The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards), Page 2

  “If you want my opinion,” Dau says now, “Brocc goes easy on Liobhan because she’s a female. He’s hardly going to pinch her breast or dig an elbow in her privates. And he’d never stand by while someone else attacked his sister. The expression on his face right now proves it.”

  I manage not to look at Brocc, though I know how he must be feeling. Wretched Dau! Along with his other talents comes an unerring ability to find and exploit a person’s weak spot. I can see how that might come in useful, but I’d prefer him not to exercise it on the rest of us.

  No comment from Archu. He’s biding his time. Letting us hang ourselves with our own rope.

  “That’s bollocks, Dau.” This is our Norse trainee, Hrothgar, a big, bearded man. I get on well with Hrothgar. He’s told me how it was where he grew up, how the women can be leaders and fighters and heads of the household if there is a need, and how they are respected for whatever they do. His sister wanted to come with him to Swan Island, but she’s only thirteen; five years younger than me. “Brocc’s a fine fighter,” Hrothgar goes on. “How do you think Liobhan got so good? By practicing with him for years, that’s how. He’s got his own style, that’s all. As for standing by while someone attacked one of your comrades, male or female, would you do that?”

  “There might be a time when I had to,” Dau says. “What if we were on a mission under cover, and defending my comrade would mean destroying that cover? Haven’t we been told that fulfilling the mission must always come first?” He glances at Archu, but if our trainer replies, his words are drowned by a sudden, violent increase in the rain. It roars across the island, blotting out everything in sight and making an abrupt end to conversation. Archu points in the general direction of the nearest building, and we sprint for shelter.

  * * *

  * * *

  The rain is still bucketing down outside hours later as we sit in the hall after supper. This is the time when the whole community comes together to enjoy food and drink and good fellowship. Tales are told before the hearth fire, jugs of mead or ale are passed around, and those of us who can play or sing provide musical entertainment. Brocc and I both love music. At home, our band was in demand for village weddings and festivals. We even played for some grand gatherings in the household of Dalriada’s crown prince, which is not far from our family home. The Swan Island community soon learned we were musicians—the arrival of Brocc with his harp strapped to his back made it pretty plain.

  Archu is a musician, too. The man’s arms are all muscle; he handles the bodhran as he handles the sword, as if it’s an extension of himself. You can hear the warrior’s marching feet and beating heart in his playing, and the sounds of the island’s natural world: the great wings of the albatross, the dive and twist of a seal, the thrum of wind in thatch. He’s as much a master of drumming as he is of just about every form of combat. Archu doesn’t talk about his life before the island, or where and how he developed those skills. And we don’t ask. But I’d like to hear his story one day.

  On the evening after that bout in the mud, Haki tells a story of his time as an ulfhednar, a Wolfskin. The role of these peerless warriors is to leap from the prow of the longship as it comes in to shore, setting terror into the hearts of their enemies. They’re god-sworn and, from the sound of it, more than half-crazy. This particular tale concerns an ax that was blessed by the gods, which for a long time brought good fortune to the man who wielded it. But when it fell into the hands of another, everything changed. We’re all captivated by this story, and I can see from my brother’s intense concentration that he’s already making it into a song.

  “And on the night Brynjolf breathed his last breath”—Haki’s voice has dropped to a near whisper—“the men who sat vigil over him swore that although the ax rested beside him on his bier, they could hear its voice in the air above him, singing the true song of a fine blade: Home, my faithful one, come home now to the hall of the gods! And to the one who stole me from you, I say: A curse upon you for your betrayal of a friend! May your sword be blunt and your arm be weak, and may your enemies laugh in your face until the day you die!”

