“Why are you under geis?”
Cricket hesitated, but did not see any reason to keep it secret. “My queen tried to seduce me, and when I resisted, she cursed me. So now I stand here waiting to play for you.”
“What if I said no?”
Cricket spread his hands. “Then I will stay here, waiting, until your majesty relents or until I die.”
“No one dies in Faerie, bard. You should know that.”
“The tales of your realm are sparse and confusing, your majesty.”
“There’s a reason for that, you know,” Oengus said. “Faerie does not work the same as your world, and if humans knew our secrets, then we would no longer be able to inspire awe.”
Cricket nodded, but said nothing.
“Well, Dagda, what do you think?” Oengus asked.
The giant considered the question for a moment. “I don’t see any reason why we should keep him from fulfilling his quest.”
“Well, I do,” said the woman on the other side of the throne.
“What reason is that, Brigit?” Oengus asked.
“There are several,” she said, stepping forward. “First, we know almost nothing about him. Oh, some people have formed opinions, but it is all based on second hand knowledge. Second, he is human, and we have all seen how changeable they are; even if he is trustworthy now, he might not be in the future. And lastly, he is a bard. There is no one present who has not been hurt by a bard or because of one.”
Many in the crowd nodded, and Oengus said, “Each of those is a valid point, Brigit. Thank you.”
Etain stepped forward. “You should listen to this bard,” she said. “I have talked to him, and he is honest in an age of corruption among his kind. His geis is a direct result of this integrity, and we would do well to honor it.”
“Why would you support a bard?” Brigit asked. “When your own husband, who claimed to love you for eternity, betrayed you in the end?”
“My husband never stopped loving me, he only stopped loving Faerie,” Etain said. “He gave me three of the best children Faerie has ever known, and he did not reveal our secrets to the world of men. I have no problems with bards in general, and I trust this one in particular.”
Oengus leaned forward. “You must be something special, Cricket, to win the support of my daughter.”
“The lady Etain is very kind,” Cricket said. “I am not so sure that her trust is well placed, however.”
“Really?” the king said, surprised. “My councilors and my daughter have voiced their opinion, but perhaps I should have asked you, instead.”
Cricket’s fingers itched for his harp strings, but he managed to push the longing aside. “Your majesty, there are members of your kingdom who have tried to kill me. One of your former subjects did kill my parents. I know this, but I also know that Faerie has tried to warn me as well, and may have helped me in other ways that I know nothing of. The question is, what am I more likely to do? Will I seek retribution, or will I remember the help I have received? I know that I am capable of both.”
“So you make it a gamble,” Oengus said, sitting back and stroking his moustache. “And I have a feeling I may be sorry no matter what I choose. Very well, Cricket, you may play for us. And since this was not your choice, I will share this secret with you: the magic of Faerie reacts strongly to the music of a true bard. Be careful, because it will seek to sap your will.”
Cricket smiled bitterly as he unlimbered Linnaia and began to tune her. “That has happened before, your majesty.”
Standing before the Faerie hosts, Cricket tried to clear his mind. He shut his eyes and began a fingering exercise, simple but melodic. The magic of Faerie swirled around him, laughing in his ears, trying to ruin his concentration, but he quickly formed a shield to keep out the worst of it.
He had given no thought what to play for the King, and songs tumbled in his brain like flies in a jar. He picked the first one that he could get a handle on, a melancholy tune called “The Rose’s Thorn”. With a start he realized that Gwydion had written it shortly before he challenged the Faerie hosts, and he wondered if Oengus recognized it.
The Faerie magic hammered at his shield as he settled into his playing. He used just enough of his own power to keep it at bay, preferring to concentrate on his songs. Looking up at one point, he saw the host around him, but transparent like stained glass. The mound stretched away in all directions beyond his vision, but curved around again so that any way he turned he could see the mound he was standing on in the distance, complete with Oengus on his throne and a boyish bard before him.
