The storyteller gazes at her for a while without speaking. Then she says, ‘Ciara, you will always be able to tell right from wrong. I would know that even if I did not know you are the daughter of a wise woman. There’s no place for doubt in this errand you are undertaking, warrior. And you.’ She turns that look on me, and I find myself sitting up straighter, though my hand still rests on Storm, as if she were an anchor. ‘Trust her. Trust each other.’
‘I do trust him.’ Now Liobhan’s looking at me, and if she’s lying, she’s doing an excellent job of it. Her eyes are clear and her voice is steady. ‘The fact that we often annoy each other makes no difference. Whether that trust goes both ways remains to be seen.’
A pox on being silent! How do I leave that unanswered? I’ve already lost my temper with her and said an assortment of things I’m not proud of. But that’s Dau, isn’t it? That’s the boy who thought he could put the broken pieces of himself together and make a man. That’s the man who doesn’t know how to be a friend or a companion or do anything at all except fight. That’s the boy who couldn’t even keep his own dog safe. Who couldn’t protect the only thing he ever loved. I look down at Storm and say nothing. If I win a place on Swan Island, it will be because I deserve it. Because I worked hard for it. Because I worked to change the weak boy into a strong man. Trouble is, that boy never really went away.
The meal is finished; Liobhan is making herself useful, clearing the table. ‘Mistress Juniper?’ she asks. ‘I have an odd request.’
‘Not much is odd to me,’ says the old woman. ‘Ask away.’
‘Do you have some old cloth I could borrow? I need to make something when I get back to court.’
Mistress Juniper gives her one of those assessing looks. ‘Borrow?’ she asks. ‘If you’re planning to cut it up, I’m not going to get back what I lend you, but something different.’
Liobhan thinks for a while, absently scraping plates into a bucket. I wonder if Mistress Juniper keeps chickens. If so they are remarkably quiet.
‘If I take away some old cloth you don’t need, and cut out a few pieces to make something small, then return the rest of the cloth to you, does that count as giving or lending? Taking or borrowing? I might not be able to bring back what I make. I think that will be going to someone else. Someone who needs it more.’
Mistress Juniper weighs this as if it makes perfect sense. ‘In my opinion, it could rightly be interpreted as both,’ she says. ‘Let me see what I can find.’
We’re soon packed up and ready to move on. I crouch down to bid Storm farewell. I don’t care who sees me rest my cheek against her head and, for a moment, close my eyes.
‘So, you left the bard behind,’ Juniper says quietly.
‘For now,’ says Liobhan.
‘And the warrior walks on. Hold to your purpose, Ciara. You will need all your considerable strength before this is over.’
There is something in the quality of the silence that stops me from looking up. I fondle Storm’s ears one last time, then rise to my feet.
‘And you,’ Juniper says, coming over to put her hands on my shoulders. I don’t want her touch. I don’t want her searching gaze. ‘What are you?’ she asks. ‘Hero, bard, warrior? Or something else entirely? You have yet to find the answer, Nessan. You have yet to put together the puzzle of yourself.’
Even if the rules allowed me to speak, I would not have a word to say.
‘You can trust her,’ says the wise woman again, glancing at Liobhan, who has turned her back on us and is pretending to check the contents of her bag. ‘She walks a straight path. Sometimes she’ll get it wrong. She’s human, as you are. Go now. I’ll expect you on Midsummer Eve, Ciara, with what’s left of my cloth.’
It’s night by the time we get back to court. I’ve told Liobhan what to say to the guards at the gate, and she hates it, but she uses it anyway – tells them she came out in someone’s cart earlier, and happened to meet me up by the farm, and that we went walking together and lost track of time. The guards have a good old laugh and let us in, telling us we’ll be late for supper, and grinning as they ask us if we enjoyed our outing. Even by torchlight I can see Liobhan’s cheeks burning. But the explanation gets us in with no real harm done. The lies are a lot more believable than what really happened.
