Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘We’re both musicians,’ says Liobhan with iron in her voice. ‘We both grew up in a wise woman’s household. We both know our old tales.’

  ‘Does that include the tale of the Harp of Kings, Ciara?’

  Liobhan is suddenly tense. ‘I’ve heard the tale, yes.’ She glances at me, brows up. I can think of no way to let her know that I haven’t told Eirne the harp is missing, or that I think Eirne knows anyway. Perhaps also that she had a hand in spiriting it out of the nemetons. I shake my head a little, hoping Liobhan will take it as a warning.

  ‘I face grave trouble, Ciara,’ Eirne says. ‘My people are few, and I have no heir. If I were gone, I do not think my clan would long survive. We lost one of our own today, to the Crow Folk, and if not for your brother’s remarkable talents, more would have perished.’

  ‘The Crow Folk,’ murmurs Liobhan. ‘So they strike even here, in the Otherworld?’

  ‘You have encountered them?’ Eirne asks.

  ‘Not face to face. But there was an attack on the regent’s men, not at the keep but away in the north, just last night. It sounded as if the crow-things might be to blame. They’re much feared. I think folk are in greater dread of an enemy when they can’t understand it. A plague of ordinary crows – that they’d find far easier to deal with.’ She hesitates. ‘There’s a reluctance to acknowledge that these things might be uncanny. Which is odd, considering there is a druid community right on the doorstep of Breifne’s court. But then, the brethren don’t come out often. Ordinary folk don’t see them.’

  ‘Your kind have forgotten the old ways,’ says Eirne. ‘You have forgotten the importance of the tales, the wisdom of the past, the strength that rises from tree and stone and stream, the bond between one world and the other. It is at such times of distrust and disruption that dark forces like these rise up to shadow our world.’

  ‘It’s rather harsh to include the whole of humankind in that statement,’ says Liobhan. ‘Brocc and I were brought up to respect all of those things you mention, as were many others. Our own community is often visited by wandering druids, who are happy to share a story or two. It’s different in Breifne, I know. Which makes it surprising that this midsummer ritual is still considered so important. The one where the harp is played to acknowledge the new king, I mean.’

  Not subtle, but clever all the same – she’s moved the conversation quickly to what she needs to know.

  ‘Before I speak further,’ says Eirne, and I hear a new note in her voice, ‘I must explain that certain ancient laws govern my choices and my actions in this matter, as in every matter that requires me to involve myself or my people with the human world. Since you are bards, and since you have heard the tale of the Harp of Kings, you will understand what I mean. I cannot intervene directly in the affairs of human folk, even if the tide of those affairs flows against my own people. I cannot step into your world and direct that matters take a particular turn. Had I lived a hundred, two hundred years ago, Breifne might have had a human king or queen with whom I could speak openly. We might have met in council as Béibhinn did with the human monarch of her own time. This is not possible when the human folk of Breifne, including their leaders, do not respect us. Indeed, many doubt our very existence. Druids once played a far greater part; when they advised a king, he took heed of their wisdom. But that trust is greatly weakened now, and I fear we walk forward into a dark time indeed.’

  Liobhan is sitting very still, hands clasped tight around her knees. I’m full of anticipation, hardly able to draw breath. Eirne seems on the verge of some revelation, perhaps the one I sought when I came here. I’m tempted to ask straight out about the Harp of Kings. It’s not as if I haven’t already broken the rules of the mission in more than one way. But I don’t ask the question: Is this why the harp was taken? If Eirne can’t intervene directly in human affairs, she can’t be responsible for that. I hold my tongue and wait.

  ‘So,’ Eirne continues, ‘I fear for the future. I see a possible solution, one that requires a high degree of trust, one that I and my people cannot carry out ourselves. I see you, Brocc, and you, Ciara, and perhaps others who came to Breifne with you, as instruments for good. I cannot act in this; all I can do is give the pot a little stir. Nudge matters in the right direction. But you are of that human world and you can act. To do so, to achieve the right end, you must put your trust in the old gods. And you must put your trust in me.’

