Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  It’s like last time, only stranger. Although it’s day, lanterns hang from the trees all around, and the clearing is full of a strange light. The glowing shapes suggest creatures, yet none are quite like anything from my world. There are uncanny folk everywhere. Nightshade leads me up to the throne of twisted willow on which Queen Eirne is seated. The queen’s robe seems to hold moonlight in its folds. Over it she wears a cloak of soft deep blue. Her hair is dressed high and decorated with shining ribbons. This is a formal occasion, then.

  At her feet sits my brother with a harp on his knee. He looks at me and smiles, but his eyes are sad. I want to rush over and hug him, then get him out of here as soon as I can. But I need to do this by the rules. Eirne’s rules. I stand before the queen in my soaking trousers, with my hair in my face, and try to guess what she’ll say.

  ‘Welcome, warrior. A long, cold journey for you. Have you completed your tasks?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ It’s an effort to be respectful. I’m tired and sore and I don’t want to be here. ‘I helped build a little house of mud and let the water wash it away. I fashioned a doll from borrowed materials,’ I fish Wolfie out of the bag and show her, ‘and he looked upon the future of Breifne.’ I hope that is the future of Breifne, I really do. How long will the people have to wait, and how much damage can Rodan do in the meantime? ‘And I’ve danced three times with a man who hates to dance.’

  ‘You have done well,’ says Eirne. ‘And so has our bard. Soon you must make your way back to your own world. But first, some music. Not the song Brocc has been making for us; that is for its own time. My people have asked to hear the song Brocc sang as he first approached our doorway. A song to make folk smile. Bard, will you sing?’ When she looks at my brother her expression changes completely. That look is warm and sweet and honest, and not in the least queenly. Which of the two is the real Eirne?

  Brocc has always been able to capture his audience from the first snatch of melody, and this time is no different. I’ve never heard him play so beautifully, every note crisp and clear, so that even an untrained ear can understand the complexity of the music. But the song seems to go on forever. He looks tired, and the walk through the flooded forest isn’t easy. Don’t lose your temper, I tell myself, unclenching my fists. We need to be gone. We need to get back to court.

  Nightshade glances at me. I realise I’ve been tapping my foot, and not because of the music. Oh gods, this song is interminable.

  I don’t care how wonderful it sounds, I don’t care that my brother’s voice is beguiling, I don’t care that the small folk love it, I don’t care that Eirne’s probably asked for this in return for letting us out. I just want it to be over.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. It’s hard to keep still. I’m worried about Brocc, even as he sings and plays with heart and skill and sweetness. I’m worried about what happens if someone spots us on the way back and asks awkward questions. Eirne hasn’t even given us the harp yet. What if this is all a trick and she hasn’t got it?

  At last the song ends, and the folk of the forest give Brocc a round of riotous applause.

  ‘Wonderful, my bard,’ says the faery queen. ‘And now, a dance. Let us end this on a joyful note!’

  I bite back furious words. How long will she keep this up? Does she plan to wait until the sun goes down so we’re crossing bogs and streams in the half-dark?

  Brocc looks calm. He shifts the harp a little on his knee, eases his shoulders, then, with a sideways look at me, launches into ‘Artagan’s Leap’. I have a whistle in my bag. I thought I might need it as I did last time. I don’t feel like playing for these folk. But the notes of the fast-moving jig ring out as never before, filling the space under the old trees with a dazzling festival of sound, and Brocc’s face takes on a look that is both mischief

  and wonder, and despite myself I take out my whistle and join in. The audience is dancing, jumping, in one or two cases flying. The queen sits quiet, her eyes only for her bard. I’m borne along on the sound of the harp, vibrant and lovely, full of delight and fun, music that is ageless in its celebration of life. I think I play well. I think this is the best performance I’ve ever given, despite everything. But Brocc . . . As his fingers dance across the strings, I know deep in my bones that the unprepossessing old instrument he’s playing must be the Harp of Kings.

