Rath

Rath

The Chronicles of Guiamo Durmius Stolo

Book Eight

By Marshall W. Best

Copyright 2020 Marshall W. Best

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Rath

Table of Contents

Chapter One 27 B.C.

Chapter Two 26 B.C.

Glossary

Chapter 1 - 27 B.C. Simivisonna 29

No warrior brave on gory plain

With flashing blade and noble steed

Whose gallant deeds the Bards extol

For defiant stand or victory won

Showed greater worth deserved of praise

Than doleful Rath that birthing morn,

With tortured breath and searing flesh

Saved fire-born Cúchulainn.

Collections of Lost Irish Memories

Trans. Fenton Tunney 1882

The sound of a heavy downpour pummeling the thatching overhead made conversation difficult. Descending in sheets, the rain cascaded off the conically shaped roof sending a torrent down the long, steeply sloping thatching until it fell once more from the bottom edge just knee high above the ground. The sky suddenly flashed with light and for the briefest moment their modest home was filled with light. Two-year-old Fedelm, who sat beside the firepit with her oldest sister, Deichtine, flinched in fear and began to wail as a peal of thunder cracked sharply overhead an instant later.

Clearly, the gods were unhappy.

Deichtine placed a comforting arm around Fedelm’s shoulder and pulled her close. Fedelm was old enough to hate storms, the howling winds that threatened to strip away the bundles of thatching and the dazzling shards of god-fire that would surely strike them down or burn their home to ashes. She understood her little sister’s fear and sympathized for even now she worried what punishment certain to follow was portended and upon whom, and whether it might be intended for her or someone in her family.

Perhaps the gods were unhappy with their father, Cathbad, for he had supported the boy-king Dúas the previous autumn when so many other men far more qualified than he had stepped forward for consideration. But her father had been adamant that it must be Dúas, saying he was the only heir of Ard Rí Deisred, son of Sreng, the great father of the Cruthin people.

In accordance with the requirements of their ancient laws, traditions that extended back untold generations prior to the Fomori invasion, Dúas had reached manhood at the age of fifteen at the time of his father’s death and so was eligible to succeed him. He was universally considered a bright and good-natured lad, but the elders thought him to be rather immature for his age despite having his father’s exceptional stature. Several had initially argued against him, but with her father’s commitment that Fachtna, rí cóiced of the Ulaid people, should serve as regent to keep him from making ruinous decisions in his foolish youth, these elders conceded. And so Dúas was crowned Ard Rí na Cruthin.

But the gods did not speak at Dúas’ coronation on Temair’s hill. The oaks did not move and shake in a windless sky and the Lia Fáil did not groan aloud the names of all the ard rígrad who proceeded him. Further, the blast of light from on high did not consecrate the proceedings. But Dúas was still the Ard Rí.

Yes, it might be her father the gods were angry at, or Dúas, or perhaps some wicked person at Temair, but Deichtine knew, she just knew, it was her own fault and the gods were raging against her in the tempest directly overhead. The thunder continued on, booming loudly overhead and the increasing winds howled. Her budding friendship with Rath was the great offense and now she would be punished. She began to weep and tears of guilt began to trickle from her tightly closed eyes. She would have to find a way to appease the gods, of course, and she would in time, but while the storm endured, there was nothing to be done.

Rath was the strangest person she had ever met. The aging, heavy-set woman was known to have never married, with neither children nor kin to claim her. She was scorned by everyone and so she lived alone somewhere out in the forest, traveling to the market outside Temair only as need forced her. Her dark gray-streaked hair was matted and unkempt and she wafted a particularly pungent, foul odor that drove people away. The left leg was shorter than her right giving her a pronounced limp. Her green eyes might have been beautiful in her youth, but she was now blind in one eye and it wandered strangely giving her an unsettling appearance. The vision in the other was so poor that anytime she wanted to look at something, she would cant her head in her strange way and bring the item extremely close to her face to inspect it. Others had poor vision, and Deichtine was accustomed to the way each adjusted their ways to accommodate their miserable situation, but Rath’s gruff and peculiar mannerisms put even her off.

