Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘Good boy,’ I whisper, scratching him behind the ear. ‘But don’t make a friend of me. That can only end in sorrow.’

  I walk back across the grazing field with the dog beside me. I try to look as if I’m going about my master’s business. And I consider this: if I’d found myself in such a situation before we left Swan Island, or even some time after, I would have been pleased if the escapade lost Liobhan her place on the island. I might even have altered the story somewhat to make her responsibility greater and my own less. Though, to be truthful, I probably would have refused to help her in the first place. Now all I can think of is how fearless she is, and how able. I can no longer think of her as a rival, as someone to be discredited, as someone unworthy to win a place on the island. Mad, impulsive, sometimes foolhardy – yes, she is all that. But from now on she is my equal, my comrade, my friend.

  21

  Brocc

  The rock-being, whose name is True, brings Little-Cap back from the clearing cradled in his arms and lays him on a flat rock in the assembly area. The tiny body looks like a broken doll. Moth-Weed, found deep in the brambles and clinging to life, is passed to a being I understand to be a healer and borne off quickly for care.

  Eirne herself washes the blood from Little-Cap’s body, then wraps him in a shroud of silk. It is a brave shining green, the colour of the forest. My throat aches. My head aches. But when the little one is ready, the worst of his hurts concealed under the winding sheets, I sing a lullaby, and if my voice is hoarse and uneven, nobody seems to mind. While I sing, Eirne’s people come forward one by one and lay petals or pebbles or feathers on the stone beside the body. Afterwards, we stand in silence a while. The light tells me it is barely midday.

  ‘You are weary, Brocc,’ says Eirne. ‘Go to your little house and rest awhile. We will bring food and drink.’

  There’s a question I must ask, but not here, with Eirne’s people weeping and embracing each other and reaching gentle fingers to touch the still, dead form. So I nod and walk away, down to my little hut. I do not lie down on the pallet. I cannot rest. I have fought, I have sung, I have saved one victim and helped protect the clan, and I have learned something. There is a power in me that I did not know about. All my life, or ever since I knew I was different from my brother and sister, I have wished I did not have the blood of two races in my veins. Sometimes I have cursed the parents who brought me into the world then abandoned me. I have wished I were like Galen and Liobhan, solidly human. Today I have learned just how different I am, and how that difference might change not only my own life but the lives of many others. If my music can hold back even the malign Crow Folk, then I have a weapon that is both powerful and perilous. When I sang, I saw fear in the strange eyes of those creatures. I, too, am afraid.

  ‘Brocc? May I come in?’

  I’m startled out of my reverie. Eirne is at my door, and by her side are Thistle-Coat and another small being, carrying a tray between them. I thank them, and the little ones go, but Eirne comes in and seats herself on the edge of my bed. I may have just done something remarkable, but now I’m awkward in her presence. I blurt out the question that has been troubling me.

  ‘Eirne – were Little-Cap and Moth-Weed attacked fetching more food for me?’ I gesture to the bread and cheese, the dried fruit, the cup of fresh water on the tray. A flower has been placed beside the platter, small and perfect.

  ‘There is no reason in the actions of the Crow Folk,’ she says. ‘Do not take this weight upon yourself, Brocc. You fought bravely, as did Rowan. As for the song . . .’ Her brow creases; her lovely eyes look far away. ‘I do not know your origins. I do not know where this gift came from. But it is rare indeed. I thought you would help us, but I never dreamed . . .’

  ‘Nightshade said the Crow Folk could wipe out your people within one human lifetime if they are not stopped. In my world, it sounds as if they have not been in these parts very long. Folk argue about exactly what they are and how to deal with them. Can you tell me any more? Where do they come from? How long have they plagued your people?’

