"The bard does not only tell audiences his tales, that their futures might be revealed. He tells tales for himself, too. Perhaps, should you master your arts well enough, you will see a path that leads to the future you desire."
Sétanta chuckled. "But if I realize my desire... will I have any reason to continue telling tales?"
Iola squeezed Sétanta's shoulder. "Young apprentice. In youth, we have singular desires. As we grow our desires multiply. The day all your desires are fulfilled will be the day you die."
"One more question..."
"Yes?"
"The ríastrad... I trust you know the curse that dwells within me?"
Iolo nodded. "I do."
"And you do not fear me?"
"We are not thieves lurking in the woods. What should we fear?"
"You know about that?"
Iolo nodded. "If you'd sent word ahead and asked for our protection, we would have guided you to Emain Macha. No less, you have arrived unscathed. The same cannot be said for the thieves who stumbled across you."
"Then you know... that I'm a killer..."
Iolo cocked his head sideways. "It is not every potential apprentice who comes with promise to both tell tales and to be the subject of tales himself. That you seek us to aid in taming the ríastrad means you are no killer. Perhaps, one day, you shall be even a hero."
"Is it enough that I be a bard? I have no desire for heroics."
"We are all given what we are given. Today, your path forward is dim. Perhaps, as you acquire a few more tales, you will find that your own tale is one worthy of future bards."
9
BABD WAS STARTLED awake as the carriage came to a halt and someone—a young man with dark hair and beady eyes, flipped open a corner of the hide that covered the girls' cage, flooding the cage with blinding sunlight. A sinking feeling hit Babd's stomach. She and her sisters we being treated like livestock being prepared for sale.
The carriage went dark again as the dark-haired man dropped the hide, covering the cage that held Babd and her sisters.
Based on the sound of two feet striking the ground, Babd surmised that her father dismounted the carriage.
"So you've brought them," the man said.
"I have," Fionn replied. "They're in the carriage."
"So I've seen. My master would like to see them for himself, to ensure they are pleasing before finalizing your request."
"Understood," Fionn said.
"To understand we're pleasing?" Babd asked her sisters with a whisper.
"Surely just one of us," Macha said. "And since I'm the prettiest, he'll choose me."
"You're not the prettiest," Anand retorted. "But if he thinks so, I won't object."
"To choose us as what?" Babd asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
"As a wife, of course!" Macha said, her eyes even wider than her open-jawed grin.
Babd rolled her eyes. She and her sisters were far too young for that—but now that they were likely of childbearing age, though just barely, it was not unthinkable that girls of their age might be quickly betrothed.
"Who do you think our suitor is?" Macha asked. "A king, perhaps!"
"You really haven't been paying much attention, have you? Don't you recognize the man who looked at us before?"
Macha shrugged. Babd cocked her head. She wasn't sure either.
"He was with father when he returned with the Oxter."
"You mean when he returned without Mom," Babd said, narrowing her eyes.
Anand nodded. "I think that man is aligned with the Dagda. He's trading one of us to him, so he can acquire something new."
"Even better!" Macha exclaimed. "To be the wife of a god!"
"Presuming he chooses you," Babd said.
"Of course he will choose me!"
"The question is what father is hoping to acquire, and why," Anand said.
Macha rolled her eyes. "Isn't it obvious? He wants revenge against the druid who kidnapped Grainne."
"The druid didn't kidnap her. He rescued her. Dad was holding her hostage."
Before either sister responded the hide was pulled off the cage, this time all the way, the sunlight forcing all three sisters to shield their eyes.
"Come this way, all of you," the man said as he released the lever that had locked the cage from the outside.
Covering her eyes, Babd slid out of the cage and tumbled on the ground. Her legs had fallen asleep and gave way beneath her. The man extended his hand and caught Babd by the arm. Babd looked at him curiously—the look on his face, she saw right through it.
