The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (12 page)

Anghos
said, “Take some time. Think, or don’t, as your conscience dictates. I have
my son; I am no longer in any hurry.”

“Thank you,”
Fidgen said. He felt an urge to become a raven and leave Innishmor. “Would
you mind if I left for a week or so? I will return.”

“I have no
doubt of that,” Anghos said. “Take whatever time you need. We’ve burdened you
with the whole of our people, and I’m sure you need a bit to digest it all.”

“Thank you,”
Fidgen said.

He walked
outside, blinking against the weak winter sunlight. The snow only remained in
the corners of the walls, although stray flakes swirled about the courtyard.
He blinked, and saw the courtyard filled with warriors girding themselves with
weapons and shields, and heard their curses against CuChulainn. Another blink,
and the crowd was no longer angry, but proud, looking at Anghos as he presented
the baby in his arms as their new prince, Conall. Fidgen shook his head to
clear the visions, and launched himself into the air. As a raven, he could
still feel the weight of the memories he had been entrusted with, so he spread
his wings and let the wind blow him to the mainland.

He did not
become human, but instead flew from caer to caer, listening and watching. He
was satisfied to hear all of his stories being spread, and even though the
satire was the most talked about, the Firbolg stories struck a chord with the
people. He heard bards telling it in great halls and in small duns, and every
time the people would nod their heads, and murmur about the loss of such a
strong people. And he began to feel the desire to spread the rest of the
stories he had learned, but he also knew who the first audience should be.

He flew
back to Innishmor, battling a rainy headwind that left him exhausted when he
landed. He shook himself off, shifted to human form, and shivered. No ghost
appeared in the courtyard. The entire fortress felt empty and lifeless, and he
wondered if the Firbolg had already disappeared.

He walked
into the hall and stopped; it felt as warm and real as though all were alive,
and the Firbolg packed the hall. Nobody noticed him at first, but as he began
making his way to the high table, the ghosts that saw him would stop and bow
low. The effect rippled through the hall, and by the time he stepped up onto
the dais, every ghost was honoring him. Anghos and Conall, smiling warmly,
were the last, bowing as though Fidgen were a king. He felt unnerved by it
all, and just took his customary stool. No one raised their head until he
began tuning his harp, at which point they all stood and stared expectantly.

Anghos
said, “Welcome, Fidgen. What will you play for us today?”

“Today,”
Fidgen said, “I want to give you back all the stories you have given me.”

“Like
Taliesin did?”

“Yes.”
Fidgen looked around. “I think that I will start with you and your family,
sire.”

“We would
be honored.”

Fidgen set
his fingers on the strings and brought forth a chord that brimmed with magic. “I
give to you the stories of the Firbolg, beginning with the life of Anghos,
their last king.”

He began
singing, and felt the magic swirling about him. He did not control it so much
as he let the ghosts draw it from him. He first sang about Anghos, with all of
his triumphs and his tragedies. And as he sang, the king began to fade from
his sight, but instead of disappearing into nothingness, he felt the king
becoming a part of him.

Fidgen
finished his song, and Conall said, “He is finally at peace. Thank you.”

“You are
very welcome,” Fidgen said. “Are you ready for your song now?”

“I am,”
Conall said.

“Then I
give to you the life of Conall macAnghos, prince of the Firbolg.”

It took him
three months of playing, stopping only when his body demanded food and rest.
He began to feel like a ghost himself, as caught up with the Firbolg as he
was. Only his training and his experience kept him whole, able to pull himself
back to reality often enough that he did not follow the Firbolg into their
final rest.

Finally
only Elpys remained. “The first to see me arrive, and the last to see me go,”
Fidgen said. “It seems fitting.”

“It is an
honor beyond anything I ever dreamed would happen to me,” Elpys said. “And, I
got to hear every other story you told. That was amazing.”

“I’m glad
that you enjoyed it,” Fidgen said. “So now, I give to you the life of Elpys,
warrior of the Firbolg.”

