Page 24 of Rise of the Morrigan

"I still don't know how you found me here."

King Conchobar glanced at Iolo, who had turned to stir a pot of stew, pretending he was not paying attention to the discussion between Sétanta and his king. "Not even your mentor is so bold as to deny your destiny, nephew."

Sétanta grimaced. He looked up to Iolo. Hetrustedhim. But Iolo had let the king know he was studying the bardic arts. "I can't believe he..."

"It is he who convinced me, nephew, to leave to your training as a bard. I was of the mind to send for you straight away when news of your presence here reached Ulster. But it was not Iolo who alerted us to your presence here."

"Then who?"

"That would be a question for your bardic mentor."

"Iolo?"

Iolo retrieved his spoon from his boiling pot and took a sip of whatever stew he's been brewing. "As I've taught you, young apprentice, some tales beg to be told. I cannot forbid the other bards from telling a tale they deem, already, worthy of verse. It is not I who spread the news of your presence here. But your legend..."

"My legend? You can't be serious," Sétanta said, interrupting Iolo.

"The king is correct. You get to choose whether you be a hero. But you do not have a say as to whether or not your tale becomes a legend. The question is what sort of legend your story will become. Will your tale inspire generations of would-be heroes, or will your story be but a cautionary tale? The Awen inspires tales of both kinds, and both serve their purpose."

Sétanta sighed. This was precisely the sort of life he'd hope he'd escaped when he left for Emain Macha. "But I am not ready. The ríastrad... I have not had yet an occasion to test it since I've grown in the arts. What if I leave and it overtakes me again? What if it be not a rogue Fomorian or a band of thieves who happen to be nearby the next time I'm overcome with anger."

A kind smile split Iolo's face. "My deal with your king was that I would alert him when I was certain you were ready if only he permitted you to train in the arts uninterrupted until that time. The king would not be here if you were not ready, apprentice."

"But I don'tfeelready... there is so much left to learn."

"Even I have much left to learn, Sétanta. The day we cease learning is the day we die. You will continue to grow in the arts as you tell tales and live your own. But you know all I have to teach, you have all the skills I ever did when I first left Taliesin's side as his apprentice."

"But how do I know I am ready? I mean, it's one thing to be ready to tell tales. It's another thing to know I've tamed the ríastrad."

Again, Iolo smiled wide. "Come, both of you, and have a bowl of stew before you are on your way."

"Stew will satisfy my belly, it won't satisfy my worries..."

"Will your worries be any less if you leave hungry? If anger should come over you, seek out a tale, a verse, or a song that your anger might be tempered. With it, the wolf inside of you will be tamed as your spirit is consoled."

"Thank you, Iolo," King Conchobar said. "The stew smells delicious. It would be an honor to feast together before we depart."

"The honor is mine, my king."

Sétanta took a deep breath and served himself a bowl of stew. What else could he do? There was no sense, after all, in stewing over his problems. When the stew is ready it is meant to be consumed.

And Sétantawasready. He'd acquired every skill needed to tame the ríastrad. But there is a difference between being well trained for a battle and actually facing the enemy. No training can fully prepare a warrior for when spears clash when two warriors lock arms and fight to the death.

But every warrior has to go through the initial dread of battle. His confidence comes not after training, but upon achieving victory after victory. It struck Sétanta that he'd pacified his fear, for a moment, by entertaining his experience as a warrior. Perhaps, he thought, that despite their very different dispositions, a warrior is not so different from a bard. There is, after all, a sort of poetry to battle. With the right verse, a verse to tame his spear, and thereby to tame the ríastrad, he could be both a bardanda warrior.

"Come, Sétanta!Let us celebrate your return to Ulster!"

Sétanta shook his head. "Your idea of a festival is, to me, more akin to a funeral."

King Conchobar shook his head. "Why must you be so stubborn? The life of a hero is no cause to lament. Your name will be remembered forever."

"What good is it to have a man's life retold again and again if he is dead, and the life he lived was one of misery?"

King Conchobar patted Sétanta on the back. "Nephew, it is not the circumstances of life that determine your happiness. It is, rather, your disposition with respect to the lot of life you've been given."

"So you're saying I should justtellmyself that I want to live a hero's life?"

"Tell yourself enough times," the King said, "and eventually you might believe it."

---