Harp of Kings Read online

  ‘Did you want me to act more like a girl?’ Liobhan answers iron with iron. ‘I could have woken Donal, told him I was scared, sent him instead of doing it myself. I could have stayed in bed with the covers over my head. But just because Ciara’s female and a musician, that needn’t mean she has no backbone. I’ll be more convincing in the role if I don’t have to pretend I’m a wilting flower of a woman.’

  I could almost grin at that, if I weren’t feeling so uncomfortable between the wet trousers and the aching wrists.

  ‘Donal,’ says Archu. ‘What did she do wrong?’

  Brocc clears his throat. He looks as if he’d much rather be somewhere else.

  ‘Speak up,’ says Brigid. ‘Set your personal feelings aside. Assess her performance as if you were her trainer.’

  ‘She came armed. She didn’t conceal the knife as well as she should have. And although she stayed in the part, she showed she’d lost her temper.’

  ‘Ciara is allowed this knife,’ Liobhan snaps. ‘Bringing it was only common sense. She’s not a fighter, she’s wandering around an unfamiliar building in the middle of the night, she knows something suspicious is going on. She’d be stupid not to take her weapon with her. And as for concealment, she wouldn’t even be thinking of that.’

  ‘Be calm,’ says Archu. ‘Self-control is vital in what we do. Now tell us, in measured words, what Donal did right, and where he erred.’

  ‘It would have been better if both of us had woken more quickly – I assume Nessan was forcibly taken from his bed, and I imagine he put up a fight. Donal stayed in character and came quickly enough once I called out.’ She grimaces. ‘He stayed calm. All in all, a better performance than mine.’

  ‘And Nessan?’

  Liobhan’s silent for a bit, staring across at me. Now I can’t guess what she’s thinking, but her hand goes up to touch the red mark on her face. ‘I didn’t see everything you did to him. But I’d say he’s done a faultless job of being a terrified stablehand.’ A short silence. ‘He’s hurt. His wrists. And his face.’

  ‘Not your concern,’ says Brigid. ‘And not so badly hurt that a little salve cannot mend him before he rides out. Everything we do is calculated, Ciara. Everything. We would not have the reputation we do if we went about these exercises carelessly.’

  If I could speak, I would tell Liobhan I don’t need a champion. I don’t need her to get angry on my behalf. But then, if I were Dau and not weak Nessan, I might have called her and her brother to help me when I was attacked. Just as well I didn’t; it would probably have got all of us sent home.

  ‘Ciara?’ Archu is regarding Liobhan closely.

  She doesn’t drop her gaze. ‘All right, I lost my temper, and that showed lack of discipline. I’m not going to pretend I thought the exercise was fair and reasonable, because I didn’t. You forbid someone to speak, then you drag him out of bed in the dark, tie him up and hurt him? In what way is that necessary? We can do this, the three of us. You must have faith in us or we wouldn’t have been chosen.’

  Brigid makes a gesture to one of the men. ‘Fetch us some mead, will you?’ She turns back toward Liobhan. ‘Sit down. You too,’ to Brocc. When they have done so, she says, ‘In the morning, on reflection, this will make better sense to all of you.’ She looks me straight in the eye. ‘Well done,’ she says. ‘That wasn’t easy for you. But it’s only a taste of what this is going to feel like from now until midsummer. It’s a long time to stay silent. Thus far, your self-control seems good. Now go and change your clothing. Make sure that garment is washed and dried in time for your departure. When you’re changed, come back here and I’ll tend to your wrists. The injury is surely not so severe as Ciara seems to think – it would be foolish to inflict serious damage on you just before we sent you out on a job. Still, an application of salve won’t do any harm.’

  I take a candle and leave, glad of the chance to clean myself up. In our quarters I strip off my wet trousers, drop them in a corner and get into my other pair, not sure if I’m angry with Brigid and Archu for concocting such a challenge, or pleased that I’ve apparently done well. Better than Liobhan. Maybe I’m simply tired. We’re all short of sleep.

  ‘Nessan?’

