The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards)

by Juliet Marillier

  Aislinn nods, grave as a lawman. “She was having petal soup,” she says. “Don’t ask Máire. Please. She’ll say no. And she’ll be cross if you wake her up.”

  “Aislinn, do you know what a wager is?”

  She shakes her head.

  I search for simple words. “Well, you think Máire will be cross, and I think she won’t be. You think she’ll say no, and I think she’ll say yes. A wager means I promise to do something for you if you’re right, and you promise to do something for me if I’m right.”

  She nods again, owl eyed.

  “Shall we make a wager?”

  “If you want. But she’ll say no, and she’ll be cross, and I don’t like it when she’s cross.”

  I hope I haven’t miscalculated. “Is Máire in there?” I indicate the garden over the wall.

  “Mm. Sleeping.”

  “All right, this is how we’ll do it. We’ll creep in there like little mice, so quietly that we don’t wake her up. We’ll sit wherever she told you to sit, and I’ll wake her up gently, so she thinks she woke all by herself. And because you’re where you should be, she won’t be cross.”

  Aislinn considers this. “What about the wager?”

  “If I’m right, you have to learn four notes on the whistle. That’s enough to play a tune.”

  “What if I’m right?” she whispers.

  “Then you choose something you want me to do, and I do it. Only, if Máire is cross and says no, we can’t play the whistle and we can’t climb the tree. We’d have to wait and do it another day. Besides, I was going to give you a lesson anyway, even without a wager. So maybe choose something else. I could show you how to balance on your hands.”

  “All right.” She points along the wall. “The gate is that way.”

  “Quiet steps. Like little mice, remember?”

  She tiptoes away. Like a monstrously big mouse, I follow.

  Máire is lying on a blanket on the grass, in the shade of an apple tree. She is indeed fast asleep, with a workbasket by her side. I have time to walk across, seat myself on a bench, and make sure Aislinn and her toy are settled on a corner of the blanket before I say a word. I take stock of the nursemaid’s clothing: a plain gray skirt, a matching tunic over it, and underneath the tunic a shirt of fine lawn, with borders of red and blue ribbon. It occurs to me that it would be a lot easier to borrow one of Brocc’s shirts and cover up any deficiencies with a carefully tied shawl. I could still wear the skirt I’ve been offered, so Banva wouldn’t be offended.

  I’m trying to work out how to wake Máire gently when Aislinn is overtaken by a fit of sneezing, and her nursemaid is jolted out of her slumber. Máire sits up, smooths back her hair, adjusts her clothing. Then she sees me. “What are you doing here?” she demands.

  “I was looking for you,” I say, thinking how frightening her tone would be even to an older child than this. “But you were resting, so I had a little talk with Aislinn while I waited.”

  “Aislinn?” There’s a veiled threat in Máire’s voice. “Did you leave the garden?”

  “Aislinn has been here with me,” I say quickly. “May I introduce myself? I’m Ciara, one of the musicians. I hope you have time to talk to me.”

  Máire frowns. “About what?”

  I explain about the shirt. “I think Dana and the others were right; your shirts might fit me. And they mentioned you have two of those ones with the ribbons.”

  “Why would I give a perfectly good garment to a . . . a traveling player?”

  I take a couple of measured breaths. “Lend, not give.”

  “You’ll get it all sweaty. Or split the seams.” She runs her eyes over my upper half. “A big girl like you.”

  “I was thinking of an exchange.”

  “You mean you’ll pay me?”

  I’m liking her less every time she opens her mouth. “More of a bargain. If you let me borrow one of your shirts until my good clothes are dry, I will look after Aislinn for an hour or two this afternoon. I promised to teach her the whistle.”

  The look on Máire’s face tells me she finds the idea ludicrous. “The whistle?”

  “I can play quite well. You’ll have heard me, in the evenings. And it means you can have some time to yourself. I’ll make sure you get your shirt back clean and undamaged.”

