Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘Yes, of course. Is it here?’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s up in the tree.’

  ‘But I said –’

  ‘Not right up. Just a bit up, in a hollow. And we can be mice again, going there.’

  I can’t bring myself to say no. ‘All right. But not for long, and after that we’re going back to the garden to wait for Máire. When we get there, I’ll teach you a song.’

  A watery smile illuminates her features. ‘What song?’

  ‘How about a lullaby for singing Cliodhna to sleep?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘And take this.’ I hold out the small whistle. ‘Just to borrow. I don’t need it for the next few days. It means you can practise what you’ve learned.’

  For a moment her eyes shine. Then, as quickly, the light goes out of them. ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘Máire gets cross if I make noise.’

  I hold back my true opinion on this. ‘Take it anyway; tuck it in your belt. I’ll ask Máire very nicely if you can practise a bit, maybe out in the garden.’ Though what I can offer Máire in exchange this time, I’ve no idea.

  When we come out there are more people around – a new party of riders has just come in, and grooms are leading horses into the stables. ‘No running this time,’ I murmur. ‘We’ll just walk quickly and quietly, with our heads up, as if we have every right to be here.’

  ‘Like princesses.’

  ‘Like warriors.’

  ‘Like princess warriors.’

  ‘Exactly. Here we go.’

  The hollow is quite high in the oak, though not as high as we climbed last time. Looking out between the branches, I can see beyond the wall to the woodland that houses the nemetons, and eastward, in the distance, to the forested hills whose slopes we traversed on our way here. I feel a sudden longing for home – not Swan Island, but my real home and the comforting presence of my family. I set it firmly aside.

  ‘Sit on the branch, there,’ says Aislinn, taking charge. She passes her creature to me, then stands up, balancing with skill, and reaches into the hollow to bring out a cloth-wrapped bundle, along with a shower of leaves, twigs and feathers. ‘This is my treasure box. Nobody knows it’s here.’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul. Promise.’

  ‘There was a family of squirrels in there last spring. I had to stay away until the babies grew up. They’ve gone now. I keep my special things in here.’

  She removes the cloth to reveal a miniature oak chest, lifts the lid and shows me her treasures one by one. There are feathers from eight or nine kinds of bird – she identifies them all – and several stones with interesting patterns or shapes.

  ‘And these.’ Aislinn holds out three unidentifiable items. Twigs? Bristles?

  ‘What are they?’

  She’s suddenly sad again. ‘They’re from my prickler. Eyebright.’

  ‘Your – oh. You mean a hedgehog? You have a tame one?’

  ‘I found her in the garden. She had a sore foot. Wolfie showed me how to put salve on and wrap it up. She got better for a bit. But then she died.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Did you bury Eyebright in the garden?’

  Aislinn shakes her head. ‘Wolfie buried her in the woods. He said she’d like that better. Some of her prickles fell out when she was sick.’ She lays them gently back in the box.

  ‘What is that?’ I’ve spotted something else in the little chest, something with a dull sheen and a swirling shape.

  ‘A dragon. Like in a story.’

  A belt buckle. It needs a good clean, but a quick examination tells me it is silver, and probably of considerable value. It’s fashioned in the shape of a curled-up dragon. Isn’t that Tassach’s emblem? ‘Where did you get this, Aislinn? Have you had it a long while?’ Tassach visits court from time to time and no doubt brings various retainers with him. This is probably a simple case of someone losing the buckle and Aislinn happening upon it somewhere in the house or garden. She probably has no idea of its worth. A silver dragon would be an exciting thing to find, especially if your life was quite a sad and lonely one.

  ‘A boy gave it to me,’ she says, shutting the box and rewrapping it. ‘It was a secret. I put it in Eyebright’s basket, under the straw. I thought it might be magic. But she died anyway.’

  Sudden tears prick my eyes. I order myself sternly not to let them fall. What am I, a Swan Island warrior or some sentimental fool? ‘Oh. So that was when Wolfie was here?’

