She shared a crust with the dog. “Let me tell you a story, Guard. It’s an old one, about two sisters; a king’s daughters, they were. They both loved the same man, but they couldn’t both have him. He wanted the younger one, her name was Dervla. One day, the elder sister pushed the younger into the river, and Dervla drowned. She floated a long way downstream in her white gown, until she came to a place where a mill wheel turned in the water. The miller thought it was a beautiful bird he saw swimming there, and then he looked closer at the lovely dead maiden, and drew her in to the bank. Poor girl, he thought, so sweet and so sad: I wonder what her tale was? And because he had a fancy to do it, he turned her body into a little harp, white bones for the frame of it, golden hair the shimmering strings. There was no need to touch fingers to this delicate instrument, for the instant he set the last peg in place the harp began to sing all by itself, and such was its song, the miller knew it for a thing of wonder and enchantment, and he bore it forth to the king’s hall. A little abashed, for many grand folk sat there, the king’s elder daughter and her new husband among them, the miller set his harp on the board before the king and took a step back. Then the harp began to play, Guard; oh, such a tune it played:

“Oh my father, hearken here

Hearken to me, mother dear

By you my false sister stands

Who drowned me with her own two hands

For the love of Conall sweet

Dervla swam in river deep

I, your daughter, now come home

Voice of truth in harp of bone.”

Guard looked up at Nessa. He licked her hand.

“Everyone knows that story,” Nessa said, “or another like it. A bone harp always speaks truth; it draws its voice from the deep well of earth, from the very core of being. I think that’s what it means, ash and bone. Somerled did not listen to Eyvi, nobody did, that much was plain. With no evidence, no witnesses, he had nothing but his axe and his courage. That wasn’t enough, and so he died.”