  She wants to say yes, I can see that. To her credit, she does hesitate for a moment or two. By agreeing she’ll no doubt be breaking rules of her own. “You’ll have to keep out of sight,” she says, “or you’ll get me in trouble.”

  “We’ll do that, won’t we, Aislinn?”

  Aislinn nods. Her cheeks have turned pink. Her grip on the creature has relaxed just a little.

  “And don’t be too familiar with the child,” Máire says to me, stern now. “She’s the daughter of royalty, hard though that can be to see in her sometimes. And you’re a . . .”

  “Traveling player.” My mind is working fast. The daughter of royalty? What royalty?

  “So you treat her with respect at all times. Understood?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say. Poor Aislinn. I’m not sure her keepers understand the meaning of respect.

  “Very well. I will bring you the shirt after the midday meal, and you can take the child then. Aislinn, you won’t say a word about this. Not to anyone.”

  Aislinn nods.

  “Out loud!” snaps the nursemaid. I want to hit her.

  “I won’t tell,” whispers Aislinn. “I promise.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Archu is in the stables talking to Illann, or rather Eoan the farrier. Dau is there, too, doing something at the workbench. Illann nods in my direction. Dau ignores me completely. There are other men close by, busy with various tasks. This is not the time or place for any kind of covert interchange.

  “Oh,” I say in mock surprise. “There you are, Uncle Art. I wanted to talk to you. But I see you’re busy. Maybe later.” I turn on my heel and walk away, trying to look natural.

  He finds me in our practice room not long after.

  “Sorry,” I say in an undertone, though Archu has closed the door behind him. “Have you noticed a little girl around the house or garden? About this high, with brown wavy hair? She always has a toy with her, a sort of animal.”

  “I can’t say I have,” Archu says. “But there are quite a few children here. Why do you ask? Is she lost?”

  I tell him as concisely as I can about Aislinn and the whistle lessons, and the question of a shirt. “Máire said she’s the offspring of royalty. Before I spend time with the girl, perhaps I should know who her parents are.”

  “Ah.” A small frown appears on Archu’s face. “I can hazard a guess, though I had heard the child was kept well out of the public eye, and I didn’t know her name. I believe your Aislinn may be Rodan’s sister. They were born many years apart. Complications at the time of the girl’s birth led to a grave illness for her mother, and eventually to the queen’s death. Though I’ve heard a different theory: that the queen’s failure to produce another boy sent her into some sort of decline. You look astonished, Ciara. Why is that so hard to accept?”

  “Because . . . well, because her nursemaid is a tyrant, and lazy, too, and Aislinn herself seems cowed and fearful. Though there’s still the spark of a brave little girl there, deep down. Surely someone could show her a bit of kindness.”

  “One would hope so.” Archu is regarding me with a look I cannot interpret. “But best if it isn’t you. You can’t afford to get involved.”

  “I did promise I would look after her this afternoon. I can’t break a promise to a child.”

  “Again you surprise me. Very well, keep your promise. But exercise caution. Let as few people as possible see you with the girl.”

  “I can’t hide the sound of the whistle.”

  “True. But nobody need
s to know who’s getting the lesson, provided you bring her in here and bolt the door. As it happens, my own old whistle is there on the shelf. You’re welcome to use it. It’s easier to teach if you have two at the same pitch.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Art. I’m sorry I haven’t discovered anything useful yet. I’m still trying.”

  “I will be honest,” Archu says. “The lack of progress is troubling me. Donal seems always on the brink of a discovery, but nothing comes of it. There are four possible challengers for the kingship, but three can be discounted as unlikely or unsuitable. And so far Tassach has made no move. Master Brondus doesn’t believe he will do it now, so late in the piece. There’s a restlessness among the regent’s advisers, all the same. I wonder if a plot of some kind is being hatched.”

  “If we don’t get the harp back,” I say, “then the people might not accept any claimant, no matter how promising. What would happen then?”