  ‘I was little,’ Aislinn says matter-of-factly. ‘I thought magic was real.’

  It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. While she puts her box carefully back in the hollow, I fight to find the right words.

  ‘Aislinn?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘It is real. Magic is real. It may not come in just the way you want, or exactly when you want it, because it’s tricky and unpredictable and . . . difficult. And sometimes it’s hard to believe it’s possible. But what about all those old stories? And the songs we sing every night? They are full of magic.’

  ‘Máire says they’re made up.’

  A pox on Máire, and on whoever has left this child’s care to such a numbskull. ‘Some of them are made up, yes. My – my friend, the one who plays the harp, makes up verses all the time. But there’s always something true in them, and sometimes it’s the magic bits that are true.’

  She looks at me, sober-faced, eyes full of doubt.

  ‘Music is magic. Stories are magic. And . . .’ I can’t tell her that the uncanny has played quite a part in the lives of my parents, not to speak of several other people close to our family. If it weren’t for the actions of certain Otherworld folk, I would not have two brothers, but only one. But that story is not Ciara’s to share. ‘It will come your way, Aislinn. Perhaps not until you are much older, but it will happen. Just wait, and be ready.’

  Even as I speak, I hate myself for making it sound both easy and inevitable. For spreading what might turn out to be false hope. What Aislinn needs is practical help, straight away, and I’m powerless to give her that. I can’t even offer a lasting friendship – after Midsummer Day I’ll be no more than a memory here. And she’ll still be at the mercy of people who seem to care nothing for her needs.

  14

  Brocc

  I fall into a regular routine, breakfasting early, then leaving for the nemetons. The gate guards no longer challenge me, simply bid me good morning and let me through. I follow the wall around to the spot where the branching pathway leads into the dappled shade of the woods. Whoever or whatever inhabits Danu’s Gate, it recognises me and my harp and lets us pass through. I am both honoured and surprised that I have won the druids’ trust to this extent within the space of eight or nine days. Not their full trust, of course – I can hardly expect that.

  In the mornings I spend time with the novices, playing, singing and exchanging tales, or I make myself useful in the garden. At the midday meal, which is generally rich in vegetables from that very garden, I have the opportunity to observe almost the full druid community. Some are in retreat, spending solitary time in prayer and contemplation before a significant event such as moving from one level of study to the next or participation in a ritual. I’ve counted twenty-nine men at the table, but I’m told there are thirty-nine in all, including the novices. When he sees me, Brother Marcán acknowledges me with a grave nod. He knows my purpose here, of course, but cannot offer me overt help – for me to spend time with the most senior of the brethren would look odd to the rest of them. Brother Farannán, the high bard, is not especially inclined to be friendly, though Faelan introduced me to him early on. Farannán has something of the look of a hawk, watchful, fierce, though he conducts himself with the same grave calm as the others. I sense a well-concealed animosity between him and the chief druid, though no combative words are exchanged. It’s all in the eyes, the posture, the silence
s. Farannán knows about the harp, of course, and Marcán must have told him why I’m here. I wish I could speak to the high bard in private.

  I want to see the cavern where the harp was stored. But Farannán makes no attempt to be helpful. I am never in a position to ask him a question without others hearing.

  I’m all too aware of time passing. And yet I love my days in this place of peace and music and good fellowship. It is easy to see myself as one of the brethren; I would find purpose and security in this life of ritual, contemplation and, at times, robust discussion. It astonishes me how heated the debate can become over an obscure point of philosophy or the interpretation of an ancient tale. The lore-master, Odhar, is a very old man, tiny and shrivelled, with a sharp wit and eyes that miss absolutely nothing. The bond of affection between him and Faelan is obvious. It is becoming clear to me that the self-deprecating harpist and gardener is something of a favourite here.

  Back home, I do not have a close friend. In Faelan I recognise someone who could be that friend, were our circumstances different. I like the others, too: red-haired Ross, tall Sioda, and Flann, who is always ready with a joke. We share tunes of our own composition, and I teach them to play some jigs and reels. Sometimes we dance. We time that carefully.

