THE FROG AND THE GROG
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright 2010
Cadavan couldn't let Aelwyn and Ned suffer on his account. With a croak of defiance, he hopped forward.
The wolves stalked toward him, but the tentacle swung at him over their heads, banishing the wolves as a sigh of satisfaction sheaved through the forest. It bent the limbs, it bowed the trunks, and from the huge ragged hole the fallen branch had left burst light, sudden and piercing. A glowing being sprang out of the tree with a shrilling tone of joy, a being human-shaped and so bright it hurt Cadavan's eyes, but he couldn't look away, for the bright being shot straight toward the center of the Shadow—and the Shadow recoiled before it, but the spirit pursued, plunging into the Shadow's center. Its brightness banished darkness; its light cut the Shadow in half, radiance struggling upward and downward, beating back the darkness until, keening like a gale, the Shadow disappeared.
The wolves remained, and there was a sudden commotion of growling and snapping, then a high keening howl that faded before the pack itself fled into the night.
The bright being turned and glided toward Cadavan and Aelwyn. "Well met, strangers," its voice sang. "I thank you for freeing me from my prison."
"What are you?" Aelwyn breathed.
"A genius," it answered.
* * *
"All right, Mosat, lie down and we'll cover you with hay."
A full moon lent dim light to the three men who had pulled their half-filled hay wagon up at the edge of the woods. Before them, a little river broke moonbeams into dancing motes. Beyond it, cleared land rolled away, the land of Ustared, its furrows furred with stubble from the first mowing.
"If you say so, Oton." Mosat glanced up at the castle, scowling down at them from the top of the only hill in sight. "What if the sentries see us and send down soldiers with pitchforks to plunge into the hay?"
"A year ago, I would have worried about that," Oton said.
Beside him, Threbin nodded. "Scored my arm they did, when I was trying to smuggle myself out of Ustared with three jugs of brandy. Not that they wanted me to stay, mind you."
"I know." Mosat said with a glum nod. "They only wanted their toll—but I don't have a penny to pay it."
"'Course not," Oton said. "If you did, would you have to travel into Ustared to sell those bracelets you've been making?"
"They will fetch a good price, though," Threbin said. "Ustared gentry have always liked Azure's amber."
"Don't worry about pitchforks," Mosat advised. "The border guards haven't worried about you Azureans coming in one or two at a time for a month now."
Threbin nodded. "Not since Viburnum took the throne."
"Well, he's your king—you should know." Mosat climbed up and lay down on the hay wagon. "Thanks, Oton. You're a good cousin."
"Well, that's the other thing," Oton said. "The border guards understand family."
He and Threbin covered Mosat with hay, then climbed up to shake the reins and call to the horses. The wagon rolled into the stream, the water up to the hubs of the wheels as it trundled across the ford and up onto the land of Ustared.
High on the walls, a sentry saw the wagon cross the border and shook his head in exasperation. A year before, there would have been night patrols down there, and he would only have had to light a torch and wave it at the wagon to have half a dozen troopers head it off. Now, though, his earl had ordered them all to ignore the smugglers. Why bother having sentries at all?
In case an Azurean army tried to invade, of course. The sentry lifted his eyes to the hills beyond the river and waited. Sooner or later, something was bound to happen.
* * *
The spirit shimmered before them. It seemed human from the waist up, but from the hips downward, it tapered and thinned until there was nothing left. Its head was bald, its eyes huge, its nose and mouth scarcely visible, but in some unfathomable way, it was undeniably feminine. "I am a genius," she said again, "a spirit who delights in teaching, inspiring, uplifting with the sheer joy of knowledge. You may call me Musa."
Cadavan stared—even more than was usual for a frog. He had heard of such a thing as a genius before, but had never seen one.
"How could you battle that monster?" Aelwyn asked, staring.
"It was the Shadow of Ignorance," the spirit replied. "I am suffused with the Light of Knowledge. It is an old war between our kinds, and far too often they have won—but this time, by virtue of surprise, the victory has fallen to me."
Aelwyn gave himself a shake and managed to recover some of his old nonchalance. "If you are a teaching spirit, can you fill me with knowledge of more songs?"