  ‘I can tell you little more than Nightshade did. The Crow Folk . . . they came last winter. They spread quickly; my spies in the human realm report their presence in many parts of Breifne. They are restless creatures, moving from one place to another, never settling long. There is no discernible pattern to their attacks. Within my realm, they haunt the outer reaches of the forest, not in great numbers, but always with ill intent. In that brief time we have lost many of our folk, Brocc. Many. And we were few enough even before. They seem impervious to our magic. And we will not burn our ancient trees to drive them away.’

  ‘Before, when I was close up . . . I had thought them evil creatures, malign and cruel. But the look in their eyes . . . They seemed . . . lost. Confused. Is it possible they are themselves victims of some dark magic? A curse?’

  ‘I cannot say. Their destructive acts have no apparent purpose. They kill, horribly. But not for food – always, the broken bodies of their victims are left lying for others to find. They attack some travellers on the road and let others pass. They are not birds from your world, nor beings from this world, they are – something else. That makes it all the more remarkable that you were able to drive them off. You are something rare indeed, my bard. I wish I knew what.’

  I do not reply. This is perilous ground.

  ‘Will you answer one question for me, Brocc?’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘Who were your parents?’

  I swallow hard. ‘My parents are the kind wise man and woman who raised me. This is not something I talk about. Not to anyone.’

  ‘I think you must, now. Who endowed you with this remarkable gift, if not the mother who gave birth to you? Or the father whose blood runs in your veins? One or other was of the Fair Folk. Humankind does not possess such magic.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Might not they wish to be reassured that their child was raised in kindness and has grown into a fine man? Might not they wish to hear that matchless voice, or see those fingers pluck dreams from the harp?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ My voice is harsh with judgement; I cannot help it. ‘They left me to be raised by others. Besides, I don’t know who they were. Or are, if they still exist.’

  Eirne takes my right hand in both of hers. Her touch is so gentle, it stills the wild, angry thing that has awoken in me. ‘But, dear one,’ she says, ‘you know what they were.’

  I nod, miserable. ‘When my parents deemed me old enough to understand, they explained that to me. Being a wise woman, my mother made it into a story. Made this trace of the Otherworld in me a blessing, not a curse. Told me I was loved just as dearly as my fully human brother and sister. My father told me I was his child just as much as they were. At that age, I accepted it without question. And I always knew it was something secret, though I cannot remember them telling me that.’

  ‘A story,’ muses Eirne. ‘Left on the doorstep on a chill winter’s night? Found among a brood of badger cubs? Set floating down the river in a willow basket?’

  Despite myself, I smile at this. ‘None of those. Though each would make a fine song.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I was brought to them by . . . by someone they knew. A man of your people.’

  Eirne considers this. She has not released my hand. ‘Your true father, perhaps?’

  ‘No. This is not a person who would lie to them. They are old and true friends. He was doing a favour for someone; someone who could not keep me. Perhaps I was an embarrassment, born out of wedlock and of mixed blood. He took me to a place where he knew I would be loved and wanted, and they were my parents from that day on. This, despite the fact that they had a son not yet two years old, and another child expected within three turnings of the moon. They are fine people.’ I don’t want to know who my birth parents were. When they gave me up, I found myself in the bes
t family any child could wish for. But it feels good to have got the story out.

  ‘When you feel doubt,’ says Eirne softly, ‘consider what you have done today. An ordinary man could not have achieved that. Think of the song you will write for us, a song of hope and faith. That song could change the future of Breifne. Those who made you gave you magic, Brocc. Those who raised you taught you wisdom and good judgement. You should think kindly of them all.’

  22

  Liobhan

  I’m over the wall, I’ve retrieved my things, I’m on my way. Thank all the gods for Archu’s training. If not for that, I’d probably have mistimed the jump and fallen to a spectacularly bloody end on the wall or crashed down to land in a heap of twigs, leaves and broken bones. Just as well Dau was prepared to help, not only now but last night as well. That’s twice he’s surprised me.