  After the midday meal, Ross, Sioda and Flann go elsewhere for formal study of the lore. As an outsider, I cannot attend this. If Faelan is busy, I find work for my hands, washing garments or dishes, sweeping floors, helping with the preparation of parchment, ink powders, quills for writing. I feed chickens, ducks and geese. I help build a dry-stone wall. I am glad of all I learned from my father. I do not offer to assist in the stillroom, though I could. Revealing what my mother taught me might arouse suspicion that I am not who I pretend to be.

  The coming ritual is mentioned often, but in my presence the older men do not go into detail, and the novices have never attended a coronation before. I learn that the ritual will take place soon after dawn on Midsummer Day, in an open area between the fortress walls and this tract of woodland. The novices will be allowed out for the ceremony, and they will help prepare the ritual ground in the days before. They’re excited about this, and that saddens me. The limits on their freedom must be hard to bear. It’s not only the restrictions on leaving the nemetons. It’s not being able to talk about their lives before they chose this path – family, home, friends, all the ties that help make a man what he is. Once he enters the brotherhood, a druid doesn’t speak of those things any more. The rules say he’s a new person, leading a new life. And in the outside world he is no longer spoken of by those who knew and loved him. It’s as if he is gone forever. That seems to me particularly cruel. I suspect that families do talk of their lost one in private. Surely they whisper his name, and share their pride and their sorrow, and wonder if he remembers them with the same love they still feel for him.

  There comes an afternoon when Faelan is free, because Master Odhar is weary and needs a nap in place of the discussion of lore that the two of them planned. For a while Faelan and I play our harps together. We are both more able than the other novices, and with them elsewhere at their studies, the two of us enjoy challenging each other’s technique and ideas. I’m about to suggest another piece, but Faelan puts his harp down and stands up to stretch.

  ‘It’s a fair day,’ he says. ‘We might go for a walk. I’ll take you over to the far side of the woods, show you a grand view.’

  I set my own instrument aside and follow him out of the cavern. The day is warm. The sun strikes down between the trees to set a glow on the track ahead of us. The way my companion takes is one of those I’ve been told is forbidden me, but I do not mention this. I simply walk beside Faelan in silence, listening to the calls of birds and thinking this feels like an opportunity, but for what I’m not sure.

  It’s quite a long way. We emerge from the woods at the top of a rise, overlooking a vista of grazing fields and rocky outcrops and, down the hill before us, a lake so perfectly round that it resembles a mirror. The blue of the summer sky is in it, and a wisp of cloud. Wildflowers grow on the margins of the fields, by the

  dry-stone walls. Sheep and goats graze, or gather in the shade of trees. Farmhouses are dotted here and there.

  There’s a wooden bench next to us. Faelan and I seat ourselves. For a while we enjoy the view in silence.

  ‘You’ve brought me somewhere I’m not supposed to be,’ I say eventually. I doubt very much that he’s trying to get me into trouble. I also doubt that he’s done this in error. The man is both honourable and clever.

  ‘Mm-hm. And I’m going to ask you a question I’m not supposed to ask.’

  Suddenly I’m on high alert. Has my new friend guessed I have a secret purpose here? ‘Go on, then,’ I say.

  ‘I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything about a wise woman, a storyteller who lives up on the hill to the east of the keep. Her house is in the forest, but not far off the road. Knowing how much you love tales and songs, I thought perhaps you’d heard her mentioned or even sought her out.’

  Not the question I expected. I’m about to say no when I remember what Archu told us about Dau. ‘I heard something about a man attacked on that road by a giant crow. He was thrown from his horse and hurt himself. A local woman helped him. I gather not many folk live up there, so perhaps that woman was your storyteller. But I can’t be sure. We didn’t encounter her on our way here.’

  ‘But she is still there, in the forest? Alive and well?’

