Salty Dog Page 7

  Bran raised both eyebrows at that, clearly puzzled, but turned back to the guards without a word. “I’ll make sure she’s treated as any proper guest in King Tuathal’s house should be,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  The second guard averted his eyes and mumbled something. His companion merely nodded and waved us through. “Enjoy a flagon for us, would you?”

  Finann gave a small salute as we passed. “Anything for you, lads,” he quipped, merrily.

  It wasn’t until we’d ridden all the way to the top tier of the fort that I realized just how high up we actually were—the drunks at the base of the mounds barely larger than my thumb from this distance. It was impressive, and—for some reason—not what I’d expected. A fort should have stone walls, shouldn’t it?

  “You two,” Bran said, interrupting my thoughts as he slipped from his horse, “head to the stables. Meet me at the hall when you’re done.” He held a hand out to me, helping me from the back of his mare. “As for you…no running, agreed?”

  “Aye, whatever ye say,” I replied, wincing almost immediately after putting my feet on the ground. “Wouldn’t get very far anyway,” I added, taking a few awkward, bow-legged steps—my inner thighs burned from the ride and made it hard to walk comfortably. Between that and my strange, blood-stained clothes, I imagined I’d make quite the spectacle when presenting myself in front of the king. But hey, at least this way they might take pity on me.

  “Don’t worry, ceara, you’ll get used to it if you stick around,” Finann called as he and Llew headed for the stables with the horses in tow. Llew waved at me, quiet as ever, though his smile was far more genuine than his older brother’s.

  “Ceara?” I echoed.

  “He’s teasing you. It means fiery.” Bran eyed my hair. “It is a rather distinctive color.”

  I reached up and held a few locks out, watching as the firelight danced across the individual strands. Fiery, indeed. “D’ye not have many redheads here, then?”

  “A few.” Bran seemed about to say something else, but then snapped his mouth shut and turned away.

  “What? What were ye about to say?”

  Bran sighed. “There are a few. But rarely do they look so…unique. That’s what I was going to say. Now come on. Tuathal will want a report.” He marched off, forcing me to follow as best I could, marveling at the fact that he’d given me a compliment. I wasn’t sure why, but it felt as though I hadn’t received one of those in a while. I was…flattered. Maybe a little flustered, even.

  Which is probably why, as we worked our way through the crowds of feasting drunkards—thicker on this level than they had been below—I kept quiet, unless you count hissing through my teeth every time someone bumped into me. That is until a lout with a flagon in hand tried to convince me to dance with him; he ended up on his knees, wailing at the pressure I was putting on his wrist.

  “Sorry, not interested,” I said, frowning. I released the man’s wrist and stepped away, only to find Bran looming over my shoulder.

  “This way,” he said, tilting his head.

  “Right.”

  After another twenty feet or so, he spoke again. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright,” I replied. I realized that it hadn’t bothered me at all, snatching that man’s wrist when he’d ignored my initial protest, then twisting it back and up, knowing I could snap it if he tried to fight through the pain. If anything, it bothered me that I couldn’t remember where I’d learned to do something like that; it’d sort of just happened. A knee-jerk reaction. “I handled it.”

  “I noticed.” Bran slowed, then indicated a long, domed structure which dwarfed all the others. “The mead hall. That’s where we’ll find King Tuathal. Donall may be there, too, though I expect he’ll be passed out by now.” The eldest brother turned to stare at me. “I want your word that you’ll harm no one inside.”

  I frowned.

  “No one who doesn’t offer you violence, first,” Bran amended.

  “And if I don’t want to dance with someone?” I asked, wryly.

  “I will announce you as Tuathal’s guest. None would dare force you to do anything against your will, so long as you are under his protection. I give you my word.”

  Convenient, I supposed. But, in the back of my mind, something nagged at me. An instinct, maybe. Something. As I studied that distant hall, listening to the laughter and squeals around us, the faint hum of music coming from further within the camp, I felt something brush against my mind. A voice, maybe, urging me to take my chances and run while I still could. But of course, there was no turning back, now.

