The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (2 page)

The wind
blew him east. He tried to fight it, but the wind ignored his efforts both
physical and magical. It had a name that Gwydion could not find, but he heard
it laughing at his efforts. He tried to land and find shelter, but updrafts
drove him back into the sky. He tried to shape shift to another form, but the
wind blew him back into a raven every time. He felt his energy wane, and he
blacked out.

He woke up,
lying on the ground in human form. Everything ached; lifting his head made it
worse. He found himself in the middle of a ring of standing stones, half of
which had lintels across the top like doorways. Beyond the stones, he could
see the top of a thick forest, wrapped in thin mist. The sky above was gray
with clouds, but the cold and the quiet made him think it was just before dawn.

He tried to
stand, but only made it to his knees. The ring of stones surrounded an area of
soft grass. At one end, three stones of the same size as the circle lay flat
in a triangle. He saw no one else, and he heard neither birds nor winds. The
silence weighed on him, and he coughed just to make sure he had not gone deaf;
the reflection of the sound from the stones around him crackled with power.

A different
sound began to tickle his ears, but so softly he could barely determine that it
was music. He strained to hear more, and as it grew louder, he could tell it
was harp music, but so sweet and pure that it made his heart ache. He did not
recognize the tune but it too tugged at his soul, and made him feel both humble
and happy. The three flat stones began to glow, and became so bright that
Gwydion covered his eyes. A shadow fell on him, and he looked up at the
harpist.

The man
playing had a bald head, a white beard, and skin like well-tanned leather. His
harp looked like it was made of crystal and gold, with silver strings that he
plucked with long fingers. His blue eyes twinkled, but everything about him
radiated power. “I am Ogmah, god of the bards,” he said.

Gwydion
ducked his head. “Master,” he murmured.

Ogmah
clucked his tongue. “Gwydion ap Don, you’ve rarely known a humble day in your
life. Don’t start now.”

Gwydion
looked up. “You know who I am?”

“It’s one
of the perks of being a god,” Ogmah said with a wink. He set his harp aside,
where it hung in the air and played by itself, and helped Gwydion stand,
brushing him off.

“Are you
here to take my Cymric powers?” Gwydion asked.

“And what
would I do with them?” Ogmah said.

“Help me be
a bard,” Gwydion said.

“I don’t
need them, but they might be helpful to you,” Ogmah said. “I wouldn’t be
giving them away just yet.”

Gwydion
shook his head. “But the Pen Bardd said--”

Ogmah
shushed him. “The Pen Bardd and the High druid are receiving their own counsel
from other powers even as we speak. They went too far in asking you to give up
a part of yourself, but you are to be commended for wanting to try.”

“Then why
am I here? And why are you here?”

“You are
here because every potential bard needs to spend time in Gorsedd Ogham,” Ogmah said.
“The stones here are tuned to bardic magic, and it is a good place for
inspiration and visions. And I am here to instruct you.”

Gwydion
felt a wave of vertigo wash over him, and only Ogmah’s arm around his shoulders
kept him upright. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Generally,
an expression of gratitude would be in order.”

“Thank you,
Master,” Gwydion said. “And forgive my rudeness.”

Ogmah
snorted. “If I minded rudeness, I wouldn’t be the god of the bards. Now,
let’s have a seat and get comfortable. We have much to cover, and not much
time.”

Ogmah
clapped his hands, and two stools appeared, with a low table between. Another
clap produced a tray of honey cakes and a flagon of mead. Ogmah sat and poured
out two cups, handing one to Gwydion. “Eat,” Ogmah said. “It will renew your
energy.”

Gwydion
took one of the cakes, and bit into it. The sweetness was momentarily
overpowering, causing his teeth to ache and his throat to burn. His took a
quick drink to wash it down, and found the mead to be even sweeter, but after a
moment, he felt better than he had in days.

