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

Fidgen
spread his hands. “Anything I can answer for you, I will.”

“Very well,
then.” Oengus spread his hands over Fidgen’s head, and bowed his own. “You cannot
hear the wind because you have not bound them to you,” Oengus said. “I can
feel the remnants of some temporary bonds, most likely made by he who taught
you. Wait--there is one here. Did you ever seek out a wind without guidance?”

Fidgen
thought back to the day when he found the high wind. “I did.”

“Then you
should be able to hear that wind,” Oengus said. “As for the rest, you will
need to create your own bonds now that your unc--I mean, now that your teacher
is gone.”

“Thank you,
majesty,” Fidgen said. “And now, what knowledge would you have of me?”

“Want I
want to know,” Oengus said, “is how you found this place, and our procession.”

“The Pooka
brought me here to see you,” Fidgen said.

Fionnuala
clucked her tongue. “That one is due another lesson.”

“Agreed, my
love,” Oengus said. “Perhaps our young friend here will deliver it.”

“Me?”
Fidgen said. “I will feel blessed to live through this experience. Why would
I seek him out again?”

“Because he
will be drawn to you until you give him a reason not to be,” Fionnuala said. “If
you don’t seek him, he will find you.”

Fidgen
sighed. “I just want to be done with him.”

“Many of us
have felt that way,” Oengus said. “Now, though you must be free of us. How
are you going to do that?”

The
warriors lowered their spears again, and Fidgen knew he couldn’t fight his way
through them. He cast about, looking for inspiration, and the queen caught his
eye. After she was sure he was watching, she glanced at the sky.

Fidgen
understood immediately. He bowed low to her and her husband and said, “My
gratitude to your Majesties for all that you have given me.” Then he leapt up
into raven form, and without a backward glance, flew quickly away. He heard
the warriors yelling, but they threw no spears and shot no arrows. He made it
out of the valley without further incident.

He flew
through the night, thinking about both what Oengus had told him and how he
might use it to find the Pooka. He shifted into eagle form and aimed for the
moon. When he had flown as high as he could, he shifted back to human form,
and called the one wind he still knew.

The wind
responded, and held him aloft while he began using all the skills Math had
taught him, explaining what he wanted. He held up the hair from the Pooka’s
tail, and the wind circled it like a hound. Fidgen felt tendrils of the wind
shoot towards the ground, probing nooks and crannies throughout the
countryside. When he felt his magic was secure, he turned back into an eagle
and glided along, listening for any sign of the Pooka.

The high
wind found him an hour before sunrise, drinking from a stream near where Fidgen
had first encountered him. Fidgen released the wind with thanks, and descended
rapidly, shifting to human form at the last moment, and ringing the area with
bright blue bael fire.

“I've come
to avenge myself on you,” Fidgen said.

The Pooka
looked unperturbed. “But you escaped,” he said. “You didn't need me there.”

“But you
left me there not knowing that I would get away.”

The Pooka
shook his mane. “I had full faith in your abilities.”

“Still, you
owe me something.”

“Oh? And
what are you thinking?”

“Two more
hairs from your tail.”

The Pooka
bucked and whinnied, and it took Fidgen a minute to realize he was laughing. “And
they accuse me of not being serious!”

“So what
would you offer?”

The Pooka
settled himself down, gave a shake, and said, “Would you like to learn how to
turn invisible?”

“Like when
you followed me?”

The Pooka
nodded. “It cloaks you from most magics, as you know.”

Fidgen
considered for a long moment, trying to detect what the Pooka was up to. He
finally let the bael fire die out and said, “Tell me what we’re going to be
doing first.”

“You’re
going to turn into the wind,” the Pooka said.

Fidgen
shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“It’s
perfectly safe,” the Pooka said. “It’s mostly illusion, but you have to
disguise your mind as well as your body. The net result is that everything
sees you as air, including magic.”

Fidgen
turned this over in his mind. “And none of my shields excluded the air.”

“As well
they shouldn’t have,” the Pooka said. “You could create such a barrier, but do
not forget that if you cut yourself off from the air, it would be like being in
a cave. You would suffocate before long.”

“But you
say that it’s mostly illusion,” Fidgen said.

“That’s how
the wind found me,” the Pooka said. “It’s also how you were able to feel me
near you. You have an affinity for the air, and you could tell something was
not right, even if you didn’t know what it was.”

“And you
can teach me how to do this?”

“It should
be easy for you,” the Pooka said. “Just watch how I do it.”

