skittering down, or so his ears told him. Tuathal bowed to the mound. A loaf of bread now sat at his feet. He gathered it with both hands. “All thanks to the giver of the feast, and to the hands that kneaded the dough, the hands that labored in the field. Generous beyond compare is the giver of the feast, and wise is she who guards the grain and guides the bakers.” He bowed again, then made his way to the road, not looking back. 

Only when he’d returned to the safety of the thorn hedge did he break the loaf, careful not to drop any of the fine white bread as he ate. It tasted of honey golden as the summer sun, and something else, dark and rich, something to be consumed with reverence and care, especially this night. To eat the bread of the King of the Mounds in his domain brought great risk. Guest duty to the ruler under the hills … Tuathal had many tales of that, all of them full of danger and adventure and scars. Eating the king’s bread under the sky, even this night, carried fewer dangers—especially when those under the hills gave freely, under the sky. 

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Tuathal, master allav and gifted with awan, settles into his younger half-brother’s court.

Oh, he did not want to move from the warmth of the bed and the softness of his bed companion, come the morning. Tuathal made himself get to his feet and wash face and hands, then dress. By the time he did, the serving woman, Seren, arose as well, gathered her clothes, and hurried away without a word. He’d give her a little something later. With a grumble for the foolishness of so much strong drink after so long, Tuathal made his way to where the warriors practiced with sword and spear. No one else moved save the servants, bond and free. Soft rain pattered down, cold and persistent. Harvest had finished just in time, all gods of land and sky be thanked. 

He found a sword of wood and stretched, then began to work on attacks and blocks. It had been too long, far too long, but no bard went with a blade of this kind in the south. Too many might ask questions he did not care to answer without strong men at his back. His hand and arms recalled the basics, sufficient that he did not hurt himself or look the fool. He drank some water, then traded sword for staff. This he wielded with practiced ease. 

Crack. The wood in his hand hit wood, not air, and his hands stung. Tuathal parried and struck, then dodged a blow. He and his opponent sparred for some time before the other man called, “Halt.” 

Tuathal stepped back and planted the butt of the heavy oak staff in the dirt. The man facing him pushed back the hood on his cloak, revealing Odhran. Gray hairs almost outnumbered light brown. “You fight like an easterner,” the old man observed.

“I should. What is first learned remains, yes?” He extended his hand, and they shook. “All expect a traveler to carry a staff.”

“As they should. Your sword arm bears rust.”

The words came as an observation, not an insult. Tuathal nodded. “It does. The farmers and herders of the south carry no swords, not even of the old metal. Knife, aye, sling, staff, bow and arrows, spears a few, but not sword. They say it’s no use against beasts, only men.” Given how some men acted worse than beasts, well, he’d considered disagreeing, but had held his tongue. 

“Farmers would say that, aye,” Odhran replied. “You ride still?”

“Only a ship since I left these halls.” 

“Thought so. Ye’d do well to regain the skill. Word from the west’s the high king’s younger sons grow restless. Northern men as well, but when do they not come south in the winter?”

Tuathal tried to recall. “The year the sea froze and the wolves broke into the women’s hall? That’s the last I recall.” He’d first come to these lands that summer. All the signs had warned of a hard winter, but none had expected cold so deep trees shattered, and wolves and men walked over the sea’s ice almost as far as the Isle of White Birds. The tribe to the north had not visited then, perhaps because they were fighting cold and beasts both, too busy to raid as usual. 

“Not today, but soon,” Odhran warned. “And work your sword arm, master bard. Fewer respect the clarsach and awan than in days past.” He frowned, frost-touched eyebrows drawing down an aging thatch roof over his eyes. “Something comes on the wind, but what I do not know.”

Tuathal weighed the man’s words against his own witness. “Several halls had no praise singers or even harpers. Pyder’s lack is understandable, but others? I am warned, and will practice.”

“Good. Now go get something to eat before the young men devour it.”

Would any be awake? Tuathal gestured agreement, put sword and staff in their places, and went to where servants and women set out food for those with morning work. Bread, grain pottage with apple, and cider waited, along with some bacon. As he waited for a serving girl to give him a portion, he sensed movement and turned, then bowed to Aisling and her maid. 

“Thank you. Eat, husband’s brother. Long was your journey.” She took a place near but not too near. The servants served her first, then him. He did not protest. With any other woman, he would, but not Aisling the Bold. She’d demanded Fiachta’s hand, tested him, and declared that she’d wed him. 

