The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards)

by Juliet Marillier

  The walk is good. Like Liobhan, I have missed the daily training on Swan Island, and it’s satisfying to set myself a quick pace. There’s time to do this before nightfall, but only if I maintain this pace and avoid distractions. I’m not sure where this woman lives, though what we heard about the attack that delayed Illann and Dau suggested there is a path to her cottage. Perhaps there will be a subtle sign, something we missed when riding here. Not words written on wood or scratched on stone, but symbols, so the place can be found only by those who know what they seek. Feathers, maybe. Knotted grasses. Small white stones in a neat pile.

  It is my habit, when I walk, to sing the songs I know or to invent new ones as I go. If the path is flat and easy and I have plenty of time, I sing aloud. If it is steep and challenging, or if I’m in a hurry, I do so only in my mind. Now, as I reach the place where this road begins to climb, I find myself unable so much as to hum a few measures. My heart is galloping. I feel a little queasy. Foolish Brocc. You imagine that if you take one step amiss, a host of uncanny folk will appear and drag you into the Otherworld? You imagine that the parents who abandoned you as an infant have any interest at all in the man you have become?

  Breathe, Brocc. Imagine Liobhan is walking beside you, a warrior in both body and spirit. Imagine Galen is on your other side. To walk with him is to know nothing can harm you. You are a Swan Island warrior. You are on a mission. Let nothing divert you from that purpose.

  The track levels out. I pause to draw breath and look out over the land below me. In the distance is Cathra’s court on its gentle hill, with the fortress tower and encircling wall. Beside it lies the forest that shelters the nemetons. From here it looks small. I see a patchwork of walled fields, grazing cattle and sheep, pockets of woodland. The way ahead is bordered by trees, and as I walk I pass through sun and shadow, sun and shadow. Now the view comes in glimpses only; the steep drop down to the valley is tenanted by blackthorn and juniper, with here and there a taller tree, while above me the hill is densely forested, oak and ash towering high, a tangle of undergrowth beneath, and not a path in sight. A badger, fox, or hedgehog could no doubt make its way there. I look for signs.

  A mournful hoot rings out from somewhere nearby. This is an odd time of day for owls to be awake. I turn my head, hoping for a glimpse of the bird. When I turn back there is a dog on the track, a big shaggy creature with amber eyes. A female; perhaps part wolf. The animal gazes at me as if trying to convey some message. I almost expect her to speak with a human voice. But she makes no sound, merely turns and pads off along the path ahead of me. Then glances back to see if I am following. The message is clear. Follow me.

  Some considerable distance further on, the dog leaves the main way, heading off up a steep incline. There is a side path. I might have found it on my own, but it seems someone did not trust me to do so. This creature is here because someone knew I was coming. That sends a prickling sensation through my body. I’m not sure if it is excitement or fear.

  At the top of the path there’s a house. The storyteller’s house, no doubt of it, for it is festooned with strange objects, and it draws me as clear water draws a thirsty man. Tiny birds watch me from the roof thatch, exchanging chirruping remarks. The dog pads up to the door and noses it open. The woman appears in the doorway. Her hair is long and pure white, her face remarkably unlined. There is a peaceful air about her that reassures me. Her gaze is very direct.

  “Thank you, Storm,” she says quietly, motioning to the dog to pass her and go indoors. Then, to me, “Welcome.”

  “Greetings,” I say. For some reason my voice is shaking. “My name is B—Donal.” It feels wrong to lie to her. “I’m seeking a storyteller. I was told she lives in these parts. Is that you, mistress?”

  “You might get a story out of me,” she says with an odd little smile. “At the very least I can offer you a drink of water and a bite to eat. Have you walked up from the settlement? That is quite some way.”

  “I was grateful for your dog’s assistance. She led me to the right path.”

  “Come in, then. Sit down and rest your feet. As for Storm, that is her job: choosing the right path and making sure folk don’t get lost along the way.”

