Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘The gate guards will be chosen with care, for both your departure and return,’ says Archu. ‘When you get back here, Nessan takes the horses to the stables. Ciara and Donal bring the harp straight to me, here. Let’s hope the instrument isn’t too easy to identify, or you may be in trouble.’

  ‘I don’t think many people have seen it,’ I say. ‘Apart from druids, that is.’

  ‘Just be careful. You and Nessan should carry weapons. Discreetly.’

  This is not the time to start a conversation about iron and the Otherworld. Mistress Juniper can look after my knife, as she did last time. I wish I had time to talk to her properly. I think she must be a kind of gatekeeper, though she lives some distance from that wall. I believe she’s a person who aids movement between worlds, who helps judge when it’s right to let someone through. Perhaps a lot more. I wish I knew what happened to Dau up there. I wish I knew what put that expression on his face. He’s sitting right beside me and he hasn’t said a word. I don’t think I can ask him about it, even when we’re alone.

  ‘Pack your saddlebags tonight,’ Illann says. ‘Leave them in here. Make sure you have everything you’ll need, and make provision for Donal too. If the ride’s as long as that, you’ll need fodder for the horses as well as supplies for yourselves.’ He’s frowning. ‘If it’s flooded, it’ll be slower. Maybe a lot slower.’ He glances at Archu.

  ‘Don’t take any foolish risks,’ our mission leader says. ‘We don’t want you or your animals lying out there at night with broken legs or broken heads, or drowning in a bog. Use your judgement. Provided the harp is here for the ritual, you’ll have done the job.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Art.’ Why is it that I feel like a liar? Eirne said she needed a person who would always choose the path of wisdom and justice. That’s the kind of person I’ve tried to be since I was old enough to know what it meant. It’s who I want to be. If we complete the mission Cathra hired us for, then I’ll have proven I’m not that person. Putting Rodan on the throne has nothing to do with wisdom and justice.

  But If I act as Eirne wishes, I’ll have failed Archu. I’ll have failed my team. I’ll have failed Swan Island.

  37

  Brocc

  I cannot leave things as they are between myself and Eirne. I must talk with her honestly, as I might with Liobhan. But she is not Liobhan, she is her wonderful mysterious self, and increasingly I find I cannot summon coherent speech when we are alone together. Instead, I blush and stammer and behave like a youth of fourteen who is not quite brave enough to ask a pretty girl to dance.

  I have completed the grand song Eirne asked for, though I do not know when and how it will be sung. Does she expect me to perform it before the court of Breifne? This would be a most startling offering from a band of travelling musicians whose usual fare is so different. I must ask her. And I must explain why I upset her the other night; why I seemed to spurn her. I do not know how to start.

  I gather my wits. I put on my cloak, for the day has turned cool. Maybe I will find her down by the pavilion, seeking answers in her scrying bowl. Or walking in the woods, attended by small birds. Or in council with Nightshade and Rowan. I hope I find her alone.

  Before I can set my hand to the door, someone taps on it, seeking entry. When I open it, there is Eirne, as if summoned by my thoughts.

  ‘May I come in?’ Her smile is sweet and open; she does not look like a queen. A damp gust follows her into my little house. She is hooded against the chill. ‘It will be fine tomorrow,’ she says, and closes the door behind her.

  I take her damp cloak and hang it on a peg. I remove my own cloak and set it aside. ‘Sit down, please. I’m glad you are here. I . . .’ The words vanish. I try again. ‘Time is playing tricks on me. When is Midsummer Eve? Tomorrow? The next day?’

  ‘In this realm, we do not count the days as folk do in the human world. But yes, you will sleep one more night under this roof before your sister comes for you.’

  I clear my throat and start again. ‘I think I offended you the other night. I . . . I pushed you away. If you were hurt, I am sorry.’