Her father had sent her dower and a message that had left Fiachta rolling with laughter, a message he had kept to himself. It likely had been, “You deal with her. I cannot,” or something similar. She’d borne two sons and a daughter, all still living, and a fourth who came too young and tore her womb as he came. That Aisling herself lived remained one of the wonders of the Isles of the Strong. 

Tuathal watched the servants and two arms men. As the night before, they moved without fear, calm and practiced. One bond maid watched an older woman, likely learning how to serve, or to prepare a proper meal. Not all captives had such skills. They worked quietly, but not in the fearful silence of Pyder’s hall. What had happened to Pyder, why had he grown so tight-handed, and so feared? Tuathal drank more cider. 

His half-brother’s wife ate more than he did. Since she stood a head taller, and broader in the shoulders, well, she should. A little Northern stock ran in her family, or so the wind whispered. The wise kept such thoughts to themselves. He’d watched her use a weaving beam to beat an arms man who grew overbold. It was a wonder the beam had not broken the way his arms had. Then she’d returned to supervising her weaving women without a second glance at the bloody, whimpering creature crawling out of the weaving hall. Fiadh, her sire should have named her, for the battle queen of the time of the coming of the people to this land. 

“What think you, bard?” she asked after finishing the pottage. 

“I think the gods have blessed this land, and that a well-run hall is one of the great treasures of the Land of the Strong.” 

Broad smiles greeted his words. “A wise and observant traveler you are indeed, Tuathal map Aiden. Finish, if you so choose.” She stood and departed, her maids following close behind. He did as ordered. 

Later, as he studied the horses in the pasture, he heard a steady thumping sound from closer to the women’s hall. He smiled and went to where the threshers worked. A stool waited, not for him, but he took it even so. He checked the harp’s tune and began a steady work and marching song, then a harvest thanks song. The men and women smiled as they labored. 

That night, as he prepared for sleep, he stepped outside to glance at the stars. A cold wind brushed his cheek, wind of the west, laden with water. It carried … Tuathal breathed deeply. Bitterness, like the smoke of green hay being burned in war. The breeze and moment passed. He bowed to the wind for the warning, then went to bed. 

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Tuathal greets the low king.

As he crossed the wagon way, he heard hoofs coming and turned. A truchai drew near, walking. The driver stopped the team and bowed. Tuathal stepped up on the wicker floor, careful not to unbalance the vehicle. “Ksssa,” the servant commanded, and the storm-dark horses walked at a fast pace up the road to the hall. Tuathal concentrated on standing without touching the woven sides. Riding the truchai would never be so simple for him as for others. Nor had he done aught save walk for the last year and more.

As they climbed, the land fell away. To the west, a blue arm of the sea appeared between the hills and the half water. Once, it had come this far, when his sire had been but a child, the waters storm driven. Now the sea touched shingle and salt marsh. Land mingled with water, land brushed sky, and so this hall and the standing stones to the east, here in a place neither land nor water nor sky. Most fields had been harvested, and he glimpsed a wagon with barrels in it, apples red and green as well as grain and other gifts of a good land. 

The horses slowed as they reached the top of the hill. “Cathal’s man spoke truth,” a deep voice called.

“His eyes are better, and words wiser, than the one he serves.” Tuathal hopped down to the ground and saluted Fiachta NoDomnail. Fiachta’s smile split his luxurious mustache near in twain. They embraced.

“Aye. Cathal is among the bold, not the wise. As soon as the last wagon unloads, we feast. Go put on proper clothes.”

In other words, he’d best look like a king’s brother and not a wandering tale spinner. That pleased him greatly, as did not being ordered to help the others. 

He went to his usual place in the long, slightly curved stone hall, among the king’s household. Water and proper garments waited for him, as did a servant with shears. She cut the length of his hair, giving him a proper man’s length, then trimmed his beard. After she finished, he stripped, removed more road dirt, and dressed in proper clothes. Good trews in blue and brown, a soft brown shirt embroidered in white and deep blue, shoes of thick red leather, and a creamy white vest with green and blue embroidered beasts on the collar and beside the seams befitted a master praise singer and brother of a king. 

Cathal’s eyes grew wide indeed when he saw Tuathal seated beside the king. Tuathal did not gloat—his sword arm had thick rust on it, and Cathal stood a head higher, with longer arms and stronger back. Warring with words was better, and winter would be long indeed if he angered all the warriors in his brother’s hall. 