  “I suppose Cathra would remain as regent while they worked it out. But you’re right; the absence of the harp might make a choice near impossible. It could send Breifne into a long period of unrest. Unrest leads to weakness. Weakness is an invitation to neighbors to seize land, take cattle, perhaps start a war. You’ll have heard the talk about a plague of crows. Or rather, something that might or might not be crows—the same sort of creature that swooped down on our Nessan on the forest road and nearly sent him and his horse over the edge. I won’t hazard a guess as to what they are or why they’re in these parts, but there’s no doubt Cathra’s people are edgy about them, and with reason. That kind of thing can lead to serious trouble. If these creatures spread beyond the borders and Cathra is blamed for not keeping them in check, it could spark a major conflict. That may or may not have anything to do with the harp, of course. But it seems, from something our friend in the stable overheard, that the presence of the creatures could fracture the long-standing trust between druids and secular authorities. Cathra will be wanting to see the new king crowned, in the presence of the druids as is customary, and the harp played to signal his acceptance by the people of Breifne. That will be a powerful sign to these people that all will be well, even if there are still troubles to be overcome.”

  I feel a sudden sympathy for Lord Cathra. What if he’d been happy looking after his own lands and living in his own home surrounded by his own people? What if he’d hated having to leave that life behind when the old king died?

  “How long has Cathra been regent?” I ask.

  “Six years, give or take a little.”

  “So Aislinn’s father must have died when she was only a baby.”

  “That must have been so, yes.”

  It explains something of Aislinn’s behavior. The child has grown up as an orphan, and I see no signs that anyone has taken much trouble over her. Yet she’s a kind little thing. Clever, too.

  “Ciara. It’s best if you stay away from Aislinn and her keeper. The child’s not likely to have useful information for us, and her nursemaid will think it odd if you show a lot of interest.”

  “Yes, Uncle Art. Apart from today’s whistle lesson. You did agree to that.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s a soft heart under that formidable exterior.” He’s not quite smiling.

  “No such thing,” I tell him. “Only a keen sense of justice.”

  * * *

  * * *

  A spy should be good at ferreting out secrets and at avoiding notice. The first, I haven’t shown much talent for thus far. I’m getting better at the second.

  Máire meets me in the kitchen garden after the midday meal. She has the shirt with her, folded. By her side is a silent Aislinn, carrying her toy, and bearing fresh bruising around her left eye.

  “What happened?” I speak without thinking.

  “She tripped and fell,” Máire says. “Make sure you watch her. She’s always looking for excuses to run off and get herself into trouble.”

  Aislinn’s solemn brown eyes meet mine. There’s a sad story behind that gaze; I know a little of it now, but I want the rest. Drat Archu and his orders!

  “Thank you so much for the shirt. I will take good care of it, I promise.”

  “Don’t leave the garden. If it rains, you can go in there.” Máire points to a little building, perhaps housing garden tools. “I’ll come for her in midafternoon.”

  When she’s gone, I crouch down and whisper to Aislinn, “We can’t play the whistle here. We need somewhere more secret.”

  “The big tree!” The sorrowful eyes light up.

  I shake my head. “No. You need both hands for the whistle, and I don’t want either of us to fall down. Anyway, people would hear us and want to investigate.”

  “Oh. Where, then?”

  “Aha. I have a special place where we can play as much as we like. But we have to be mice again on the way. Or maybe pine martens—something quick and quiet, that can go through the forest without being spotted by owls or wolves or anything of that kind.”

  Aislinn nods. I love the way her face comes alive when she forgets to be afraid.

  “Come on, then. It’s down near the stables. If we see anyone we’ll have to hide.” I put my finger to my lips—quiet as mice—and she does the same.

  Not being used to small children, I wasn’t sure how to prepare for her visit. I’ve laid the two whistles—mine and Archu’s—on a bench, with a soft cloth underneath. I’ve brought my smallest whistle as well, the high-pitched one I sometimes use for jigs. And I’ve obtained some honey cakes and cheese from the kitchen, where there are one or two folk who love hearing me sing. We always have a jug of water and some cups in the practice room, since singing and playing make a person thirsty. As for teaching her how to stand on her hands, that will have to wait for another time and a bigger space.

