The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards)

by Juliet Marillier

  There’s a stream nearby; I go to fill my waterskin before I start the return journey. The birds are hushed now. Tired of taunting me with my own inadequacy. I feel angry: angry at being judged, angry that I’ve failed to find what I sought, angry at my churning thoughts that will not let me walk and enjoy the beauty of this forest, the slanting light, the vibrant green of the moss-coated trunks, the delicacy of the tiny curling ferns, the sweet surprise of sudden flowers in shadow. For a moment I’m so angry I want to break something. Or perhaps it is I who am breaking. I sink to my knees beside the stream, with my head in my hands. What is this? What’s wrong with me?

  A voice rises from somewhere nearby, singing. Not a bird this time; a woman. This is not like Liobhan’s rich tone, but higher, softer, more delicate. She’s singing the silly tune I just sang, with all the animals of the forest—squirrel, marten, fox, badger, and so on—coming together for a dance on Midsummer Night. The idea is fanciful; if this really happened, there would surely be a bloodbath. But in a song or a tale, anything is possible.

  She—whoever she is—sings the first couplet, the first refrain, the first line of the next couplet. Then she falters, as if she can’t remember what follows. I can’t tell where she is. There’s nobody to be seen on any side of the clearing, yet the voice sounds close. A lovely voice; I want to hear more.

  She tries her line again, as if that might remind her of how the verse continues:

  “The squirrel came down with her tail so fine . . .”

  But she halts again, so I provide the next line, doing my best to match my voice to hers:

  “Her headdress was made of eglantine.”

  I hear a burst of delighted laughter, and without missing a beat she chimes in with the Fa deedle da refrain. I’m on my feet now, looking all around, but I still can’t tell which direction the sound is coming from.

  “Next came the frog in his jacket green,” the unseen woman sings, and halts again.

  “The finest prince that was ever seen.” She wants this to be a duet. Good, that will give me time to find her before the end of the song. Should I go that way, between the glossy-leaved hollies? Or over there, where the vast bulk of a fallen oak lies, wreathed softly in ferns and creepers? “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!” we sing together.

  Silence. Is she gone already? Or is it my turn to start a verse? I decide on the path marked by the fallen oak, and as I sing I move quietly forward.

  “The owl wore a robe of snowy white . . .”

  “Woven from cobwebs and pale moonlight,” she replies, and I think her voice is closer now. “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!” A moment’s pause, then, “The badger wore a coat of black,” she sings. Not a line from the version I know.

  “With pearl embroidery on the back,” I improvise, loving the quick-thinking game of this. “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!” I imagine a little drumbeat between the verses, and almost think I can hear someone tapping it out from a hiding place in the bushes. I’m past the fallen oak now, following the lovely voice along a snaking track between the trees. Ah! An idea. “The serpent shone in silver lace,” I sing.

  The answer is quick, the voice brimful with suppressed laughter. “She danced and sang with sinuous grace,” the woman answers almost instantly. I thought I was quick at this game, which is like one I used to play with Liobhan in preparation for our performances. But this person is lightning fast. “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!”

  For a moment my mind goes blank, and I cannot think of a new verse. Into the silence comes that little tappety-tap, and beneath it a deeper, slower drumbeat, giving me time to consider. I feel an odd hush, as if the forest itself is waiting for my answer. The song must somehow be drawn to a close, if we are not to stand here inventing verses until we run out of animals. Or breath. I’m approaching the end of this track, anyway. A rocky outcrop stands ahead of me, barring any progress. Its surface is creviced and worn, and many plants grow there, tenacious small trees with their roots dug into chinks; mosses and creepers clinging to the stone. When I reach it, I must surely turn back. But that voice! How can I walk away?

  Think quickly, Brocc. The woods are waiting. She is waiting for my response. The tappety-tap goes on, from somewhere ahead. The deep drumbeat calls.