  “And yet, when I was riding the other way, I saw neither Storm nor the path to this cottage.”

  “I’ve found that insights come when it is the right time,” the woman says.

  Exactly what she means I am unsure; we are moving into a realm beyond the commonplace. I must keep my wits about me.

  She busies herself preparing a simple meal, and when it is ready she sits at the table opposite me. Storm pretends to sleep. One eye is not quite closed; she is watching me.

  “Eat,” the woman says. “You are weary, and there is still some way to go.”

  Why would she say this? After I hear the story, I need only retrace my steps to court. But it’s true, that is quite a long way, and I must be sure I’m back before dusk. I nod and apply myself to the food, which is plain, good fare, seasoned with herbs. It reminds me of home. I think of Father digging his vegetable patch, and Mother chopping thyme or parsley with a wisewoman’s precision and her very own kind of ferocity. I consider some of the other things Mother does—not only mending broken bones, brewing curative drafts, and birthing new babies, but also giving good advice, sometimes based on augury or divination. Faelan called this person both wisewoman and storyteller. Perhaps it is not so surprising that she seems prepared for my visit.

  “May I know your name?” I ask.

  “May I know yours?”

  I’ve made a trap for myself. “I go by the name I gave you, mistress. Donal.”

  “Ah. Then I will go by the name you gave me. Mistress. We are cautious, the two of us. As cautious as if we spoke to uncanny folk, whose true names hold such power.”

  I smile despite my unease, recalling several tales in which guessing a fey being’s real name allows a man or woman to get out of trouble. “I mean no disrespect. I am bound by a promise.”

  “Ah. Let us try another question, then. Who was it told you about me? Who sent you here?”

  This seems safe. Faelan said nothing about keeping his friendship with the storyteller secret. “A druid. I am a musician: a traveling harper and singer, and a maker of songs. I am visiting the regent’s court. I’ve been spending time in the nemetons, exchanging tales and tunes with some of the brethren. A novice named Faelan mentioned you. He told me a tale about the ritual harp used when a new king of Breifne is crowned. The tale of its origins. He mentioned that he first heard this tale from you.”

  She waits, her gaze calm but intent.

  “I knew you lived up here somewhere. I felt that I might find the path, one way or another. I didn’t expect Storm.”

  She looks away now. There’s something new in her expression. “Is Faelan well?” she asks. “Is he content with his choice?”

  Her tone tells me they were firm friends; that she thinks of him and misses him. “To enter the order? Yes, I believe he is content. I’ve known him only a short time, but I believe the life of scholarship, prayer, and ritual suits him well. He seems very highly regarded both by the newer novices, whom he helps teach, and by his superiors.”

  The woman’s smile is warm. “No doubt he welcomed the chance to work with you,” she says. “He loves his music. He used to visit me often, and when he brought his harp he would play to me and sing. Faelan showed rare talent, even as a boy. And an understanding far beyond his years.”

  I nod. It occurs to me that hers must be quite a lonely life, though that may be from choice. What happened with Storm makes me wonder if the place is seen by outsiders only when the storyteller wants a visit. She must be sad that Faelan no longer comes here. “I haven’t brought my harp,” I say, “but I know a fair few songs. If you wish, I will sing for you.”

  Now she grins. “How could I refuse such an offer, young man? You may not
be Faelan, but you possess just such kindness as his. Finish your food, and then you shall entertain me awhile.”

  When I’m done eating, I ask, “Is there a particular kind of song you are fond of? My creations have tended to be somewhat sorrowful recently. But I do know merry songs, funny songs, whatever you prefer.”

  “A song about a traveler who walks into the woods.”

  The chill of unease passes through me again. “I have one, but it is not yet finished. It is not suited to performance in Lord Cathra’s hall; I failed to give the verse a happy ending.”

  “I would like to hear it. A shame you do not have your harp with you.”

