“I’m not going home,” Dau says. “I’d be a beggar by the wayside sooner than that.”
* * *
* * *
We’re not required to play music after supper. Brocc’s harp is packed up, ready for travel, along with the rest of our possessions. I manage to retrieve my belongings from the women’s quarters without talking to anyone. I’m sad not to see Aislinn again. On the way back, I leave my bundle at the foot of the big oak and climb up, sore ankle and all, to her special place. Wolfie won’t fit in the box, so I leave him sitting on top; within the hollow he should be safe until Aislinn comes here again. She’ll never know that while in my custody her druid doll traveled to the Otherworld and back again, wearing a lock of her hair. Sometime I will tell my mother about this piece of hearth magic.
42
DAU
Under orders to maintain our cover until we’re told otherwise, we ride away from the court of Breifne in our two teams: the musicians first, the farrier and his assistant not long after. Many folk are leaving this morning, and the guards give us barely a glance. There’s no farewell and thank-you from Lord Cathra, though Archu lets slip that he did receive the promised payment. He must be carrying rather a lot of silver. There’s no thank-you for services rendered at the stables either. Illann gets a curt nod from the stable master, and I might as well not be there for all the acknowledgment I’m given. Never mind that. The truth is, I’m glad to be out of this place. Only one member of the royal establishment will miss me, and that’s Bryn the stable dog. I can’t use words to say good-bye to him, because there are people around, but I squat down and scratch him behind the ears. He licks my face. I try to communicate silently that it’s been good to have a friend in this place. He’ll forget me soon enough.
The plan is for our two teams to link up later on, probably at Oschu’s safe house, where we’ll change horses. The five of us will ride the rest of the way together. I’m guessing Archu will quiz us about our performance as soon as we’re all staying a night in the same place. As I ride, I try to rate the three of us. I try to see through Archu’s eyes, to weigh what we got right against our disastrous lapses of judgment and our willful disregard of the fact that he’s the mission leader. I try to balance the triumphal ending of the mission against the eccentric way we achieved it. I think about going home, and shadows darken my mind.
Illann is never talkative when riding, and even less so when his companion can’t respond. That means I’m left with my memories and my fears. I find myself wishing we were all riding together now. Brocc was unusually quiet before we left, perhaps still weary. He was restless during the night. I woke a few times to see him standing by the window with his blanket around his shoulders, staring at nothing. Perhaps he, too, was looking into a future without Swan Island in it. Still, with talents like his, he’ll always be in demand as a musician. Me? Maybe I can hire myself out as a stable hand. Somewhere far, far from home.
We’re riding through the forest, on the first part of the Crow Way. I find myself glancing up, half expecting those things to swoop down from the trees and rake me with their claws. Gods, that was strange, the way Brocc used his voice as a weapon. What will Archu say when we tell him the full story? Will we tell him? Will we all get to hear what happened to Brocc and Liobhan behind the mysterious wall? Morrigan’s curse, if someone had told me before I left Swan Island that this mission would contain such bizarre occurrences I’d have laughed at the idea. Even now I can hardly take it in. How is it that Brocc and Liobhan accept these uncanny phenomena so easily?
We approach the side path that leads to Mistress Juniper’s cottage and come to an abrupt halt. Ahead of us, at the point where the path branches off, are Archu, Brocc, and Liobhan. Brocc has dismounted and is unpacking his saddlebag. The others are still on their horses, meaning the way is blocked to any other traveler who may wish to pass. There’s some kind of dispute going on.
“Ride forward,” Illann says. We come up behind the others and halt again.
Brocc is in dispute with Archu. Liobhan is silent, her face linen-pale, her jaw tight. She’s staring at her brother as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“What do you mean, you’re not coming with us?” The usually unshakable Archu is struggling to keep his voice calm.
“I made a promise.” Brocc has rolled his belongings into a bundle; he ties it up. His harp is on his back. “I can’t come with you. Ride on. Forget me.”