  We perform the jig in our usual manner, speeding up with every verse. Someone in the crowd is providing the drumbeat, though I can’t see who it is. The dancers keep up with us, spinning, leaping, whirling. Brocc and I look at each other as we near the end, to get the finish perfect. It’s a one two three, one two three, one two three, stop! The invisible drummer matches our disciplined ending. I grin at my brother; he smiles back. For a moment I forget everything but the music and feel deep content.

  Eirne rises to her feet, holding up a hand to silence the exuberant crowd. ‘Say your farewells now,’ she tells them. ‘Our bard and his sister are returning to their own world.’

  Then there’s still more time wasted as each one – every single one – of Eirne’s folk comes forward and bows to Brocc, or kisses him on the cheek, or takes his hand and bids him a squeaking, chirping, hooting or murmuring farewell. Rowan, the guard, offers a respectful bow, Nightshade a grave handshake. I put away my whistle. I fasten the bag. I wait. I wait some more.

  At long last Eirne dismisses her folk with a wave of her hand. Within moments the gathering place is empty, save for herself and Rowan, and the two of us. Even Nightshade has gone.

  ‘Put the harp in its bag, Brocc,’ says the queen. ‘Treat it with respect; it carries the weight of many years and the wisdom of many generations.’ She turns to me. ‘If the choice were entirely yours, what would you do with this precious treasure? How would you bestow it? Speak from the heart, with truth.’

  I’m shivering again. ‘You can trust us to make a decision based on wisdom and justice, my lady.’ I know now what the decision must be. I’m not sure Brocc will agree with me, and as for Dau, I see a battle of wills ahead. ‘Our decision will respect the past and show faith in the future.’ I won’t ask her who took the harp from the nemetons. It’s enough that the instrument made its way here, and that she trusts us to get it back in time.

  ‘You are the child of wise parents. I expected no less of you. As I have told you, the ancient laws of my people limit my ability to intervene in the affairs of humankind. But when there is a need, I can work through certain men and women – folk strong in wisdom, courage and insight. And there is a greater magic, a power that comes from the very land we tread, from ocean and forest, from the deepest cavern to the high pathways of sun and moon. When the path ahead seems dark and difficult, when you cannot find the right way, call on that power to guide you, for within each of us, even the smallest, there is a spark of that great fire. Farewell, now. Safe journey. I will see you again before long.’

  I’m opening my mouth to bid her farewell when everything starts to whirl around us. I stagger to keep my footing. What the –? When trees and grass and sky settle in their normal alignment, Brocc and I are alone. And we’re on the other side of the wall.

  40

  Dau

  I’ve waited and waited. The day has passed, and night has fallen. The moon is up and travelling across the sky. And still they are not here. I fear disaster. A terrible accident. An attack. Or maybe Liobhan is still at that wall, singing through the night all alone. Perhaps Brocc was never going to come back from that place.

  Mistress Juniper reassures me. Feeds me cup after cup of her brew. Coaxes me to talk to Thistle-Coat, who speaks our tongue but in a little squeaky voice. I think I’m going mad. Mistress Juniper tells me to lie down and rest, but I can’t. My head is jangling with disordered thoughts. The harp. The mission. Brocc. Liobhan. I should have gone with her. I should have refused to let her go on her own. What was I thinking? Thistle-Coat comes close to me, pats me gently on the leg with her sharp lit
tle fingers. Storm lays her head on my knee. But I am beyond calming. Perhaps I should return to court, wake Archu, give him the bad news. Perhaps I should go into the forest and try to find them. If one of them dies out there waiting for help to come, I’ll never forgive myself.

  At last we hear footsteps outside, and they’re at the door. Brocc looks like death and Liobhan’s not much better. I judge we can reach court by dawn, but only just. They’ve got the harp, in a plain sort of bag. Liobhan swears it’s the real thing. They’ve done it. The mission that often seemed like a lost cause is all but achieved. I can hardly believe it.

  Mistress Juniper makes them sit down. She makes them eat and drink. She binds up Liobhan’s ankle, since she’s clearly in pain. Brocc is eerily calm. I don’t pester them with questions. What matters now is getting the harp back in time.