  I’m an instant away from snarling What? but I see Liobhan’s expression and bite back the word. All I really want is to crawl into bed, pull the blanket over my head and forget the whole thing until morning. As well as everything else, my neck aches. But there she is by the screen, with a cloth and a little pot of something in her hands. In the candlelight her hair is the colour of oak leaves in autumn sunshine, a glowing red-gold.

  ‘Salve,’ she says. ‘Bandage. I’ll do it for you before we go back.’

  I shake my head, pull my shirt sleeves down over my wrists, can’t help wincing.

  ‘What’s worse,’ Liobhan says, ‘letting me do it or having Brigid do it and make the whole thing into another training exercise? Sit down, and don’t look at me like that. I grew up in a healer’s household. If you want your wrists in full working order before we go, this salve is your best hope. That’s why I brought a supply with me, even with the limit on what we could carry.’ When I still don’t move – mostly because I’m surprised she’d tell me anything at all about her past – she says again, ‘Sit down, please. I can do it quickly.’

  She’s not lying. It’s plain that she’s done this sort of thing hundreds of times before. Her hands are strong – that, I knew already – but gentle when they need to be. I can’t ask her what’s in the stuff she’s using, which is greenish brown in colour, with a sharp woody smell, and she doesn’t offer the information. When my wrists are salved she uses her teeth to tear strips off the cloth and binds up my wounds, fastening the bandages with neat, flat knots.

  ‘There. Now those bruises on your face. It’s all right, I won’t mar your beauty – this stuff doesn’t show once it’s dry.’ She doesn’t give me a chance to gesture no, thanks, but dabs some of the salve on my cheeks. When it’s done I point to Liobhan’s own face. The mark where someone slapped her stands out clearly on her fair skin.

  Liobhan shrugs. ‘That? It’s nothing. Not worth wasting this stuff on. Who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to make more? Most of the components grow in deep forest, and that’s a bit scarce in these parts. Now, if you’re up to it, we’d best go back.’

  I follow her out, wondering what she and her brother were like growing up. I do not know which is the elder; I had guessed it might be Brocc, but I imagine Liobhan took charge, gave him orders, assumed leadership even though she was the girl. It makes me wonder, again, about their parents. It’s plain they are not of high status. One parent is a healer, most likely the mother. Yet here are brother and sister, with expertise as both musicians and fighters. Why wouldn’t Liobhan take up her mother’s craft, since it seems she may have a flair for that as well? Perhaps the father is a household guard to some noble family; that could explain the combat skills. I look at the mark on her face and think, What man in his right mind would allow his daughter to become a fighter?

  6

  Brocc

  I don’t like seeing my sister hurt. I don’t like standing by and letting it happen because I’ve been ordered to stay in the character I am bound to – that man has no sister, only a fellow musician. I must have done well enough, uncomfortable as I was with the midnight exercise. When it was over, they praised me for my self-restraint. In truth, I was much disturbed by what occurred. The rest of that night I did not sleep at all but went over and over the events, asking myself, what if the mock attack they carried out had been a real one and I had not realised until it was too late? Liobhan could have been killed. Others, too. A bloodbath while I stood by and let it happen.

  We have been practising keen observation, discretion and silence. We are learning to move like shadows and to listen like wild creatures. But our trainers have not forgotten our need to exercise more familiar sk
ills. Each day we are given time to rehearse and to add new material to the songs and dances we already know. At our trainers’ request, we provided entertainment after supper tonight. The audience was small but appreciative: the two men from the second team; our trainers; and some other Swan Island folk who, I assume, are here doing their preparation for a completely different mission – we know better than to ask about such things. There were guards, too; warriors from the island are sent here in turn to undertake the job of keeping the settlement and all who work here safe. I wondered which of them struck Liobhan in the face, and whether he noticed that she still wears the mark of that blow. I wondered if they knew a knock like that would make both singing and whistle-playing uncomfortable, if not impossible. I said nothing. Liobhan fights her own battles, and she would not think this one worth the trouble.

  At supper Dau was given leave to join in the conversation. On the island he always had plenty to say for himself. He is a man full of opinions. Tonight, given permission to speak, he barely did so. He ate, and watched as we performed, and answered questions with a word or two. I had thought he of all people would approach this mission with complete confidence; his belief in his own abilities has seemed unshakeable. But the look on his face suggested his gut was churning with unease, just like mine.

