The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (5 page)

“Mostly,”
she said as she put her harp away. “But it’s hard to keep up with a wraith. I
thought that maybe you had gone into the lowlands at first, but my gut said
otherwise. It took me awhile to realize that you were trying to stay ahead of
your own stories, but when I did, I pushed hard to come here. I’ve been in the
area for over a week, and was about to give up.”

He spread
his hands. “I seem to be starring in more stories than I am telling.”

Slaine
shrugged. “It does happen, you know.”

“So why try
to find me?”

“A couple
of reasons,” Slaine said. “First of all, you need to know that Caer Gorvan was
an anomaly. It was simply ill luck that you happened there, and even worse
with your reputation. The bards have known about Fingal’s behavior for years,
but we’ve never been able to prove anything.”

“Let me
guess: none of his people would speak against him.”

“Right,”
she said. “So we’ve been waiting for the opportunity to render a true judgment
on him for a long time.”

Fidgen
snorted. “It was the first caer I stopped at in the highlands. But I have
since discovered how very different the rest are.”

“I’m glad.
But there is one other thing that I need you to be aware of,” Slaine said. “I
spread the story of your fight first, before anyone else could, and I
purposefully left out the fact that you used two swords.”

“Why is
that?”

“Because I
have only ever heard of one other person fighting in that style,” Slaine said.
“Fortunately for you, most warriors in Duvnecht don’t pay attention to stories
of Cairnecht battles, even if they did involve the Tanist of Gwynedd.”

Fidgen
nodded. “But you think the full tale will get out, and others will make the
connection.”

“It’s
possible,” Slaine said. She slung her harp on her back. “It’s late, and it’s
been a busy night for me. Sleep well, Fidgen.”

“Sleep
well, Slaine.”

But he
didn’t go the room that Chieftain Lucas had given him, but instead walked
outside. The moon was just rising over the mountains, and the air was much
colder than he had expected. He breathed deep anyway, and thought about all
the bard had told him, and some of the things she had not said.

In the
morning, he found the bard at breakfast and said, “I could use some advice.”

Slaine set
down her bread. “I’ll try and help, if I can.”

Fidgen sat
down across from her and said, “I need to find a place to winter. Do you have
any ideas?”

“You could
head for the lowlands. You’ve got a couple of weeks of travel left.”

Fidgen
shook his head. “I like the fierceness of the Mounts. And I think I am going
to need to experience the fierceness of the winter here, too.”

Slaine
cocked her head. “But I’m guessing you’ll need some time for introspection,
too.”

He gave her
a lopsided smile. “I have a few things to ponder.”

She drummed
her fingers for a minute. “I think that Caer Bath is going to be your best
bet,” she said finally.

“Isn’t that
a large caer?”

“It is,”
Slaine said. “Home of Lord Bettany, and some four thousand souls besides. But
that means that you will be able to disappear without much comment, which you
can’t do in a small caer or a dun.”

“What is
Lord Bettany like?” Fidgen asked.

“Loud and
boisterous,” Slaine said. “But also generous and good. And bluntly honest.
Even if you don’t want to know what he thinks, he’ll tell you anyways.”

“Are his
people the same?” Fidgen asked.

“That they
are.” Slaine shrugged. “It can be a little off putting to outsiders.”

Fidgen
grunted. “I could use some blunt honesty right now. Caer Bath it is, then.”

Slaine
said, “Would you mind if I tagged along? I can run interference for those
times that it gets too overwhelming and you need to disappear.”

Fidgen
looked at her closely, but she seemed to be genuinely interested in helping. “I
could use a friend,” he admitted.

“Then let’s
go,” Slaine said, trying not to look relieved and not quite succeeding. “It’s
a hard road from here to Caer Bath, and we need to beat the weather.”

It took
three weeks, with pauses for two small snow storms, to reach Caer Bath. Fidgen
let Slaine do most of the talking during the ride, and gained a deep affection
for the bard. She had completely average looks, bordering on homely, but the
hours they spent together made her attractive nonetheless. It helped that they
shared a passion for music, and that her storytelling skills were superb. She
told him of blood feuds and epic courtships, heroic stands to defend honor, and
gross betrayals. She told him of her youth in the lowlands of Duvnecht, and
all the prejudices she had learned against the highlanders, and how it had all
changed when she had become a bard. She had spent two full seasons at Caer
Anleshrop, and had considered becoming the laird’s bard teulu.

Athdar,
Lord Bettany, greeted them warmly and openly. When they asked if they could
stay for the winter, he gave them each a small room in the main keep, and they
returned the favor by playing often for his busy hall. Fidgen used the time to
get to know the people, but he would also spend hours on his own, sometimes in
his own form, sometimes not, trying to get a handle on all the new changes in
his life.