  “Last of all came the faery queen,” I sing, hoping this does not break the rules, whatever they are. In the original old song, the dance is only for creatures.

  “Clad in a gown of forest green,” comes the response. “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!”

  I keep walking, and when the silence draws out, I offer another line. “Her hair was the hue of sun on wheat,” I sing.

  No answer. I am at the wall of stone. When I lay my hand against it, I can feel the drumbeat, as if it comes from within—the thumping heart of some great rock being. Why does the woman not sing again? Have I lost her? I must complete the couplet myself. “She trod the sward on gold-shod feet.” When I sing with Liobhan, our voices complement each other perfectly. Our understanding has grown with us all our lives and lets us offer a seamless performance. But singing with this unknown woman is different. It is as if our two voices belong to the one person.

  Come back, I will her. Don’t leave me. For a moment I close my eyes, shocked by the intensity of my own feelings—it’s as if I have wandered right into some grand tale of love and loss. I open my eyes and blink, disbelieving. I’ve been wrong about this rock wall. It does not stretch unbroken as far as the eye can see. There is a narrow way, visible only from very close up; a split in the rock through which a person could pass. From within that opening comes her voice again, faint and sweet. “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!”

  Relief floods through me. I move forward. Although I’m not a heavily built man, I can only fit through the narrow gap if I take the bag off my back and hold it against my chest. I hear the two drums together: light pit-a-pat, deep dark thud. Does she expect me to sing on? Perhaps, if I don’t sing, I’ll reach the end and find myself alone in these woods.

  “Dance, my little ones,” cried the fae,

  “Tomorrow is Midsummer Day!”

  The passage curves this way, that way. It straightens. Ahead I see open ground, sunlight on grass, flowers blooming.

  “Fa deedle da, deedle da-ha-ha!” someone sings as I step out into the open. I am indeed on greensward, with the sun on my face, and flowers in abundance lifting their heads as if they think me a phenomenon to be observed and wondered at. There are also rather a lot of folk staring at me. Strange folk. Uncanny folk like those in the old tales, some resembling small human men and women, some more like animals, some in between. If I thought a beautiful woman was singing along with me, I thought wrong; there’s no such person in sight, only these oddities. Cursing inwardly, I whirl around, thinking to bolt while I can. I’ll set this whole unfortunate episode behind me. There’s still time to get back to court before dark, if I run.

  But the passageway between the rocks is gone. Instead, the unbroken wall of stone stands before me, stretching off and away into the forest to left and to right. It is too high to climb, and too steep even for mountain goats. Atop it, a lone bird makes a cawing observation. Perhaps it’s a crow; perhaps something else.

  I have fallen for the oldest trick in the book, a ruse I have sung about in a hundred songs and told about in a hundred tales. I have walked willingly into the Otherworld, and now there is no way out.

  18

  LIOBHAN

  Brocc’s late back from the nemetons. We always meet in the practice room, the three of us, to warm up with a song or two before we go to the great hall. I thought he’d be here, even though we’re not entertaining the guests tonight. Perhaps he got engrossed in some esoteric discussion with his druid friend. That wouldn’t surprise me. But I wish he’d hurry up, especially with Archu away.

  People are starting to head up to the keep for the evening meal. I watch them go, my unease
growing. Then I walk down toward the guard post by the main gate. At this time of year it’s still light; the torches have not yet been lit. Surely Brocc will be on his way in by now.

  I haven’t gone far before I meet three guards coming the other way, laughing and joking after their long day’s work, perhaps in anticipation of a jug of ale and a hearty meal. “Going the wrong way, Ciara,” one says cheerily. By now, most of the ordinary folk at court know me from the evening performances. “I was looking forward to hearing a song or two later.”

  “We’ll walk you back,” says one of the others. “Personal guard of honor.”

  “Thank you.” I manage a smile. “I’m not singing tonight; some other players are taking a turn. But I wondered if you’ve seen Donal, the harpist? He’s rather late coming back from the nemetons.”