  “What is it?” Bran asked, watching the emotions warring across my face.

  “I may not know who I am,” I replied. “But whoever I once was doesn’t trust your word.”

  Bran’s puzzled expression was clear, even by the dim firelight. “A man’s word is the same as fact. Or truth. Once sworn, it cannot be unsworn.”

  “Just like that?”

  Bran shrugged. “This is the Land of Youth. To break a promise here…” Bran shook his head.

  “What?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

  “To break a vow is to be exiled,” Bran said, then shuddered. “No one would risk such a thing.”

  I sighed and began waddling towards the mead hall, suddenly eager; I could smell sizzling meat and felt my mouth water almost instantly, my stomach grumbling. “Then let’s get this over with,” I said, “and pray your king is as noble as ye t’ink he is.” I glanced over to see Bran’s eyes reflecting sudden doubt, but at last he nodded.

  “As you say.”

  13

  The first impression I got from the mead hall was how hot and densely packed it was, despite its size; men and women crowded together along benches and tables that ran on either side of the building, clamoring at one another to be heard, raising toasts to punctuate every sentence, their exposed flesh lathered in a light sheen of sweat. I could see where the hall’s design should have left a middle aisle free for people to walk up and down, but—as crowded as it was—the aisle had become more of a bustling bridge, encouraging travel from one table to the next. As I watched, more than a few men and women roamed, splashing ale as they bumped into each other, occasionally falling over into the laps of the seated to a mixture of cheers and catcalls. Basically, it was the sort of environment you either had to be drunk enough to enjoy, or sober enough to mock.

  Sadly, it seemed we didn’t have time for either.

  Bran gestured for me to follow, clearly nonplussed by the rambunctiousness on display. Together, he and I weaved among the merrymakers, though the eldest brother kept checking on me as we went—worried I’d break someone’s arm if they inadvertently bumped into me, perhaps. Frankly, it was a justifiable concern; I hadn’t exactly intended to put that man on his knees before, and I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to stop myself from doing it again.

  Fortunately, we cleared a majority of the crowd without incident, a raised dais—our intended destination, it seemed—visible beyond the press of bodies. A little over a half dozen people milled about on the platform. Most struck me as what Bran might call chieftains, their bodies decorated in fine clothes, wrapped in the occasional fur, sporting silver collars and armbands. More than a few seemed to be nursing their flagons rather than tossing them back, surveying the festivities below wearing pleased expressions that never quite met their eyes.

  Beyond these were two men who—as soon as I noticed them—captured my full attention. The first was, of course, the king. Tuathal, as Bran had named him, sat upon a tall throne wearing a black, bearskin cloak which was bound at his chest by a gold pin only a few shades more lustrous than his hair. A matching gold collar wrapped around his throat, followed by two gold armbands on his left bicep and a silver on his right. He wore no crown that I could see, but it made absolutely no difference because the truth was Tuathal radiated kingship. It practically oozed out of him, visible in the way he held himself
, the way the others deferred to his every move, not to mention the way he looked upon his people—like a proud, doting parent.

  And yet, the second figure seemed nobler still, somehow. Not as royal, perhaps, but just as deserving of attention. He was freakishly tall, enveloped in a thick cloak made of raven’s feathers, and stood at the king’s right hand like some sort of bodyguard, bending down from time to time to listen to whatever Tuathal had to say. For just an instant, he and I locked eyes, and a sense of foreboding flooded me. Something was wrong.

  I yelled for Bran, hoping he might tell me what was about to happen, but never got the chance. Instead, the man walked out to the edge of the dais and raised his hands. A deafening cheer went up. Bran gestured again, indicating we should stop moving further.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Amergin. Our bard.” He held a finger to his lips, and I realized everyone else had fallen silent, giving the bard their full and undivided attention.

  “Tógálaí Capall!” Amergin called, his voice so rich it should have come with a warning label. “Tonight, you honor us.”

  Another cheer, this one somehow louder than the last.

  “As a gift, I will let one of you choose tonight’s song. Which tale will you have from me?” Amergin swept his arms out from beneath his cloak, revealing an intricately carved harp that drew a series of murmurs and excited chattering.

