Storm wakes, moves. I feel the rasp of her tongue on my cheek as she dries my tears.
‘Weep if you will.’ Mistress Juniper sets a cup of her brew beside me on the hearth. ‘And drink a little of this if you can. It will give you heart.’
Gods, what must she think of me? I draw a few ragged, sobbing breaths. Then I do as I’m told. Whatever is in the brew, it’s a blessing to my parched throat. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘So sorry. I should go,
I should leave, the fire, the men –’ I wipe my face on my sleeve.
I try to get up.
‘Stay there, Nessan.’ The old woman’s voice is soft. ‘Stay at our hearth. You might tell us a story, when you are ready.’
I know what she wants and I can’t do it. ‘I don’t tell my story.’ Gods, why won’t these tears stop? ‘Beyond these walls, I cannot speak, Mistress Juniper.’
‘You used your voice to warn us of the fire.’
I have no answer for that.
‘And you can use it again, since we are within these walls and there is nobody to hear you but me and Storm and this little one, who will not wake awhile yet. I think there is a tale you need to tell, Nessan. And now is a good time. Perhaps, when you are done, I will give you a tale in exchange.’
I am silent. She wants my story, though how she can know that I have one is a mystery. Perhaps she really can see into my thoughts.
‘I think maybe you had a dog once. A dog that you loved as dearly as I do my companion. I see how Storm trusts you. You risked your life to save her. That kind of action does not spring from nowhere. Tell me a story about your dog. When you wept, was it for her?’
‘I don’t talk about those things. Not to anyone.’
‘Maybe not. But you can tell a story. A tale about a boy and a dog. If she was a good dog, perhaps she deserves to have her tale told.’
I feel a fresh flow of tears. I dash them away. ‘There was a boy. A boy who should never have been born. That was what his family said, his father, his brothers. His mother died birthing him. They never forgave him for that.’ Getting the words out is like fighting an invisible enemy, something that can hit me from all sides at once. But in my mind is Garalt’s voice, steady and calm. One step at a time, Dau. You can do this. ‘He tried to grow up strong. He did the best he could. He was a chieftain’s son and he was not denied lessons, training . . . But his brothers were older, stronger, better at telling lies. He . . . he came to expect blows. He learned that he deserved to be hurt, abandoned, made the butt of vile jokes. He learned that if there was trouble, it was always his fault. His brothers were ingenious in their cruel games. If he made a friend, such as a new young tutor who came to work with the boys, then that friend would soon have his mind poisoned against the youngest, or he would lose his position and be sent packing.’ I cannot remember that tutor’s name, but he was kind. He understood that I was not stupid or wicked or mad, only terrified. I think he saw through Seanan’s tricks and Ruarc’s unswerving compliance with our eldest brother’s will. And then, from one day to the next, that kind man was gone.
Now the hardest part. I can’t quite get the words out.
‘Tell it to Storm,’ says Mistress Juniper. ‘She is a good listener.’
‘When that boy was eleven years old he . . . there was a stable dog that had pups, and a kind friend gave him one for his own. His brothers were young men now, the elder sixteen and learning how to be a chieftain, the other fourteen and wanting to do everything his big brother did. So the boy was left alone more often, and that precious time he spent with his dog. Her name was . . . her name was Snow. Pure white, blue-eyed. Considered by some to be a freak, or she would likely have found a home elsewhere, as her litter mates did; it was a line of good hunting dogs. He kept her in the barn. He did not dare take her into the house, though other dogs moved freely there. For two whole years he kept her. His kind friend, who worked in the stables, helped him look after Snow and made sure she was not lonely at nights. This friend showed the boy how to train his dog. She was clever as well as beautiful. She taught him that he was not stupid. That he could be loved and could love in return. And his kind friend began to teach the boy other things. How to make his body stronger. How to use his strength to protect himself. How to fight.’ I look down at Storm, whose head is back on my knee now. I glance at the basket with its peculiar small occupant.
