Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘What?’ she growls with her back to me.

  ‘Didn’t you say we had to dance together three times? Before midsummer?’

  A charged silence, in which she doesn’t move. Then, ‘Oh, shit,’ she says expressively, and comes back. Drops her bag on the ground and holds out her arms, right here on the muddy track outside the shuttered cottage. ‘Quick, then.’

  I hate dancing. I hate dancing even more when there’s no music and my partner is shaking with tension and it seems there will be some dire consequence if we don’t perform convincingly. I take both Liobhan’s hands in mine. ‘What sort of dance is it?’

  ‘A slow one. That’s all I can manage. One, two, three, four,’ she mutters to indicate the beat. We turn, we part and move together, we release hands and circle each other. ‘That’s it.’ She hums a snatch of melody. ‘Same again. Yes. Now turn me under your arm, yes, that’s good. And maybe once more right through, just to be sure.’

  Sure of what? Only the horses are watching, and I doubt this means much to them. Only . . . now I can hear music, and it’s not Liobhan singing. The sound is coming from the forest, a high, delicate tune played on an instrument whose nature I can’t begin to guess. The melody sets my feet moving almost despite myself. And a remarkable thing happens – I feel Liobhan relax, the tightness leaving her body like a shadow departing as the sun comes out. She even manages a smile. We run through the same steps as before, but the dance is quite different. Her hands are warm, her grip is firm, our bodies move together naturally. When she’s happy, I can be almost graceful.

  We reach the end; we bow and curtsy in the usual manner. The strange tune warbles its way up to a high note, then drifts away to nothing.

  ‘What in the name of the gods was that? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  She’s still standing close to me. Her hair is tightly confined – it’s her combat style – but she’s been riding a while and wisps are coming loose and dangling over her face. I lift my hand to brush them away from her eyes. A shiver runs through me. Just as well Liobhan can’t feel that.

  ‘A summons,’ she says. Her eyes are bright now, full of hope. She looks . . . resolute. ‘They know I’m here. I’d best move on. Dau . . . thank you. I think you just saved the mission.’ She takes my hand, holds it to her cheek for an instant, then picks up her bag and walks away. I watch her until she’s gone from sight.

  ‘I’ve seen many things in my time and very little surprises me.’ The voice from behind me is not that of a horse. I turn and see Mistress Juniper standing at her front door with Storm beside her. ‘But that I most certainly did not expect. You’d best come in, Nessan. Or is it Dau? Settle the horses first. Then I owe you a story.’

  I do as I’m bid, making the horses comfortable in the outhouse, checking feed and water, fetching a load of wood for the fire as I return. I wipe my feet, muddy from the yard, then go in. As I stack the logs near the hearth, I peer into the little basket. The blanket is turned back but there’s nobody there. Something scuttles under the table, then is still. A pair of beady eyes catch the firelight, peering out at me. The hairs on my neck rise.

  ‘Her name’s Thistle-Coat,’ says Mistress Juniper, as calmly as if she were talking of ordinary matters. ‘She’s recovering well, all things considered. How are those burns of yours, Nessan?’

  I show her. She seems satisfied that I haven’t neglected them. ‘Good. Now sit down. Your companion may not trouble herself with such necessities as food and drink, but you have plenty of time. I expect some hours will pass before we see her again. Let me feed you, and if you insist on working, I will find some tasks to keep you busy until she returns. But for now, sit and rest your legs. You surprised me today.’ She’s busying herself with kettle and cups and herbs; the place smells of mint and something sharper that I can’t put a name to.

  ‘Surprised you how?’

  ‘I did not expect to see you dancing. You and your friend.’

  ‘I suppose it might seem odd.’ I trust her, as much as I trust anyone. I trust her even though I’ve let slip my real name. But I can’t talk about the mission, and I can’t pass on what Liobhan’s said about that place. Not that she’s said much. ‘It was something she told me had to be done. Done before she went back into the forest.’

  Juniper smiles. ‘Ah. A task. I understand tasks.’

