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Sétanta took adeep breath. He hoped Taliesin would have answers. If any bard would knowwhat the hellit was he'd turned into when he killed the Fomorian,it was Taliesin. According to the lesser bards, Awen—the elixir of the gods—flowed through Taliesin like blood. And if anyone knew the tale about how he'd become the bard of bard's they'd believe it was true.

Sétanta had only heard Taliesin speak once before—if anything, it wasthatencounter that convinced him he wanted to be a bard. Sitting around a fire, his eyes wide, goosebumps on his arms, as the master bard told tale after tale, each more haunting than the last.

Sétanta was the king's nephew. The bastard child of Deichtine, King Conchobar's sister, and a man whom Sétanta had never met. His mother never spoke of his father, and Sétanta didn't bother to ask.

As the king's nephew, he got away with most things. As a bastard, most people didn't pay him much mind. It was an odd combination, but one Sétanta had often used to his advantage. Not like he was up to mischief—he'd never been whipped at all as a child—but if he were anyone else leaving Ulster with a war steed might have raised some eyebrows.

He was seeking Taliesin—and the rumor was the master bard often tagged along with a particularly powerful druid named Diarmid who, some believed, commanded the very forest, the great oaks, bidding them to come to his aid. It was this druid's power, many believed, that had given Fionn MacCumhail—chief of the Fianna—a decided victory over the Fir Bolg. But why would a druid ever help such an abominable man? It didn't make sense. But as the nephew of a king, Sétanta rarely found that good sense had anything to do with politics.

Pulling back on the reigns, Sétanta slowed his horse from a gallop to a trot. There was something in the distance, something in the forest. A flame? Too colorful. Yes, there were reds and oranges, but what Sétanta saw also swirled with green and blue energies, forming something of a cone over the trees. One moment it was spinning with a fury of power, a second later it was completely gone.

Sétanta rubbed his eyes.What by the name of the good god was that?

Brilliant, whatever it was.

The trees were too dense and the pathways through the forest too cluttered to go through on horseback. Dismounting his borrowed steed Sétanta tied its reins to one of the trees. It was risky tying up a horse—horse thieves were common in these parts—but these weren't heavily traveled glades. It was a risk to leave his horse behind, but a calculated risk Sétanta deemed worth taking.

Whatever that magical cone was he saw before—chances were if Taliesin was in the area he was involved in whatever was going on. Bards had a way of showing up whenever things were about to happen to inspire new tales. And the magical cone of energy Sétanta saw... he couldn't imagine there wasn't a story behind it.

Sétanta whisked his way through the forest. He moved like a deer—fast and graceful, dodging, ducking under, and leaping over tree branches as he moved toward where he'd seen the mystical cone. As he drew nearer, a drumbeat echoed in the distance. With it, voices—were they shouting, or singing? Sétanta wasn't sure, but there was a rhythm, a purpose, to their chants.

As an avid hunter, Sétanta was no stranger to the forests. But these trees... it was almost like they were aiding him, speaking to him, guiding him to his desired destination. The drumming ended. The singing faded to a murmur—what was a chorus of voices now resounded, muffled, through the trees as if only two voices remained, to men in conversation.Pray one of these men be the master bard!Sétanta thought as the trees seemed to usher him forward, parting their branches as he entered a clearing.

Massive stones, boulders, perfectly arranged in a circle formed what appeared to be a kind of temple—a giant Oak in the middle.

"May I help you, child?"

Sétanta turned and there he was—Taliesin, adorned in bearskins, a small lyre in his hand.

"It's you!" Sétanta exclaimed.

The master bard chucked. "Indeed, it is. I've always beenme."

Sétanta shook his head. "Taliesin! You're the one I've come to find!"

The bard smiled wide. He had a kind face and a radiant brow. There were only a few torches in the clearing, but the light seemed to all gather upon the master bard's brow. It was a glow bright enough that when Sétanta gazed upon the bard, it was as if the rest of the world faded to black by contrast. "I expected you would find me soon enough."

"Wait, you know whoIam?"

"I know who you will become."

Sétanta scrunched his brow. The bards told tell tales, but divining the future was not a skill he was aware the bards typically possessed. Of course, Taliesin wasn't your average bard. He was the master bard, the bard of bards, one born of both cauldron and the womb of a goddess. At least, if the tales the lesser bards told about Taliesin were true. "If you know what I will become, do you know what it is Ihavebecome?"

"You have the blessing of the ríastrad."

Sétanta squinted. He'd heard of the ríastrad. No child possessing the ríastrad had been born to the people of the Ulster in more than a generation. One who had the ríastrad was known to transform in combat—to become something of both beast and man.

But in the tales, the legendary warriors who had the ríastrad weren't possessed by a whatever creature like the one that overtook him when he slew the Fomorian thief. And, so far as he knew, those with the ríastrad didn't feed upon their enemies. "What I experienced, it was no blessing. It was more like a beast, an animal, that claimed my body..."

"It is indeed the spirit of a beast. In your case, should you believe the tales that will one day be told of you, it is the spirit of a wolf. But it is a spirit that can be tamed."

Sétanta shook his head. "What came over me... there was no taming that creature. It acted out of rage..."

"Out ofyourrage, child. If you wish to tame the ríastrad you must first learn to tame your anger."

"But I'm not an angry person..."