"I can set their verses before you," Musa replied, "but I cannot put them inside your mind. That you must do by reading them, then singing them over and over until you know them by heart." She turned to Cadavan. "And you, little friend? What would you learn?"
"Ree-store!" Cadavan croaked, hope leaping high. "Ree-store!"
Musa regarded him enigmatically for a minute, until Aelwyn said, "He's only a frog, blithe spirit. Surely he already knows all he needs!"
Musa's gaze held Cadavan's. He stared into her eyes, fascinated, and was suddenly sure that she knew exactly what he was, and how he had come to hopping. It was a most humbling thought. Bad enough to be a frog—worse to have someone else know it was his own foolishness that had turned him into one. He shrank from Musa as she reached out to touch him.
"Knows all he needs?" Musa asked. "I think not—but I, never having been a frog, have little to teach him."
"Well, there is sense in that," Aelwyn allowed. "How came you to be caught in that tree?"
"The villagers chased me away," Musa said. "They chose the Shadow, they chose ignorance, for if they had admitted they had something to learn, they would have had to admit that they did not know everything."
"Why did you even bother with them?" the minstrel asked.
"Because their ignorance called to me," Musa answered, "and for a spirit of teaching, that call cannot be denied; it is a summoning, a command."
"Even if they didn't want your knowledge?"
"Then most of all, for it is the willfully ignorant who most need tutelage."
"No wonder they chased you away, if you were trying to give them something they didn't want."
"Regrettable but true," Musa said with a sigh. "How sad that the ones willing to learn are those who already know a fair amount—but they have knowledge because they enjoy learning."
"So, of course, you don't go to them?"
"Oh, I do indeed—but their call is nowhere nearly as demanding as the unvoiced cry of those who know least."
"And wish to stay that way." Aelwyn smiled.
"Indeed," Musa admitted. "They chased me out of their village, into the forest, and I took refuge in a hollow tree, never dreaming that they would fill the hollow with plaster and leave me imprisoned. I thank you, strangers, for freeing me!"
"It was the Shadow did that." Aelwyn grinned. "When it reached for us, its wind tore the branch from the tree."
"How ironic!" Musa sang, "but how fitting, that Ignorance should evoke Learning!"
"Travel with us," Aelwyn invited, "for I would learn all I can."
"So would your friend, I think." Musa turned her golden gaze on Cadavan. "He is more than he seems."
"Why should he not be?" Aelwyn said with a laugh. "What excellent company—a learned frog! Nay, teach him all you can—and me, too!"
"Why then, I shall," Musa said, pleasantly surprised. "And you, boy—would you learn, too?"
Ned shrank away, trying to disappear behind Aelwyn. If there had been one good thing about his exile, it had been not having to endure lessons.
"Not as eager as the other two of you, I see," Musa sighed, "but I will be glad of the two who do. Any student who truly wishes to learn is a joy to a teacher's heart."
"And we will be delighted with you company, I'm sure," Aelwyn said. Cadavan croaked agreement.
"How pleasing!" Musa sighed. "Very well, I shall travel with you, wherever you wish to go. You shall not see me, but when your day's travel is done, I shall be there by your campfire to impart knowledge."
"A pleasant end to a long walk," Aelwyn said. "Farewell, then, Spirit! You shall be excellent company as the evening draws in. Unfortunate that you won't be with us as we travel."
"Oh, I shall," Musa said, "but you shall not see me unless you have need of new knowledge. May your road be smooth!" And, like a candle extinguished, she was gone.
Ned tried not to let his friends hear his sigh of relief.
"We can never have too many friends," Aelwyn told Cadavan. "Of course, if you had a grain of sense, you would hop over to the river, find yourself a lily pad and a lady frog, and stay there for the rest of your life, not go haring over the countryside with me where we might run into every sort of danger."
Cadavan shuddered at the thought of being paired with a female frog. She might have been very attractive to a real frog, but he was not terribly real. "Uh-uh! Uh-uh!" he croaked.
"Well, have it as you will. Frog or not, you're good company, even if I can't understand a thing you say. Isn't he, lad?"
"Very good company!" Ned agreed and, to himself, And the only teacher I need.
