Pádraig and Eamon, the two of them sitting at a table for four, had just started on bowls of pottage, when a young bowman walked into the garrison mess hall. His dark-red tabard, with a tríbhís having no image in the center, its left and right legs in black and its top leg in gold, identified him as a member of the Security Forces of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires.
Looking around for a place to sit, consternation registered on the young soldier’s face, as he observed no empty places at tables with his cohorts. Although being stationed at the garrison at Fort Árainn, he didn’t know too many of the members of the security forces at Fort Callainn.
Recognizing the man and seeing his shoulders slump, Eamon called out, “Siollán!” and waved him over.
The young man’s face brightened and he crossed to the table, greeting them with, “Section Leader,” and “Honored Sir,” when he got there.
“Grab your food and pull up a stool, Bowman,” Eamon told him. “We’ve only just started on our meals.”
Looking down at their bowls of the vegetable stew, Siollán asked, “Pottage? How is it?”
“Not bad,” the section leader replied. “It’s actually got some fish in it tonight.”
“What kind?”
Pádraig held up his spoon with a chunk of fish on it. “Gray?”
The bowman laughed and crossed over to the mess line.
“Ahh, to be young and eager again,” Eamon said to Pádraig. “He’s relatively new to the army. A couple of months, I believe. He’s like an exuberant little puppy.”
“The way you were once?” the young wizard asked with a snicker.
“The way we all were once. Looking for adventure and an escape from poverty.”
“Did you find it?”
“An escape from poverty? Yeah. Adventure?” He shrugged. “If you call ‘adventure’ spending all day in the saddle or at a desk.”
Eamon and his men with the Cruachanian Defense Forces were stationed at Fort Árainn. They covered the two-day circuit on the Coastal Road south to Fort Callainn and north to the garrison at North Head.
When Siollán returned with his stew and a tankard of cider, Pádraig asked, “So, what are your duties here, besides being a bowman?”
Pulling out a stool and sitting next to Eamon and across from the wizard, he replied, “Being the new recruit, it’s mainly grunt work, so far.” Quickly, he added, “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. My ma and da have a pig farm up in Cairbrigh Shire. It took me a month or so to get rid of the smell of swine, so that my comrades would at least let me sit near them.”
Pádraig smiled inwardly. “I know the feeling all too well, Siollán. My da is a farrier. Before I entered the Academy, I worked with him as his apprentice. I didn’t think I’d ever get the smell of horse out of my pores. Now, I actually miss it—not so much the smell, but working side-by-side with my da every day.” As he said it, the young wizard’s mind drifted a bit, thinking of Finbar down at Fort Iorras, not getting any younger, and still unwilling or too stubborn to take on an apprentice.
“The two of you have nothing to complain about,” Eamon chimed in. “With me, it was bees. My sister and her husband have been running the family bee yard up in Árainn Shire since my folks passed over. I didn’t have the smell, but count yourselves lucky. Pigs and horses don’t sting.”
After a shared laugh, the section leader continued. “What’s been your latest grunt-work assignment?”
“Not too bad, actually. Messenger boy. I’ve just ridden in this evening from Ráth Gabhrán. Earl Eógan and his family are spending some time up at Ráth Árainn. As it turns out, the good earl is a bit of a gambler”
“A gambler?” Pádraig asked. “How so?”
“Apparently he’s got a betting pool going on the Between-Season sea-currach race.”
So that’s what the three currachs from the Kingdom of the Northern Shires were doing on Mid-Winter Day, Pádraig realized, thinking back to his far-seeing exercise above the bluffs in the Central Federal Region. They were practicing for the race.
* * *
The Cruachanian calendar depicted the yearly cycles of nature as a wheel, kept forever turning by the Deity. The five-hundred-twenty-eight-day year consisted of four seasons, starting with Winter and followed by Spring, Summer, and Autumn.