Typical of the Cruthin folk, Rath’s hands, face and neck were covered with many Fomori tattoos and painful brands, even a few ragged scars. Deichtine’s father had taught her to read many of the more common symbols inflicted upon the Cruthin by their orc masters, but several Rath bore were unknown to her. A great proportion of Fomori symbols reflected upon a slave’s usefulness, but from the styling, these seemed instead to describe things she was incapable of doing, and were likely written painfully upon her flesh as a sign of open mockery.

Whenever the rare person greeted Rath, she invariably grunted disinterestedly and moved along as if she couldn’t be bothered, giving them the least consideration, let alone the time for conversation.

Still, her father had taught her to be kind in all situations and when they literally bumped into each other at the first springtime market this past year, she had decided to show the kindness he had taught her. Rather than simply apologizing politely for the awkward encounter, she decided to walk along with Rath and do her charitable best to befriend the outcast, if desperately smelly woman.

Despite the kindness she showed her, even carrying the supplies she purchased, when the time came to part ways, Rath just looked at her in her odd way with that one odd eye, grunted disinterestedly, took her things and turned away.

To her surprise, Rath appeared the next market day with four raw goatskins to trade for a collection of seeds she needed for the spring planting. Apparently, the supply she needed to sow the vital crop had recently been stolen in the night, by orcs she claimed, though Deisred doubted her story. The beasts much preferred meat, fresh or otherwise, and a half-blind old woman living by herself off in the wild with only a trip of goats to guard her would not stand much chance against even a single orc.

Regardless, Deichtine wondered how Rath managed, whether she was brave for living in the forest, foolish, or perhaps simply desperate. Seeking to extend her kindness again, Deichtine purposefully sought her out, giving her a bowl of hot stew and a small loaf of bairgen. Rath accepted the food with the slightest nod and another disinterested grunt and half-turned away to eat. Wiping the bowl dry with the last morsel of bread, Rath stuffed the bowl and spoon into her bag of seeds. Without the slightest hint of a smile or sign of appreciation, she grunted in her usual way and turned away to go about her business.

Maga, who was pregnant with her fourth child, was astonished to learn that evening that Rath hadn’t the slightest sense of common courtesy to return the bowl and spoon. She quickly informed Deichtine in no uncertain words that she had given quite enough charity to that ingrate and her efforts would be best spent on someone who would better appreciate it.

Surprised at her mother’s short-tempered outburst, Deichtine instinctively disagreed with her. She blamed her mood on a hot afternoon and an uncomfortable day of pregnancy, her fourth child if it survived. Although she, too, was terribly disappointed with Rath’s theft of the bowl and spoon, she knew better than to bring it up later with her father knowing it would mean dragging her mother unhappily back into what she thought was a settled issue. As the Druíde taught, An unhappy mother makes for an unhappy home.

Even without asking, Deichtine knew her father would encourage her to continue to befriend Rath anyway, and so she did as she knew he would want and at every opportunity in the days that followed. And for it, each time she received a strange one-eyed glare, a disinterested grunt, and the disappointing sight of Rath ambling crookedly away.

But today she knew the gods agreed with Maga and now the gods were speaking to her, accusing her of folly and worse through gusts of wind, torrents of rain, and sizzling blasts of lightning fire.

And there she sat, huddled by the firepit with terrified little Fedelm wondering what to do, whether to obey the gods or her father despite what a friend had just told her about Rath that made her skin crawl.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Every eye turned to their door, but nobody moved. Frustrated at the intrusion, Maga stretched her aching back muscles and complained, Who could that be so late in the night on such a nasty evening?

Cathbad rose and made his way to the door, admonishing her, Whoever it is must not be kept waiting.

Cracking the door open with an oak leaf cluster in hand as a sign this was the inviolable home of a Druí, Cathbad found a soaking wet old beggar standing in his doorway. He was wrapped in a sopping wet blanket pulled up over his head and leaned wearily with one hand on the door frame. The torrent of storm-water shifted direction and sprayed full in his bearded face. Blinking and gasping from the deluge, the stranger gestured that he wanted to come inside. He wasn’t acting normal and Cathbad knew at once he was drunk. From the way he leaned against the door frame, Cathbad was afraid the man might be on the verge of vomiting.

