The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards)

by Juliet Marillier

  “Ciara,” says Master Brondus, making me start. “We see no other option but to trust your word and go with your plan, such as it is. Do your best to stay out of trouble between now and Midsummer Eve. When you travel back up to the forest you must not go alone. We will provide an escort for you. Two guards at least. We must ensure you return to court swiftly and safely.”

  “But—” I protest.

  “That’s not the way we work, Master Brondus.” Archu’s is the voice of a leader; it does not invite debate. “I’ll make sure appropriate arrangements are in place for the safety of my team. And, of course, the secure transport of the harp, should they have it with them. We’ll be discreet.”

  The way Cathra and his councilors are looking at me suggests they doubt my ability to comply with this, but none of them argues the point.

  “I’ll speak to Master Brondus later about the gate,” Archu goes on. “We’ll need an arrangement to get Ciara out unobtrusively, and the two of them back in, with the instrument. If you have a trusted man who can be on gate watch that day, it will be helpful.”

  Brondus nods acknowledgment.

  “It goes without saying,” says Archu, “that both Ciara and I will keep what we’ve heard here strictly to ourselves. And we thank you for your cooperation.”

  The great men are taken aback; Archu has made it clear that we’re in control of the operation and have been from the first. They’re not used to that. As we leave, I feel an unreasonable pleasure. But under it, I’m stretched tight thinking of all the things that could go wrong, and how much is resting on my shoulders.

  “Deep breath,” murmurs Archu as we come out into the yard. “One step at a time. Eyes on the mission. And for the love of the gods, if there’s anything more you’re able to tell me at any stage, please do so. We’ll go to the practice room now. I have to fetch the harp for Brother Farannán. And after that, I need a word with you in private.”

  I wait in the practice room, running through finger exercises on the whistle and failing entirely to calm my racing thoughts, until Archu gets back from delivering Brocc’s harp to the High Bard. I hope Aislinn isn’t still waiting for me up in the oak tree; it’s been a while.

  “Well,” says our mission leader, seating himself on the bench and turning his gaze on me. “That speech was not one I’d expect from Ciara. I doubt she would stand up and challenge the regent, the Chief Druid, and the High Bard all at once. As mission leader, I ask you to account for your decision to do that without consulting me beforehand.”

  “All of those men know I’m not Ciara. There were no guards present, nobody else who could have heard me.”

  “That’s not the way we play this game. You’re in your role from start to finish unless I give you permission. In a safe house, for instance—a place like Oschu and Maen’s farm—we might all relax our guard for a while. But only on my say-so.”

  I can’t bring myself to apologize, even though I respect Archu’s judgment. “I didn’t forget the rule. I took a considered risk.”

  “It sounded more like letting your feelings overrule your good judgment,” Archu observes.

  “Yes, I was angry. Frustrated. And worried about—our team member. Whether he is safe, whether I can bring him back in time. Whether the harp will be entrusted to us. I can’t help wondering if all of them, the regent, the druids, all the influential men, know more than they’re prepared to say. I feel as if there’s a puzzle piece missing, not the harp itself, but something else.”

  Archu manages a smile, though he seems weighed down and weary now. That startles me. In the council, he looked the way he does back on the island, all brisk assurance and self-control. “That’s an odd thing for you to say,” he murmurs. “Aren’t you the one who holds a puzzle piece you’re choosing not to reveal?”

  “That’s different. I’m bound by a solemn promise. If I break it, the whole mission goes to pieces, and B—Donal will be at serious risk.”

  “Risk of what?”

  “I can’t tell you. I wish I could.” I want to tell him I feel alone and inadequate. For a moment, I want to be Ciara, who could throw her arms around Uncle Art and be comforted.