  “Can’t help you, sorry,” the first man says. “Haven’t seen the fellow today.”

  “I saw him,” says the third man. “Not just now, but this morning early, before you two came on duty. Only he wasn’t headed for the nemetons. He went off in the other direction, up toward the hills.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” I cover my dismay with another smile and make myself walk back at a moderate speed, accompanied by the three men, though everything in me is sounding a warning. Why would Brocc go off on his own?

  Once we reach the keep I bid my companions farewell, making the excuse that I need to change my clothes before supper. I run back to the practice room to check if Brocc has left any clues to his whereabouts. His harp is standing in the corner. I can’t remember if it was there before. Can he have come back and somehow slipped past the guards? Not likely at all; at least one of them would have seen him. Anyway, he’d have come to find me, knowing I’d worry if he was late. But if the harp is here, doesn’t that mean he expected to be back by dusk? He and that harp are almost inseparable.

  First things first. I must make an appearance at supper. If Archu, Brocc, and I are all absent, even on a night when we’re not supposed to be performing, folk will notice and ask questions. And maybe I can find an excuse to have a word with Illann, though he and Dau don’t always eat their supper in the hall.

  There’s no real need to change. I have on my own shirt and the skirt Banva altered to accommodate my height, an eye-catching garment in deep green, with the border in three narrow stripes—dark red at the top, yellow gold in the middle, and blue at the bottom. It must have taken Banva hours to create this, for the seams are finely stitched, and a closer look at the border reveals a series of little motifs embroidered in silk—a harp, a whistle, a drum, a figure dancing. When I asked the women about these, they told me each of them had contributed her own touch. My offer to pay them for their work was smilingly dismissed.

  “It was our pleasure to make it for you, Ciara,” Dana said. “The look on your face is sufficient reward. We all wish we could live your life—travel and excitement and beautiful music. This way, a bit of us will go with you.”

  I remember this while I wait a little longer, late as it is. I’m hoping Brocc will make an appearance, but he doesn’t come. And now something’s happening outside—I hear voices, footsteps, doors crashing open. What’s this?

  I step out of the practice room, then shrink back into the doorway so I won’t be bowled over by a sudden flow of men, all heading for the stables. Folk are bringing lanterns, there are dogs, I can see the stable master giving orders to the grooms, and now, among the men gathering in the yard, I see Dau, leading a horse out and holding it steady while someone mounts. And there are both Cathra and the prince, with Garbh in attendance.

  A riding party assembles with speed. These are the regent’s men-at-arms, and each of them is bearing an impressive load of weaponry. I count fifteen men. If they’re prepared to risk taking horses out at night, whatever has sparked this must be serious. It looks as if some of the men who work in the stables are going, too. And there—no, it can’t be. But it is. Illann is among them, mounted and ready to ride.

  Someone calls for quiet. The riders turn their heads toward the place where Cathra and the prince stand in the torchlight. I’m expecting the regent to make a speech or give orders, but it’s Rodan who steps forward.

  “Men of Breifne!” he calls out in ringing tones. “Brave warriors! You ride out tonight against an unknown enemy. The bearer of these ill tidings risked his life to bring them to us. May you acquit yourselves as bravely as he did. We will track down the perpetrators of this evil deed! Our vengeance will be swift and deadly! We will wipe this scum from the face of our fair land. We will act with the utmost speed and purpose. With this action we will show our enemies a wrath they will fear for long years to come. For as we begin, so will we continue! Go now with my blessing, and may the gods ride with you!”

  It’s a stirring speech. If I didn’t know how the prince conducts himself when he’s angry, I’d be quite impressed by it. The men cheer. There are quite a few other folk here now, families come to watch their fathers or brothers or husbands leave, curious members of the household drawn by the activity. After those rallying words, I’d have expected Rodan to ride out at the head of this band. But it seems he’s staying home.