  I’m not sure what she’s suggesting. I remember the change in Liobhan when she heard the strange forest music. I remember the moment when I touched her face. I remember the look in her eyes. I would do better to forget. I stroke Storm’s head and stare into the fire. I don’t look at the creature under the table, but I know she is looking at me.

  ‘You’ll want to be back at court for tomorrow’s ritual,’ observes Juniper. ‘A new king to be crowned. A new age for Breifne.’

  I can’t help the grimace that twists my mouth. After the fire, she must know what I think of the one and only candidate for kingship.

  ‘You and the prince are of an age, I would guess,’ says Juniper. ‘Set aside the episode of the fire. Tell me what you have observed of him.’

  ‘I’m a lowly farrier’s boy. He’s a king’s son.’

  ‘You are a man. He is a man. Answer honestly. I am good at keeping confidences.’

  ‘He’s careless with his horses and unkind to those he believes to be his inferiors. He’s quick to anger over trifles. He acts on impulse, without thinking things through. He knows how to make a stirring speech. He can draw men to follow him. Some men. Coupled with his lack of judgement, that could be dangerous. Has been.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem well suited to the role that awaits him. He doesn’t seem ready to assume such power. I’d expect a royal prince to be educated in a way that prepared him better.’

  ‘Ah. But then Rodan was not the clever brother. He held his own at riding, hunting and other sports, though he excelled in none of them. But he found study difficult. He could not settle to anything for long. The written word was baffling for him, and he had no interest in stories. Of course, a king has folk to help with such things: lawmen, councillors, scribes and the like. But there’s no point to that if he will not listen to their advice. For Rodan, that was the hardest part to understand.’

  I let my breath out in a rush. ‘How do you know all this? Were you a nursemaid or suchlike?’

  She throws back her head and roars with laughter, startling both me and the dog and making the thing under the table chitter. ‘Me, a nursemaid?’ she splutters. ‘Hardly. I would frighten the boldest child away, Nessan. But I did have friends at court. One in particular who was always glad to escape for a while and listen to my tales. One with whom I shared a great deal of wisdom. I did my best for him. He faced a very difficult choice; he needed all the strength he had.’

  ‘Mistress Juniper. I heard . . . I know that when a new king of Breifne is needed, any man of eighteen or over who bears royal blood may make a claim to the throne.’

  ‘That is so, Nessan.’

  ‘There was a . . . a rumour, something I overheard, suggesting that the old king had another child. A child who for some reason was not eligible to make such a claim. I know there is a young daughter. But you said Rodan was not the clever brother. Can you tell me about the clever brother?’

  ‘Ah,’ says Mistress Juniper, leaning back in her chair. ‘Time for the story. Pour out the brew, will you, Nessan? I suppose I should use that name and not the other.’

  ‘The other name is not for Breifne.’

  ‘Mm. I will respect that. Pour a very small cup for Thistle-Coat, set it carefully down, and give her a little of the bread and cheese, will you? It’s safe for her to eat our food, but she shouldn’t have too much.’

  I obey these instructions, wondering if Thistle-Coat will sink her teeth into my hand as I set cup and dish down by my feet. But she does not bite. A little later, I hear the soun
d of munching from down there, but I don’t look.

  ‘Thank you,’ says the storyteller. ‘And top up my cup, please. Help yourself to food. Now. Once upon a time there was a king. Let’s call him Aengus. He was a good king; not a great one, for he was no visionary leader, but those were times of peace, and he ruled his people well enough. He married the daughter of a prince of Connacht, and they were happy together but for one thing: his wife, Dáire, could not easily carry a child to full term. As time passed, folk began to doubt whether the royal couple would produce even one healthy child. There was talk of their union being cursed – only chatter, but it spread. If there were no royal sons, the kingdom would pass to one of the more distant kinsmen, and the blood of Aengus’s line would be diluted. So it was believed.

