“Apple and pear cider for the lady! No, no, don’t worry about paying, not at all. Consider it a token of our commiserations. I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Morrígan, we all are. Taigdh will be glad to see that you’re doing well.”
“Thank you, Peadair.” Morrígan forced herself to smile, remembering Yarlaith’s words.
Before she could elaborate further, Peadair vanished to serve another customer.
Across the inn, Taigdh tended to a rather large table of revellers. He seemed suited to the role of assistant innkeeper, but quite different to the little boy Morrígan used to pass notes to at the back of Yarlaith’s reading lessons. It was a sad thought, that Taigdh would probably be working and living in the inn for the rest of his life. He was only a year older than Morrígan, but he was certainly wiser than most of the drunkards he served.
She drank her cider alone as she studied the huge mural behind the bar that gave the inn its name. A large black bear stood on hind legs, locked in combat with a beadhbh. The flightless bird of prey clawed at the bear, its black beak like an arrowhead, its long, feathered neck the shaft. Bears and beadhbhs were said to be often found fighting over prey in the Glenn, but Morrígan didn’t know of any who had explored the poisonous valley.
“Um, Morrígan?”
Darragh, the butcher’s boy, stood by her side, his gaze averted from hers. He was a short, chubby lad, with a huge mess of red hair. He rubbed his hands together, as if unsure what else to do with them.
“I… I just wanted to say that, um, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Morrígan tapped her foot against the barstool. “What exactly do you have to be sorry about, Darragh?”
His eyes widened, and he began shaking his head. “No, I didn’t mean it like that, I… I just—”
Morrígan suppressed a grin. Taigdh had always been much better at making Darragh nervous than she was. But those days were long gone.
“Relax, Darragh,” Morrígan said. “I meant that in jest. I really do appreciate your kind words. Please, send your father my regards.”
Red faced, Darragh nodded, his eyes focused on the floor. He excused himself with a mumble.
Morrígan spent most of the night alone after that, watching as the bard continued to sing loud and boisterous songs at his audience’s request. A group of young girls sat up with the bard and sang along, escalating the small performance into a full festival of music. The bard brought music from the Seachtú of the south, while the girls taught him the local songs of the Clifflands.
As the night went on, more and more people danced and sang. A wide circle in the centre of the inn was cleared, making more room, but it didn’t stop some people from climbing on the furniture.
Despite the atmosphere, Morrígan couldn’t help but wonder about the adventurers, and why they had come through her little village by the cliffs, on that morning of all mornings.
It was only because of the king’s new taxes that her family had been working so early in the first place. After the troll killed her mother and the travellers who tried to fight it, the beast turned towards Morrígan. Only then did the sun rise, its light turning the troll to stone before her eyes.
Morrígan shivered. It’s probably still there, petrified, looking over the farm….
After a particularly long and exhausting number, the bard cleared his throat and thanked everyone for their participation. When he said that this was the liveliest inn he had ever visited, the crowd cheered, though Morrígan reckoned he said that everywhere he played.
“Now, for one last song….”
He picked up the lute and strummed a single chord. Already anticipating what was to come, Morrígan jumped to her feet and stood up proud and straight. When the bard sang, everyone went quiet and did the same, but Morrígan always liked being the first one to rise for the Ballad of the Trinity. It was a sign of disrespect to the Gods if you didn’t stop what you were doing and pay attention, so being the first to do so made Morrígan feel like she was more devout than anyone else. The bard sang the song sweetly, but he was drowned out by a chorus of drunken patrons, each trying to out-pride the other.
A thousand ships sailed across,
Long leagues of intrepid waters,
Our homes were lost, our lands destroyed,
But paradise still called to us.
Most of the villagers sang along dutifully, but one person did not stand with the others. The large man sitting in the stool beside Morrígan faced away from the bard, drinking to himself. She tried to ignore the blatant display of disrespect and continued singing with the others.
Armed with faith, and led by the Lord,
We found this sacred country,
With hills of green, and rich of soil,
Móráin declared it heavenly.
At this point, several others had stopped singing, their attention focused on the patron in black. Still, he remained silent, hunched over his frothing pint of ale. Morrígan leaned over to get a closer look at the man’s face. To her horror, she saw that he was not Human.
With the watchful eye of the Lord,
And the guiding hand of the Lady,
King Móráin, will forever reign,
Through the Penetrance of Divinity