Fidgen
watched closely, and the Pooka suddenly disappeared. He cast about with all of
his senses, including listening for the wind, and he could just make out that something
was where the Pooka had been, but his eyes still struggled to make sense of it
all.

The Pooka
reappeared and said, “You should watch with more than your eyes, you know.”

“I was,”
Fidgen replied.

“Not until
after the shift,” the Pooka said. “Watch the whole thing.”

Fidgen used
all his senses to concentrate as the Pooka made the shift again, feeling as
well as seeing the change. It made sense to him immediately, and even more, he
discovered that the Pooka had not disappeared completely, but that he could
still see him like a reflection in a pond.

“Excellent,”
the Pooka said. “Are you ready to try it?”

Fidgen said
nothing, just cast the spell, and the Pooka whinnied delightedly. When he
reappeared, the Pooka said, “You took to that like a bird to the air. How did
it feel?”

“A bit
disconcerting at first. I felt like I had turned into just a pair of eyes.”

“Yes, it
has that effect,” the Pooka said. “Now, we should test your new skill.”

“We should?”
Fidgen said.

“Of course!”
The Pooka said. “How else will you know that I have taught you right?”

“I have
great faith in you.”

“Then you
are the only one,” the Pooka said with a laugh.

“What do
you have in mind?”

“We could
visit the selkies, or there is a kelpie I know of not too far from here, or
maybe the Wild Hunt...”

“The Wild
Hunt? How could we visit them?” Fidgen asked. “Aren’t they always on the
move?”

The Pooka
shook his head. “Not always. And I happen to know that they are idle at the
moment.”

“That would
be an incredible tale to tell,” Fidgen mused. “But if you want to take me
there, I want another hair from your tail.”

“Well that
indicates no faith whatsoever.”

Fidgen
shrugged. “We don't have to go at all.”

The Pooka
pranced about a bit. “You drive a hard bargain, bardling.” He plucked another
hair and gave it to Fidgen. “But I think this will be worth it.”

Fidgen
wound it around his finger and said, “Do we have far to go?”

“Not
really,” the Pooka said. “But you’d better shift into horse form, and don’t
forget to use your new disguise.”

“Oh, I
won’t,” Fidgen said.

They raced
through the pre-dawn light, but instead of leading him into the mountains, the
Pooka led him into a thickly forested dell where it was still as dark as
midnight. They wound their way through massive old oaks that seemed somehow
sentient, watching them as they passed. Ahead, Fidgen saw the glow of a
campfire, which they headed towards. As they neared, he realized that it was
closer to a bonfire, and the dogs that lay around it easily outweighed him even
as a horse. Each had a black coat and ears the color of old blood, and the
drool dripping from their mouths glowed with blue flame.

But it was
the man on the other side of the fire that caught his attention: the legendary
Herne, taller than a man even while sitting cross-legged on the ground, honing
the head of a spear. He wore a mask made from a giant human skull that covered
the top of his face, topped by a pair of antlers spreading out fifteen feet or
more. His bare torso gleamed in the firelight, covered by dark figures of men
and women that moved on their own, writhing about in mortal pain.

Fidgen felt
the Pooka’s lips near his ear. “Did you know,” he whispered very softly, “that
Herne as an affinity for the air much like yours?”

Fidgen
shifted back into human form and dropped his disguise. “I’m counting on it,”
he said, stepping into the firelight.

The hounds
jumped up immediately, growling and showing sharp white fangs while they
watched him with glowing red eyes. Herne stood up slowly, and a word from him
caused the dogs to quiet. He came around the fire, staring at Fidgen with eyes
that glowed as red as his pack’s. “I know not how you found this place,” he
said in a deep voice, “But you had best start running if you want to live.”

“Mighty
Hunter,” Fidgen said. “I was led to this place by a creature that you might
take more sport in pursuing than myself.”

“You think
so?” Herne said. “I am quite fond of human game.”

“As I well
know.” Fidgen said. “But I speak of the Pooka, who is at least as cunning as a
man.”

“And a hard
one to find,” Herne said. “I will not go chasing a will o’ the wisp just
because you think I might enjoy it. Not when you are here, with your scent to
bait my pack upon.”

“The Pooka
and I came to your camp together.” Fidgen pointed to where he had come into
the camp. “There, just back in the trees.”

Herne spoke
a single word, and the hounds ran towards the spot Fidgen indicated. They
sniffed around, and one of them looked up and gave a series of short barks.
Herne said, “They see horse tracks, but can smell nothing.”