  It’s a fine story. Who cares if it’s true or not? Next it’s our turn to entertain: a makeshift band made up of me, Brocc, Archu, and Eimear, a girl who’s good on the whistle. I’m capable on the whistle, too—in a band, the more things you can turn your hand to the better. Eimear and I are performing a reel as question and answer, taking eight measures in turn and gradually speeding up. By the end, the would-be dancers are falling over their own feet and breathless with laughter. It all feels oddly right. Swan Island’s warriors are the best of the best in combat, and their deeds are spoken of in hushed tones all over Erin, forming the stuff of fireside tales. Yet at times like this, they’re a big, warm family.

  The song requests flood in. Fortunately, we know most of them. An evening’s entertainment might start with story songs, grand ones that tell of epic voyages, of monsters slain and captives freed. We’d follow on with more modest ones, such as how a hapless third son won the hand of a princess who then proved to be more trouble than he’d bargained for. There are ribald songs suited to the drinking hall, and tragic ballads of lost love, and marching songs that get the older men singing along with the chorus, whether they remember the words or not. Brocc and I both like making up verses and tunes. Our voices blend well, mine strong and deep for a woman, his light and pure with a quality in it that goes straight to the heart. At home we’re often asked for our love songs, which are perfect for handfastings.

  They’re a less obvious choice for Swan Island, but tonight I can see Dau sitting at the back, yawning in undisguised boredom, and rather than choose something I think might be to his taste—though who knows what that might be?—I decide to give him the sweetest, most romantic song in our repertoire. “‘The Farewell,’” I murmur to my fellow musicians. Brocc lifts his eyebrows a touch, but neither he nor Archu makes any comment.

  “The Farewell” is a ballad that makes grown men and women cry. Our arrangement begins with harp alone, Brocc plucking out the melody that starts low and soars high before settling, not on the final of the mode, but on the sixth, leaving the sense of an unfinished journey or an unanswered question.

  Will you come with me wherever I go?

  Will you stay by me in joy and in woe?

  When the sun warms the hills, when the storm stirs the sea,

  In shadow and light will you walk on with me?

  Oh, I will come with you wherever you go,

  And I will stay by you in joy and in woe,

  I’ll walk close beside you through tempest and calm,

  And I’ll keep you safe with the strength of my arm.

  The song follows the lovers on their pathway together. There’s the joyous wedding day; the moment the man first holds his newborn son in his arms; the building of a little house overlooking the sea. A walk side by side, as they’ve promised. But a time comes when the husband suffers an injury, and the wound festers, and he falls deathly sick. This leads him onto a road where she cannot follow, not yet. There is a child to raise, and for all her sorrow, she must live on to bring up their son in strength, courage, and wisdom. The husband speaks:

  I cannot come with you wherever you go,

  And I cannot stay by you in joy and in woe,

  But I’ll be beside you, though gone from your sight,

  I’ll love you and guard you till we meet in the light.

  Brocc sings this last verse unaccompanied, his voice growing ever quieter. The final notes sound into a deep hush; the audience holds its silence a long while before anyone stirs. Then thunderous applause fills the hall, and I spot a number of folk wiping their eyes, some furtively, some openly, for what is the purpose of a good song if not to stir the feelings, whatever they may be?

  Fists pound on tables. “More!” people shout. But Brocc is exhausted; I can read him well, an
d the day has tried him hard in both body and spirit.

  “One more request,” I call over the buzz of talk. “And nothing sad.”

  “‘Artagan’s Leap’!” someone shouts.

  “Let’s see your best dancing, then!” Whistles to lips, Eimear and I launch into the jig, with Archu sounding out the beat. Four measures later, Brocc’s harp begins to weave its magic around the tune. A few energetic folk take up the dance, but the hour is late, and most are content to stamp their feet, thump their fists on the tables, or clap their hands. We draw to a triumphant close. I wish everyone good night, smiling, and give a sketchy half bow to make it clear the evening’s entertainment is over. Folk retrieve the cloaks and shawls they’ve draped near the fire to dry and head out of the hall. It sounds as if the rain has slackened, perhaps even stopped. With luck I can make it to the women’s quarters without getting another set of clothing soaked.

