The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (4 page)

And every
night, he avoided Chieftain Catriona, who was very persistent in her pursuit of
him. She came at different times, and from different directions, always trying
to catch him, and never able to. But she never suspected the cat that lived in
the bunkhouse, or the raven sleeping in the eaves. And every morning, Ollave
Fenella found him in his bed alone.

At the end
of four weeks, he had learned the five fifty stories so well that he dreamed
about telling them, and Ollave Fenella could not find fault in his
presentation. She spent two days quizzing him about every aspect, and in the
end she admitted that he had learned them satisfactorily, but she didn’t look
happy about it.

“There is
one last thing for you to do before I send you out into Duvnecht by yourself,”
she said. “Take two days, and compose the story of your tardiness. Do a good
job and I will allow that you are fit to take the next step. Mind, I’m not
looking for floral phrasing or overblown symbolism. Tell it simply, but tell
it like a bard. Now go, and let me be.”

He bowed to
her, and headed back to the dun. It was close to dusk, and they had missed the
evening meal, but he thought he might be able to scrounge a loaf end from the
kitchen. As he came out of the larder, chewing on a mouthful, he saw the
chieftain coming his way. No one else was in the yard, and he felt very
vulnerable as she closed in on him. For prudence’s sake, he met her in the
middle, where the setting sun bathed everything in yellow light.

She looked
him over and licked her lips. “I understand you will be leaving us soon.”

“In a few
days, if I do a good job,” Fidgen said.

“You’ve
done a good job avoiding me,” she said.

“I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”

Catriona
stepped close enough that he could feel the heat of her breast on his arm. “I
see you enter that bunkhouse every night, and come out every morning, and yet
no matter when I go there in between, you are nowhere to be found. Do you
sleep in Faerie every night, I wonder?”

“Why would
you look for me in the middle of the night?” Fidgen said. “That doesn’t seem
appropriate to me.”

She stepped
away from him. “Play games, then,” she said, and the lust in her eyes went
from hot to glittering cold in a moment. “I will get what I want, or your days
training as a bard will be over.”

Fidgen
could feel the yearning of his body for hers, and it took all his willpower to
say, “I will not break my code for you.”

“We’ll see
about that,” Catriona said. With a swish of her cloak, she glided away,
swaying her hips seductively.

When Fidgen
was sure she had gone, he went to the bunkhouse and closed the door. He
confirmed that there was no easy way to bar it, then stirred up the fire,
throwing on a couple of logs against the sudden chill he felt. He stood
staring into the flames for a long time while his brain raced around seeking a
solution. In the end, he went to talk to Ollave Fenella.

Later that
night, when Catriona snuck into the bunkhouse, she said, “Are you here then?”

“I am,”
Fidgen said.

“I knew you
would come around,” Catriona said as she undressed next to the fire. “I could
tell when I first met you that you wanted me as much as I wanted you. To think
that we’ve wasted all this time apart.”

She slipped
into the bunk, and found to her surprise that the warm body she wrapped herself
around was not Fidgen. “Chieftain, we should talk, you and I,” said Fenella.

Catriona
jumped out of bed and scooped up her clothes, holding them in front of her.
Fidgen stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the fire, and her eyes
darted from him to the Ollave nervously. “Your student tried to seduce me,”
she said.

Fenella
shook her head. “I think not, though that is what I suspected when he came to
me a few hours ago. But your actions have damned you as a willing participant,
and your words have shown that he has behaved honorably.”

“It’s not
what it seems,” Catriona said desperately.

“I’m sure
that’s true,” Fenella said. “My guess is that it is much worse. Fidgen, can
you find a place to sleep tonight?”

“Yes, Ollave,”
he said.

“So don’t
just stand there ogling, get going!” Fenella barked.

Fidgen
hurried out the door, and in the dark yard, he shifted to cat shape. His
sensitive ears could hear the two women, Fenella’s voice low and stern, Catriona’s
lifting almost to a wail. He could not make out the words, and did not try.
Instead, he went to the barn where he found a nice sheltered spot in the hay to
sleep.

Ollave
Fenella met him in the morning with her harp on her back and a traveler's pack
in her hand. At his questioning look, she said, “I think I have stayed in Dun Keeldrin
long enough. You and I will travel a bit, and you will tell me your tale, or I
will not let you out of my sight.”

“The tale
of Catriona, or the tale of my tardiness?” Fidgen said, trying not to grin.

“Both,”
Fenella answered, climbing onto a bay horse. “But let’s start with the one I
am more familiar with. Tell me about Catriona, and I especially want to know
how you avoided her all this time.”

So he told
her about his first night as her student, and how he had handled the situation
up until the day before. When she asked why he hadn’t come to her sooner, he
shrugged and said, “My head was full of other things most of the time.”

