‘Good. A suggestion – leave that knife with me. Where you are going, it’s best not to carry iron.’
Morrigan’s britches. I hope I don’t encounter those crow-things along the way. I unfasten my knife from my belt and lay it, sheathed, on the table. ‘I’ll pick it up on the way back,’ I say, doing my best to sound confident. ‘And . . . if anyone comes looking for us, it might be better not to tell them where we’ve gone. That is not as foolish as it sounds.’
‘Go on, then. Storm, take her to the margin.’
I’m out the door and down the steps, and she hasn’t said if she’ll tell or not. Let this place not be too far away. Let it not be surrounded by uncanny guards of some kind. The old tales and songs come flooding back as I follow Storm into the forest: giant beetles with armed carapaces; wraith-like beings with long swords made of a gleaming, uncanny metal; skeletal creatures with bony fingers that can reach right into a person’s chest and rip out their heart. Fey warriors who fight by filling their opponents’ spirits with cold terror. I won’t think of that. I’ll remember that Juniper thought me courageous. I’ll remember the power of a song. I’ll think of that moment when I went flying over the wall, making even Dau smile. I’ll be a Swan Island warrior, the best of the best. I’ll find my brother and bring him home.
23
Dau
I’m not long back in the barn when the men who rode out last night return. Or rather, some of them return; there have been more losses. Illann’s all right, and so are the rest of the grooms and stablehands who went with them, but the party has brought home not only the bodies of those killed in the earlier attack, but also those of two of their comrades. Whatever it was Rodan intended them to do, it hasn’t gone to plan.
We have a lot of exhausted and injured horses to tend to. I get to work, and I hear bits and pieces about what happened but not enough to make any real sense of it. Some of these horses went out with that first group of men, the ones who were nearly all killed. The animals have wounds like claw marks, only far worse than anything an eagle might inflict. The flesh around those marks is swollen and red, and I don’t like our chances of getting the wounds to heal. I clean up the mare I’ve been given to look after, make sure she drinks, apply a lotion the stable master gives me. I can’t talk to the animal, but I try to convey a message with my hands. Be calm. You are safe now. Easy, friend.
I tend to another horse, and another. My thoughts go often to Liobhan. What was she thinking, heading off like that with what happened last night still hanging over her? Why couldn’t she wait for Archu’s approval? What if she wanders about in that forest all day and still doesn’t find her brother? And why in the name of the gods couldn’t she explain what it was all about?
Then Illann’s beside me, looking drained and old. ‘Finish what you’re doing, then come over to the practice room,’ he murmurs. ‘Make sure you’re not seen going in.’
Archu’s back. No prizes for guessing why he’s broken the rules of the mission and called the two of us in. The first question he asks me is the obvious one, so I tell him as much as I can, starting with the prince assaulting Liobhan, then giving a quick explanation of this morning’s hearing, and ending with Liobhan going off to find Brocc. I don’t tell him she jumped over the wall or that I helped her. I tell them Brocc was following a lead on the Harp of Kings. Archu hears me out, keeping up a steady rhythm on the bodhrán to mask our voices. Because I’m speaking in a murmur, he uses the tips of his fingers, not the beater.
‘I’ve already been informed about the episode between Ciara and the prince,’ he says when I’m finished. ‘It would seem the regent has let her off lightly, though a public apology will test her. It will be awkward if she’s not back by suppertime, since that’s when Cathra wants it. If this household hadn’t just lost a number of good men, I’d say it’s fortunate the other problem has come up to distract folk from our difficulty.’
‘What happened, exactly?’ I glance at Illann.
‘It depends who you ask.’ Illann’s looking very grim. ‘Those wounds on the horses weren’t made by human weapons. It was the crow creatures, no doubt of it. We retrieved the injured animals first. Some of us stayed with them while the fighters rode on. I gather Cathra’s master-at-arms had been given instructions to confront the local chieftain over the attack and demand answers. Nobody was putting it into so many words, but it’s well known that Prince Rodan distrusts any hint of the uncanny, any notion that some power other than the strictly human might be in play. He’d given instructions based on the assumption that this chieftain was responsible for the slaughter of our men. He held to that even after the survivor spoke of an attack by birds.’