  Eirne looks down at her hands, laced together on her knee. She is wearing a very plain gown, green as winter pines. Her hair is in a plait down her back, fastened with a green ribbon. I have lain awake in this small dwelling longing for home. I have worried about Liobhan. I have missed my family; I have felt adrift and confused. Yet as I look at Eirne, my heart aches that I must leave her so soon. What about her people: Rowan, Nightshade, True, and the little ones? What about the Crow Folk? How can I walk away? There is another question I should ask, and I find I cannot. Whatever the answer, it feels like doom.

  ‘Will you sing to me, Bard?’ Eirne’s voice is like the first flower of spring, delicate, hesitant.

  ‘Of course, if you wish.’

  Eirne rises. ‘Rowan said he left mead here. Where are your cups? Ah, here.’

  Do I imagine the little stove grows brighter as Eirne moves past it? The mead flask stands on my work table, still corked, with the two cups beside it. She fills them and passes one to me. She sits down on the bed and pats the spot beside her. ‘Come, sit closer. You’re shivering. And tell me what has put that shadow in your eyes. Let us not be awkward; let us be honest with each other. I am not playing a game with you, Brocc. I am not one of those queens from your ancient tales, the ones who lure hapless mortals in with their charms, then treat them as playthings to tease and torment. What I want is far simpler than that.’

  As we sit close, sipping our mead, my mind calms. All day my thoughts have circled, turned on themselves, devoured one another. Now they become still; I feel alarmingly like a blank page waiting to be written on.

  ‘Brocc?’

  Eirne’s voice is honey and spice. She holds her cup in her left hand and puts her right on my knee. It is meant to comfort, perhaps. The effect is somewhat different.

  ‘You say, let us not be awkward. But I am awkward, Eirne. What you want is not simple. You are a queen with a grand plan to change your world. You ask me to be part of that plan. To be a hero. You ask me to leave behind everything that is familiar and beloved.’

  ‘That part, perhaps, is less simple. But this part,’ she moves her fingers gently, ‘is as simple as the turning of winter to spring. Or so I’m led to believe.’

  ‘Eirne . . .’ Her touch makes concentration difficult. What does she mean, So I’m led to believe? Is she telling me she, too, is new to the congress between man and woman? My knowledge is all from songs and tales, or the things my father and my brother Galen explained to me. ‘In every story I know, when one of my kind lies with one of your kind, it ends in disaster.’ A moment later I realise the flaw in what I’ve said.

  ‘Must I remind you of your own origins? I think not. But you do not know my story. It is a brief one; I have scant memory of the time before they brought me here.’

  I’m startled into silence. She told me she was the same kind as I am, a mixture, with the blood of two races running in her veins. I made several assumptions, and it seems I was wrong. ‘Tell me, please.’ I set my cup down and take her hand in mine.

  ‘I teased you once,’ Eirne says. ‘Suggested you might have been raised by badgers, or sent down the stream in a willow basket. I was raised by human folk, as their own child. Until I was five years old I had a mother and father, a sister and brother, a cat and a dog and a house on the edge of the forest. I did not know my father was not my real father, though I did notice he was sterner with me than with the older children. I was happy enough. But restless; always wanting to wander into the woods, further than we were allowed to go. Always wanting to talk to the squirrels and rabbits and martens. Making friends with the birds, so they would fly down and perch on my shoulders and my hands and chirrup their messages. My father was angry when he heard me singing to them, speaking with them. The worst punishment for me was to be confined inside with the shutters c
losed. Almost as bad was being forbidden to sing. I always loved to sing. When you came here, when we sang verse for verse of that ditty about the animals, I felt a delight beyond description. It was as if I had found a missing part of myself: my second voice.’

  ‘I felt the same.’

  ‘When I was five years old, a man came out of the forest to take me away. A man who looked nothing like the father I knew, for he was tall and lean and pale, and he wore a great dark cloak that moved like smoke in the wind. He was my father; my Otherworld father, come to take me home. He paid my human father in gold. I remember what he said. In this world, she will be a farmer’s wife, feeding pigs and chickens and birthing a babe a year until she dies of it. In my world, she will be a queen. My mother pleaded on her knees, clutching at his swirling cloak, but it was as if she did not exist. My brother and sister, huddled wide-eyed in a corner, said nothing at all. So I was brought to this world. My true father did not raise me. He left me, and I know nothing of where he is, or even if he still lives. I was brought up by kindly folk such as you have met here, folk of all shapes and sizes. At five years old, torn from everything familiar, I found I was their queen. As best they could, they taught me what I needed to know. They are good folk. But they are not my own kind, Brocc, and they never will be. I’m lonely. The human part of me longs for . . . for what you could give me, if you were willing. And I don’t mean only the pleasures of the flesh, though I think we would enjoy discovering those together. I want a companion, a friend, a . . . I can’t find the words.’