  I miss our parents. I miss home. I miss the fresh, clean smell of Mother’s stillroom. I wish I could talk to Father, or walk with him in silence through the woods, or lend him a hand with digging a well or laying a dry-stone wall or dealing with someone’s troublesome livestock. I wish I could be at Winterfalls, playing music for friends. I do not want to share my songs in some distant court full of strangers. I wish I did not have to go so far away. I miss my brother. I wish he was here to tell me I am foolish, and to reassure me that, in the end, all of us will come safely home.

  7

  Liobhan

  The sooner we get to Breifne, the better chance we have of finding this harp in time. But travelling too quickly would draw attention. Most nights, we’ll find a wayside inn or the home of a landholder and offer entertainment in return for food, lodgings and safe stabling for the horses. If our audience wants to throw a few coppers our way, so much the better. Once we reach our destination, Lord Cathra will ensure we’re hired for the period leading to the ritual, when the royal establishment will fill up with visitors.

  We can’t ride the same horses all the way. When I ask Archu about this, he says there are trusted folk at various locations who can provide us with fresh mounts, no questions asked. He doesn’t explain who these people are, but I guess they’re linked to Swan Island in some way. It makes me wonder how far the island community’s influence stretches, and how they manage to keep their operations covert. The arrangement with the horses will allow us to reach Breifne with just over one turning of the moon to complete our mission. It’s not long.

  There are no lingering goodbyes. Brigid gives Brocc and me some final instructions, Archu checks our bags, we get our horses saddled and load our gear, and it’s time to go. It’s still early; Illann and Dau left when it was barely dawn. A cool mist lies over the fields as we ride away from the settlement. Brocc is tight-lipped. Archu has insisted the harp be loaded onto the pack horse and my brother is less than pleased – that instrument is almost like a child to him, and he assumed he would ride with it strapped to his back. But Archu is the mission leader and his word is law.

  ‘Pull your skirt down, Ciara,’ growls Archu as we near a settlement later in the morning. ‘It looks unseemly.’

  It looks all right to me, even with the hem tucked into my belt, since I’m wearing my trousers underneath. But I tug it back down, to the extent possible while riding astride. ‘Sorry, Uncle.’ I attempt a contrite tone, and Brocc, who’s riding just behind me, lets out a snort. ‘It’s not funny, Donal!’

  ‘I could make up a song about that,’ Brocc says. ‘There’d be a girl dancing. At the urging of her audience she lifts her skirt to show her ankle, and then to show her calf, and then higher still. It’d go down quite well in the drinking halls, don’t you think?’

  Evidently the morning’s ride has improved his mood. ‘The men would like it, no doubt,’ I say. I can imagine the scene all too clearly. The rowdy audience in the drinking hall would urge me to illustrate the song with gestures. ‘Why doesn’t the girl in your song turn the tables on whoever’s watching? Maybe she’s got a deadly weapon concealed under the skirt and uses it to rob them of their remaining funds. Or maybe once the skirt reaches a certain level it’s revealed that she isn’t a woman at all, but . . . something else.’

  ‘A man?’ suggests Archu.

  ‘I was thinking she might be an uncanny creature of some kind. Something with tentacles perhaps, or lots of hairy legs.’

  ‘The enticing maiden might be an ancient crone in disguise.’ A certain note in Brocc’s voice tells me he’s already thinking up verses. ‘Her vile appearance would stop them from asking to see a girl’s legs again. For a while, at least.’

  ‘I prefer the tentacles myself,’ I say. ‘That maiden who is secretly a crone is in too many tales already. But it’s up to you. You can sing this one and I’ll play a whistle part. That way nobody can expect me to do actions.’

  Brocc mutters verses and hums snatches of melody every day as we ride – he’s always inventing something new. When he’s satisfied with the skirt song he makes me memorise the words as well as the tune. ‘Just in case,’ he said.

  ‘Just in case what? I told you I didn’t want to sing this one.’

  ‘What if I get a sore throat? You might need to do all the singing.’

