Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  Suppertime. The conversation is all on one topic, and the mood is tense. The other band is playing. I note absently that they’re quite good, especially the piper. I see Dau sitting among the stablehands, a one-man island with the talk flowing around him. I remember him telling me I should be pursuing the life of a travelling minstrel. Perhaps I’m proving him right. Not only am I contributing nothing to the hunt for the harp, but if Brocc is prepared to break the rules and go off on his own without telling anyone, we aren’t working as a team should. By now we should have started to put the pieces of the puzzle together, seen things fall into place. I hope Archu will come back with something useful.

  I can’t eat another bite. I leave half the meal on my platter and rise, excusing myself. My mind is spinning in circles and I’m starting to feel sick with anxiety. This is not like Brocc. He might go off on an impulse, but he wouldn’t stay away long after he’s expected back. He wouldn’t want to let the team down. Something’s wrong.

  I don’t suppose there will be dancing tonight, but I imagine most of the household will stay in the hall awhile – folk like to be together in times of trouble. And there’s free-flowing ale. I’ve noticed the serving man at the high table refilling Rodan’s cup several times. The prince is holding forth, thumping his fist so hard on the table that platters and goblets are jumping and rattling. It’s all about ridding Breifne of the menace and laying down the law to neighbouring kingdoms and not allowing superstition to rule the people and a lot of other things. He sounds passionate, and he sounds increasingly angry, though nobody is challenging his arguments. The regent, the councillors and the distinguished guests are sitting quietly, letting the fiery speech roll over them.

  I can slip out now and take a look in the men’s quarters. That way I’ll know if Brocc’s taken his heavy boots and his cloak. He and Archu have pallets near the door, so they can retire to bed after a late performance without disturbing the folk who need to be up at dawn. The men sleep in one of the bigger outbuildings, with its entry very close to the main keep. I’ll do this quickly and quietly, the way Eabha taught us on Swan Island.

  It’s not fully dark outside, but a torch flares above the entry to the sleeping quarters. This skirt is not the ideal garment in which to be unobtrusive against a wattle-and-mud wall. But there’s nobody about; the courtyard is empty of man and beast. I just have to move fast, and have an excuse ready if I happen to be seen.

  Along the wall, through the open door. It’s dim inside, the only light that of a single lantern on a chest at the far end of the long sleeping chamber. I stand to one side of the doorway, checking that all the beds are empty; making sure nobody is sitting quietly in a corner. So far, so good. I crouch beside Brocc’s pallet – second from the door, to the right – and check the low shelf under the bed. Each pallet has one of these. Some hold neatly stacked belongings, carefully folded clothing, objects in protective coverings. Some are a jumble of hastily stowed items. Brocc’s cloak is hanging from its peg on the wall; he hasn’t taken it. But his boots are gone. So, a longish walk, perhaps over rough ground – that matches with heading for the forest. He’d need his cloak after the sun went down. So he did intend to be back for supper. His personal items all seem to be here; his lighter shoes, the good clothes he wears in the evenings, a comb, a handkerchief or two. Under the pile of clothing, his knife, a bigger version of mine: the only weapon he was allowed to bring. A chill runs through me. If he was going to the nemetons, I could understand why he wouldn’t take a weapon. But if he was heading off on some mission of his own –

  ‘And what exactly are you up to, big girl?’ The drawling voice comes from behind me. I spring to my feet and whirl around. The future king of Breifne is standing in the doorway, his expression as mocking as his voice. The flickering torchlight throws his shadow into the long chamber, making man into monster. ‘I could take a guess. But you’ll tell me, won’t you, sweetheart?’

  My heart is hammering. How did I not hear him come in? A blunt response comes to my lips and with difficulty I swallow it. Ciara. I’m Ciara. And this man is the heir to the throne. ‘Looking for a whistle, my lord.’ My attempt at a meek tone doesn’t seem to convince Rodan. He moves closer. I’m standing between Brocc’s pallet and Archu’s. Getting away without touching the prince would require either climbing or leaping over one of the beds. I doubt Ciara would do either. ‘Donal borrowed it, and I need it back to practise.’