Fidgen
pulled out one of the tail hairs. “Try baiting them on this.”

Herne
snapped his fingers, and one of the hounds came up to Fidgen, towering over
him, lip lifted in a suppressed growl. Fidgen held himself very still looking
up into the red eyes. The dog sniffed him over thoroughly, but ended with his
nose almost touching Fidgen’s finger, causing the Pooka’s hair to flutter
upwards with each sniff.

The growl
disappeared and the dog grinned at Fidgen. He turned and barked at Herne, who
nodded. “You are very lucky, Gwydion ap Don. What you hold will indeed allow
me to hunt the Pooka down.”

“You know
my name?”

“I know all
men’s names, true and otherwise,” Herne said. He held out a hand as big as
Fidgen’s head. “Give me the hair, that I may begin my sport.”

Fidgen laid
it reverently across the wide palm. “What will you do when you catch him?”

“Do you not
know what my purpose is?” Herne said. “I judge those that are guilty, making
them run until all that is left is the pure spirit. I think that I will have a
good long hunt with this one.”

Fidgen felt
suddenly weak. “And if it had been me?”

Herne
looked at him, and Fidgen could feel the weight of judgment. “You,” Herne
said, “would have barely made it into the forest.”

He lifted a
great whip and cracked it towards the hounds. They leapt into the air, and he
chased after them, lightning shooting from his whip and thunder sounding from
his footfalls.

Fidgen sank
to the ground, suddenly weak from the night’s ordeals. He dozed off for a few
minutes, lulled by the heat of the fire, but he managed to rouse himself after
a bit and shift into raven form. He flew above the treetops in ever widening
circles, thankful for the morning sunlight to help him find landmarks that led him
back to his camp.

His pack
appeared undisturbed, and his horse looked up briefly at his sudden appearance,
then went back to contentedly munching grass. Fidgen leaned on him for a few
minutes, thankful for the solid familiarity. Then he sank to the ground and
crawled to his bedroll, where he slept until the sun rose again.

Fidgen found his new mentor
sitting under a tree overlooking a herd of cattle. Ollave Fenella macKelvie
looked like a cattle herder herself, with work worn hands and sun darkened
skin. Her hair showed streaks of gray in the brown, but her eyes were large
and violet, and made it impossible to judge her age.

Fidgen
dismounted and bowed low before her. “I have come at the bidding of the Pen
Bardd, to seek training and guidance.”

She sized
him up and down like a cat studying a crippled mouse. “Are you Fidgen?”

“I am.”

“And your
family name is...?”

“Just
Fidgen.”

“Very well,
Fidgen just Fidgen,” she said. “I expected you a week ago. Would you care to
explain yourself?”

“I was
delayed.”

“Obviously.”
She stared hard at him, but he kept his face impassive. “You will tell me the
tale before you are allowed to leave my training, and you will tell it like a
bard, even if it was merely a tryst that lasted too long.”

Fidgen
shook his head. “It wasn’t a pretty girl that was the problem.”

“We’ll see.”
She stood up and brushed herself off. “Let’s go to the dun and get you
settled, and we can begin talking about my expectations of you, and you of me.”

He said, “Thank
you, Ollave.”

Fenella
laughed. “Don’t thank me yet. I guarantee you’ll be cursing me before a month
has passed.”

“A woman of
your beauty and charm?” Fidgen said. “I sincerely doubt it.”

“At least I
don’t have to teach you flattery,” she said. “Did Columb tell you what I
do
teach?”

“Storytelling
is what he called it,” Fidgen said.

“And you
wonder why you have to learn something you already know, am I correct?”

Fidgen
shrugged. “I just do as I’m told.”

“I doubt
that,” Fenella said.

Dun
Keeldrin was a small fishing village on the southern shores of Lough Garadice.
Ollave Fenella walked through the front gates without pause, and the women and
children Fidgen saw did not appear to take notice of the stranger with her. “Why
do you live in such a tiny place?” Fidgen asked.

“It suits
me quite well,” Fenella said. “The people are grateful for my presence, and I
can concentrate on my students, without a lot of political intrigue to distract
or ensnare me.”

Fidgen
followed her into a small building behind the barn, where several rows of bunks
lined the walls around a central fire pit. “You are the only student here at
the moment, so feel free to sleep wherever you like,” Fenella said.

“Where are
the other students?” Fidgen asked as he looked over the bunks.

