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