  ‘How can you know who came to Breifne with us? How can you know we’re trustworthy when we are more or less strangers to you?’ Liobhan pushes her hair back from her brow; the gesture is angry. ‘And if you wanted cooperation, why did you keep me on the other side of the wall for so long?’

  ‘Everything in its right time.’ Eirne is perfectly calm. ‘You came to Breifne for a purpose that went beyond the making of music, yes? I see in you, Ciara, somewhat more than a bard; in Brocc, too, there is a fighting spirit.’

  ‘We’re bound by a promise.’ Liobhan’s doing her best to rein in her anger. ‘We can’t tell you everything. You spoke earlier about councils as a means to settle difficulties. But even in a council, I should think people hold things back.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Eirne smiles. ‘As I must do. But I do not ask for blind trust. As for cooperation, Brocc has already agreed to provide what I need from him. A song. He will write it and he will sing it. That is all I require.’

  ‘I need to be back at court tonight,’ says Liobhan. ‘By suppertime. Believe me, there is a very good reason for that. And Brocc – you suggested he would be staying here another night, maybe longer. That could make trouble for us. Serious trouble.’ She glances at the sky above the treetops, trying to guess how late it is. ‘What is it I’m supposed to do for you?’

  ‘From you, Ciara, I do not require a song. I need an ally in the court of Breifne. A person of brave heart and quick wits. A person who will place the future of this fair land above all else.

  A person who will always choose the path of wisdom and justice. You were right to question my choice. In asking you to do this, I place a great deal of trust in one I know only through the reports of others.’

  ‘What others?’ demands Liobhan, not looking happy at all.

  ‘We have watchers in many places. Small folk, but wise. For the most part, wise. They do occasionally decide to take matters into their own hands. But we will not speak of that.’

  ‘We have a task at court already. A task that must be completed by Midsummer Day. What if that conflicts with your task?’ Liobhan asks.

  ‘Then I suppose we choose the path of wisdom and justice,’ I say, a little uncomfortable with my sister’s manner, though it is what I would expect from her.

  ‘I need more than this,’ says Liobhan. ‘Keep back information if you will, but just as I can’t be a bard without a song to sing or a dance to play, I can’t be this ally, a – a fighter, a warrior – if all I have is . . . philosophy. I need at least some idea of what you want me to do. A practical idea.’

  Eirne rises to her feet; we do the same. Rowan and Nightshade haven’t said a word, but as Eirne leads us into the little pavilion, they follow. Nightshade motions to me and Liobhan to take up positions beside the queen, at the pedestal. Rowan stands apart, where he can watch both us and the pathway outside.

  ‘My friends,’ says the queen, ‘we must put trust in the gods and be

  brave of heart. And yes, we must act swiftly. My task, too, must be completed before Midsummer Day is over. As for a conflict between the two, we must hope it can be resolved. For that, both wisdom and justice will be required. And strength of will. Great strength.’ Eirne turns her lambent grey eyes on mine; her gaze sends a shiver through me. It is not fear, or not entirely; it is a sense that something immense is at stake: lives, kingdoms, generations to come. How could I ever have imagined Eirne was like some village girl I might meet at a dance? She turns to look at Liobhan, and Liobhan gazes steadil
y back, with strength in every part of her.

  ‘Will you show us?’ my sister asks.

  The shallow vessel that sits atop the pedestal is a scrying bowl. Our mother uses one very similar, though hers is of plain earthenware and this is carven from some delicate, shimmering substance, perhaps bone or shell.

  ‘For this you must hold your silence,’ Eirne says. ‘Save your questions until it is over. Though it may be wiser not to ask. Instead take time to consider what you have seen and find your own answers. Remember, do not speak or you risk breaking my trance, and we will lose the image.’

  She takes up the jug and pours in the water, and it is surely not only my imagination that conjures a smoke or mist rising from the bowl, then dissipating in the quiet of the little shelter. Liobhan is so still she might have stopped breathing. My heart beats hard; I’m not sure what I expect. An image of the harp, perhaps? A clue to its whereabouts?

