"It is indeed the spirit of a beast. In your case, should you believe the tales that will one day be told of you, it is the spirit of a wolf. But it is a spirit that can be tamed."
Sétanta shook his head. "What came over me... there was no taming that creature. It acted out of rage..."
"Out of your rage, child. If you wish to tame the ríastrad you must first learn to tame your anger."
"But I'm not an angry person..."
"Aren't you?" Taliesin asked. "Swallowing your anger does not make it go away."
Sétanta bit his lip. There was some truth to what Taliesin said. Sétanta was angry. He was embittered by the fact he couldn't pursue the life he wanted.
He was infuriated by the fact he was a bastard, that he didn't have a true father. It frustrated him that everyone expected him to hunt, to become a warrior when all he wanted to do was write poems, sing songs, or tell tales.
He hated it all. He hated the fact he had gifts he didn't want... and never had the opportunity to see if he had the gifts he hoped he possessed. "So what do I do, then? I can't act out on my anger... people would get hurt."
"People will get hurt," Taliesin said, "if you allow your anger to fester, to boil up until it bursts out in the form of the ríastrad. You need to find a way to channel your anger into something less destructive. You need a release. Once you have it, you'll not only manage to tame your anger, but you'll tame the wolf inside of you."
"I wish I wasn't so suited to fight. I wish I wasn't a hunter or a warrior at all. I wish I was a bard, like you."
"Whoever said you had to choose?" Taliesin asked.
"Are you saying I might be both a warrior and a bard? I've never heard of such a thing! The warriors often jest that a bard is but a woman with the appearance of a man!"
Taliesin shook his head. "But it is in the hands of a bard that their exploits might become legends. And what of it? Why should a woman be more suited for poetry but a man more equipped for war?"
Sétanta shook his head. "I don't know. I never thought about it. I mean, a woman fighting?"
Taliesin shrugged. "Why not? You might be surprised how deadly a woman could be."
Sétanta huffed. "I'll believe that when I see it!"
The master bard pressed his lips together. "Never underestimate anyone on account of appearance, and certainly not on account of gender, young warrior. A true warrior is tested not by the might of arms but by his unwillingness to underestimate his, or her, opponents."
Sétanta winced. He hated the sound of that... warrior... he despised the brutes who took pride in being warriors.
"Perhaps your heart's desire," Taliesin said, ignoring the look of disdain on Sétanta's face, "to learn the bardic arts might serve you well in your quest to tame the ríastrad."
"Yes!" Sétanta exclaimed. If he only he learned to channel his anger into a verse, if he had that release... it might just work. "But how? All of Ulster expects me to fight, they expect me to become a champion. And if they learn I have the ríastrad I'll have no way out!"
"Again, child. You don't need to abandon one gift for another. Imagine what you might be as a warrior poet."
Sétanta snorted. "I can imagine it. But the people of Ulster..."
"They will believe it when they see it, child."
"I'm not a child, either. I have hair on my nuts."
Taliesin bellowed a laugh. "Very well, young man! Should you like to train in the bardic arts, there is a troop that might take you in."
"A troop?"
"A bardic clan. You should find them if you head squarely out of Ulster in the direction of the setting sun. There is a field of clovers, a place called Emain Macha, about a day's journey on foot if you maintain your course. There is a troop that maintains the field. Approach them in humility, boast not of your lineage. Share with them your intentions, and hide nothing. Not even the ríastrad. A true bard is committed to the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be."
Sétanta sighed. "My mother, even the king. They'll never let me go."
Taliesin shrugged. "You managed to leave and find me! Do the same again."
Sétanta nodded. "Can I ask you a question?"
Taliesin smiled wide. "Of course, young man."
"What was happening here, before I arrived? I saw a cone... some kind of magic... and music. There was music."
Taliesin squeezed Sétanta's shoulder. "What you saw was the end of but a chapter of a tale yet to be told. Perhaps, in time, you'll learn it.
