The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 13

  A shiver runs through me, the touch of something older than time.

  “There was in the keeping of Béibhinn’s people a harp of remarkable qualities,” says Faelan. “This harp had belonged to Eriu, a queen of the Tuatha Dé, one of three sisters from ancient times. This fair land is named for her. The harp was a gift from a great bard, in return for this use of Eriu’s name. It was, in fact, an instrument of Milesian make, but once in Eriu’s keeping this harp developed a power beyond anything the most skilled of human craftsmen could achieve. In the hands of the right player, at the right time, its sound would ring forth with such remarkable power and loveliness that even the most doubting of listeners would know it spoke truth. This harp was the symbol of peace that Béibhinn needed.

  “So the council was called. In this place there were, and are, portals between the realm of the Fair Folk and the kingdoms of humankind. It was through one of these uncanny doorways that Béibhinn came to meet the human king on the greensward that lay between his dwelling and the forest. The new king, young as he was, spoke wisely and in measured fashion and listened to all Béibhinn had to tell him. Then the queen of the Fair Folk presented the king of Breifne with this wondrous gift: the harp of both her ancestors and his, for though Eriu was Béibhinn’s ancestor, the harp had been crafted by Amergin, a bard of humankind. It was agreed between the two leaders that the harp would be kept away from common sight, but that each time a new king was crowned in this region, it would be played at the ritual, which always took place on Midsummer Day. The instrument would be known henceforth as the Harp of Kings. The gift was made and received to seal the solemn agreement that there would be no conflict between the Fair Folk and humankind in the realm of Breifne, for a period of fifty times fifty years. Should there be unrest at any time, the matter would be settled by a council, not by acts of aggression. On the day of that first council between king and queen, a High Bard of the druids was invited to play the Harp of Kings for the assembled folk of the two races, and the music it made was spoken of with awe and reverence long after the last notes had died away. The harp was taken into the grove of the druids, there to be kept safe by magical charms.

  “As you have learned, the Harp of Kings is still played at each coronation ritual. The hope is that when folk hear that remarkable sound they are reminded of the alliance between Fair Folk and humankind, and how important it is to keep that faith. That is, or should be, one of the most significant responsibilities of any king of Breifne.” Faelan falls silent. The tale is finished.

  “A fine story, beautifully told,” I comment.

  “A reminder of good and just times past,” he says, but the tranquil look is gone from his face. “A promise of peaceful times to come.”

  “But . . . ?” I venture.

  Faelan sighs. “The world changes. Folk do not practice the old ways in their daily lives as once they did. They are losing respect for the natural world; they do not understand the importance of history. This is one reason why I chose to join the order, Donal. As a druid, I can help to strengthen folk’s belief; through music and stories I can help them understand the old wisdom, and how important it is to our very existence.” There’s a light in his eyes now. His storytelling is as remarkable as his music. This is a man who might wield great influence, given the opportunity.

  “How can you do that if the rules of the order keep you away from the world outside?” No sooner is this out of my mouth than I wish I had not said it. “I’m sorry. It’s not for me to challenge the order. I am grateful to have been granted entry to your community for these few days. I mean no criticism.” But that last part is a lie. Rules have their place, to keep a community orderly, to provide safety and protection. But the rules of the nemetons seem to me too restrictive. Cruel, in parts.

  “I must be patient. Opportunities will arise when—if—I complete the novitiate successfully. Who knows, I might leave this place entirely and become one of those solitary, wandering brethren, part hermit, part minstrel. A life not unlike your own, my friend.” Faelan’s smile is warm now. The sun paints a touch of gold on his brown hair and lights up his plain features.

  “Patient indeed,” I comment. “How old will you be when you complete the novitiate?”

  “I’ll be a graybeard of seven-and-twenty. Don’t mistake my meaning, Donal. I love the life of the nemetons. This is a place of deep peace. A place where a man can open his mind to the voices of the gods. A haven where a scholar can study, and a musician sing and play to his heart’s content. Do I think the rules are strict? I know they are. Do I consider them too strict? Sometimes. I see the longing for home in the eyes of the younger novices and I feel for them. Would I change it if I could? Allow them visits occasionally, send them out into the community earlier in the novitiate? Perhaps. But the order has existed in Breifne for many lifetimes, and I am less than three full years into my novitiate. Among other qualities, we practice humility.” He rises to his feet; the little birds fly up to the branches of the oak. “We’d best return now.”

  We’re almost back at the druid settlement when I ask the question. “Have you ever heard it played, Faelan? The Harp of Kings?”

  “A note or two, sometimes, if I’m in the adjoining cave when Farannán is tending to the instrument. The sound is . . . it is not as described in the tale. I believe that only on the occasion of a coronation does the true magic of the harp ring out. I’ve heard that it is exceptional.”

  “I gather you will be let out for the ritual at midsummer. The novices, I mean.”

  “You make us sound like a horde of wild animals kept captive, Donal! Yes, we will be given the opportunity to see the new king crowned and to hear the harp in its full splendor. You should be there, too. It would be something to tell your children one day. Something to make a song about.”