When his eyes met hers he immediately blushed. Was this young man taken with Babd? Usually, it was Macha who garnished that kind of attention. But Babd would use this to her advantage if push came to shove. She grinned sheepishly back at the man, meeting his eyes with hers and then casually looking away and giggling.
Play coy... feign some interest or fascination with the man... lure him in...
"Fear Doidrich," Babd said out loud. The name just came to her. How did she know it? She wasn't sure. Her sense of perception, it usually just gave her vague impressions, not names and facts.
The man's disposition suddenly hardened. "This one's a witch!" he shouted toward a tent where Fionn had retreated, presumably to meet with the Dagda.
Babd huffed. So much for playing the flirt.
Fionn appeared at the entrance, his face red with fury. "None of my daughters are witches!"
"But this one is, for sure! She spoke my true name—only a witch would know it."
Fionn narrowed his brow, piercing Babd with a stare that would make most children her age and to run and hide beneath the bedsheets.
A second later another figure appeared from the tent. He was a towering man—in fact, if what Babd and her sisters had discerned was true, he wasn't a man at all. He was the Dagda, the great god. He'd merely accommodated himself to the appearance of a man—a look he'd mostly gotten right aside from the fact his proportions were slightly out of whack. His torso was longer than that of a normal man which gave his legs the appearance of being too short. Though, when he stood beside Fionn, the two had legs of similar length. Nonetheless, the Dagda towered over Fionn, his shoulders above the top of Fionn's head. The Dagda had a long, red, beard and pale skin. Still, the good god had kind eyes and a youthful energy about him.
It was hard to tell his age—his skin was soft, like that of a man not yet twenty, but his countenance also exuded a wisdom that suggested he was much older. Despite his awkward proportions, he wasn't awful looking at all. Macha could do worse, should he choose her. At least that's what all three sisters had presumed was most likely until the Dagda spoke.
"All three of them will do."
Fionn stomped his foot on the ground. "The deal was for one of my daughters as your bride, not all of them!"
"The deal," the Dagda said, staring down at Fionn, who was a rather tall man himself, "was for my choice of your daughters."
"But what would you do with three wives? A single wife is enough to vex even the most patient of men! And you dare take three?"
"I am not a man. Need I remind you of that? All three of these girls, in their own way, possess ideal virtues."
The Dagda approached Macha.
"This one is the fairest girl of the land. Her beauty would be the envy of all the gods. But one such as me requires more than beauty. I need a wife with whom I can converse, who may not be my equal but can at least engage matters of the mind."
The Dagda strolled over toward Anand, placed one of his massive hands on her shoulder. "This one will do nicely for that."
Then the Dagda approached Babd. He looked at her curiously; she shot daggers back at him. "This one, what is her name?"
"Babd," Fionn said. "Of my three daughters, at least this one has nothing that might draw her to you. She is the plainest of the three, good for little more than housework."
Babd wanted to curse at her father. But she thought better of it
and bit her tongue.
"But that's the one!" Doidrich screamed. "She's the one who knew my name. She must be a witch."
Fionn bellowed a deep laugh. "Babd? A witch?"
"None except my mother have spoken my true name until now," Doidrich said. "But this one knew it the moment she saw me. Divination is the only answer."
Fionn, his jaw dropped, looked at me intently. "Is what this boy says true? Did you speak his name, a name you could not have possibly known?"
"I don't know how I knew it," Babd said. "He must've said it. I swear, I'm no witch."
"The witch lies," Doidrich said.
The Dagda approached Babd and looked at her in the eyes. "You cannot lie to a god, my dear. I can see through you."
"I don't know how I know his name. But I swear, it has nothing to do with witchcraft."
"Now she speaks the truth," the Dagda said. "And perhaps you are right, Fionn. Maybe she is good for little else than housework. But all the other gods know I have more than enough of that to do. Besides, she intrigues me. I stand by my terms—I'll have all three."
"Surely there's another way," Fionn said, a hint of urgency in his voice. "You've already taken my wife. Now to claim all of my daughters?"
