Harp of Kings

by Juliet Marillier

  A chorus of agreement follows. Faelan is standing now. Aislinn’s clinging to his hand. She looks ready to fight tooth and nail against anyone who threatens to take him away again. Faelan’s looking across at Rodan. But Rodan is not meeting his gaze.

  ‘It is not so easy.’ Brother Marcán speaks. ‘Faelan is about to enter the second stage of his novitiate. He has studied and prayed with us these three years. You know that when a man enters the Order, he puts aside his old life forever. This man may be a son of the royal line, but he cannot be king.’

  ‘Faelan is destined for a spiritual life,’ says the high bard, his dark eyes fierce as he scans the onlookers. ‘He will rise high within our number. His is a greater calling.’

  ‘Come, people of Breifne,’ says Lord Cathra. ‘Leave this place. The ritual is over; there can be no more until another year has passed.’

  Nobody has asked Faelan for his opinion, which strikes me as somewhat unfair. I don’t suppose he wants to be king any more than he did three years ago, but under the circumstances they might give him the chance to speak. They might do the same for Rodan, though I hope they don’t. People shuffle their feet and converse in murmurs. Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s accepting that this ends here.

  ‘My lord,’ says Brondus apologetically, ‘might we have it confirmed that the lore explicitly forbids a druid novice from leaving the Order to take up a secular position, whether that be as shepherd or smith or king? Under such extraordinary circumstances as these, might there not be some special provision?’

  ‘Of course not –’ Farannán bursts out, but Faelan’s quiet voice renders him quickly silent.

  ‘With respect, Brother Farannán, if anyone knows of such a provision, it will be the learned Brother Odhar, our lore-master. Believe me, I have no ambition to become king of Breifne. I am content among my brethren, serving the gods with all my ability. But . . .’ Faelan glances down. He might be looking at the Harp of Kings, which Brocc set on the grass before stepping back. He might be looking at the child clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline.

  ‘Where is Brother Odhar?’ asks Marcán wearily.

  There’s a stir among the brethren, and a tiny, wizened figure in a white robe comes forth. He’s leaning on a birch staff, and he looks about a hundred years old. For all that, his eyes are merry and his smile is wide. ‘Remarkable,’ he says in a voice full of good humour. ‘Extraordinary. And what a mix-up with the harp! But all to the good, I suppose. As to the matter of druid vows, and when they may or may not be broken, there is indeed an obscure section of the lore, oft forgotten, that relates to the novitiate. A man might request to leave because of a grave illness in his family, or an affair of the heart – though those are rare, our lives being what they are – or a crisis of faith. To leave because the gods have marked a man out for kingship – that would be unprecedented, I should think, though who knows what strange events may have occurred in times gone by?’

  ‘An obscure section,’ says Farannán. He’s still seething with anger, though he’s trying to hide it. I imagine this is his prize student, perhaps also his friend, the young man he has marked out to take his place as high bard one day. That’s if Marcán doesn’t steer Faelan into the position of chief druid. The thought that neither may eventuate is a blow to both of them, though Marcán, I sense, will be more inclined to compromise. ‘Surely we are not obliged to conform to that, Brother Odhar?’

  ‘Perhaps Brother Odhar might tell us what this provision is,’ says Faelan. He smiles at the old man. ‘If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that he has a perfect recall of any part of the lore you might quiz him on.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the lore-master. ‘Yes, I will tell you. If a brother wishes to leave before he has completed his first three years, and if his reasons are not deemed frivolous, he may do so. He will be thanked for his service and farewelled with goodwill. After the first three years, it is expected that he will remain in the Order for life. A man who leaves at that late stage, and it does happen, leaves under a shadow. Faelan has not yet completed his three years, though that day is drawing near.’

  I think I hear the venerable Brother Farannán swear under his breath. Apart from that, the crowd is silent. Birds still sing in the trees above us. The sun still shines. I’m holding my breath, waiting for someone to speak, wondering who it will be.

  ‘Brother,’ says Rodan, stepping forward. He doesn’t spare a glance for the regent or for the druids, or for anyone but Faelan. ‘This was to be my day, but it seems the gods thought otherwise. If you will take up the crown, I relinquish my claim here and now.’

  If I wasn’t startled enough, he surprises me still more by dropping to one knee and bowing his head. It’s the first time I’ve seen him act like a prince.

  ‘Rise, Brother.’ Faelan sounds shocked. ‘Please. Know that if this were to happen, there would be a place for you by my side, always.’ He puts out a hand and helps Rodan to his feet. For a moment they look each other in the eye, then each steps back. ‘My lords,’ Faelan goes on. ‘Brethren. People of Breifne. I hardly know what to say, save that if I am called upon to do this thing, and it seems that may be the will of the gods, then I will serve as your king with all my heart. I will act in a spirit of wisdom and justice always.’

  The crowd starts shouting again, ‘Hail our true king!’ ‘The gods have chosen!’ ‘Crown him now!’ and so on. With the rule about three years, and a whole year until another midsummer comes around, I know what I’d be doing next if I were Cathra.