  ‘Then we’d perform something different.’

  ‘This one’s going to be popular, just wait and see. They’ll be thumping their fists on the tables. Word will go ahead of us and we’ll be flooded with requests.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I say. ‘A bunch of men behaving like roosters in the barn.’ Back home, when we perform for a crowd, folk don’t shout lewd remarks or give me suggestive looks. Not often, anyway, and when it happens it isn’t the locals who do it. Anyone who knows me, in person or by reputation, knows I’m not to be meddled with. Not only can I give as good as I get, but I have my own real-life version of Uncle Art in the person of my father: Master Grim, a giant of a man in more ways than the obvious. But Father isn’t here. And he isn’t close by to make sure anyone who speaks ill to me is taught his lesson. It makes being on the road as Ciara, who dresses in gowns even when riding and wears her hair flowing over her shoulders, feel even more uncomfortable.

  ‘Forgotten me, have you?’ puts in Archu. ‘I can sing if I have to. As for the roosters, I’ve silenced a few in my time. Just remember to draw breath before you act. If there’s a brawl, better me in the middle of it than you.’

  I’m about to promise I’ll stay out of trouble, but I stop myself. Promises have a habit of coming back to bite you.

  8

  Dau

  Day twelve of the ride from Swan Island to the court of Breifne. Illann leads the way along a winding side track, with the day fading to the long summer twilight. The horses are weary. At the end of this road lies a household of friends. We’ll leave these horses at their holding, where fresh mounts are ready for us. I have wondered how messages travel from the island to these friends so many days’ ride away. Perhaps they keep messenger pigeons in Swan Island’s mainland settlement. If so, the birds are well concealed.

  Illann has not yet given me permission to use my voice here. I’m to maintain my silence throughout our journey, except for our whispered conversations when we can be sure we are alone. I do my best to accept this; discipline is part of the warrior’s journey and I must demonstrate that I can exercise it perfectly.

  A dog announces our arrival, a big dark-coloured hound hurling itself toward us, baying. We are quick to rein in our startled horses. I dismount in silence, laying a reassuring hand
on my horse’s neck. The dog has halted no more than one long stride away from me, hackles up, still in full voice. It may look as if it wants to eat me, but it’s a farm dog and only doing its job. I don’t meet its gaze direct; instead, I look a little to the side. I make my pose as easy as I can.

  She quiets – yes, this fearsome creature is a female. Our horses stop lifting their feet, twitching their ears, rolling their eyes. We can’t go forward because the bitch, having retreated a little, now stands with her large feet planted square, right in the middle of the pathway. A growl comes from deep in her throat whenever one of us makes the slightest move.

  ‘Someone must have heard that,’ murmurs Illann. ‘They’ll be out soon.’

  Sure enough, along the track from the smallholding comes a pair of men, one young, one older. One of the men whistles; the bitch, instantly obedient, turns and goes to him. We follow them up to the dwelling house.

  Our tired horses are led away, we’re shown sleeping quarters where we stow our gear, and then we move to a larger chamber with a fire on the hearth – it may be early summer but the nights are cold. It becomes plain that Illann does indeed trust these people. They are quite a striking group. Father and son are tall and lean with a guarded air. I would guess from their looks that there is some Moorish blood in their ancestry. The woman is fair-skinned and freckled. The boy is her son, but looks nothing like her. I am reminded of Brocc and Liobhan, a brother and sister who bear no resemblance to each other. Why do I keep thinking of them? They have their task, I have mine. I will not think of them.

  Illann addresses the man as Oschu, a name meaning deerhound. He seems of an age with some of the older Swan Island warriors. It was the custom back then, when a man was accepted on the island, for him to take an animal name. Often their faces would be tattooed with a pattern suggesting that animal: a dog, a raven, a seal. We had this story from Brigid as part of our training. She did not explain why the younger warriors do not now bear such names, or why only a few of the island men wear those tattoos. If I become part of the community, I will ask Archu about it. But I think I can guess. For a warrior, such a pattern is a sign of belonging. It is a badge of honour, a link between brothers. Who would not want that? Perhaps, in those early days, Swan Island did not also train spies.