Fiachta’s lady, Aisling the Bold, entered the hall with three of her women. Tuathal stood and bowed low. “All honor to the lady of the hall for her beauty, skill, and generosity. All she turns her hands to prospers, and the lands of her husband give forth bounty at her very word.”

Aisling smiled. “Fine words, Honored Allav.”

“So fine a lady and her noble man deserve nothing less.”

Fiachta stood and looked to his wife. She handed him a cup, an declared, “Give generously to these men, oh my husband, for they are strong of arm and bold of sword, and deserve nothing less.” A loud cheer greeted her words. With that she and her ladies departed. A full harvest feast would come later, then. Tuathal nodded to himself.

Fiachta sat, then called, “Who deserves the hero’s portion?”

Silence, the fire in the center of the hall snapped on wood. Then one of the low bench men called, “Rian, for doing valiant battle with the Sheep of Eibah.” Much laughter followed his words, and Rian himself grinned, then made a rude gesture.

“Indeed, the great beast fought with full valiant heart, but the strength of my arm and grip of my hand defeated her ferocious hoofs and wool of iron.” Rian bowed, then sat. Tuathal laughed with the others and sipped a little of the mead in the cup. 

After more boasting and jests, the portion went to Odhran, one of the oldest of the warriors and strong right-arm of both Fiachta’s sire and Fiachta himself. Tuathal noted the honor and remembered it as servants served the other men and then Fiachta himself.

After the first round of meat and boasting had finished, Fiachta turned to him. “What saw you on your travels?”

Tuathal moved from beside the king to a place closer to the fire, where all could hear more easily. He’d already tuned the clarsach. “Much saw I since your generosity surrounded me, oh king, but few so generous and none so strong of arm and of men. Truly, your hall gleams brighter than the finest copper of Fiann, and your women bear more grace and beauty, and skill of hand, than all the wives of Llyd.

“I took ship south, down the coast, between the Isle of the Wise and the Isle of Birds, to below the great bay of the west. The raiders of the coast had turned their attentions elsewhere, and more people farmed and fished, always with one eye to the sea. The flaming mountain to the south steamed, but did not flame, or so the sailors told me. Smoke I saw, yes, smoke in the sea.

“The mist moved west and a little north, almost to the wall.” Troubled murmurs and looks passed among some of the men, and Fiachta frowned, stroking his copper red mustache. “The Mull of Einar and Burn of Mercil lie under the mist’s touch, now. The wall still stands free of the mist, but I saw with my own eyes that where the Burn of Mercil once flowed, only shapeless stinging gray-black billows over the land.”

Fiachta drank, then spread his hands. “That lies far to the south. What news closer?”

“Traders from the east report that mines of the old ones have been reopened, giving better salt than the sea coast salt, and that bog iron was found on the northernmost isle. The king of Kallia went to war with his neighbor over two fat cows.” Tuathal smiled and added with a wink, “One of those cows was the king’s daughter. Or so it was told to me.”

Laughter filled the hall. All had heard of the claims of beauty from the royal household of Kallia, claims perhaps too bold to be entirely true. 

“The land to the south waxed fat this year, with much grain and little sickness. The ailment of sheep no longer stalks the land, at least not that I saw or heard tell of. The household of Ceo avenged a slight of a generation back, taking heads. Fyon the Black’s generosity rivals that of a yellow-bill gull.”

Tuathal waited for the winces and snickers to finished, then continued, “Pyder of the Ford, Pyder son of Briciu. spends his sire’s wealth. No praise singer or tale teller remains under his roof, and while his lands prosper, his people go wary, patch-cloaked and grass-shod. Pyder feasted on the hero’s portion himself.” 

Oh, the roar of dismay that followed his words. Tuathal stopped and drank some of the mead that had appeared at his elbow, then ate part of the rich honey cake that also awaited him.

Fiachta scowled, as did many of his men. “What of his arms men and their weapons?” he demanded.

“His men seemed loyal, but only ten benches worth, perhaps? I know not how many his father supported. More bonded than free labored in his hall, but harvest had yet to finish,” Tuathal cautioned. “His cattle had not yet come down from the hills, or so it seemed.” Where had the cattle been? 

Anger turned to thoughtful looks and murmurs. To have so few men on the benches, and keep the cattle out so late … Perhaps Pyder no longer had the wealth his father had boasted of. Or his lack of generosity left him vulnerable. 