Regardless, he couldn’t leave the drunk outside in such a wicked storm. He was about to bring him inside when a glance at his wife showed that Maga was upset about having drunk strangers in the house. She was pregnant and uncomfortable and in one of her moods. He considered directing the drunkard down the road to Temair where Dúas’ men might find a place in the stables for him to sleep off his stupor, and that was clearly what Maga had in mind. But he was a Druí after all, and duty called him to help a man when the need was pressing.

Opening the door wide, he took the exhausted drunk by the arm, supporting him as he brought him inside, and felt him shiver. He was gaunt and pale and his hands tremored. His drenched clothing clung to his thin frame. His eyes were vacant with an unnerving, distant stare. As the door closed behind them, the man dropped the sodden blanket to the ground as if it had been the greatest burden.

He was dressed in the strangest attire. Now ragged and torn, the sleeveless tunic he wore was elaborately embroidered of forest green fabric with matching breeches. Along the outside of the breeches from waist to ankles was sewn a line of large copper buttons and the same down the chest. Upon his feet he wore a pair of slippers of the same fabric and inset into them were a number of blue jewels.

Clearly a foreigner, Cathbad realized this man must have once been a man of substantial wealth, perhaps a merchant from Gallia who had been storm-wrecked and was now desperately lost in Inisfáil.

Deichtine immediately grew visibly frightened of the stranger for he carried a sword on a baldric. Protectively clutching Fedelm, she scooted back a ways to give him a wide berth.

Maga gave Cathbad her sternest glare of disapproval at allowing not only a drunk, but an armed drunk inside, but he shook his head in disagreement and firmly told her to fetch dry blankets and what clothing might suit him. As she begrudgingly went to her task, Cathbad told Deichtine to bring bairgen at once and then warm again what stew remained from their supper.

With Cathbad’s assistance, the drunkard eased himself slowly to his knees and then collapsed onto his rump. Cathbad pulled off his soaked slippers and moved his feet close to the warming fire.

The intoxicated stranger seemed to relish the warmth of the fire and gazed absently at the flickering flames and glowing coals, sighing and moaning with relief from time to time. He had obviously been chilled to the bone, and though his eyes remained glazed over from his alcohol-induced stupor, he seemed desperately pleased to have been mercifully taken in.

As Maga wrapped a dry blanket around his shoulders, Deichtine brought a fresh loaf of bairgen and extended it to the inebriated stranger who snatched it away with a blank-stared nod. He began to eat ravenously, alternating between taking bites and warming his hands.

Cathbad knelt on one knee beside the drunk and, extending a hand, told him that he’d have to secure the claideb for the night. The man seemed more interested in warming his hands than robbing this family and pulled the blade from the scabbard and laid it on the ground without a second thought. He then pulled out a dagger from his belt and laid it on the ground beside the sword.

As Cathbad first picked up the sword and then the dagger, his eyes fell on a script carved into the stag horn handle.

His eyes went wide.

He couldn’t read it all, but he remembered enough of the foreign letters his best friend had once taught him to recognize their meaning.

Guiamo, friend of Ursius.

Guiamo! He knew that name. It was the true name of his greatest of friends, Mórlános. And Ursius was his Roman friend who lived over in Íath with the Cornov Rí Túath, Ruadri. How the old drunk had come by it might never be discovered, but Mórlános was not this man. No, this man was older than Mórlános by at least a decade or perhaps two, with a heavily weathered face and much gray in his hair and beard, but…his build was strangely similar.

Suddenly alert, Cathbad stared intently into the face of the man before him. The eyes are the soul of a person, unique to everyone in the way they move and flash with the intrigues and joys and sorrows of life. But these were vacant, and little could be read from them. Still, there was something about them. And then Cathbad knew.

He was Mórlános.

Mórlános has returned to us! Cathbad whispered in disbelief.

And Guiamo half-smiled and nodded slightly again and again and laughed lightly at the sound of his own name.

