Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  I blink and come out of my trance. The crow-things are slowing; they’re confused, as I was. There’s an empty circle around Brocc, as if none will approach while he makes his terrible music. How many of the wretched creatures are left? I draw in a shuddering breath, then open my mouth and let out a shriek of challenge. Such a sound has never escaped my lips before; there are years of pain in it. My weapon is ready: let them come.

  I impale the first to attack me. I behead the second. Liobhan makes quick work of the last. It is suddenly quiet, save for the sound of our breathing, and the distressed whinnying of the horses, and the cry of a solitary night bird high above us. It’s over. It’s over, not because of Liobhan’s bravery or my tenacity, but because of Brocc. I don’t know what that was that he did, and I don’t want to know. I never want to hear that music again.

  ‘Liobhan. You’re hurt. Let me see.’

  ‘It’s only a scratch. Don’t fuss, there’s no time.’

  ‘Time won’t matter if you bleed to death before we get there. Show me.’

  She has quite a deep slash to the shoulder. There’s a lot of blood, but Liobhan instructs me, quite calmly under the circumstances, to put a pad of cloth on it and bind it up as securely as I can. I pretend she’s not female while I do this. I’m careful where I put my hands. When the bandage is in place – I am glad she’s a healer’s daughter and thinks to carry such supplies – Liobhan says, ‘Thank you, good job. Brocc, you’ll ride behind me. Let’s be on our way.’ Not a word about what her brother just did; not a word of reproach about the horse. No comment on the crow-things.

  ‘Your face is bleeding too,’ I say. It’s hard to tell by moonlight, but I think she looks pale. Brocc should ride with me. That makes more sense. But I don’t say so.

  ‘Let it bleed.’ She wipes her face on her sleeve, turning the trickle into a smear. ‘We have to go. Help Brocc up, will you?’

  Once she’s back on the horse, I give Brocc a leg up behind her. I want to say something more, but I can’t find the words. Something about how brave she is, and that she makes a good leader. I spot something on the ground by my foot.

  ‘Your knife,’ I say, handing it to her.

  ‘And yours.’ She takes it out of her belt and puts it in my hand. ‘We make quite a good team, on occasion.’

  I manage a smile. ‘Let’s finish this off, then. Brocc, keep a look-out for your horse as we go.’ I don’t hold out much hope that she survived against those things. Still, we didn’t hear any screams. Maybe she’ll make it back to the home stable. If I were a praying man, I’d pray for that. No creature deserves such an end.

  ‘Right.’ Liobhan’s voice is crisp. ‘Let’s move. And remember we’ve promised to act in a spirit of wisdom and justice. We’ll halt before we’re in clear sight of the guard posts.’

  As we ride on, I wonder what she was talking about. I don’t recall making any promises about wisdom and justice. It sounds very fine, but what choice do we have, really? We must finish the mission we were hired for: to return the harp in time for the ritual and ensure the not-so-clever brother is crowned king.

  41

  Liobhan

  ‘Stop here.’ I rein in my horse. The sun’s not up yet, but dawn is close. We’ve made it just in time. My heart is racing but my mind is clear. I know what I have to do. ‘Dau,’ I say. ‘We can’t give them the harp. We can’t let Rodan become king. Take the horses in, get them safely to the stables. If you see Archu, tell him we failed. Just shaking your head will be enough.’

  Dau stares at me blankly for a moment or two. ‘And what will you be doing?’ He’s not angry. It’s worse than that. He sounds betrayed. It’s all about Swan Island for him, and this means the three of us lose our chance to stay. That makes my heart ache. But I can’t do something I know deep down is wrong. Eirne said there was a greater magic, and perhaps this is part of it.

  ‘Acting in wisdom and justice, I hope. Leaving the harp under the trees, near the entry to the nemetons. Letting fate make the decision.’

  Dau doesn’t move. ‘What am I supposed to say to Archu? You want me to lie and tell him we didn’t find the harp, when we brought it back in time? After all you’ve been through, you’re throwing the mission away? You’re bleeding, you’re exhausted, you probably can’t even think straight. And you expect me to help you.’

