Tara so soon? He wished he knew. He Hfted his eyes and scanned a sky already half covered by a swiftly moving front of thick gray clouds. He had searched the skies often lately but, as now, had always found them empty. When would he receive news from his ravens again?
Another blast of cold wind whipped about him. He shuddered and pulled his cloak tighter, then started on toward the chariot again at a quick pace. The suddenly changing weather was a reminder that he would have to begin overseeing preparations for the Samhain fete soon. The mortals would have to have their rituals.
He knew that the complex arrangements that would begin at Tara would be making the days until the festival pass very swiftly now.
"Back to Tara," he ordered the driver as he climbed into the car. "At your best speed. My time is very short!'*
Chapter Twenty'Seven
THE TRAINIMG ENDS
The fall passed very quickly for Finn. Each day he noted that a bit more warmth had faded from the air. Frosts came, and the trees the two sat beneath to work flared brightly with the changing of their leaves. The surrounding woods Finn hiked in alone to meditate or memorize grew emptier of their summer life, more barren, more brown, more skeletal in their look. And it rained more often; cold, heavy, clinging rain that made the trees and the worn hut droop as if in mourning for the passing of the season of warmth. On many
I
days now, he and Finnegas huddled by the fire in the tiny hut for lessons while the wind shrieked across the fire hole and icy drops splashed upon them through holes in the tattered thatching.
Yet neither the stark life nor the constant, rigorous teaching of the bard were hardships for Finn. Instead, they reminded him of Slieve Bladhma and stem Bodh-maU, surrounding him with a comforting sense of being home. The intensive learning itself was also pleasant because of its engrossing nature. He discovered that the vast oral literature of Ireland was a rich storehouse of customs, philosophy, history, and dreams fi-om thousands of years of living in this land. He began to feel that he understood the people he had met more clearly. He could see how the savage and beautiful country had given them both a fierce independence and a single spirit that made them all one.
He found the new discipline of learning the ways of poetry interesting too. It was as exacting in its way as learning the fine skills involved in hunting or using a sword.
He studied as one possessed. Finnegas gave him no rest and no quarter, whipping his mind to greater efforts as Bodhmall had once whipped a weary child's legs to force him up one more hill. The bard taught him tricks for committing the many poems to memory and skills for learning with ever increasing speed. As with the rabbits in the field so long before, the perseverence forced him to gain greater swiftness and agifity, but of the mind this time.
Even without the help of Finnegas, however, the mental abifities of Finn were far above normal. He mastered the bard's skills and tricks with a speed that amazed even the great oUamh, though his other teachers—Bodhmall and Crimall and Caoilte—^would have expected it. Like them, Finnegas soon learned that this young man would not be kept fi*om finishing what he had set his mind to do.
And so it was that on a chill, wet, blustery evening five days before the beginning of the Samhain festival,
Finn was able to stand before the oUamh to take his final bardic test.
Already he had been through a rigorous examination. The titles of poems chosen randomly fi-om the twelve books had been thrown at him, and he had supplied a recitation of each tale that was correct to every single word. With all the proper inflection, emphasis, and embellishment, he had spun out the drama of Lir's Children, the adventure of the Cattle Raid of Cuailnge, the tragedy of Deirdre of the Sorrows.
Now he stood, collecting his thoughts, feehng somewhat uncomfortable under the ollamh's scrutinizing gaze as he prepared for the last part of his trial. He must prove his mastery of the poet's skills by reciting a poem created by himself.
He took a few deep breaths to compose his mind. He set his voice for the low, smooth, impassioned tones of a bard and began:
Spring is the most pleasant time, beautiful its colors.
The blackbird sings out his ftill song, the living wood is his holding.
The cuckoo voices a constant strain, welcoming bright summer.
Summer dries the rivers down, swift horses
seek the pools. The heather spreads out its long hair, and soft
white bog-down grows. Wildness comes on the deer's heart, the sad
sea is lulled to sleep.
The harp of the woods plays music, there is
color on the hills. A haze lies on the full lakes, every sail fills in
peace. The high, lonely waterfall sings welcome to
the warm pool, and the rushes speak.
