“Ciara! I was looking for you.”
Just as well I’m back on ground level, for Archu and my brother are approaching across a sloping stretch of greensward that lies between the copse where Aislinn’s oak grows and the entry to the rather grand stone keep. This tower-like structure houses the royal apartments, the great hall, and various council chambers. Around it are several wattle-and-mud buildings, less grand than the keep but substantial all the same. These include the sleeping quarters, a communal area for bathing, and an enormous kitchen. Further away lie a barn, stables with a grazing field behind, a forge, a butchery, a tannery, and other places of work.
A high wall of sharpened wooden stakes encircles the entire establishment, which stands on rising ground. There are at least four guards on duty at the gate all the time, and more posted at sentry points around the wall. Torches burn at night to illuminate the paths. At the eastern end of the establishment is the main gate, leading out to the road. There’s a scattering of dwellings to either side of this way. To the west, near Aislinn’s oak, trees press up close to the wall on the outer side. If the fortification were lower, this would be a weakness in the defenses, but as it is, only squirrels and martens are likely to use that route in.
“Lord Cathra wants to talk to us,” Archu says.
About time, I think but don’t say. If finding the harp is urgent, I’d have thought the regent would call for us as soon as we got here. “He does want all of us?”
“He asked for all three of us to be present, yes.” Archu glances over his shoulder. There’s nobody nearby, but he lowers his voice anyway. “Speak only if they put a direct question to you. Otherwise, sit quiet and observe.”
“You said they,” puts in Brocc as Archu leads us toward the keep. “Lord Cathra and who else?”
“That wasn’t made clear,” says Archu. “I was advised that all those who will be present know why we’re here. Wait, all the same, until that is established without doubt.” We’re approaching the grand doorway to the royal residence; there are guards outside. “Think before you speak,” he murmurs, looking at me.
“Yes, Uncle Art.”
Three men are waiting for us in a council chamber, deep within the network of passageways that threads through the keep. A burly guard stands at the door. I eye him, wondering how long it would take me to knock him down and seize that spear he’s holding. I miss combat training.
“Ah.” One man rises to his feet. Two remain seated. Lord Cathra has been pointed out to me in the dining hall—a solidly built man of middle height, with short-cropped gray hair and a hard stare. Right now, he looks tired; there are bags under his eyes. The man who has risen is the regent’s senior councilor, Brondus—taller, younger, dark haired, with the look of a person with no tolerance for fools or time wasters. I haven’t seen the third man before, but he looks like a druid: cream-colored robe with a gray cloak over it, little leather bag hung around his neck by a cord, long plaits of snowy hair. The Chief Druid, maybe?
“The door is closed and guarded,” says Brondus, “and will remain so until this meeting is concluded. Within these four walls we may speak freely. My lord, shall I continue?”
Cathra waves a hand to indicate yes.
“My name is Brondus. I am an adviser to Lord Cathra. We are honored to have with us Brother Marcán, chief in our local community of druids.”
“You’ll have been advised who we are.” Archu sounds perfectly at ease in this exalted company. “My name is Art. I have with me my niece, Ciara, and fellow musician Donal. We thank you, Lord Cathra, for your hospitality. We have been well provided for in your household.”
“Yes, yes.” The regent sounds impatient. “And you’ll be well paid, of course, as long as you do what is required of you. Time is short. Very short. You’ll have questions, no doubt.” The man’s wound tight as a spring.
“With your leave, my lord, I will outline what we already know, and Master Art can ask his questions then.” At Cathra’s nod, Brondus goes on, “This is likely to be the only meeting open to all three of you; to repeat it would be to risk drawing undue attention. But there will be a continuing need to share information. That’s best done between you, Master Art, and myself. I can then advise Lord Cathra, and Master Art can inform Ciara and Donal, should that be necessary. You understand, I take it, the vital importance of keeping this matter confidential?”
He’s looking at me, as if I’m the most likely of the three to blurt out secrets in public. I bite back the first response that comes to my lips, and simply nod.
“The information we have is based on the communication sent by Lord Cathra,” says Archu. “May we sit down?”
“Please do.”
We sit, the three of us on our side of the big table and the three of them on the other. Considering we’re their main hope of solving a really big problem, the atmosphere is not exactly friendly. The druid, Marcán, hasn’t uttered a word. If they trust us to find their precious harp for them they’ve got a strange way of showing it.
Brondus tells us what we already know, more or less, though with somewhat more detail. The harp is—or was—kept in the nemetons, the druid sanctuary located within that tract of forest to the west of the royal establishment. The instrument makes an appearance only for the crowning of a new king. Tradition requires that it be played at every such ritual.
“May I ask a question?”
The three of them turn their gaze on Brocc. There is a silence.
“You are the harpist, yes?” Brother Marcán speaks up at last. His tone is courteous.