Only then did he realize Mórlános was not drunk, but traumatized.

He is Mórlános! Cathbad exclaimed so that all could hear.

What is this you say? Maga asked in disbelief. She stared at the wretched old man trying to warm himself by her fire and finally she, too, recognized him. She had grown so accustomed to him clean-shaven in the Roman fashion that his scruffy, graying beard had concealed his familiar face.

Praise the gods, she exclaimed. Suddenly motivated to action, she grabbed a towel and raced over to his side. She quickly unbuttoned the copper buttons on his soaked tunic, stripped it away and began rubbing his hair, chest and back dry.

Hang this up to dry!’ she shouted as she tossed the dripping wet tunic at Deichtine when his upper body was dried off. And bring him that stew!"

When the worst of the chill had passed, Cathbad finally asked, "Where is your cruisech? Where is Lúin?"

Leaning against the wall outside, Guiamo mumbled in reply, half-raising a trembling hand generally toward the door.

Cathbad turned to his daughter and said, Deichtine, fetch Lúin from outside.

They scooted him closer to the fire and Maga fussed over him, tucking in the blankets so that none of him would be chilled.

When he had eaten his fill of the hot stew and many mugs of water to slake his thirst, Cathbad and Maga stripped him naked and bundled him on their sleeping mat next to the fire and soon he was fast asleep.

He slept all the night and half the next day. He awoke to the savory aroma of a hearty lentil soup filled generously with every scrap of flesh from their largest chicken and Maga saw him dreamily sniffing the air taking in the pleasant smell.

He will need the meat to aid his recovery, she had explained as she wrung the bird’s neck. Did you see how skinny he has become? He has not eaten anything meaningful for a dozen days at least! Rest is what he needs, the poor soul; rest and much food and good clean water. Perhaps some milk if we can get it. She looked at Cathbad with an accusing eye for she knew he had a fond inclination for beer. "But no flaith! Do not even consider it! Not until his mind has cleared and he is fat as a goose."

Guiamo’s eyes fluttered open and he took another deep breath. He turned his head and looked around briefly and then smiled slightly. In moments his eyes closed again and he fell back asleep.

Cathbad noticed him stirring first. Maga was passing the night away spinning wool as she leaned against the far wall. Deichtine and Fedelm were fast asleep beside her. He rose and crossed the room to sit beside his long-lost friend. Maga set aside her wool, stood and took her place beside them.

When Guiamo finally woke, he stared up in disbelief and whispered, Cathbad! He struggled to sit up, but immediately relented.

Welcome back, my old friend!’ Cathbad answered with the greatest relief-laden smile of his life. Are you strong enough to sit up?"

When Guiamo shrugged skeptically and then nodded he would like to try, Cathbad and Maga took him by the hands and helped him up into a sitting position. He was still feeble and he struggled now and again to keep his balance, but the rest had done him a world of good. Still, Cathbad noted with some dismay, his mind was obviously foggy and that distant gaze remained.

You are safe now, Mórlános, and Maga and I will take care of you until you recover.

Guiamo seemed pleased more with the comforting sound of familiar voices than the meaning of their words. What had brought him to such a low, delicate condition was a mystery, but Cathbad knew the tale would be revealed soon enough.

He was fed once again, eating more even than the night before and he soon asked to be taken outside to relieve himself. His clothing was not fully dry, so they simply wrapped him in a blanket and led him out into the forest to do his duty with Cathbad supporting and guiding him in the darkness every wobbly step of the way. The walk exhausted Guiamo and when they returned, he was content, even eager to go back to sleep until morning.

Morning came with a light, steady rain pattering happily on the rooftop. The rainfall eventually passed and Guiamo continued to sleep contentedly, but at last, late in the morning he awoke. Deichtine gave to him the steaming remains of the lentil-and-chicken soup while Maga was busy outside dealing with a grouchy, pouting, belligerent two-year-old Fedelm. As the battle of wills loudly raged on outside, Cathbad sat quietly with Guiamo as he ate hoping to learn all that had transpired during his friend’s absence.

