The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (13 page)

A matching
door opened on the opposite side of the stage, and he saw Kyle emerge. The Ollave
looked smug and assured, but as he approached the Pen Bardd, who stood in the
middle of the stage, Fidgen did not miss the look of pure hatred aimed at
himself. The nervousness in Fidgen’s stomach turned to cold anger, and he
strode forward confidently.

Columb macCol
held a staff that he thumped on the wooden stage. The booming quieted the
crowd in a moment, and he nodded approvingly. “We are met today to witness and
judge a bardic battle,” he said. “Student Bard Fidgen has written a satire
against Ollave Kyle MacMairtin. First, we shall hear the satire.”

A bard that
Fidgen didn’t know stepped forward and began to play. He did a good job of the
satire, but lacked a passion and mischievousness that Fidgen knew he would have
brought to the song, and wondered if he was chosen for that reason. Fidgen
looked to see the audience reaction, and saw angry muttering in both
directions, but mostly against Kyle.

Columb
pounded his staff on stage again. “We have heard the complaint,” he said. “Each
side will now make their case, in the bardic manner, with harp and song.
Ollave Kyle, you may go first.”

Kyle strode
to the center of the stage and took the stool. He set his fingers to his harp,
and brought forth a beautiful chord that pulsed with power. He let the music
do the talking at first, using the bardic magic to remind everyone present of
the power and prestige of an Ollave. When he began singing, his rich voice
made the eloquent argument that he had no idea that the Firbolg would try to
doom a bard; he merely saw it as a way to teach one of his most promising
students. His voice dipped lower, singing of his sorrow at discovering the
Firbolg’s reaction to Fidgen’s presence, but even more, his disappointment in
such a promising student.

As he sang,
the air pulsed with power, mostly in amplification of the music and adding
layers that reinforced the idea that Kyle deserved the position and prestige of
his rank. Most of the audience was nodding by the time he finished, and they
applauded enthusiastically. Kyle stood and bowed graciously, then strode
confidently back to his side of the stage. He turned around to watch with a
smug smile.

Fidgen
walked out to the stool and sat, putting his fingers on the strings. He looked
out at the audience, now slightly hostile to him, and his mind raced. He
closed his eyes, bowed his head, and thought about how to counter Kyle’s lies.
It came to him in a flash: the one song of the Firbolg he had yet to sing.

He began
with a series of chords that called up the wind of Innishmor and sent it out to
stir the hair and cloaks of the audience. He used magic to share to loneliness
and isolation or the ghosts, and the last bard to play for them under the terms
of the Compact.

He told it
from Anghos’ point of view, first meeting Ollave Kyle, and then the few years
that Kyle played for them at Samhain. The hunger of the ghosts gnawed at the
belly, and made them restless. And then a student bard arrived, unexpectedly,
and Anghos thought that Kyle had found a way to calm them in between his annual
visits. Fidgen intended to sing his story then, but he was so caught up in the
music and the magic that Anghos himself appeared, towering thirty feet tall
over the stage.

The last
king of the Firbolg looked at the gathering of bards before him with a hard
stare. “Taliesin himself made the Compact with my people,” he said in a voice
that shook the ground. “Only one of the men you have heard today would have
been accepted by that wise one as a true bard. And it is not the one with six
colors in his cloak. Fidgen has fulfilled the promise of the Compact, and
proven himself to my people. Kyle never did.”

Anghos
shrank to his natural size, and bowed deeply to Fidgen. Fidgen ended his song
and stood and bowed in return. Just before he disappeared, Fidgen saw the king
wink. Then he was gone, and the audience erupted, all talking at once.

Columb
pounded the stage until the talking died down. “We have now heard the songs each
of the combatants have offered. Who votes for Ollave Kyle?” Almost half the
hands went up. Columb said, “And for student bard Fidgen?” The rest of the
hands went up, and the audience began arguing amongst themselves again.

Columb
waited until it quieted down. “The audience is too evenly divided, so I call
upon the twenty four Ollam of Glencairck to vote.”

The front
row stood and bowed. “For Kyle?” Columb said, and eleven hands went up. “And
for Fidgen?” Twelve hands went up.

Columb
nodded. “Fidgen it is--”

“You did
not count my vote,” Kyle said.

“That’s
because you are one of the ones on trial,” Columb said.

“But I have
not lost my rights as an Ollave,” Kyle said.

Columb
sighed. “How vote you?”

“For
myself, of course.”

“Of course.”
Columb turned back to the crowd. “Our order is deadlocked, leaving me to
decide the issue.”

He began
pacing back and forth across the stage. ”The bards before us have shown
themselves evenly matched in music and magic. Each tells a story well, and each
has followed the law in this battle. So I must look somewhere else for the
truth.

“I have
talked to everyone in Caer Carrick about how Kyle and Fidgen acted towards one
another, and all agree that no love was lost between them. Only one song
mentioned that fact.

“So I
enquired as to the character of each. Both have their faults, but both are
well accomplished as well. And only one song boasted at all.

“And
finally, the one question still remained: who spoke truth?

He walked
over to Fidgen. “You are proud and impulsive. You have shown a quick temper
and strong passion. I do not know how you will fare as a bard. “

He turned
and walked over the Kyle who looked smug. “Ollave Kyle, your years as an Ollave
have been taken into account. And found deeply lacking. “

Kyle went
from smug to ashen in a heartbeat. “Fidgen accused you of intent to harm,”
Columb continued. “And your response was to claim incompetence. That
perception was only reinforced by the Firbolg king. You have failed to live up
to the standards of your position, and are hereby found guilty of the charge
against you.”

Kyle said, “But
that’s not what happened--”

“Are you
claiming you sent Fidgen to the Firbolg in order to kill him? Because if
that’s the case, the sentence will be to take you Taris in chains and ask the
Ard Righ to execute you.”