  ‘When they had been wed three years, and after the loss of yet another unborn babe, Queen Dáire was so distressed in body and mind that she shut herself away for a time, refusing to see anyone but her physician and her personal maids. Even her husband was barred from her private quarters. Perhaps it was not so surprising that Aengus, who was enduring his own grief – who is to say that men do not feel such losses deeply? – took solace in the arms of another woman. She was a young lady of high birth, the sister of one of the king’s councillors, who was staying at court over the summer. The dalliance was discreet. Some even said, in hindsight, that the whole thing was planned in order to provide the king with the heir his wife could not produce. That’s as may be.’ Juniper stops to take a drink. I’m caught up in the story; I feel as if we’re on the threshold of something momentous.

  ‘As it was, the young lady returned home with the king’s babe in her belly, and when the child – a boy – was safely delivered, Aengus acknowledged publicly that he was the father and made substantial restitution to the woman’s family. When the boy was five years old, he was sent to live in the royal household as a foster child to Aengus and his queen. And there he stayed until . . . well, that is for later. For, to the great surprise of all, Queen Dáire had by then produced a son of her own: Rodan. He was three years his half-brother’s junior, and while they bore a certain physical likeness, in character they grew into two very different young men, one thoughtful, studious and kind, the other . . . you summed up his character accurately. For a farrier’s boy, you are an acute thinker, Nessan. And remarkably well spoken for a lad who, I assume, had little formal education.’

  I will not rise to this bait. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Juniper grins and goes on. ‘The two boys grew up together, though they were never particularly close; they had few interests in common. When one was fifteen and the other twelve, the queen surprised everyone again by carrying another child to a successful birth, though she was by then getting on in years. I expect Aengus would have preferred another son. But a daughter is useful in her own way: she can secure an alliance through marriage. No doubt the king and his advisers were planning whom she would wed from the moment the poor child was born. Sadly, the queen was greatly weakened after that birth and died within a turning of the moon.

  ‘Aengus did not long outlive his wife; he succumbed to a winter ague, and Cathra took on the role of regent. In the sadness that followed, a ray of hope brightened the future for his people: the succession seemed assured. The elder son was a fine young man, wise beyond his years, well liked and respected by folk of all kinds. He was strong in spirit, too, and had forged close ties with the druid community through his love of lore and music. All in all, he was an exceptional candidate for kingship and would be of age to claim within three years of Aengus’s passing.’

  She falls silent; her eyes take on a distant look.

  ‘What was this exceptional young man’s name?’ I ask. I know who he is; I saw him that day when I was perched on a ladder tying knots.

  ‘Faelan.’ Her tone is soft. ‘He was a good friend to me. I miss him. He would have been a fine king. But he chose a different path.’

  ‘He turned down the kingship to become a druid?’

  She gives me a sharp look. ‘Not every man craves power, Nessan. Not every man feels obliged to follow his father’s wishes. Faelan might in time become a different kind of leader.’

  ‘Chief druid?’

  ‘You sound almost scornful. Such a person can have lasting influence on a community. He can be a great power for good. A wise king listens to his chief druid. Faelan, I believe, may rise high among the brethren; I have heard that they have great hopes for him. But he is not an ambitious man. Whatever he achieves, it will come about through his own natural qualities.’

  ‘The story seems unfinished,’ I say when she falls silent. ‘Does this intriguing tale of two brothers come to a happy ending?’

  ‘The tale has many possible endings. Perhaps you or your friends can tell me what happens next.’

  ‘I cannot, Mistress Juniper.’

  ‘Cannot, or do not choose to?’

  I don’t answer straight away. A druid cannot become king. The rules governing their lives of seclusion make it impossible. Supposing Liobhan and Brocc come out of that place with the Harp of Kings, and supposing we get it back to the high bard without any further complications, I see no conclusion to this but the crowning of Rodan as king of Breifne. Completing the mission successfully is going to feel like failure. ‘Cannot,’ I say. ‘Not because I don’t trust you, Mistress Juniper, but because I truly don’t know.’

