Time to give up. I must return to court and tell Illann and Archu I’ve failed. I could wander about here until nightfall and find nothing.
I don’t move. I stand on the bank, watching the clear water flow by my feet. The stream bed is all round stones, so many shades of grey and brown, black and white, so many patterns, every one different. A fanciful person might think those patterns contained a message of some kind. The water has worn the pebbles smooth. Tiny fish swim there, dark arrows through the rippling water. As I watch them dart about, an unexpected sound comes to my ears. Music. Someone’s playing the whistle, and it’s a tune I recognise, a very fast jig that Liobhan often plays at the end of an evening’s entertainment. It rings out over the forest, high, sweet and true, and played so quickly that the musician can only be Liobhan herself. I’ve found her.
I don’t need a path now; I follow the music. I splash through the stream and walk on in wet boots, heading toward a more densely forested area. I thread my way through the undergrowth and emerge to find myself facing a vast stony outcrop, almost like a wall. It seems unbroken in either direction. Without ropes, there will be no climbing up. I edge along it toward the sound. But the whistle falls silent. I stop in my tracks. Maybe she’s only pausing for breath. Let her be there. Let me find her. The silence draws out. Even the birds are hushed.
Liobhan starts to sing. Her voice rises, rich and warm in the quiet, singing the song about lovers parted by time and fate despite their promise never to let each other down. It always seemed to me sentimental rubbish. Now the song sends my flesh into goose bumps and makes my heart lift. I follow the sound along the rock wall until I reach a small clearing. There, seated cross-legged on a flat stone at the foot of the wall, is Liobhan. Her bag, her cloak, her water skin and her whistle are beside her, along with a wrapping that may have held food.
She looks over at me, eyes wide with surprise, but she doesn’t stop singing. When I start to speak – it’s surely safe to use my voice out here, with no sign of anyone else around – she puts her finger to her lips, signalling silence. But she isn’t silent; she keeps on with the song. I approach, take off my own bag, become aware of how wet my boots really are, squelching along. Why is Liobhan doing this? Can the music be masking some other sound, something she doesn’t want heard? The splashing of a waterfall, the babble of geese or the lazy conversations of sheep can be used in a similar way.
I try gestures – You, come with me? Back that way? Liobhan scowls at me, even as she sweetly sings the line, I will come with you wherever you go. If I thought she’d be pleased to see me I was wrong. So much for the handsome prince.
She finishes the song, picks up the whistle, and straight away launches into another tune, a slower one this time. She looks exhausted. Her face is white, and the grim set of her features tells me whatever she’s doing is no pleasant interlude in a day’s walk, but some sort of battle. Or a challenge she must meet. But why? What possible purpose can there be in this? The whole thing is so far beyond my comprehension that I can think of no way to help. I spread out my cloak, sit down on it and drink from my water skin. I consider taking off my boots, but decide that would not be safe until I know what’s happening. I’d rather not fight off enemies or walk all the way back to court in my bare feet.
We sit there a long time. A very long time. Liobhan performs a song, a whistle tune, another song, another whistle tune. Occasionally she stops for a sip of water. I go back to the stream and refill her water skin, leaving mine within her reach. I wish she would stop for long enough to explain what in the name of the gods she’s doing. Will she keep on going until she collapses with exhaustion? Her voice is beautiful; it’s deep and powerful. Now it’s beginning to falter. I hear a rough edge in the silken tones and a catch in her breath. When she pauses to drink, I murmur, ‘Liobhan. You can’t go on.’
I’m expecting a fierce gesture, or a shake of the head, or to be completely ignored. But she surprises me. She holds out the whistle, as if suggesting I take over the job. She knows I can’t play.
‘Don’t mock me!’ The words are out before I can stop them.
Liobhan points toward the rock wall. ‘We need to keep going,’ she says, her voice harsh and weary. ‘Music’s the key. It’s the way in.’ I wonder if she might faint; she has that look. Liobhan. The warrior. The dauntless. ‘It’s in the tales, Dau. Help. Please.’