  I make myself count to five. The sky is brightening. I hear a fanfare. ‘If we give them the harp now,’ I say, ‘we’re throwing away the future of this kingdom. If you prefer, I’ll be the one who tells Archu, and Brocc can take the harp. You can stay back here with the horses until it’s all over. Just don’t get in our way, Dau. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.’ My hand is on the hilt of my knife.

  ‘We must go.’ Brocc dismounts, awkward with the harp. There’s been no sign of his own horse on the ride back, dead or alive. ‘There’s only just time. I think she meant it this way. I think she planned for us to get here at this moment. Liobhan, we must move.’

  ‘Dau,’ I say. ‘Trust me. This is for the best. In your heart you know that.’ I don’t want to fight him, but if I have to I will. Only that would take time, and there is no time. I make myself look him in the eye. ‘You’re a good man,’ I say. ‘You’ll do the right thing. Let’s save our fight until later.’

  Dau doesn’t speak. He gets down, takes the reins from Brocc and walks away, stone-faced, leading the two horses toward the fortress. The gates are wide open. Banners are flying atop the wall and by the entry. There are fewer folk about than I expected, which means it must be nearly time for the ritual to start. I’m suddenly cold. I’m terrified by the decision I’ve made. How could I force Dau into such a choice? What if this goes horribly wrong?

  ‘Quick,’ says Brocc. ‘But careful; we can’t be seen with the harp.’

  We dodge behind bushes and dry-stone walls, make our way under trees and over small streams and anywhere we can avoid the eyes of guards. When we can, we run. Once we’re near the wall we make a path through the undergrowth at the edge of the forest, close to the nemetons. A chorus of birds is heralding the coming dawn.

  Brocc has fallen behind. ‘What are you doing?’ I snap. ‘Hurry!’ I turn to see him struggling with the harp’s protective bag, trying to unfasten the cords.

  ‘It should be out,’ he says. ‘Ready to play. Ready to sound.’

  ‘Here, let me.’ My right hand hurts; my shoulder and arm are throbbing. I fish out my little knife and cut the cords, then pull the covering from the harp. It’s as plain and shabby as ever. But when I pick it up, I feel a strange vibration through it, as if it were silently playing a music of its own. Some magic is in the thing, and it scares me. ‘You take it,’ I say, handing it back to my brother. ‘Now, where’s this gate?’

  But Brocc is not going toward the side path. He’s heading straight along the wall toward the ritual ground. We had a plan. While we were riding back we agreed to leave the harp at Danu’s Gate. Being on the same horse let us work it out in whispers, without including Dau.

  ‘Brocc! What are you doing?’ I run to catch up.

  ‘This is better,’ he whispers, still moving forward. ‘Trust me.’ But before we reach the entry, before anyone sees us, my brother motions to me to go ahead without him. He moves off the path; stands immobile under a tall oak, with the harp in his hands. Motions again: Go, go!

  I can’t argue; it’s fallen quiet within the ritual ground and anything I say will be heard clearly. I walk on as softly as I can. The ritual area is packed with people. Someone is chanting. And there’s Archu by the entry, watching me with a question in his eyes. I’m not as much of a warrior as I thought. I want to cry. I shrug, spread my hands, miming confusion. Archu is all control. There’s the merest flicker of expression across his face, then he turns and signals to someone beyond our view. Brondus, most likely. For us, the reckoning will come later.

  I stand beside Archu, watch
ing the ritual unfold, my heart going like a drum. Perhaps this will proceed smoothly after all. Rodan is the legitimate son of King Aengus. Maybe these people don’t care that he’s the not-so-clever brother, the less-than-kind brother, the brother who just possibly may be terrified at the prospect of responsibilities so far beyond his ability to handle. He’s a king’s son, so he can be a king, that’s what people may think. These people haven’t seen the vision in Eirne’s scrying bowl. They can’t know what may come.

  Being tall has its advantages. I can see over the heads of the folk between us and the ritual space. The druids are standing in a semicircle, and Farannán is chanting. His voice is strong, deep and vibrant; the language is unknown to me.

  A procession moves forward. Brondus first, looking sombre. Then the regent, dressed in a fine robe of deep red, and after him Rodan. The prince looks dazed and uncomfortable in his gold-trimmed attire. Perhaps he’s not used to getting up so early. There’s no sign of triumph there, no ready grin, no glances toward his friends, who must be there in the crowd. In the light of the tale Dau told us, Juniper’s account of the two brothers’ youth, I can almost feel sorry for Rodan. Can it be that his oafish behaviour, his cruelty, his lack of judgement, all stem from a terror of what lies ahead?