Cathbad turned as Maga entered the round house with Fedelm firmly in tow. She led the little girl over against the wall, sat her down and said, I want no more trouble out of you! Now sit there until I say otherwise!

Fedelm sniffled unhappily, but obeyed. Cathbad gave his wife a nod of approval and then turned back to his friend.

Seeing that the bowl was finally emptied and set aside, Cathbad asked, Can you tell me where you have been all these months?

Months? Guiamo asked in surprise. Has it been months?

Nearly half a year, Maga replied.

I do not remember much, Guiamo answered with a sigh. The vacant stare returned as his mind struggled to sort through the many difficulties he had experienced throughout his madness. I was out in the forest somewhere, running, running, always running.

Cathbad recognized that Mórlános was having difficulty formulating his thoughts, that his words came like those of a little child. What he said confirmed many stories people in the west reported of seeing a madman dashing through the forest. Some said he stole from their homes and taken animals which was unfortunate, but not particularly unexpected considering his confused, desperate mental state.

"You brought Lúin with you, your claideb and your dagger."

Good, Guiamo answered as if he didn’t know. They are important. I need them.

Where is your armor and helm? You wore them when last we parted.

I do not, um, I do not know, he answered with a shrug. I must have, um, left it all somewhere, I suppose. Maybe Brukha knows where it all is.

Who is Brukha? Cathbad inquired. He was pleased the details were beginning to come out.

A Luprech hound, Guiamo answered with the matter-of-fact innocence of a child. He is a good one. Some were bad, but he is good. And he is my friend. A good, good friend.

What is a Luprech hound? Maga asked.

A kind of people, but not like us, Guiamo answered. "They are different. Like orcs are different. They have heads like a cú or a wolf, you know, and two nubby horns up here. He demonstrated by raising his first two fingers over his forehead. And they are my friends. They gave me clothes, green ones with shiny buttons. They like buttons. And they made mine just for me. Just for me.

The orcs chased me. And so I ran and ran and ran. But still they chased me. He paused to recall the terrifying event before continuing, But I got tired and I had to stop and they caught up to me. But I taught them. I taught them, yes I did.

Guiamo grew somber, almost secretive, and noted, I learned a valuable lesson that day.

You did? Cathbad asked.

Yes, a good one. Leaning forward conspiratorially, Guiamo asked, Do you want to know what it is?

Yes, Cathbad answered. Absolutely.

Guiamo leaned even closer and, after glancing to either side as if make sure nobody else was listening, he whispered, Never eat an orc! He sat up laughing hysterically. Yeck! he exclaimed, sticking out his tongue in revulsion. He began patting his knee again and again at his great joke and Cathbad could see from his out-of-control behavior that his madness still remained.

When the disconcerting laughing fit finally passed and Guiamo had calmed to a more rational state, Cathbad asked, How did you survive the cold of winter?

He found me, um, and took me in, Guiamo explained. Yes, it had been snowy and I was freezing cold. Cold, cold, cold. I remember now. It was snowing, you know that drizzly kind that soaks your clothing. Well, he found me and took me to his home and they took care of me and gave me food and a nice warm fire. I lived with them you know. A long time.

Guiamo’s eyes suddenly grew empty and he turned away lost in thought. Cathbad could tell from the mournful expression that soon showed on his face that his fractured thoughts were flitting back to bitter memories that drove his madness.

Did I tell you Buí and Nás are dead? Guiamo blurted out. And Ibic, too? Little Ibic is dead. Guiamo began to sob. He was, uh, such a nice boy. He is dead too. And Nás and Buí. They are all dead. Dead. Why would some…, why would someone do that? Kill my wives and son? They never did anything to hurt anybody. But they did and now they are dead.

His sobbing ceased abruptly and he calmly resumed his story, But Brukha was real nice to me. And his wife and children. And they were so nice to me. They fed me. And they gave me these nice clothes. But after a while, I wanted to go home. Go home to Buí and Nás and so I left. I left and came home. But Buí and Nás were not home. And Ibic too. I could not find them. They are dead, you know. That is why I could not find them and so I came here.