I’m speechless. The uncanny. This is what Liobhan’s been hinting at. I’m sure it’s the kind of thing the storyteller believes, with her strange utterances that suggested she knew about my past. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brocc, with his songs and tales of magic and his visits to the druids, was acting on the belief that the harp had been spirited away, if not by eldritch birds, then by elves or clurichauns. But Illann, one of the most down-to-earth people I know, giving credence to such a mad notion?
‘And how did this chieftain respond to the midnight visit and the accusations that went with it?’ Archu sounds remarkably calm.
‘He wasn’t happy. I didn’t witness it, since I’d been left with the horses. But there was a clash at the gates, and more were killed. Foolishness. Riding onto someone’s holding by night, armed to the teeth and making wild accusations is hardly likely to foster bonds of cooperation. They should have sent a messenger to this fellow after the crow attack, asking for help. Not that they could; five out of six were dead, and the survivor can hardly be blamed for deciding to ride back here.’
‘And Cathra approved sending this force in,’ mused Archu. ‘That surprises me. The regent may have his problems right now, but he’s seemed to me quite measured. Brondus would surely have counselled caution.’
We’re all silent for a little. ‘Rodan will soon be king,’ I said. ‘And Rodan favours swift and decisive action. He’s not afraid to use force, whether that’s to exact retribution for an attack before he’s bothered to check the facts, or to take advantage of a woman. He was the one who made a rallying speech before the second group rode out. It was full of calls to vengeance. He knows how to stir folk up.’ They’re both looking at me intently. ‘I suspect the future king only listens to advisers when they happen to agree with him,’ I add. ‘Cathra is regent until Midsummer Day. But I think Rodan is seeing himself as leader now. And if it’s true that the responsibility scares him, maybe this is how he handles his fear.’
Illann says nothing. Archu, still delicately drumming, gives a nod. ‘We can’t concern ourselves with that,’ he says. ‘Time’s short; we must concentrate on the task in hand.’
‘Anything arise from your trip?’ asks Illann.
‘We can rule Tassach out. He’s happy on his own patch. He has a wife that he’s fond of and a pair of young sons. He’s a keen and successful horse breeder, well loved by his own people. He’s made it known, privately, that he has no intention of contesting the kingship. Some have said that is a pity; on the face of it, he’s a far stronger candidate than Rodan, even if the link to the royal line is weaker. But it seems pressure has been tried and Tassach’s not moving.’
The three of us exchange looks; Archu’s beater sounds a different rhythm on the drum. Perhaps we’re all thinking the same thing: with a man of Rodan’s character on the throne, there’s a turbulent time ahead for Breifne.
‘At such times of unrest,’ murmurs Archu, ‘anything can happen. But the fate of Breifne is not our concern. Our mission lasts until midsummer, no longer. We’ve been asked to perform a particular task. We do it in time or we don’t. Either way, we leave court straight after Midsummer Day. Let us hope Donal’s extended absence means he’s learned the whereabouts of the harp. But I don’t think we can wait for his re
turn, or Ciara’s, to find that out.
I want her here to make her apology. I think we have a job for you, Nessan.’
‘As it happens,’ says Illann, ‘there’s a horse to be returned to one of the farms east of here, not far from the spot where the road goes uphill toward the forest. You can ride the animal there; I’ll see you past the gate guard. The folk are expecting the horse today.’ He glances at Archu. ‘That would see Nessan well on the way.’
‘Good,’ says Archu. ‘As soon as you’ve returned this horse, go after Donal and Ciara, and do it quickly. If Donal’s in trouble, help Ciara extricate him. If there’s no trace of him, retrieve Ciara and get back as quickly as you can. Best if you head off as soon as you’re ready. Take food and water and your weapon.’
What can I say? He’s just given me approval to do exactly what I want to do. Though I won’t be mentioning to Liobhan that I’ve been ordered to retrieve her. Makes her sound like a wayward heifer that’s wandered into a bog.
All goes to plan, for once. I enjoy the ride to the farm; I hand over the horse with no trouble. My ability to explain myself in gestures and grunts is improving. I’m up the hill and on the forest road before I consider that I’ll have to visit the storyteller again. If I’m to find Liobhan, I’ll have to talk to the woman. The thought sets a chill in my bones.