“First of
all,” Ogmah said, “I want you to give up the idea that you are either Cymry or
a bard. You are both, and you aren’t even truly a bard yet. You have already
learned a lot of self-control, and to forge this path, you will need even
more. Power doesn’t care how it’s used, so it’s up to you to be like Cathbar
or like Taliesin.”

“I don’t
want to be like Cathbar,” Gwydion said.

“Neither
did he, at first,” Ogmah said with a sigh. “You would have liked him when he
was your age. By the time Amergin was born, you would have hated him. He
changed that much. But we’re talking about you. So secondly, you need a new
name. Not your true name--that will come later.”

Gwydion
blinked. “I don't know my true name?”

Ogham
smiled. “Don’t be so surprised. Most people don't. Bards, however, need
theirs and need to guard it, because if someone discovered it, they could use
it to gain power over you. And so for the next little while, you shall go by
Fidgen.”

“But when
will I learn my true name?”

Ogham
stroked his beard. “Usually bards learn just before they get the star. But
for you? Well, it seems like the timing of things is a little off. So I’ll
just say soon.”

“And I’m
guessing soon to a god could be a day or a century.”

“We do have
a different sense of time, it’s true,” Ogmah said. “But I don’t think it will
be a century.”

Gwydion
said, “But you’re not sure.”

Ogmah
ignored the jibe and said, “Thirdly, your training will be little different
than normal. Usually, you spend some time in each of the five fifths. But you
need to stay out of Cairnecht for now. “

“Is that
because I was Tanist?” Gwydion said. “Or because of Caer Dathyl?”

“Some of
both, I would say.” Ogmah looked at him and Gwydion felt the same way as he
did when Ruchalia had opened herself to him. His own experience seemed
suddenly trivial and insignificant. But Ogmah said, “I know your guilt, how it
eats at your confidence and your sense of self, and I promise you that there
will be a way to be relieved of it. Be satisfied for now, and do not dwell on
it too much. “

“Do you see
the future then?” Gwydion asked.

“In a way,”
Ogmah said. He blinked, hiding himself again. “There are details that no one
can predict, and you always have your own free will.”

Gwydion
snorted. “You make it sound like I could walk away from all of this.”

“You could,”
Ogmah said. “The universe is very good at nudging you back towards what it
needs, but it will find a replacement if you still refuse. For instance,
Amergin was not the first person who could have overthrown Cathbar; he was just
the first one who did.”

“So I both
have a destiny and a choice about it.,” Gwydion mused.

“You do,
along with every other mortal. No one is immune from this law. Who was Finn
macCuhal?”

Gwydion
said, “One of the greatest warriors of Glencairck, leader of the Fianna in
their golden age.”

“That is
true; but how did he die?”

“Alone and
abandoned, because he betrayed his friend Diarmuid out of jealousy, and let him
die when he could have saved him.”

Ogmah
sighed. “It wasn't supposed to be like that, you know. He was supposed to have
established the Fianna firmly in the land. Instead, it was his grandson Oscar
who completed that task.”

Gwydion did
not know what to say.

“Do you
remember the day Math blessed you to be his heir?” Ogmah said.

“It seems
so long ago, but yes, I remember.”

“He saw
that you, like Finn, have a destiny,” Ogmah said. “He also saw in you all
along the potential for both great good and great evil. Which would you choose?”

“I want to
be good,” Gwydion said softly. “But I'm scared I won't be.”

“So last of
all, you should trust your instincts,” Ogmah said. “The Creator makes no one to
be evil, and if you trust in Him, the guidance you need will find you.”

Ogmah stood
up, and with a clap of his hands, the stools and table disappeared, and Gorsedd
Ogham looked the same as it had when Gwydion had first opened his eyes.

Ogham took
his harp back in his hands. “Luck, my young friend,” he said. “You and I will
meet again, I think.”

“Wait!”
Gwydion said. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Meditate.
Play.” Ogham looked up at the sky. “Columb will be here within a day, I'm
thinking. He'll give you your next task.”

“Can I ask
you one last thing before you go?”

