The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (9 page)

He touched
the strings, bringing forth a soft chord, and the crowd sighed. As he began
his first song, a lament of a sailor far from home, he felt the magic he had
felt outside the gate swirl about him, unfamiliar and demanding, though not in
a menacing way. His sang every sea folk song he knew, and both the people and
their magic absorbed every note. The magic especially interested him. It
didn’t try to fight him like the curse of Dyfed had; instead, it seemed to feed
on the music, drinking it like a man dying of thirst. He looked up and saw all
the people with the same look, a relief that made no sense to him.

Fidgen
began to feed magic into his songs, slowly and subtly, looking for truth. The
people began to fade, going from a fire lit crowd to just hundreds of shining
eyes, seemingly suspended in the air. He blinked, and even the eyes
disappeared, and the hall was empty and cold, echoing back his song in strange
subharmonies that were part of what he felt. He looked up at the king, but
instead of the strong man who had talked to him, all that remained was a wraith
of an ancient man.

Fidgen did
not stop playing, but he said, “You and your people are ghosts?”

“You bards
always did see the truth of the matter,” Anghos said. “Taliesin bound us here
under the Compact, and every Samhain, a bard comes and plays for us for a full
day, which keeps us satisfied--and bound--for another year.”

“But it’s
not Samhain now,” Fidgen said.

“And under
the rules of the Compact, that means that you belong to us,” Anghos said. “Forever.”

For the next three days,
Fidgen cursed Kyle in every way he could imagine. The Firbolg, who had
reappeared when he stopped playing, watched him with amusement. When he paused
because he was too angry to think, or when his throat was too dry to speak
anymore, they would call out helpful suggestions to get him going again.

When his
anger finally passed, he began to play, and to think. The first thing he
thought about was breaking the Compact. The magic bound the dead tightly, but
he realized quickly that only the diligence of the living kept it going. The
first question he asked King Anghos was, “How did you keep the Compact when
Cathbar overthrew the bards?”

“He didn’t
get rid of all the bards,” Anghos said. “He knew what he needed to do to
maintain order, and one of those things was keeping the Compact.”

“But
towards the end, in Third Bardic War, he deliberately threw the country into
chaos,” Fidgen said. “Did someone keep the Compact then?”

Anghos
nodded. “Canvan, the faithful. For fifty years he and only he would fulfill
the Compact, starting in those dark days when Cathbar fought Amergin, and
continuing to his death.”

Fidgen,
still playing, said, “What would happen if I left?”

“You wouldn’t
be able to,” Anghos said coldly. “We would stop you.”

“I’m sorry,”
Fidgen said. “I did not mean to offend or alarm you. I have no intention of
breaking the Compact, but I was wondering what might happen if someone did.”

“Asking
does no good, unless you mean to try,” Anghos said. “And we would kill you
before we let you leave.”

Fidgen
stopped playing, stood up, and looked the king in the eye. “If I wanted to, I
could leave right now, and there is nothing here that could stop me.”

Anghos
looked furious, and Fidgen felt waves of magic wash over him, trying to bind
him to the Firbolg. He did nothing, just stood as himself, resolute in
maintaining his shape and his identity. The other ghosts in the hall set up a
deathly howl, and banged their fists on the table, but he refused to be
distracted. Everything built up, trying to overwhelm him, but he never broke
eye contact with the king.

Anghos fell
back onto his throne, and both the magic and the noise died away. “What manner
of man are you?” he said incredulously.

“That is
what everyone asks,” Fidgen said. “Including myself.”

“You could
destroy the Compact.”

“Yes.”

“And you
could also destroy us.”

Fidgen
thought about it. “Most likely.”

“Why don’t
you?”

Fidgen sat
back down, and began playing his harp again. “I have learned the danger of
acting impulsively. At least, I hope I have. I will do nothing to the Compact
until I understand it, and am certain that my actions will not cause more harm
than good.”

“You would
do that for us?” Anghos said. “Even when you could wreak your vengeance on
Kyle without a second thought about us?”

“I will
deal with Kyle when the time comes,” Fidgen said. “But for now, I am dealing
with you.”

“That is a
cold comfort,” Anghos said.

Fidgen
smiled grimly. “Help me to understand. Why didn’t Taliesin just destroy you?”

“He said
that we were an important part of Glencairck,” Anghos replied. “He contained
us, but also helped us.”

“And yet
you still wander the earth,” Fidgen said. “When will you be at true peace?”

“He did say
the time would come,” Anghos said.

Fidgen
sighed. “I have no wish to drag this out of you a piece at a time. Can you
tell me your story? How did it happen that you died, but did not rest? And
what happened when Taliesin found you?”

Anghos
settled himself, and his eyes looked into a distant past. “We were a mighty
people once, ruling Glencairck for what we thought would be forever. But we
were conquered by the Tuatha de Dannan, and forced into exile. We returned
many years later, after the Tuatha had been forced into Fairie, and requested a
parcel of land from those in power, descendants of the sons of Myl. Three
kings said no, but the fourth, Eacham, king of Airu, gave us these islands and
the area on the mainland around this bay. And when his grandson Aillel called
on us to help him fight the Duvnechtmen and steal the great Brown Bull of
Coomly, we agreed. My three brothers, and my son, Conall, the delight of my
life and pride of my people, went against the mighty CuChulainn. They knew all
the arts of war, were skilled and battle tested, and still they fell like wheat
before the scythe. My son lasted longest of all, only succumbing to
CuChulainn’s fearsome spear the Gáe Bulga. My heart broke to hear of it, and I
swore that I would have my vengeance on CuChulainn. We girded ourselves for
war, and marched out to meet the mighty warrior. He said he did not want to
destroy us, that we were a noble people. I told him that I would hang his head
on my wall. And then I and my men rushed him. He flew into his battle rage,
which was unlike anything I had ever seen. He went from man to monster in a
blink, and he did not come out of it until every one of us had been slain.