Kyle hung
his head. “I accept your punishment.”

“Good.”
Columb unclasped his cloak and took it off. “Kyle macMairtin,” he said,
holding the Tuigin in front of him. “You are hereby removed from our order.”
He shook the cloak between himself and Kyle, and instead of rustling feathers,
Fidgen heard chimes.

Columb
swung the Tuigin back onto his shoulders, and Kyle looked around in amazement.
“Where am I?” he said. “Why are there so many people looking at me?”

“Do you know
your name?” the Pen Bardd asked.

“Yes,
it’s--” Kyle stopped, his forehead wrinkling. “Well, it was on the tip of my
tongue, but I can’t seem to recall it.”

“Your name
is Kyle,” Columb said. “Something has happened to make you forget everything,
but we are here to help.” He gestured to a couple of nearby bards. “These men
will help you in the next little bit, while you figure out your place in the
world.”

“Thank you,”
Kyle said. “I appreciate it greatly.”

“You are
quite welcome.” Columb waited until Kyle had been led away, then turned back
to the audience. Striking the stage three times with his staff, he said, “Our
meeting is now concluded. Please resume your duties, and serve Glencairck to
the best of your abilities.”

As the amphitheater
began to empty, Columb turned to Aodhgán. “Take young Fidgen here to Gorsedd
Ogham,” he said. “After he has received whatever instruction or inspiration he
can, bring him to meet me in Taris.”

“Yes, Pen
Bardd,” Aodhgán said with a bow.

As they
turned to leave, Columb placed a hand on Fidgen’s shoulder. “You have much to
prove to me before I will trust you as a bard. But there is space for you do
that.”

Fidgen
bowed low. “It is all I can ask for, master.”

As they
left Caer Bardd, Fidgen received many congratulations, and just as many cold
stares. Aodhgán said nothing until they were well beyond the gates and on an
empty stretch of road. After several false starts, he said, “You are unlike
any other bard I have ever known.”

Fidgen
nodded. “I seem to get that a lot.”

“But the
worst part is, I still do not know if that is good or bad,” Aodhgán said. “How
will you affect our order?”

Fidgen
mulled the question over for a bit. “I am not trying to change anything,” he
said. “My background has given me an unusual set of tools to deal with what I
encounter, but I am trying to follow the bardic code, just as I would expect of
any other bard.”

“It’s not
the
how
that bothers me,” Aodhgán said. “It’s
what
you encounter
in the first place. Dishonorable leaders, gods, dead kings, and one of the
worst Ollam in this last generation. Most of us will only never have to deal
will any but the most mundane of these problems, and you have already overcome
them all. What are you being prepared for I wonder?”

“I wish I
knew,” Fidgen said.

They
entered the forest of Uislign later that afternoon, and arrived at Gorsedd
Ogham before noon the next day. They stood outside the stones looking in, and Fidgen
said, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Go in,”
Aodhgán said. “Meditate, pray, play your harp.”

“You’re not
going in with me?”

The Ollave
shook his head. “This is your time, for your inspiration. When you have
received whatever you can, come find me. I will make camp just down the path
there.”

“How long
will it take?” Fidgen asked.

“Can’t say,”
Aodhgán said. “I have seen it take a few hours, and I have heard of it taking
a few days. Most students spend a single night. But given the kind of things
happen to you, I wouldn’t even make a guess. The most important thing you are
seeking is your true name; anything else you receive is a blessing.”

“Thank you,
Ollave Aodhgán,” Fidgen said with a bow.

“Luck to
you,” Aodhgán said. He turned and led their horses back into the trees.

Fidgen took
a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into the circle of stones. He
paused, looking around, wondering what might happen, but all he saw was the
green grass shining in the sun, and the triangle of flat stones at the far
end. A few puffy clouds drifted across the blue sky, and a warm breeze teased
his hair.

He pulled
out his harp, sat in the middle of the circle, and began playing. He could
feel the potential all around him, the sacredness of the place, but still
nothing happened. He fed magic into his music, and the echoes from the stones damped
it out. He tried to fashion a call to Ogmah, and again, the stones seemed to
muffle it.

Fidgen
stopped playing, and began to think. Gorsedd Ogham didn’t want him to play,
and didn’t want him to use magic. He knew that his Cymric magic was not the
answer, so he wasn’t sure what else to do. He laid down on the grass, put his
hands behind his head, and waited.

The sun
dipped towards the horizon, turning the dolmens golden. Fidgen dozed a bit,
and woke with a start to see the stars wheeling by overhead. He blinked a few
times before they returned to their customary stillness, and he felt his heart
beating fast, aware that he was in an altered state. He tried to sit up and
couldn’t, so he relaxed and awaited whatever vision he might have.

The stars dimmed,
and the sun rose, but nothing else happened. Fidgen struggled a bit, trying to
move, and unable to. He thought hard about the possible reasons for his
immobility, and it occurred to him that he needed to be as still as possible
and listen.

The voice,
when he heard finally heard it, was softer than a whisper, but insistent. It
took him awhile before he understood the instructions, and the implications,
and a bit longer to accept it. But when he did, he was released from his
paralysis, and the world returned to normal.

Fidgen
stood up, stretched, and dusted himself off. He bowed in the direction of the
triangle of stones, and said, “I am grateful for all that has been given me.
May I use it with wisdom and courage.”

A warm
breeze ruffled the hem of his cloak, and he turned and left the circle to find
Aodhgán.

As they
rode to Taris, Fidgen asked Aodhgán what to expect when they got there. “You
will be presented to the Ard Righ,” the Ollave said. “If he agrees to accept
your judgment, the Pen Bardd will give you the star and a six colored cloak.”

“Will I be
the only one?”