Slaine
proved to be a rock during the long nights when the wind howled and the sky had
turned into a maelstrom of snow and ice. Her gentle steadiness and her fierce
protection of him made him feel unworthy. She noticed, but waited for him to
trust her enough to talk. He finally did one bright and snowy day, sitting on a
high wall where he could feel the winds tousling his hair as he told her about
Math, Arianrhod, and Gilventhy. He didn’t have to tell her not to tell anyone
else; she knew, and accepted his trust with the same calm kindness that she had
shown him all along.

As the long
winter grudgingly began to give way to spring, he said, “I am going to have to
leave soon.”

“Ollave
Fenella settled in Dun Esson, in case you hadn’t heard,” Slaine said.

“Thank you,”
he replied. “I thought, many months ago, that spring would feel like a release
from prison, and that I would enjoy being on my own again. But leaving friends
is not freedom, it’s a particularly brutal form of torture.”

She touched
his hand. “Lord Bettany has asked me to stay here as a bard teulu, and I have
accepted. So you will have someplace to come back to, when you can.”

“Why have
you done all this for me?” he said.

“All what?”

“The
mentoring, the counseling… the love.” Fidgen shook his head. “I don’t deserve
any of it.”

“But you
do,” she said, taking his hand. “And when you know it, then you’ll be able to
do this for someone else in your time.”

“Thank you,”
he said, kissing her cheek. “You have given me a great gift.”

He left two
days later, on a horse Athdar had given him, and a travel pack bulging with
supplies, he rode to Dun Esson. The air was still cold, but the sun felt warm
on his face, and he left Caer Bath feeling more hopeful than he had in a long
time.

Even Ollave
Fenella’s penetrating stare a week later did not faze him. “So tell me what
you have seen and done,” she said with her typical brusqueness. He started
with the lowlands, giving her an account of all that he had seen and all the
people he had met. He paused briefly before telling her about Laird Fingal,
but gave her all the details that Slaine had left out of the story. And he
told her about fleeing through the highlands until Slaine found him, and all
she had taught him through the long winter months.

At the end
of it, he folded his hands and waited for Fenella’s judgment. She said nothing
at first, but paced back and forth. She finally stopped and faced him. “There
is something you need to hear,” she said. “It may be hard, I don’t know. But
I don’t want you hearing it from another.”

Fidgen
frowned. “Am I not ready for the next phase of training?”

“What? No,
you’re ready,” Fenella said. “You’ve done an exceptional job in your time with
me, and I’ll be sending you to Leinath soon.”

“Then what
is it?” Fidgen said.

“It is news
from Gwynedd,” Fenella said. “A new Lord has been chosen and accepted by both
Ard Righ and the prince of Cairnecht.”

“Who is it?”
Fidgen asked.

“Bran.”

“But Bran
is just a kern, a member of Math’s household.”

Fenella
shook her head. “He claims the title by the ancestry of Don. And nobody in
Caer Don has disputed it.”

It took two weeks to ride
from Dun Esson to Caer Liadhnán in Cantref Killdare. It gave him plenty of
time to digest the news that Fenella had given him. She didn’t have any
specifics, but he was sure that they would slowly start trickling through the
land.

As he rode,
the wide grasslands gave way to rolling hills covered in fields of barley and
wheat. There was an old saying that Duvnecht protected the land and Leinath
fed it, and he could well believe it. A few areas were given over to sheep or
cattle, but unlike the sprawling openness of the lowlands, the Leinathmen kept
their herds in smaller, fenced pastures. And when he reached Caer Liadhnán he
found that although it had nearly as many people as Caer Bath, it felt more
like a city and less like a fortress.

Ollave
Laoban macDommach was a tall skinny man, though he appeared shorter thanks to
his stooped shoulders. But his eyes were kind, and he greeted Fidgen warmly. “Get
settled, and take a day or two to get a feel for the caer and its inhabitants,
and then we will begin your assessment.”

“Assessment?”
Fidgen said.

“Yes,”
Laoban said with a smile. “Most students have begun using magic by this stage,
and my first task is to figure out how much you know, and how much control you
have. Although officially only a year long, I have students who have been with
me for over two now. It’s all a matter of control.”

The image
of the fallen tower and his uncle’s dead eyes immediately spring to mind. He
shook his head to clear it. “I can’t promise you much,” he said.

“What’s to
promise?” Laoban said. “This is to determine what direction I need to lead you
in, not which path you’ve travelled so far. So go on, and I will talk more
with you later.”

The first
thing Fidgen noticed about the people of Caer Liadhnán was that they talked
about the weather constantly: what it was doing now, what had been like a year
or a decade ago, and what might happen tomorrow. Listening more closely, he
realized it all had to do with the crops and how they might or might not fare
as the season progressed. The people also greeted him more warmly than they
had in Duvnecht, with little suspicion or hesitation. When he asked Lithgen, Lord
Killdare, if he could play for the hall, he responded with unreserved welcome
and gratefulness.

