The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Read online

  As for Liobhan, I do not regret issuing a personal challenge. How can I not prevail in a best-out-of-three contest? Thus far, our trainers have not pitted us against each other in unarmed combat, though each of us has fought most of the rest. Liobhan has won fifteen bouts and lost two. The fighters whom she defeats are those individuals who see her as woman first, warrior second. They make allowances, offer concessions. Liobhan takes full advantage. I cannot criticize her for that. If I were in her situation I would do the same. The mud was a dirty trick, yes. But to seize the moment when your opponent is off guard, off balance, is to employ good strategic thinking. Every such instance will be noted by our trainers.

  I do regret lowering my guard when I spoke to her in the doorway. To be the best, you must give body, heart, and spirit. What possessed me to say that to her, of all people? I had thought to unsettle her. I had thought to test her true commitment. But the conversation drifted. I lost control of my words. To do so is a sure sign of weakness, and I must not be weak. I must win at all costs. I must stay on the island. One way or another, going home would be the end of me.

  3

  BROCC

  Though not so very distant in miles, this place seems as far from home as a land of ancient story. There is a quality about the island that unsettles me, a strangeness words are not adequate to describe. I wandered into a cave near the western point, a place of great stillness, with a subterranean pool that catches the light from an opening far above. When I looked in the water, I saw a reflection that was not my own.

  At least Liobhan is making the most of her opportunity on Swan Island. That justifies my decision to come here with her. Nobody knows how dearly that choice cost me, and I will make sure nobody ever does. My parents gave me the best family in all Erin and the most loving home any son could wish for. To leave that home behind set sadness in my heart and laid cold fingers of fear on my spirit. I am not afraid to fight. But I am afraid to walk out into the unknown, and perhaps find answers to questions I do not want to ask.

  I am doing my best to win a place on the island, despite that. Our training has served Liobhan and me well. We can hold our own against the sons of chieftains, men who have been expertly trained by their fathers’ masters-at-arms. Liobhan has more natural ability than I, as well as a stronger determination to succeed. She drives herself forward with an intensity that is almost frightening. I see the others watching her, and I think they are torn between envy and outrage that a woman can fight so well. That she does so with such clear purpose, harnessing her strength to the task, confounds them. Some try to goad her with derisive comments; they suggest she might warm one man’s bed or another’s. She gives them short shrift.

  Thank the gods for music. The harp is my map and lodestone, my balm and comfort. It quiets my circling thoughts as nothing else can. I sing and play every night. Even when I am fighting, my mind teems with tunes and verses. I am glad we have the opportunity here to gladden folk’s hearts with our music. I had thought, in those first days, that Liobhan’s passion to prove herself on the field of combat might see her setting aside other pastimes as a waste of her time and strength. But no; still she sings, and folk hush to listen.

  I wish I could write a letter to my mother and father. I would relate the tale of our experiences on the island. I would send my love to Galen, and my regards to Prince Aolu. And I would finish by saying that although I miss them all, the opportunities offered here are so great that I would not think of leaving. Who would not want to excel? Who would not want a chance to change the course of battles, or to influence the minds of the powerful?

  But I will not tell lies. Not even in my thoughts.

  4

  LIOBHAN

  What?” I see the look on Archu’s face and take a breath. “I’m sorry. Could you say that again, please?”

  “You’ve been selected for a mission. The two of you.”

  It’s Cionnaola speaking, the island leader, a gray-bearded veteran. When the messenger brought Brocc and me to the small council chamber and we found both Cionnaola and Archu waiting for us, I was sure they were going to send us home. This is unbelievable.

  “You don’t have long to prepare,” Cionnaola goes on. “A few days, that’s all. There’s a long ride, and time will be short once you reach your destination. Since you’re still in training, I’m giving you the chance to say no to this, without penalty. It’s unusual to be sent before you win a place among us, as doubtless you know. This is no training exercise. The mission’s real and so is the danger. And your preparation is far from complete. But we need you.”