“I am. I’m also a singer, and I write tunes and verses. I wondered how often the Harp of Kings is played within the nemetons, and who attends to its upkeep—maintaining the wooden parts, replacing strings, and so on. I understand it to be an instrument of great antiquity. It will help if we know who usually has access to the instrument and how often.”
It’s a good question, even if he is jumping ahead a bit.
“The harp is kept in a cavern,” says the druid. “It is the habit of most druids to live among trees; our order is no different in its practice. Our shelters are fashioned from branches, grasses, mosses. Within the wood there is a honeycomb of caves, some quite generous in size. Those caverns are well protected from excesses of damp, heat, and cold. The Harp of Kings is kept there.”
“A cave? Wouldn’t that mean anyone could go in and out as they pleased? Is it guarded?”
Archu glances at Brocc, who has perhaps forgotten the order to keep quiet unless asked a direct question.
Marcán gives a wry smile; it makes him look less remote. “It never occurred to us that such precautions might be required. The harp has been safe in its keeping place since time immemorial. That a person would think to steal it was . . . unimaginable. It was an act of deepest offense to the gods, and we are at a loss to understand how it could be carried out unseen. Three of our more musical novices occupy the adjoining chamber, and there is generally at least one of them present there during the day. Strict rules apply to the handling of the Harp of Kings. Our High Bard, Farannán, looks after the practical matters you mentioned. As for playing the instrument, only the High Bard does so, and it is never removed from its place of storage save in his presence.”
Brocc opens his mouth to ask another question, then shuts it again, glancing at Archu.
“Is there a locked door? A barrier of some kind?” Archu asks.
“You will not see an iron grille or an oaken door there. That cavern and its contents are protected by spell-craft.”
A coarse oath springs to my lips. I manage not to let it out. For a count of five, nobody says a word. Even the most tried and tested Swan Island team lacks the ability to deal with a challenge of this kind. Or does it? I try to keep my features expressionless, no mean feat under the circumstances.
“Spell-craft,” echoes Archu. “Druid magic. Performed in
the heart of the order’s sanctuary. And yet . . .”
Another silence.
“And yet, here we are, with the Harp of Kings gone.” Marcán’s tone is somber. “Vanished without trace, after so many years of safekeeping. It should not have been possible.”
I have lots of questions. If magic was involved, why are they asking a Swan Island team to solve the problem? Perhaps the harp isn’t missing at all, but has been hidden for a political purpose such as discrediting one royal claimant in order to advance another? That’s a possibility we discussed before leaving the Barn. How could a barrier constructed solely through spell-craft be strong enough to last for hundreds of years, long after whoever made it was dead and gone? And if the barrier was invisible, couldn’t the druids in the adjoining cave see if the harp went missing? I thought only a handful of people knew it was gone.
“I must ask the obvious question, Brother Marcán,” says Archu. “Can you fully trust every member of your own community, including your newest recruits? I am not speaking of spell-craft, you understand, simply of access to the Harp of Kings, and who might have been able to convey the instrument to a place outside the nemetons without being seen. I believe we should deal with that simpler possibility first. Of course, just as a druid may use magic to keep something safe, a druid might also use magic to counteract a spell. To remove that object from its secure place. Bear in mind that the three of us know next to nothing about the subtleties of spell-craft. But we are here to solve your problem, and to do so we need all the information you can provide.” He speaks calmly, as if of everyday matters. It makes me wonder if dealing with the uncanny is part and parcel of our job after all. Our training never touched on such things. Maybe that part of it happens only after we win admittance to the Swan Island elite.
“If you had asked me that question before the harp vanished, I would have said yes, without doubt,” says Marcán. “Even the newest of our novices understands the deep significance of the Harp of Kings. In truth, I cannot believe any of my brethren were responsible. And yet, no outsider ever sets foot in that place.”
Brocc clears his throat. He glances at Archu.
“To investigate fully,” Archu says, “it will be necessary for at least one of us to visit the nemetons. Ah”—he lifts a hand as the Chief Druid makes to interrupt—“not, I assure you, in the mode of a lawman seeking to ask difficult questions. We understand this matter is to be kept secret. Even, I understand, from Prince Rodan himself.”
Suddenly, all three men facing us look uncomfortable. It’s Brondus who answers. “Lord Cathra thought it better that the prince was not informed. The fewer people who know, the better. I cannot imagine how any of you could enter the nemetons without arousing suspicion. Brother Marcán might explain, perhaps.”
“Our order is a strict one,” says the druid. “We admit few visitors, and our brethren leave the nemetons only under certain conditions. For instance, our healers might travel beyond our boundaries to offer their services if urgently required. We have two lay brothers who pass in and out with essential supplies. And there are rituals; we perform handfastings in the community, and burial rites, and blessings.”
“And the crowning of kings,” says Archu.
“Let us move on.” Lord Cathra speaks at last. His voice is calm, but his hands, clasped together on the table before him, are white-knuckled. “Brother Marcán acts as my adviser on many matters; it is not unusual for him to visit this household. But I do not visit him. Though so close to our walls, the nemetons are set apart.”