He asked
Laoban about it the next day. “You’ll find most Leinathmen to be like that,”
the bard answered. “They have a great concern for their farming, and where and
how to sell the crops, but are some of the nicest people around. I would warn
you about the merchants, though; they won’t exactly steal from you, but you’ll
feel that way after bartering with them.”

“Leinath is
all traders and farmers, then?” Fidgen asked.

“As much as
Duvnecht is all warriors and Airu is all priests, yes.” Laoban looked at him
closely. “And you have the cast of Cairnecht, so you must be Cymry. Am I
right?”

Fidgen
smiled and said, “I am a student bard, and that is all.”

“And learning
well, I see,” Laoban said approvingly. “So let’s get you going then. I have
about twenty students right now, in all stages of training, but every one of
them started like you will: with an assessment. The first step is to meet them
all, which you will do this afternoon. Find me here after lunch, and I will
take you there.”

“How should
I spend my time until then, Ollave?” Fidgen asked.

“Find a
quiet corner of the yard.” Laoban said. “Play your harp. Feel the
subharmonies, get in tune with them.”

“Subharmonies?”
Fidgen asked blankly.

“Bardic
magic,” Laoban said. “We’ll talk about what subharmonies are and how to use
them later.”

Fidgen
found a few hay bales next to the outer wall. He sat and pulled out his harp,
tuning it while he watched the bustle of the yard. Cows were being led out to
pasture by cheerful men, and a frustrated boy coaxed a goat to what looked like
a milking stool. Six women chatted loudly while churning butter, and three
others sat nearby saying nothing while they concentrated on their mending.
After the grey winter in the highlands, he appreciated the color and energy,
and the fresh air.

He began
playing, matching the music to the activity all around him. He felt the magic
swirling around him strongly, but he could feel threads of it leading away,
connecting him to the other students and Ollave Laoban. But he could also feel
three other bards in the caer, and two children who sang rhymes that pulsed
with power that they seemed unaware of.

Somewhere
out of sight he heard a smith begin hammering a piece of metal, and he tuned
his music to both the rhythm and the tone of it. His sight shifted again,
leaving the bardic realm and seeing the people of the caer as bright motes
making patterns all around him. And below it all, he could feel that the land
had its own magic, pulsing with the seasons and the waxing and waning of the
moon. It was a slower, deeper magic than he had felt before, and despite the
strength, it also seemed to envelope him in security and warmth.

A touch on
his shoulder brought him back to himself in a snap, and he found Ollave Laoban
standing over him. “Most students,” he said, “work on their voice projection
or their illusions. But you; I just saw you join your soul to the magic of
Glencairck itself. Who are you, Fidgen?”

Fidgen
turned the question over in his mind as he turned the harp over in his hands. “I’m
not entirely sure anymore,” he said.

Laoban
reached out and plucked the lowest string on Fidgen’s harp. The note hung
there, and Fidgen felt the Ollave change it, expand it, so that the sound,
barely heard, blocked out all others. “I know a little of what you have done,”
Laoban said. “What I don’t know, what nobody knows, is what you’ll do next.”

“Neither do
I,” Fidgen said. “I have lost my name, my family, my home. I have made a new
name, found some who would call me family, but home is still a will o’ the
wisp.”

Laoban
nodded, and the magic began to fade, letting back in the noise of the yard. “I
don’t think I want you around the other students right now. Come with me.”

He led
Fidgen deep into the keep, down where the must of root vegetables mixed with
the weight of ages. The room where Laoban settled was long and low, with a few
bushels of leathery apples in one corner. “The walls here are thicker than two
men are tall,” Laoban said. “We will meet here in the evenings. Spend today
making sure you can find your way here and back, and I’ll join you after
dinner.”

“Yes
Ollave,” Fidgen said.

Laoban
shook his head and left. Fidgen put his hand on the roughhewn stone of the
wall, then his head. It felt like a mountain carved into a more useful shape,
and he knew that the Ollave was trying to protect himself as much as his
students.

They spent
a week in the storeroom, during which time Fidgen learned a lot about what he
had been doing up to that point. The subharmonies that Laoban had mentioned
turned out to be the way he was able to change the music with his mind, and use
the new tones to affect the world. Laoban had him use it to make his
appearance more threatening, and then make his voice louder. At Laoban’s
direction, he turned the harp music into the sound of every instrument he could
think of, and then changed their voices to mimic Lord Killdare and all the
members of his court. He practiced making illusions like smoky shapes in the
air, and then blowing them away with a different subharmony.

On the
evening of the eighth day, Laoban said, “I think that you’re ready to go wander
about Leinath, much like you did in Duvnecht.”