  And there is Dau, leaning against the doorpost, effectively blocking my way. “Good performance tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taken aback. “Didn’t think you had any interest in music.” Other folk are pushing past us now, wanting to take advantage of the break in the weather.

  “I’ve heard my share of minstrels, from the excellent to the execrable.” Dau’s tone is neutral, which is as close as he ever gets to sounding friendly. “You sing well. Makes me wonder why you’d want to fight for a living, when you could be doing something more . . .” He lets this fade away.

  Since long before my brother and I came to Swan Island, I’ve been working on my temper, knowing that if anything is likely to cause me problems here, it’s my tendency to speak without thinking, especially when I’m angry. I count silently to five before I speak again. “Appropriate for a woman?” I lift my brows. “Seemly?”

  “Seemly is not a term I’d ever use for you, Liobhan, even when you’re dressed like that.” A dip of his head indicates my performing attire: Under the cloak I have on a gown in russet wool and a cream linen overdress in place of my usual trousers and tunic. My feet are in soft slippers instead of boots, and my hair has been liberated from the tight, pinned-up plait I wear for combat. “I do wonder why a woman would spend her days learning more effective ways to kill,” Dau says, “and her evenings singing love songs. Wouldn’t that mean she could not put her whole heart into either activity?”

  In the hall behind me, people are clearing tables, banking up the fire, saying their good nights. I peer past Dau into the darkness outside, where a few torches illuminate the pathway linking hall with living quarters. I can’t let his bizarre question go unanswered. But it’s late, the rain will be back at any moment, and keeping a crowd entertained is tiring work. Nearly as exhausting as an afternoon of bouts in the practice yard. “Are you suggesting that a person with two talents cannot successfully exercise both?” I ask.

  “If they’re at odds, it would surely be wiser to direct your efforts into one or the other.” Dau has relaxed into his leaning pose; he seems in no hurry to move on. “Say you were a leader of men, a king or chieftain, and the other thing you were good at was—was—”

  “Calming fretful babies?” When he scowls at me, I add, “Fine embroidery? Wood carving?”

  “Mine was a serious argument.”

  “So was mine.”

  “Bollocks, Liobhan. Kings don’t do needlework or look after infants.”

  I smile despite myself. “They might want to,” I say. “That’s no odder than a female becoming a good fighter. And the skills learned in those occupations—babies, embroidery, and the like—might come in very handy when dealing with argumentative councilors, one delicate step at a time. Patience, for instance. And precision.”

  “Show me a king doing fine embroidery and I’ll concede the argument.”

  “Not sure I’ll ever get the opportunity, kings being somewhat thin on the ground in these parts.” I won’t be sharing the information that my brother and I are on good terms with the crown prince of Dalriada, or that our parents are personal friends of his father. “Don’t you have some other talent, Dau? An able fellow like you?”

  “That’s none of your business.” His expression has changed in an instant; I think of a creature snarling as it faces the point of a spear. How did I manage to provoke that?

  “Weren’t you the one who introduced this topic of conversation?” I try to keep my tone light.

  “A pointless exercise, as it turns out. I’ll wish you good night.”

  “No need to exert yourself.” I pull my cloak around my shoulders and head out.

  “Hey, Liobhan!” His voice comes after me.

  “What?” I do not turn.

  “Beat me in unarmed combat, two out of three, and I’ll concede the argument.”

  “I’ve already forgotten what it was about,” I lie.

  “Afraid to fight me?”

  “Not in the least, as you well know. But I’m wary of wagers, especially if we might be breaking some island rule.”

  “We’ll make it official. Get Archu’s permission.”

  I’ll say yes, of course. I never could resist a challenge. Dau must know that; he’s observant. “And this is to prove what, exactly?” I’ve turned to face him, despite myself.