  ‘You said it before. The missing part of you.’ My heart is sounding a strong beat. Not a march to war; not a panicked warning; not a retreat. A recognition. A music of homecoming. ‘I understand that very well.’

  ‘But . . . Brocc . . . I would not have you do anything unwillingly. I will not plead, I will not use charms and spells, I will not coerce or threaten or employ trickery as the Fair Folk often do to achieve an end. Whether for the greater cause of peace and understanding, or the lesser one of our own feelings, you must make your own free choice. When Midsummer Day is over, if you will, you may ride away from Breifne and never see me again.’

  I’m brimful with feelings. Desire is only part of it. I was going to ask her about Midsummer Day, the song, the harp, and how it’s all meant to fit together. But right now my head and heart cannot hold any more. She will tell us tomorrow, when Liobhan comes. She said she would.

  ‘We should wait,’ I say, lifting her hand to my lips. She smells like roses and honey. A lock of her hair has come loose and brushes against my cheek. I can hardly breathe. But this is no moment to lose myself. ‘To lie together . . . to explore those pleasures . . . We should wait until the song of your people is sung and the task is completed. But you did ask me to sing to you. Will I still do that, and what would you have me sing?’

  ‘A lullaby,’ says Eirne with a smile that shows her dimples. ‘Not for an infant; a lullaby for a grown woman.’

  I release her hand, rise and arrange myself with harp on knee, a safe distance away. Eirne, still smiling, lies down on my bed, her head on the pillow as if it belongs there, and watches me.

  ‘Willow fronds stir, the breeze is warm, the river glints with light

  Your fingers are so gentle, linked with mine in deep of night.

  Outside our window, tender flowers fold their petals close

  You are a flower far sweeter than the fragrant blushing rose.’

  ‘You are good at this,’ Eirne murmurs. ‘Go on, my bard.’

  ‘It is rather sentimental.’ Already I can think of ways to improve that verse. But now is not the time.

  ‘Within the circle of my arms lie still and be at ease

  Set care and pain aside, and welcome thoughts of joy and peace.

  May music sound, as sweet and pure as song of dove or lark

  Oh, may we see bright visions to sustain us in the dark.’

  ‘There should be one more verse,’ Eirne says. ‘And in that verse, he who sings the lullaby and she who listens should lie down together, for although the breeze is warm in the song, it is cold in this little house. But I suppose we cannot do that. We must show restraint, as you counselled. And there is a special kind of delight in the anticipation of fine things to come.’

  A rosy tinge warms her pale cheeks. Her eyes are merry, dancing with light. It would be so easy to set the harp down, to join her there on the bed – though it is rather narrow for two – and to make the words of the song reality. But I will not. The song is not for today. It is for the hope of tomorrow, and of all the tomorrows to come.

  ‘Entwined like tree and vine, we touch and part and touch again

  Our bodies know this language as they know the gentle rain

  The subtle breeze, the budding leaf, the golden light of dawn.

  We love, we rest, we wake, and walk forth to a bright new morn.’

  38

  Dau

  Midsummer Eve. Not as early as I’d have liked. Illann’s bringing the horses out and Liobhan’s gone to the privy. Archu and I are in the practice room.