“But I thought
I was supposed to learn all about bardic magic,” Fidgen said.

“There
isn’t much more I can teach you,” Laoban said. “I can tell you have more than
just bardic magic at your disposal, and I can also tell that you haven’t used
it around me. That’s good; you need to exercise your bardic skills. I cannot
forbid you from using any talent you have, but remember that you are training
to be a bard, and conduct yourself accordingly.”

“Yes, Ollave,”
Fidgen said with a bow. “Do you have any rules or restrictions before I set
out?”

“Yes, and
it’s a very important one,” Laoban said. “Be discreet and very careful about
using magic, because most Leinathmen distrust it.”

Fidgen
blinked. “So I’m supposed to practice bardic magic...” he said slowly.

“And do it
subtly,” Laoban said. “Especially as a student bard, you will be asked to
leave if you do anything showy or too obvious.”

“So how am
I supposed to use my magic in a place where it is not encouraged or
appreciated?”

“That’s
part of what you’re going out to learn, isn’t it?” the Ollave said. “Trust me,
opportunities will present themselves, often unexpectedly, and sometimes
dramatically. I told you the people have little use for magic; the land itself
is something else entirely.”

Fidgen
shook his head, but said nothing more. He packed his few belongings and left
the caer before the noon, headed east. His intention was to head for the
coast, and then loop around the perimeter of Leinath. But the first caer he
stopped in changed his plans.

Laird Darin
MacGarrod greeted him warmly, but as the evening wore on, Fidgen could tell
that something was bothering him. “Laird,” said Fidgen, “is there anything I
can for you or your people?”

Darin waved
it away. “It’s not really for a student bard to worry about, and besides, my
own bard is looking into it.”

“Where is
your bard?” Fidgen asked.

“Well, that
is a part of my trouble,” the laird answered. “I’m not entirely sure. I sent
him to investigate some troubling reports from one of my duns, and he hasn’t
returned yet.”

“How long
has it been?”

“Just a
week,” Darin replied. “I’m just surprised I haven’t heard anything at all.
Perhaps you could go and find him? His name is Manus MacTeigue.”

“I would be
honored,” Fidgen replied.

He left in
the morning, headed south on a road that wound through low green hills. He
rounded a bend and was surprised to find the outline of a huge horse on one
slope in bright white lines. He wondered at first how it had been done, but as
he got closer, he could see that the grass had been cut away to reveal the
limestone beneath. He wondered at the meaning, since someone obviously spent
time and effort to maintain it.

The dun he
sought was on the far side of the hill from the horse portrait. He stopped at
the gate, and called out. “What seek ye, stranger?” said the man who appeared
at the wall.

“I ask
permission to enter and play for the dun,” Fidgen said.

The man
shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Fidgen had
never been denied entrance to a dun before. “May I ask why not?”

The man
sighed. “Because something strange has been going on, and I’ll not risk a
student bard when a full bard could not help us.”

“Are you
talking about Manus MacTeigue? Do you know where he is?”

The man
gestured to the hill of the horse. “Go to the top and you’ll find him. But
don’t expect much; he’s under an enchantment of some sort, and sits with eyes
open but sees nothing.”

Fidgen
looked back at the hill. “I’ll do what I can for him, then.”

The man
shuddered. “Better ye than me, lad,” he said, and disappeared back into the
dun.

Fidgen
turned his horse, and followed a weaving path up to the top of the hill. As
the guard said, he found Manus sitting cross legged staring out at nothing. At
least he assumed it was Manus; he was a fairly nondescript man, but he had a
harp in his lap, and nothing Fidgen did made him even flinch. He waved his
hands and danced around, and yelled in his ear. Even pushing him got no
response; it was like pushing a tree, where he could feel some give, but Manus
stayed upright.

Fidgen
looked around, but saw nothing but blue skies and rolling green hills. It was
a pleasant view, but nothing about it felt even remotely magical. He hobbled
his horse, took out his harp, and began to play.

At first,
he felt nothing, even when he turned the bardic magic on Manus. Despite the
appearance of a strong enchantment, there was nothing that felt out of place.
He finally realized that the lack of magic was the indicator he was seeking.
His magic did not see Manus, because Manus was invisible, just another feature
of the land. It was a strong and subtle illusion, like the one the Pooka had
taught him, and Fidgen spent the next hour looking for any traces of the
trickster. But if the Pooka were involved in any way, he could not find it.

The sun dipped
towards the horizon, and Fidgen thought about finding a place to camp off the
hilltop when Manus suddenly spoke. “Here she comes,” he said.

“Here who
comes?” Fidgen said, but Manus just pointed in the direction he was staring.
Fidgen looked, but at first saw nothing. Then between one blink and the next
he saw her.