  ‘People of Breifne!’ It seems the regent has made a decision. If he says no, I think there will be blood shed on the doorstep of the nemetons. ‘The gods will forgive us if the ritual is delayed an hour or so – perhaps Brother Odhar can find another obscure passage of lore allowing that.’ Nobody dares laugh, though I see a grin or two among the druids. ‘Please return within the walls and rest awhile. Refreshments will be provided. I must consult with all parties concerned. If we are in agreement, we will return here before the sun reaches its midpoint. I thank you for your patience. These are indeed remarkable times.’

  ‘I’m called to an urgent meeting with the regent.’ Archu has assembled the whole team in the practice room. ‘The first question I’ll be asked is whether Faelan had anything to do with the disappearance and timely reappearance of the harp. Or whether this is some kind of druid conspiracy. Give me the short version of the story.’

  ‘The harp was in the keeping of its original guardians, or rather, their descendants.’ Brocc speaks with quiet confidence. ‘They returned it after showing us two visions of the future, one good, one bad. We believe the time of its return was carefully calculated to ensure matters fell out as they did this morning. Brother Faelan had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘The mission was clear.’ Archu’s voice is cold as a winter frost. ‘To find the harp and return it, so it could be used in the ritual.’

  ‘That was what we did,’ I say. ‘More or less.’ Archu’s disapproval hurts like a hard fist to the jaw.

  ‘You know that is not what I meant, Liobhan.’

  ‘Don’t lay the blame on her,’ says Brocc. ‘This was my doing and mine alone. I was given instructions by . . . by the folk beyond the wall. To write a song. To bring the harp back. To wait until the gods made their will clear. To play and sing. I did not know what the result would be.’

  ‘And when your harp fell silent for the high bard?’

  ‘I cannot explain that, except to say the gods speak in strange ways.’

  Archu sighs. ‘What of Brother Faelan? How can I assure the regent that he was not involved?’

  ‘Faelan chose the spiritual life over the kingship three years ago. If he becomes king now, it’s because he believes the gods have called him. Lord Cathra knows that.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure Faelan would rather none of this had happened,’ I say. ‘But he will be a good king. A king resp
ectful of the ancient treaty between the human folk of Breifne and . . . the others.’

  ‘And the chief druid? The high bard? Might either have played a part in this?’

  ‘I don’t imagine either would want Faelan to leave the Order.’

  ‘They had great hopes for him as one of their own,’ adds Brocc. ‘That was plain from the first time I visited the druids. They will be sad to let him go. Brother Farannán in particular. I see no reason why they would have been involved in the disappearance of the harp.’

  ‘But someone smuggled it out of the nemetons,’ says Archu. ‘Who? I’ll be asked that question.’

  ‘It was removed for safekeeping until the right time,’ says Brocc. ‘By magic. Not druid magic. Best if nobody knows the details. There were birds involved.’

  ‘Archu.’ I have to say it. ‘I didn’t know what Donal was going to do. But I wasn’t going to return the harp. I was going to leave it beside the gate to the nemetons. In the interests of wisdom and justice, I couldn’t be part of putting Rodan on the throne of Breifne.’ And if that loses me my place on Swan Island, so be it, I think but don’t say.

  Archu murmurs an oath. He turns to Dau, who hasn’t said a word. ‘Anything to add? Did you consent to this plan to leave the harp out in the woods and let fate take its course?’

  A long, long moment passes before Dau speaks. ‘We acted as a team.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m satisfied with that response. I’ll deal with all of you later. I must go to this meeting. A warning for you. The mission’s not finished until we’re safely away from here. Don’t let your cover slip. Now tell me, who inflicted those injuries?’ He looks from Dau to me.

  ‘Not done by human hand,’ I say.

  ‘What about the horse?’ asks Illann. ‘The one that came into the stables this morning wild-eyed and exhausted? Saddled and bridled, with no rider in sight?’

  Dau and Brocc speak at the same time.

  ‘Is she hurt?’

  ‘She’s safe! Thank the gods!’

  ‘We were attacked on the road,’ I say. ‘The way it happened, Brocc had no choice but to let the mare go. The assailants were . . . uncanny. Fighting them off wasn’t easy. There’s no need to give Lord Cathra the details.’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ Illann glances at Archu. ‘The mare will recover. But it’s just as well we won’t be working in these stables after tonight. An episode like that has a tendency to destroy trust.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Brocc.

  Archu speaks sharply. ‘Ciara, Donal, you need sleep. Eoan will bring you food and drink. Best if you lie low for a while. There’s still bedding in here. Go out to the pump for a wash, then come promptly back. Clean up those cuts before you sleep. Nessan, you could do with some rest as well.’

  Go to sleep and risk missing Faelan’s coronation? He must be joking. But nobody says so. We stand there while Archu heads off for his meeting, followed by Illann in search of provisions.

  ‘They haven’t made a decision yet,’ observes Dau after the door closes. ‘They could argue about this until Midsummer Day is over. What then? Nobody’s going to accept Rodan after what happened. And anyway, he’s more or less ruled himself out. That was a surprise. But on second thoughts, maybe not.’