It took six days.

Six days and nights of confusion, of bouts of mindless babbling, of violent lashing out, of weeping and hysterical laughter. But also of long periods of rest and meat-rich meals and milk and quiet walks and soothing songs and patience and tender care and loving attention. On the seventh day, the blessed seventh day, Guiamo woke up in his right mind.

He was still fragile, of course, but he knew where he was and understood somewhat of what he had endured. The distant stare was gone and for the first time, he was not just physically returned, but mentally restored and he was on his way to recovery. It would still take time, but Cathbad understood that of all Mórlános’ many friends, he had both the most suitable skills and the time to spare until he was healed.

The college had managed without him these past days and would continue to do so however long it took. He hadn’t told anyone there why he was required to be away, but everyone had graciously taken it in stride knowing he would return to his lectures soon enough.

They spent the afternoon relaxing by the firepit and taking a short walk around their garden. Deichtine sang several of Guiamo’s favorite songs and he did his poor best to join in. Initially, Fedelm instinctively had detected something wrong with her father’s new friend and stayed away, but that day she sensed a wellness in him. She grew more comfortable with him as the day progressed and once let him hold her in his lap for a few moments before scampering way to play.

He did seem better, but Cathbad remained astonished with how old he still looked. Perhaps in time he would cut Mórlános’ beard and shave him close after the Roman fashion he preferred, but that would wait until another time, perhaps serving as a little reward for achieving a certain degree of healing.

As they ate their supper that evening, Guiamo inquired about the happenings that occurred during his absence. Cathbad began simply, with an overview of key events of Eochu’s war. Guiamo remembered killing Cermait, but had no recollection of Fiacha’s involvement in the north or his subsequent defeat and desperate flight back to Íath. Cathbad described that Fiacha had indeed returned to his throne at Caer Ebrauc, but surprisingly, he later learned, he had somehow lost a hand in the battle.

Hoping to avoid speaking about the deaths of his wives and son so soon to avoid unnecessarily agitating his friend, Cathbad remained silent about it, but when Guiamo asked if their father, Ruadri knew his daughters were dead, Cathbad could only reply truthfully, "Yes, Rí Túath Ruadri learned his daughters and grandson are dead and that Cermait’s three sons are the ones who killed them and did so with their own hands. He also knows the good you did and why you could not save them. He rightly does not blame you and all his vengeance is focused single-mindedly on those three.

"He has also learned of Téite’s complicity which fully explained why she disappeared from Din-Gwrygon. He knew from the first something wicked was involved, but he had no idea that what she did would put their daughters’ lives in danger. He initially thought she was involved in some scheme there in Íath and so had born her disobedience patiently until that day she would return, and then he would vent his spleen upon her.

"But in time, he began to suspect his sons knew more than they let on. When he pressed them, they confessed it all. Learning the truth, he sent Aoi to find Téite and only when he returned did he learn they all had been killed.

"Ruadri wanted to go to Inisfáil at once to kill Cermait’s three sons, but Ursius told him no. Too much was going on in Íath for Ruadri to leave. Fiacha, it would seem, has been openly preparing for war.

"It is said Fiacha is intending to depose some of the rígrad túatha in Íath who oppose his edicts. Ruadri and those who are likeminded with him are building up their defenses as well as they can and are waiting for the worst to come. There is no telling where Fiacha will strike first."

Guiamo remembered his friend fondly and said, I miss Ursius. Where is his son, Elfin? I remember he is in Inisfáil.

Cathbad answered, "He went on an adventure in the north with Tuirenn and Deisred’s son, Dúas. Dúas, has indeed been crowned Ard Rí na Cruthin as we had planned, and Fachtna guides him as regent. It is a good arrangement and the people are content with it.

"Now that things have settled down, those three have become the closest of friends and they decided to go orc hunting together. Fachtna went along to guard Dúas as his responsibilities require, but also to visit Assa and Conchobar, who remained at Emain Macha while he came to Temair to serve as regent. He loves his family and Dúas loves to hunt, so do not expect them to return to Temair any time soon.