Aelwyn knelt by the fire and found a few glowing coals that had survived the Shadow's wind, for the fire-circle of rocks had stopped them. He threw some dead leaves on, and as a small flame gobbled them, added some twigs. In a few minutes, he had re-kindled the campfire. He took the rolled blanket from his pack, wrapped himself in it, pillowed his head on a pile of fallen leaves, and told Cadavan, "Good night."
Ned lay down too, but Cadavan’s huge eyes could see the goose bumps on his skin. "Kid's cold Kid's cold," he informed Aelwyn.
"I am not!" Ned protested, though half-heartedly.
Cadavan fixed him with a stare. "Fibber! Fibber!"
"Well, I do have a spare." Aelwyn pulled his knapsack over, pulled folded fabric from it, and tossed it to Ned. "Wrap up in that, lad. It has some moth holes, but it will keep you warm."
"Why, thank you, Aelwyn," Ned said. He gave the blanket a shake to open it, then tucked it around himself and said, "Good night."
"Goodnight Goodnight" Cadavan answered, and knew that Ned had understood what he had said, but wondered what Aelwyn had heard.
The night sounds called to him, but Cadavan needed some time to think. He found a rock from which he could watch the river and let his thoughts drift with the current. The Shadow of Ignorance had not risen of its own, any more than the genius had.
A sorcerer?
Possibly. Cadavan knew the feel of magic, of deliberate spell-casting, and there had been some of that about the Shadow—as though a sorcerer had raised the creature in the first place, then let it roam free to seek and destroy. Wizards were born with a talent—greater or lesser, but it was there. Some realized it, some did not. Learning added skill to talent, and both honed the sense of what was going on about them. Oh yes, if the Shadow had not been threatening Cadavan, if he had not been worried about defending a friend, had not been in fear for both their lives, if he had had a few seconds to study it, Cadavan would have known if it had been made by magic, and what spell to use to counter it—easier to deal with, in its way, than human treachery.
If he knew who had made it, who had sent it—but he did not.
Unless...
Unless he knew whom the sorcerer served.
Who had reason to eliminate minstrels and wizards? Never mind the minstrels—which few people did, except to hear their songs and news—who wanted to banish wizards from the kingdom?
Duke Viburnum, of course.
Viburnum, the usurper! Viburnum, whose sole chance of holding the throne was to be the only one who had the power to enforce his will! The barons he had corrupted and turned into allies—but wizards were unpredictable, wizards were powerful, wizards might take it into their heads to oust the usurper and set the true king back on the throne!
What would be more sensible for such a man that to cozen a sorcerer into becoming an ally? And what sorcerer could resist the temptation of becoming the only magic-worker in the land? After all, for Viburnum, his own sorcerer would be acceptable, no more threat to his power than to his life—and the false king was shrewd enough to have guards watching the sorcerer at all times.
Well, there was one wizard left free in the kingdom at the moment, even if it was only because he'd had the bad sense to turn himself into a frog—two, counting Monahere.
If he could count Monahere. His blood ran cold at the thought. Had the Shadow found Monahere? Had his colleague been able to banish it? Or had it not yet come?
Suddenly, it was even more urgent to reach his friend's cottage.
* * *
"The peasants who would die in the fighting, the fields that would be devastated, the livestock that would be killed!" Sir Harry looked up at Jane, shaking his head. "Surely the king would not provoke war. So much misery would rise!"
"There'll be misery enough for you when I peel this bandage off. Ready?"
Sir Harry caught his breath and nodded.
Jane tore the bandage of in one quick snap. It hurt, of course, but nowhere nearly so much as the wound itself had. Harry let his breath out.
Jane's eye gleamed as she traced the line of his shoulder; craning his neck to see, Sir Harry thought the cut had become only a dent in the smooth bulge of muscle. Whatever Jane was seeing seemed to please her, though; she caught her lip between her teeth and nodded. "It mends well enough. Another compress will do you good, though."
"Not as much good as learning that I misheard my king," Sir Harry said. "Surely he cannot really have spoken the words I thought I heard! Surely King Viburnum would not seek war with Azure!"
"I can't see why not," Jane said. "You don't think the lords care a bit for us poor folk, do you? We're toys to them, nothing more."
"Certainly not! A king's greatest concern is the welfare of his subjects!"