  Morrigan’s britches, it’s true! This really is happening to me. I can hardly believe it. Trainees simply don’t get sent on missions. This has to mean we’re doing well. Exceptionally well. I open my mouth to say Yes! Yes!

  “With respect, Master Cionnaola,” says Brocc, his voice not quite steady, “it would be unwise to make a decision when we know almost nothing about the mission. What can you tell us?”

  “Sit down,” Cionnaola says. We sit, and he spreads out a sheet of parchment on the table. It’s a map, with a route marked out in red ink beside the black lines and symbols of coastline, forest, rivers, settlements, tracks, and byways. Cionnaola traces a line with his finger. “Here is Swan Island. Our team will travel on horseback to a destination some days’ ride to the south, here.” The kingdom of Breifne; his fingers cover the name, but I know what I’m looking at. “The team will be under cover. I won’t give you the full details unless you agree to be part of it. When we undertake this sort of job, we don’t spread the information any more widely than we need. Even here, where all are tried and trusted.”

  Except the trainees. That is the part he doesn’t say, but it makes sense. Most of us won’t end up staying on the island. And when those who fail are sent back home, there’s no certainty all will keep to the promise we made when we were accepted for training, which was that we won’t talk about anything we’ve seen or heard, no matter what.

  “I understand there are questions you can’t answer at this point,” I say. “Can you tell us what we’d be doing? In general terms, I mean? And how many would be on the team?” I manage to sound steadier than Brocc, which is a miracle considering how hard my heart is thumping.

  “Three,” says Cionnaola.

  “Who’s the third?” asks Brocc.

  “I am.” Archu sounds mildly amused. “We’ll also send a backup team, to be close by in case of unforeseen problems. They’ll do their own looking and listening, but their main purpose is to help us if we get in trouble. They’ll travel separately and contact with them will be minimal. As for the activity, something’s gone missing, something irreplaceable, and a certain influential person needs it found and returned before Midsummer Day. That must be done without anyone else finding out it’s gone. It won’t be easy. We’ll need to maintain our cover until the job is completed and we’re safely back here. And we won’t be able to question folk directly about the missing item, since that might arouse suspicion. This will require discretion, subtlety, observation. And the ability to play a part.”

  “We’re not sure who’s behind this,” says Cionnaola, “but if you’re found out, not only will the mission fail, but you may be in personal danger. The guise you travel in won’t allow you to carry weapons openly. A small knife at the belt, perhaps. No more. If you agree to this, Archu will give you the rules of engagement.”

  “So this is spying more than fighting.”

  “Correct. What do you say?”

  I look at Brocc. He looks at me. “Yes,” we say together. I try to stop a big grin from spreading across my face. Why they would choose us over seasoned warriors I can’t imagine. Best not ask; Cionnaola might think I was challenging his decision.

  “Very well,” he says. “That is something of a relief, since we have no other musicians of your expertise currently available, and for purposes of this mission that i
s what the three of you will be: traveling minstrels, entertainers. We need to get you right into the court of Breifne without arousing suspicion.”

  It’s like a punch in the belly. Traveling minstrels. We’ve been chosen not because of our skills in combat or our courage and resourcefulness, but because we can sing and play. I’m lost for words.

  “What is it we’ll be looking for?” asks Brocc, sounding not in the least put out.

  “A harp. A very particular harp. It’s old, it’s one of a kind, and the only time it’s played is at Breifne’s coronation ritual. The instrument is known as the Harp of Kings. To the people of Breifne, it’s of deep significance. If it isn’t played at the ritual, the man who’s up for the kingship won’t be accepted by the populace. Even if, as in this case, he has a very strong claim.”

  Despite my disappointment, I’m intrigued. “Who looks after this harp in between its rather rare outings?”

  “The local druids. They keep it locked away. Now it’s disappeared. Stolen, hidden, perhaps lied about, who knows? Part of the job will be finding out who might be wanting to disrupt the ritual and why.”