‘But something happened,’ says Mistress Juniper. ‘Something that is hard to tell, mm?’
I swallow hard and square my shoulders. I bid the invisible enemy retreat. ‘They knew she was there, of course,’ I make myself say. ‘They waited. For two whole years they waited, until the boy almost believed he was safe. Almost believed that between his kind friend and his beloved Snow and the new things he was learning, he had become strong enough and the horrors were over. He only had to stay out of his father’s way, and avoid being alone with his brothers, and grow a little older, and he might survive to be a man and his own master. Then came a . . . then came a day. A day when his friend was away. A day when he walked into the place where Snow was kept and found his brothers there before him. A day when he learned that even the truest love in all the world is of no avail if you are not strong enough.’
I blink a few times and try for a steady voice. ‘His middle brother held him back. His older brother killed Snow. Slowly. With a knife. They made him watch. She screamed for him to save her, she howled for him to help, and he bit and kicked and fought and could not reach her. When it was over his second brother let him go, and he sat in the straw with Snow in his arms, sat there as her blood soaked into his clothing and coated his hands and mingled with his tears. His brothers told his father that the boy had killed her in a furious rage because she would not obey a command. The boy did not weep when he was beaten. He had betrayed the one he loved. It seemed less than sufficient punishment.’
‘Oh, Nessan,’ says the wise woman. She gets up and begins, quietly, to prepare food for us. ‘And yet,’ she adds after a while, ‘he went on, didn’t he? Despite that, he went on and became a man. How did that happen?’
‘His friend was dismissed from the chieftain’s household. The boy ran away. He joined that kind friend working elsewhere, and his family made no great effort to bring him back, though they knew where he was. The boy became strong. He gained expertise with weapons. He learned that he could be a warrior. He learned . . . He learned not to give his heart away again. It was a poor, broken thing by then anyway. Who would have wanted it?’
Mistress Juniper lifts a hand to wipe her cheek. She says nothing more until the meal is ready on the table. ‘You should eat.’
‘I should go,’ I say, rising to my feet. I do not think Rodan and his men will come here now. With the rain still falling, they will surely have made their way back toward court long ago. I hope the road is not flooded. ‘I took a horse without asking for permission.’ I seat myself at the table, wondering if I can eat, after that. I feel odd. I had not believed I would ever tell that tale to anyone. Especially not to someone like Mistress Juniper. ‘That was not Nessan’s story,’ I say now. ‘Nessan cannot speak.’
‘The tale is safe with me. You’ll find wise women are good at keeping confidences. Eat, please. With that ride ahead of you, and who knows what complications facing you at your destination, you need something in your stomach.’
I obey. The food is a kind of gruel, flavoured with herbs. It is warm, plain and nourishing, and when I am finished I feel somewhat better, though I am weary and my face hurts. She sees me touching it.
‘Burned. Not badly, just scorched a little. I should salve that before you go.’
‘Mistress Juniper?’
‘Yes, Nessan?’ She’s fetching the salve again, the same one she used on the strange little creature.
‘That . . . thing.’ I look toward the basket. ‘What is it? What will you do with it?’
‘I’ll tend to it
as long as I need to. Its own folk will come and fetch it back home. Perhaps soon, perhaps later. It depends on the rain. The way between here and there may be flooded for a while.’
I’m not sure how much I can ask. I’m still finding it hard to believe that creature exists, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve touched it. I’ve held it and felt it holding me, clinging on as if I were its saviour. Though it was Storm who saved it. ‘Is there that place beyond the wall? The place where Li– where Ciara went?’
‘I believe that is where the little one came from.’
‘How will its own folk know it is here?’
‘We have our ways of passing messages. Now, Nessan, I am trusting you as you have trusted me. Do not speak of this when you return to court. Not all there are friends of my kind.’