  Liobhan’s saying something garbled about what time it is, and how can the rest of the day and the night have passed so quickly, and Brocc replies with something equally strange about everything being planned so we get back at exactly the right time. It makes no sense at all, so I go out and get the horses ready, leading them around to the front of the cottage. Mistress Juniper gives us back our weapons. I thank her, remembering the first time she did me a favour and how rude I was. She’s stayed awake into the night to keep me company and probably also to stop me from taking some foolish action.

  ‘You’re a good man, Nessan,’ she says quietly. ‘Ride safely. Keep watch over your friends.’

  Brocc insists on carrying the harp, strapped to his back. Liobhan offers to take it, but he holds out against her arguments, saying he’s been given instructions: he must make his own way and take the Harp of Kings himself. I don’t ask who gave them the harp, how they got it out, how they know it’s the right one. I don’t ask what made them so late. We have time to get the harp to court, I think, but there’s not much margin for error.

  Brocc seems in a different world from Liobhan and me. He looks as if he’s hardly seeing what’s in front of him. I wonder if he might fall asleep as he rides.

  ‘Liobhan,’ I say when we’re on our way. ‘We must stay awake.’

  ‘We could sing,’ she suggests. ‘Like a marching song, only for riding.’

  ‘Or tell tales,’ says Brocc, which proves at least that he is listening.

  ‘Dau,’ says Liobhan, ‘do you remember that song you sang up at the wall, when I was too tired to keep going? Let’s sing that.’ She starts the song about the fisherman and the seal woman, and after a bit Brocc joins in quietly. It’s hard enough to ride a horse at night, let alone sing at the same time, but I do what I can. When we get to the end, Liobhan says, ‘Not bad. Shall we sing another?’ She glances at the sky. Is it starting to lighten already?

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you a story. I got it from Mistress Juniper. You need to hear it before we get to court.’

  I relate the tale of the king with two sons: the clever brother and the not-so-clever. When I say the name Faelan, Brocc brings his horse to an abrupt halt, causing Liobhan and me to do the same.

  ‘Faelan,’ Brocc says. ‘I should have guessed. They have something of the same look. Faelan was born to be a druid. He’s wise far beyond his years. A quiet, thoughtful man. He’s much better suited to the life he has chosen.’

  ‘But would surely make a far better king than his brother,’ puts in Liobhan.

  ‘He made his choice. It can’t have been easy,’ Brocc says.

  ‘Aislinn’s been hinting at this for a while,’ says Liobhan. ‘She’s been forbidden to speak of it, but she gave it away when she was playing with Tassach’s sons. I should have realised earlier what was upsetting her so much. She calls him Wolfie, and she still misses him terribly. Careful here; the surface is uneven and there’s water.’

  ‘Brocc,’ I venture, ‘would the druids release Faelan to take up the kingship? He’s only been in the Order for a few years. The chief druid must know how inadequate Rodan will be. Couldn’t they bend the rules for him?’

  ‘When a man enters the Order,’ says Brocc, ‘he sets aside his old life completely. That’s what I was told in the nemetons. Like a serpent shedding its skin, almost. The past is gone; it’s as if it has never been. Theirs is a very strict Order. I doubt if they’ve ever considered bending rules.’

  ‘Harsh,’ I comment, wishing something of the sort could apply to my own past.

  ‘What if he later on rises to some senior position and has to come out and consult with worldly leaders?’ asks Liobhan. ‘Some folk would remember him from before. What about his family? If they happen to meet, are they supposed to ignore each other?’

  ‘By then, I suppose he’d be so steeped in lore and wisdom that he’d deal with the situation quite capably. He’d be courteous but detached.’

  We ride on for a while longer without speaking. We should stop at some point to rest both ourselves and the horses. If Brocc dismounts he’ll have trouble getting up again. I want to carry the harp for him – his face is showing the strain – but I’m sure he’ll refuse any offer. How long has Liobhan been without sleep? Maybe I should force a halt. But the sky is changing, dawn is coming, and we must ride on.

  ‘Liobhan,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I want to ask.’

  ‘What am I planning to do when we get there, yes? And you don’t just mean, Which path will we use to reach the ritual ground? or How will we get the harp in without being noticed?’

