The Seven Songs Read Free Page B

since Tuatha himself had used it to heal the forest destroyed by the dragon of the Lost Lands. While that forest had eventually returned to life, Tuatha had admitted that playing the Harp had required even more of his skill than lulling the enraged dragon into enchanted sleep. The Harp, he had warned, would only respond to the touch of someone with the heart of a wizard.
    The oldest of the peacocks was the first to try. Spreading his radiant tail feathers to the widest, he strutted over to the Harp and lowered his head. With a swift stroke of his beak, he plucked one of the strings. A pure, resonant tone poured forth, lingering in the air. But nothing else happened. The Harp’s magic lay dormant. Again the peacock tried, again with no result beyond a single note.
    One by one, several other delegates came forward. The unicorn, her white coat glistening, slid her horn across the strings. A stirring chord resulted, but nothing more. Then came an immense brown bear, a dwarf whose beard fell below his knees, a sturdy-looking woman, and one of the water nymphs, all without success.
    At last, a tan-colored toad hopped out of the shadows by Merlin’s feet and over to the Grand Elusa. Stopping just beyond the great spider’s reach, the toad rasped, “You may not be a wizarrrrd yourrrrself, but I rrrreally believe you have the hearrrrt of one. Would you carrrry the Harrrrp?”
    The Grand Elusa merely shook her head. Lifting three of her legs, she pointed in the direction of Cairpré.
    “Me?” sputtered the poet. “You can’t be serious! I have no more the heart of a wizard than the head of a pig. My knowledge so spare, my wisdom too rare. I could never make the Harp respond.” Stroking his chin, he turned to the boy by his side. “But I can think of someone else who might.”
    “The boy?” growled the brown bear skeptically, even as the boy himself shifted with unease.
    “I don’t know whether he has the heart of a wizard,” Cairpré acknowledged, with a sidelong glance at Merlin. “I doubt even he knows.”
    The bear slammed his paw against the ground. “Then why do you propose him?”
    The poet almost smiled. “Because I think there is more to him than meets the eye. He did, after all, destroy the Shrouded Castle. Let him try his hand with the Harp.”
    “I agree,” declared a slender owl with a snap of her jaws. “He is the grandson of Tuatha.”
    “And the son of Stangmar,” roared the bear. “Even if he can awaken its magic, he cannot be trusted.”
    Into the center of the circle stepped the wood elf, her nut brown hair rippling like a stream. She bowed slightly to Rhia, who returned the gesture. Then, in a lilting voice, she addressed the group. “The boy’s father I know not, though I am told that, in his youth, he often played in Druma Wood. And, like the twisted tree that might have grown straight and tall, I cannot say whether the fault lay with him or with the elders who did not give him their support. Yet I did know the boy’s mother. We called her Elen of the Sapphire Eyes. She healed me once, when I was aflame with fever. There was magic in her touch, more magic than even she understood. Perhaps her son has the same gift. I say we should let him try the Harp.”
    A wave of a agreement flowed through the assembly. The bear paced back and forth, grumbling to himself, but finally did not object.
    As Merlin rose from the pillar, Rhia wrapped her leaf-draped arm around his own. He glanced at her gratefully, then stepped slowly over to the Harp. As he carefully retrieved it, cradling the sound box in his arms, the assembled delegates fell silent once again. The boy drew a deep breath, raised his hand, and plucked one of the strings. A deep note hung in the air, vibrating, for a long moment.
    Sensing nothing remarkable had happened, Merlin turned a disappointed face toward Rhia and Cairpré. The brown bear growled in satisfaction. All at once, the canyon eagle, still perched on the giant’s shoulder,