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"The mysteries of Awen are many," Iolo said. "And Taliesin was born of the cauldron of Awen before he was born of Ceridwen's womb."

Sétanta smiled. "I know the tale. How young Gwion was tending the cauldron of Awen... a brew Ceridwen had meant for her disfigured son."

"Indeed," Iolo said. "Then you know how by mere accident the young Gwion's thumb was scalded, and the first three drops—the only three drops of the brew that could bestow the gift of Awen—blessed him when he nursed of his burned thumb."

"How he shifted into different creatures to escape Ceridwen's wrath..."

Iolo nodded. "He became a hare. She became a hound and chased him to the water's edge. He became a salmon, and she became an otter bitch. He shifted again, this time into a bird."

"Yes," Sétanta said smiling wide. "But Ceridwen shifted, too, this time into a hawk. And young Gwion, finding a store of corn, turned into a single grain in hopes that she might give up her pursuit. But she didn't."

"She became a hen and swallowed every grain until she finally consumed Gwion whole."

"But that was not the end of Gwion's tale. He grew in Ceridwen's womb until he was born anew. But she could neither bring herself to kill the child she'd nourished in her womb for months nor could she bear to keep him... so she cast him in a basket in the river."

"Until the child was rescued by prince Elffin ap Gwyddno..."

"And retrieving the child from the basket he saw his radiant brow... and named him..."

"Taliesin," both Sétanta and Iolo said in unison before sharing a laugh.

"That's one of my favorite tales," Sétanta said.

"Mine, too," Iolo replied. "And it seems you already have the gifts a good bard requires... a good cadence in your voice, a fine tenor..."

Sétanta nodded, smiling wide. "Yes, but I still lack something... my heart aches... for I met the love of my life and was turned away. For she was already betrothed by another."

"This is not something you lack," Iolo said. "No bard would ever again tell a single tale if he were not seeking something. Our tales are not ways by which we merely preserve the legends of our people. Our tales do more than entertain crowds. They also shed light on the future... and you do not need a full dose of Taliesin's Awen to do it. From our tales we can illuminate paths forward, teach people the ways of wisdom and insight that they might live fulfilled lives."

Sétanta nodded. "And the bard... he is destined to always seek, but never find? If I never find my love again... I don't know what I shall do."

"The bard does not only tell audiences his tales, that their futures might be revealed. He tells tales for himself, too. Perhaps, should you master your arts well enough, you will see a path that leads to the future you desire."

Sétanta chuckled. "But if I realize my desire... will I have any reason to continue telling tales?"

Iola squeezed Sétanta's shoulder. "Young apprentice. In youth, we have singular desires. As we grow our desires multiply. The day all your desires are fulfilled will be the day you die."

"One more question..."

"Yes?"

"The ríastrad... I trust you know the curse that dwells within me?"

Iolo nodded. "I do."

"And you do not fear me?"

"We are not thieves lurking in the woods. What should we fear?"

"You know about that?"

Iolo nodded. "If you'd sent word ahead and asked for our protection, we would have guided you to Emain Macha. No less, you have arrived unscathed. The same cannot be said for the thieves who stumbled across you."

"Then you know... that I'm a killer..."

Iolo cocked his head sideways. "It is not every potential apprentice who comes with promise to both tell tales and to be the subject of tales himself. That you seek us to aid in taming the ríastrad means you are no killer. Perhaps, one day, you shall be even a hero."

"Is it enough that I be a bard? I have no desire for heroics."

"We are all given what we are given. Today, your path forward is dim. Perhaps, as you acquire a few more tales, you will find that your own tale is one worthy of future bards."