Ogmah
chuckled. “I'm sure you have more than one thing.”

“Yes, but I
don't know who else to ask this.”

“So ask.”

“Why can't
I hear the winds anymore?”

Ogmah shook
his head. “That I cannot answer. It is Cymric magic, and you will have to find
the answer somewhere else. I'm sorry.”

Gwydion
sighed. “It was just a thought.”

“Farewell,
young Fidgen,” Ogmah said. “Be good. Be strong.” He faded from view and a
moment later, the music faded, too.

Fidgen rode slowly
northward, rolling his new name around his tongue. He did not feel like a
different person exactly, but more like he was wearing a costume or a shape
that would allow him to act differently if he chose.

Columb had
arrived just as Ogmah had predicted, and had listened to Gwydion’s tale with a
scowl. He didn’t say much after that, although Fidgen had found out that his
time with Ogmah had lasted almost ten days. With a great sigh of resignation,
the Pen Bardd told him to go to Ollave Fenella in Cantref Kiernally for
training. He gave him a horse and a pouch of coins, and told him to be
careful. He also gave him a cloak of four colors: three broad stripes of
green, white, and brown, with a bright yellow star in the middle. “I know it’s
not very stylish,” Columb said as he fastened the clasp. “But it is the mark
of your station now. All student bards wear one, and it is recognized all over
Glencairck.”

“Thank you,
master,” Gwydion said with a bow.

Columb
sighed and shook his head. “Try to stay out of trouble, would you?”

Fidgen rode
through wide plains of emerald green grass where fat cows munched contentedly.
He thought over all that he had knew about Duvnecht, but most everything he
knew came from stories. The cattle raid of Cooley had started when Queen Maeve
of Airu had invaded the lowlands of Duvnecht to steal a cow, and had ended when
CuChulainn defeated her entire army singlehandedly. It was a fantastic tale
with many feats of heroism and magic, and Fidgen had always wondered how much
of it had been made up. His recent experiences had caused the question to flip
in his mind, and now he wondered if any of it was untrue.

He had
plenty to think about, but every time he tried to focus, he felt like he was
being watched. He saw very few people except for the occasional cowherd, but the
hairs on the back of his neck kept rising.

He cast
about with his Cymric senses, but felt nothing out of the ordinary. On a
hunch, he pulled his harp around, and strummed a simple melody, using bardic
magic to look for anything unusual, and again found nothing. But the longer he
rode, the more uneasy he became.

That night,
as he sat next to his fire, he played a sword dance while he wove a shield
around himself and his camp. He worked mostly by intuition, feeling his way
through the power that he called with his music. He drew the song to a close,
and felt about him, making sure the spell would hold. He still slept fitfully,
waking every hour or so, checking his horse and his shield each time.

When the
sun finally rose, he played his harp again, undoing the magic, cursing his own
paranoia. But as he broke his camp, he saw fresh hoof prints on the other side
of the fire from his horse, and well within the shield he had set up.

He rode
through the day, trying everything he could think of to figure out who or what
was following him. And when the sun set, he used his Cymric magic to both
shield his camp and to lay a trap for the phantom rider. And again, in the
morning, he found recent hoof prints where none should be.

That day,
he felt haunted despite the warm sunshine and blue skies. Birdsong made him
jump, and he strained his eyes and ears looking for something, anything, that
would explain the ghost. The third night he stayed up all night, playing his
harp, weaving magic, and finding nothing.

He spent
the next day nodding off as he rode, trying to stay in the saddle, and worrying
about the spirit dogging him, and what it might want from him. He suddenly
wished that he could ask Bethyl to help him search the library for clues. The
memory of his afternoons with her brought up a well of emotion that his
exhaustion made it hard to fight; he wasn’t even sure if the librarian was
still alive.