"The ones he recognizes as human, yes," Jane said, "which means other noblemen. Maybe knights, though he'll throw away your life too, as easily as a mason tosses a flawed stone."
"The young king..."
"Shhh!" Jane laid a finger on his lips, glancing to either side to see if any of the other patients or healers were close enough to hear. In a low voice, she said, "Speak not of him."
"Why? Is it bad luck?"
"It could be, for him—and those who talk of him." She gazed down at Sir Harry, head cocked to the side. "It's what you say that gets you into trouble, not what you don't—though I'll own, I'm glad of what you haven't said."
Sir Harry stared up at her, rejoicing in the sight, and asked, "What haven't I said that I should have?"
"What you shouldn't have," Jane corrected. "You haven't said that a war would also give a young man newly knighted a chance to earn glory, ransoms, even perhaps royal favor..."
"Certainly not!" Harry said, shocked. "How could I think of such a thing, when war brings misery and slays the innocent? How could I think such a thing, let alone say it?"
"I know." Jane tied the new bandage, nodding. "That's what I like about you." She caressed the bulk of his shoulder. "Well, one of the things I like, anyway."
There wasn't room in Sir Harry's mind to think of anything but Jane for the rest of the day, nor the night—but as he broke his fast the next morning with day-old bread, he remembered his misgivings about the king, remembered Jane's point about war being an opportunity for a young knight seeking reputation, and resolved that he must not let himself forget the misery it caused the poor—though it would be very easy to do, in the excitement of marching off to war and the hot blood of battle. Could that be why King Viburnum had chosen so young and inexperienced a knight as himself for a bodyguard? Or why he could think of courting war with Azure, ignoring the suffering it would cause?
* * *
As the sun climbed toward the zenith, Aelwyn said, "Friend Frog, I confess to a certain hollowness in my midsection."
"Hungry Hungry," Cadavan agreed. He glanced up at Ned, who pressed a hand against his belly and nodded.
"We shall have to seek some berries or tubers, unless a rabbit is kind enough to offer itself." Aelwyn took a sling from his pouch and unwound the thongs from the center patch of leather.
A fly buzzed past Cadavan's nose; without thinking, he snapped his tongue out and reeled the fly in. As it went down his throat, he had time for a moment's revulsion—but to his frog's tongue, it tasted delicious.
Aelwyn laughed. "Easy enough for you—but people aren't quite so easily fed."
They turned a bend in the road and the trees opened out to show them the single street of a village.
"Ah! An audience—and, presumably, a dinner." Aelwyn smiled, taking his lute from his shoulder—then paused and frowned. "Am I come too late?"
Clear on the breeze came the ripple of another lute and the chanting of a high, clear voice.
"I've traveled all over this country,
Bearing its news far and near,
But never have heard such deception
As the people of Azure work here!"
Aelwyn frowned. "How is this? I've never heard ill of the folk across the border. What can he be singing?"
"Nonsense Nonsense." Cadavan was uneasy—he saw the dark mist that seemed to be rising from the foundations of the cottages. Did Aelwyn?
Ned did. He hung back, ready to run.
"Well, let's swell his audience by two, shall we?" Aelwyn took out his lute, then crouched, spreading the empty bag wide for Cadavan. The wizard held back a moment, acutely aware how defenseless he would be inside—but Aelwyn had saved his life once already and hadn't tried to have him for dinner, so he hopped in.
That caused Ned a bit of a problem. He wanted to stay near Cadavan, but he also wanted to be ready to run. Besides, he didn't quite trust the minstrel yet, though Cadavan seemed to count him a friend—and there were far more strangers around him. He stepped closer to Aelwyn.
Inside the backpack, Cadavan reflected that he would be in worse peril from the feet of a crowd. Of course, it wasn't much, as crowds go. There were scarcely a dozen cottages in the hamlet, and everybody seemed to be in the square, listening to the minstrel. Aelwyn bobbed and weaved and managed to find a clear view from the back of the knot of people, his backpack slung to the side so that Cadavan could peek out from the flap. What the frog saw made him uneasy. The dark mist was ankle-high, and rising as the other minstrel sang.