  “The Children of Lir!” a woman called out.

  Amergin smiled but said nothing.

  “Fionn mac Cumhaill and the giant!”

  “The Dagda’s Harp!”

  “The Tain Bo Cuailgne!”

  “Deirdre of the Sorrows!”

  “Tell us of Oisin, who left!” Bran yelled.

  Amergin’s eyes narrowed as he sought Bran out among the crowd, then widened upon seeing the two of us standing in the middle of the hall. I had to admit we were quite the sight—what with Bran still coated in warpaint and blood, not to mention how out of place I must have looked. Amergin held up a hand, and the varied suggestions fell away until all were silent once more. “The tale of Oisin the Forsaken, son of Fionn mac Cumhaill,” he began, “is a tragic story. A cautionary tale. Heed it well.”

  Amergin cleared his throat and began to sing, accompanying himself on his hand-harp with the occasional flourish, though each strum seemed to come at just the right moment. “Oisin, cherished son and finest of the Fianna,” he began, “longed for nothing more than to find the Land of Youth. Dreams of our fair lands and fairer people dominated his mind until it became his battle cry, his toast, and his prayer. Many tried to dissuade the warchief’s son, to show him the folly of such ambition. For what could even a man as just as Oisin—warrior, bard, and poet—offer the Blessed People? And yet, he was not deterred. Such was the strength of his conviction, of his resolve, that even we in the Land of Youth heard tales of Fionn mac Cumhaill’s bold son.

  “Curious as to the nature of this man, one of the Blessed People, Niamh, Queen of the Southern Isles, rode across the seas, leaving the Otherworld for the realm of man on the back of her own steed, a horse raised by the Tógálaí Capall, a mount so swift he could gallop across the waves. And so it was Niamh came upon the young man and a host of his fellows. Shocked at her sudden appearance and stunned by her otherworldly beauty, the Fianna fell back as one—startled as many mortals are by the Blessed People.

  “All but Oisin.

  “The warchief’s son approached the shore, drawn to Niamh like a moth to flame, and she saw in this youth and bearing all the potential of a king, despite his patchy beard and his rugged features. For, as you all know, even among mankind there are those who deserve our blessing, those who are called to live among us for their valor, for their achievements.”

  The bard spared a glance for Bran at this point before continuing, occasionally plucking the strings of his harp, his song ringing out among the ramparts of the mead hall. “And so it was that Niamh was invited to the hall of Fionn mac Cumhaill—white-haired leader of the Fianna and a legend in his own right—and there given welcome and praise, for none—not even the warchief—had seen a more beautiful woman. And yet still Fionn mac Cumhaill was saddened to learn of Niamh’s most fervent desire: to be accompanied home by his most treasured son.

  “But, as all fathers one day must, Fionn mac Cumhaill gave his son his blessing, saying only ‘Return one day and tell me of your adventures, my son. Tell me of your dreams fulfilled and of the wonders you’ve seen.’ And so Oisin, who had once rebelled against his father in the name of justice, swore to do as his father wished. At last, after several days of feasting, the Fianna rode out as one to bid the young warrior farewell, honoring the dreamer even as he and his fair lady rode off into the sea.

  “Thus it transpired that Oisin, child of the Fianna, was carried to the Land of Youth and presented with a vision that defied even his wildest dreams—for the Land of Youth was more exquisite, more beautiful, than ever he could have imagined. Indeed, so lovely was the land that the instant the young man stepped upon the shore, he found its beauty transform his own flesh to match—the scars from all his battles fading within moments, his shattered nose reknitting, his teeth aligning, his skin smoothing and muscles firming. Vigor filled Oisin like an overflowing cup, and he seized Niamh in his arms. Together, they rejoiced in his arrival, their laughter ringing out upon the land like bells.

  “Shortly after, Oisin and Niamh wed, becoming King and Queen of the Southern Isles. In time, it was judged that fairer, more just rulers the Land of Youth had never known. Such was Oisin’s strength and skill with the blade that even the mightiest of the Blessed People dared not challenge him, and such was Niamh’s beauty that all who looked upon her rejoiced to call her their sovereign. Indeed, for many years they ruled in total harmony, an example for all who would rule over others.