"If you wish to be granted the gift you've requested," the Dagda said sternly, "this is the only offering I will accept."
Fionn, his head hung low, spoke clearly. "Very well."
"Very well?" Babd pied up—it was less a question than an objection. "Your revenge, Father, means more to you than your own daughters?"
Fionn approached Babd and gently touched her face. "I see your mother in your eyes. In Anand, I hear your mother in her voice. And in Macha, I sense your mother in her grace. It is not that I love you less, Babd, than I demand my revenge—it is that I cannot stand to live with her memory haunting me the rest of my life. The Dagda is powerful—the most powerful god of all. He will give you a greater life than I ever could and, should I say, he will treat you better than I have."
For a moment, Babd wanted to slap her father. He was right—he hadn't treated her well. But he was her father. She clenched her fist as Fionn leaned over and kissed Babd's cheek, the did the same to Macha and Anand.
Fear Doidrich approached and took Babd by the hand—she yanked it out of his as quickly as she could. He took her hand again, this time clasping his hand around her more firmly before giving her hand to the Dagda. Then, he gathered Macha and Anand, neither of whom resisted at all.
Babd looked up at the Dagda. His eyes were suddenly aflame with magic—red magic. The Dagda blinked.
Fionn screamed as his body expanded and changed. Massive wings sprang from his back. His bones popped loudly as they grew. Scales formed on his skin. In a matter of moments, he'd change completely. He'd become a dragon.
With a flap of his wings and a cloud of dust kicked up beneath him, he took off into the skies. He released a torrent of flames into the clouds—the flames coalescing into a single, flat, oblong portal of some sort. He flew into it and disappeared.
Babd looked at her sisters. They were both in tears, overcome by the sheer horror of what they'd seen. But not Babd... she bit her tongue. She'd always known her father was a monster. Now, he was in both appearance and temperament. And to think that this was what he wanted... that becoming that was worth the cost of each of his daughters. For a moment, Babd pitied her father. So much rage. So consumed with vengeance.
"You see," Doidrich said. "This one, the one I say is a witch, was unaffected by her father's transformation. It's as though she's already familiar with such magic!"
"Enough," the Dagda said, interrupting Doidrich. "Bring them together. It is time the three shall become one, that I might have my wife."
10
FOR THE THIRD time Sétanta told the tale of Ceridwen and Taliesin and for the third time, his audience cheered him loudly.
"Quite impressive," Iolo said, squeezing his young apprentice's shoulder. "Especially considering you've told this same audience the exact same tale three times."
"You would think they would get bored of it," Sétanta chuckled. "They are like children, eager to hear the same stories time and time again."
Iolo smiled wide. "A good bard awakens the child in all his hearers. I'm proud of you, Sétanta."
"As am I," another man said—his voice was familiar, but he hadn't heard it in nearly five cycles, not since before he'd joined the troop at Emain Macha. Sétanta quickly turned and standing in front of him was Conchobar, King of Ulster and Sétanta's uncle.
Sétanta furrowed his brow. "How did you find me?"
The king cracked a half-smile. "I've known you were here all the while. I thought to compel your return sooner, but I was counseled otherwise. No hero who has before possessed the ríastrad learned to tame the wolf overnight."
Sétanta's heart sank into his stomach. "You know... how do you know?"
"I've known for some time, nephew. Ever since you bested the Fomorian..."
"How did you know?"
"When you did not turn up in time for the planned feast we sent scouts to find you..."
"You feared for my safety?"
The king nodded. "And the people were growing restless in anticipation of the feast."
"Of course," Sétanta said, rolling his eyes. "It's just like the people of Ulster to care more for their bellies than for the safety of the king's bastard nephew."
"Is that how you imagine the people think of you?"
"Of course it is," Sétanta said. "I've noticed the whispering behind my back."