The hair on the back of Cricket’s neck began to rise. Faerie had a personality of its own, he sensed, that was both the sum of the people that inhabited it as well as a completely separate entity. It hovered over him like a hawk, waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness and make him an extension of itself.
Is this why Ossian left? Cricket wondered. Was he fleeing something more than just immortality?
Cricket modulated a key, and began to play to the memory of a man he knew only through stories. He could see the bard, trying to constantly keep up his guard, day in and day out, and what a struggle it must have been, and Cricket played to the sorrow that Ossian, a mere human in the end, must have known to give up his beautiful, immortal wife.
The song grew on its on, encompassing more than just the ancient grief. Cricket found himself thinking of his parents, killed by a blind fear, and for the lost souls of Dun Aillel, dead because they had sheltered him as he grew. The Faerie magic shied from such raw emotion: it knew hate and anger, love and honor, but it had no regrets, and it could not understand. Cricket felt the retreat, but he could not focus on it. So much sadness in the world, and he tried to encompass it all, and to show Etain that he knew what she went through. The song roared in his ears and became the Chord of Sorrow.
Cricket felt the magic spreading outward, causing each member of the Faerie host that heard it to remember the greatest loss they had ever known, the greatest pain they had ever felt. Cricket suffered with them, because unlike the Chord of Laughter, he could not entirely shield himself from their grief. The Dagda wept like a child, in great bawling sobs, and Brigit turned away to hide her face. The Chord bent Oengus over double; his shoulders shook, and many of the host fell to the ground, hands over their ears. But Etain stood straight, staring at Cricket with compassion and acceptance while great shining tears rolled down her face and neck.
Cricket felt his own grief pass away, leaving a clarity of mind that showed him the full extent of the power of the Chord on Faerie; the magic had left the host battered with an emotion that most of them rarely felt, and Cricket could feel their magic unsuccessfully try to cope with it. He suddenly knew that he could leave them like this, a broken people, a people with no hope, and that they would never recover.
He stopped playing, and the wailing and keening deafened him. Even without using any power to defend himself, the faerie magic could not come against him, and except for Etain, he was the only person standing.
“What do I do?” he asked her.
“I cannot say,” she answered. “No bard has ever truly conquered us before.”
“But Gwydion...”
“He showed us that we had a duty to Glencairck. But he never thought to use one of the Chords.”
Cricket looked at the King, but Oengus seemed unable to move. On either side, men and women lay curled into balls or sat on their knees, hunched over. Except for the constant crying and keening, he felt alone with his guide. “Why are you able to function when no one else is?”
“I have made grief a part of my life for a very long time,” she said. “I am perhaps the only one in Faerie who has not sought to dodge that particular responsibility.”
“I can’t leave them like this.”
“You cannot change what you have done; you may only do something else.”
“You sound like someone I know named Wylla.” Cricket sighed and shifted Linnaia ba
ck to playing position. “Well, what music has done, music can undo. I hope.”
He began playing again, but he infused his song with the Chord of Laughter a little bit at a time. Around him the crying stopped, and the men and women of Faerie looked up like they had heard their names being called. Scared to give them the entire force of the magic, Cricket let it trickle forth a little at a time until smiles appeared and backs straightened. The faerie magic returned as well, feeling like a dog beaten by its master instead of the waiting wolf it had been.
Cricket closed his song and faced the king. “I’m sorry, your majesty,” he said. “I did not know that would happen.”
Oengus wiped his face and straightened his crown. “Well, bard, you have certainly proved again why we are so wary of your kind.” The wonder in his eye belied his light tone.
The Dagda wiped his face with his beard, and Brigit resumed her spear- straight posture, although without the arrogance. When Oengus looked at her with raised eyebrow, she merely nodded.
“You have conquered us, Cricket,” the king said. “Anything you want, we will give you if we can.”
Cricket spent a few minutes putting Linnaia back in her case, sensing the host relax when the harp was safely stowed. “Your majesty, all I want is the answer to a riddle,” he said, facing the king once more.
