Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘Thank you, my lady. My name is – my name is Brocc. I am a musician.’

  ‘We knew that even before we heard your voice in the woods just now. We have followed your journey, Brocc. Don’t look so startled – you cannot imagine that spying is carried out solely by human folk.’

  I was speechless. They’d followed my journey? Why? Did she mean she knew the purpose of our coming to Breifne? Surely even a faery queen couldn’t have spies on Swan Island.

  ‘I am Eirne,’ she said. Her tone changed; this was the voice of a leader. ‘I rule over this land from the mountains of the west to the forest of the east, and from the shining lake that bears my name to the wild lands of the south. My realm lies beyond, beside, beneath, above that of humankind. But there are doorways. And sometimes one such as yourself steps through. Whether by accident or on purpose, who knows? In time, perhaps you will tell me.’

  ‘In time – yes, but I don’t have much time. My sister will be expecting me back before dusk.’ I should have said my fellow musician. I should have told her my name was Donal. But it felt wrong to lie to her. It felt as if, by lying, I would lose any chance of winning her confidence.

  The queen did not seem much interested in Liobhan. ‘Rowan, have you offered our guest refreshments?’

  Rowan was Fox Boy. ‘Done and refused, my lady. Our guest has heard too many tales.’

  Eirne chuckled. ‘A person can never hear too many tales. Tales are like honey cakes. Once you have tasted one, you want another, and another, and always more. And once you have told a tale, you want to tell it again, in a different way. To make a verse out of it or a song. Would not you agree, Brocc?’

  ‘Speaking as a musician, I would, most certainly. Though I am obliged to tell you that not everyone thinks in the same way. As for the refreshments, it is best that I drink from my own water skin and eat only what I have brought with me.’ I did not tell her that my provisions were mostly gone. ‘I cannot stay here long.’

  Another chorus of murmuring, twittering comments broke out among the onlookers. Eirne cast a glance at her people, then gestured with a graceful hand: Go! They scattered, disappearing quickly into the woods or into crevices in the rock wall. Rowan lingered, looking from the queen to me and back again.

  ‘You may leave us, Rowan,’ Eirne said, not unkindly. ‘I will be quite safe. If you are concerned, wait over there under the council oak, where you can keep us in sight. Should the minstrel decide to attack me, you will be able to hear my screams for help.’

  Rowan retreated, looking less than pleased. It seemed to me he was her guard and protector, as much as a councillor, and I felt a certain sympathy for him. What was I but an outsider, intruding where I did not belong?

  Eirne seated herself on the moss-coated trunk of a fallen tree and patted the spot alongside her. I sat, mute again. My mind was full of questions. It would be easy to trust her. Everything about her seemed sweet and natural. In my world, I would want her as a friend. But this was her world. She might look like a sweet village damsel, but she was fey and a queen. That made her dangerous.

  ‘Why have you travelled here, Bard?’

  I wished I could come right out with the truth: that the Harp of Kings was missing, and that I wondered if she or her people had been involved in its disappearance. But that would break the most vital rule of the mission.

  ‘I heard a tale; one of the druids told me. About the Harp of Kings, which will be played when the new king of Breifne is crowned at midsummer. It was the tale of how the harp came into the hands of human folk, as token of a pledge of peace between your folk and humankind, long, long ago.’

  ‘I know the tale,’ Eirne said. ‘The pledge ensured that my people could dwell safely in this lovely land, without interference from humankind. Our borders were to be respected; our trees allowed to grow undisturbed; our waterways not to be dammed or bridged without permission. You look surprised, Brocc. To achieve this, human folk need only observe the appropriate rituals or invoke the right spirits. As well, of course, as farming their crops and animals wisely, and exercising a degree of tolerance when our people need to venture forth into their world. Sadly, it seems the ancient agreement is fading from the memories of Breifne’s leaders, and so from the minds of ordinary folk. The playing of the Harp of Kings was a potent symbol of the long cooperation between the two races. But I fear its meaning is no longer fully understood.’

  ‘And yet, they still continue the tradition. The ritual; the music. Some still understand.’

  ‘Druids.’ Eirne sounded disinclined to trust the brethren. ‘Their influence is waning.’

  ‘And other folk.’ I was not sure if I should mention the storyteller.

  ‘Ah. You spoke with Mistress Juniper.’

  That was a wise woman’s name, like my mother’s: Mistress Blackthorn, healer, herbalist, solver of problems. ‘Yes, I sought her out. I thought she might know of the portals that are mentioned in the story. I thought . . . I thought I might find answers here.’

  We sat in silence for a while.

  ‘Answers to what, Brocc?’

  ‘Questions about the Harp of Kings and the music it plays on Midsummer Day,’ I said. ‘Perhaps also to questions about myself.’ There, I’d said it, and there would be no going back.

  ‘Ah,’ said Eirne, quick to understand. ‘You seek answers concerning who you are. Or rather, what you are.’ When I say nothing, she goes on, ‘When you know my people better, perhaps you will be ready to ask those questions, the ones that are so painful to bring into the light of day. I, too, have those questions, Brocc. For I am of the same kind as you. Neither fully of one race nor the other.’