  “A harp needs playing,” says Brocc. “Not once every few years for a special occasion, but every day. An old harp would need a lot of maintenance, and even so, they don’t last forever. Just how ancient is this instrument?”

  “I can’t answer that,” Cionnaola says. “And you won’t be able to ask it at the court of Breifne. Not straight-out. But if someone else should mention the Harp of Kings, as well they might with the ritual coming up and you being a harpist yourself, you could quite naturally chat about it.”

  “What can you tell us about the man who’s to become king on Midsummer Day?” I ask.

  “The old king, Aengus, died several years ago. This young man is his son. Breifne won’t crown a king before his eighteenth birthday, and it’s always done at midsummer. This time around, Rodan is old enough.”

  “Who’s been doing the job since the last king died?”

  “A regent, Cathra; a kinsman of the former king. It was Lord Cathra who asked us for help. Unfortunately, his message took some while to reach us, which is why we’re short of time to achieve the mission. He’s the one you’ll be talking to at the other end, though it’ll mainly be Archu doing that. Those who know about the harp going missing can be counted on the fingers of one hand. The Chief Druid and one or two of his most trusted brethren. Cathra’s senior councilor. The heir, Rodan, hasn’t been told. Cathra fears that if the truth gets out, Rodan’s claim will be considered tainted even if you do find the harp in time. The claimant must be accepted by all, or there will be challenges. We need to get the harp back to the druids and keep the secret close.”

  The sinking feeling in my stomach has eased. They’re placing a remarkable amount of trust in us, untested as we are. Achieve this, and our chances of staying on at Swan Island will be much stronger, even if neither of us so much as lays a hand on a weapon.

  “No trace of your real identity goes with you when you leave this place on a mission,” Cionnaola tells us. “Each of you gets a new name, a new family, a new history. Those details are up to Brigid. She’s our senior trainer for this kind of thing and she’ll be preparing you. You’ll need to learn fast. The hardest part, when you’re new to this, is knowing how to keep your mouth shut under pressure. Not to reveal where you really came from and why; not to betray your comrades. You don’t pick up that skill in a quick training session.”

  Is he suggesting that if our purpose becomes known, we may be subject to torture? I remember Dau’s words after that fight in the mud, saying he’d stand aside while his comrade was attacked if that was the only way to protect the mission.

  Archu’s gaze is on me, as if he knows what I’m thinking. “We wouldn’t be giving you this opportunity if we didn’t believe you could do it,” he says. “It’s real, it’s important, and we wouldn’t risk you if you weren’t capable. You’ll have training with the others as usual this morning. Later in the day we’ll be moving you over to the mainland settlement for some specialized preparation, including getting those cover stories perfect. It goes without saying that you don’t let your fellow trainees know about this. Act as if it’s an ordinary day until I come and find you after the midday meal.”

  “Understood,” I say. What will the others think when we suddenly disappear? What story will be told to cover our absence? “Thank you for the opportunity. We’ll do our best.”

  “Thank us when it’s over,” says Cionnaola.

  * * *

  * * *

  It’s no surprise when we’re told to keep our packing light. We’ll be leaving quickly and quietly while the rest of the trainees are elsewhere on the island honing their rope-climbing skills. I fill a small pack with the allowable items—a sheathed knife is the only weapon approved, and I have to leave all my protective gear behind, since I’ll be a musician, not a fighter. I pack my three whistles. A pair of trousers, which I’m permitted to wear under a skirt for riding. A few personal items, a spare shirt and stockings, the good gown and overdress I wear for our evening performances. It isn’t much.

  My brother is waiting for me outside the quarters, with his bag already packed and his harp, in its protective leather case, strapped to his back. Apart from him, the place seems deserted.

  “We may as well go down to the jetty,” I say. “It feels odd not to be saying good-bye to anyone, but we’ll be back soon enough, I suppose.”

