The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [181]
But now it was his turn to sing. He prayed he was up to the task.
In the house, a hammarharp sounded a single chord, and then a voice lifted in one high, clear note. Neil was startled; it reminded him of frightening a covey of quail along the side of the road. What was more surprising, that surprise or the startlement itself?
Because it was Brinna, and the depth of that single beautiful note opened a door on everything he still didn’t know about her, everything he wanted to learn. He knew she played the harp, and beautifully, and he loved her voice, but he never knew this was hidden in it.
The note dropped and wavered, and a second voice joined it, another woman: the composer’s wife. The song suddenly wasn’t pretty anymore, and Neil remembered a time not so long ago when he’d been sinking in the sea, dragged down by the weight of his armor, and he’d heard the Draugs’ lonely, jealous song, welcoming him to the cold land of Breu-nt-Toine, a country without love or light or even memory.
In this music—in Brinna’s voice—he heard again the song of the Draugs.
He walked away from the house not so much because the music repelled him as because he was drawn to it, just as his armor had dragged him toward the sea floor.
But then another memory came.
He’d been seven, in the hills, gathering the goats. Goat gathering wasn’t such a hard business, and he’d been doing some of the work on his back, watching the clouds, imagining they were islands filled with strange kingdoms and peoples, wondering if he could ever find a way up to them.
Then he’d heard the horns blowing and knew the fleet was in. He jumped up, leaving the goats to themselves, and rushed down the hill trail, racing along with the sea down below, until ahead he could see his father’s longship with its broad blue sail and prow carved in the likeness of Saint Menenn’s horse Enverreu.
By the time he reached the docks, the ships was tied up. His father already was back on dry land and opening his arms to sweep his son up in rough arms.
“Fah,” he shouted. The sun that day had shown a kind of gold that Neil had never seen since, although he had watched for it and had seen something of its hue that day when he had fought for the waerd. And right there on the wooden planks, in front of all his comrades, his father pulled from his things something long, wrapped in oiled cloth, its head stockinged in sealskin.
He pulled off the cloth and sock in a hurry, and there it was, his first spear, with its beautiful shiny blade and plain thick pole.
“I had it made by Saint Jeveneu himself,” his father said, but at Neil’s amazed expression, he mussed his head and corrected himself.
“It was made by an old friend of mine on the isle of Guel,” he said. “No saint but a good man and a good smith, and he made it special for you.”
Neil had never been so proud of anything as that spearhead flashing in the sun and his father’s hand on his shoulder.
When they got home, it was a different story. His mother embraced his father and had begun bringing out the supper when she suddenly looked at Neil.
“And what of the goats, Neil? Did you just leave them up there when I told you to bring them in?”
“I’m sorry, Mah,” he remembered saying. “I heard the bells—”
“And wanted to see your Fah, sure, but—”
“But you don’t abandon your duty, son. Now go get them.”
He got them and missed supper in the bargain, but when he finally made it down and the first stars were out, he found his father waiting for him outside the house.
“I’m sorry, Fah,” he said.
“Now listen,” his father said. “You’re going to get older, we all hope, so let me tell you something. You’ve heard me talk about honor. Do you know what it is?”
“It’s what a warrior gets when he wins battles.”
“No. A man can never fight a battle and still have honor. A man can win a thousand and never have