  ‘If it’s the same woman, then yes, I understand so.’ Why is Faelan interested in her? Can this woman be kin to him? His mother? His grandmother? ‘But it was only a passing reference. Do you want me to find out?’

  Under his smile, Faelan looks troubled. ‘Best not. She was a friend, before I joined the Order. It would reassure me to know that she and – to know that she is well. A giant crow. That sounds most odd.’

  ‘You haven’t seen such creatures here? There is some talk of them in the district; they are a cause of concern for the farmers.’

  ‘We’re well protected here,’ Faelan says.

  Against giant crows, maybe, I think. But not against folk who would steal the most precious item in the nemetons from right under your nose. ‘I have a question for you,’ I say. ‘Possibly one I should not ask, and unrelated to the crows. If you are not allowed to answer it, just say so.’

  ‘That sounds mysterious.’ Some tiny birds have come down from the oaks and are hopping about at Faelan’s feet, hunting for insects. One jumps up onto his shoe, making him smile.

  ‘I’m interested in the coronation ritual. I know that as an outsider I probably couldn’t attend the ceremony and hear the high bard play the harp. But I’d love to know the old tale behind that practice, and why it has remained so important. I am aware that much of druidic lore is secret.’

  ‘Ah. That tale, my friend, came to me from the storyteller long before I chose to join the Order, and I am happy to share it. It is part of Breifne’s history, an important part, but I think ordinary folk have almost forgotten it. The crowning of kings does not occur often.’ Faelan’s gaze travels over the tranquil landscape in front of us. The little birds continue their busy work at his feet. Faelan’s stillness is such that they are unafraid. ‘Long, long ago, in a time before history, before the first tribe of humankind set foot on the sweet shores of Erin,’ he begins, slipping into the lilting mode of storytelling, ‘this land was inhabited by the Tuatha Dé Danann, that is, the people of the goddess Danu. That race, sometimes called the Fair Folk, were a noble and magical people. They lived in peace with trees and streams and with all creatures: those that enjoyed the freedom of the air; those that ran or hopped or crawled on the earth; those that swam or dived in the water; those that burrowed deep underground. In those ancient times, there were also other races of uncanny folk dwelling in the forests, in the caves, on the lake islands. All lived in harmony.

  ‘For
more years than anyone could count this land was peaceful and serene. And long might it have remained so, had it not been for the Milesians who, displaced from their old homes, sailed off in search of a new habitation and happened upon the western shore of Erin. The Milesians were a human people; they were quick to anger and quarrelsome even among themselves, always wanting more than they had. The Fair Folk retreated to their hidden dwellings; no longer did they walk the land freely. They watched as human folk moved across Erin, building dwellings, making walls to keep creatures in so they could fatten and later eat them, damming streams for their own purposes, felling trees for their timber without a moment’s care for the small beings that sheltered there or for the wisdom stored up by an oak or an ash in all the years of its growing. Oh, thoughtless, short-lived folk!’

  This is an unusual telling, both beguiling and strong. Intended for the ears of druids, I suspect, not for those of ordinary folk, who might be unsettled to hear the story told as if the speaker were one of those Fair Folk himself.

  ‘Some hundreds of years after the Milesians first landed in Erin, when human kings had established territories on these shores and human settlements were everywhere, there was a queen of the Fair Folk named Béibhinn, meaning white lady. Now some of her people, furious at the destructive actions of the Milesians, wanted to wage war, using every magical power at their disposal – and they had many. But unlike queens before her, Béibhinn counselled against such action. For she had seen that a new young king was to be crowned as ruler of Breifne in the human realm, and it seemed to her that the time had come for a wise and peaceable agreement. Béibhinn wanted above all to avoid the horror of warfare which, in the end, was no solution to anything. She consulted with her sages, and they agreed that in order to establish a long-lasting truce with the Milesians, they would request a council with the future king, at which they would offer a significant token of trust. But what should it be? What was precious enough, what held power, what held beauty and wisdom and truth sufficient to keep two such different races in harmony for more than a mere hundred years or so?’