He began
playing and singing, and Elpys’ smile could be seen clearly through his thick
beard. It was the last thing to fade from sight, and the hall became dark,
cold, and silent.

Fidgen flew from Innishmor
to the mainland, where he shifted back to human form and started the long walk
to Caer Carrick. The weather had turned to spring, with warmer days and many
showers, but he didn’t mind. He spent the first night in a Caer Carrib, where
he shared the story of how the Firbolg haunted the area until Taliesin made the
Compact. The laird rewarded him with a horse to ease his journey, but it did
not speed his progress too much, since he stopped at every caer or dun that he
encountered to spread the tales he had learned.

The word of
his coming sped well ahead of him. When he reached Caer Carrick just after
Beltane, the guards looked at his cloak and stopped him. “Are you the student
bard called Fidgen?” asked a gruff older guard.

“I am,” he
said.

The guards
took a step back and conferred among themselves. Finally a younger guard,
barely older than Fidgen himself, stepped forward. “We’ve been instructed to
take your harp and escort you to the Pen Bardd,” he said. He looked both
embarrassed and somewhat fearful, as though expecting a fight.

But Fidgen
just took off his harp case and handed it over, saying, “Please try not to
damage her.”

“Of course
not!” the guard said. “I’ll guard it--her--like my own, uh, daughter.”

“Thank you,”
Fidgen said.

“I am Unnan
macCruinn,” the guard said. “I will be escorting you to the great hall, where
the Pen Bardd waits.” He turned and gave a signal that Fidgen took to mean no
resistance. One of the kerns began sprinting towards the keep, and the rest
looked relieved to not be involved at all. Looking back at Fidgen, Unnan said,
“If you would come with me?”

“Of course,”
Fidgen said. They headed towards the keep, and people along the way stopped
and pointed at them. Fidgen didn’t need to hear the winds to guess what they
were saying.

Unnan’s
attitude concerned him more; the guard became increasingly nervous as they
walked, talking rapidly about the weather, his family, and the various
buildings that they passed. Fidgen finally stopped him and said, “I do not
know what you have heard, but I am not a danger to you or this caer.”

“No one
thinks that!” Unnan protested, but he touched the harp case reassuringly. “I,
ah, I remember you from when you were here last.”

“That seems
like forever ago to me,” Fidgen said.

“It’s only
been a year since you left,” Unnan said.

“What do
you remember?”

Unnan
blushed. “Your fights with Ollave Kyle. Everyone knew that he took great
satisfaction in punishing you with menial jobs. And now, they are saying that “The
Martin and the Raven” is about the two of you.”

“That’s
true, it is,” Fidgen said.

“But there
are many other stories about you, and what you’ve done while learning to be a
bard...”

Fidgen
sighed. “I’m just a man, Unnan. I just want to live my life and become a full
bard, nothing more.”

Unnan
bobbed his head. “Of course. It’s just... I’m very honored to have met you.”

It took
Fidgen aback. “But it looked like no one wanted to be the one to escort me.”

“You are a
powerful person, who has been known to exact swift punishment on those that do
wrong,” Unnan said. “We respect you, we honor you, but we fear you, too.”

“I’m sorry,”
Fidgen said. “That was not my intent.”

“No, no!”
Unnan protested. “It’s not a bad thing! We may fear you for what you could
do, but we admire you for what you have done.”

“Thank you,”
he managed to say.

“Think
nothing of it,” Unnan said, continuing to walk.

But Fidgen
thought about it, and wondered.

If Unnan
was honored, then Columb macCol had a certain guarded disdain. He took the
harp from Unnan and dismissed the guard with a curt thank you. Then he looked
around at the number of people in the hall, and said, “Follow me.”

He led
Fidgen out the back of the hall and down a long corridor to a staircase that
spiraled up into a tower. They were near the top when Columb stopped at a
plain door that opened into a small room that had a bed, a rug on the floor,
and a table with two chairs next to a small window. The furnishings were all
sturdy and workable, and Fidgen had not missed that the door barred on the
outside.