  “And yet, Oisin had given a promise to return to his father and tell of his adventures, to describe this realm he’d come to call home. And, as is so often the case with truly honorable men, this promise lay heavy on Oisin’s heart until one day the weight of it was too much for him to bear alone. Niamh, his beloved, tried to counsel her husband when he spoke of his oath, to warn him of the dangers should he return to his land, but Oisin knew he must fulfill his vow, or he would never be at peace.

  “‘Whatever you do,’ Niamh warned, ‘do not set foot once more upon the land of men. To do so would be to reject the gifts given to you by the Land of Youth, and you would be lost to me. Please, my love, you must return.’

  “Oisin heartily agreed, impatient to pay homage to his father and his people so he might spend the rest of his days alongside his fair wife, free of burdens. Indeed, such was his eagerness that he rushed to the shore, leaping upon the horse raised by the Tógálaí Capall, sparing Niamh only the briefest of embraces before traveling to the realm of men.

  “Here, but for the tales of man carried across the seas, our story would end. For Oisin was doomed never to return, though we knew it not.” Amergin paused, eyes downcast, playing a sad melody that tugged at my heart, though I wasn’t sure why.

  “Once upon the shores of man,” Amergin continued, “Oisin was greeted—not by the Fianna—but by the unfamiliar faces of much smaller, weaker men. Perturbed, Oisin rode on towards his father’s lands, only to find one of these weaker men trapped beneath a rock which had tumbled from the cliff above, his fellows unable to move the boulder. And thus the fate of the honorable son of Fionn mac Cumhaill was sealed, for such was Oisin’s strength that all he had to do was lean over and push the boulder aside, thereby honoring Niamh’s warning. Except, as he bent down to push aside the boulder, Oisin’s saddle broke beneath him, and the son of Fionn mac Cumhaill collapsed upon the ground.

  “In moments, the once fair youth became an old, diminished man with many scars, his nose misshapen, teeth brittle, body frail and flawed. His horse, no longer recognizing his owner, returned to the sea, forcing Oisin to walk on unsteady, aged legs. Indeed, it took the son of
Fionn mac Cumhaill many days to locate the remains of his ancestral home. The Fianna, you see, had long since disappeared, his father having died without ever having seen his son. For such was Oisin’s obsession with the Land of Youth that he’d lost track of time, believing years to be mere months. It is said Oisin wandered the shores of man for years, hoping to see his beloved once more before he died, though this was not to be.” Amergin struck a sharp, grieving note. “Thus ends the tale of Oisin, who reminds us all to cherish what we have gained, but never to forget what we have lost.”

  The bard fell silent and a hush settled over the room the way it might at a funeral after the final words have been spoken. I realized some of those gathered were weeping openly, and that—at some point—tears had spilled down my own cheeks. Indeed, I felt inexplicably sad, even drained. “What happened to Niamh?” I whispered to Bran.

  “They say she waits for Oisin still, refusing to believe him lost,” Bran replied. “Many have sought her hand since, but she declines them all.” He glanced at me, noting my stricken expression. “It is a tragedy for a reason,” he chided.

  I socked him in the arm. “Then why d’ye suggest it?” I hissed.

  Bran opened his mouth to reply, but Amergin’s words interrupted him. “Tógálaí Capall! We have heard a tale of sorrow. Perhaps now it’s time for a tale of joy! Shall I tell you all of Donall, nephew of King Tuathal, router of the Curaitl?!”

  The cry that went up this time shook the rafters, and booze flew everywhere as men and women leapt to their feet, crowing. One of the chieftains, younger than the rest and obviously a little hesitant to bask in the spotlight, shuffled forward at Amergin’s insistence. Donall, I gathered, grinned self-consciously, running a hand along the back of his neck. I could see instantly what Bran had meant; the young man was slender and beautiful, his lips full, eyes bright—but certainly no warrior.