  “You’re not alone,” says Archu, apparently reading my thoughts without difficulty. “You still have three of us here, myself and our fellows out in the stable. I’m thinking that as you and Nessan have been seen dancing together, and word will be getting about that you came back late together, you’ve set the scene nicely for him to be your escort on Midsummer Eve. The two of you should be able to deal with most situations on your own. And he’s in a position to take horses out without drawing undue attention. That was . . . most interesting. The dancing, I mean.”

  “It was a complete surprise to me. I didn’t know I had so many friends in the household, or that they’d be prepared to stand up for me in such a public way. I’m sorry it happened. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone getting in trouble. But also not sorry.”

  “Mm. Maybe best if I make no comment.” He’s smiling, just a little bit.

  “Uncle Art?”

  “Yes?”

  “What did they mean about expecting Tassach to make a bid for the throne three years ago, before Rodan was of age? By my calculations that was three years after the old king’s death. It can’t have been Cathra wanting to step down from the regency. He made it pretty clear he’d promised King Aengus the throne would go to the closest blood heir, that is, Aengus’s son. Every time we got close to talking about that I could feel a chill in the room, as if all of them suddenly became enemies.”

  “I heard a rumor or two while I was away,” says Archu. “That the king might have had a liaison with a woman other than his wife; that there might have been a child from that union. But the implication was that this child was out of consideration for the throne of Breifne. Why, I don’t know.”

  “Because she’s a girl? Do you mean Aislinn?”

  “Aislinn is the legitimate offspring of Aengus and his queen. Full sister to Rodan. That’s what makes her so valuable for the future, poor child. She can’t be queen in her own right. But the law does allow an illegitimate son to make a claim. I didn’t investigate further; I assume the son in question is younger than Rodan, and could only come into consideration when he was approaching eighteen, by which time his half brother would be established as king.”

  “Always supposing we bring the harp back in time.”

  “Always supposing that.” Archu gives me a very direct look. “Whatever happens, don’t lose sight of the mission we’ve been hired for. You have a strong sense of justice, despite your occasional dirty tricks on the field of combat. I applaud that. But Cathra’s hired us for a job, and that’s the job we’ll do, even if some aspects of it displease us. It’s something all of you will have to get used to if you stay on. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. But it’s hard.” It would be hard even if I hadn’t seen the vision in the scrying bowl. I wish I could tell him about that.

  Archu looks down at his hands, avoiding my eye now. “Our work is by its nature difficult,” he says. “That never changes. It’s challenging, it’s violent, it’s dangerous, it can bring you close to the brink of despair. And it can take you to the heights, when something goes right, and you get the sense that the whole team is working as one. Sometimes you have to make choices you wouldn’t make if you were an ordinary individual and not a Swan Island warrior. Sometimes you have to take risks, and sometimes they don’t pay off. You’ve taken a big risk with this trip up to the forest and the choice to leave Donal behind. That makes my gut churn, Ciara. What if we lose him? A trainee of only eighteen years old, on his first mission? How do I account for that to Cionnaola? To your parents? How do I balance it in my own mind?”

  We sit in silence, while beyond the shuttered window horses are led past, and someone clanks buckets, and the day goes on.

  “You become
used to it,” Archu says, straightening up, easing his shoulders, sounding more like himself. “It doesn’t get easier, exactly. But you learn to go on doing it. It’s not something we can train you for, though we look out for it along the way. You need strength. You also need resilience, as in a perfectly crafted instrument, be it harp or blade.”

  “And endurance,” I say.

  “That, too. But you must learn to bend before the wind; the strongest tree can be uprooted by winter’s gales.”

  “In a court such as this, the tree’s more likely to be weakened by termites or disease and topple of its own accord. Or be taken down by the fall of the one next to it.” Good, I’ve made him smile again.

  “If you’re present at another council, make sure you don’t share that particular insight with the influential men of this court. Now, I must go. Make sure you take Master Brondus’s advice, Ciara. Try extremely hard not to be noticed.”

  “I’ll try. But I have certain tasks to complete, as I explained. I’ll try to get them done unobtrusively.”