But the mission comes first. And this is part of the mission, because Archu and Illann have sent me to do it. Forget fearsome birds, weird dreams, strangers who know more than they should. I’ll walk up there, knock on this woman’s door and make a simple request for directions. With luck the crone won’t even remember me. Old people do grow forgetful.
Some time later, but not long because I’m keeping up an excellent pace, I’m walking up the path to the cottage, and there’s the dog, Storm, standing on the path with her eyes fixed on me. Not growling, not curling her lip, just examining me as if to determine what I am made of. If I could speak, I would tell her she’s a good girl.
The door creaks open. I don’t look up. I can feel the storyteller’s presence. She’d better not try any of her potions on me today. Storm is licking my hand. I can’t quite find the words I planned.
‘First the poet, second the warrior and third the handsome prince.’ The old woman sounds amused. ‘A tale out of ancient times, come right to my door. What have I done to deserve this?’
If I’ve learned anything on this mission, it’s how to endure other folk’s scorn. I wish I’d had the same strength when I was young. Handsome prince? Hah!
I give Storm a scratch behind the ears, then face the old woman. I show her three fingers, one each for poet, warrior and prince.
I take away the prince, leaving two: Brocc and Liobhan. I point in various directions. I lift my brows in question.
The woman has turned her penetrating stare on me. I wish she would stop playing these games. Why does everything have to be so cryptic, wrapped up in the gestures and language of those ancient tales she mentioned? I want simple traveller’s directions, that’s all.
‘Where your friends are going, even the most heroic of princes cannot follow. Not if he wishes to return in his right mind. Turn back, Nessan. You do not belong in this place.’
Ah yes – she knows my name, though I never learned hers.
I try to show please, hand on heart. I try to show that I fear for the others. And that I am in a hurry.
‘Rubbish,’ says the crone. ‘The poet followed this path by his own free choice. The woman is a warrior. She is both strong and wise. You, upon the other hand, have no idea or you would not have come here bearing iron weapons.’
What is she talking about? It makes no sense. What was I supposed to bring with me, a wooden club? A cumbersome staff? Besides, Liobhan had a knife. I can think of no way to indicate this by signs.
‘Your friend saw the wisdom of leaving her weapon in my keeping before she went on. You may do the same with yours.’
How does she know what I’m thinking? I hate that. Besides, this is stupid advice. She expects me to go on a rescue mission out in the forest with no means of defending myself or the others save my bare fists? I make a sharp gesture of refusal.
‘Oh dear.’ She looks at me as a nursemaid might look at a recalcitrant child. ‘Nessan, what would really mark you out as foolish would be heading off into the woods with your knife at your belt. Do that and you most certainly will not find her. Or the one who went before.’
I cannot waste more time. I need to press on. Brocc has been gone since yesterday morning. He could have travelled a very long way. I must accept that what this woman knows is critical to finding him. She won’t tell me until I give up the knife. That much is plain in her eyes.
‘I will keep it safe with the other, until you return.’
I take the knife from my belt and lay it on the step. The old woman’s gaze is still on me, judging. I moved too fast, too angrily. By now I should know better. I back off, not quite able to apologise. The situation is unfair. Brocc and Liobhan broke the rules and made things difficult for everyone. I’m here because Archu sent me to find them. I wonder if the woman interrogated them this way, or smiled and let them pass. I’m astonished that Liobhan gave up her knife. What is this about carrying iron anyway?
‘When you were growing up,’ says the old woman, ‘did nobody tell you stories?’
What has that to do with anything? Why would she ask this?
‘No?’ Her tone is softer. She would prise out my darkest secrets if she could.
Stories, in that household? Hardly. If there were any, they were the ones my brothers told at night, in the dark, trying to make me wet the bed in terror. I shake my head.
‘A pity. If they had, you would understand this better. Go now, and find your friends if you can. The woman has not been gone so very long. But you must use your wits, young man. This will not be an ordinary search. Your best tool may be patience, and I think you are somewhat short on that.’
Short on patience, me? When I stood and let blows rain down on me and took no steps to retaliate?