  The distinguished guests are close to the front: visiting nobles and chieftains, Tassach among them with Lady Eithne and the two boys. The high bard’s chant is finished. All the druids together sing a ritual blessing in our own tongue. The verse tells of a new day: not only this day on which the sun now rises, but a new dawn for Breifne and its people with the crowning of a new king. Peace to the land. Peace to the people. May there be peace to all living things.

  When will Farannán play the harp? Every part of me is tense. Brocc’s instrument is in full view, on the platform, beside a stool where the high bard will sit. At least nobody has shouted out: That’s not the Harp of Kings! or something similar. I don’t know what to expect. Perhaps Brocc is doing what I was going to do, leaving the real harp out there near the nemetons and trusting in the gods. But he said, This is better. What is better?

  Someone elbows a way in beside me. I push back until I see who it is. Dau looks grim. He’s got a cut on his head to match mine. But nobody’s looking at us. Lord Cathra, with Brother Marcán on one side and the high bard on the other, is speaking in the ringing tones of high ceremony.

  ‘I present to you Rodan, son of Aengus! On this Midsummer Day, he claims the throne of Breifne!’

  Applause. A shout or two, the words unclear.

  ‘Prince Rodan.’ It’s the chief druid speaking now. ‘Will you lead this fair land forward to times of prosperity and peace, and will you rule in the spirit of your ancestors, with wisdom, courage and truth?’

  I feel Dau tense on my left; on my right, Archu makes a little sound, perhaps a sigh. There can’t be a single soul present who believes Rodan could do that, even if he wanted to. Unless it’s a person who has never met the man.

  ‘I swear it.’ Rodan’s voice is uneven. He sounds as nervous as a small boy asked to recite his lesson before an exacting tutor.

  ‘Will you respect the traditions of our forebears, and will you hold strong against our enemies?’

  ‘I will.’

  The druids break into song again. The high bard walks slowly to the platform and seats himself on the stool. The druids are singing of the beauties of Breifne, its shining lakes, its wooded hills, its lovely glades, its peaceful grazing fields. There’s no mention of Eirne’s folk.

  ‘Brother Farannán,’ says Lord Cathra, ‘will you play?’

  Farannán lifts the harp to his knee; adjusts the strap. Squares his shoulders. Takes a breath and releases it. Closes his eyes. His fingers sweep across the strings.

  The harp is silent. Not a sound comes forth, not a single note. Farannán opens his eyes, blinks, tries again. Nothing. The harp is mute.

  A low murmur of shock rises from the crowd. I’m frozen. I can hardly breathe. Of all the things I expected, I never dreamed of this. That’s Brocc’s harp down there, a perfectly ordinary instrument that’s been played in drinking halls and wayside inns and at village festivals. There’s no magic in that harp. But . . . Eirne said, There is a greater magic.

  The high bard withdraws his hands from the strings. He rises and sets the instrument down. The crowd is quiet for a few moments longer, then, before he or Cathra can say a word, the shouting begins. ‘He cannot be king!’ ‘The gods have spoken!’ And a lot of far worse things. Rodan appears stunned, as well he might. Cathra looks like an old man, his face wan with shock. Farannán gazes at the regent, as if to say, This is your problem, not mine. You deal with it.

  And then, and then . . . With all eyes on the drama down there, perhaps nobody has seen Brocc come in. I certainly did not. But here he is, not far away from me, with the Harp of Kings in his hands. He seats himself on a stool someone has vacated and starts to play.

  The sound rings out, lovely, powerful, just as it was when he played for Eirne’s folk behind the wall. The shouting dies down. The crowd turns. Brocc lifts his voice in song. Chieftains and nobles, druids and royalty, ordinary folk like us, all seat themselves again and listen. Every face is alight with awe. Brocc is a very fine musician, and his voice is a thing of wonder. Everyone who has heard him in the great hall knows that. But now it is as if the gods speak through him. If there is a higher magic, surely it is this.