Each of the seasons was further broken down into two months. Beginning with Winter, they were named after animals common throughout the island: Wolf, Bear, Fox, Cougar, Hawk, Eagle, Raven, and Falcon.
These eight months were comprised of eight weeks of eight days, each day named after a tree: Yew, Birch, Willow, Alder, Hazel, Ash, Holly, and Oak, with the latter two days being holidays.
In addition to Hollyday and Oakday, the calendar provided for eight additional holidays—four Mid-Season Days between the two months within each season that corresponded to the solstices and equinoxes, and four Between-Season Days at the beginning of each season.
On the Between-Season Day between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, Cruachan held a rededication festival, marking the beginning of Spring.
In addition to feasting, merrymaking, spring cleaning, and weather divination, such as watching to see if badgers ventured forth from their dens, the Cruachanian Defense Forces and the security forces of the three kingdoms celebrated the festival by holding a sea-currach race, competing for the High King’s cup. Beginning on the forty-ninth day of Bear Month, the race, which took approximately seventeen grueling days to complete, began in the Sea of the Evening, just outside the entrance to Saltwater Bay. It consisted of one circuit around Cruachan, counter-sunwise, going south around the bottom of the island, then up to the north around the top of the island, then back south to Saltwater Bay. The first currach to enter the channel to the bay, sometime on or about Between-Season Day, was proclaimed the winner.
* * *
“No kidding?” Eamon said, in response to the information about the betting pool.
“Really,’ Siollán assured him. “He’s asked all the shire chieftains to select a time when they think the first currach will enter the channel. I ride back to Ráth Árainn tomorrow to deliver the results. Apparently the one who’s selection is the closest to the actual time wins.”
“Wins what?” Pádraig asked. “And what have you got so far for picks?”
“I’m not sure what they win,” the bowman answered. “Nobody told me that. But the times are all over the place. They’re just wild guesses as far as I can tell, except for Tierney, Chieftain here in Callainn Shire. He declined to participate. On his note to the earl, he simply wrote, ‘Sorry, My Lord, but I only bet on sure things. Good luck to you, though.’”
From the table next to the one where the three men sat, a squad leader with the Security Forces of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, sitting with three of his soldiers, turned around and confronted Siollán. “Do you really think that good Earl Eógan would appreciate you gossiping about his personal business, Bowman?” From the stern look on the veteran soldier’s weathered face, there was no doubt about the correct reply.
“Sorry, sir,” Siollán said, glancing down at his boot tops, his face reddening. “I meant no harm.”
“The earl’s business is the earl’s business. We can have you transferred to the washerwoman brigade, if you’re that fond of gossip. Otherwise, I’d suggest you button your lip about things that don’t concern you, and just do your job.”
“Yes, sir,” Siollán replied, still not looking up.
The squad leader continued. “Don’t you have an early ride-out tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’d suggest you head over to the barracks and get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.” With a small nod to Pádraig and Eamon, the bowman quickly stood and exited the mess hall, leaving his half-eaten supper on the table.
Watching until the door had closed behind Siollán , the squad leader rose from the adjoining table and slid over onto the now-vacated stool. “My apologies, Ho
nored Sir, Section Leader, but these new recruits are becoming less and less disciplined with each passing year.” He gestured toward Eamon. “Can you imagine either of us talking about a royal’s business when we were young recruits?”
Eamon shook his head. “Not hardly.”
“Please accept our apologies for encouraging him,” Pádraig added.
“The fault is his, not either of yours. And, if truth be told, mine, for not drilling these young lads more on personal responsibility. Before you know it, they’ll want to vote on their assignments.” He clucked his tongue. “Sometimes I wonder whether we’re an army or a troop of youth scouts. Anyway, I hope you’ll take my advice in the spirit in which it’s given and not be spreading these rumors around.”
“Say no more,” Eamon told him.
“And what rumors would you be talking about?” Pádraig asked with a puzzled expression on his face.