‘I will not send Storm with you, though I think you are fond of dogs.’ She’s trying to be kind now, I hear it in her voice. She knows nothing. Nothing. ‘Walk up that way. There’s a path through the woods; for some distance you will be able to follow Ciara’s tracks. She is wearing heavy shoes and a long skirt. And she’s limping. Where the path branches into two, go right. Keep your eyes open. Keep your ears open. Keep your mind open, Nessan. Do not dismiss what may at first seem impossible. Go now. I will keep both knives safe, yours and hers.’
I bow and make the gesture for thank you. At least she’s told me which way to go now. If she’d done that straight away she’d have saved both of us a lot of time.
Some while later I’m still following a barely discernible path through the forest, wondering exactly what I should be looking for after I find this fork in the track. A house? A settlement? There are signs that Liobhan came this way, so it seems the old woman was telling the truth – I had my doubts about that. I feel naked without my weapon, ill prepared to deal with any sort of attack. That is foolish; I can fight well unarmed. I prevailed in almost all the bouts I undertook on Swan Island and took my opponents down without resorting to underhand methods. But here, today, I feel an unease that owes little to logic. I keep looking for the crow-things. I can’t help myself. This place is odd. It feels shadowy and strange. I may be walking into a trap. Breathe, Dau. Fix your eyes on the goal ahead. Do not think of the past.
I reach the spot where one track branches into two. I take the one on the right, as instructed. I walk on. There’s no sign of anyone; the only sounds are my own footsteps and the whisper of the wind in the leaves. The path winds and straightens, goes up hill and downhill, and I follow as best I can. I’m still angry, and now I’m tired as well. I can’t find Liobhan’s tracks any more, though where the earth is soft there ar
e disturbances along the path, almost as if someone with a brush has whisked away the signs that she has passed. But that’s nonsense. I’m imagining things. I must stop to rest.
I drink from my water skin. I force down a strip of dried mutton. I sit under the trees for a short while, making myself breathe slowly. My body is strung tight; something has a grip on me, anger or frustration or disappointment in myself. I get up, pack away my things and step back onto the path. Or I try. But the path is gone. How can that be? It wasn’t broad, but it was clear enough, heading on eastward between two young beeches. I saw it with my own eyes. Is someone playing tricks? Or is my mind addled? I didn’t consume any of that woman’s potions. Not this time.
Very well; I must find the way by sun and shadows. I was heading east. I will walk to the east, then, and hope that the path runs straight.
It’s a long way. It’s so long that I’m sure I have it wrong. I’ve missed the true path altogether. I’ll barely have time to get back to court before dark, even if I find both Liobhan and Brocc soon and neither is hurt. A curse on the storyteller! For all Liobhan’s talk of wise women deserving respect, I think this particular crone is nothing but a cruel meddler. And she has my knife. That makes me angrier than anything. How dare she!
On the bank of a stream that I cannot cross without getting my boots soaked, I halt. The terrain ahead seems to change all the time. I’ll see a copse of holly trees, or a rocky outcrop that looks like a frog, and when I reach what should be that spot, I find myself in a thicket of young willows, or crunching my way across open ground scattered with pebbles. I hear crows now, their calls harsh and mocking. I tell myself, again, that I’m a Swan Island warrior, resourceful and brave and strong. I’m better than the other trainees, I’ve demonstrated that. I was chosen for this mission. I was trusted. I can do this. But all the time, a cloud creeps into my mind, bringing images of Dau at five years old, Dau at nine years old, and oh, gods! Dau at thirteen years old when his brothers gave up trying to break his body and broke his heart instead. At thirteen I learned how to hate. And now I hate myself. I hate my failure. I hate my bitterness. I hate my weakness. I hate that I can still be hurt. I worked so hard to become strong. I worked so hard to reach Swan Island. And yes, I can defeat Hrothgar and Cianan and Yann, I can defeat Brocc, though I cannot move with the fluid grace that so often lets him slip from the hold of a stronger man. I can defeat Liobhan. Sometimes. Why do I fear these crows? Why do I fear the storyteller, a white-haired old woman? I am a grown man of eighteen and a warrior. Why do I still dread the thought of going home?
Harp of Kings Page 23