"They'll sneak ‘cross our borders at midnight,
To plunder our households with zest,
Then hide till the darkness comes stealing
And leave you not one good eve's rest."
"What rot!" Aelwyn said.
"They'll bring us the worst of their trinkets
To trade for our gold in our marts,
Then run back to their hovels in Azure
Before their gimcracks fall apart."
"Arrant nonsense!" Aelwyn cried. "The folk of Azure I've seen who come to trade bring only grain and vegetables, with that delicious orange fruit that doesn't grow here."
Angry shouts erupted as the crowd turned on the newcomer, shouts that died as they saw the lute in his hands.
"Why would they try to sell us toys they've made, when we can make better ones ourselves?" Aelwyn demanded.
"I had this word from one of the king's poets," the minstrel shouted. "Do you call him a liar?"
"The king? Or his poet?" Aelwyn started toward the minstrel, and a lane opened magically through the crowd as the people considered a minstrel-duel with delight. "I've known a few poets in my time, yodeler, and they speak truth in their way, but they often fudge the facts a bit to make them fit the rhyme and meter."
The minstrel saw the lute and scowled. "Here, now! This is my audience!"
"And your dinner?" Aelwyn stepped up beside him and struck a chord. "Finish your song, Chanticleer. Then I'll sing mine, and we'll let the crowd judge whose they like best."
"Chanticleer?" The minstrel turned red. "Do you say I have a rooster's voice? You, who likely learned your singing from a crow?"
"No, actually, from a nightingale." Grinning, Aelwyn sat on the curb of the village well. "But go ahead and finish your song—don't mind me."
"Be sure, I won't!" The minstrel turned back to the audience and sang,
"Pay heed when they speak hate against you,
Ignore all their envious lies!
You can trust in the worst human nature,
But you can't trust Azurean spies!"
"My turn." Aelwyn struck another chord and began,
"Peasants have no need for borders –
They marry wherever they love –
If Azurean lads fall for our girls,
They'll court by the bright stars above."
"This close to the stream that divides us,
Azurean cousins and aunts
All attend Ustared's weddings
To bless the young couples and dance."
A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd; Cadavan knew Aelwyn had guessed right. Azureans weren't the enemy here—they were relatives.
The king's minstrel reddened and struck a jangling sound from his instrument.
"Azureans all envy Ustared,
Our well-watered fields and our wealth,
They all wish to take our farms from us
By war if they can't win by stealth."
Aelwyn laughed aloud and returned,
"I've visited farms throughout Azure
And found their folk happy and glad.
Content with their own lands and living.
They never did want what we had."
"Are you saying the king is a liar?" the other minstrel shouted.
"The king's not a peasant," Aelwyn returned. "I doubt he's ever worked a full day in the field. Whatever his quarrel with the King of Azure, it's nothing to do with us."
The village erupted into furious talk, and the rival minstrel stalked over to Aelwyn, his face dark with anger. "You had better flee while you can, traitor! Be sure I'll tell the soldiers about you!"
"Do," Aelwyn said. "They enjoy a good song, too, and I understand they're glad to spare a penny for a minstrel."
The rival turned fairly purple with rage. "I shall tell the king's reeve of your perfidy!" He whirled and went storming away; the crowd parted for him, then closed again, faces turned expectantly toward Aelwyn. "Have you really been in Azure, minstrel?"
"Many times," Aelwyn assured them. "They're generous folk, always have a spare loaf for a minstrel and a place by the fire."
"But their lords! Their king!"
"Haven't met them myself," Aelwyn said, "but I did visit Villeroi on a holiday and saw their king and queen pass by in a procession. They looked like kindly folk, plump and content."
"Why would King Viburnum lie to us?"
"Who says he did?" Aelwyn countered. "I'll tell you from my own work that a tale alters as it goes from one minstrel to another; none of us can resist making a few changes—so if a troubadour hears the king sneeze and another minstrel hears him sing of it, by the time a third or fourth brings it to you, the story will be that the king nearly died of pneumonia."
The people laughed, and one of them said, "So if this minstrel tells us the Azureans want to steal all we have... ?"