“Master bard, did you hear of a war in the east, between the queen’s forces and those of raiders from the south?” one of the men asked. 

Tuathal turned his left hand palm up with uncertainty, then touched the clarsach’s strings, summoning a hint of battle song. “I heard of a raid, yes, one that failed because the raiders fell out among themselves, each claiming the greater share of the spoils while still on eastern lands. The Brytheen attacked in the night, as the men fought themselves, and took back loot, cattle, women, and heads.”

Fiachta glanced to the chest where his own trophy heads resided, preserved in scented oil. He smiled a touch. “Wise is the man who waits until he is far from the enemy before he argues over the hero’s portion.”

“Indeed,” Tuathal intoned, harp notes growing bolder. “After all, was it not such an argument that brought the wrath of Rhodry down on the sons of Darragh when they hunted the Great Stag of Conchvar?” His brother signaled for more meat and drink, and Tuathal spun the great tale of daring, adventure, and folly. When he finished, a minor harper took his place, playing but not singing. Tuathal drank water, then ate more, and drank a cup of beer. 

After another hunting ballad, Tuathal noticed the men growing quieter. Everyone had turned his hand to the harvest or other preparations, even the king himself. No warrior cared to, but neither did a man win praise for starvation. Tuathal nodded to himself and reached into his memory for a new song, one of those he’d created on his journeys. The harps notes darkened, grew mournful like wind among the rocks in winter, wailing as the sharp stones tore her tattered cloak. 

“Black rocks gleamed, black as a raven’s wing

“Silent the men of Tadhg, silent as mist on water

“Black the rocks gleamed, black as storm clouds

“Still lie the men of Tadhg, still as the stones of Caer Sidi.”

Tuathal spun the tale of the raid, ambush, and the vengeance of Tadhg’s women. The arms men and servants held silence, enrapt in his words and the harp’s notes, now fierce, now weeping, now determined and proud. 

When he finished, only the snapping of the flame’s tongues and a servant’s sigh stirred the air. Then Fiachta smiled and raised his cup. “All honor to the Allav, truly a master bard.”

Tuathal bowed. “More honor to the giver of the feast, Fiachta the Open-handed, worthy of the blade Durnwin, whose generosity is as wide as his lands are broad, from whom gifts flow as freely as salmon—sheep of the waters—swim the Great River to the sea, whose hall stands open only to the brave, strong, and worthy, as the Cauldron of Durnach served only the brave.”

Oh, his brother’s smile grew broad indeed, and his men cheered the honor. Tuathal bowed once more, then resumed his place. As he did, one of the serving women brought him more meat and bread. She smiled an invitation, and he nodded. Her smile grew knowing and very warm. He’d not lack for comely companionship this night. 

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Tuathal passes news, and heads northwest toward a low king’s domain.

Two hands of days had passed before Tuathal reached the turning of the road. Twice he’d met other bards, traded songs and news, and warned them of Fyon and Pyder. “I have heard twice now of Pyder’s foolishness,” the younger bard had replied. “It is said that Fyon’s own son is his bard, but none know the son’s teacher or múintid.” The young man had shifted, discomfort clear. “I know not the truth of the tale, sir.” 

“I have not heard such, but I know the eastern múinti better than the western,” Tuathal had replied. “I do know that I will avoid both halls until they make amends for their lack of hospitality.”

The other bards had pledged to do the same, and would warn any they met. Now Tuathal stood at the turning of the northern road under a sun that gave less heat with each passing day. One branch of the road continued north, into the higher lands of the wild clans. He turned his steps to the west, toward the Land of the Blessed, and the court of Fiachta NoDomnail, his younger half-brother. The road faded to a trail for two days, then widened. Dark and light stones marked the edges of what had once been a great road, one of the oldest of old ways, perhaps. Had the old ones a god of the roads? The men of the south had, perhaps, but none still living knew of a name. Tuathal wondered, then turned his thoughts to the road and the coming of winter. A cool mist filled the valleys between the hills, softening the stones and hiding the distant farms and forests.

This part of the road had been smoothed my the men of the south before they retreated behind the wall, or so some claimed. The tales differed from east to west and north, and he accepted all. The sky paled, and he felt a touch of wind on his face. It smelled of sea and land and neither. Not much farther, then. Good. He tired of walking and of sour milk. The mist swirled. For a breath a face and form appeared, then only mist blew on the wind. Gray and green and the black of the lands bones, bones of the mother of mankind. Words came, and he stepped from the road, humming and setting them in memory. Not awan, but close and worthy of respect. 