5
"GIVE IT BACK to me!" Anand yelled as she tried to wrestle their father's Oxter out of Macha's hands.
"Papa charged me with it," Macha said, clinging to the bag. "He insisted we not play with it."
Babd rolled her eyes. Fionn hadn't exactly trusted Macha with the Oxter—but he did tell her to be sure no one played with the damned thing. Macha included.
"But he'll never know!" Anand replied, again attempting to yank the Oxter out of Macha's hands.
Macha looked at Babd with urgency in her eyes. "Tell Anand what Papa said, Babd."
Babd shrugged. "He told all of us to leave it be."
"He did not! He told me to keep you two from messing with it."
"That's not what he said!" Anand insisted.
Babd rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter what Dad said. The point was that none of us were supposed to touch it. He didn't mean you should hold it, either, Macha."
"How else am I supposed to keep you two from messing with it if I'm not holding it!"
Anand and Babd exchanged glances. Anand wanted to experiment with the Oxter. Macha wanted to prove her worth to her father—to show that she was trustworthy, that she was more than a pretty face. And Babd couldn't give two turds either way.
"You both realize what that bag can do, right?" Babd asked.
"Papa said that if you reach into the bag you can retrieve anything you wish, but that there's always a cost," Macha said.
Anand rolled her eyes. "He just told us it came with a cost so we wouldn't play with it."
"The point is that it belongs to Dad," Macha said. "Cost or not, we shouldn't be messing with it because it's his."
"Then why don't you prove it?" Babd asked. She wasn't typically so devious, but her sister needed to be taken down a notch. Babd didn't know what the cost was, but she understood more about magic, more than her sisters did, to realize her father wasn't telling tall tales when he said using the bag would have consequences. "I mean, hasn't Dad changed since he got the Oxter?"
"It wasn't the bag that made him so angry all the time," Anand said. "It was losing Mom. The bag is harmless."
"But Dad said..." All it took was a momentary distraction and Anand made her move, ripping the bag from her sister's hand. "Why do you have to be such a daddy's girl all the time, Macha?"
"No Anand!" Macha yelled as Anand reached into the bag.
A half-second later she pulled out a small ball of reddish-brown fur. The miniature puppy quickly turned to Anand, licking her in the face. The fair-haired girl giggled. "You see," Anand said, "this thing is great!"
Macha sighed. "Just wait. Using this thing always comes with a cost. That's what Papa said."
"What's the worst that could happen?" Anand asked, now rolling around on the floor with her newly acquired puppy.
Macha continued lecturing her sister. Meanwhile, Anand ignored her and continued playing with the puppy. The girls' giggling, however, was suddenly silenced as Anand's body stiffened.
"What's happening?" Babd asked, trying to shake Anand back to her senses.
"It's the Oxter!" Macha said, looking in horror at the bag as red energies emerged from the bag and enveloped Anand.
Anand's eyes sprang wide open, but where her irises should have been there was only black.
"Babd, do something!" Macha shouted.
"I don't know what..." Babd said, as another voice—Grainne's voice—interrupted.
"Girls, step away from her—now!"
Grai
nne's eyes were glowing. A bright green magic—the sort only the druids wielded. But Grainne wasn't a druid. She was another creature entirely, a dryad, she'd said. Grainne took the girls' stiff body in her hands and Anand's entire frame went limp. Grainne waved her hand over Anand's body, and Anand began shaking and foaming from the mouth.
Anand gasped
As Grainne raised her hand over Anand's body she pulled some kind of black shadowy figure from Anand's chest. Whatever it was released a loud shriek—one so high-pitched Babd couldn't help but cover her ears. With a wave of the hand, Grainne cast the dark presence back into the Oxter bag. The puppy Anand had pulled from the bag disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
"Miss Grainne?" Macha said, her voice trembling, her brow scrunched. "How did you... I mean... what are you..."
"She's a dryad," Babd butted in.