  I stared at her, shocked. Did she really mean she was of mixed blood, part fey, part human? How could such a person rise to become an Otherworld queen?

  ‘You wonder at that. Perhaps, one day, I will tell you my story and you will share yours with me. But we have more pressing matters to speak of. Work to do. Work that is vital in both your world and mine.’

  ‘We,’ I echoed. ‘You and me? But . . .’

  ‘But you cannot stay here? Even if your presence, and the task I would have you complete for me, is vital to the survival of my people? Even if, in time, completing it will give you the answers you seek?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. And . . . it is true, I am expected back before dark today. I had hoped . . .’ I could not go on. I had been both selfish and stupid to imagine I could walk in here, get answers about the harp, and walk straight back out again. In the tales, the folk of the Otherworld never gave things away freely. Every gift had its price, and that included the gift of information. ‘What is the task you spoke of? Why is it so important?’ Me, performing some vital service to the Fair Folk? That sounded most unlikely.

  ‘I want a song from you,’ said Eirne. ‘A song we cannot write for ourselves, since we no longer have a bard among us. A song for peace. A song that captures the spirit of our people, dwindling as we are. A song to touch the stoniest of hearts and to bring understanding to the dullest of minds. A song that tells of the beauty of Breifne, both in your world and mine, and the bond between land and people. I think you can do it.’

  Perhaps I should have expected this, since my music is the best gift I have to offer. But I hesitated before I answered. ‘I am honoured, my lady.’

  ‘We are alone, Brocc. Please call me Eirne.’

  ‘Eirne, then. Such a song could not be crafted hastily. Could not and should not. And I do not have my harp with me.’

  ‘There is an old instrument here that you may use. As for how long it might take, you are the bard, not I. This must be done to the very best of your ability, Brocc. To capture the spirit of my people, you will need to know them better. To walk among them; to talk to them; to listen to their stories.’

  ‘I – I understand that. But as I said, I am expected back at court. Today, before
dusk. The longer I am gone, the more concern there will be for my safety. It is possible that someone might come looking for me.’ It was easy to imagine Liobhan heading off after me without a thought for Archu’s opinion, once she learned I had not been at the nemetons. If I agreed to what Eirne asked, I might sacrifice not only my own future on Swan Island but also my sister’s.

  ‘Only those whom we wish to admit may pass through our portal,’ Eirne said. ‘These times are perilous.’

  ‘Was it the music that opened your door for me? Or have your folk been watching me ever since . . . ever since I set out for Breifne?’

  Although Eirne smiled at this, her eyes were shadowed. ‘Music opens doors, yes; but only if those who live behind those doors want visitors. As for watching, my folk brought me news of a bard with a rare voice and nimble fingers on the harp, a person whose talents hinted at fey blood, though he did not live in our world. When I heard you singing outside the wall, I knew you were the one we needed. This song must be a bridge between the Fair Folk and humankind. It must speak to both. It must remind all that in times of trouble we will survive only if we trust and honour one another.’ She put her hand on my arm, turning those lustrous eyes on me. My cheeks felt hot. ‘Help us, Brocc,’ she said softly. ‘Please help.’

  ‘I will stay until tomorrow. I will listen to your folk, if that is what you wish. But the song . . .’ Even now I could hear the melody in my mind. The drumbeat was in my blood, strong and sure. I wished I had Liobhan here to help me; such a song, heroic and stirring, would be better suited to her voice than mine. ‘I will do what I can by then.’

  Eirne jumped up and clapped her hands. ‘Oh, thank you! Let me summon my folk.’ She threw back her head and released a high ululating cry. It sent shivers up and down my spine. In a moment the others were with us, the same crew as before with perhaps one or two additions – I saw a hawk-like being, and one with leathery wings like a bat. They settled all around us, lying on the rocks, sitting in the forks of trees, nestling in hollows. Tiny birds flew down onto the branches above us and assembled themselves into a neat row. Rowan took up a position close to Eirne. Let me summon my folk. Could it be that these thirty or so assorted creatures were all the Fair Folk remaining in this forest?

  ‘The bard will make us a song,’ Eirne announced. This was greeted with squeaks and whispers and hoots. One or two small beings jumped up and down in excitement. ‘In return, we must ready a house for him, and fetch him food and drink from outside. We cannot have our bard fainting from hunger. Rowan, you will arrange for the little ones to do that. They must take particular care.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Brocc is very clever with his verses; nothing is beyond him. And he has promised to listen to you, and walk with you, and hear what you have to tell. But he cannot put every tale into his song. Only what is most important for us, for our clan, for the future.’

  Muted chatter filled the clearing as they consulted one another. The only one that did not join in was Rowan, who remained on guard, solemn-faced. Quite soon, the discussion came to an end and a being that was part woman, part owl stepped forward.

  ‘I am the queen’s sage.’ Her voice carried its own haunting music. ‘My name is Nightshade. There have been long sad times. Sorry times. Times of fear and distress. Perhaps you know of the creatures some call the Crow Folk.’