"It means one boy from Azure crossed a border he didn't even know was there and ran off with a neighbor's chicken—or something just as small." Aelwyn struck a chord. "But enough of Azure. What of the harvest?" He began to sing,
"The wind blows high,
The wind blows low,
Until it brings us
Rain or snow..."
The people cheered the old song and began to dance—and Cadavan noticed that the dark mist sank slowly back toward the ground.
Aelwyn sang away the afternoon with frequent sips of beer and finally pleaded hoarseness. When he turned away to the ramshackle inn, his pouch was considerably heavier than it had been in the morning.
He sat on the bench by the door and patted the wood beside him. Ned took the invitation and sat, but set the minstrel's backpack between.
"Ah, yes! We mustn't forget our friend." Aelwyn loosened the ties and let Cadavan out, then put his lute in. "Hope you had a good snooze through the afternoon, my lad."
"Warm Warm," Cadavan said, and hopped under the bench to a puddle.
The man and the boy watched him taking a bath, saw the fly that buzzed past his nose and buzzed no further. "Good thought, Fellow Frog," said Aelwyn. "I could use some dinner too—food and a place for the night." He rose and started for the door—but found Cadavan squatting on the sill, croaking, "Not here Not here."
"Something wrong with this inn, old fellow?" Aelwyn smiled as he shook his head. "Can't be that bad. Doesn't look like much, I know, but the smells of the food they're cooking are delightful."
"To go To go," Cadavan croaked.
"And their fire will be warm." Aelwyn stepped around the frog. "The outside may not look like much, but..."
Cadavan hopped to block his path again. "Camp out Camp out."
"I do wish you could speak like a man," Aelwyn said, exasperated. "Ned, can you make sense of his croaking?"
"I don’t think he can say more than a few words at a time," Ned said slowly.
"True—frogs only croak once or twice, then rest a bit," Aelwyn said. "Pity—I'm sure he has good reasons, if only he could tell me what they are."
"Real good Real good," Cadavan confirmed.
"He says he has very good reasons," Ned translated.
"Well, I'll have to trust him." Aelwyn shouldered his lute and turned away. "I've seen animals know the wise course often enough not to doubt them—running away from a fire before I could even smell it, growling and prowling the day before an earthquake struck—so I'll take his advice on this one, old... Ho! Hold on, there! Why such a rush?" He actually had to jog to catch up with Cadavan; a two-foot frog could make very long leaps, when he chose to.
The innkeeper came out and saw the minstrel leap after the frog and the boy start after them. "Ho, minstrel!" he called, but Aelwyn seemed not to have heard him. The innkeeper took two long steps and caught Ned by the shoulder. "Hold, lad! Why is your friend running away?"
"Because our..." Ned realized how strange it would sound, trying to explain that a frog had warned them away. "He hates sleeping indoors," he finished, feeling foolish.
The innkeeper shook his head. "Folk can be so odd, can they not? Well, wait right there—the least we can do is see he has a good supper."
Aelwyn caught up with Cadavan. "Hold on a minute, can't you? Give the boy a chance to stay with us."
"Wait for it Wait for it." Cadavan turned to hop back, chagrined—but there came Edmund, trotting up to them with his arms full. "The innkeeper's hurt... that you wouldn't... stay in his inn..." he panted, "but he... sent you this."
Aelwyn hefted the sack the boy brought, gave a low whistle of admiration, and loosed the drawstring to look inside. "Two loaves! Half a cheese! And I daresay that's a whole roast chicken! They've done us proud, friends."
"Good chow," Cadavan agreed. "Good chow."
"I won't feel so badly about sleeping under the stars now," Aelwyn said. "At least I'll have a full belly."
Ned had never camped out before and was amazed how easily Aelwyn made preparations. "We follow the sound of running water," Aelwyn told him, "for it's always best to camp by a stream if you can."
"Need it Need it," Cadavan croaked.
"I suppose that's even more important when one of us is a frog," Ned ventured.
"Yes, I don't think Cadavan would fare well without it," Aelwyn said, "though I do have a leather bottle of water at my belt, and if worst came to worst, I could fashion some sort of a bowl for it, where he could sit all night."
Cadavan shuddered, and Edmund said quickly, "I think he's glad of the stream."
"So am I, to tell you the truth." Aelwyn handed Ned a small kettle. "Fill that, will you? There's a good lad."