Grainne pressed her lips together. "What I am matters little. Never mind any of that, girls." Grainne reached and brushed a stray curl away from Anand's sweaty brow. "You all might know what I am," Grainne said. "But I'll make you girls a deal. If you keep my secret, I'll keep yours."
"You won't tell Father that we were playing with his Oxter bag?" Anand said, still trying to catch her breath.
"We?" Macha protest. "You mean that you were playing with it?"
"Whatever," Babd said. "If Dad really trusted you, as you seem to think, he'll blame you for what happened, if he ever finds out, as much as he blames Anand."
Macha sighed and looked at Grainne. "You really won't tell Dad?"
Grainne smiled. She had a kind smile. Everything about her seemed to exude a kindness, a peacefulness. It was unique. Not many humans, except perhaps some of the druids, experienced such serenity. "I won't say a word to your Father."
Macha nodded. "I think I speak for all of us. If you don't tell Father then you can trust us. No one will know what you can do."
6
A DAY'S JOURNEY on foot—in the direction of the setting sun. That's what Taliesin had said. If the master bard had intended him to make the trip by horseback, he would have said so. Sétanta had to act soon. The sun's place on the horizon shifts throughout the year.
Taliesin's directions would expire if he didn't act quickly. After all, the slightest alteration in his bearings and he'd miss Emain Macha, the clover field where the bardic troop he sought was supposed to gather.
Sétanta quickly gathered his supplies. A new pair of brógs—such ornate shoes were not meant for warriors or hunters. Usually, Sétanta went barefoot or wore thin leather wrappings. He wrapped his feet accordingly in preparation for the journey. But Sétanta was hoping to join a bardic troop. Something fancier, like a pair of brógs, would be necessary. He'd only worn these on occasion, during festivals. If the bards accepted him, his brógs would be standard attire. He packed a knapsack with fruit, jerky, and bread.
Sétanta had his spear. He hoped he wouldn't need it, though his chances were better he would than he wouldn't. A lone traveler was always at high risk of being attacked by thieves.
Not that they'd stand a chance against him—most thieves traveled in bands of twelve or fewer. Lacking any real skills for battle, as most thieves did, Sétanta was certain he could handle any who might cross his path. Even without going into the ríastrad—which he fervently prayed to the gods wouldn't happen—he had the skill to handle a dozen or so thieves alone.
At least the sort of brutes whom he might find in such parts. Not that downing a dozen men would be easy—it wouldn't be for most warriors—but such thieves had no real skill for combat, and Sétanta was better than most warriors.
Sétanta intended to make the journey in haste. As soon as he fixed his bearings on the setting sun.
A felicitous coincidence, Sétanta thought, that the very "cure" for his condition was something he'd always dreamed of pursuing. Ever since he was a young boy... ever since he first heard a bard tell a tale.
His chest tightened. Was he more eager or terrified? Eager to join the bards, of course. But terrified they wouldn't accept him. Frightened, too, that if he didn't leave soon, the ríastrad would return. If what Taliesin had said was true, and Sétanta had no cause to doubt it, he'd harbored enough anger and resentment over the years that he suspected even the slightest disturbance could set him off.
And if the people of Ulster saw him like that... sure, he might kill a few of them. But the legendary warriors of Ulster, those who possessed the ríastrad, were so celebrated he'd never be able to escape the life they'd expect for him. They'd overlook a few bodies, if that's what it took, to have another protector, another warrior with the ríastrad to return Ulster to her days of glory.
If such days ever existed at all... some bards recounted the tales of old as they were, no matter if the facts disrupted the sentimentality of the people. Others, the kind of bards whom Sétanta hoped he'd never become, retold their tales with flourish intended to flatter their audiences. Such bards, in Sétanta's view, did more harm than good.
A worthy tale is one that unsettles its hearers, spurns them to act in such a way to change their lives for the better. Flourished tales might earn a bard quick fame, but they only bolstered the vanity of a people. Sétanta hoped to tell tales that would inspire people to strive toward greatness. Not to delude crass people into believing that they had achieved greatness already.