Fenella
grunted. “It was a clever trap you set, and one that led Catriona to reveal
much that I had not seen before.”

“I wasn’t
the first,” Fidgen said.

Fenella
looked at him sharply. “How did you know?”

He
shrugged. “I am not innocent. And I could tell the same about her.”

“I
couldn’t,” Fenella sighed. “And I should have. But I have known her since she
was just a chieftain’s precocious daughter, and I had a hand in helping her
when her father died to get used to wearing the torc. I thought we had taught
her better.”

“We all
make our choices,” Fidgen said.

“True,” she
replied. “So tell me about your choice to be late.”

“That was
not much of a choice,” Fidgen said. And he then told her of the Pooka, of the
King and Queen of Fairie, and of Herne and the Wild Hunt. When he finished,
they rode in silence for a bit while she digested the story.

“Normally,”
she said after a while, “I would credit you with being imaginative and
outrageous, but not very truthful in your tale. Do you still have the Pooka’s
tail hair?”

“Of course,”
Fidgen said, pulling it out of a small pouch he wore on a cord around his neck.

Fenella
looked it over. “Well, it certainly looks normal enough, but it absolutely
stinks of magic.” She sighed. “I really don’t want to do this, but I hereby
proclaim your worthiness to go out on your own, to practice storytelling and
the bardic code. The code is more important, by the way.”

“Yes,
Ollave.”

“Come and
find me as soon as travel is safe in the spring,” Fenella said. “I will want a
report on all you have seen and done. My advice is to go into mountains early,
and if you don’t care for it, get out before the snow blocks the roads. The
lowlands are fine places to winter, and a bit more open to strangers and
students.”

“How will I
find you?” Fidgen asked.

“I’ll be
sticking around Lough Garadice, so just start asking for me as you get close,”
she said. “I have a feeling that the story of my departure--and your role in
it--will be well known before a fortnight passes. So listen to stories as much
as you tell them, and you’ll find me without problem.”

“Thank you,
Ollave.”

She cast
him a sour glance. “I really don’t want to like you, you know that? But I
have a feeling that I will fall for your charms despite myself.”

“I hope
not,” Fidgen said. At her startled look, he said, “I have been privileged,
pampered, and coddled in my life. And those times never helped me grow as a
person. I value your distrust more than you know.”

She gave him
a crooked smile. “It’s talk like that that gives me hope for you as a bard.
And makes it that much more difficult to dislike you.”

“Oh, you
can like me all you like,” Fidgen said with a wave. “I just don’t want you to
trust me.”

“I’ll do my
best,” Fenella said dryly.

A couple of
hours later, they came to a crossroads. “We shall part ways here, I think,”
Fenella said. She gestured to the left hand fork. “This is my path, around
the Lough. That one is yours, leading to Cantref Aerness, home of some of the
fiercest warriors in Glencairck. Watch yourself closely, because they will
test your honor as much as anything else.”

“Yes,
Ollave.”

She gave
him one last hard stare. “Luck to you, Fidgen. May you find what you seek.”

“And you as
well, Ollave Fenella,” he answered. He felt her eyes upon him as he turned his
horse onto the new road and began making his way towards the mountains.

Fidgen rode through the
lowlands of Duvnecht, stopping at every small dun and caer he came across,
practicing the five fifty stories whenever possible, and generally getting to
know the people. Everyone asked him if he were going into the Mounts, and he
always replied that he would before long. They would then give him plenty of
advice on how to deal with the highlanders, the most common being to stay away
from them.

Even though
he avoided the lager caers two stories kept making their way to his ears: the
destruction of Caer Dathyl, and the humiliation of Chieftain Catriona. No one
connected him to the former, but all he had to do was say his name to be
grilled about his role in the latter. He tried to keep the story truthful, and
to correct any embellishments that crept in, but was shocked to find that
people admired him for what he had done, and gave him respect for it.

And then he
entered the foothills.

The first
caer that he visited, Caer Gorvan, let him in without comment, but the laird, a
large man named Fingal macGorvan, greeted him with a mischievous grin. “Are
you the famous Fidgen that taught Chieftain Catriona such a lesson then?”

“I am,”
Fidgen answered slowly, feeling that he was being led into some kind of trap.

“Then I can
trust my daughter, Shona, to serve you,” the laird said, indicating a beautiful
young woman standing nearby. “She will do anything you ask, but I don’t need
to worry about you asking for anything inappropriate, do I?”

“I am just
a student bard, but I follow the bardic code,” Fidgen said. The laird’s grin
still made him feel like there was more going on than he knew, and he saw the
grin reflected on many of the faces around him, especially the men. The women
looked less pleased, and he even saw scowls among some of the older ladies.