“Give us a moment.” Liobhan dismounts so quickly she’s in danger of damaging her ankle again. She passes her reins to Archu and marches over to Brocc. I’m expecting her to slap him on the cheek and tell him to stop being stupid, but no: she doesn’t touch him, just stands there looking at him. “What is this?” Her voice is shaking. “What promise? We finished the tasks, we did everything she asked us to! She can’t make you go back!” I hear how hard she’s fighting for control. I hear how much she wants to let out a scream of rage or burst into tears. If I thought before that she was strong, now I see it in every part of her.
Brocc looks his sister straight in the eye. His expression makes me catch my breath. “This is my own choice, Liobhan. She needs me. Her people need me. I promised.” He glances up the track toward Mistress Juniper’s house. There’s someone up there. Not the old woman or her dog. A much younger woman, startlingly pretty, modestly dressed, standing on the pathway. Waiting. Behind her, other figures, all cloaked and hooded. They look quite odd. Some are very small, child-sized, but not children. Little folk like Thistle-Coat.
“Break the wretched promise,” says Liobhan. “Come back with us, if not to Swan Island, then home to Winterfalls. You don’t belong with these folk, Brocc. You’re one of us.”
“Maybe so, maybe not,” Brocc says. He puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. I see then that his face is wet with tears. “This way, I’ll find out. I have work to do in that place. A pathway I must follow.”
Liobhan looks up the track toward the waiting folk. The young woman gives her a sweet smile; inclines her head in acknowledgment.
“Who are these people?” Archu is stern. “Right now you’re under my leadership, and I in my turn am responsible to the elders of Swan Island. I’ll be called upon to account for your absence. You might at least do me the courtesy of offering an explanation.”
“I can’t,” Brocc says. “I must go now. Ciara knows the story. I’m sorry to let you down.” He looks from Archu to me to Illann. “All of you. And I wish you well for the future. But I cannot come with you, and I cannot delay any longer.”
A sob comes from Liobhan; she puts a hand up to her mouth to stifle it. Brocc wraps his arms around her; holds her for a moment. When he steps back, she asks, “How long? When will you come home?”
Brocc doesn’t answer. He turns and walks away up the path.
“Brocc,” whispers Liobhan. “Please don’t go.” But Brocc walks on, unheeding. Even I have tears in my eyes.
In next to no time he reaches his welcoming party. They turn as one and make their way toward the forest. All are soon lost in the shadow of the trees. Liobhan covers her face with her hands. She stands there in the road, unmoving. It’s at this moment that we hear travelers coming up behind us, most likely other visitors on their long way home from court.
“Nessan, help her up,” Archu says. “We’ll move on together.”
I dismount and bid my horse wait. When I touch Liobhan on the shoulder she starts like a spooked animal. “Come,” I tell her quietly. “We’re moving on. Let me help you.”
It’s a measure of how shocked she is that she accepts my assistance to remount, takes the reins without question, follows Archu as he rides off. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t say another word. Archu picks up the pace and we head away from Mistress Juniper’s modest dwelling—where was she, I wonder?—and, in time, away from the forest with its wretched crow-things and its other peculia
r inhabitants. Has Brocc gone to a place full of beings that are neither man nor animal, but a strange blend like Thistle-Coat? Maybe this is all a dream—I know about dreams—and I’ll wake up back in the practice room with Liobhan asleep on my knee. Maybe I’ll wake up and I’ll be six years old again and . . . No, I won’t go down that path. From time to time I glance at Liobhan, but she’s staring straight ahead. No tears now. Her face is that of a warrior hewn from stone, grim and set. I’d give anything to see her smile. Or to hear her snap a retort when I annoy her. Or to have her hold out her hand and invite me to join her in some act of crazy courage. I consider answers to the inevitable questions from Archu: How would you assess your companion’s performance on this mission? What did she get right? Where did she err? How could she have done better? But I can’t think the way he undoubtedly will. If it were my decision, I couldn’t refuse her a place on Swan Island.