  But you’ll never have children, I think. And that is somewhat sad to contemplate, for if anyone would make a good father, surely it is this man.

  15

  LIOBHAN

  Archu told me not to get involved with Aislinn. One whistle lesson because I promised, then stay away, that’s what he said. But I can’t leave it at one lesson. It would take so little time to sit down and play a few notes, clap a few rhythms, have a little game with Aislinn’s beloved Cliodhna and see a smile creep onto the child’s face. I don’t forget the mission. I know time is passing quickly. I can do two things at once: lift Aislinn’s spirits, and find out why her nursemaid is so prickly and strange. People don’t get like that for no reason. I’m meant to be investigating anything that might relate to the harp, and if Máire’s looking after the heir’s sister, then she’s close to the royal family.

  It’s a while since I returned Máire’s shirt with thanks. I don’t need any further favors. But I seek her out anyway, and find her in the garden with Aislinn. Aislinn runs over to greet me with a hug. Máire looks even worse than before, sheet white with dark circles around her eyes. She keeps rubbing her hands together, as if repeating the movement might calm her. I don’t like the way she looks at me; I don’t like the way she speaks to me. I hate her cruelty to Aislinn. But I wonder what her story is.

  “May I take Aislinn for a walk?” I ask in my politest tones. “We won’t go far. Perhaps over to the stables and back. We might stop in the practice room and play the whistle for a while. You could have a rest or get some other things done.”

  She hesitates. She’s desperate for time on her own, but she knows it’s against the rules.

  “Please, Máire?” It’s plain in Aislinn’s voice that she expects a refusal.

  “Don’t whine!” Máire snaps. “I’m doing my best!” Aislinn hides her face in my skirt. I manage, with difficulty, to hold my tongue and wait. I work on keeping my expression calm. “All right,” the nursemaid grumbles, as if she were the one doing me a favor. “Bring her back before the midday meal. Aislinn—don’t get into any trouble. No climbing trees. No hiding where we
can’t find you. Understand?”

  “Mm.” It’s barely audible.

  Then, suddenly, Máire claps a hand over her mouth, jumps to her feet, and stumbles off to a corner behind some black currant bushes. I hear sounds of vomiting. “Wait here,” I tell Aislinn. I go over to Máire, gather her hair out of the way, support her while she chokes and gasps. She keeps on retching until there’s nothing left to bring up but watery bile. I find a handkerchief in my pocket and give it to her to wipe her mouth.

  As soon as she gains control of herself she snaps, “I’m fine! Fine! Just go!”

  “You don’t seem fine. Have you eaten anything that might upset your stomach? Had a headache, felt unusually hot?” I’m running through the possibilities in my mind, wondering how well stocked the household stillroom might be.

  “I’m all right. Really.” She’s less angry now. “I just need to lie down for a while. This will pass. It always does.”

  Another question occurs to me, but I don’t ask it. “Make sure you rest,” I tell her, speaking like the healer’s daughter I am. “And drink some water. Sure you don’t need help getting back inside?”

  She shakes her head, not meeting my eye. I take Aislinn away. Straight down to the tree—Máire’s gone indoors by the time we get there—and up to the high perch.

  “Poor Máire,” I observe, wondering if my hunch about the nursemaid is right. “Does she get sick a lot?”

  “Every day,” says Aislinn. “Mostly in the morning.”

  “And she gets tired a lot, too?”

  “Mm. She was all right when she first started looking after me. She used to play with me.”

  “How long has she been here at court, Aislinn?”

  “A long time.”

  That might mean anything. I judge that Aislinn is too young to be able to tell me in days or weeks or seasons. “Does Máire have a husband?” I ask. “Children of her own?”

  Aislinn looks at me as if the question is ridiculous. “No, silly! Of course not.”

  We climb around for a while, then go to the stables, where Aislinn shows me her pony, a gentle little gray. Dau, silent and servile, finds some carrots so the princess of Breifne can give her animal a treat. She thanks him and, when he does not reply, says to me, “Why doesn’t he say anything?”

  “His name’s Nessan, and he can’t talk. But if he could, he would say something nice to you.”

  Aislinn decides to be bold. “Ciara’s teaching me to play the whistle,” she tells Dau. “I can play a tune now. Do you want to hear it?”

  I can tell he would rather vanish, but since there are one or two other stable hands around, he can’t easily do that. Instead, he nods gravely. Aislinn and I go to fetch a whistle from the practice room. I expect Dau to be gone when we get back, but no: he’s still waiting by the pony’s stall. The old dog that’s often in the stables has joined him. One of the other men calls out, amicably enough, “Got yourself an admirer, Nessan?” I refrain from making a rude gesture, since there’s a child present. Dau ignores the remark completely.

  Aislinn plays her tune. She gets the fingering wrong and gives up halfway through, looking as if she might cry.

  “Remember what we practiced?” I squat down beside her. “Deep steady breaths. Shoulders straight. Think the tune in your head. Your fingers know where to go. Now try again.”

