At some point in the morning, as I sit in my little house wrestling with verses, a high shriek shatters the quiet. The sound is abruptly cut off. I drop my quill, reach for a knife that is not at my belt, look about me for a weapon and find nothing. Never mind that. I am a Swan Island warrior. The small folk have vanished from my window and from the open doorway; I can hear them running. Above, there is a heavy beating of wings.
I step out the door cautiously. There’s nobody in sight. I pick up a useful-looking stick, heavy enough to do damage, light enough to swing with one hand, and head toward the usual gathering place of Eirne’s people. And here is Rowan with his own stout stick in hand, and his own knife at his belt. I can see enough of that weapon to guess it is made from bone.
“What’s happened?” I ask, as he beckons me to follow him down a narrow side path between bramble bushes. “Is it the Crow Folk?”
“They’ve taken Moth-Weed and Little-Cap. Will you help?” He glances at the stick I’m carrying.
“If I can. How many of them?”
“Unknown. Fire will keep them away. But we cannot make fire here, where the trees grow close. We must confront them in the open.”
We. Does he mean the two of us against an unknown number of malign winged creatures? “But—”
“Our magic is useless against them. Fire. Courage. And anything you may have to suggest, bard. Forward.”
The dense bushes give way to patchy grass and rocks; a clearing lies before us, and in the center lies a small, bloody form. It’s motionless. I make to run forward but Rowan stops me. “No,” he whispers. “A trap.”
“But he may be still alive.” I am a healer’s son. I could save him.
Rowan makes a furious gesture. No. Wait.
I see them. They’re perched in an oak tree on the other side of the clearing, four of them, no, five, dark-winged beings that somewhat resemble crows, though no crow ever had such strange eyes or such misshapen claws. Not birds, surely, but some being that wears the disguise of a crow over its true self. One lifts its wings and swoops across the clearing to alight somewhere above us. Have they seen us?
“Fire.” Rowan mouths the word without a sound. And I see it: a line of folk with torches, stepping out from behind a rock formation and moving steadily into the clearing. That is Eirne herself in the lead, her head high, her flaming brand held steady. Nightshade follows her, and after the sage come the others, even the smallest ones. By all the gods! Act of extreme valor or foolish sacrifice, I do not know what this is, only that I must help them. Rowan must intend that he and I will somehow drive the Crow Folk up toward those flames. It’s not a sound strategy. We’ll both be killed before we move ten paces out from cover, and if the Crow Folk still have one of Eirne’s people captive, it, too, will die. I could fight and fall as a Swan Island warrior. But I am both warrior and bard. And my most powerful weapon is my voice.
Stay back, I gesture to Rowan. I step out from cover, draw a deep breath, and sing. The song has no words; it is a wailing, fearsome thing. I have never made such sounds before. Their power throbs through me, their strength flows from me, their terror fills the space all around me, making the leaves shiver and tremble. A cloud covers the sun. A gust of wind, cold as death, passes across the clearing.
Eirne and her people stand in place, torches held high, a flaming barrier. Above me, the Crow Folk shift on their perches, cawing strangely. One swoops down toward me. I stand strong; some kind of madness is in me, and I do not duck even when it flies so close that its wing brushes my cheek. For a moment I look into its eyes, and what I see there is not madness, not challenge, but pure terror. Rowan is beside me now, slashing with his bone knife. He is all warrior. The creature falls and thrashes on the ground; Rowan delivers an efficient blow with his stick, and it is dead. Another bird swoops, its lethal beak aimed right at him. He can’t reach his knife in time. I strike out with my own stick, and the bird screams, then spirals up out of reach, flying askew. I hear it crash down into the brambles on the far side of the clearing.
Still I sing. I sing as I have never sung before, a welling of terrible music from my gut and my chest and my throat, a magic I did not know I had in me.
“Walk,” says Rowan. “Walk toward the fire, and call them after you.”
By all the gods! I do as he says, moving with measured steps as if in a ritual procession. I make my song into a call. “Come! Follow me! Follow me to the fire!” Rowan walks beside me, pale knife at the ready, risking his own life to keep me safe.
They follow. Even with two of their own dead or dying, and the wall of flame ahead, they rise from the trees and fly above me, wings moving slowly as if they, too, were part of a solemn ceremony. “Follow me to the flames!” I walk toward Eirne, toward Nightshade, toward the rest of them standing there with their eyes on the approaching creatures, and their feet planted firm on their ancient land. I must not doubt. I must stand strong.
I go on until Rowan and I are within two long strides of the torches. I hear the wings above us, I feel the movement of the air, but the Crow Folk are silent now. I sing on while they circle, waiting. Waiting in the face of what they fear. Held there unwilling, or they would surely fly up out of danger and away. Held by the song. It is time to change the music.
I have a stick. And here on the ground before me is a rock. I strike my stick on it, making a marching rhythm. I sing a new song, one that tells of flying free, of soaring above the forest, of passing over rivers and lakes and wild seas. A song of freedom. I bid them go. As I sing, my makeshift drum is joined by others; those who do not carry torches are clapping their hands or banging stones together in time, and others stamp their feet.