Columb sat
in one of the chairs and indicated the other for Fidgen. They sat in silence
until a servant brought bread, cheese, and wine. Columb poured them each a
glass and took his without drinking it. Fidgen knew he should feel nervous,
but he was more bemused than anything

Columb
sighed. “You are forcing me into choices I would not make were it up to me.”

“How so,
master?” Fidgen asked.

“Because if
you were a normal student, you would have been punished or banished from our
ranks,” Columb replied. “I am barred from either. Your reputation demands
that I let you battle Kyle in the bardic manner.”

“I don’t
see what that has to do with anything,” Fidgen said. “My reputation should not
alter your options.”

“But it
does,” Columb said. “If it were known that I punished you for the grave
offense of satirizing an Ollave, the people would rise up against us and demand
that you be given a chance to defend yourself, because you are not some obscure
student. You are Fidgen, who has fought lairds, talked to gods, and soothed
ghosts.”

“I didn’t
seek those things out,” Fidgen said.

“No you
didn’t,” Columb said. “But that mollifies me but a little. Prepare yourself.
Tomorrow we leave for Caer Bardd in the fifth of Faerth, where you will face
the judgment of as many bards as we can gather. And since I sent the word out
when I returned from Innishmor, I expect that to be quite a few.”

The Pen
Bardd did not lock the door when he left, and he did not return in the morning.
Instead, it was Ollave Aodhgán, who still looked like he had just rolled out of
bed. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” he said with a wide grin.

Fidgen
shrugged. “I never know what to expect anymore.”

“I can well
imagine,” Aodhgán said. “The stories about you...”

“There are
a few, aren’t there?”

“More than
a few. And if you count your time before you joined the bardic order, it grows
even more amazing,” Aodhgán said. “Are you ready to go?”

“I suppose
so,” Fidgen said. “Do you have my harp?”

Aodhgán
patted the case on his back. “This is yours. Mine is on my horse, waiting for
me.”

“When do I
get it back?”

“When we
get into Faerth,” Aodhgán said. “I’d like to give it to you before then, but
the Pen Bardd had very specific instructions.”

Fidgen
sighed. “He would. Can we go now?”

“Absolutely,”
Aodhgán said. He led them down the stairs and through the great hall, where
very few people took notice of them. Two horses waited for them, and they rode
out of the caer. At the gate, Unnan saw them and saluted Fidgen. The other
guards, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same. Fidgen saluted them in
return, and Aodhgán just shook his head.

The journey
to Faerth took ten days, and Fidgen was grateful to spend the time with
Aodhgán. They talked about his experience, both before and after the fall of
Caer Dathyl, and sang many songs as they rode. They avoided people, both on
the road and at night when they stopped. Fidgen knew that Aodhgán was pushing
them to get to Caer Bardd quickly, and that they didn’t have time to tell
stories of the Firbolg constantly, but it still made his heart ache. So he
told them to Aodhgán instead.

As soon as
they crossed the border from Airu to Faerth, Aodhgán stopped, handed Fidgen his
harp, and said, “It is time to begin preparing for your battle with Kyle.”

Fidgen took
the case and opened it, touching the strings. Relief flooded through him
unexpectedly, but all he said was, “What do I need to do?”

“Do you
remember the day we met, and I told you that I couldn’t give you the details of
settling disputes between bards?” Aodhgán asked.

Fidgen
nodded. “You said it wasn’t something you felt comfortable talking about.”

“Well, now
we will speak of it, no matter my comfort or discomfort,” Aodhgán said. “Because
now you are about to enter into bardic battle. It will take us two days to
reach Caer Bardd, and when we do, there will be bards from all over to judge
you and Kyle to determine the truth.”

“What do I
need to do?” Fidgen asked.