He quickly
figured out why. Shona had lustrous red hair, a marvelous figure that curved
invitingly and swayed temptingly, and eyes that promised more than
conversation. Everyone watched his reaction to her fairly blatant attempts to
tempt him. He played his best for the hall, treating Shona no differently than
anyone else, never allowing her too close, but not treating her harshly,
either. As the night wore on and the men fell more deeply in their cups, they
began encouraging him to give in to what they saw as the inevitable. He heard
them shouting, “Take advantage of her... generous spirit!” and “She’s got a
great personality, or so we’ve been told!”

As the
jests became more rude, edging into the graphic, Fidgen wrapped himself in a
layer of bardic magic that allowed him to be still despite the fury he felt
inside. The reaction of the women told him all he needed to know: their
disgust had become palpable, and most had left the hall, making the men all the
more bold.

What he
couldn’t figure out was Shona herself. She seemed to be a willing and eager
participant, and he saw her being as forward with some of the other men as she
was with him. He wished he could hear the winds again, so that he could hear
the things being whispered to her, and her response. But when she began
flirting with the laird, it all became clear.

He stilled
the strings suddenly, and silence engulfed the room as every eye turned to
him. Fidgen stood and bowed. “Laird Fingal,” he said. “I was told the men of
Duvnecht had more honor than all the rest of Glencairck. Is this true?”

“It is,”
the big man said with a wide smile.

“Then why
have you lied to me, and tried to get me to treat your mistress the same way as
you obviously let her be treated by your men?”

The smile
disappeared and Fingal went red in the face. “What are you suggesting,
bardling?”

“I’m not
suggesting anything,” Fidgen said. “I’m saying outright that Shona is not your
daughter, and that you set her on me in order to compromise me as you have
compromised the men of your own caer. And though I admit that you have fine
taste in physical beauty, I suspect that her heart is blacker than your own, if
such a thing is possible.”

Laird
Fingal trembled, and he kept reaching for a sword that he was not wearing. “You
are not a true bard,” he grated. “You can’t just say things like that with no
consequence. I demand justice!”

Fidgen
looked around. Many of the men looked as angry as Fingal, but many others were
shamed and refused to meet his eye. “Should we call in a true bard to render
judgment then?” he asked mildly.

Fingal
roared and leapt over the table. Fidgen kept calm, side stepping the large man
easily. Fingal crashed into the wall, and rebounded with a spin, bellowing for
a sword. One of his men threw him one which he brandished with glee, but
Fidgen had already identified several possible allies. Running over to them,
he said, “Who will help me defend myself?”

Several men
offered him swords, and he quickly snatched the closest two and spun to parry
Fingal’s first swipe. Fingal tried for what he was sure was a quick and easy
victory, but Fidgen out maneuvered him at every attempt. The people of the
caer pushed back against the walls, leaving them plenty of room to battle.

The
chieftain circled Fidgen, looking for an opening. “You’re dead, boy,” he said.

“Not today
I’m not,” Fidgen said.

Fingal made
a series of attacks meant to overwhelm Fidgen, but he deflected them all
calmly, and the laird’s anger began to give way to fear.

“You’re too
small and weak to beat me,” Fingal said.

“And you’re
too slow and stupid to win,” Fidgen replied.

Fingal said,
“I will not be beaten by the likes of you.” His eyes glanced briefly to
Fidgen’s left.

Fidgen
dodged right and threw up his left hand sword. He felt the shock of an axe
coming down on the blade, but it was the haft and not the head that had hit,
and the sword slid down to the hands that held it. Fidgen was somewhat
surprised to see Shona at the other end of the ambush, but he barely paused
before turning the edge so that it sliced through her fingers. She screamed in
pain and dropped the axe. Several hands drew her back into the crowd, and
Fidgen turned back in time to parry a lightning attack by Fingal.

The laird
pressed hard, but his eyes kept flicking to the second sword. Fidgen suddenly
knew not just that he
would
win, but how he
wanted
to win. He
waited until the laird had backed off again, and then began methodically
attacking him with his left hand sword. Fingal was so rattled that he barely
kept track of Fidgen’s main sword.

The opening
appeared just as Fidgen thought it would, and he hit hard, aiming for Fingal’s
hilt. He hit the laird’s hand, severing his thumb and making him drop the
sword.

Laird
Fingal dropped to his knees. “You have beaten me,” he said bowing his head. “Finish
it, I beg of you.”

Fidgen
lifted his chin with the point of his sword. “Look me in the eye,” he said, “And
tell me that my accusation against you was untrue.”

Fingal
grimaced, but said, “All that you said was true. I thought to corrupt you, and
then mock you as no better than me.”

“And two
years ago you would have been right,” Fidgen said. “But not today.”

“So kill me
and be done with it.”

“Kill you?”
Fidgen said. “I have never had any intention of killing you. I want you to
live, you and Shona both. Between you both you’ll have two good hands, so you
should be together for a very long time. But I will do no more. Do you have a
real bard that can make a true judgment?”