  ‘Ciara’s edgy this morning,’ Archu murmurs. ‘She’ll be calmer once you’re out of here, I hope. Remind her to eat and drink once or twice during the day, will you? And watch over both of them on the way back. Who knows what kind of state Donal will be in? You must be the level head in the team. And if that means making some kind of final decision, do it. The gods only know why I agreed to this.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ As I leave the practice room, I’m well aware of the trust he’s placed in me, and what that might mean for my future. But a final decision? About the Harp of Kings? I consider myself physically and mentally able, well controlled, capable, courageous. Mostly. After my time with Mistress Juniper I’ve had to revise that opinion somewhat. But one thing I do know: I’ve worked hard to become the man I am. That doesn’t mean I can deal with this. I know nothing of what lies beyond that wall in the forest. I know nothing of music and magic and power games played by druids and kings. All I can do is try to keep my comrades safe. And hope that together the three of us can get things right.

  We cover the first part of the ride, as far as Mistress Juniper’s house, at a good pace. I lead the spare horse; Liobhan rides beside me. I can’t talk, since there are other folk on the road. Besides, her grim-set jaw and fierce eyes tell me she’s in no mood for conversation.

  As we approach the track to the storyteller’s cottage, we pass swathes of scorched and blackened land, criss-crossed by fallen trees. Here and there lie the sad charred remains of some creature. Rodan’s folly. Thank the gods for the rain that saved Mistress Juniper’s home and all that lies beyond.

  Where the side track branches off, Liobhan dismounts. I glance her way, not sure if we’re resting the horses and ourselves for a while, which would make sense, or simply dropping off our knives.

  ‘Get down,’ she says. ‘You’ll stay here with the horses and wait for me. I’ll leave my weapons.’

  Maybe I should have expected this. But I did not. As Liobhan leads her horse up the steep track, then tethers it loosely at the front of the cottage, I follow with the other two animals. No sign of Mistress Juniper or her dog. No smoke from the chimney and no light inside.

  I can’t stay silent any longer, though I keep my voice down. ‘You need to stop for a while. Eat and drink. Let the horses rest. Then go on. Not you on your own, but both of us.’

  She folds her arms and glowers at me, as if she’s thinking of knocking me down so she need not waste time arguing. ‘One, it’s not safe for the horses, especially if it’s flooded. Two, if they’re properly rested now, they’ll get us back more quickly later. Three, and this is the most important: I promised to come alone this time. No friend waiting outside the wall. No friend anywhere in sight, or they might not let Brocc out.’

  I swallow an oath or two. ‘I should come part of the
way at least. It makes sense to have horses as close as possible. What if Brocc isn’t able to walk out? Are you planning to carry both him and the harp?’

  ‘Do you want to help me or not? We’re supposed to be a team, aren’t we?’

  ‘A team works as a whole. The members listen to each other.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me!’

  ‘And you’re not listening to common sense. Liobhan, you can’t go on your own. Besides, Mistress Juniper’s not here. The horses will get cold and so will I. I’m here to help you, so use me, for the love of the gods!’

  She stares at me. Her expression has changed. ‘I can’t. She said come alone. I can’t risk getting any part of this wrong or she might not let him go.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘I can’t talk about it. If I say a word too many, she’ll know. I have to go, Dau. Could you undo the saddlebag, please? My fingers are cramped.’

  Oh, gods. This softer Liobhan is harder to deal with than the furious one. I detach the bag from the saddle and pass it to her. I don’t ask what’s in it. All part of her strange mission, no doubt. I’ll probably never know the full story. ‘I hate this,’ I tell her. ‘I hate not being able to help.’

  ‘I’ll need you later. And it helps to know you’ll be waiting. Maybe Mistress Juniper’s left her door unlocked. You could make a fire. I’m going now.’

  ‘Be safe,’ I say. Can she really do this on her own? It’s not long since she was hobbling along on that ankle, and we’ve already ridden quite a way. But this is Liobhan, and if anyone’s cut out to be a Swan Island warrior, it’s her. ‘Be watchful.’

  ‘You too,’ she says, and walks away. ‘Hope I don’t have to sing this time.’

  She’s almost disappeared under the trees when something occurs to me. I don’t want to call out to her. I don’t want to get my head bitten off. But if I don’t speak up and it turns out I’m right, she’ll kill me anyway. ‘Liobhan!’