I open my mouth and start to sing. I’ve heard enough of their tunes to know one or two well enough, though I don’t remember all the words, so there’s a fair bit of la-la-la in it. My voice is not the voice of a musician. It is not the voice of a person who enjoys singing while he goes about his daily work. It’s an apology for a voice, neglected and forgotten. But it is useful now, and so I sing a song I’ve heard Liobhan perform before, about a boat travelling across treacherous seas, and the crew encountering various sea monsters and other strange phenomena. My rough tones are better suited to that than to, say, a ballad of love and loss. I avoid Liobhan’s eye. I can imagine the look on her face – scorn or pity, I don’t know which would be worse. Out of the corner of my eye I see her get up and stretch, then take a long drink from the water skin, then go over to the rock wall and run her hands along it as if searching for something. I finish the song and start another straight away, the one about a woman lifting up her skirt to tantalise a man, and the man getting a shock when he discovers exactly what she is beneath that garment. The words of this one are not so hard to recall. When you sit in a hall and cannot speak, you learn to use your ears. It was the music, often, that kept me from sinking into a swamp of dark thoughts.
I glance up. Liobhan is looking at me. There is neither scorn nor pity on her face, only a smile of what seems to be genuine enjoyment. You can sing, she mouths. I shrug. Maybe I can, a little. Though the coarse sound of my own voice only serves to remind me how lovely hers is. And Brocc’s, of course. He sings like a man from another world.
I reach the end of a verse, and Liobhan puts a finger to her lips. Shh. She’s gone very still. She clears her throat, draws a breath and begins to sing. It’s that plaintive song about the parted lovers again. Though her voice is all but gone, she gets through almost to the end. ‘I cannot come with you wherever you go, And I cannot stay by you in joy and in woe,’ she sings, then falls silent, waiting.
And from somewhere, I cannot tell where, there comes the sound of another voice, completing the verse. ‘But I’ll be beside you, though gone from your sight, I’ll love you and guard you till we meet in the light.’ Brocc. It’s his voice. There’s surely no other like it. But where is he? There’s only the rock wall, and the forest stretching out, and now, silence.
‘Where –’ I begin, and Liobhan hushes me again.
‘Wait,’ she whispers.
Behind her, a crack appears in the rock wall. Dagda’s bollocks, the whole thing’s going to come down and crush us! But no. No crashing debris, no rumbling collapse, but . . . something impossible. There’s now a neat opening from bottom to top, just wide enough for a person with Liobhan’s broad shoulders to make a way through. And that, without a doubt, is what she means to do. It’s risky, foolish, crazy, against all the rules. It’s like a thing from one of those songs about giants and monsters. This can’t be real. I must be dreaming. But no, it’s here, right before my eyes, and as I stand gaping, Liobhan picks up her bag and her water skin and moves toward the opening. In a moment she will be gone.
I open my mouth to say, Don’t, but shut it again with the word unspoken. Brocc is in there, wherever there is. We heard him. She’s come to find her brother. And I’ve been sent to bring back the two of them. I grab my belongings and go after her.
Liobhan halts. ‘No, Dau,’ she says without turning. ‘I’m prepared to risk my own safety, but not yours. Besides, someone needs to be able to go back and explain, if . . . Could you stay here and wait for us? I might need some help getting Brocc back to court. I’ll understand if
you don’t want to. I got myself into this and it’s up to me to get myself out.’
Before I can say a word, she vanishes through the crack in the rocks, and a moment later it closes behind her, leaving an unbroken surface. I can’t hear music now. Not a single note.
24
Brocc
It has been the strangest of days: sad, frightening, testing, astonishing. I feel like an old cloth that’s been pounded on stones, plunged in and out of the stream, and wrung out to within an inch of its life. But after Eirne leaves me, I resist the urge to lie down on my pallet and let my mind drift. The song she wants from me will not write itself. I have made a promise and I must fulfil it.