  Brocc gives a crooked smile. “It’ll be odder still to return here if the rest of them have been told we’ve gone home. That’s the most likely explanation when we suddenly vanish. Dau should be happy, since he sees you as his archrival. And he’ll be furious when you come back.”

  “He’ll be chosen to stay on.” The island leaders will assume Dau has the stuff of future leadership in him, since he’s a chieftain’s son. The odds are in his favor. “Though it pains me to admit it,” I add, “he’s good at everything.”

  “Oh, he’s got excellent combat skills, I don’t deny that. But there’s more to this than being able to fight well. You’ve seen how the island folk are with one another. You know the codes of behavior they follow. Dau needs to learn tolerance, comradeship, open-mindedness, flexibility, and . . . well, you get my drift. For some folk, that sort of thing is much harder to learn than hitting the target nine times out of ten or outmaneuvering your opponent with the staff.”

  “Mm.” The jetty’s in sight now, and there are more people waiting on it than I was expecting. I squint against the sunlight, trying to identify them.

  “Archu,” says Brocc helpfully as we walk down the precipitous path. He’s blessed with uncannily sharp vision. “Brigid. Two ferrymen. And that’s Illann—you know, the tall, skinny fellow who often works on the mainland—and . . . you won’t like this.”

  I’ve seen who the last figure is. Nobody else on Swan Island has that golden hair, nor that air of languid superiority, plain even at a distance in the way he stands. “Morrigan’s britches, what is he doing there?” He has a bag like ours. He has a cloak slung over his shoulder. He can’t be coming with us. Can he?

  “Didn’t Archu say something about a backup team?” asks Brocc.

  “Why would they choose Dau, of all people?” This feels decidedly strange. It’s as if we’ve somehow conjured him up by discussing his prospects. “He’s not a musician. And he’s not a seasoned fighter.”

  “Maybe,” my brother says, “what they told us was only half the truth. Maybe this is not so much a mission as a test.”

  “Of what?”

  “Whatever each of us most needs to learn.”

  * * *

  * * *

  While crossing to the mainland we learn that Illann and Dau are the backup team. Like ours, their roles have been chosen to suit a royal household dealing with an influx of visitors. Illann was a farrier by trade before he cam
e to Swan Island, and they’ll be needing extra workers in Breifne’s royal stables. Dau is to act as his assistant. That may not be too much of a stretch for a man of his background. Hunting and hawking are part and parcel of a nobleman’s life. He must know horses, though he may be accustomed to handing his mount over to some underling the moment the hunt returns home. Dau is strong and physically able. Under Illann’s supervision, that may be enough.

  We know the mainland settlement houses stables and a training area for mounted combat. We know the people who live over there provide supporting services to the Swan Island community. Until now, we didn’t know about the Barn. This establishment was no doubt once home to cattle, hay, and farm implements. Now it’s a well-guarded maze of chambers and workshops in which certain skills are taught and practiced away from the public eye. At one end there are sleeping quarters, men’s and women’s areas separated by a rather inadequate screen. “Not that you’ll be getting much rest,” is Brigid’s comment as she shows us the hard, narrow pallets. “You’ve got a lot to learn and not much time to do it. Stow your gear and report to me in the long room, through that way.”

  From the first she makes us use only our mission names. Brocc is Donal; I’m Ciara. Archu is Art, and he is my uncle. We’re enough alike—tall, broad shouldered, fair of complexion—to make that believable. Uncle Art is unmarried; he treats me as his daughter. Brigid has decided that Donal and Ciara will not be the brother and sister Brocc and I are in real life, since we look nothing alike. The story is that Donal joined up with Uncle Art and me in hopes of seeing more of the world. Our home village is far to the southeast, far enough to make it unlikely anyone from the region will be present at the court of Breifne. Brigid makes us learn all we can about the area anyway, just in case. The village name is an invented one, the location out of the way, and my tale is that I’ve been traveling with my uncle since my parents died of a plague when I was fourteen years old.