  ‘A whistle, mm?’ Rodan is right in front of me now, much closer than common courtesy requires. ‘Not very convincing. You know what I think you were doing?’

  Where are his bodyguards? Right now it might be useful to have witnesses. Being Ciara, I look down at the floor, saying nothing.

  ‘I think you were going through everyone’s things, looking for valuables to slip into your pockets. Am I right? Yes? Yes?’ He backs me against the wall, then reaches up to put his hands against its surface, on either side of my face. ‘Now what should I do, I wonder?’ His tone is a salacious murmur, sickeningly intimate. It makes my skin crawl. Perhaps this idiot thinks women like this kind of thing. ‘Should I tell Lord Cathra you were stealing? Shall I have you brought before a lawman?’

  By the gods, I itch to do him some damage. ‘I wasn’t stealing!’ I hiss. ‘I told you the truth! Let me go, you’re scaring me!’

  ‘What, a great big thing like you, scared? Never. But maybe you’re softer than you look. Let’s see . . .’ His right hand comes down to fondle my breast, through the fabric of my upper garments. A pox on the man! What am I supposed to do now? Surely Archu wouldn’t expect me to let this creature have his way with me, just so I don’t draw undue attention to myself?

  ‘No!’ I say firmly, and slap Rodan’s hand away. ‘I was telling the truth, and I’m not the sort of woman you seem to think I am.’

  Rodan’s face darkens. Then, with startling speed, he grabs both my wrists and pushes me back against the wall. ‘Let’s make a little bargain, then. I don’t tell anyone what I saw, and you keep quiet while I –’

  He hasn’t thought it through very well. I wait, my head turned hard to one side and my teeth clenched. He’d better not try to stick his tongue in my mouth. The prince of Breifne presses himself against me, breathing heavily. He’s moving his lower body in a manner that allows no misinterpretation. Soon enough he reaches a point where he needs his hands free to pull down his trousers. The moment he releases my wrists I put my palms against his chest and shove hard.

  I’m expecting the fall to the earthen floor will wind him, giving me enough time to get away. But no. As he falls, his head strikes the wooden frame of Archu’s pallet. The thud is sickening. The utter silence that follows is worse. Rodan lies prone on the floor, motionless in the flickering torchlight. I’ve killed him. I’ve killed the future king of Breifne.

  For the space of a few breaths I can only stand and gape. Then my training asserts itself. I kneel by him, putting my fingers against his neck to feel for signs of life. I can’t see if he’s breathing. But . . . yes, I can feel the faint pulsing of his blood, and when I put my hand close to his mouth . . . yes, I think there’s a flow of air. A quick examination of his head shows no visible bleeding, no open wound, though the light’s not good enough for me to be sure. Perhaps, gods be thanked, the prince will end up with no more than a bad headache and bruised self-esteem.

  I could leave him where he is and bolt. But I’m a healer’s daughter and I’ve seen what blows to the head can do. If I don’t fetch help, a man may die. Whether or not that man is an admirable person doesn’t come into the matter, and nor does his status as crown prince of Breifne. The implications for my own future can’t be considered, significant as they are. I run for the nearest guard post.

  Once I gabble out the essential facts – the prince has been hurt, he’s unconscious, he’s in the men’s quarters – everything begins to move with speed. Two guards bring a stretcher and lift him onto it. A cou
rt physician comes out and performs the same checks as I did. The guards carry Rodan into the keep – he’s moaning by now, returning to consciousness. Officials stand in the courtyard, speaking together in murmurs and looking sombre. Quite a crowd of onlookers has gathered, folk who’ve come out of the great hall in response to the flurry of activity, though now there’s not much to see.

  ‘You! Young woman!’ It’s one of the court councillors, not Brondus but a broad-shouldered, black-bearded man. ‘Did you report this assault on Prince Rodan?’