  There’s an edge to her voice. She’s close to letting that iron control slip. There’s something really odd about how time is passing, and it’s enough to unsettle the calmest person.

  ‘It’ll help to know the plan, if there is one,’ I say. ‘By my calculations we’ll get there a bit before dawn. Archu will be watching for us right up until the last moment. He’ll station himself at the back of the crowd, near the entry, so he can look out for us as well as follow the ritual. We can hardly be covert with three horses and the harp, not to speak of our lack of appropriate dress for the occasion.’

  ‘Sadly, the plan doesn’t include taking a hot bath, brushing our hair and dressing up like courtiers before we go in.’ Liobhan’s sounding testy, even by her standards. ‘Archu will talk to the guards. Or he’ll ask Brondus to do it. I wasn’t planning to make a grand entrance. We’ll do the last bit on foot.’

  I glance up at the sky for the hundredth time. It’s hard not to believe the moon is moving more quickly than usual. As I look up, there’s a whirring sound, accompanied by a foul smell. Liobhan shouts. I duck my head, gripping the horse’s mane as she shies. This time I won’t fall. The crow-things are all around us, six, seven or more of them circling and diving, all beaks and claws. Liobhan’s trying to reach her knife, struggling to keep her horse under control. Brocc has dismounted, the fool – what is he doing? His mare is pulling against his hold on the reins, her head whipping one way then the other as the crow-things strike. I will my horse not to throw me; he’s strung tight. I draw the dagger I got from Illann.

  ‘Liobhan!’ I shout. ‘Hold fast! Got your knife?’ Any weapon’s better than none. I let out an oath as one of the creatures passes close to my face. They’re uncannily swift for something so solid looking. What in the name of all hells are the wretched things?

  ‘Move in closer!’ Liobhan calls out. ‘Protect the harp!’

  These horses are not trained for battle. Gods, I’d give anything for a staff or a spear so I could strike from a distance. Liobhan and I circle Brocc, wielding our blades as best we can to keep the creatures off. He’s standing beside his mare, the harp in its covering still slung on his back. He’s not even trying to fight. Liobhan gets a good strike in; one of the crow-things falls screaming to the ground. Another dives toward her. She moves her horse aside. Not quick enough; a bloody line appears on her cheek.

  ‘A pox on it!’ she shouts. ‘Filthy crea
tures, rot in hell!’

  I slash with the dagger, a good blade, and another of them crashes to the ground. ‘Brocc!’ I shout. ‘Get back up! Take the harp and ride on, we’ll cover you!’

  For a moment, before the next strike, the moonlight shows his face turned toward me. It’s like a mask, distant, strange. Then he drops his horse’s reins and she’s away. Two of the creatures fly after her, squawking a death song.

  ‘What the –!’ Liobhan’s shocked protest ends in a gasp of pain. She’s been hit again, in the shoulder this time. The knife drops from her hand.

  ‘Brocc! Draw your weapon! Help us! Do you want to get us all killed?’ I urge my horse forward, striking and chopping with the dagger as I go, this way, that way. We’re so close to the end, on the brink of achieving the mission. I’ll be damned if I let these things stop us. I’ll be damned if I let them kill my comrades. ‘Liobhan! Here!’ I take a risk. No choice. I let go the reins, use my knees to control the animal, fish out my small knife and throw it to her. I know she’ll catch it, damaged shoulder or no, and she does. I see a flash of white teeth in the moonlight, then she’s wielding the weapon with her left hand, holding the reins around her right wrist, grimacing with pain. Another bird down. And one hurt, but still trying to fly, blundering about under the horses’ legs, sending them into a dance of terror. ‘Brocc! Help us!’

  In the moonlight, in the chaos of this strange battle, Brocc starts to sing. His voice sends a shudder through me. The song has no words, but it tells of doom and shadows, of loss and failure and sadness, of a future without hope. It’s a song like a dark curse, and it brings back every vile memory I have in me. The music rises into the night air. Tears spring to my eyes. Even the moon might weep at such a song. Liobhan is still fighting; she stabs and slashes and turns her mount to face each new attacker. And she’s the one who is wounded. ‘Dau!’ she screams. ‘Quick!’