43
LIOBHAN
There’s only one way to keep going, and that’s to put my warrior training into practice. I shut away what’s just happened and ride on without talking. When we stop to rest the horses, I answer questions with yes or no. I do what’s needed, I eat and drink when the others do, I make sure I’m ready to go on when it’s time.
Archu and Illann haven’t said a thing about what happened with Brocc. All three men are being careful around me, as if they think I might either collapse completely or rush off alone to find my brother, as I did before. I have to block them out. If anyone offers sympathy I may fall apart. I can’t let that happen. I’m strong. I’m going to stay that way, whatever it costs me.
There’s a night at a wayside inn. Archu offers music in return for food and shelter. He doesn’t ask me if I’m ready to perform, just tells me we’re doing it. “If you prefer, we can stick to whistle and bodhran,” he says. He doesn’t say, If you think singing might remind you too much of what you’ve lost. He doesn’t say, If you think you might cry. But that’s what he means.
“I can manage a couple of songs,” I tell him. “You choose. Whatever works best without the harp.”
We get through the performance. I don’t shed any tears. I don’t stumble over the words. I manage “Artagan’s Leap,” even though I have to play the whole melody by myself. Archu makes no concessions with the speed. The crowd seems well pleased. In the morning we ride on.
The next stop is the safe house, home of Oschu and Maen and their son. Archu tells us we’ll stay two nights. The first night, after supper, the family goes off somewhere and our team is left by the hearth fire.
“I’ll hear the story now,” Archu says. “Let me say, before we start, that I acknowledge the loss of Brocc, and how hard this must be for you, Liobhan. I’ll be the one answering to Cionnaola for what happened, so anything you can tell me that will help make sense of it, I’ll welcome.”
“I don’t know the full story. There are parts of it only Brocc could tell. But I’ll give you what I can.” I need to do this. I need to get it over. “May I ask a question first?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you accept so quickly that he was leaving us? Did you consider trying to stop him? Riding after him, maybe, or waiting awhile?”
“Did you?” asks Archu.
“I knew it would be no good.”
“It was the same for me. I saw the look on his face. I couldn’t fail to notice the nature of those folk who were waiting for him. When you went away to bring him back, I had a fair idea of where you’d gone.” Maybe I look shocked, because he adds, “Don’t forget, Cionnaola knew your parents before you were born. Musical ability was only one of the factors we took into account when choosing the team for this mission.”
“You’re saying you guessed even then that this might involve the uncanny?”
“We took the possibility into consideration. We thought you and your brother might be better equipped to handle it than most. Tell us the story, Liobhan. We’ll hear your tale first and then Dau’s.”
Dau looks as if he’s bursting with questions. I’d rather he hadn’t learned that our parents are old friends of Cionnaola’s. But at this point, perhaps that hardly matters. “All right, I’ll tell you.”
I give my account as concisely as I can. Brocc in pursuit of a story heard from a druid. Mistress Juniper. My following Brocc, Dau following me, my strange visit to the Otherworld. The crow-things, the faery queen, the attachment between her and my brother. The vision of two futures. The tasks. I nearly lose control when I’m telling them how Eirne promised that Brocc could come back with me on Midsummer Eve. She worded that promise carefully; she never said, He can come back to your world forever.
“Take your time,” Archu says. Dau gets up, pours me a cup of mead, and puts it beside me on the table. On occasion, he can be quite considerate.
I tell them about Aislinn and the doll, and how she played out the story of Wolfie and his sister. I explain that the way the doll was crafted made his creation a powerful act of hearth magic.
“And the dancing?” asks Dau with some diffidence.
“We needed to work as a team. The dancing helped us trust each other.” I think the dancing was a bit more than that, but I’m not going to say so.