The squad leader winked at them and said, “Enjoy your meal, friends,” as he returned to his own table.
* * *
That night, as Pádraig lay on his cot in the garrison’s forge, he thought back on that morning:
“The Northern Shires, huh,” Prince Liam said, coming into the stables as the young wizard harnessed up Killian.
“Yep. Killian and I are off to Ráth Árainn to start our five-month adventure.”
“‘Killian?’”
Pádraig pointed at the mule. “‘Killian.’”
“You named the mule ‘Killian’?”
“Well, I didn’t name him. He was Lairgnen’s mule. Lairgnen named him.”
“But that’s the name you gave me back when I was pretending to be your apprentice just before we were kidnapped,” Liam said, frowning.
The young wizard patted him on the shoulder, trying his best not to smile. “Don’t take it personally, Your Highness. It’s simply a coincidence. Like I said, Lairgnen named him.”
“Now that I think about it, wasn’t the troubadour’s other mule named ‘Killian,’ too? The one he had back then?”
“I do believe it was.”
“Humph,” Liam replied, still trying to figure out whether or not he had been disrespected ten years prior. Unable to decide, he changed the subject. “You realize you’re apt to cross paths with Meig up there at Ráth Árainn, don’t you?”
“Not if I can help it. No need for you to worry, though. I’ll do my best to avoid any confrontation with your bride-to-be.”
“You know I can’t speak for her, don’t you?”
Pádraig looked at him and shook his head. “You’re pitiful, you know? Simply pitiful. You’re not even married, yet. What kind of king are you going to make if you can’t control your own soon-to-be-wife?”
“Don’t you worry about what kind of king I’ll make. I’ll be a fine king. An excellent king, in fact. I’m just not going to take on my wizard-wife-to-be to protect you from her wrath.”
“Yeah, yeah. Pitiful. Just pitiful.”
As Pádraig led Killian out of the stable, Liam said, “Send word if you need anything, Paddy. Anything at all.”
“What if I need you to rein in Meig.”
“Anything but that.”
* * *
From the tower atop Fort Callainn’s keep, eight bells sounded in four groups of two peals each, signaling the end of the evening watch and the beginning of the first watch. Three men stood on the western rampart, staring off into the Sea of the Evening, dark-red capes pulled tightly around them over their dark-red tabards to ward off the nighttime chill carried by an onshore wind. The cold, a small price to pay for privacy.
“You’re certain there’s no cause for concern with the young wizard?” the soldier with the rank of captain asked.
“Purely a passing curiosity for him,” the squad leader from the garrison mess hall replied. “Nothing more.”
“Besides,” the man with the rank of section leader agreed, “who’s he going to tell? He’s on his way to the Revered Murchú. Once he gets there, he’ll be shuffled off to an out-of-the-way place up in the Sawtooth Mountains where he won’t see anything, hear anything, or be able to make any mischief for us.”
“What about Eamon?” the captain asked.
The squad leader looked up at the two moons and grimaced. “Although he said he wouldn’t be mentioning the betting pool, with nothing to do but ride the Coastal Road when not riding his desk, he’s going to engage in conversation with his men about something, in order to pass the time. There’s a clear risk, there.”
“Since he’s a member of the defense forces, we have absolutely no control over him. It would be a shame, though, if an accident were to befall him,” the section leader mused.
“We can’t be having too many of those,” the captain cautioned, finger raised, “especially now that we know about Chieftain Tierney declining to place a bet. It was extremely fortunate that you happened to be sitting there when the bowman shot off his mouth,” he told the squad leader. “It gave us a head’s-up to the situation. I’ll get a dispatch off to Ráth Árainn first thing in the morning, letting them know what transpired down here and telling them we’ll await their direction. If it is determined that Tierney should become an unfortunate accident victim, we can’t afford someone drawing a line from the troubadour to Eamon to the chieftain and deciding to take a closer look at all three mishaps.”