It’s only when we’re on our way to find Archu that I remember Liobhan’s supposed to be making an apology to Rodan, most likely after supper tonight. If word gets around that she and I spent a day away together when we were both supposed to be working, and got back late, it’s not going to improve people’s general opinion of either of us.
Archu is in the stables with Illann. The place is otherwise empty, except for horses.
‘Practice room,’ says Archu, looking at Liobhan. ‘Now.’ When I make to go with them, he says, ‘Not you.’
I watch the two of them go. If she’s bound by a promise, she won’t be able to tell him any more than she’s told me, and Archu’s not likely to accept that. I wish I could be there to put my side of things. I could at least let him know that Liobhan’s intentions were good.
‘Give me the short version,’ says Illann. ‘Then you need supper and bed. You look dead on your feet.’
‘I followed Ciara’s tracks into the forest, from that old woman’s cottage. I found her sitting by a rock wall, singing and playing the whistle. She was tired; she’d been doing it for a while, hoping Donal could make his way to her. After a while we heard his voice. It sounded as if he was on the other side of the wall, but we could find no way through. And then . . .’ How can I possibly make the next part plausible without telling lies?
Illann gives me a sideways look. We’re standing by the workbench in the half-dark, and he’s pretending to inspect a piece of harness, just in case anyone should come in suddenly. ‘Then what?’
‘There was an opening in the wall after all. Ciara told me to wait. She went through and the door, or whatever it was, closed after her.’
Illann doesn’t laugh or get angry or order me to give him the real truth. He just waits.
I tell him the rest: I waited, she came out, we walked back. She said she’d seen Brocc and that we could get the harp back if we did as she told us. Which meant leaving everything until the very last moment. ‘I know it sounds odd,’ I tell him. ‘I know it’s hard to swallow. But I believe her.’ Did those words just come out of my mouth?
Illann responds with a grunt. A Swan Island man is hard to surprise and good at hiding how he feels. ‘Have a quick wash, then go and see if there’s any supper left,’ he says. ‘If you put in an appearance, folk are less likely to notice anything out of the ordinary.’
The strange day is capped off with the oddest evening since we got here. The four of us go to supper separately. We’re not so late that folk would make note of it. That is extremely strange. We were slow on the walk back; Liobhan’s ankle was troubling her. Then there was our stop at Mistress Juniper’s house. By my reckoning, supper should have been long over and the household abed by the time we reached here. But no, the dining hall is full, and the meal is still on the tables. I sit in my usual spot, among the grooms and yard sweepers. Illann’s not far away, next to the stable master. Liobhan’s tidied up her hair and changed her clothes, and now she’s with a group of women who seem to know her. Archu has a spot conveniently close to the high table, where Cathra and his councillors enjoy a view over the entire hall. There are some new faces up there, including a man I hear someone say is Lord Tassach. He’s youngish, thirty at most, broad-shouldered and handsome, with fair curls. As for Rodan, he’s showing no signs of being chastened after his assault on Liobhan and its aftermath. But he’s watching her. He had his eye on her from the moment she came in, and he’s still looking as she smiles at one of the other women and laughs in response to a comment. He looks like a creature stalking its prey, biding its time. If I get a chance, I’ll warn her. The bas
tard. Wish I could give him the beating he’s due. And I’d wager Liobhan’s thinking exactly the same.
We eat. The mood in the hall is sombre, restless; with so many men lost in that ill-fated expedition last night, everyone’s been given pause for thought. There’s music all the same, provided by the group that does it when ours is not available. But no; not ours. I’m never really going to be part of that team. My somewhat strained performance up at the wall did serve its purpose, but when Liobhan called me a singer she was stretching the definition. I can remember tunes and verses fairly well. But you need more than that. You need a voice that compels folk to listen, a voice that touches heart and spirit. You need hands that can draw magic from an instrument. Like Brocc. And like Liobhan, too, but hers is different. When Brocc sings he takes you to some other place. He takes you out of yourself. When Liobhan sings I’m always aware that it’s her. I stay in the here and now, enjoying the warmth and strength of her voice. I love to hear her.