“You have
already written the satire that started the process,” Aodhgán said. “Now you
must compose a song that explains why you felt such a step was necessary. And
Kyle will present a song of his own, giving the reason why you wronged him.
And then the audience will offer their opinion, and the Pen Bardd will hand
down the final judgment.”

“What
happens if I lose?” Fidgen said.

“You will
be taken to Gorsedd Ogham and stripped of your power.”

“And if
Kyle loses?”

“No one is
really sure,” Aodhgán said, scratching his ear. “I’ve never heard of an Ollave
losing. But the charge is serious, and the consequence would be equally
serious. Almost certainly he would be stripped of his rank.”

Fidgen
thought about what he had to do. “Who goes first?”

“Why do you
ask?”

“Because
Kyle has had months to prepare for this. I’ve only got two days.”

Aodhgán
nodded. “I can see your concern. Kyle goes first.”

“And am I
allowed to use magic?”

“Of course!”
Aodhgán said. “The whole environ is heavily protected from any kind of harmful
magic, but whatever you can use to make your song better, you should use.”

“Music,
storytelling, magic, and the law,” Fidgen said. “It seems like the natural
culmination of my training.”

“There is
nothing natural about the position you find yourself in,” Aodhgán said. “I
don’t even know what to advise you.”

Fidgen
shrugged. “I have some ideas.”

He said
little else during their journey, but asked for all the stories of bardic
battle Aodhgán knew. The Ollave complied, but the worry lines increased until
the morning of the third day, when he stopped and said, “Over this rise is Caer
Bardd. Are you ready?”

“I don’t
know,” Fidgen said.

Aodhgán
blew out a frustrated breath. “I have not even seen you touch your harp since
I returned it to you, and I have not seen any evidence that you are composing
anything at all.”

“I’m not.”

Aodhgán
gaped. “But you have no time left, and you are about to face an accomplished Ollave!
Are you a fool?”

“Maybe,”
Fidgen said. “But I have no idea what Kyle is even capable of in a situation
like this. How can I prepare for the unknown?”

“You seem
confident nonetheless.”

“I just
spent most of a year composing the history of an entire people,” Fidgen said. “I
think I can come up with something when the time comes.”

Aodhgán
shook his head. “There is no helping it,” he said. “We must continue.”

They rode
over the rise, and Aodhgán gestured. “Welcome to Caer Bardd, seat of the bards
of Glencairck.”

Where most
caers sat on a hilltop or some other defensible area, Caer Bardd had been built
in a natural bowl, with all the roads sloping down not to a keep, but an
amphitheater. A great hall stood on one side, but everything else seemed
unfamiliar and unnatural to Fidgen’s eyes.

The gate
had no guards, only two bards who played their harps softly while they watched
those that passed. Aodhgán passed them easily, but Fidgen felt like he had hit
a wall. He looked at the bards, who nodded grimly at him, then adjusted their
song to let him pass.

Walking
down towards the amphitheater, he saw very few people that weren’t either bards
or student bards. Music filled the air from all sides, sometimes competing
discordantly, but more often combining into wild harmonies. He didn’t
recognize anyone, but people stopped and pointed at him as he passed, and
before long, he heard songs about himself being sung.

The crowds
got thicker towards the amphitheater, but Aodhgán turned before they got
stalled and led him into a nondescript building. Three bards stood guard
inside, and they nodded to the Ollave, who nodded back. They went through five
doors, down a long flight of steps, and through a torch lit tunnel.

At the
heavy door blocking the end, Aodhgán stopped and turned to Fidgen. “You are
about to enter the Star of the Bards,” he said. “You will face Ollave Kyle
MacMairtin in bardic battle to determine if you were wrong in your satire of
him. Are you ready?”

Fidgen
shrugged. “I suppose.”

Aodhgán
shook his head in amazement, and knocked three times on the door. It opened,
and they walked onto the stage. Fidgen felt his stomach flip to see the
audience, which were more people than he had ever seen together. He looked for
individual faces, but could only see the crowd. He looked away, to the Pen
Bardd who stood in the middle of the stage, waiting.