Page 10 of Rise of the Morrigan

"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. Sétantawasangry. 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.

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