Black as the raven's feathers is the bog, the cuckoo's welcome loud.
The speckled salmon is leaping, strong as the
leap of a fighting man. The strength of man is surging, the maid proud
in her growing beauty.
The hot desire for racing horses grows in you,
twisted holly leashes the hound. A bright spear has been shot into the ground,
the flag-flower shining golden under it. Faultless spring is the most pleasant time, its
colors beautiful.
He finished, took a long, deep breath, and turned to look down at the bard, wondering anxiously what the judgment would be.
Finnegas stared thoughtfully for a moment that seemed an eternity, not speaking, giving no sign of his reaction. Finally he nodded.
"It is . . . adequate," he said in a guarded way. "Of course, no bard who meant to make his livelihood at it would do so with such work, but for a warrior it is more than fair."
"Does it mean that I've passed?" Finn asked with rising hope.
A smile shewed through the screen of beard. Warmth filled the voice. "Of course it does, Finn. YouVe earned the rank of bard."
Feeling suddenly drained by the tension that had gripped him, Finn dropped hmply down upon a bench.
"Facing my first warrior in a fight was not so bad as that," he said with relief.
"You've more of the bardic learning now than any man of the Fianna has ever had," Finnegas said, "certainly more than your father. And as for your poetry, well, there's no comparing. Cumhal's was awful!"
"I owe it to your teaching. Great Ollamh."
"You call me Finnegas now, lad. I'm your teacher no more. And it wasn't my modest efforts alone. In fact, it's quite beyond me how you could absorb so much so quickly. Are you certain there's been no effect on you fi'om that salmon? It might have sharpened your mind."
Finn shook his head. "No, sorry to say. I've felt nothing different from it, at least so far as I can tell."
"Ah, well," the bard said regretfully. "Then it was a fool's quest I was on, surely. I suppose it happens to all of us when we grow old. We're willing to chase after any chance of glory, even those in our dreams."
"If I could give to you the glory that you deserve, I would," Finn told him.
"Don't you be concerning yourself with me!" Finnegas said firmly. "It's only your own glory that you're to worry about. You've very little time. You and your comrades must be starting for Tara as soon as possible or you'll not arrive for the beginning of Samhain!"
Finn knew that he was right. Only two days before, the warriors of the Clan na Baiscne had come to join him there. They were now camped nearby with Cnu Deireoil, anxiously awaiting the outcome of his trial.
Finn nodded. "You are right, Great Olla—" He stopped as he remembered. Instead he smiled and said, "I mean, Finnegas. " He looked around at the tiny, dripping hut, his expression sobering with regret. "I'm leaving once more, it seems. One more home. One more friend."
"You can never leave friends," Finnegas told him. "Even if they're never seen again, something of them stays with you."
"I've learned that," Finn said. "I've much of them with me now"—he put a hand on the bard's shoulder— "and of you. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me how to catch the hares."
"The what?" asked Finnegas, not thinking he had heard rightly.
Finn smiled. "I meant, thank you for giving me your skills. "You know, a woman named Liath raised me to believe that I must understand the beauties of the world to be truly complete. Now I see how important that is to me."
Finnegas lifted a hand and clasped Finn's arm. His gaze met the young warrior's searchingly and his voice was intense.
"Son of Cumhal, I wish you all good fortune. You can be a greater chieftain than your father ever was if you use your honesty, your wisdom, and your strength. But be careful. Its powerful, powerful enemies you've got. As close as Tara is to us, it's a long and dangerous way you have left to go."
"You really expect me to help you again, you treacherous ferret?" Goll MacMoma raged as he paced the parapet walk.
"There is no need for insults. Captain," Tadg answered in his soothing way. "What Tm asking you to do is for the good of all of us."
Goll wheeled upon him. "All of us? And is it for my good when you threaten my honor?"
"This lad may threaten our survival," the high king reminded him.