  ‘Rodan’s terrified of the uncanny,’ I say. ‘That strange light, the sound of the harp, on top of dealing with the Crow Folk . . . He may be as much relieved as disappointed by this. As for the druids, if they said no to Faelan as king, they’d be denying the will of the gods. I don’t think they can refuse it. Besides, in time they’ll realise that having a man like Faelan on the throne is to their advantage. He understands druid ways. He values the old things.’

  ‘The golden light, the sound of the harp – were those brought about by the folk who live beyond that wall?’ Dau is unusually tentative. ‘The she you’ve been referring to?’

  I leave Brocc to answer this.

  ‘I doubt it,’ he says, ‘though I expect her people were watching, and will continue to watch until this is concluded. In the right hands at the right time, the Harp of Kings has its own power.’

  ‘When we’re safely away from here, we’ll tell you more of the story,’ I say through a sudden yawn. ‘The others too. Now is not the time. I just hope we gave Archu enough.’

  Illann brings food and drink and an extra blanket. We wash under the pump – a bracing experience, but not enough to stop me from yawning – then eat. Still no news from Archu. And not a lot of noise from outside, even now. If they’re performing the ritual again before midday, we’ll hear the fanfare, won’t we?

  ‘I might lie down for a bit,’ I tell the others. ‘Don’t let me fall asleep. I want to see this through.’

  Excited voices, distant cheering, sounds of celebration. Where am I? How long have I been asleep?

  ‘Awake at last,’ someone comments dryly.

  As I struggle back to consciousness – oh gods, it’s that day – I come to the startled realisation that the comfortable pillow on which my head is resting is someone’s lap. I try to sit up. My body protests. ‘Aagh!’ My head is muzzy. I must have slept for hours. ‘Why didn’t you –’

  ‘Take it slowly,’ my pillow advises. The voice is Dau’s. I ignore his advice, rolling away and turning to see Brocc cocooned in a blanket, lying motionless. Dau is sitting up, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me? How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘A while,’ Dau says, easing his shoulders. ‘Not sure exactly how long. I was dozing myself until recently. I didn’t want to wake you. You’re much less frightening when you’re fast asleep.’

  ‘The ritual, the coronation, we need to –’

  Brocc stirs.

  ‘Shh,’ hisses Dau. ‘He needs his sleep even if you don’t. Archu stuck his head in the door not long ago and said we’re to stay here. We’re moving on first thing tomorrow as planned. He wants all of us as well rested as we can be. Interpret that any way you like.’

  Morrigan’s curse! It sounds like I’ve missed seeing Faelan crowned, after everything. If we’re stuck in here I won’t get the chance to farewell Dana and the others, or to say goodbye to Aislinn.

  ‘So it’s over,’ I say. I should feel triumphant. The mission is achieved. But I can’t feel anything much. ‘Faelan is king.’

  ‘By now, I imagine yes. Archu was looking happier. Not that he ever gives much away.’

  ‘Was I sleeping on you all that time?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘You can’t have got much rest.’

  ‘I was comfortable enough. There’s more food over there if you’re hungry. He does want us to stay out of sight. A quick trip to the privy is approved. Later on you can go and collect your things from the women’s quarters.’

  ‘Mm.’ I go to the window and peer out between the shutters. There’s a little bonfire in the stable yard. Grooms and other assorted helpers are standing around it with ale cups in hand. ‘The sun’s down already. We’ve been asleep all day!’

  ‘Could be. You had a lot to make up. Let’s eat some of this, shall we?’

  We apply ourselves to the food, which is good. I can’t believe I’m hungry again – all I’ve done is sleep – but it’s just as well we set a portion aside for Brocc, because we devour the rest between us.

  ‘Dau?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Where do you think this leaves us? Staying or going?’

  ‘On Swan Island? I don’t know. We got the harp back in time; that was the mission. I could write a list of the good qualities one or other of us showed.’

  ‘And I could write another list of the times we broke the rules, told lies, took unreasonable risks, put each other in danger, spoke out unwisely.’

  ‘Looked at from outside,’ Dau says, ‘we’re trainees on our first mission. We ignored t
he rules and did the job our own way. And the result was not the one the regent intended, though I think it would be agreed by most folk that this is better. Even if the mission is judged a success, I’d expect Archu to tell us to pack our bags and go home. It may have felt like teamwork but it wasn’t. Archu and Illann are part of the team. In the end, we cut them out of the plan.’

  ‘You really think they’ll send us home.’ It’s like a leaden weight in my belly. He’s right, without a doubt. That’s why Archu let us sleep through the celebrations: so we’d reflect on what we’ve done and realise that achieving a result is not enough if you don’t do it the right way. When it seemed he was letting me run with my crazy plan, he was giving me enough rope to hang myself and the others with me. ‘I’m sorry. I was the one breaking most of the rules. I pushed you into going along with this. If you get sent back home, it’ll be more my fault than yours. Gods, I never thought I’d be saying such a thing.’

  ‘I’m not going home,’ Dau says. ‘I’d be a beggar by the wayside sooner than do 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 travelled to the Otherworld and back again, wearing a lock of her hair. Some time 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 acknowledgement 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 goodbye 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.