  39

  Liobhan

  By the time I reach the wall my boots are soaked and my trousers are wet up to the knee. I’ve got my skirt slung over one shoulder and the bag over the other. I’m not in the best of tempers. I’ve taken a lot longer than I wanted to, even though I didn’t stop and eat the food Archu insisted I carry with me. The sun is past the midpoint and my ankle is throbbing. And now, after helpfully guiding me with music, Eirne’s folk have gone silent. It’s just like last time. The wall, me standing outside it, and not a living thing in sight except biting insects. Looks like I do have to sing.

  It doesn’t need to be loud. They know I’m here. They must do, or why would that strange tune have stopped as soon as I came in sight of the wall? I do need a drink before I start. My fingers hurt. If Dau was here I’d ask him to take the stopper out of the water skin for me. I’d ask him with no shame whatever. Instead I do it myself, clumsily, spilling water on my tunic. I make myself drink. Then I start. Nobody listening would believe folk pay me to sing and play. Nobody would believe audiences applaud my efforts. I sound weak, sad and shivery. I don’t sound like a Swan Island warrior at all. It won’t do. Who’d let such a pathetic creature in? Why would anyone entrust the Harp of Kings to such a sorry specimen?

  Right. I’ll try a marching song, one of the pieces the folk of Swan Island love. If nothing else, it will give me heart.

  ‘To arms! To arms! We’re ready for the fight!

  Warriors of Erin, bear your banner bright!

  Wield your blade with honour, Forward! be your cry

  Onward now to victory, we conquer or we die!’

  Who cares about looking stupid? Who cares how silly a song might sound when their brother’s future depends on singing it? I go through all the verses, and some extra ones I make up on the spot. I sing the chorus, To Arms! and so on, after each verse. I walk around as I sing.

  When I perform this on Swan Island, the whole audience is joining in the chorus by verse two, accompanied by thunderous stamping of feet and thumping of fists – and sometimes, precariously, of ale cups – on the tables. Seems Eirne’s folk don’t love this song as my comrades do. There’s no trace of any voice but my own. No opening of a portal. Nothing. Except for the sun, which seems to have moved quite a lot even during that one song. Staring at the tree shadows, thinking of my brother, I forget to sing. What if Eirne never meant to keep her word? What if she has no intention of letting him go?

  There’s one more thing I can try. Tucked in the bottom of my b
ag is the doll, Wolfie, in his druid robe, with hair that denotes his royal blood. I hope I’ll be allowed to take him back for Aislinn. He is the most intriguing part of the whole mystery.

  ‘I’ve done everything you asked for,’ I say, not raising my voice. I lift Wolfie up. ‘I’ve completed my tasks. Please let me through the wall now. Time is passing swiftly.’ It’s passing at an unnatural speed. Is someone playing tricks? There are plenty of stories about human folk escaping from the Otherworld to find that a hundred years have gone by in the space of what seemed like a single day. ‘We must get back to court.’

  No response. I’d love to toss a few good-sized rocks at the wretched wall and yell my way through my entire repertoire of oaths. I’d like to scream and rip my hair out. But getting angry would be pointless. Instead I wait, trying to keep my mind on Brocc. I imagine him making up a song about this experience. I expect he’d have the woman stand outside the wall until she froze solid, or turned to stone, or something even weirder. She would stay that way in all seasons, and folk would come from far and wide to gape at the phenomenon. As for the brother for whom she sacrificed herself, he would remain forever in the faery realm, feasting and dancing, and would forget he ever had a sister.

  I wait, and wait some more. There’s still time to be back by daylight, provided Eirne doesn’t keep us in there too long. I move my feet, hug my arms around myself, consider whether perhaps making a lot of noise might help the situation. My wet clothes are making me shiver. Between the cold and my ankle, it’s not going to be much fun walking back. I wish I’d let Dau come with me. But I couldn’t. I can’t afford to get any part of this wrong. Have I got it wrong? Have I missed something else? Why won’t they open the door?

  ‘Enter,’ someone says. A ray of sunlight touches the portal, revealing a cloaked figure standing beside it, beckoning me forward. It’s the owl-being, Nightshade. I stuff Wolfie into the bag. I say a silent prayer, I’m not sure to whom. I follow my guide through the portal and into the Otherworld.