When’s Cathra going to ask for this apology? It’ll be awkward, even if he waits until some folk have gone. Liobhan’s doing a good job of looking unworried, but I bet her stomach’s tying itself in knots. At the high table there’s a curious restraint between the regent and Tassach, who are seated side by side. They barely exchange a word. Maybe they’ve fallen out over something. Rodan isn’t talking to anyone. Buach’s on guard behind his chair, but he gets ignored completely. The prince looks like he has his own personal thundercloud over him, darkening his eyes, tightening his mouth, crooking his brows into a scowl. Subtle, the man is not.
I wonder what part Cathra will play once Rodan becomes king. He may find himself losing the title and status of regent but keeping most of the responsibilities. Someone will have to do it, and it’s clear the crown prince lacks the required character. If I were Cathra, or Brondus, or anyone in authority here, I’d be making sure that oaf became king in name alone. I’d be governing him as if he were a wayward child.
My fellow workers make a few good-natured jokes about how long it took me to deliver the horse earlier, but the word hasn’t reached them yet that Liobhan and I came back together, so a smile and a shrug from me are sufficient response. Grooms and stablehands work hard. The others simply assume I enjoyed the errand and took my time on the walk home. Tomorrow I’ll get teased about my female companion, and I’ll be glad I don’t have to answer.
Now it’s Tassach who is looking at Liobhan. She’s drinking ale, talking to her friends, apparently unaware of his interest. Has he been told about the incident last night and the apology she has to make? The man who stands behind Tassach – from his clothing, he looks to be a councillor not a bodyguard – leans in to speak to him, and now they’re both watching her. I don’t like this. Are they suspicious she may be more than she seems? If we’re going along with Liobhan’s plan and we’re unmasked as spies, won’t that leave both Brocc and the truth about the harp shut away in that place in the forest? That’s if what little she told me is not a load of nonsense. I wonder where Brocc is now and what he’s doing. I wonder if Archu was angry with Liobhan. He’s moved from where he was before, and I can’t spot him now.
The platters are cleared away. Fresh jugs of ale come out. This is the point at which there would usually be dancing, but instead Lord Cathra gets to his feet, while the household steward signals for quiet. The regent welcomes Tassach and his family to court. He speaks simply and solemnly about the deaths of several of his men-at-arms last night and wishes the injured a full recovery. He recognises his fighting men’s courage and loyalty and expresses sympathy to their loved ones without giving any details at all about what actually happened. It may not be loud and stirring like the speech Rodan made before they rode out, but it’s far more impressive. I’m hoping Cathra may have forgotten about Liobhan’s apology, but it seems not. He nods to Brondus, then sits down while Brondus rises to address the assembled crowd.
‘Some of you may not know that Prince Rodan was hurt in an unfortunate incident yesterday. He is now fully recovered, for which I’m sure you will all be as thankful as I am.’ Brondus turns slightly to nod and smile at the scowling prince. ‘The matter has been investigated and it’s been determined that what occurred was an accident. However, a member of this household, a visiting member, was indirectly responsible for the prince’s mishap, and the council has requested that she make a formal apology to him. I emphasise that this was an accidental injury, and that once this apology is made and accepted, the matter is over. Ciara, will you step forward?’
Liobhan does as she’s asked to. I’ve learned to read her better since we left Swan Island. She’s tired and upset after what happened up in the forest, and she’s angry at the injustice and the humiliation, but she’s on a mission and she’s not going to mess it up out of personal pride. Now Archu gets up and walks over to stand beside her, in a space folk have left before the high table, about four strides from the prince and the others. Rodan’s expression can only be described as ferocious.
‘Shall I begin, Master Brondus?’ Liobhan holds her head high. She’s pale as moonlight, and against that white skin her hair is a defiant flame. I hope this version of Ciara is convincing to the crowd. What I see here is a warrior.
‘Please do so, Ciara.’