  Aislinn is good at running and even better at hiding. Perhaps she does a lot of those things, trying to escape from Máire’s custody. We reach the practice room quickly. There are one or two men at the far end of the stable yard; travelers handing their horses over to the grooms, I think. Inside, with the door bolted behind us, Aislinn begins to relax, though any loud sound from outside—one man calling to another, a horse neighing as it’s led past—makes her flinch.

  Her fingers are barely long enough to reach the lowest hole on Archu’s whistle, but she applies herself better than I expected. She learns quickly that blowing too hard produces an unbearably shrill tone, and that blowing too weakly makes the note flat or produces no sound at all. We learn four notes and practice the correct use of the tongue for a crisp start. I demonstrate; Aislinn copies. She has a quick ear and good concentration. While we play, her toy sits on the bench beside her with its back to the wall, its woolen eyes staring straight ahead. The creature has a forlorn expression, mirroring the way its owner often looks. Perhaps its sad mouth has grown that way with age and natural sagging; the stuffing is surely not as it once was.

  I make Aislinn get up and walk around from time to time, to aid concentration; I do the same. We practice clapping rhythms and tapping them with our feet. And after a while, when she’s learned the fingering for a fifth note, giving her better scope for a tune, I call a halt and bring out the food and drink. “Playing music always makes me hungry,” I say. It’s the simple truth.

  Aislinn divides her honey cake into small neat portions. She sets two on the bench in front of her creature and nibbles delicately on what’s left.

  “Does your little friend there have a name?” I ask.

  “It’s secret.” Her voice is a whisper.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “I can tell you. It’s Cliodhna. After a goddess, in a story.”

  “That’s a very grand name.” I wonder who has spared the time to tell this lonely child stories. Perhaps she’s not entirely friendless.

  “She guards me. At night, when I’m sleeping. And in the day, when . . . She keeps me s
afe. She tries to.”

  But doesn’t always succeed, I think. Tread softly with your questions, Liobhan. “How long have you had Cliodhna, Aislinn?”

  “I got her when I was little. Wolfie made her.”

  “Who is Wolfie?” I imagine a past nursemaid, someone gentle and comforting with a fund of tales and rhymes; this may be where Aislinn got her love of music.

  But Aislinn doesn’t answer, and when I look at her she’s hunched over again, her food forgotten, her eyes shadowed.

  “Is that secret, too?”

  After a long while, she heaves a sigh and whispers, “Wolfie’s gone.” She gathers the creature to her chest again, wrapping her arms around it as if it’s a beloved child. Perhaps Wolfie has died, or been sent away. An old nurse replaced by a younger, crueler attendant? Lord Cathra does not seem like an unjust man, only a somewhat overburdened one. But then, perhaps a regent doesn’t trouble himself over the well-being of a royal child. Not if she’s only six years old and female.

  It would be wrong to pry. But I have to ask one question. “Aislinn?”

  “Mm?”

  “Your face looks sore. Has someone been hurting you?”

  She shakes her head. Her gaze is on the ground; the spark of delight I saw earlier has been snuffed out completely.

  “I’m good at keeping secrets.” I’m unable to stay silent. “I won’t tell anyone Cliodhna’s name, I promise. If you ever want to tell me about those bruises, or about anything at all, you can.” I offer a silent apology to Archu. Angry with myself—doesn’t the mission count above everything?—I get up and begin an unnecessary tidying of the platters and cups.

  A tiny sound reaches my ears. When I turn, I see that Aislinn is weeping. Really weeping, not with gentle tears but with shoulders shaking and face buried deep in Cliodhna’s threadbare body to muffle the sobs. I squat down beside her, not touching.

  “I’m sorry you’re so sad.” I speak as quietly as I can. “I’m sorry if I upset you. Do you want my handkerchief?” I take it from my pouch and hold it out. “It’s a clean one.”