  As I sing, I hear my sister’s voice in my mind, and a drumbeat that might be supplied by Archu, soft but menacing. It seems to me, foolishly, that as I sing the day grows dark beyond the open shutters of the little house, though I know it cannot be so late.

  The storyteller listens with concentration, unmoving. Storm lies on the floor, still watching me with one eye. From time to time her tail twitches.

  A man went walking in the forest deep

  In earliest morn, when all was wreathed in sleep

  The birds were still, the creatures were at rest

  A single owl called from the oak’s high crest.

  He felt the quiet seep into his bones

  And with it, memories of a far-off home

  A place of peace and safety, love and light

  Where he could not return, strive as he might.

  He came at last upon a secret glade

  Where sunlight through the leaves brought dappled shade

  And there he lay awhile to take his rest

  And try to will the sorrow from his breast.

  He slept, perhaps, or dreamed a waking dream

  The woods, the creatures were more than they seemed

  All was alive with magic. Leaves were jewels

  And strange winged beings bathed in forest pools.

  An owl called, and he understood its cry

  “My greetings to you! Do not pass on by!

  What do you seek, my son? The Land of Fire?

  The Land of Hope? The Land of Heart’s Desire?”

  I come to a halt. “I had an ending in mind for the verse,” I say. “The traveler would realize that he carried his home with him wherever he went, through his memories of the people and places he had loved. And he would journey on in new hope for the future. But whenever I tried to craft the next part, it turned dark and despairing. The tune is good enough, I think.”

  “You might give it some time,” the woman says. “Set the verse aside for a while, come back to it later. I imagine you are not short of ideas. Your voice is remarkable, Donal. I wish I could hear you play.”

  “If I were staying longer in these parts, I would bring my harp here and play for you. But we depart just after midsummer. We’ve been hired to entertain at court while the visitors are there.”

  “We?” she asks.

  “Myself and two fellow musicians. We travel about, offer our services wherever they are wanted.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Why do I feel that she sees right through me? Even the dog has that knowing look in her amber eyes. Have I let something slip without knowing it? Or is she using her wisewoman’s instincts, as my mother does in assessing a person’s worth and intentions? I would like to tell her the truth. I sense she is trustworthy. But I am on a mission, and the mission has rules.

  “In the story Faelan told me,” I say, “the queen of the Fair Folk comes out to negotiate with the king of Breifne. She passes through a portal between the Otherworld and the human world.”

  The storyteller makes no comment, simply waits for me to go on.

  “I thought this forest might be the kind of place where such portals might be found. Especially as it is so close to the court.” I cannot tell her that there are portals in the woods near my home in Dalriada, or that I know human folk have passed through them and returned not quite as they were before. When I was given to the parents who raised me, I must have been brought into the human world through just such a doorway. But that infant was Brocc, not the harpist Donal, and I don’t speak of my origins, even when I am not pretending to be someone else. “What do you think?”

  “That seems to me very likely,” says the storyteller. “Were you planning to look for one? A perilous search, even if you know the way.”

  “I am a bard. I know many old songs and stories. I understand the need for caution. But . . .”

  “But some directions might help? You think I may know of such a place?”

  “If I wished to find a portal, I would ask a wisewoman.”

  She grins. “Not a druid, Donal?”

  I return the smile. “Druids ask a lot of questions,” I say. “I’ve found they are less keen to answer them. I thought I would look for my own answers.”

  The storyteller gives me a level look. “This is your choice, young man, not mine. I can suggest a pathway. Storm can set you on the right track, though she cannot go all the way with you.”

  My skin prickles. “What pathway?” And I am about to say I must be back at court before dark, but instead I say nothing at all.

  “A pathway on which you must take the utmost care, if you would return with your wits intact. Let me show you.”

  She leads me out of the house and into the woods. Storm walks beside her, steady and calm. This reassures me. The woman is a friend of Faelan, whom I trust. My instincts tell me she means me no harm. Why would she lead me into a trap? Be brave, Brocc, I tell myself. You are a Swan Island man.