‘I wish to say that I very much regret what occurred last night after supper. I am sorry if my actions in any way led to the injury to Prince Rodan. I had no intention of causing him harm.’ That part, she addresses to a spot between Cathra and Brondus. The statement has been carefully worked out, and it’s not going to be enough for the prince. That word if is the problem. Rodan’s expression suggests he’d like to leap over the table and do her damage. Not that he’d get far if he tried that. She’ll defend herself if she has to. And she’s got Swan Island’s senior combat trainer standing right beside her.
The prince opens his mouth, but Liobhan’s not finished. She speaks quickly, before he can. ‘My lord prince, I am truly sorry. I hope you can forgive me.’
Ah, there it is. An actual apology, of which she means not a word, but this time she captures Ciara’s fear and hesitance, and when she’s finished, she bows her head in apparent contrition. It is a good performance.
There’s a silence. Liobhan keeps her gaze on the floor. I watch the prince. I watch the highborn folk sitting near him. We’re all waiting for him to acknowledge the apology; I’m sure he’s been given words to speak. But he’s too furious to get them out. I’ve seen the sort of man he is. He’ll be thinking how unjust this is, how it’s all this woman’s fault and she shouldn’t be getting off so lightly, how a man of his status, almost a king, should not be subject to such gross injustice, and so on and so on. He doesn’t stand up. He glares at Liobhan, but she will not meet his eyes.
The regent leans over, whispers in the prince’s ear. The bodyguard, Buach, moves in closer and puts a hand on Rodan’s shoulder. Rodan clears his throat. He gets a word out, only one. His voice is so tight with anger that the word might be anything, but perhaps he said, ‘Accepted.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Brondus is quick to assume as much. ‘This matter is concluded, then. Ciara, Master Art, you may return to your seats. There will be no more discussion of this; it’s over. That applies to every member of this household, at Lord Cathra’s request. It’s not to become the subject of gossip. I thank you for your attention.’
Before the councillor has finished speaking, Rodan is up out of his seat and stalking off toward the nearest door, with his guard close behind. Those at the high table are practised in the ways of court; not one of them turns a head to look. Not one of them raises a brow or allows a wry smile to appear.
Liobhan goes back to her friends. Archu disappears into the crowd. I drink my ale and think dark thoughts about the future of Breifne.
Brondus is speaking again. ‘It’s been a difficult day for many of you. Some will wish to retire early; others may be happier in company a while longe
r. Lord Cathra has agreed that we should have some more music for those who wish to listen. Perhaps also a little dancing. We’ll be laying our fine men to rest tomorrow. Tonight, let us remember their lives, not with tears but with celebration.’
Dancing. Bizarre. If I die in battle, I doubt I’ll be wanting a lot of folk prancing around over my grave, so to speak. But when the band strikes up a lively tune, it’s plain that many of these folk want to set the bad things aside and enjoy themselves for a while. I recall that I have to dance three times with Liobhan before midsummer, which is roughly every third night. Neither my body nor my mind is in the mood for dancing, and she’s got her ankle strapped up. But a Swan Island warrior must be ready for anything. And I do need to be ready, because as folk get up and find partners and begin to fill the open space between the tables, I spot Rodan coming back in that doorway and making a striding progress straight toward Liobhan. Whatever he’s planning, it can’t be allowed to happen.
I manage to get there before him. I bow awkwardly and hold out my hand toward her. I can’t give her any kind of warning, but her face shows me she sees the prince approaching behind me. Liobhan rises, takes my hand and moves out into the dance area with me. We quickly make up a set with three other couples. Even Rodan wouldn’t barge straight through the dancers and start a scene, would he?
As we circle and switch partners, then circle back again, then move into the figure of eight, I try to see where the man is now. Ah; not far off, on the sidelines looking at us. Buach is there beside him, most likely under instructions to keep him out of trouble. Dagda’s manhood, what is Rodan, a future king or a spoiled brat who screams and thrashes about when he doesn’t get his own way?
‘You could at least pretend you’re enjoying this,’ murmurs Liobhan. ‘You’ve got two good ankles to dance on.’
I plaster a smile on my face and twirl her under my arm.
‘You said you might tread on my feet,’ she reminds me. ‘Seems you lied.’
Harp of Kings Page 27