“Ask.”
“Who is the prince of the dead, and how may I serve him?”
Oengus looked at his councilors, but they seemed just as surprised as he was. “That’s it?” he said.
“That’s it.”
“You don’t want to know the secrets of Faerie, or the true names of your enemies?”
Cricket shrugged. “Those things might be nice, your majesty, but I have no use for them.”
“You don’t want riches, or a kingdom?”
“Please,” the bard said, “if you don’t know the answer, just tell me. I have a geis to complete, and I can feel it beginning to pressure me again.”
“We know the answer,” the king replied. “We just wonder why you don’t take more.”
The entire assembly grew very still, waiting for the answer. Cricket looked at the faces surrounding him, with their facade of respect over the fear and loathing. “I am a bard, with a harp and a name,” he said slowly, trying to make them understand. “If it weren’t for the geis, I would want for nothing at all.”
He heard a collective sigh, and the low hum of conversation began again as the host relaxed. Brigit nodded, the Dagda stroked his beard thoughtfully, and Etain looked vindicated.
“Do you know the story of Pwyll and Arawn?” Oengus asked.
“Of course. Pwyll, lord of Cantref Dyfed was hunting with his hounds when he came upon another pack who had made a kill. Thinking he was in his own land still, Pwyll chased the pack away and baited his own dogs upon the deer. But he had crossed into another world, and Arawn, the king, appeared and demanded retribution, which Pwyll was obliged to give.
“So for a year, Pwyll sat on Arawn’s throne in disguise as the king himself, and at the end, he killed the king’s mortal enemy with one blow. Arawn rewarded him with his daughter, Rhiannon, to wife.”
“There was one other reward,” Oengus said. “Pwyll was made a prince over Arawn’s kingdom, to be passed on as long as his line should last.”
Cricket started. “And Arawn is known as the King of the Dead.”
Oengus grinned. “I’ll make it even easier on you. Pwyll’s descendant is Mannath, Lord Dyfed, whose court is in Caer Arberth. I’m sure that he could use the services of a talented bard.”
“Thank you, sire,” Cricket said, bowing low.
Oengus stood and bowed in return. “Thank you, bard Cricket.” He stepped forward and took the young man by the hand. “You held us in the palm of your hand, and instead of slavery, you gave us freedom. For this alone I would call you friend.”
Cricket blushed, but said, “Thank you, your majesty. I would be your friend as well.”
“If you ever need anything, I will grant it if it is within my power.”
The geis chose at that moment to reassert itself, making Cricket almost dance with anxiety. “Right now, I need to take leave of you,” he said. “If you would just show me the way out...”
Oengus clapped him on the shoulder, and the Faerie mound shifted around them. The ceiling and the light disappeared, and a bright moon hanging low in a dawn gray sky took its place. Cricket heard a familiar barking, and just had time to turn to turn around before being bowled over by CuChulainn. “It’s okay, boy!” the bard said, trying to fend off a flood of dog kisses. “I’m fine, I swear it!” He stopped in surprise. “Hey, your hair has gotten awfully long in the last day.”
“It’s been more than a day in your world,” Oengus said.
“How much longer?” Cricket asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Mid-winter has passed, and spring is coming quickly.”
“I spent a season in there?”
“A gift,” Oengus said. “I feared for you travelling in winter.” CuChulainn, bored with the conversation, chose that moment to knock Cricket over and begin licking him again. Oengus smiled. “If I had known that you have such a companion, I wouldn’t have worried. Still, I will caution you.”
“What?” Cricket asked, struggling to sit up. “Caution me about what?”
The Faerie king said, “I have given you my friendship, but that does not mean that you entirely safe from my people.”
Cricket became very still. “Fairlin.” CuChulainn, confused, began whining softly.
“And some others.” Oengus scratched the wolfhound between the ears. “Be careful in your travels. And don’t forget that those from faerie, because of their long life span, have long patience as well.”