"They whisper because you show promise! Promise to be the hero we've longed for. The people's gossip is not at all at your expense!"
"And now that you know that I have the ríastrad..."
"When you abandoned us I knew that the ríastrad must have had something to do with it. I knew you must have been afraid. Who wouldn't be? And I also knew the heroes of legend, those who had the ríastrad before, every one of them, endured some kind of trial in an effort to master the warrior within."
"The monster, you mean?"
"It is a matter of perspective, is it not?"
Sétanta shook his head. "But I don't want to be a warrior."
"Some things about our lives we choose for ourselves. Others are given to us, expected of us, writ into our destinies."
"I don't want that destiny."
"You can fight it if you wish. But you cannot deny what you are."
"A monster..."
"A hero."
"I see what you're doing. A moment ago, you said I was given a warrior's gift. Now you're attempting to appeal to my better sensibilities by suggesting I'm destined to be a hero."
"Perhaps I misspoke before. Most heroes are warriors. But not all warriors are heroes. It is destined you will be a warrior. The gift of the ríastrad has made you one already. But if you are going to be a mere warrior or a hero, is a matter of your choosing."
"I still don't know how you found me here."
King Conchobar glanced at Iolo, who had turned to stir a pot of stew, pretending he was not paying attention to the discussion between Sétanta and his king. "Not even your mentor is so bold as to deny your destiny, nephew."
Sétanta grimaced. He looked up to Iolo. He trusted him. But Iolo had let the king know he was studying the bardic arts. "I can't believe he..."
"It is he who convinced me, nephew, to leave to your training as a bard. I was of the mind to send for you straight away when news of your presence here reached Ulster. But it was not Iolo who alerted us to your presence here."
"Then who?"
"That would be a question for your bardic mentor."
"Iolo?"
Iolo retrieved his spoon from his boiling pot and took a sip of whatever stew he's been brewing. "As I've taught you, young apprentice, some tales beg to be told. I cannot forbid the other bards from telling a tale they deem, already, worthy of verse. It is not I who spread the news of your presence here. But your legend..."
"The king is correct. You get to choose whether you be a hero. But you do not have a say as to whether or not your tale becomes a legend. The question is what sort of legend your story will become. Will your tale inspire generations of would-be heroes, or will your story be but a cautionary tale? The Awen inspires tales of both kinds, and both serve their purpose."
Sétanta sighed. This was precisely the sort of life he'd hope he'd escaped when he left for Emain Macha. "But I am not ready. The ríastrad... I have not had yet an occasion to test it since I've grown in the arts. What if I leave and it overtakes me again? What if it be not a rogue Fomorian or a band of thieves who happen to be nearby the next time I'm overcome with anger."
A kind smile split Iolo's face. "My deal with your king was that I would alert him when I was certain you were ready if only he permitted you to train in the arts uninterrupted until that time. The king would not be here if you were not ready, apprentice."
"But I don't feel ready... there is so much left to learn."
"Even I have much left to learn, Sétanta. The day we cease learning is the day we die. You will continue to grow in the arts as you tell tales and live your own. But you know all I have to teach, you have all the skills I ever did when I first left Taliesin's side as his apprentice."
"But how do I know I am ready? I mean, it's one thing to be ready to tell tales. It's another thing to know I've tamed the ríastrad."
Again, Iolo smiled wide. "Come, both of you, and have a bowl of stew before you are on your way."
"Stew will satisfy my belly, it won't satisfy my worries..."
"Will your worries be any less if you leave hungry? If anger should come over you, seek out a tale, a verse, or a song that your anger might be tempered. With it, the wolf inside of you will be tamed as your spirit is consoled."
"Thank you, Iolo," King Conchobar said. "The stew smells delicious. It would be an honor to feast together before we depart."
"The honor is mine, my king."
Sétanta took a deep breath and served himself a bowl of stew. What else could he do? There was no sense, after all, in stewing over his problems. When the stew is ready it is meant to be consumed.
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