It happens suddenly. The slow wingbeats that have held them above us become strong with purpose. In the space of a few breaths, the Crow Folk are away, skirting the flames, then soaring high over the treetops. The drumming ceases. Nightshade runs forward to bend over the small figure lying out in the open. I slump to the ground, knowing things will never be quite the same again. My throat is raw. Gods, did I really just do that?
Eirne has tears streaming down her cheeks. She passes her torch to Rowan and kneels to put her arm around my shoulders. “My bard,” she says, and kisses me on the brow. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
I don’t think I can speak. But I have to, because now Nightshade, with the assistance of a sturdily built being who resembles a rock come to life, is lifting the body of the small one and carrying it over to Eirne. “I’m sorry I was too late to help,” I croak. “The other one they took, did he survive?”
Eirne’s folk are quenching their torches. “We will search for Moth-Weed,” Nightshade says. “But you should go back, bard. You are wearier than you know. You have fought a great battle for us.”
“Not I. We. All of us.” I look at Rowan, at Eirne, at Nightshade and the rock being and poor dead Little-Cap and the whole motley crew of them. “Together, we are strong.” And, although right now my legs feel wobbly and my head aches and my heart is full of confusion, I know that this is true. As I walk shakily back to the gathering place, surrounded by beings eager to support me, I know that I can make the song now, and make it well. I can give it power. I can give it truth. I can give it wisdom. May it make the magic Eirne’s folk need. I have helped drive off their oppressors for now, but the Crow Folk will return. Of that I have no doubt at all.
20
DAU
Ten days until midsummer. It’s quiet in the stables. The party that rode out last night has not returned yet, and the mood among the workers is somber. Everyone is getting on with their work and not talking much. I finish my sweeping and look about for other tasks. Liobhan will be at her council right now. I’m concerned for her, I can’t deny it. It will be her story against Rodan’s. He’s the crown prince. She’s a traveling musician; she doesn’t belong here. I’ve seen enough of lopsided justice to know how unlikely it is that such a
hearing will deliver a fair result. The face Liobhan needs to show these councilors and lawmen is that of an ordinary woman in frightening circumstances. She should be overawed by the officials and their hard questions. She should be a little fearful, but determined to tell the truth. I doubt very much that Liobhan has ever been fearful. But she can fake it well; that night in the Barn, for a few moments she convinced even me.
I need to walk. There are two horses due for time in the grazing field, so I signal to the stable master that I’ll lead them out and get them settled. I hate being idle, and I’ve been turning my hand to whatever needs doing, provided any work for Illann is completed first.
This time, it’s an excuse. I need to think without being interrupted. The old dog, Bryn, is already out in the field. As I release the horses he runs up to me, then waits at my feet. The horses, freed, amble off across the field, which slopes gently down from the keep to the wall. There, a tall oak rises from a grove of lesser trees. There’s a stretch of woodland on the other side of the wall. Over there are the mysterious nemetons, where Brocc seems to have spent a lot of time learning practically nothing. Could it be there is a conspiracy among the druids themselves, something nobody has revealed to the regent? Could that be causing them to hold back vital information? Maybe the plot, if there is one, starts at the very highest level. The Chief Druid. Or that other one, the High Bard. Men who know, officially, that the harp is missing. Now, that would be a very dangerous game to play, and, knowing next to nothing about druids, I have no idea why they would do it.
I walk to the highest point in the field where there’s a bench to sit on. Bryn settles by me. I perform an exercise that has helped me in the past, straightening my back, closing my eyes, running through a pattern of breathing to slow my mind and body. It’s one of countless things taught me by Garalt, my mentor, the man who helped me lift myself out of despair. Every day I show a brave face to the world, every time I stand strong, I think of him. He is gone; but when the shadows press close, he still walks beside me.
The dog is lying on my foot. His warm presence is comforting. I can look ahead with clear eyes. I can forget the prince and his actions last night; I can forget that Liobhan shed tears under cover of darkness; I can set aside, for now, how angry I am to be powerless. I long to show wretched Rodan exactly what I think of him, crown prince or no crown prince. I wish I could be present at Liobhan’s hearing and speak truth on behalf of a fellow warrior. I long to act, to be useful. And by useful, I do not mean exercising my skills at hoof trimming, cold shoeing, and cleaning up horse shit.
Bryn stirs. He lifts his head to look up at me. I reach down and give him a gentle stroke, and with a sigh he goes back to sleep. I close my eyes again; the sun is warm on my face. I am a Swan Island warrior. I’m not that child who feared to draw breath, lest all hell should descend. I’m not helpless. True, I can’t act against Rodan, no matter how much his oafish behavior sickens me, and no matter how badly his lies offend me. But I can be useful, and I will be. Because there’s a sound of footsteps. It’s Liobhan, coming along the top of the field from the direction of the keep. There are no guards in sight. She’s all by herself.
Bryn is up on his feet, alert, his eyes on her. I gesture, Sit.
The dog sits; waits. Liobhan has a bag slung over one shoulder, her cloak over the other, her outdoor shoes on. Her hair is pulled back off her face, as if she’s ready for a fight. What is she doing? What about the hearing?