“Most arrive
around Samhain, and we spend the winter in training,” Fenella said. “Then come
spring, everyone goes out into Duvnecht to put their new skills to the test.
Most find comfortable spots to stay in by midsummer, but still, the idea is to
wander like real bards.”

“But here I
am, and it’s just after Beltain,” Fidgen said. “So what’s the plan for me?”

“I hope
you’re a fast learner; you only have a month what everyone else learned in
four.” Fenella looked him up and down. “Unless you think you can wander
through Duvnecht in the winter.” When Fidgen said nothing, she said, “Don’t
try anything stupid, boy. I assure you that wherever you are from, you have
never experienced anything like a winter in the Mounts.”

Fenella
watched him as he chose a bunk and starting putting his things away. “Get
settled, then be in the main hall for dinner. And be prepared to play; Columb
said you skipped the first year of training in Cairnecht, so I’ll be seeing
whether or not that decision was justified.”

“What was I
supposed to learn?” Fidgen asked.

She shook
her head. “Just be ready for the toughest audience you have ever faced.”

Fidgen
walked into the main hall an hour later, his harp in his hands and already
tuned. The hall was nearly as small as at Dun Gareth, and Fidgen half expected
to see Gareth or Columb at the high table. Instead, it was a striking woman,
somewhat older than himself, with thick dark hair that streamed over her
shoulders, and bright eyes that judged him in a moment. The four colors in her
cloak and the torc around her neck marked her as the chieftain.

Fidgen
approached and bowed low. “I ask permission to play for you and your people,”
he said.

“Are you
the ollave’s new student then?” she asked.

Her voice
was deep and throaty, and he felt a great desire for her. He pushed the
impulse aside and said, “I am.”

“I am
chieftain Catriona macSconif, and you are welcome to my dun. And you are?”

“My name is
Fidgen,” he said.

Catriona
showed no surprise at his lack of family or place. “My expectations of you are
simple: look to your code, and do nothing that would shame either your order or
my people. If you do, I will haul you back to the Pen Bardd myself, and demand
retribution.”

“And she
has,” Ollave Fenella said, coming up beside him. “I remember a young pup much
like yourself--too handsome for his own good, too talented to be ignored, and
too confident to be sensible--who decided to try and seduce Catriona herself.
She had him trussed like a pig and thrown in a wagon before he even knew what
had happened.”

Catriona
chuckled. “The Pen Bardd paid quite a bit for that rascal. Whatever happened
to him, do you know?”

The Ollave
shrugged. “Who cares? He didn’t have the self-control he needed, and he is
now someone else’s problem.”

“True
enough,” the chieftain said with a shrug. But Fidgen was uncomfortable with
the look she gave him.

Fenella
turned to Fidgen. “While you are here, you will be playing every night for the
dun. But before you can do that, you must ask for permission from the
chieftain. This is one of the first and most important rules in the Bardic
Code: we never intrude where we are not welcome.”

“He has
already asked, and been answered, Fenella,” the chieftain said. “It was close
enough to what an actual bard would have done that I thought you had already
had this lesson.”

Fenella
gave him a sharp look. “Who taught you this thing?”

“Nobody,”
he said. “It seemed to be the right thing to do, based upon the stories I have
heard, the books I have read, and the bards I have met.”

“Humph,”
Fenella said. “Very well then, you may play for the hall tonight, and I will
judge your skill. And I warn you now, the chieftain has a very discerning
hall.”

“That’s
because they have heard all manner,” Catriona said. “From you, Ollave, to the
children who have just barely learned to play.”

Fidgen
bowed to both women. “I will do my best.”

Fenella
looked skeptical, but Catriona gave him a smile that made him think of more
than just friendly interest. His felt a natural urge to flirt with her, and
she seemed to invite it; he decided to be very cautious in both word and deed
around her.

He played
for six hours that night, honoring every request that he could, watching the
people respond to him and his music. There were about thirty families, with a
plethora of children who ran about before, during, and after the meal. Most
wore thick sweaters under their cloaks, which seemed shorter than standard to
him. At first they requested jigs and reels common throughout Glencairck, but
as the night wore on, the requests became more local or esoteric. They also
asked for key changes and tempo modifications, but despite Fenella’s claim, he
found them no more difficult as an audience then the duns he had played for in
Gwynedd. The only thing that bothered him was the way that Catriona kept
requesting more romantic stories and songs. He purposefully made them blander
than he had to, relieved at the disappointment in her eyes.