  “If you need help, ask me. If you’re in trouble, ask me.”

  “What if I can’t ask, because I have to do everything by myself?”

  He looks at me with an expression Uncle Art might offer to Ciara under such circumstances. I’ve never seen that softness in his eyes before, and I may never see it again. It’s a gift. For that moment, he reminds me of my father. “Then we’ll both be taking a risk,” he says.

  28

  DAU

  I’ll be accompanying Liobhan back to the forest on Midsummer Eve. Not that Archu tells me so himself. I hear everything at second or third hand, if I’m lucky. I can’t talk safely with Liobhan. There’s no chance of a quick meeting in some secluded corner of the garden or in the practice room by night. She’s either busy or out of reach somewhere. Illann told me there was a difficult council. I don’t know exactly what happened there, but even he’s on edge now, so it can’t be good. On the rare occasions when I catch sight of Liobhan, mostly at mealtimes and always in the company of others, she has a distracted look, as if her thoughts are far away. No prizes for guessing where. In the evenings it’s the other band that supplies musical entertainment. We haven’t danced again yet.

  I try not to count days. I try not to measure out the hours between dawn and dusk, dusk and dawn; I try to block out the relentless advance of Midsummer Day and the ritual. I try to believe Liobhan is right about bringing the harp back. I try not to brood on the possibility that I may lose my place on Swan Island over this. I’m amazed that Archu is prepared not only to go along with Liobhan’s plan, but to assist with it. Hence myself as her escort, and the horses we’re to take with us so we can get there and back as fast as possible.

  The household is abuzz with preparations for the ritual now. I thought it might be held in the nemetons, since the Harp of Kings is—or should be—kept there, and the druids are in charge of the ceremonial side of things. But I’m wrong. Illann sends me to help carry things to the ritual site, so it’s all set up well in advance. It turns out the crowning of a new king is one of those rare occasions when the gates to the royal domain stand open for a day—there’s some kind of symbolic significance to it. The ritual is not held in the nemetons, and it’s not held in the grounds of the royal fortress. The place chosen is between the two, which no doubt is also symbolic. Under the direction of Cathra’s chief steward, our small army of workers follows a track around the foot of the wall, past the spot where a side path branches off, leading through the woods to the nemetons. Some way further on, we reach a circular, part-cleared area shaped like a shallow basin, where a large crowd of onlookers will be able to stand or sit on the banks and watch the ritual unfold on the level ground in the center. We menials have to pull up errant weeds, scythe and rake the grass, set out benches, hang decorative banners from the trees, construct a platform in the center, and so on.

  The operation is less than perfectly organized. What should take one day’s work at most, with so many of us, is likely to stretch out into two or three if they don’t adopt a more orderly approach. I’m itching to take charge. I know exactly how the crew should be deployed. But I can’t do a thing about it. I keep silent, hunch my shoulders, complete one task at a time. Gods, I wish Midsummer Day was past, and we were back on the road to Swan Island. I am so tired of this. So tired of being weak. So tired of swallowing my words. This mission fills me with hated memories. I want to lash out, to fight back, to shout so loudly the whole place rings with the sound. Swan Island lets me do the things I couldn’t do as a child. Here, I am that child again, helpless and silent.

  I work steadily. I think of Brocc, in that place beyond the stone wall, unable to return here. I try not to think of words such as uncanny, Otherworld, magic. Such ideas are ridiculous. That folk might still believe them to be true is beyond crediting. I have respect for both Liobhan and Brocc. The two of them are courageous and strong. They’re able as both fighters and musicians. But this . . . it’s beyond my comprehension. I can’t credit it. Yet I can find no other explanation, unless Swan Island has a rival organization: a secret base hidden in the forest near the Crow Way, housing another community of folk enacting their own plan for the Harp of Kings. That’s almost as hard to believe as the notion that fairies or leprechauns have stolen the harp away.