I can’t speak to her; there may be nobody in easy sight, but there are plenty of nooks and crannies from which we could be overheard, should someone happen to be loitering there. Liobhan glances one way, then the other, as she approaches. I murmur, “Friend, Bryn,” realizing she can use the dog as an excuse to linger briefly beside me. Which she does, setting her bag down.
“What happened?” I whisper, not looking at her.
Liobhan crouches down to pat Bryn. She has her knife in her belt. “They’re treating it as an accident. I have to make a formal apology to Rodan. And I’ve been ordered to keep out of his way. Brondus spoke to me in private. They don’t want this to be the subject of gossip leading up to Midsummer Day.”
“A formal apology.” I keep my gaze on the dog, try not to move my lips too much. “That’ll be fun.”
“Mm. Illann not back yet? And the others?”
“No sign.”
“Dau,” she murmurs. “I could do with some help.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting out. Without being seen. I have to go after Brocc.”
Dagda’s bollocks, she really is going to do it. And I’m the only other member of the team here. There are several things I could say, none of which she would find helpful. I concentrate on the immediate challenge. “Getting out how?”
She grimaces. “Up the tree.” She jerks her head to indicate the towering oak. “Over the wall. Across the flatlands, up the hill over there, and along the forest road until I find this storyteller’s house. Without being spotted at any point. I was hoping you might help with the wall part.”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper.
“Not crazy. Just worried about my brother. Dau, I need to go now. Will you help?”
As a plan, it leaves a lot to be desired. But she’s going to do it anyway, with or without my assistance. She’s so worried about her brother that she’s prepared to risk everything. Morrigan’s britches! If I had the chance to rid myself of either of my brothers, I’d seize it with open arms. I hope I never see them again as long as I live. “What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Come down to the big oak and I’ll show you. Better if we don’t go together.”
I wait while she walks casually down the field and disappears into the shade of the trees. I wonder why I didn’t simply say no. Then I follow her, with Bryn padding along in my wake.
The oak is a towering thing. Liobhan points up to a good-sized limb that projects out toward the wall, about six feet above the sharpened tips of the stakes. She makes sure her bag is fastened securely on her back, then starts to climb. I follow, with the voice of common sense loud in my mind. This is foolish. This breaks all the rules. After a testing scramble we reach the spot.
“I’ll go as far along this branch as I can. Then I’ll jump, landing on my right foot in that spot there,” Liobhan says, pointing to a place where one of the stakes has a broken tip. “And straight off again to land in the big elm on the other side.”
Only a fool—or perhaps a Swan Island warrior—would attempt this. The slightest miscalculation could see her impaled on the stakes. She might fall between tree and wall on the far side. It’s a long way down. I don’t say any of this. Liobhan is not stupid. She will have assessed the risks.
“I hope you’ve thought about getting back in. You couldn’t do this in reverse.” Up here, I don’t bother to whisper, but I keep my voice down all the same.
“Brocc can talk us back in past the guards. He owes me that.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to help?”
“I need you to hold my things while I jump, then bundle them up and throw them over. Also, if something goes wrong, you can fetch help. And, being mute, you can’t be put under pressure to explain, which is handy. Dau?”
“Mm?”
“If I don’t do it now I’m going to lose my nerve.” She’s holding on to a small side branch and unclasping her cloak with the other hand. “I’m going to throw this on top of the wall. That way I’m less likely to rip my foot open if I miss the right spot.”
Liobhan passes me her bag. She unfastens her skirt and steps out of it. “Make sure you throw this right over the wall, or they’ll take me back into custody for making a public exhibition of myself.” There’s no trace of a tremor in her voice. This woman is not afraid of anything. I still think she’s a little unhinged. But I wish I had her courage.
I put the bag over my shoulder. “Wha
t about the cloak?”
“I’ll grab it from the other side if I can. If I can’t, just leave it. Chances are nobody will spot it until we get back.”
She takes the cloak from me and edges out along the branch. It bends under her weight, further than is ideal. The jump is still possible, but harder. And more dangerous. I can see the elm she’s aiming for, a huge old tree on the other side. If she can make the leap perfectly, there’s a good landing spot. Liobhan flings the cloak; it lands on the wall, exactly where she wants it. “Just as well,” she mutters. “All right, let’s do this.”
“Liobhan?”
“What?” She’s standing there poised for flight, her body tense with anticipation and perfectly balanced. Her voice is rock steady.
“I hope you find him. I hope you come back safe. How long do I wait before I start to worry?”
“I need time to get to the storyteller’s house before anyone thinks of coming to look for me. That’s important, Dau. When Illann and Archu get back, tell them where I’ve gone and why. Make sure they understand that Brocc was following a lead.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She turns her head to look at me. “I don’t know how far I’ll have to go. I’d like to say we’ll be back by suppertime, since I have to make this apology to the poxy prince. We don’t want Cathra thinking I’ve run away to avoid that.”
She still hasn’t answered the question, but I don’t press it, because she’s turned away again, and I can see she’s calculating the jump. I hold my breath as she bounces the branch a few times, getting the feel of it, then gathers herself and leaps.
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 21