Indeed. I don’t tell her the future king of Breifne himself lit the fire that nearly killed her, or at least ordered that it be done. I don’t tell her that I suspect he had no plan to warn her beforehand. But perhaps I should.
‘Nor are they friends of those who dwell beyond the wall,’ says Mistress Juniper. ‘It is a time of distrust. A time when change is needed, Nessan, if the whole of Breifne is not to fall into disarray.’
Dangerous territory. ‘Did you say you would tell me a story in your turn?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘I will keep that promise. But not now, I think. The fire is over. The rain is easing. You’re right, it is time for you to go home. Let me tend to your face and hands, and then you should be off. Ride carefully; I would not have you come to grief. You have saved three lives today, not only Storm’s and the little one’s, but mine as well. That boy grew up to be a good man. A strong, kind man like his mentor.’
‘I said –’
‘You said it was not Nessan’s tale, and that, I think, is true. My assessment of the man whose tale it is remains unchanged.’
I stay quiet while she dabs salve onto my face and hands and instructs me to find something similar at court and keep applying it twice daily. She refills my water skin and wraps up a little parcel of food for me to take. She even finds oats for Blaze. I’ve been surprised by the outhouse he’s been sheltering in, a sizeable place where it’s clear horses have been kept before. ‘The fire,’ I make myself say, not really wanting to tell her, but knowing I must. ‘It was started by the prince of Breifne and a group of his friends. Wanting to drive out those crow-things. Not well thought out. They headed off on their own. I don’t think they told anyone or they’d have been stopped. I thought I should tell you. They knew you lived up here. They must have known you’d be in danger. Only . . . the prince is greatly in fear of anything . . .’ I glance at the creature in its basket. It makes little snuffling noises as it sleeps. ‘Anything uncanny. If he’s done this once, he could do it again. You are vulnerable here on your own.’
She smiles, saying nothing. I realise there’s something I’ve missed, something so important I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it earlier. The brazier; the herbs; the silent prayer. Her remarkable calm in the face of impending death. The sudden violent downpour on a day when rain was not expected. I can’t believe she did that with magic. I can’t believe she spoke to the gods or to spirits, or to some entity only wise women know about, and made that happen.
‘Prince Rodan is not the only one who fears the uncanny, I think,’ observes Mistress Juniper. ‘But you’re learning, Nessan.
I am no sorceress, believe me. A little hearth magic, that is all. We were lucky today. Lucky in the weather. Fortunate in the presence of mind that brought you here in time to help. Lucky, perhaps, in my choice of herbs or my choice of words or in the gratitude of the Otherworld for one of their own snatched from death. Who knows? I am alive, and you are alive, and the small one will recover and be well again. My house still stands, though I fear the tall houses of many creatures have fallen today. As for Prince Rodan . . . remind me, next time I see you, to tell you a tale of two brothers.’
36
Liobhan
Two days left before Midsummer Eve and the sun’s back out at last. It must be wet up in the forest. Getting to Eirne’s portal and back is going to be much slower. But still possible. It has to be.
Dau and I are both under orders to lie low and stay out of a certain person’s way. Dau’s in trouble too now. I haven’t talked to him on his own, so I don’t know the whole story, but I do know he came back that day with burns on his face and hands. I know Mistress Juniper and her dog survived the fire, thanks to the arrival of the sudden storm. People are still muttering about that downpour, and some of them are using words like uncanny. Dau didn’t just come back burned and exhausted. He looked changed. As if he’d seen something too terrible to put into words.
Illann was unhappy about the horse, though it was all right, just tired. Archu was unhappy about not being consulted first, at a time when we’re all supposed to be following my plan and keeping out of trouble until Midsummer Eve. Dau was lucky on the way back. By then the regent had sent a whole lot of men up to deal with the fire, and they all got soaked when the rain came, and in the confusion of riding back to court, Dau just attached himself to their party and rode in unnoticed, the prince and his friends having already returned. Then there were horses to tend to, and the mute Nessan started working alongside the rest of the stablehands, and that was it.