  The song tells of the ancient pact between humankind and the Fair Folk. It tells of times of turmoil and times of peace, and of the importance of understanding. I may be the only person listening to know that it’s a piece of Brocc’s own composition, for it sounds like something very old. My brother holds the crowd in thrall; it’s as if folk hardly dare to breathe lest they should disturb the music. But at a certain point a great gasp rises as a narrow shaft of sunlight strikes down between the clouds and illuminates just one man. Not the singer with his harp. Not Rodan, the prince of Breifne. The beam of light touches a tall young druid in a blue robe, a man with wavy brown hair like Aislinn’s, like Rodan’s. A man who stands very still, looking over toward Brocc with steady eyes.

  The music draws to a close. Brocc withdraws his hands from the strings. The crowd stirs. And Archu says, under his breath, ‘Ciara.’ He touches the knife at his belt, just for an instant.

  I move down beside Brocc; Archu takes up a position at his other side. Anything could happen now. Folk are shouting again, but this time they’re calling out, ‘He is the true king!’ and ‘The gods have made their choice!’ and so on. But there are other voices, less loud, asking why Brocc had the Harp of Kings and how the two instruments could possibly be confused. This goes on for a while, growing louder, until Master Brondus can be heard calling for calm. ‘Quiet! Stay in your places! Wait for Lord Cathra!’

  Brother Marcán is in intense, murmured consultation with the regent. The noise has died down somewhat, but the circle is full of angry voices – it wouldn’t take much for this to turn very ugly. Archu and I stay where we are, protecting Brocc. We’re getting a few funny looks, which is unsurprising.

  ‘My lords, my ladies, honoured brethren, distinguished guests!’ The regent speaks, his voice raw with shock. ‘Please be seated, and remain in your places until we can resolve this.’ He looks up toward us. ‘Master Donal! Please bring the harp to Brother Farannán.’

  People are quiet now, listening intently. Cathra’s probably wise to let them stay rather than sort this out in private. The unearthly light still falls on Faelan – if I doubted who he was, I don’t now, because Aislinn detaches herself from whoever was supposed to be keeping an eye on her, darts across the open area and flings herself at him, shouting, ‘Wolfie!’ Faelan catches her and envelops her in a hug. The light shines on the two of them.

  Brocc walks down toward the regent. Archu and I can hardly go with him, so we have to hope he can put up a convincing argument fo
r why he has the Harp of Kings and why he chose to play it. Which is what Brother Farannán asks him, in the ice-cold voice of a man who has moved beyond fury.

  ‘There must have been a mistake, Brother Farannán. I’m so sorry.’ Brocc is disingenuous. ‘My own harp was in the nemetons, and it is very similar in appearance to this one. I imagine whoever set things up here this morning took mine in error. As for the harp I played just now, I found it in the long grass beside Danu’s Gate. I brought it with me to the ritual, not wanting to leave it there. But . . . I found myself compelled to play and to sing.’

  ‘Compelled.’ Farannán is cold. Why is he so angry? The harp is back, it’s made its wishes plain, and Brocc has provided a neat explanation for the mix-up so nobody else needs to know it was missing for so long. I see the look on Faelan’s face; I see the glances that go between Cathra and Marcán and Farannán, and I begin to understand. One cares only that a son of King Aengus is crowned. One would release Faelan, with some reluctance, if it could be done. And one would be bitter and heartbroken if this outstanding novice were lost to the Order. But that’s immaterial if Faelan cannot leave the brotherhood.

  ‘The gods may speak through unlikely instruments, Brother Farannán,’ says Master Brondus. ‘Who could doubt the power and truth of what we have just heard and seen?’ The clouds move, and the strange light is no more. Faelan has knelt down to Aislinn’s level and has an arm around her shoulders. She whispers in his ear; he nods and smiles. And where is Rodan? Not looking at them. Not looking at anyone. He’s white and shocked, like someone who’s seen a ghost. As if he would rather be anywhere but here. ‘And is not Brother Faelan a son of the late king?’

  ‘It is a complex matter. A matter of lore.’ That’s Farannán.

  ‘Looks simple enough to me!’ someone bold calls out. ‘That druid’s the brother, isn’t he, the fellow who didn’t make a claim last time? He’s the one the gods want. Plain as plain. A child could see it.’