As the sun
began to dip towards the horizon, Fidgen managed to catch a second wind, and he
stopped by a rippling stream for the night. An idea tickled his brain,
something from a book he had read, and he decided to give it a try. He built a
fire, ate half a loaf of bread for energy, and made sure his horse was well
tied to a small tree. The he sat with his back against a larger tree, tuned
his harp carefully, and began to play just before the sun went down.

He used no
magic, but played to entice. He used all his skill as a musician to infuse the
music with an air of mystery and intrigue, the same as had been done by men and
women for eons. It was a call to every listener to come closer, and to tickle
the ears of those who hadn’t started listening yet.

The
twilight faded into dark, and he continued playing, continued calling. Bright
eyes shone around him as the wild creatures responded, putting aside their fear
of the fire, but sitting just at the edge of the light. When the logs
collapsed with a puff of sparks, they all disappeared except for one pair,
glowing bright yellow and unblinking.

Fidgen
continued to play, and slowly the eyes moved closer, coalescing into the face
of a black stallion with a long mane. Fidgen watched in awe as it stepped
fully into view. Softly he said, “I wonder who you belong to.”

“To myself,
of course,” the horse answered.

Fidgen
blinked in surprise, but did not stop playing. “Are you the one that has been
following me then?”

“I am,” the
horse said with a toss of his mane. “Most mortals cannot tell that I am around
unless I let them, but you--well, you are interesting to me on many levels.”

“Who are
you?”

“I am the
Pooka,” the horse said.

“The
infamous trickster?” Fidgen said.

The Pooka
turned into a wizened old man, who doffed his cap and bowed low. “In the
flesh.” When Fidgen said nothing, the old man said, “Does this shape repulse
you so?”

“It’s not
that,” Fidgen said. “I am simply concerned for my safety. The stories told
about you are various, but they all center on how dangerous you are.”

The little
old man smiled, revealing pointed teeth. “Afraid, are you?”

“I would
prefer the term cautious.”

“A good
term, and a better habit,” the Pooka said, turning back into a stallion. “But
perhaps you’ll get the better of me.”

“The only
one I know of who did that was Brian Boru,” Fidgen said. “And I’m sure that I
will not best you the way he did. He bridled you with three hairs from your
own tail, didn’t he?”

“That he
did, and a wild ride we had,” the Pooka said. “He won from me the promise not
to kill anyone outright.”

“That’s not
very comforting,” Fidgen said.

“Maybe, but
it has made the game much more interesting for me.”

“I’m sure,”
Fidgen said. “So what do you want from me?”

“I thought
I might show you a wonder,” the Pooka said.

“And why
would you do that?”

“Because
you intrigue me. Isn’t that enough?”

Fidgen
shook his head. “I don’t think so. Give me a hair of your tail, and I will
consider it.”

The Pooka
snorted. “One won’t do you any good, you know.”

“No, but it
is a third of the way to something, and more than that, it is an act of good
faith on your part.”

“Fair
enough.” The Pooka stretched his neck back and very carefully took one strand
of his tail in his teeth. With a great whipping motion, he pulled it free, and
dropped it in Fidgen’s lap. “There you go,” he said. “Now will you come with
me?”

“How far do
we need to go?”

“Can you shape
shift?”

“Yes,”
Fidgen said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Then
transform into a horse, and follow me!”

Fidgen
tried to become a black stallion much like the Pooka, but ended up with a more
silvery coat instead. The Pooka had already raced ahead, and Fidgen leapt into
a gallop, trying to catch him.

The Pooka
led him across the plains, and Fidgen was grateful for a full moon. As it was,
the Pooka was so dark that Fidgen almost lost sight of him several times, only
finding him again when he whinnied or turned his head so that Fidgen could see
his shining yellow eyes.

The Pooka
led him to some rocky hills, where his hooves struck sparks with every
footfall. Fidgen expected him to slow, but he kept his breakneck speed,
forcing Fidgen to transform into a raven to keep up. The Pooka just laughed at
his frustrated cry.