Perhaps when you are strong enough, you might go there to visit them.

Perhaps, Guiamo replied uncertainly. But then again, maybe I should just stay quietly out of sight for a while. I do not particularly like the idea of everyone seeing me at my worst.

Then let us keep your presence here our little secret.

Thank you, my friend. Perhaps in time.

Perhaps in time.

"So Deisred was killed and now Dúas is the Ard Rí. What happened to Deisred’s body? Has it been recovered?"

Yes, Cathbad answered. Deisred was highly respected and so was given a funeral worthy of the son of Sreng.

Guiamo grew slightly agitated and asked, Were his sword and armor buried with him?

No, Cathbad replied and immediately, Guiamo’s agitation calmed. We agreed they would be needed in time for Dúas and so they were placed on display in his home at Temair to honor him.

Good, Guiamo sighed with relief. Then they are not lost forever.

So, what do you think? Should they be given to Dúas?

Guiamo replied, "They did not belong to Deisred the Ard Rí. They belonged to Deisred the Cenndraic. Dúas may be Ard Rí, but he is not yet Cenndraic. Until that day, if indeed he is ever chosen, he is not to wear the armor or wield his father’s claideb."

When will that day be? He has asked about it already.

What did you answer him?

Only after he proves himself worthy.

Guiamo agreed without comment and Cathbad continued, There is one thing of note concerning Dúas’ coronation. We performed all as our traditions required, but the gods did not bless him as we expected.

With a derisive tone, Guiamo observed, With Saturnus losing his ability to traverse the Pathway of the Stars, the other elder gods were probably too frightened to come near lest I should strike them down as well.

Cathbad noted, Gods or no, the people seem to like Dúas and give him the respect he deserves. With Fachtna to guide him, I think he will prove as successful as his father, perhaps even Sreng.

Guiamo noted, The only hesitation I had with having Fachtna serve as regent to Dúas is that he is a known liar.

And a good one! Cathbad exclaimed with favor.

Guiamo was taken aback that Cathbad, a Druí of the highest moral standing, would so readily support Fachtna’s lying nature.

Seeing confliction on his friends face, Cathbad explained, "I have come to believe that the ability to deceive is a skill, or perhaps more precisely, a tool a clever ard rí needs to cultivate if he is to keep his enemies at bay. Dúas has a goodness in him which may predispose him to being too forthright in his dealings.

"I have learned that a man as a man serving his own affairs must be always truthful in his conversations and trades. By this he comes to be trusted. However, a man as a rí has different responsibilities for the sake of his people, chief of these is as guardian and protector.

"A wise leader needs to first learn to not speak too openly all that he knows, and then he must learn to direct the minds of his enemies away from his true intentions. If he intends to attack an enemy foray from the north, is it not best to have them think he will attack from the south, or perhaps not at all? Dúas may need someone skilled in the art of deception to teach him how to do so convincingly. That man, I think, is Fachtna.

"Now, that is not to say I would happily support having Fachtna reign as ard rí. Not at all. I see in him the teacher, the craftsman of such skill. Fachtna’s problem is that he deceives anyone as it suits him, and not just the enemies of his people.

Now, while Dúas must be taught how to lie for the sake of his responsibilities, he must also be guided as to when it is proper to deceive. I will step in to teach him in that role.

Seeing Guiamo was somewhat satisfied with his reasoning, Cathbad continued along a different line of thought, "Now as regent, Fachtna has had to set aside a few of his personal grudges for Dúas’ sake so as to not confuse his recommendations for his own affairs with those of Dúas’.

Fachtna has sworn furious oaths and curses calling for the quick and painful death of Eochu for trying to kill his Assa. At the first, he even sent numerous assassins to do the deed, but none have returned. But now he knows he must restrain himself until a later time when his duties as regent have been fulfilled.

I would expect him to rage out at that moment, Guiamo observed with anticipation, and the gods help Eochu then.

Indeed, Cathbad replied. Reflecting a moment, he continued, Many curious things have occurred in your absence. Perhaps the silliest development among these is that those three pompous brothers, those miserable murdering sons of Cermait who slew your Buí and Nás and Ibic have taken pretentious new names upon themselves as an offering, they claim, to the three gods who showed them favor when they were hunting down your family.