He tried to
gauge Fenella’s reaction to everything he did, but she remained impassive throughout
the night, saying little in response to his questions. The people of the dun
gave him much more feedback. He worked hard to give them what they wanted, and
they were not hesitant to correct him when they felt they needed to. But
overall, the mood was positive, and as the night drew to a close, several
people stopped and told him he had done well.

He shook
his cramped fingers and looked for the Ollave. She was talking softly to
Catriona at the high table, so he approached and bowed. “By your leave,
ladies, I would bid you goodnight.”

Catriona
nodded. “You did a fine job for a student bard, Fidgen. We thank you, and
hope that you sleep well.”

Fenella
waved him away. “Let me ruminate, and I will talk to you in the morning.”

Fidgen
walked through the dark yard to his quarters. He felt uneasy among the empty
beds, and restless in his human shape. The music still tumbled through his
head, making it hard to settle and finally he shifted into owl form, flying
through the nearby fields in search of mice and voles. He caught several,
striking swiftly and silently. Belly full, he glided back towards his quarters
like a ghost.

His owl
eyes made out movement near his door, and feeling suddenly cautious, he landed
in a tree that gave him a good view of the area. Catriona came out after a
moment, looking frustrated. He watched her cross back towards the hall,
keeping to the shadows that would have hidden her from human eyes. When he was
certain she was not coming back, he floated down, landing in human form. The
smell of the chieftain’s perfume lingered, and he had little doubt about her
intentions. After a moment’s deliberation, he shifted into cat form, and found
a warm corner in a bunk near the fire to curl up in. He slept the rest of the
night undisturbed.

In the
morning, he woke, stretched, and shifted back to human form. He washed his
face and headed to the hall, where he found Fenella eating a bowl of stirabout
porridge. He got a bowl for himself, and sat across from her. She said
nothing until she scraped up the last little bit. “We have a lot to cover
today,” she said. “I hope you slept well.”

He
shrugged. “It’s a new, unfamiliar place.”

“Get used
to it,” Fenella snapped. “You’ll be doing that for most of the next four years
at least.”

“Can I ask
you how these years are supposed to go?” Fidgen said. “I missed the
orientation somehow.”

Fenella
held up four fingers and ticked off each. “A year in Cairnecht learning music,
a year in Duvnecht learning storytelling, and year in Leinath learning magic,
and a year in Airu learning law. After that, you’ll be a cerddorian for at
least a year, though some do it for longer.”

“And I am
skipping the first year, and getting started late on year two,” Fidgen said.

“The years
are just guidelines,” Fenella said. “Based on what I heard last night, I think
you are a fine musician, and I would not have guessed that you were not trained
by an Ollave. And as for me, I will not let you proceed until I feel you are
ready, whether that takes eight months or eight years. I will work with you as
long as you are willing to learn.”

“Thank you,
Ollave.”

She stared
hard at him again. “I’ll tell you straight up, young Fidgen, that I don’t
trust you. I think that you are going to find the bardic code to be too restrictive,
and will soon beg your freedom, which I will gladly grant you, right after a
trip to Gorsedd Ogham to strip you of your powers.”

Fidgen
bowed his head to her. “Thank you for letting me know where I stand with you.”

“You’re not
going to tell me how wrong I am?”

He
shrugged. “Would it matter? I believe that you will be very hard on me, but
very fair. So I will either succeed or fail, but it will still be up to me.”

“Humph,”
Fenella said. “The first lesson is on the seven times fifty stories that are
the bard’s standard repertoire. I expect you know their names by tomorrow
morning, and by the end of the week, you will tell me the first fifty in the
bardic form.”

“Yes, Ollave,”
Fidgen said.

“You will
not leave here until you can tell me the first five of the fifties; the last
two fifties are stories reserved for only an Ollave to tell, but you still need
to be aware of what they are, and why they are reserved. Any questions?”

“No, Ollave.”

“Then let’s
begin at the beginning: how the sons of Myl arrived in Glencairck, and what
they found here.”

He spent
the next four weeks in a predictable pattern: days were spent with Ollave
Fenella, going over each story, its uses and the best occasions for telling it;
learning the proper telling of each; understanding why it was reserved to the
bards. He used all the tricks Math, Bran, and Bethyl had ever taught him to
train his mind to accept all the new knowledge. Evenings were spent playing in
the hall, where he got to know the fisher folk and their songs so well that
even though he never set foot on a boat, he could still sing of water and wave
as though he sailed every day.