  The men head off toward the main gates. I need to know what’s going on. Who can I ask? The crowd is dispersing, some into the stables—I glimpse Dau’s fair head again for a moment—but most toward the keep, as whatever sparked this must have disturbed the evening meal. I look around and spot Banva, on her own.

  “Banva!” I step out and close the door. “May I walk with you?”

  “Of course.” It sounds as if she’s been crying.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” She gets out a handkerchief and blows her nose. “Osgar—my husband—is riding out with the others. I’m proud of him, I always am, every time he puts himself in danger. But it gets harder and harder to put on a brave face. Especially now . . .” Her hand goes down to lie protectively across her belly.

  “You’re expecting a child? What wonderful news! Your first?”

  She nods. “I keep thinking, what if Osgar doesn’t come back? He’s brave, he’s a good fighter, but . . . they don’t even know who’s responsible for this. They don’t know anything about the enemy. And riding off at night . . . Well, it’s not for me to question. But I want my man back safe. I want my child to have a father. Osgar will be a wonderful father.”

  “I’ve been in the practice room. I knew nothing of this until the stable yard was full of men, and the prince made his speech. He said something about a messenger risking his life to bring some news. What news? Where are they going, and why?”

  “A man came in just now, into the hall, so we all saw it. He was one of our own men-at-arms. Six of them had been sent to a chieftain’s holding, northwest of here. Escorting a lawman. It was something about cattle being stolen, driven across the border, and some of the animals being left for dead in the fields. Lord Cathra wanted it dealt with there, not here. Osgar said that would be because of all the folk visiting court for the coronation. Anyway, it sounded as if it couldn’t wait. We thought they’d be back around now, but just the one fellow arrived. His horse was on its last legs, and he’d been hurt. Blood everywhere. And . . .” Banva stops walking; we are halfway up to the keep, and most of the other folk are ahead of us.

  “And?”

  She lowers her voice. “It was terrible. I didn’t hear everything—he was coughing and wheezing and I thought he was going to drop dead right there in the hall, but he wanted to get the words out. The rest of them were all killed. Torn to pieces, he said. Even the lawman. Riding through the woods, on their way home, and they were set upon suddenly. Killed for nothing. Our man told the regent where the attack happened, more or less, and then he collapsed. They took him away to be tended to by Lord Cathra’s physician. Then our men were called to get ready and leave straightaway, even though it’s night. It sounds bad, Ciara. There are fo
lk mourning here tonight. And folk fearful of what might come.”

  “I’m sorry.” It’s inadequate, I know. She’ll be worrying about her husband every moment from now until he gets home safely. Torn to pieces. That sounds very odd. A dispute over cattle and borders might lead to armed conflict if not dealt with promptly and wisely. But from the sound if it, that issue had been resolved before this happened—weren’t the regent’s men attacked on their way home? Why would anyone do that, and so savagely?

  Banva lifts a hand to wipe her cheeks. I need to change the subject. As it happens, I have something else to ask her before we reach the keep. “Banva? I have an awkward question for you.”

  “Mm-hm?”

  “You know Máire, the woman whose shirt I borrowed that day? I was just thinking . . . since you told me your good news . . . does Máire have a sweetheart here at court?”

  Banva’s lip curls. “A sweetheart? She has what you might call a lover. Though I doubt much love comes into it.”

  “So she might be with child? I wondered why she was often tired and out of sorts. Then I saw her being sick in the garden. And I gather that happens quite regularly. It’s none of my business, I know, but I feel sorry for the woman.”

  “She’s made her own bed, foolish thing.” There’s a hint of sympathy in Banva’s harsh words. “I daresay she’ll be sent away as soon as it’s showing. There’s a certain very high-born person—you’ll know who I mean—who won’t want the result of his activities on public display. Especially not at a time like this. When she’s gone he’ll be looking for another woman to warm his bed and satisfy his needs and be his punching bag when he’s in one of his rages. If you ask me, Máire will be better out of this place, even as an unwed mother.”