  Eirne closes her eyes. She slows her breathing. She lifts her graceful hands above the bowl and traces patterns in the air. Quite soon, colours and shapes start to dance on the water, images not created by the flickering of the candle or the sunlight above the trees, but drawn from deep within. What a fine song this would make! But I would never write it. This is deep and mystical and surely secret.

  ‘Look now,’ murmurs Nightshade.

  I look. What I see chills me deep in the bone. Liobhan makes a little sound of shock and dismay, which she instantly stifles.

  The water shows Breifne in disarray. We see a chaos of blood and burning and once-fine things broken beyond repair. A king looks on, a king who is Rodan, though he is older, grey-haired, his features lined, his body coarsened by indulgent living. The lovely place where we stand now is a wasteland. Not a single great tree remains. Landslides have ruined the hillside and the forest road is no more. The scene in the water changes, and changes again, and each image hurts my heart more deeply. Folk beaten and driven from their homes. Men sent to war against a neighbouring kingdom, some dying on the field, some stumbling home wounded and despairing, to face the wrath of a king who lacked the courage to stand beside them in battle. Homes burning. Animals starving, neglected, forgotten. Children cowed, beaten, weeping. Where are Eirne’s folk in this vision? Driven away? Destroyed? Or in hiding, waiting for the time of darkness to end?

  The water shivers and stills, and the vision is gone. What is Eirne telling us? That if Rodan is crowned king, the land of Breifne will be thrown into disaster? Liobhan and I are here to find the harp, to return it so this man can indeed become king. Why show us this portent of disaster when we’re powerless to act on it?

  My sister and I exchange looks. She is pale, shocked; I imagine I look the same. How could we take this message back to Archu?

  The water shivers again; Eirne lets out a long breath. Nightshade moves closer, so she, too, can see the reflective surface. Even Rowan is moving in now.

  Eirne moves her hands above the bowl once more, and the water brightens, as with the touch of midday sun, though here we are in dappled light. The kingdom of Breifne appears in a series of images as before. But now all is as it should be. The fields are green, the dry-stone walls are in good repair, the cattle and sheep are healthy and content. Folk are out tending crops and stock, driving carts along the roads, stopping to talk to neighbours. I see a group of old men seated on a bench in the shade of an oak, and a robed druid leaning on his staff, chatting to them. On the hill, the great trees of this forest stand strong and proud, and around them the younger ones stretch out their limbs and display their summer raiment in myriad shades of green. Birds sing; insects hum; on stream banks frogs croak out their songs, and fish swim in water so clear you can see the patterns on the smooth stones beneath. Who could doubt that Eirne’s folk are still alive and well in such a lovely place?

  The royal keep stands proud on its low hill, and within its protective wall folk go about the work of the court and its household much as they do now. Guards are on duty at the gate. A groom leads horses out to a grazing field. From the forge comes the steady ring of a hammer on iron. Women spread sheets on bushes to dry. Three men clad like scholars stand in the courtyard outside the keep’s main entry, deep in discussion. A dog runs about, with two laughing children alongside. And ah! Here is the king at last. He stands at a high window in the keep, looking out over his realm. We cannot see his face. It could be Rodan – this man is of similar height, though slighter build. His hair is of the same brown as the prince’s, but worn longer. No threads of grey in these wavy locks. Do these images show an earlier time than the others? Or is this a different man? Is it Rodan as he should be? As he could be, given the right guidance?

  In the vision, beyond the tower window, the sun moves out from behind a cloud, and for an instant the king is a dark silhouette surrounded by golden light. The moment passes. He is an ordinary man again, with a man’s troubles and responsibilities. He sighs; squares his shoulders, then, surprising me, he calls out a name, and lifts a hand to wave. From down below, a child’s voice calls back. Papa, look! Curly can catch the ball! The king chuckles. And the image is gone. As it fades, I hear faint music. Not from the forest nearby. Not from the little hut where I left the borrowed harp. From somewhere else; perhaps from that fair future the scrying bowl revealed. It is only a fragment, a snatch of tune, a brief cascade of notes. But it is the loveliest thing I have ever heard.