Ned hauled the kettle—if you could call it that; it wasn't much larger than his fists. When he brought it back, Aelwyn had made a ring of stones and was kindling a fire in their center. "We don't want the flames to stray and burn us," he explained to Ned, "so we make a ring to hold them. Now let's see what the innkeeper sent."
They feasted on bread and chicken, with more bread to go with the cheese for the next day. When they were done, Aelwyn told Ned, "We should bury our garbage." When he went to pick up the chicken, though, Cadavan said, "Leave it Leave it."
"Mustn't, old fellow." Aelwyn frowned. "It will draw vermin."
"'At’s right," Cadavan said. "'At’s right."
A fly buzzed down for a landing on the chicken bones, and Cadavan's tongue flicked out. More of them came, and Ned laughed with delight. "Clever old frog!"
Cadavan hoped that, if Monahere turned him back into a man, Ned wouldn't remember this evening.
When Cadavan was full and the bones were buried, Aelwyn sat by his fire-ring of stones, plucking at his lute and watching the flames. The day's heat was beginning to fade into the night's chill, and the fire's warmth was welcome.
"Have a choice for a song, old fellow?" Aelwyn asked.
Cadavan snapped up a fly and answered, "Juggerum. Jug o' rum."
"I don't know that one," Aelwyn said, "but if you'll hum..." He broke off, staring past Cadavan.
The frog turned and looked behind him. There it sat, cradled between the roots of an oak, the same keg that he had enchanted so that it would never be far from him and would always have what he needed.
Aelwyn laid aside his lute and went over to the keg. He thumped it as though afraid it would disappear, then laughed and pulled out his tankard. "Wonder what it is tonight?" He held the tankard under the spigot and turned it. Ruby fluid gushed into the cup. Aelwyn turned off the flow, withdrew the tankard, and let a little splash onto the ground, where it pooled against another root.
"Br-r-r-ankoo!" Cadavan hopped over and slurped up the fluid.
Aelwyn took a sip. "Wine, and a very good year!" He turned to Ned. "How about that mouthful Cadavan promised you?"
"No, thank you." Ned shook his head. "I think I'll wait." Privately, he thought that waiting ten years would be good—or perhaps the rest of his life. A king should never feel as foolish as Aelwyn and Cadavan had the night before.
Aelwyn took a sip, then noticed Cadavan staring forlornly at the dampened earth and laughed. "Can't have that, can we, old fellow?" He reached over, turned the spigot, gave the frog three splashes, then turned it off. Cadavan lapped it up eagerly.
"Problem, I think." Aelwyn looked about and found a slab of fallen wood. He took out his knife, whetted it on a stone, and began to whittle, humming as he did. Surprisingly quickly, he had carved a little bowl. He set it under the spigot, turned the handle on and off, and Cadavan had a drink that wouldn't seep into the ground. "Br-r-r-r-ankoo!" he croaked, and waddled over to have another sip.
"You're welcome." Aelwyn began to pluck at the strings, humming again. His voice lulled Cadavan, and the drink warmed his belly nicely. He sat in the shadows, eyes closing, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of roast beef and pudding.
Suddenly, he woke; something had changed. Wondering what, he swiveled his eyes, taking in the whole of the darkened woods. There were some advantages to his frog-form, at least—he had much better night-sight and could see a very wide range, both of which showed him the minstrel rolled up in his blanket by the fire with the boy on the other side of the flames. Cadavan felt a little guilty at depriving them of a place in the inn, but not terribly—didn't Aelwyn know what his rival minstrel had meant when he'd said he was going to tell the soldiers? So Cadavan sat and watched with great shining eyes and snatched the occasional night-flyer out of the air when it came too near.
An hour later, a noise brought Cadavan to full alert. There it came again, from the frog's right—a crunching, but slow, as though whoever walked in the night was trying to sneak up on the sleepers. Then a twig snapped off to his left, and someone stumbled crashing through brush straight ahead.
"Shhh! Be quiet, can't you?" a bass voice hissed from the left.
"You'll warn the minstrel!" another hissed from the right.
"If we can find him," the one in the center grumbled. "After all, we have to find him if we're going to kill him, don't we?"
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