  “That’s the Chief Druid, Brother Marcán,” says one of my fellow workers, a groom by the name of Finn. He’s indicating a man with long white hair and a pale robe somewhat grass stained around the hem. The way folk defer to Brother Marcán makes it evident that he’s a respected leader. “I know one of those lads,” Finn goes on. “The red-haired one. He’s from my home village. The fellows in blue robes are all novices.”

  The red-haired druid glances over, catches Finn’s eye, then quickly looks away.

  “Go and have a word with him if you want,” says one of the other workers in our group. “It’s not as if they’re let out much.”

  “Against the rules,” says Finn. “They’re not supposed to fraternize with us ordinary folk. When they make their vows, they set aside their past life like it never happened. I’m surprised to see any of the novices out here. Maybe they relax the rules for special occasions.”

  The red-haired novice hasn’t looked back in our direction. He and the other young druids are using sticks and twine to measure the platform we’ve just put together. One of them waits for the sun to emerge from behind a cloud, then examines the shadows on the boards and makes marks there with a piece of charcoal. This platform is where the Harp of Kings will be placed for a druid to play at the critical moment. That’s what we were told when we built it. To be accepted as king on the strength of a tune seems primitive and foolish. Shouldn’t a ruler be chosen on his potential to rule well and wisely? They should be looking at his personal qualities rather than trusting in some ancient custom. Don’t these folk realize times change? Fail to recognize that and you end up with a king like Rodan. Maybe he’s what they deserve.

  There are more druids here now, and we’re being ushered away from the center of the ritual area. A tall young novice with brown hair to his shoulders and a serious look is in conversation with the white-haired leader. They examine the platform and look at the shadows. Then the younger man tries placing a stool in various positions, and Brother Marcán makes him sit on it and mime playing a harp. I see the tight set of the young druid’s shoulders. He’s uncomfortable with the whole process, but he’s got no choice but to go along with it. The rest of the novices have stepped back and are pretending to be busy with one thing or another. It’s an odd little scene. Might mean something, might not. There’s something about the younger man that really draws the eye.

  “Nessan,” says Finn, “over there.”

  Our next job involves ladders and trees and the hanging of banners. I manage to make it known that I’m not scared of heights, and end up at the top of the longest ladder, tying knots.
Useful, since when there’s a moment to look, I get an excellent view over the whole of the ritual area. And I can see along the wall to the spot where Liobhan executed her remarkable leap. What is that spot of red, up on a high branch?

  “Here, grab this,” says Finn, passing me the end of a rope—he’s got the job of scrambling up and down to hand me things. “Once that’s tied, we’ll move the ladder along there.”

  Curse it. I narrow my eyes, squinting in the direction of the big oak. Someone up there? A spy, not our own, but somebody else’s? With so many important visitors to court, there are bound to be a few. Could be they even know about us and our mission. Though if they do, they’ve left it late to act.

  Ah! There it is again. The flash of red, and now the momentary glimpse of a face. Not Liobhan’s; the face of a child. It’s quickly gone. But the red hair was surely Liobhan’s; who else would be up there? Even now, with Archu’s permission to go on with the plan, she’s taking unnecessary risks. That is plain stupid. But no; didn’t she tell me she’d be doing some odd things, such as sewing and dancing with me? Maybe climbing trees is one of them.

  We move the ladder and I climb up again. My fellow workers prepare another banner for hanging, this one showing a tree on a pale background, with druidic symbols around it, a language I cannot read. I throw the weighted end of my rope over a branch, tie the thing securely—can’t have the banner coming adrift and landing on Prince Rodan’s head in the middle of the ritual—and the others help me haul the banner up. It’s heavy; four of them support it while I adjust the fastenings to make sure it will hang straight with no twists and tangles even if the wind gets up. I’m tying my last knot when I hear raised voices down on the ritual ground. One of them is Rodan’s.

  “Why is he here?” he demands.