  It takes some while for Eirne to come back to herself, and when she does open her eyes she looks dazed. None of us speaks. Rowan comes forward with a stool and helps her to sit down. Nightshade brings a cup of water and puts it in her hand.

  I look at Liobhan. She looks at me. We can’t ask what it meant. We can’t ask which was the true future, if indeed that is to be determined at all. We can’t ask if both men were Rodan, or if one was some other claimant to the kingship whom we have yet to meet. We can’t ask about the harp. At least, not in so many words.

  ‘My lady, may I speak?’ asks Liobhan when Eirne has sipped her water, and stretched, and seems more herself.

  ‘Speak wisely, warrior, or not at all,’ cautions Nightshade.

  ‘Speak, if you will.’ Eirne sounds exhausted. I feel a strange rush of tenderness. I wish I could pick her up in my arms. I wish I could lay her down to rest, then sit by her bedside and sing her a lullaby. Foolish Brocc.

  ‘May what we need to secure the future be won back in time? If so, can you tell us how that may be achieved?’ Liobhan has chosen her words with great care. Nobody would imagine she is known, back home, for a tendency to speak before she thinks.

  ‘I hope it can,’ Eirne says. ‘As for how, yes, I can tell you. But there is a price, and it is possible you may judge that price to be too high.’

  ‘We’re here for one purpose,’ Liobhan replies. I hear the edge in her voice. I should speak up. I should help her. But something holds me back. ‘An honourable purpose, which should be for the good of both kingdoms of Breifne, that of humankind and that of your own people, my lady. I could say that no price would be too high. But that would be the statement of a fool. Besides, I can’t think you would set a price beyond our reach, since you know, I believe, that we wish you nothing but good. Who would not want to see that fair future for Breifne?’

  ‘Before this is over,’ says Eirne, ‘you may discover the answer to that question.’ She rises, walks out of the pavilion and looks up at the sky above the forest canopy. ‘Time passes. You have a long walk home. We will return to the gathering place, and I will set out what I wish you to do. Come, follow me.’

  25

  Liobhan

  We’re back in the open area, where the strangely assorted folk are waiting. Whatever it is Eirne’s going to set out for us, she wants to do it before witnesses. I wish she would get on with it. The day is passing, I need to get Brocc back to court, and then there’s this wretched apology to be made. I need to practise it first, work out the perfect words
, so I don’t give in to the urge to curse and punch the prince in the face.

  The day is getting more bizarre by the moment. Like Rodan, this queen is good at stirring speeches, but not so strong on strategy. I should be worried about that vision of a dark future, and I am, deep down. The picture in the scrying bowl was ugly. It was terrible. But it wasn’t real, and nor was the other one. Scrying doesn’t show you what will happen. Only what may happen. The kingdom of Breifne should be able to haul itself out of trouble without some travelling musicians sticking their noses in. We’re committed to the mission we came here to carry out. We can’t do what Eirne wants if it clashes with that.

  ‘My people!’ Eirne addresses the motley crowd, and they fall silent. ‘The very future of Breifne is in the balance, for both humankind and the Fair Folk. Here in this realm, we face a darkness we barely understand. Alone, we cannot long continue to fight that threat. To overcome it, we need the aid of humankind.’

  Tell us where the harp is, I want to shout. At this rate I’ll be walking back to court by moonlight.

  ‘We know how sweetly Brocc can sing. We have seen that his matchless voice can be a powerful weapon. I think perhaps our bard is a descendant of Amergin himself. Brocc, you have promised us a rare kind of song, and I know you will fashion it well. Ciara, you have shown remarkable courage. You sought your brother out bravely, right to our wall. Our realm does not frighten you as it does so many human folk who stray here by chance. I trust you will fulfil the tasks I give you with that same strength of purpose.’

  I have to assume Eirne knows where the harp is, and that she’s waiting until we’ve done these tasks to tell us. Why she doesn’t simply do so now is beyond me. But it’s consistent with the Fair Folk’s practice of never giving anything away for nothing. With midsummer only days away, this could spell failure for our mission.