  Eabha’s training comes in useful too. There are folk on the road, a small cart with sacks of something on it, a herdsman with a flock of sheep, others walking. That means I stay in the bushes, or creep along behind dry-stone walls hoping the livestock won’t give me away, or wait under cover until the track is clear. I have my skirt back on and a kerchief tied over my hair. I’m hoping that will mean I don’t stand out quite so much.

  There’s one problem. After the climb up the oak, the heroic leap and the awkward descent down the elm, my right ankle hurts.

  I can walk, but I know the ankle needs to be rested, not pushed. I hear my mother’s voice in my mind, suggesting that next time I head out on an adventure I should carry a small pot of her special salve and a supply of strong linen strips. Too late for that. I’ll deal with the problem when I get back.

  Once or twice, as I climb the hill to the forest, I stumble over a stone and the pain makes me curse. I think of Dau having to keep silent all that time. Then I think of Brocc and my thoughts turn dark. I could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’s spoken to me about the way he was given to our parents, and who brought him, and what it might mean. I might even have a finger or two left over. He doesn’t care about all that. Why would he? He got the best parents anyone could have. And it’s easy for him to pass as an ordinary man who just happens to have an extraordinary talent for music. My guess is that he’s got just a drop or two of fey blood, no more. But now here he is, going up to see the storyteller and then quite likely heading on in search of portals to the Otherworld. That’s asking for trouble, even if his hunch is right and they’ve got the Harp of Kings up there. What if he meets his original parents and they think they have a right to keep him there? What if he gets embroiled in some kind of power games among the Fair Folk? I don’t think any mission is worth that kind of risk.

  I’m up where the road levels out, and my ankle’s not feeling good. The day is a perfect one for walking, mostly fine, not too hot, with the occasional drizzly shower. A lot of birds are flying overhead, in and out of the woodland. More than I would expect, and they’re odd looking. Big. Dark. I hope they’re not the crow-demons folk are talking about.

  It’s quite a walk to the storyteller’s house, and I nearly miss the little path that branches up the hill to reach it. Without Dau’s description I’d probably have walked on past. By the time I haul myself up that hill, feeling more like a creaky old woman than a warrior in training, my ankle is protesting fiercely and I know I’ll need to rest for a bit.

  No sign of Brocc at the cottage. There’s a dog lying in front of the door with its tail thumping up and down, which I take to mean it’s in a good mood. No sign of the storyteller either. I’ve tried to picture this person, but I only see my mother. She would like this house with its magical objects dangling from the roof, the tree arching over it in protection and the stream flowing by not far away. I stand here with my ankle on fire, gazing at the place, and I feel just a little homesick.

  I approach slowly, murmuring reassuring words to the dog, which keeps its eyes on me. It lowers its muzzle to rest between its front legs. Seems I’m not considered a threat. I reach the steps leading up to the door and sit down on the second one. What now?

  ‘Ah,’ someone says. ‘Another visitor. What is it they say, It never rains but it pours? Were you looking for me?’

  I try to get up, then as the ankle sends a dart of pain up my leg, sink back down.

  ‘In too much of a hurry, were you?’ There’s no question that this is the storyteller. She’s older than my mother, but her manner is very much the same, and so is the assessing look in her eyes. She’s come around the side of the cottage on quiet feet.

  ‘I jumped and landed awkwardly. Then I walked on an injured ankle. I should know better.’ I’m talking to her as if I know her; bad manners. Though I feel as if I do know her. ‘My name is Ciara. I’m looking for my – for my friend. I think he came this way, hoping to find you. Perhaps yesterday. Have you seen him?’

  ‘Food. Drink. A bandage for that ankle. Then talk. Can you make your way inside? Let me help.’

  I use her shoulder for support as I go up the remaining steps and into the cottage. The dog moves aside at her request. What did Dau say its name was? Shadow?

  The woman examines my ankle carefully, applies a salve, then puts on a tight binding of linen strips. She knows what she’s doing; I’ll be able to keep going. And it seems that’s what I will be doing, since it’s plain my brother isn’t here. I won’t even think of the long walk back to court. I try once or twice to ask about Brocc – Donal – but she hushes me, telling me to wait. I go on waiting while she fetches cups, heats water over her fire and makes a brew. She puts a generous dollop of honey in my cup.