They
finally stopped in a bowl shaped valley with a low mound in the center. Fidgen
shifted back to human form and sank to his knees, breathing hard. The Pooka
nudged him and said, “You’re going to want to watch that mound.”

As he
caught his breath, Fidgen could feel the power in the valley. “Where are we?”
he said.

“Just
watch,” the Pooka said.

Fidgen
sighed and stared at the mound. The moonlight and the shadows made it hard to
see clearly. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make them focus, and looked up
again just in time to see the mound being split by a line of light.

The side of
the mound opened like a door, and a column came out, marching in stately
procession in their direction. First came several ranks of warriors dressed in
vivid colors, holding weapons that shone in the moonlight. Behind them, riders
on silvery steeds talked and chatted like they were out on a summer stroll, not
a midnight ride. Their robes flowed in gossamer waves off their shoulders,
radiating light from within. Behind the riders, musicians walked and played
various instruments, some of which Fidgen had never seen. The music, wild and
rollicking, filled the valley.

The Pooka’s
lips tickled his ear. “Stay very still, or else they will notice you.”

Fidgen
nodded, not taking his eyes off the riders. Two in particular caught his eye,
a man and a woman who rode side by side, each with a simple crown on their
head. They talked easily with those around them, but the look they gave each
other shut out all the worlds. “Who are they?” Fidgen asked.

“This is
the Fairie Procession,” the Pooka said. “That is King Oengus and Queen
Fionnuala, who are your distant relatives. Would you like to meet them?”

“What do
you mean?” Fidgen said. In reply he felt a quick shove in the middle of his
back, and he stumbled into the light from the procession.

The riders
pulled up sharply, and many yells came from the back ranks that could not see.
The warriors quickly surrounded Fidgen, spears leveled at his chest. Every
face reflected anger and shock, and several spear tips poked him hard enough to
hurt. He held very still, but he thought he could hear the Pooka’s laughter on
the wind.

An older
warrior pushed through the ring and stopped short at the sight of Fidgen. “A
human!” he exclaimed. He drew his sword and placed it against Fidgen’s neck. “Tell
me why I shouldn't separate your filthy head from your body right now.”

“Let him
go, Allód,” the King said, coming up from behind him. “Obviously the boy is
too scared to say anything with your sharp sword making it hard for him to even
swallow.”

The
warriors raised their spears, and Allód reluctantly backed away. Queen
Fionnuala came up beside her husband and linked her arm in his. “Is this what
has interrupted us?”

“It is, my
love,” Oengus said. “The question is, what should we do with him?”

Thinking
quickly, Fidgen sank to his knees. “I would ask a boon of thee, my lord,” he
said, bowing his head.

“And why
would I grant such a thing to a human?” Oengus asked. There was a touch of
amusement in his voice, but Fidgen knew that his life hung in the balance.

“I ask out
of bonds of kinship,” Fidgen said.

The company
went completely silent. Fidgen did not dare even glance up, but kept his eyes
on the grass just in front of the king’s boot. “And what kinship do you claim
with us?” Oengus asked.

“I am of
the line of Don.”

Fidgen
thought he heard the company sigh, and Oengus said, “We will not kill you out
of respect for this bond, but why would we do anything more?”

Fidgen
said, “I have been learning the magic of the Cymry, and I seek your help. I
have already caused the death of my uncle and my cousin, and I do not wish any
more harm to befall those around me.”

Fionnuala
said, “What is your name?”

Fidgen
hesitated. “I have been commanded not to speak it for now.”

“Who would
require such a thing?” she said.

“Ogmah.”

Oengus
tapped his toe. “You make it difficult to make a wise decision,” he said. “Ask
your boon, so that I might better judge its merits.”

Fidgen
looked up. “Can you tell me why I can’t hear the winds?”

The king
and queen shared a long look, and she nodded slightly. Oengus looked down at
Fidgen. “Your question both confirms some of our suspicions, and raises others.
So instead of simply granting the knowledge you seek, I will trade it for other
knowledge.”