I tell of my return to Eirne’s world, and how she trusted us to act in wisdom and justice. I mention Eirne’s hint that some of her folk might have taken things into their own hands, and my belief that she meant they’d spirited the harp away. While that broke the rule about the Fair Folk not intervening directly in human affairs, it gave her the means to secure a better future for Breifne. I give the account of our ride back, and the attack by the crow-things, and Brocc singing. I reach the point where we dismounted not far from the fortress, with the harp in our possession and the sun close to rising, the last part of that night having passed with uncanny speed.
“And then you, in your turn, chose to take matters into your own hands.” Archu’s tone tells me nothing.
Dau starts to speak, but I put up a hand to stop him. “Wait. Archu, after what I’d seen and heard, I couldn’t pass the Harp of Kings over and see Rodan crowned. By then I knew about Faelan—who he was, and that he’d chosen the order above the kingship three years ago. I believed, as you did, that being a druid ruled him out of claiming. I thought that by leaving the harp at Danu’s Gate, we’d be passing this into the hands of the gods. I thought that was what Eirne meant when she said to follow the path of wisdom and justice. I had no idea what Brocc was going to do.”
“Risky,” says Illann.
“I believed that risk was better than the risk of allowing Rodan to become king of Breifne.”
“We’ll hear your story now,” says Archu to Dau.
Dau tells it clearly and simply. He, at least, has no accounts of the Otherworld to give. He doesn’t complain about the requirement to be mute. He sticks to the facts. He skips over the precise details of how I got out of the fortress on the morning I went off after Brocc—he just says he helped me. He downplays his role in the fight against the crow-things. He doesn’t mention that he sang up at the wall to give me some respite. I’m impressed. Even if we’ve done badly, even if we get sent home, he can hold his head up. This has changed him for the better. This strange adventure has peeled away that cloak of scorn and indifference.
“Tell me,” says Archu, “after playing your role so well for so long, what possessed you to challenge all three of Rodan’s friends? If we’re talking about risk, that was a big one.”
“I was angry. They were insulting Liobhan. I’d had enough.” Dau has his elbows on his knees and his fingers knotted together. He’s looking at the floor. So he doesn’t see that Archu and Illann are both grinning.
“I’ve got a question, too,” I say. “Why did the two of you act the way you did that night? That was far out of keeping with your roles in the mission. Not to say that I didn’t enjoy the whole spectacle. Except when I thought that small
man was going to stick a knife in Dau.”
Archu and Illann are laughing. Dau sits up, startled.
“I do like a good fight,” says Archu. “It was past time for those oafs to be taught a lesson. It would have been a different matter if Rodan himself had been there—we’d have had to stop it. But as it was, it felt natural to get into the spirit of things.”
“Best moment of the mission,” says Illann. “By the gods, you’re a clever fighter, Dau. And Liobhan’s lightning quick. Not that I’d recommend knife catching as a regular form of exercise. A person tends to lose fingers.”
I’m hoping they may move from this to what Dau and I want to hear: the assessment of our performance, and the verdict. Surely Archu won’t make us wait until we’re back at Swan Island to tell us. Will he? Maybe he has to consult with the other trainers. Or with all the elders. That could mean a long, long wait.
“It’s late,” he says now, getting up and holding his hands out to the fire. “We’re all tired. A rest day tomorrow. We’ll speak again in the evening. Good night now.”
We mumble our good nights and head off to our sleeping quarters. I’m on a pallet in a corner of the kitchen. The men are in a communal area at the other end of the house. I wonder how many Swan Island folk stop here on their way to and from various missions. Our hosts must have heard a lot of tales they can’t share. I lie in bed thinking how long tomorrow’s going to feel. I’ll be furious if Archu doesn’t get the assessment done before we leave here. This exercises my mind so thoroughly that I hardly think of Brocc. Just before I fall asleep in the early hours, moonlight comes in the window, pale and pure, and my brother returns to my thoughts. I hope you’re happy, I think. I hope you made the right choice. And I hope someday I’ll sing with you again.
The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 42