The three men had this time repaired to the high walkway around the inside of Tara's stockade for their private conversation. Below them, in the yard, activity was already building as the servants readied the fortress for Samhain. Beyond the wall the wide countryside spread away like a quilt of bright patches in its fall colors. But neither the bustle within nor the beauties without held any interest for the arguing men.
"My king," said Goll, "I am your loyal servant still, but I can't without guilt continue hunting this one young man. The warriors of the Baiscne clan are dead or scattered. There's no reason to think he could restore their strength enough to make a claim for his father's chieftainship. And if he has hidden alone for all of these years, he cannot have the skills that he would need even to be accepted as a Fian man. He cannot be any threat."
"No, no," Conn said quickly, shaking his head. "I can't believe that." In the months since Finn's existence had been discovered, the young man had become an ever-increasing object of dread to the aging high Idng. As if he were some deadly spirit of the slain Cumhal come back to seek revenge, the ghastly vision
of Finn's return filled Conns waking thoughts and haunted his dreams. He had carefully noted Finn's travels, his progress, his victories, certain that the lad's quest would one day bring him here. He was convinced now, with the help of constant, gentle prodding from Tadg, that Finn wanted nothing less than the destruction of his power.
"My king, why are you coming to me again?" Goll asked. "I had thought that your druid had taken the search into his own hands these past days, since I had failed."
Tadg was not going to admit that it was only the refusal of the Tuatha de Danaan to help him any longer that had forced him to turn back to the resources of the Moma clan. His resjK)nse was reasonable, placating, and quite false.
"I've taken on no search. That duty was and still is yours. I've merely used my own modest powers in a task that no one could expect your warriors to do: trying to locate the boy."
"Your powers," Goll said darkly. He stalked closer to Tadg, his expression glowering. "I warned you about using your magic in this. I'll have no part of it.*
"Not so hasty. Captain," said the high king. "What Tadg has done seems justified to me. He's doing nothing that might unfairly harm this lad."
"Of course not, ' Tadg lied smoothly. "And once he's found, it will only be necessary for you to finish what you began. Send your men to insure that the Clan na Baiscne can never become a threat to us again."
Conn and the druid eyed Goll expectantly. The Fian leader looked fi-om one face to the other thought-fijlly. He understood too well his obligation to the king. His sense of loyalty told him that he must obey. Yet another part of him said that he had gone too far, that he had been drawn into acts that violated a greater loyalty to himself He shook his head.
"No. I'll compromise myself no fiirther." He looked at Tadg. "I can't trust you or your methods. I've acted once too often at your command. I'll do it no more." He turned a determined gaze to Conn. "My king, I'll do for
you what I am bound to do. But unless this son of Cumhal does appear and challenge me, I'll do nothing against him. For now, there's nothing more to speak of."
He turned and walked away before Conn could reply. Tadg stared after him with open hostility. One more weapon in his fight to destroy Finn had been taken away.
"Your Fian captain begins to sound like Cumhal himself," he said.
The high king's head turned sharply toward him. "What do you mean?"
"Only that none of the Fianna can be relied upon. The concern of all of them is first with themselves. GoU is a fool. Finn has proven how dangerous he is. Every day he grows stronger. If we wait until he chooses to challenge MacMorna, it may be too late to stop him."
"What can we do?" the high king asked.
"Keep your own household companies alert," the druid advised. "Sooner or later he must come to you to proclaim himself Cumhal's son and lay claim to his rightful place. That we must prevent. My own efforts will go into discovering where he is now. He's still thought to be only a common outlaw to everyone in Ireland, and I have my own . . . agents . .. seeking him as well. Once I've found him, I will find a way to deal with him, I promise you."
"I'm growing a bit weary of your promises, Tadg," Conn told him irritably. "I've heard a great many of them lately, but I've seen no results."
But the druid was not Hstening to this criticism. His attention had been drawn to a black object that had swept into view from the western horizon. He stared intently at it. It was a raven, a large one. And as he watched, it banked into a descending spiral that brought it swiftly down toward the sacred grove below the fortress's hill.
He kept his eyes locked upon the bird until it vanished into the upper branches of an oak, then turned to Conn, face lit by a new hope.