  ‘I know of them, yes. The folk of Breifne – the human folk – fear them. There have been tales of lambs taken, of other animals savagely killed. And of men and women attacked. There is some debate as to what the Crow Folk are, and how they may best be dealt with.’

  ‘They are a danger to all,’ said Nightshade gravely. ‘You wonder, perhaps, why Eirne’s people are so few.’

  ‘Few, few,’ came a mournful echo from the assembled beings.

  ‘Our number falls fast, Bard. It falls so fast that if we do not find answers soon, we will all be gone in less than a human lifetime. And without us, Breifne will never be the same. We are the guardians of the trees, of the streams, of the rocks and hills and caves, of the deep and the high places. Without us, this fair land will lose its magic.’

  Did she mean the Crow Folk were killing Eirne’s people? Trying to displace them? I remembered something Dau had passed on to Archu. A conversation overheard in the stables. Rodan holding forth about felling these woods in an attempt to rid Breifne of

  the menace. The idea had shocked me deeply, even before I knew the

  Fair Folk were indeed living in this place.

  ‘And so,’ continued Nightshade, ‘the song you make for us will be the most important song you have ever composed, Bard. It will be ours to sing when the Crow Folk scream out in the forest. It will be ours to sing as we march to battle, and as we fall before the piercing beak and rending claws. It will be ours to sing to our children, few as they are, to keep hope alive in them even at the darkest time. And it will be our message to humankind, that we must stand strong together.’

  There was silence then, a profound, deep silence. Such a task could not be completed in a day and a night. If I continued with this, I would be committing myself to stay in the Otherworld for far longer. What if I was still behind the wall on Midsummer Day?

  Whispering broke the silence; Eirne’s folk were getting worried. They were fearful that I would retract my offer and set their plans awry. What did they intend for this song? This felt more monumental than simply producing a rousing ditty to give folk heart.

  ‘Quite a task,’ said Eirne quietly. ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘I can.’ How could I answer otherwise, when these folk had shown such faith in me? I would write the song. I would do my very best. I would go without sleep, I would work as fast as I could, I would hope this did not take as long as I feared it might.

  ‘We are well pleased.’ Eirne set her hand on my shoulder; I felt her touch right through my body and did not know if that was magic or something far more commonplace. ‘See to the arrangements, Rowan. I want our bard accommodated with all comforts. And the rest of you, take your turns in speaking to him and telling your tales. He will work better if he is not overwhelmed with visitors. Nightshade, will you take our harp to Brocc’s little house? To achieve this in time, he must start straight away.’

  Now, in the light of day, I sit upright on my pallet, taking care not to dislodge the small spiky being beside me. I take the cup it offers and drink. Yesterday they brought me food they said came from the human world, and I ate because I could not make verses on an empty stomach. I sat here in this little hut for hours and listened to one after another of Eirne’s folk tell tales of the beauty of the forest, of the danger of the wolf or the eagle or the raven, of the joy of spring’s first flowers, the bright wings of butterflies, or the birth of a young one of their own kind – it was a long time since such an event had happened, they told me. They provided me with quills and ink, and sheets of willow bark to write on. When the ink pot was nearly empty a squirrel-like being brought a fresh supply, cupped in half an eggshell. I listened and remembered and wrote until my eyes would not stay open and the words and notes were a swirling confusion on the page before me. I bade my last visitor farewell and lay down on the pallet, thinking to rest for an hour or two and wake refreshed. But it is evident now that my treacherous body would not have that, and Eirne’s folk did not wake me. I have slept for the rest of the night and, it seems, a good part of the morning. The sun is bright beyond my window, and I have wasted precious time.

  ‘Water for washing is by the door, there,’ says the spiky being. ‘Food on the little table. From your world. Safe. Moth-Weed and Little-Cap fetched it.’

  Gods, I feel as if I could lie down and sleep for the rest of the day. Instead I stretch my limbs and get creakily to my feet. ‘Thank you. May I know your name?’

  ‘I am Thistle-Coat.’ As I blunder my way over to the table where I was working last night, the being adds, ‘Wash first. F
ood next. Only then make music.’

  ‘But . . .’ But what? Thistle-Coat is quite right, I can’t do the perfect job Eirne wants if I am faint with hunger. And if I am staying in this tiny house and sleeping in this bed, I can hardly refuse to keep myself clean. ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  I am soon ready to start work again. The harp they have brought to me, though old and plain, is perfectly in tune. It is lighter than mine, but suits me well. It also draws an audience. By the time I have warmed up with ‘Artagan’s Leap’, a clutch of small beings is crowded in the hut’s doorway, with more peering in the tiny windows. Under their scrutiny, I try out the melody I have been working on, a grand and solemn one to suit the gravity of the song they need. My audience watches and listens as if spellbound; as if the music is magical. I find this sad. Eirne said they have no bard of their own, but she herself has a beautiful voice, and surely there must be some other singers among them. If there is time, I might offer some songs for entertainment and encourage them to join in. There’s nothing like making music together to give folk heart.

  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.