The hills softened. Grass replaced bramble between the gray-brown rocks, and dirt smoothed stone. Dirt-darkened cream and brown moved on a distant slope. Sheep, their voices carried from him by the wind. A dwelling crouched beside the road, but back a respectful distance, not crowding the way. Age-grayed thatch covered the roof. He noted the thickness and nodded with approval. On his sire’s lands, even sheep-servants’ houses stood proof against the wind and rain, unlike what he’d seen elsewhere. He glanced down, then eased to the side, away from muddy ruts. The wagon should have waited.

Ahead, the road curved around a rough, jagged little peak of black rock. Crows came and went, black hoods the same shade as the stone, ashy cloaks flashing against green and blue. A few tufts of white-topped grasses clung to the flat tops of stone columns, those too low to sport nests or perches. Here and there, splashes of rusty red brown marked the peak, as if the rocks had once burned. Tuathal studied the place as he passed. The burning stones used by smiths to the east gleamed, slick and smooth. Rough edges and pits marred the hill’s surface. Not the same, then.

A faint vibration came through the leather under his feet. He stepped farther to the side. He adjusted his cloak so the golden brooch could be seen by all. The snake-iron knife remained out of view, for now. If all went well he’d not need it. 

Now he heard hoof beats, a two-horse truchai, hurrying along the road. Tuathal did not glance back. He’d know soon enough who approached. As fast as the horses ran, they’d be into the sea before they stopped. Chiming of metal made Tuathal smile, but not with pleasure. He moved farther onto the grass. Cathal’s driver matched his master. 

“Way! Give way for a warrior!” came the bellow from the road. Tuathal glanced at the green gap between his feet and the road and continued on. A pair of bright brown horses cantered past, fast as birds flew, pulling a gold-touched wicker truchai. A man balanced on the yoke pole as his driver stood in the truchai. The light, swift battle cart bounced but Cathal remained balanced, cloak fluttering behind like his horses’ tails.

No, some men neither learned nor changed. The truchai raced around the curve and out of sight and hearing. Tuathal shrugged back one shoulder of his cloak. The day had grown mild for so late in the year. He glanced to the east. A few gray sky sheep grazed above the hills. Did they come, or go? he’d learn soon. His destination waited ahead, a hand or so by sun. The sound of water on rocks caught his ear. He slowed, then left the way for the water. 

Cold, then warm stung his skin. He scrubbed hair and beard, then neck and arms. The rest could wait. He reached deep into the bag and unwrapped a gold and silver torc. He settled it around his neck, then pulled on his shirt. Once more full dressed, bag and clarsach on back, he returned to the road. The sun’s fire balanced the water’s lingering chill as he strode on. Perhaps now Cathal’s man would know him. Or not.

Two more bends in the road led to lush grazing full of fat red cattle. The guards watched him but held their peace. Tuathal kept to the road. Chasing startled cattle held no interest for him. An eagle soared overhead, dark brown and golden brown in a pale sky. Ahead, the hills drew back from a water-rich plain, as if out of respect for the solitary mound that lorded above the land and marked where the sea’s touch ended. A darker hue to the land, more blue in the greenth, warned the wary to stay on the narrow path through the sea-edge grasses and reeds. 

Tuathal strode to the low earth wall that set the mound and lands apart from the hedge-edged fields. A stripling on watch approached the gate. Tuathal waited. The youngster began to speak, then caught himself, eyes wide. He saluted and opened the gate. “Welcome Allav, master bard, twice welcome will your gifts be under this roof.”

“May your arm be strong as iron, your blade sharp as winter’s wind, and your eye keen as the eagle of Bledaiwy.” Tuathal entered the gap, nodded to the symbol of Morak, and began walking the winding footpath to the great hall atop the mound. The fresh grass and reeds on the roofs of lesser halls shone gold in the westering sun, white-painted stone walls gleaming under the gold. He glanced over his shoulder. The gray in the east drew closer. A storm had followed him. Something stirred in him, not awan but … A sense of trouble flowed around him, trouble from the east and south. The moment passed.

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

All is not well, or so Tuathal surmises.

Loud voices approached the hall, men shouting and jesting. He stood, clarsach in arms, as Pyder and his chosen men flowed into the hall. Pyder glanced around, a deep scowl forming on his fair face, red already coloring his cheeks. Anger, or mead and wine? The servants scattered to the walls, save for those who tended the feast. Thus warned, Tuathal waited.