Of course, Taliesin was the better sort of bard. His tales challenged and inspired. With his golden tongue, the master bard had a way of chastising his hearers without causing offense. Spurning them to action without flattery.
His tales were aspirational, of course. But they also contained just enough chastisement to rouse a sense of pious discontent, the kind that caused enough alarm that people would want to grow and change but not so much it turned people away in anger. If Taliesin recommended the troop at Emain Macha, Sétanta was certain they would be skilled in such a way.
As the sun dropped below the horizon, Sétanta chose a cluster of stars that sat on the night's sky in the place where the sun had set been before to maintain his bearings. He surveyed the forests on either side of his path. With the sun down, the thieves were likely up.
Thieves depended on the element of surprise and superior numbers. Sétanta had the upper hand on both counts. He expected them to attack—nullifying the element of surprise.
And in his case, even twelve-on-one in favor of the thieves would not be an advantage.
A twig snapped somewhere in the distance.
Sétanta gripped his spear and turned. That wasn't an animal. When a deer or a boar steps on a twig there's no hesitancy about it. This wasn't a quick snap. It splintered a little before breaking. Like a nervous foot, lurking in the shadows, attempting without success to go undetected.
Yes, it was a man. A thief.
"Come, thief!" Sétanta demanded. He'd only heard one step. But thieves never traveled alone. Still, what they didn't know he knew he'd use to his advantage. If he called one of them out they'd all likely appear, imagining him too foolish to call out a thief if he thought there were more. "I know you're there."
Ten shadowy figures emerged from the tree line.
"Give us your wares if you hope to live through the night!" one of them demanded.
"Only ten? I expected more." Sétanta chuckled. He wouldn't have to actually kill ten of them. Once he put down a two or three the rest would see his skill and flee. Thieves don't become thieves out of valor or bravery. They're cowards by nature. All they needed was enough cause to believe they might not prevail before they'd retreat again into the forest.
"Boy," one of the thieves said, wagging his finger. "You're barely a man at all. It would be a shame to lose your life before it even began. Turn over your goods and you can be on your way."
"How generous of you," Sétanta said as he widened his stance, ready for a fight. "But I suppose some of you have families to feed. And I begrudge you not for your desperation. But it would be a shame, indeed, if you were to lose your lives tonight."
The ten men all laughed in unison. "He's kinda cute," one of them said to the others. "Can we keep him?"
"If you want my wares, come and get them!" Sétanta declared. "Or do what would be wise and return to your families."
Three of the thieves stood forward from the rest—Sétanta couldn't see most of their features with only moonlight to said his vision, but he saw enough to realize they were the largest three of the bunch.
The three men stood around him. "Let go of your spear, boy," one of them said. "Such a weapon is more suited for hunting boar than defending against grown men."
Sétanta smirked. With a twist of his body, he pivoted on one foot. Gripping his spear tightly he swept around with a force, taking the legs out of the three men. Three thuds as their bodies hit the ground.
"I warned you," Sétanta said. "Return from whence you came! I do not wish to deprive children of their fathers this night."
As the three men struggled back to their feet, the rest came charging after him. Sétanta shook his head. This wasn't how he wanted this to end. After all, just because he was good at fighting didn't mean he took pleasure from besting others in combat.
His brow turned hot.
It wasn't that these men tried to rob him. He understood that unskilled peasants often had few options if they hoped to survive. But he couldn't just turn over his goods to these men, either. If he did, they'd only repeat their folly and if the next traveler they targeted was less skilled they'd likely kill him to seize his belongings. He had to face them, which is what infuriated him the most. He had no choice but to fight. And Sétanta hated fighting...
With a thrust, he speared the first charging man through the abdomen. With a kick, he fended off the next as he retrieved his spear from the first attacker's gut and thrust the opposite end of his spear through the second man's neck.
The third man stopped in his tracks and took two steps back.
Gates of Eden: Starter Library Page 117