Cricket felt the geis asserting itself. He got to his feet, and bowed. “I won’t forget, your majesty. And thank you.”
Oengus stood and watched as the small bard and his big dog left the valley. His daughter stepped out of the air to stand beside him. “I’m scared for him, and of him,” she said.
“Me, too,” the king said, tugging on his moustache. “I think that he will shake up our world as much as Gwydion ever did.”
“We are stronger because of it.”
“Without doubt. But that does not mean that it will be easy, and it certainly will not be pleasant.”
Book 3:
The Cricket That Roared
Chapter 20: Mannath
Cricket the bard and his wolfhound, CuChulainn, walked through a land of stone and water, with the grass and trees looking like they were about to be swallowed by one or the other. The geis pronounced by Ard Righanna Elhonna had been half fulfilled: he had played for the King of Faerie, and now he was headed to serve the Prince of the Dead. The curse made him want to run, but he kept his steps slow and precise, trying to remain in control of his own destiny.
Only a small boundary stone let Cricket know that he had crossed into Dyfed. Shepherds guarded their flocks like vigilant ghosts, watching the bard from above the road, never approaching or speaking. At night, wolves howled in hunger and frustration, never coming near, but making CuChulainn growl in the back of his throat. Cold rain and mist slid between the hills regularly, increasing the feel of isolation.
After three days in the ghostly land, the bard and the dog came to Caer Arberth where it looked over the River Sairvon. The stories spoke of the caer as the glorious capital of a strong, proud, and prosperous district, but Cricket could only see a hall whose stones littered the ground around it, surrounded by dilapidated cottages of wattle and daub. Of course, the stories of Dyfed all told of Pwyll and his son, Pryderi, who had lived around the time of Taliesin, some eight hundred years before. Still, it saddened Cricket to see such glory brought low.
At the open gate, Cricket played a song and then called out when no one appeared. A kern leaned over the parapet above and called out, “What do you want?”
Cricket bowed low. “I am a bard, wishing to enter the s
ervice of Mannath, Lord Dyfed.”
“Can’t afford a bard,” the kern said, spitting off to the side. “Try Gwynedd, to the north. They’re rich, and they always need another musician.”
Cricket shook his head. “I have no need for riches. But I do need to meet with Lord Dyfed, no matter what he tells me in the end.”
The kern shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. I just thought I’d tell you, maybe save you some time. Go across to the hall, and find Asaph, the steward. He can deal with you.”
“My thanks,” Cricket called, but the man just grunted.
Inside the walls, the courtyard was choked with weeds and rusted bits of war: a chariot with one wheel, a spear with a broken shaft and rusted head, moldering shields and armor. CuChulainn sniffed about disapprovingly when Cricket told him to stay.
Passing into the hall was not much better. Smoke hung thick in the air, and people hurried about in random confusion, ignoring him. Cricket finally caught a small boy by the scruff of the neck and asked, “Where may I find the chief steward?”
The boy kicked Cricket in the shin and danced away, yelling, “Asaph! Someone wants to talk to you!”
Across the room, a thin man looked up and hurried over. “What do you want?” he demanded irritably, taking in the harp and the six colored cloak, and the fact that it was only one bard.
“A place to play, and a chance to serve,” Cricket replied with a bow.
“We have no need for a harper,” Asaph said.
“Do you speak for yourself or for your master?”
Asaph reddened. “Fine,” he said. “Talk to Mannath yourself, but I warn you, he has little patience for fools.”
Cricket swallowed the reply that came so readily and said, “And where may I find Lord Dyfed?”
Asaph sighed heavily. “Don’t you see that I am quite busy? I can’t stop everything just so that I can take you.”
“So have a servant do it.”
“They’re all busy, too.”
“Very well then,” Cricket said, unlimbering his harp. “I will sit here and satirize you until I have an audience with Lord Dyfed.”
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