  Suddenly I’m surrounded by important-looking people, as if they think I may otherwise make a run for it. ‘Yes, my lord. I was in the men’s quarters when it happened.’ More torches are lit now; I can see the councillor’s expression clearly, and it’s not encouraging. ‘He –’

  He puts up a hand to silence me. ‘Wait. You were in the men’s quarters? Why? What were you doing?’ His tone suggests I’m guilty before I speak a word of explanation.

  The crowd has gone quiet, anticipating good entertainment.

  I take a long breath. ‘I was looking for something. A whistle.’

  The councillor’s brows go up in incredulity. ‘A whistle,’ he echoes.

  ‘I’m one of the musicians, my lord. I had lent the whistle to Donal, another of our band, and I needed it back. I thought –’

  ‘Enough! I find it hard to believe you would waste my time with such nonsense, girl. Have you not taken in the fact that Prince Rodan is gravely injured?’

  I can feel the hunger in the crowd; they want more of this. I’m not going to give it to them. ‘I know the prince hit his head, my lord. As I told you, I was present at the time. I am ready to provide a full explanation. That was what I was trying to do.’ I clench my fists to stop myself from slapping the man’s face.

  ‘Did you strike the prince?’ The councillor’s words are like the tolling of some dreadful bell.

  ‘No my lord. I – I pushed him. But only because he assault –’

  ‘That is sufficient for now,’ says the councillor, cutting me off. ‘It would be less than just to hear your version of events while the prince is not able to give us his. So we will wait. Perhaps for some time; Prince Rodan’s condition is not good. You’ll remain in custody overnight. You’ve admitted some role in causing his injury – that could lead to very serious charges. If the prince is well enough to testify, you’ll appear before a council in the morning.’

  Curse it! No Archu, no Brocc, not even Illann, and I have no idea what my next move should be. Two guards come up and take hold of my arms, one on each side. I could account for them both if I chose to, and the wretched councillor as well. But not the entire crowd of curious onlookers, many of whom are guards. I try to think what Archu would advise under such unlikely circumstances. The first thing would be not to break my cover.

  ‘Take her to the holding cells,’ the councillor tells the guards. ‘Let her use the privy and get her a blanket or two. Go now. The rest of you,’ his gaze sweeps over the assorted onlookers, ‘if you are concerned about the prince, know that he is receiving the very best of care. You can do him no good by standing about gossiping. Move on, all of you!’

  I lie awake in the dark, staring up at the tiny barred window. The holding cells are not in the keep proper, but in a stone outhouse on the north side. As cells go, this one’s not too bad. It has a hard shelf bed, and it’s not pitch dark, since that little window lets in faint moonlight. I’ve been given two blankets and a jug of water. I won’t sleep; my mind is turning in useless circles. How could I be stupid enough to get myself in such a mess? I’ve compromised the mission. I’ve managed to draw as much attention to myself as any visiting musician possibly could. It’s all Brocc’s fault for disappearing like this. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the men’s quarters. But, to be fair, it’s mostly Rodan’s fault for being a foul pig who thinks himself entitled to take whatever he wants, whenever he feels like it. How can a man make a stirring speech one moment and act like a complete oaf the next?

  I have to make a plan. One step at a time. Maybe Archu will be back early enough to stand by me at this council, or at least to give me some advice beforehand. Maybe Brocc will stroll in at breakfast time, saying he walked a bit too far and had to sleep in a haystack. Maybe he’ll appear with the Harp of Kings in his arms, saying Surprise! And maybe pigs will fly.

  What if Rodan dies during the night? Will they clap me in chains and throw me in some lockup forever? And if Rodan does die, does that mean our mission doesn’t exist any more? Oh, gods, I’m so tired.

  There’s a scratching at the little window, high on the wall. I freeze. The sound comes again.

  ‘Ciara!’ The voice is a murmur, but I recognise it. Dau.

  I stand on the pallet, carefully in case it decides to collapse, and peer out between the bars. Dau must be standing on something too, because he’s looking straight in at me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper. ‘What if someone sees you? Or hears you?’

  ‘This is out of the way. Nobody about. What in the name of the gods happened? One of the stable lads said the prince had been knocked out and that you and he were in the men’s quarters together.’