  Dau hesitates. The torch set above the doorway has transformed his features into a flickering, shadow-eyed mask. Under the ready wit and derisive manner, there’s something else, I think. Something he hides with expertise. “That, to be the best, you must give body, heart, and spirit,” he says. “You have to put all of yourself into whatever you choose to do. That means one vocation and one only; if you’re the best, there’s nothing left to give.”

  For a few moments, I stand there staring at him, quite silent. “I accept the challenge,” I say eventually, as the rain begins to fall again, steady and quiet. “But not to contest that theory. Only because I know I can beat you. And only if Archu gives his blessing. And only if this isn’t some trick you’ve set up.”

  His mouth twists. “No trick. Unless it’s on myself. Good night, now.”

  “’Night,” I mumble, and run for the women’s quarters. What ails the man? He’s a chieftain’s son with all the advantages that provides, and he’s a presentable specimen of manhood as well, tall and well muscled, with wheat-gold hair and features many would consider handsome, though the effect is often marred by the expression he chooses to show the world. If I were inclined to take any of my fellow trainees to bed, which I’m not, since that could see me sent off the island in haste, there’d be quite a few I’d choose before Dau. For me, a good character far outweighs beauty. Though I must admit that it helps if they have both.

  As I hang up my damp cloak and search for my night-robe, it occurs to me that not once in that odd conversation was my brother mentioned. And if Dau thinks I can’t make the grade as a warrior if I want to be a musician as well, surely the same must go for Brocc. Even more so for Brocc, since if anyone puts heart and soul into his music, it’s him. I enjoy playing and singing, and I try to do it well. But Brocc gets lost in it; when we finish a performance, it takes him a while to come back. That’s the reason I do the talking in between ballad and air and reel.

  I suspect the true reason for Dau’s wager is nothing to do with music. I’ve beaten him in a fight with staves and I’ve scored better in archery several times. He simply can’t accept that a woman might surpass him in such manly pursuits. That will make winning his challenge particularly satisfying.

  2

  DAU

  Day sixty-three on Swan Island. I add the results of yesterday’s bouts to my tally. I do not keep this record in writing, since our shared quarters are not supplied with the required materials. Fortunately, I have an excellent memory. Today’s cumulative totals see me still at the top of the order, though four others now press uncomfortably close. One of these is Liobhan. I had expected her early promise to be short-lived, a pr
oduct of her energy and her unbounded self-belief. But I am obliged to concede that she is strong for a female and has been well trained, though clearly not by experts. Her brother, too—I would rank him in the top few, though less likely to win a place than she is. The difference between them is striking. Liobhan is tall and of athletic build, though undeniably female in form. Her brother is shorter and sparer. Where his sister is powerful, he is quick and flexible. He lacks Liobhan’s imposing, high-boned features, but there is an intensity in his gaze that holds the eye, especially when he sings. If a battle could be won with music, Brocc would be the one to do it. Liobhan’s hair is flaming red; Brocc’s, dark. Her eyes are green; his, brown. Perhaps one takes after each parent, who knows? It is possible that neither will stay the course. The island elders might think twice about accepting a brother and sister pair, for reasons that should be obvious. On a mission, surely the instinct to protect one’s sibling would get in the way of balanced judgment. And would it not hamper operations if care had to be taken not to send the two away together?

  If I were in Archu’s position, which of our group would I choose? Myself, obviously. And I would give serious consideration to Hrothgar. He is a solid all-arounder with admirable self-control. The Norseman would never use dirty tricks as Liobhan does. Of all the trainees, he is the one I would choose to stand beside me in battle.

  My current tally shows Liobhan second, Hrothgar a close third, Brocc a surprising fourth, with Cianan and the Armorican, Yann, tied for fifth. Of course, combat skills are only one measure of our quality. Who knows what other reasoning our trainers will follow in selecting the few they want to keep? I have looked at their permanent team, those members who are not off the island on one or another mission at present. I have made note of the qualities they display, the types of physique most common among them, their general manner, their daily habits. This may give me an edge over my fellow trainees.