I think the prince is in trouble, too. Cathra can’t have been happy about that whole episode. An attempt to drive out the Crow Folk, they’re saying. A bit like trying to squash a fly with a battleaxe. All the prince has done is draw folk’s attention, again, to his defects of character, and that is not a good thing so close to the ritual. Since then, Rodan’s been quiet. No more rallying speeches. No more stirring stuff about wiping out the menace and striding forward to better times. The word is that he came back shaken by whatever happened up there. As for Cathra, he looks terrible. I sympathise. If I were him, I’d be heading off for home the instant Rodan was crowned. But the regent’s a dutiful sort of man. He’ll probably stay and try to keep things on a steady course. I wish him luck with that.
Two days. My ankle still hurts. I spend time with the washerwomen, but I can’t do bucket duty. I brush off stains, hang things to dry, sweep the floor. I hate the nervous feeling in my stomach, the one that’ll be with me until Midsummer Day is over. If I work hard, it quietens down a bit. Dana and her crew are good for me. They’re too busy to get gloomy, and they cheer me up with their jokes. Banva’s husband came back safely from that night-time mission. I’d hate to be a man-at-arms working under Rodan’s leadership.
The day before Midsummer Eve, Archu calls us in for a talk. All of us, Illann and Dau included. The rule about no contact between the teams has been broken so many times now, maybe it doesn’t exist any more.
Archu drums with his fingers; I hum a tune from time to time. The empty corner where Brocc’s harp should stand reminds me of how perilous this mission is. So much hangs on the ritual and our being back in time. I still don’t know exactly how and when the two harps will be exchanged. Brother Farannán will be wanting the Harp of Kings back in its cavern by tomorrow evening, ready to be taken out to the ritual ground early next morning. I suppose they’ll return Brocc’s harp later in the day, quietly.
I haven’t told Archu how worried I am. I can’t. I’m hoping beyond hope that Brocc will be all right. That Eirne and the others won’t have changed him. That he’ll come out happily and help get the harp to the nemetons and, when it’s all over, ride home to Swan Island with us and be his old self again. But I’m afraid. He’s been in that place too long.
‘It’s a time of unrest for these people even without our own mission,’ Archu says. ‘The regent is on edge. I gather he argued with Brother Marcán this morning over the misguided venture that set the forest on fire. Lord Cathra took Rodan’s part, insisting that the prince’s actions showed he would do anything, even risk his own life, to k
eep his people safe from harm. Brother Marcán raised certain doubts. Even within that inner circle there is disagreement on this matter. But that’s irrelevant to our task.’ He drops his voice to the merest murmur. ‘Nessan, it’s very possible you were seen, either letting the sheep onto the road or later, up on the hill. I don’t believe you were recognised. Be glad of that. I’ve given you my opinion of that episode already; no more need be said.’
I wonder who told Archu about the argument. The possibilities are very limited; it has to be someone who was either present when the regent and Brother Marcán were speaking or in a position to overhear. I suspect Master Brondus. I don’t ask.
‘About tomorrow morning,’ says Illann. ‘You’ll wait until after breakfast to leave.’ I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again. ‘That’ll attract less attention than a dawn departure. I’ll have three horses ready. If you’re asked, Nessan is doing a job for me, taking a horse to a farmer. You, Ciara, are along for the ride. You go up there at a steady pace so nobody sees you pushing your mounts. Tell us again how far this place is and when we might expect you back.’
‘It’s deep in the forest, north-east of the wise woman’s cottage. I can’t tell you in miles. The way there is . . . tricky. Likely to be more so after the rain. As for when we might be back, that depends on all sorts of things. Things I can’t control. Part of the way is by foot. But I hope we can bring the harp back before nightfall, if only so we don’t have to ride in the dark.’
Harp of Kings Page 36