“Ah! A bard. Good.” Pyder settled himself in the high seat, and servants set a table beside him. “We’ve no tale spinners or praise singers here.”

The arms men took places on the benches, leaving only a servant’s seat for Tuathal. The serving woman who had taken his cloak set it there, whispering an apology as she fled. Pyder waved to the seat. “What new, bard?”

Tuathal glanced at the men on the benches, then nodded to his host. “As you desire.” He sat and stroked the strings, drawing the sound of waves, then a song of harvest as he recounted what he’d learned, seen, or heard since the turning of summer. As he recited, servants served Pyder and his men with meat and drink. The choice bits had been given out by the time he finished telling his news. Where was Pyder’s lady? She should at least have entered to receive the honors due her, and to greet a guest.

One of the bondsmen set a cup beside him and scurried off. Plain apple cider filled the cup. Again Tuathal studied his host, now lounging in the chair, well into his cups as he ate. Pyder knew the laws of hospitality, and the portion due a master bard. Still, he hesitated. Something warned against sharp words just yet. Several of the arms men watched him with covetous eyes, for all that he did not show his wealth or kinship openly. Pyder had fallen far from his sire’s ways, that much Tuathal could tell already.

One of the men seated near Pyder called, “A green and blue calf sounds like an honest easterner—a wonder never truly seen.” Harsh laughter followed his words. 

“As wondrous as the wind that washes the world, a fish that speaks, or a sober arms man,” Tuathal replied, smiling lest he face a challenge of arms. 

Louder laughter greeted his sally, and the men nudged each other and drank still more. 

Tuathal drew loud, fierce notes from the clarsach, “Hear now the tale of the Hunt of the Great Boar of Oidche,” he began, and the men listened to the tale of the man-eating boar with golden bristles, and the great warrior Oidche, in the days before the men of the south had come to the land.

When he finished, Pyder declared, “It is said that once boars roamed the land with apples in their mouths and roasted themselves.”

Tuathal stroked the sound of the waves from the harp’s strings. “Indeed. And men once walked the lands of Kaeirrishog, called Ynys Teithi Hen, from the court of the snowy hills to the land of Eiru. Of what befell the land, only four remained to tell the tale, and two were secret keepers.” The sound of gentle seas shifted, grew stronger, more insistent. 

Pyder shifted on his seat of honor and stroked his mustache. The other men quieted, each glancing to his bench brother. 

“To walk from even the Island of the Wise to Eiru would be a wonder,” Prydr chuckled. 

“Indeed, in these times it would be,” Tuathal agreed. “Or so cold that even the desire of Dagdah for Morvan might cool to mild interest.” He kept his face and tone bland and innocent as the warriors laughed and nudged each other. Even Pyder chuckled.

“What brought the sea into the land, Master Tuathal?” one of the men asked. “The war of Manannan and Brytha?”

He rocked his head and one hand from side to side, then resumed playing. “Not exactly, although Manannan was not loath to add to his domains.”

The sea sound from the harp calmed, like quiet wind below blue-black skies. He opened himself to the awan, if it pleased to come. “In the time now past, Kaeirrishog lay below the sun, lush and rich. The land waxed fat and good years outnumbered lean. Wells of sweet water fed fish-rich lanes that wound like silvery tresses to the sea

“Sleek steeds raced on the earth’s green weaving. Snowy peaks in the suyn gleamed no brighter or rounder than the floods of Kaeirrishog. Heavy-headed the fields bowed, standing bread and sheaves of beer. Manannan’s own steeds bent their heads with shame before the whiteness of the milk from the cows of Kaeirrishog.” He caught the eyes of the men and smiled, a smile full of knowing. “Only the breasts of the maidens gleaned whiter, by sun or by moon.” 

Once the nudges and ribald comments finished, the harp’s notes darkened, cold and brooding as the rocks of the Isle of Graves or the Tarn of Shadows. “The men of the land of Kaeirrrishog grew in pride and wealth. They spoke of the prowess of their fathers but not of their own. The riches won by strength of arm and edge of blade remained theirs, even as the blades grew a crop of rust.

“So too, their ways and manners. Of all of Kaeirrishog, only four abided by the ancient laws. Teithi Hen, the old man Of White Rock, the young woman of Green Leaves, and Crubaiged the Fleet. They returned to the land and waters their due, and kept open the doors to the traveler and seeker.