  This time it’s perfect. When she reaches the end Aislinn gives a little bow, and I clap my hands. On the other side of the stables, the workers also applaud. Aislinn’s best reward is the smile on Dau’s face. It doesn’t last more than an instant, but it’s a real one. Aislinn sees it and gives him a wide grin in return. Dau bows his head again, then returns to his work. The dog follows, close as a shadow.

  Back in the practice room, Aislinn says, “That man must be sad.”

  “You mean Nessan? Why?”

  “I would be sad if I couldn’t speak. It would be hard to make friends.”

  “I suppose it is hard. But I think he’s good at his work, so the other workers are kind to him.”

  “You should teach him to play the whistle,” Aislinn says. “So even if he couldn’t talk, he could play tunes. Then he might be happy.”

  I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think my uncle Art would let me do that. But it’s a good suggestion. You have a kind heart, Aislinn. Now, let’s learn a new tune, shall we?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Brocc comes home a little early, and we gather in our practice room before supper as usual. He tells Archu and me about his day in the nemetons. Today he heard the old story about the Harp of Kings. I didn’t know the ritual was so strongly based on the bond between humankind and the Otherworld. I haven’t heard any of the ordinary folk here talk about the Fair Folk or queens of ancient times or the power of magic. Not even when they’re speaking about the midsummer ritual. The most anyone has said is that the harp is brought out and the High Bard plays it, and afterward the new king is accepted by general acclaim. So maybe this druid friend of Brocc’s is right. Maybe folk have forgotten how the whole thing started. And maybe they no longer believe in the Fair Folk. Except the druids, of course. The brethren must both remember and believe.

  We have the door shut, and we’re playing music quietly to mask the sound of our voices. Archu is just starting to tell Brocc and me something about Tassach when a man starts shouting from beyond the shuttered windows. I can’t make out the words, but the fellow’s furious. Something to do with a horse? A horseshoe? I get up and make for the door. Archu puts out a hand to stop me, shaking his head. Now several men are yelling obscenities out there. Archu opens the shutters a crack. We can hear more clearly, though I can’t see much. A man is standing with his back to me, hands on hips; he’s doing most of the shouting. Two others are close by, contributing an oath or two, but also laughing. The object of their scorn can be neither seen nor heard.

  “I should never have trusted this to a half-wit like you! My horse will be lame, you addle-witted fool! What in the name of the gods is a clod like you doing in the royal stable anyway? Who hired you? Who let you in?”

  Silence. I look at Brocc; he looks at me. I’m itching to stride out the door and deliver a few choice words, followed by a well-aimed smack in the face. None of us moves. That has to be Dau out there. But if Archu isn’t going to rescue him, then nor can we.

  “Speak up, idiot! Why won’t you answer me?”

  Another silence, shorter this time. “What’s that dumb play supposed to mean? You’re an apology for a farrier, that’s what you are! I told you to shoe my horse, isn’t that supposed to be your job? How dare you neglect my orders? Now find me someone who’ll get those shoes on, and do it quickly! I’ve no time to mess about. That’s a valuable mare you have in there, and if you’ve done any lasting damage to her, you’ll pay dearly for it! Don’t you know who I am?”

  “My lord”—the owner of this voice is not even trying to suppress his mirth—“the fellow can’t speak. That’s what he’s trying to show you. He’s a mute.”

  “Wretch! Scum!” The sound of a blow, followed by a second; more curses. Archu puts a hand on the door bolt. He touches a finger to his lips, indicating silence, then gestures that we should stay where we are. Oh, I so want to get out there and make an end to this! But Ciara wouldn’t. So I hold back.

  Archu half opens the door and steps out into the yard, asking in friendly tones if there’s anything he can do to help. He leaves the door ajar, and I can see past him.

  They’ve got Dau backed up against a wall, beside the stable doors. There are three of them, one still shouting a tirade of abuse, the others standing by, laughing. As Archu walks across the yard, taking his time, the angry man delivers a punch to Dau’s jaw. Dau staggers. His face bears the marks of more than one blow. I curse under my breath, and Brocc, behind me, whispers, “Shh!”

  “Is the
re some difficulty here?” Archu is calm.

  This time the assailant hears him, wheels around, and raises a clenched fist to strike again, aiming so wildly that I’m sure he’s only just realized Archu is there. My heart performs a strange maneuver in my chest, and Brocc sucks in his breath. The angry man is Rodan, heir to the throne of Breifne. And as we watch, Archu’s big hand comes up, fastens itself around the prince’s wrist, and holds on.

  Brocc murmurs an oath. I’m holding my breath. Dau has straightened up and is looking directly across the yard toward us. I’ve seen him white-faced and beaten before, but this goes beyond that night in the Barn. He can see me, I’m certain. I give him a nod of respect. If I were in his place I’d be fighting back by now. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. As for keeping silent, I’m doubly glad I wasn’t given that particular job. While his attackers’ eyes are on Archu, Dau lifts a clenched hand and puts it against his heart for an instant. It is a warrior’s acknowledgment of a comrade.

  “What do you think you’re doing, fellow? Let go of me! Don’t you know—”