Fingal said
nothing, but one of the men who had given Fidgen a sword spoke up. “We don’t,
but Caer Anleshrop does.”

“How far
away is that?” Fidgen asked.

“Two
leagues to the north,” the man answered. “I’ll send someone immediately.”

Fidgen
suddenly felt very tired. “Do what you like. I’ll not risk my life in this
hall for another moment.” He let both swords drop to the floor, and retrieved
his harp. The people moved away from him in fear and respect.

One of the
old women came up to him, and placed a hand on his arm as he put the harp in
its case. “Stay, please,” she said. “We have precious little honor left, but
the women of this caer would not let you come to harm.”

He patted
her hand. “I have heard the highland women are just as fierce as the men, and
I believe it,” he said. “But your energy would be better put to use putting
this house in order. I can take care of myself.”

He left the
hall and stood for a moment in the cold dark courtyard. He did not know where
his pack had gone. He didn’t even know where his horse had been stabled. He
knew he could find these things easily, but weariness threatened to overwhelm
him, and he contented himself with shifting to raven form, flapping heavily to
a high wall, and settling down for a long sleep.

He woke in
the morning to the sounds of movement in the yard below, and he shifted to a
perch that gave him a good view. A group of horsemen had arrived, and one of
them had six colors in her cloak and a harp on her back. Fidgen cocked his
head, trying to hear what she was saying, but he ended up having to fly closer.

“I want to
know if what these men told me is true,” she was demanding from the same man
who had offered the night before to get her. “Where is Laird Fingal?”

“Dead,” he
replied shortly. “Fallen on his sword right after beheading his whore.”

“Then who
is in charge?”

The man
spread his hands. “No one. Which is why we need your help more than ever.”

She sighed
in exasperation. “And your name is?”

“Rory
MacGregor.”

“And I am
Bard Slaine MacAbbot,” she said. “I ask permission to enter this caer to
perform those duties I have been entrusted with.”

“You are
welcome here, and we are grateful for your presence,” Rory replied.

“So am I to
believe that a student bard came here, challenged Fingal, beat him, and walked
away?”

“That’s
what happened,” Rory said. “He didn’t even take his horse.”

Slaine
shook her head. “What was his name?”

“Fidgen.”

“The same
Fidgen that ensnared Chieftain Catriona?”

“That’s
what he claimed.”

Slaine
frowned for a moment, then scanned the walls with a thoughtful look, like she
was considering her next move. But when she saw the raven, she fixed it with a
stare. “You know,” she said slowly, “That’s not the only story told about
him. He also bested the Pooka.”

Rory
paled. “We’re lucky he didn’t raze the caer.”

“Not that
one,” Slaine said, still staring at Fidgen. “He knows the limits of his power,
unlike Laird Fingal.” She looked at Rory. “Let’s go inside and deal with the
living and the dead. This has been a long time coming, and it shames me that
it took someone from outside the Mounts to deal with it.”

Everyone
moved inside, and Fidgen took flight, heading deeper into the mountains. He
sheltered that night with a crofter and his family that had never heard of him,
but hungered for news from the rest of the world. He told them all he knew,
but he did not tell them about the Pooka, Chieftain Catriona, or Laird Fingal.
They fed him and praised his skill with both story and harp. And in the
morning he moved on, to another isolated dun that had never heard of him. The
highlanders treated him well, and the bad taste that Laird Fingal had left in
his mouth finally began to fade.

As the
summer gave way to fall, however, the stories began to spread faster than he
could fly. A week before Samhain, he asked for permission from a dun Chieftain
who said, “Fidgen, you say? You’re welcome to play for us, as long as you tell
the story of how you bested the Pooka.”

Fidgen
sighed. “Perhaps I should move on, then. I don’t want to spend my time with
you telling stories about myself.”

The
chieftain held up his hands. “My pardons, bard Fidgen! I meant no offense.”

“None taken,”
Fidgen said, “But I am only a student.”

“And a fine
one by all accounts,” the man said. “I am chieftain Lucas MacLamont, and I
promise not to ask you for your own stories. But a full bard arrived here
yesterday, and perhaps, if you would like, we will have her tell the stories,
and you can simply verify them.”

“Perhaps,”
Fidgen said. “What is the bard’s name?”

“Slaine
MacAbbot.”

She didn’t
let him play at all that night, but insisted that he simply listen for a
change. He heard her tell the story of the Pooka in almost the exact words he
had told it to Fenella. And he heard about himself dealing with Chieftain Catriona
and Laird Fingal. The people of the dun raised their glasses to him after each
story, and Chieftain Lucas served him as he would a hero. Fidgen felt very
conspicuous, but tried to accept the praise as graciously as he could.

After the
dun settled down for the night, he approached Slaine. “Have you been chasing
me since Caer Gorvan?” he said.