I work for some while, plucking out tunes on the old harp, trying out phrases, murmuring snatches of verse that are never quite right. Visitors are few. Eirne’s people are quiet after the death of their little one. I do not think they will share more tales with me today. A hush falls over glade and clearing, pond and streamlet. Time passes; I have a good part of the verse down on my willow bark page when the silence is interrupted. A tiny bird alights on the windowsill, turns its head to one side and chirps at me as if asking a question. Not long afterwards, I hear someone playing the whistle. I drop my pen and jump to my feet. I know it’s Liobhan. Nobody else could possibly play ‘Artagan’s Leap’ at that ridiculous speed. She’s here! She’s come to find me! I’ve been so immersed in my task, and so shocked and saddened by what happened earlier, that I’ve barely spared a thought for what might be happening back at court.
I blunder out the door and walk straight into Eirne, nearly sending her flying. I grab her by the arms to steady her, then let go quickly. ‘I’m sorry – so sorry – that is my sister playing! She must be here, close by –’
‘I hear the tune. Your sister has been singing, too, outside our gate. She is a fine musician.’
‘Don’t let her in! I mean – Eirne – my lady – it may be better if my sister does not enter your realm. But I need to see her. To speak with her. To explain . . .’ The last thing I want is to draw Liobhan into danger. But I must tell her what’s going on.
‘She has come to steal you away from us. To take you back before the song is ready. Why else would she make this journey?’
The whistle has fallen silent. There’s quiet for a little, then I hear someone else singing, a man. This voice is not a musician’s. He is singing a song of my composition. What is this?
‘Follow me,’ Eirne says.
As I walk with her up the pathway to the gathering place, the unseen singer follows his first song with another, the silly one about a monster in a gown. Can that possibly be Dau? When
he is finished, Liobhan starts to sing. As Eirne and I emerge into the open area, where her folk are still sitting or standing all around under the trees, the sad melody of ‘The Farewell’ drifts over the wall. I glance at Eirne. Before, she sounded stern. But whatever shows on my face now, it touches her, for she reaches up a hand to brush my cheek, almost as a lover might.
‘Wait,’ she breathes.
Liobhan is a strong person; one of the strongest I know. But she’s tired. She’s taking breaths more often than she usually would, and the tone is less than its bright, rich self. I want to join in, to help her through. I can guess what she’s doing. We both know tales in which human folk are admitted to the Otherworld on the strength of a song. There’s even one about precisely the kind of rhyming game Eirne and I played when I came in here. There’s one in which small folk like Moth-Weed and Little-Cap cannot remember how a song ends, and a shepherd, overhearing them, supplies the last line, thus earning himself the surprise gift of a magic whistle.
I know what I’m hearing. I’m hearing the voice of someone who will never, ever give up. I’m hearing someone who will keep going until she drops from exhaustion. In her voice, I’m hearing the unbreakable will of a Swan Island warrior. Liobhan is here
by her own choice, and whatever it is she plans, it’s not for me to tell her she can’t do it. As she nears the final measures of the song and pauses to snatch a breath, I lift my own voice and finish the verse: ‘I’ll be beside you, though gone from your sight, I’ll love you and guard you till we meet in the light.’
A sigh rises from Eirne’s people, all around the clearing. Many wipe away tears. Liobhan could not know how apt the song was for this day, when they have lost one of their own.
‘What would you have me do, Brocc?’ Eirne asks. ‘You have promised to stay until the song is finished. I will not send you out there, for I see on your face that this sister has great power over you. If I let her in, will she help or hinder us? Will she stand in the way of our plan? The future of Breifne depends on this. On you. On the song.’
‘I need to speak with her. But she must be free to leave here.’
I realise how this sounds; Rowan looks as if he would be delighted to see me leave as well. ‘I should say, I respectfully request that you will let her leave your realm once I have had time to talk to her. And . . . while my sister is here, I would welcome more explanation of what you intend for this song. How it can change the tide of affairs in Breifne. That would be . . . useful. To her as well as to me.’