  I feel a hot flush rise to my cheeks – more fury than embarrassment. ‘That’s what they would say!’ I snap.

  ‘Shh, keep your voice down. So that’s a lie?’

  ‘No, it’s fact. I was in there looking for a clue. Brocc’s been away all day and isn’t home yet, and he didn’t go to the nemetons. Someone saw him walking up toward the forest. He should have been back before dusk.’ Oh gods, now I’m shedding tears. I’m turning into Ciara. ‘I wanted to check his things, see if I could work out where he’s gone.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No, because Rodan found me there and accused me of stealing. Then pushed me up against a wall and said he wouldn’t report me provided I gave him what he wanted.’

  Silence for a few moments. ‘So you knocked him out cold,’ says Dau.

  ‘I pushed him, he fell. I miscalculated and he hit his head on the way down.’ I’m shivering, despite myself. ‘I thought he was dead, for a bit. But he wasn’t, so I went for help. They didn’t even let me finish explaining. I have to appear before a council in the morning.’

  Silence.

  ‘If you’re going to tell me I’ve ruined the mission, don’t bother. I understand that perfectly well without any help.’

  ‘Not going to make much of a king, is he?’ Dau observes after a while.

  ‘He’s not bad at speeches. Folk listen and applaud. Maybe if a king has a gift for stirring people’s emotions, they don’t care what he gets up to in his private life.’

  ‘I heard that he doesn’t want to be king. Terrified of the idea. Maybe the brave speeches help him cover that up.’

  I know better than to ask who passed on this startling piece of information. ‘Dau, what was all that commotion, news of an attack, people riding out in a hurry? Why did Illann go?’

  ‘The man who survived to bring the news was talking about crow-demons, though he was exhausted after his ride here, and bleeding, and he wasn’t making a lot of sense. Sounded rather like the thing that swooped down on me, coming here. And the same sort of creature the farmers have been complaining about, only this time instead of stealing lambs they accounted for five of Cathra’s men. And injured several horses. The survivor rode his own horse back here, but the others were abandoned. They’re hoping the animals can be found. Illann’s services were requested because of his horse-doctoring skills. He could hardly say no.’

  ‘But . . . from what Rodan said, out in the courtyard, it sounded as if a human enemy was to blame, perhaps whichever chieftain rules that part of Breifne. He never mentioned the crow-things. Though he did say something about superstition. Maybe he doesn’t think they’re real.’

  ‘That m
an’s wounds were certainly real. I’m finding crow-demons a little hard to believe myself. There’s got to be some other explanation.’

  We stand there in silence a while. Now that Dau’s here, I don’t feel quite so wretched. But the full weight of what’s happened is sinking in, and there’s still Brocc. I wasn’t expecting to be talking to Dau about any of this. He’s hardly a person I’d choose as a confidant. But right now he feels like a friend.

  ‘You took a risk, coming to find me,’ I say.

  ‘You came on this mission not expecting it to be risky?’

  ‘I’m not joking, Dau. You can’t be sure nobody saw you coming over here. I can just imagine someone bringing that up at this council. They’d twist it to mean I only have to crook my little finger to make men come running, and take that as an indication I’m ready to give myself to whoever asks, however unlikely he might be.’

  A pause. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ he says.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. But they would. Dau, what do I do if they decide I was trying to kill him?’

  ‘You’re not thinking straight, Liobhan. Both Cathra and Brondus know why you’re here. And I imagine they have a fair idea what kind of a person the prince is.’

  ‘Mm. But he is the prince. Soon to be the king. That other councillor, the one who wouldn’t let me tell my story, spoke to me as if I was worse than the dirt under his boot sole. And everyone was lapping it up. Oh yes, there was a big audience.’ I dry my eyes on my sleeve. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I love fighting. But I can’t fight here. I can’t seem to do anything without causing trouble.’

  ‘Pity you’re locked up. We could have had an unarmed bout right now. Didn’t we have a challenge, best out of three?’ It sounds as if he’s smiling.