“The crowning of kings,” Archu repeats. “A High Bard, music to be played, a harp. There must be other harpists among the brethren, including, I imagine, some of the younger ones. I would not think to enter the druid community myself; I would stand out like a shaggy cur in a group of sleek cats. And Ciara, of course, would be out of the question. I gather your strict order is not one of those that number women among their members.”
“Indeed not.” Marcán is clearly shocked at the idea, though I have heard of druid communities that welcome both men and women, places where a person can be married and a parent while living a life dedicated to prayer and good works. But it isn’t my job to educate Breifne’s Chief Druid.
“Among these few visitors, are there traveling scholars?” asks Brocc in his most courteous tones.
“There are, young man—remind me of your name?”
“Donal, Brother Marcán. I am always interested in talking to fellow musicians about old songs and stories and their meanings, and in perhaps playing together and learning something new. I know druids spend the long years of the novitiate memorizing lore and are founts of wisdom on the interpretation of ancient tales. But I may also have something to contribute, since I have traveled widely and spoken to many musicians and storytellers as I passed by. I hope it does not seem presumptuous to suggest that, should I be permitted to spend some time in your community, the learning might go both ways. I might perhaps be allowed to exchange ideas with some of the younger druids, particularly those who have an interest in lore and music.”
A miracle occurs: the druid smiles. “Every one of us has an interest in those, Donal.”
“Donal is an accomplished musician,” puts in Archu quietly.
“My lord,” Marcán says, addressing the regent, “I believe the High Bard may look favorably on Donal’s suggestion, since Brother Farannán himself is held in great regard as a scholar. Time is short, I know. If you agree, I will speak with him today, and if he concurs, we will send a messenger to fetch Donal tomorrow. Bring your harp, young man.” Even so quickly, a decision has been taken.
“I will. Thank you, Brother Marcán. Thank you, my lord.” Brocc’s enthusiasm sounds entirely genuine. I hope he does not become so absorbed in lore and music that he forgets he’s entering the nemetons as a spy. Getting someone out might be just as hard as getting them in.
* * *
* * *
I want to talk to Brocc and Archu in private, just the three of us behind closed doors. There are things I need to ask before Brocc goes into the nemetons. There’s that puzzling information about the spell-craft and the cavern with no door. A more important, if less urgent, question concerns Prince Rodan, the king-in-waiting. We knew already that he was not in on the secret. But the more I consider this, the odder it seems. Either the regent and his advisers are putting complete trust in us to find the harp in time, making it unnecessary to upset the heir, or they have some other reason for not sharing something so significant with him. Maybe that ties in with the bodyguards, Garbh and the other one, who shadow the prince so closely. It does seem Cathra is concerned for Rodan’s personal safety.
It’s not too much of a leap to imagine that, should the harp have been spirited away by a rival for the kingship, that rival might have another plan in place, just in case the instrument is found and returned in time. Murder, perhaps disguised as a nasty accident. Cathra may have asked the prince to stay close to his bodyguards at all times. We need to know who the other possible claimants to the throne are, and whether they’re here at court or due to arrive soon. The name Tassach was mentioned when we were briefed. There have to be others, with most male kinsmen of the late king eligible, though none so likely as that king’s own son.
“Rehearsal,” murmurs Archu as we leave the keep. “Now. Usual spot.”
Rehearsals provide good cover for private conversation, as long as we keep an ear out for anyone who might decide to drop in uninvited with the excuse of listening to us play. The “usual spot” is an outbuilding where tools are stored. It was cleared out before we arrived at court, and some seating was provided, as well as a door that can be closed and bolted. The place opens onto the stable yard—handy if Archu needs to pass on information to the backup team—and we’re generally undisturbed there. I put these provisions down to the regent’s knowledge of our true purpose at his court; such accommodations are unlikely to
be offered to every group of traveling musicians.
* * *
* * *
“Most likely claimant is Tassach,” murmurs Archu, as we work our way through what is more secret council than rehearsal. Brocc is plucking out a slow tune while listening; he has no trouble doing both at once. If anyone should attempt to eavesdrop, the sound of the harp will make it more difficult for them to catch our words. “Chieftain of Glendarragh, a large holding to the west. His family emblem is a dragon. Tassach is a first cousin of the late king. He’s well regarded. Eoan tells me the grooms like looking after his horses—they’re particularly fine, apparently, and are always in excellent condition. Nobody’s talking publicly about Tassach’s possible claim to the throne of Breifne, nor would I expect that, though if he decided to try it he’d have solid support. He’d need to move very quickly if he wanted to challenge Rodan. On the other hand, if the harp isn’t found, a challenge could take place on the very day of the coronation. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Without the harp, neither man might be considered acceptable as king. Anything to report, Ciara?”
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 8