“If that happens, sir, what of Tierney’s son, Garbhán?” the squad leader asked.
“He’ll grieve for his da; but, in the long run, it will be to our advantage,” the captain answered. “Garbhán’s views are much more closely aligned with ours. And, he’s much less timid than Tierney.” Mulling things over in silence for a few minutes, while the other two men waited, he finally waved the back of his hand at them, and said, “Let’s think a little more about the Eamon situation; but, we need to come to a decision quickly. Preferably still tonight, since he and his troops head back to Ráth Árainn in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” both men replied.
“And…um…” the section leader hesitated, “what’s to be done about our young, loose-lipped bowman?”
“As I said, we don’t need any more scrutiny. And him, we do have control over. In my dispatch to Ráth Árainn, I’ll suggest that the captain there transfer him to the garrison up at North Head.…And see that he stays there.” Looking around furtively, he lowered his voice even more and, without raising his right arm straight up in the air with a closed fist, as he would have if they had not been out in the open, he whispered, “Long live the Northern Alliance!”
The other two soldiers, also in soft voices, repeated the phrase “Long live the Alliance!”
Birchday - Bear 10th
Callainn Shire
Pádraig and Killian had set out from Fort Callainn about midway into the morning watch, with sunrise just beginning to glow in the east.
On the way out of the stables, Pádraig had stopped to exchange pleasantries with Parnell, Reeve of Callainn Shire, as the short, stoat-faced man arrived at his lock-up. The young wizard had to suppress a smile. Ten years had passed since he had last seen the reeve, and he had all but forgotten how disconcerting it was to watch Parnell’s dark, beady eyes constantly moving as the man spoke.
About a quarter of an hour into their trip, wizard and mule were overtaken by a lone horseman. Siollán, the bowman and bet-taker from the mess hall the evening before, slowed down just long enough to apologize for not being able to ride alongside the duo.
“Gotta get this…uh…”—he winked—“this information that I’m not supposed to talk about up to Earl Eógan in a hurry, Honored Sir.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” Pádraig told him. “And, besides, it’s me who owes you an apology for getting you in trouble last night.”
Siollán grinned. “You can bet I would have found a way to get myself in trouble if you hadn’t. Whoops! Shouldn’t have said ‘bet,’ now?” He then broke into a laugh, as he spurred his horse forward, calling out, “Maybe
I’ll see you tonight at Ráth Árainn.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, Eamon and his squad of Cruachanian Defense Forces came up on the pair.
Reducing his speed, the section leader said, “If you can pick up the pace, Paddy, you’re more than welcome to ride along with us.”
“Um, this is our picked-up pace, Eamon. The only other two paces we have are slow and very slow.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, see you for a late supper at Ráth Árainn.”
Birchday - Bear 10th
Árainn Shire - Ráth Árainn
An hour before the start of the evening watch, Siollán the bowman arrived at the fort, galloping through the main gate and into the ward, reining in his horse just outside the keep.
“Urgent business for the earl!” he shouted to the officer of the watch, as he jumped down from his mount and hurriedly crossed to the main doorway, gesturing with his saddlebags.
After a five-minute wait, Siollán was met by the garrison commander.
“You made excellent time,” the captain told him. “Earl Eógan will be pleased. What have you got?”
The young bowman disguised the disappointment that he felt at not being able to deliver his information to the earl directly, but nevertheless, pulled two items from his saddlebags. “These are what the earl’s been expecting,” he said, waving the tied packet of betting slips from the shire chieftains. “And this, sir, is a dispatch for you. From the garrison commander at Ráth Callainn.” Siollán handed the other man both the packet and the single piece of folded and sealed parchment.
“Good work, lad,” the captain told him. “Now, go see to your horse, then get yourself some supper and a well-deserved rest.”
“Thank you, sir.” With that, the bowman did an about-face and took his leave, beaming at being complimented for his work.
* * *
The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2) Page 7