What sort of names could they possibly have chosen for such a wicked task? Guiamo asked with the greatest contempt.

Éthur, who slew poor little Ibic, announced that an enchanted tool made by his father from hazelwood helped him find your boy. For it, he has decided to honor Cuill, the god of wisdom who dwells in the hazel tree, calling himself Mac Cuill as if he were the god’s very son.

As his anger rose, Guiamo lowered his head and shook it slowly in disgust.

Growing alarmed with the unsettledness rising in his mentally fragile friend, Cathbad offered, If it is any comfort to you, I have learned that Éthur’s face is badly scarred from the vicious raking Ibic’s claws gave him.

I am pleased to hear it, Guiamo confessed, but it is small consolation for the loss of my son.

I understand, Mórlános, but there is some satisfaction to be had in knowing Ibic did not let Éthur get away entirely without consequence.

And what of Téthur? he asked bitterly. Which god has he chosen to honor for butchering an innocent?

Cecht, Cathbad answered, the god of plowing and of fertile harvests, for they say Nás was slain by a ploughshare Téthur picked up at the homestead where he found her. And so, not to be outdone by his elder brother, he has named himself Mac Cecht.

Guiamo exhaled roughly in utter contempt. He raised his teary eyes and struggled to wipe them dry. And Céthur? he asked wearily as he fought off a sob.

He calls himself Mac Gréine, after the god of the sun for at the very moment dawn broke upon the horizon, a ray of sunlight reflected off a piece of metal thus revealing to him dear Buí’s hiding place.

Guiamo protested, "And they dare call themselves Druíde? How can their Druí brothers and sisters stand for it?"

Cathbad answered, "Save for his three sons, all Cermait’s Druíde are dead, killed in the battle on the great mound, and there is not one remaining to challenge them. His sons have since sent for more to replace them and twenty arrived early this spring to serve them. They know only what account the three have told them.

"In your absence, Eochu increased in power with the blessings of Éthur, Téthur and Céthur. After the battle, the land remained divided. Eochu and Daire did not go into exile as you proclaimed should happen. In the chaos following your disappearance, the Cenndraici were not strong enough to enforce the punishment on Eochu and Daire.

"Eochu returned with his slóg to Slaet-Céite and rules the region through Medb. In truth, Eochu thinks he rules the north and west through his daughter, but Medb has a mind of her own and does as she will. She is firmly established as Rígain in her own right.

It is reported that she has taken Tinni as her lover though she despises him for his weakness. She does not love him. She does not even like him. She despises him, but she cleverly uses him as a ploy to fend off those rivals who seek the throne through marriage. Tinni wants that for himself, that is certain, but while she has taken him to her bed, she knows his goal and so prohibits him from even setting foot in her throne room.

Guiamo ran his wrinkled hand across his craggy, bearded face and said, "In my madness, I searched the future many times to find that delicious moment when I would strike the killing blow on Éthur and his brothers, but the vision never came to me. Even Brukha could not help me.

"Hoping to learn of their locations from a different perspective so I could hunt them down, I searched on Eochu and Medb many times both now and in the future hoping to see those detestable three, but I never saw them, not once. There must be a powerful charm upon them to hide them from me.

I did learn a lot about Medb and the kind of woman she is. What you say of her low morals matches what I discovered.

Cathbad observed, She is no doubt, Eochu’s daughter, and we have every reason to believe his many other daughters will be the same. Word has come that Cloithfinn, Eochu’s wife, gave birth to triplet sons. Though he has a home filled with daughters, and Medb has proven capable beyond everyone’s expectations, I suppose he finally got the heirs he truly wanted.

Guiamo replied, Medb may have chanced onto the Connacht throne, but Eochu knows that no woman will ever be permitted to sit on Sreng’s throne.

True, but what has Sreng’s throne become? Cathbad countered. "It appears that half the isle is truly lost to us. Daire likewise returned to Caisel and rules the southern portions of the western