  ‘Lavender and chamomile,’ she says. ‘Restorative, both. The honey will give you strength and sweeten your mood. Looking for someone, did you say?’

  ‘My friend. Donal. I think he came up here looking for you. If you’re the storyteller, that is. He should have been back by suppertime last night.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘At the regent’s court, where we are staying.’ And when she seems to be waiting for more: ‘We’ve been hired until midsummer, to play music for the guests.’

  ‘Ah. And you cannot play without this particular member of the band.’

  ‘We could, but not so well. Has Donal passed this way? Have you seen him?’

  ‘Would that be a very tall young man with golden hair, who somewhat resembles a prince from a heroic tale? Or would it be a not-quite-so-tall young man with pale skin and dark locks and a haunted look about him? A man with a particularly beautiful voice?’

  Tears come to my eyes. ‘The second. He had some questions about the Harp of Kings.’ It seems safe to say this, since Brocc must have asked about it. The heroic prince has to be Dau, whom this woman met after he fell off his horse. I won’t be sharing the description with him. ‘I need to find him quickly. I’m very concerned about him.’

  ‘Is not this friend a grown man, and something of a warrior besides? Is he not able to take a walk in the woods without a guardian running to the rescue? The minstrel who visited me would be well able to battle hedgehogs, owls and mice, using solely the power of his voice.’

  I feel my temper rising and force it back down. ‘It’s important that I find him quickly. Not because I fear attack by armies of hedgehogs, or by anything more likely to do Donal harm.’

  ‘Then why, Ciara?’ The woman’s voice is quiet now. She sits facing me across the table, with her cup between her palms. Her hands are like my mother’s, scarred and worn from years of chopping and brewing and occasionally burning herself. When she bound up my ankle, her touch was gentle. ‘Come, you can tell me.’

  I can’t meet her eye. ‘Because I fear he may wander into a place from which he cannot return.’ There, I’ve said it. Let her make of it what she will. ‘And the sooner I find the – the crossing point, the better chance I have of stopping him.’

  ‘What if he is already gone?’

  �
��Then I’ll fetch him back.’ I straighten up and make myself look at her. I gather myself together. ‘But to do that, I need to know when he came here, and what he said, and which path he might have taken.’ When she makes no reply, just keeps on looking at me, I add, ‘Please.’

  ‘I am not sure you have told me the truth.’

  ‘I’m bound by a promise. I’ve given you as much of the truth as I can. Will you help me? Will you help us?’

  ‘You care a great deal for this young man, your fellow minstrel. Is he your sweetheart, Ciara?’

  ‘No. And that is no lie, so now I will ask you a question. Did you and he talk about the Harp of Kings?’

  ‘We did. He wanted directions and I gave them. He went on elsewhere. Toward the crossing point you spoke of. Storm led him.’ She nods toward the dog, which is lying before the hearth, snoring gently. ‘I fear you may have a long journey ahead of you, young woman.’

  I get to my feet, testing the ankle. With difficulty, I put my shoe back on. ‘I should go. Thank you for your kindness. I hope some day I can repay you. If you could show me which way . . .’

  ‘Storm will take you.’ The storyteller snaps her fingers, and within a few moments Storm is fully awake and standing by the door, ready to go. ‘The dog trusted you straight away. That seldom happens. Daughter of a wise woman, are you? Granddaughter?’

  I can’t help smiling. ‘Daughter,’ I tell her. ‘She is very like you. Though far less patient with annoying visitors.’

  ‘When you see her, tell her I like her daughter’s courage and her bright hair. I like her daughter’s directness and the way she works at curbing her temper. Pass on respectful greetings from another of her kind. My name is Juniper.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. I may not see her for some time, but I won’t forget.’