‘Can she keep her counsel? These are matters of utmost secrecy, Brocc. Matters we do not share with humankind.’
‘My sister may be fully human,’ I say, ‘but she is the daughter of a wise woman. Our father is a man of great heart. Both of them respect your people and understand them, to the extent human folk can. Of course she can keep her counsel. If you want her to promise, you must ask her, not me.’
‘True!’ calls Eirne, and the rock-being steps forward, creaking as he moves. ‘Open the doorway.’
Within moments, it seems, the wall opens and closes again, and Liobhan is here among the Fair Folk, bag on her back, cloak over one arm, holding herself tall though her face is wan with exhaustion and her hair is coming out of its plait in a hundred fiery strands. ‘Not my best performance ever,’ she says with a crooked smile. She doesn’t come running over to embrace me. She’s in Swan Island mode, taking in every detail without seeming to shift her gaze at all.
‘My lady, this is my sister.’ I hesitate, not knowing which name to give for her.
‘My name is Liobhan.’ My sister’s voice is steady. The shock of finding herself in this uncanny world has made no dent in her courage. ‘But as a minstrel here in Breifne, I go by Ciara.’
‘Then welcome to my realm, Ciara.’ Eirne, standing, does not come up to Liobhan’s shoulder. But her manner makes it clear who holds the authority here. ‘I am Eirne, queen of the Fair Folk in Breifne. Your brother is a rare musician. He is undertaking a task for me; a task whose gravity and significance are immeasurable. To complete this task, Brocc will need to remain with us for some time.’ When Liobhan makes to protest, Eirne lifts a hand to silence her. ‘Wait. There are yet some days until midsummer. Sufficient time to act wisely, in measured fashion, with each playing their part. Rowan, we will take our guests to the pavilion; I wish to have some private discussion with them. Nightshade, will you attend us too?’ She turns to the other folk. ‘No more songs now, my people. But be of good heart, dear ones. Tomorrow Brocc will sing and play for you, and we will be merry again.’
‘But –’ Liobhan starts, then stops herself. As we follow Eirne out of the gathering place and down a narrow path under willows, my sister turns a fierce countenance on me. She doesn’t need to speak aloud for me to understand the message. What in the name of all the gods are you doing? Don’t you know how much trouble you’ve made? What about the mission? I am a coward; I look away.
Further down, the path winds between bushes something akin to holly, with sharp-edged leaves, but these are covered with small five-petalled flowers of brightest blue, and more tiny birds are hopping from twig to twig. Finches? No, they can’t be. Their feathers are as bright as jewels.
Rowan walks beside the quee
n, Liobhan and I follow, and Nightshade comes last. We are silent, wrapped in our own thoughts.
At the end of this track stands a delicate pavilion crafted from twisted willow wattles. Ivy has clambered over it, its leaves forming a lush green canopy, and mosses creep across the walls. Within this structure is a pedestal-like table, and on that table stands a wide, shallow bowl. Beside this are set a jug of water and a candle, which has already been lit.
Eirne does not go in; instead she seats herself on the steps leading up to the pavilion, and motions for Liobhan and me to sit beside her. Nightshade stands back; Rowan assumes a guard-like posture.
‘I must ask you first, Ciara, what brought you here. Answer wisely.’
‘I’m here because I was worried about my brother. I thought the storyteller, Mistress Juniper, might know where he had gone.’
The little birds are flying in and out of the ivy, snapping up insects. I realise where I’ve seen creatures like them before. They were at the wise woman’s cottage. And . . . they were in the nemetons. One of them stood on Faelan’s foot. That gives me an odd feeling.
‘And did she know?’ Eirne asks Liobhan.
‘She had seen him. Without telling me much at all, she set me on the right path.’
‘And you knew how to gain admittance to my realm. That surprised me. You and your brother are not of the same kind.’
Harp of Kings Page 24