  We don’t walk so very far before the woman halts. The dog stands still, needing no command. “This is as far as I go,” the woman says. “I have herbs to gather, food to prepare, a garden to tend.”

  The path ahead is barely discernible; it would be all too easy to find oneself lost.

  “Return with me, if that is your choice,” she says. “Or go on.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know where I should go. The trees grow densely here; the path is not clear.”

  “Ah, my fine singer. Is the path ever quite clear?”

  I think of Faelan, of his guileless gaze, his steady manner, his deep calm, and his kindness. I think of my sister, whose whole being is focused on her goal to become a Swan Island warrior. I think of Dau in the stable yard, enduring his humiliation in stoic silence. “For some folk, I believe it is.”

  “And for some, life remains full of questions. Turn back if you will. Or walk on and perhaps find answers.”

  I peer ahead between the trees, trying to convince myself there is a path. “I cannot wander blind in a place such as this. Folk are expecting me, back at court. How long is this journey?”

  “It all depends on the traveler,” says the storyteller. “As for what you seek, that, too, is different for every man or woman who wanders in these woods. One thing I can promise. There will be the makings of a fine new song in this day’s work.”

  She doesn’t add, Which way will you go? We both know a hero doesn’t retreat when faced with a challenge. “I’ll go on,” I say, hoping the dog will stay with me awhile longer. But the storyteller speaks her hound’s name quietly, and within the space of a few breaths the two of them are gone, walking soft-footed back toward the cottage. I am alone in the woods, and the pathway ahead is full of shadows.

  * * *

  * * *

  I walk on for what seems a long time. This part of the forest has many tall oaks, making it hard to judge the position of the sun, but I reckon it to be past time for the midday meal. I reach a small clearing, where one of the many streams within the woodland runs into a round pool, and sunlight strikes down between the forest giants all around. I sit down for a rest and get out the provisions I’ve brought. I wonder, now, what possessed me
to come up here. Talking to the storyteller was one thing. Heading off into the woods with no clear idea of what I was looking for . . . That was not the action of a Swan Island man, or even of a fledgling spy. Not if he was in his right mind. If I meet anyone out here, it’s more likely to be a lad out with a herd of foraging swine than one of the Fair Folk carrying the Harp of Kings. I’ve made a mistake, a bad one. And now I have barely time to get back before dark. I’ll retrace my steps as soon as I finish my meal. I’ve marked my way with knotted grasses and other such signs; I should be able to find it.

  I make myself eat, though I have little appetite for the food. My thoughts are on something the old woman said toward the end. Walk on, and perhaps find answers. She can’t know I’m looking for the harp. So maybe she meant answers to other questions, the ones that have plagued me since I was old enough to realize I was not like Galen and Liobhan. Their brother, yet not their brother. Could she tell, simply by looking at me, or by hearing me sing, that I am not entirely of humankind? Ordinary folk accept me. But a wisewoman might see the difference.

  I go on. To keep the fear at bay I sing as I walk: a cheerful song about animals. Birds make comment from high above, their cries somewhat derisive. Is that the best you can do, stranger? If you want to come further, you’ll need to give us something more entertaining! They warble melodiously as if to demonstrate. For a while, I walk on in silence. It’s true: their song is more wondrous than anything I have to offer. The day is passing. I’m wasting my time here. I’m risking the mission.

  I come out into another clearing and see a small heap of white pebbles, neatly placed. Someone’s playing tricks. Or trying to guide me. But it’s not much of a clue, because the pebbles are set squarely in the spot where this path, if path it can be called, branches into two. Each branch heads across the clearing and into the woods. One I judge to run roughly northeast; the other, due east. Apart from that they look more or less identical, and the stones do not favor one over the other. Perhaps this means, Give up the fruitless search and go home.