“So it was that when Gwidion walked the ways of the silvery stream steeds, under the fleecy flocks of Ciranis, doors closed, roads led to walls and barred gates. Only the young woman of Green Leaves offered milk and curd from her mistress’ herd. Only the Old Man of White Rock made a place for the beast of Gwidion to graze. Crubaiged the Fleet made way for the traveler, leaving the best of the path for his feet, while Teithi Hen gave the most valuable of gifts, ears as open as the ears of Bran, attention as sharp as the sword of Nuada, and a hearth as warm as the forge of Goboddein.” 

Bitter winds sang, then hissed as Tuathal glided his nails up the strings of the harp. Several men shivered. Two glanced to the seat of pride, and Pyder upon it. He scowled as he beckoned for more drink. The harp’s song grew darker still, surging like waved, like Manannan’s own war horses.

“And so it was that Gwidion spoke of his traveling, of the word, from over the hills and even sea, and Taithi Hen listened. Outside the light of the fire, the wind sang, weaving a mournful way between summer green loom bars. The scent of smoke faded, the deep gray of the sea filled the shelter as Gwidion sang his warning. At once, Crubaiged the Fleet screamed a cry of challenge. His rider rushed out into the darkness and beheld the stallion of MacLyr rearing and snorting foam. Taithi Hen cut the rope of Crubaiuged’s tether and sprang onto his back, not daring to look for his guest.

“East they raced. Crubaiged had raced against many steeds, but never had he flows so fast as that day. Behind them, the devourer of stones feasted on crops and harvests, on milk and dairy maids together. The Old Man of White Rock clung to a raft of thatch that carried him to safety, while the Young Woman of Green Leaf threw herself over an empty butter churn and floated east as the wind and waves commanded.”

The terrible tearing roar of notes stilled. Soft “plinks” dropped as dew from young leaves on a misty morning. Even the great hearth’s flames dared not snap or crackle.

“And so perished the lands of Kaeirrishog, Ynis Taithi Hen. Crubaiged, weary, stopped at the Hill of the Great Hiding. Taithi Hen flowed to the ground, faint from the loss of all. To the day of his death, Crubaiged wanted for nothing, so great was his rider’s debt. And so Kaeirrishog, Seithennin, and Cair ynnes, the three kingdoms swallowed by the sea.”

“A fair tale for women and captives,” Pyder snorted, well in his drink. “Give us a tale for men, storyteller.”

His men gasped. 

Pyder waved his cup at them. “Well, storyteller?”

“The tale of the Battle of Ballat, as was told to me.” The harp snarled a challenge, then gentled as he recounted the tale of King Dagi and his warriors against the men of Deas as the first wave of the mist flowed onto the slaughter ground. Pyder cheered, banged the table with his cup.

As he finished the tale, Tuathal felt himself growing light. He stood and drew on his cloak. Harp in arms, he bowed. Words pushed from him, and he chanted, “Pyder son of Bricu I name you, as generous as Matholwch was to his guests, as brave as Cwlch the Red, and as wealthy as Lasar. May this house prosper until it rivals the riches of Caiwynnes.” He felt himself moving and walked from the hall, harp in arms. Dead silence save for Pyder’s call of joy and boasting followed. The awan left him as he reached the place of horses.

“Master bard, wait, please,” a man pleaded as steps hurried from behind. “Do not leave without a road cup and portion of honor.”

He stopped and turned. Two servants and a pair of arms men approached. They carried drink, bread, and meat. Even in the starlight, he saw fear in their eyes. Pride warred with justice. They had not denied him his proper due. He jerked his head down in a curt gesture. “I take hospitality from those who give freely.”

“Freely given, master bard, of our share,” the female bond servant averred. The others made sounds of agreement. He ate and drank swiftly under the open sky. A second arms man brought his bag, and bread for the way.

“My thanks for the gifts. May you prosper and be praised for your honor, men and women of the household of Prader,” the greedy rat. They flinched back from the insult to their chief’s name. Tuathal untuned the clarsach, slid it into the case, and picked up pack and case. He strode out of the gate. It closed behind him. 

The moon gave enough light for him to walk the road. The farther from that cursed hall, then better. He was no Gwidion, but when awan moved so, a wise man heeded the power. Truly, the court of Pyder had fallen far from its grace in his sire’s day. 

(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved