Cricket's Song

by Michael A. Hooten

  Cricket spent the week in bed, ill from his night in the summer and winter. Padrig, the Academy’s physician, forbid him from playing, but late at night, Cricket pulled Linnaia out of her case and softly created spring breezes that teased the lamp flame and ruffled his hair. For the rest of the winter, he felt the magic in him blossom like a rose, fragrant and sweet.

  Chapter 10: Lessons

  A little over a month after the first thaw, as the supply wagons began streaming in from every quarter, Cricket received a letter from Asael and Leann. He retreated to a quiet passageway above the Academy gardens, letting the cool spring air wash over him as he read.

  They were doing well; Lord Elnsbruck treated them kindly, probably better than if they had been bards anywhere else, and Leann was pregnant...

  The letter was snatched from his hand. “Oh, look,” Bres mocked. “The insect thinks it can read.”

  Cricket looked at the gloating faces around him; why Bres never faced him alone, he couldn’t figure, unless the man constantly needed an audience. “May I have my letter back, Bres?”

  “Not yet,” the older student said. “I want to read it, too. Let’s see... Oh, dear. Our insect’s best friend is a crossain.”

  “How gauche,” Scathna said.

  “Imagine,” said another student that Cricket couldn’t put a name to, “a bard associating with a lowly crossain.”

  “Ah, but you forget,” Bres said, “he’s not a bard yet. Might never be, since crossains appeal to him so much.”

  It took all of Cricket’s control not to start a brawl. “Just give me the letter, Bres.”

  Bres slowly crumpled it into a ball and tossed it out the window into the garden. “Oops,” he said. “I dropped it.”

  The rest of the students laughed and brushed past him, led by a smug and triumphant Bres. Cricket waited until they were out of sight before looking out the window to see where the letter had landed. Twenty feet below, it floated in the fish pond, slowly disintegrating in a cloud of black ink.

  Cricket started running, climbing higher and higher into the palace. He only had his flute with him, but it would be enough. Finding his way onto the battlements of the western tower, he curled in between the crenellations, dangling one foot in the empty air.

  He played the song that won him the trial. It still had no name, but he didn’t care; it was still too personal, still too emotional, and if nobody ever played it but him, all the better.

  Yet once again he gave it to Taris. The pure clear notes drifted across the city like rain, blowing down the streets and into windows open to the spring air. Children suddenly cried for their mothers, and husbands put an arm around their wives. The song, barely audible, made the street dancers slow as they thought of homes far away, and caused thieves to smart under the weight of their consciences. Even deep within the stone walls of the Academy, Bres suddenly remembered a woman in Cairnecht that he had truly loved, yet left without a word to go to the Academy.

  A touch on his shoulder almost sent Cricket over the edge, and when he saw who it was, he almost jumped of his own free will.

  “Well,” said Elhonna, Ard Righanna of Glencairck, “when I said I expected to hear great things of you, I never dreamed of this.”

  Cricket stared at the ground miserably. “I’m sorry that my playing disturbed your majesty,” he said.

  “This tower is not a part of the Academy, either, and so you should not even be up here.”

  Cricket wanted to disappear, but he swallowed and said, “I will accept any punishment my queen deems fit.”

  “Any?” she said speculatively. “Very well, come with me.”

  She swept down the tower stairs with Cricket scrambling to keep up. She led him into a part of the palace that he didn’t recognize, stopping in a room with a wide expanse of windows facing the south. The afternoon light turned the walls gold and filled the room with comfortable warmth, and the furniture looked comfortable and inviting. With a start, Cricket realized that the sun room must be the queen’s private grianan, and he stood nervously just inside the door. A serving girl appeared and stood expectantly nearby while the queen took her seat.

  The queen told Cricket to sit and the maid to bring refreshments. She said nothing more until the girl returned with a platter of bread and cheese, a pitcher, and two goblets. The queen dismissed her with a nod and poured two drinks. “I hope wine is acceptable,” she said, handing one to Cricket.

  “Perfect,” he squeaked.

  Elhonna smiled. “And now for your punishment: I want you to tell me why you were on the western tower playing a song that could cause stones to weep.”

  Cricket studied the wine in his hand, unable to look at her. “It was nothing, Majesty.”

  Sitting forward, the queen said, “Cricket, look at me.”

  He glanced at her eyes, and then found himself unable to look away. The deep green was flecked with gold, and set in a face so beautiful that he caught his breath.

  “Apprentice Cricket, I want you to tell me what is going on. You sat on that tower and played a song trembling with power. You are going to explain it to me or to the Pen Bardd, who almost beat me to you. He wanted to be the one to have this discussion, but I convinced him that I should be the one to do it. I am your sponsor, after all.”

  Cricket said, “I was missing my friends.”

  The queen sat back and regarded him silently.

  Cricket could not face that stare. “Alright. Bres MacNeth stole a letter of mine and threw it in the fish pond before I had a chance to even finish reading it. He’s been making my life miserable for months, him and his sycophants. I wanted to punch him, but I knew that would just get me in trouble or beat up, or both, so I put my emotions into my song. But I didn’t use any power.”

  The queen took a small sip of her drink. “Did you know,” she said casually, “that once you start using magic, it becomes a part of you? You have to be constantly conscious of power, any power, or else you will use it without realizing it, and without controlling it.”

  “I had no idea,” Cricket said faintly.

  “Obviously not. But that’s not entirely your fault; normally, the magic has to be coaxed and developed so slowly that the control comes naturally.” The queen sighed. “In your case, however, you have more than you know what to do with. That’s why I sponsored you into the Academy. You were bursting with so much barely contained power that if I hadn’t, the Pen Bardd would have. But your experiences with the likes of Bres are turning you into a thundercloud. The first bolt of lightning may have struck today, but it was harmless in the end.”

  “But if I don’t learn to control myself...”

  The queen nodded. “Then you’ll do something like Gwydion, who shook down the walls of Caer Dathyl.”

  “And he wasn’t even a bard yet...”

  “Just like you.”

  Cricket hugged himself tightly. “What am I to do?”

  Elhonna refilled her goblet. “First we give you some additional, personalized training, and then we’ll do something about Bres...” At the look on his face, she stopped. “I take it you don’t agree.”

  “Forgive me, your Majesty,” he said. “The extra instruction is good, but I think that punishing Bres will only increase his anger towards me.”

  “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  Cricket finally tasted his wine while he thought. “Call the extra training remedial,” he said. “Say that it’s to correct the bad habits I learned from Duncan. In a way, it’s even true, plus it makes Bres less likely to resent me.”

  The queen looked skeptical. “He’ll still persecute you.”

  Cricket spread his hands. “What would you have of me, Majesty? If he doesn’t torture me, then it may be some poor, inexperienced neophyte next. Until today, I was able to handle him pretty well, and with more training in self-control, I’ll be better equipped than any other student.”

  “Very well,” the queen said after a moment’s contemplation. “We will t
ry it your way first. But Ewan and I will be watching closely.”

  After Cricket had left, the Pen Bardd came in through a side door. “Did you hear all of that?” the queen asked, still staring after the young man.

  “Of course, my lady,” Ewan said. “I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing, but I heard it all.”

  “We must train him differently. You heard that song; he almost discovered the Chord of Sorrow on that tower.”

  Ewan shrugged and sat across from the queen. “Almost is nothing like success,” he said, taking a piece of bread and cheese. “I just think that the more we treat him differently, the more others will notice.”

  “You are a bard,” the queen said. “Information is your milieu. Twist that to your advantage, and make others see him as different for the wrong reason.”

  “We’ve been doing that, but he continues to surprise us, causing us to say and do things spontaneously that we would do better to contemplate first. Did you think it wise to imply that he’s more powerful than any of the other students?”

  “He is too modest to assume that his power is truly that much greater,” the queen replied.

  “I also don’t like his attitude. It seems to me like he’s judging everything we teach him, and finding it wanting.”

  “Why is it that you think that every talented student is going to be another Declan?” she asked. “Just train him better, so that he doesn’t destroy himself or someone else, and we’ll worry about the extent of his power later. He loves us so much that I’m not worried about his loyalty.”

  Ewan bowed acquiescence.

  “Now that that’s settled,” said the queen, “you have your work cut out for you.”

  “I thought we might take some time to ourselves this afternoon,” the Pen Bardd said.

  “You should try and be more coy,” the queen replied. “You know how I like to initiate things.”

  Brushing crumbs from his tunic, he said, “I was just offering an idea. If you choose not to pursue it, then I will drop it.”

  “Really? How interesting.” She stood up, and headed for the door. “We both have things to do this afternoon,” she said. “Be patient; I haven’t forgotten you.”

  “As my queen wishes,” Ewan said, but she had already left.

  Chapter 11: Contest

  Cricket walked through the streets of Taris, heading back towards the palace. If he didn’t have an early lecture in the morning, he would have taken Byrn’s offer of a room. As it was, he figured he would be yawning his head apart during his classes.

  The dark streets echoed with his footsteps, and he glanced at the blank house fronts with wistful curiosity. Behind the impersonal stone, families slept in the warmth of love. Somewhere a mother nursed her newborn, and further on a father fought sleep to sing softly to a child restless with fever. Cricket knew that not everyone had a loved one nearby, but the loneliness of his station weighed on his shoulders. Byrn and Wylla treated him like a foster son, but somehow it wasn’t the same as having a real family.

  Ahead, a group of shadows came alive and blocked his path. “Hold, little insect,” said a familiar voice. “We’d like a word with you.”

  “What do you want, Bres?” Cricket asked. “I’m tired, and I’d like to get some sleep.” He counted nine of them altogether; too many to fight, and one of them was bound to be faster if he ran.

  “Who needs sleep?” Bres laughed. “The night is young, and we have an interesting proposition for you.”

  “The night is only young compared to Bartholomy,” Cricket replied. “So if you would excuse me...”

  The students casually surrounded him. “I don’t think you understand,” Bres said. “Our offer is not entirely voluntary.”

  Cricket could see the torch marking the postern gate at the palace, but knew the guard wouldn’t leave no matter how loudly he shouted. A quick glance showed no patrolling fians handy beyond the cruel smiles of his fellows, either. “Very well, Bres,” he said with a mental curse. “What would you have of me?”

  “I was thinking of a little contest,” the blonde boy said. “To settle things between us once and for all.”

  “What is there to settle? If you’re worried that I might be eclipsing you, I assure you, your bright sun still outshines my dim star.”

  “Sweet words,” Bres said. “But let’s not continue this discussion in the street. There are more comfortable arenas.”

  With the other student bards forming a guard all around him, Cricket was herded through the streets of Taris and out the northern gate. A knife poking him in his kidney kept him from calling out to the kern on watch.

  Bres led the group to Uislign, following a dim path in the bright moonlight up to the top of a rocky ridge that kept even with the tree tops. After a mile, the ground rose again, and the trail ended on a broad hilltop where slabs of stone twice the size of men had been set upright in a circle surrounding three more that lay flat. “Gorsedd Ogham,” Cricket breathed.

  “Haven’t you been up here before?” Bres asked sarcastically. “I thought all aspiring bards came up here at least once.”

  “This is hallowed ground, Bres. Why are we here?”

  “I told you: there is a challenge to be made, from me to you.”

  “Fine. But not here.”

  Bres threw back his head and laughed, although it made goose bumps along Crickets arms like a wolf howl. “This is the perfect place. Ogmah created the first harp and gave it to Amrig here, and they say he still watches after all his bards from this place. You, of course, are nothing but a talented crossain attempting to emulate your betters.”

  “That’s what this is all about?” Cricket asked. “I’ve offended you because I was trained as a crossain before I joined the Academy?”

  “You didn’t join. The Ard Righanna put you in over the protests of the Pen Bardd.”

  “He didn’t protest. Besides, I’ve proven my worth a dozen times over, at least...” His voice trailed off, and he looked around at the unfriendly faces: Plaisech, who had been sponsored by the Lord of Caer Morlignan; Esoch, Detrimin, and Wenda, who had been sponsored by the three leading abbots of Airu; Terresa and Goivnu, who had come from the court of the Prince of Leinath; Scathna, whose sponsor was the Lord of Caer Dathyl; and Creaniw, who had been sponsored by the mayor of Taris.

  And Bres, whose sponsor was Dershal, Prince of Duvnecht, the man rumored to be the Ard Righanna’s most likely choice for consort.

  “No, this isn’t about my worthiness or lack thereof, is it?” Cricket said quietly. “This is about me suddenly ‘outranking’ all of you, because the queen took me, a man of no parentage from an obscure dun, and a crossain to boot, and placed me in the Academy, isn’t it? This is all just about wounded pride. Isn’t it?”

  “Enough!” Bres cried. “By sun and moon, by earth and Faerie, by sea and sky I challenge you, Cricket!”

  Cricket bowed low, although he trembled with rage and fear inside. “By light and dark, by mortal and immortal, by water and air, I accept, Bres.”

  Both men tuned their harps. “The challenged may play first,” Bres said stiffly.

  “I relinquish my rights to the challenger,” Cricket answered just as formally.

  Bres grinned fiercely. “Then it begins.”

  From the first chord, Cricket could tell that Bres planned to include more than music in his challenge. The monoliths reflected sound oddly, creating sub-harmonies crackling with power. The hair on Cricket’s neck stood on end as he felt Bres’s song calling something from deep within the earth.

  Bres’s song ended, but the power remained, a trap waiting for Cricket to spring it. He bowed his head over Linnaia, thinking furiously. All that the ollam had taught of magic seemed distant from this, and yet, the fundamentals were sound, like someone who could speak but could not compose poetry.

  He thought of the sub-harmonies he had heard. They tickled his brain like a name he couldn’t quite recall, but he began to play anyway, trying to tease the
knowledge from the music. A nudge here, switch keys there, watch the tempo, and the pressure faded, though not entirely.

  Bres began his second song, calling on the power of the stones again. Wake, wake! the song urged. You are threatened by an infidel, by a traitor!

  Cricket’s song, stronger than the first, countered with: Peace, peace; all is well, the danger is gone.

  Bres scowled and bent to his third song. The power stirred, causing the air to shimmer like a heat wave between the upright stones. Cricket felt the pressure of the magic, pushing against the boundaries of the world. The other students looked around with wide eyes, pulling their cloaks tight around them.

  The shimmering swirled into dark whirlpools, and a putrid wind came howling into the circle. The students screamed and fell flat, and even Bres seemed unsure of himself, although his fingers remained confident on the strings. Cricket felt the music, still coaxing and calling. The whirlpools began to glow with a sickly green light, outlining dark creatures. They began to shuffle forward, hunched and malformed, staring with hungry red eyes. “I can’t stop!” Bres cried, his eyes wide with desperation.

  The creatures crawled into the moonlight, claws scraping the stones like fingernails on a slate. Thick and squat, their hands dragged the ground, and they had protruding jaws filled with sharp teeth. Ignoring the cringing students, they closed in on Bres. Cricket’s stomach churned as one brushed against him, the rough skin catching at his cloak.

  Bres screamed as the first one touched him, but he could not stop playing. The screaming and the harping continued as the creatures surrounded him, blocking him from Cricket’s view. But he could still hear wet tearing sounds and hollow crunches.

  The song cut off abruptly, and in the sudden silence, the creatures’ feeding could be heard clearly. Cricket felt his guts spasm, and he barely pulled Linnaia aside before his dinner came up.