“But our
passion was strong, and we did not rest easily in the earth. For hundreds of
years we cursed this area, stretching as far inland as we could, but always
rooted here on this island. All the fair land and abundant seas we denied to
the living, until Taliesin found us.”

“He came
into our demesne not long after he founded the Bardic Order, and no matter what
we did, he did not fear us. Like you, he stood against us, not in anger or
hate, but just as himself. And when I challenged him to understand our
tragedy, he looked at me with eyes that had seen every manner of death, and
knew every manner of sorrow. I could not bear it, and I thought he would
destroy us. Instead, he asked for our stories. I didn’t know what else to do,
so we gave them to him, every last one. And then came the most amazing thing:
he gave them back.”

“He told
you your own stories?” Fidgen asked.

“Yes, but
not just a retelling,” Anghos said. “He changed them from mere words to
something more.”

“He told
them as a bard,” Fidgen said.

Anghos
nodded. “It was like hearing my soul being sung. We would have done anything
he asked of us. He brought all of us to this island, and then he and I
travelled to the see the Three Weavers, where we made the Compact.”

“Who are
the Three Weavers?” Fidgen asked.

“Three
goddesses who weave the Tapestry of Time,” Anghos said. “Taliesin asked them
how to preserve our people in the fabric of time, and they told us to how to
make the Compact. They also told us that we would be able to rest someday.”

Fidgen
thought about everything he had learned. “So the terms of the Compact are that
you will stay on Innishmor, and the bards will play for you every Samhain. And
if anyone else comes here, they must stay forever.”

“Almost,”
Anghos said. “Whoever comes here is ours to do with as we wish.”

“And how
many people has that been?”

“You are
the first.”

“In 600
years no one else has come here except to fulfill the Compact?” Fidgen said.

“Why would
they?”

“True.”

Fidgen
played for a while, thinking about everything he had heard, seen and felt about
the Firbolg. The pieces felt like a puzzle, and he worried at it until he
reached an answer that made sense. “Sire,” he said, “I would ask a boon of
you.”

“You know
my powers are limited,” Anghos said warily.

“I think
that you can grant this.”

“Then ask.”

“I would
like you to take me to meet the Three Weavers,” Fidgen said.

Anghos
stared at him. “Why would I do that?”

“Because
you can do anything with me that you wish.”

“Humph,”
Anghos said, sitting back. “What trick do you have up your sleeve?”

“No trick,”
Fidgen said. “I just think that we should ask them for clarification on what
you should do with me.”

“Let me
think about it,” Anghos said.

It took two
days, and all the subtle persuasion that Fidgen knew to convince him, but in
the end, all the Firbolg escorted them down the same road he had come up. The
ghosts made little sound as they walked, and they day was overcast, giving the
whole procession the feeling of a funeral march, which Fidgen did his best not
to think about. When they reached the beach, he sighed with relief at the sight
of the little coracle still tied to the same ponderous boulder.

Anghos eyed
the boat warily. “It hardly seems adequate,” he said.

“You’re
already dead,” Fidgen reminded him. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Anghos
snorted, then turned back to his people. “I will return soon. I swear it, and
so has this bard.”

The crowd
rumbled its assent, and Fidgen pushed the coracle into the water. He held onto
it while Anghos stepped aboard, although it barely shifted, and then climbed in
himself. He looked back as he pushed off from shore, and saw the Firbolg fade
into the air. He turned back and found Anghos staring hard at him. “I’m
placing an awful lot of trust in you,” the king said.

“And I
intend to earn it,” Fidgen replied. “Where do we find the Three Weavers?”

“Head for
the northern shore,” Anghos said. “They live in a salt marsh not far from the
sea, but you can’t get there directly.”

“Of course
not,” Fidgen said.

He rowed
them to a muddy beach, where Anghos smirked when he sank up to his ankles.
Fidgen scowled and slogged to a firmer patch of land. “How far is it?” he
asked.

“The safest
way?” Anghos said. “It will take a few days.”

“And the
unsafe way?” Fidgen asked.

Anghos
shrugged. “Maybe a day less.”

Fidgen
wiped his boots against some grass in a vain attempt to clean them. “Just lead
on,” he said, “and try to remember that I am still alive. And would like to
stay that way.”

“It’s not
that unpleasant to be a ghost,” Anghos said.

“It will be
for you if you cause my death.”

Anghos faded
slightly, but said nothing. He turned and began leading them along a path that
only he could see. Fidgen followed with only a bit of hesitation, wondering
what he was getting himself into.

It took
three days of solid trudging around the perimeter of the swamp to reach the
home of the Three Weavers. Not having much else to do, he asked Anghos to tell
him more about the Firbolg, and Anghos responded slowly at first, but then with
obvious pride as he recounted stories of battles and romances from the time
before the Tuatha came to Glencairck. On the morning of the third day, they
trekked through a thin mist until Anghos pointed and said, “There it is.”

Fidgen
hadn’t known what to expect, but it had not been smooth white limestone walls
punctuated by stained glass windows in vivid colors. The roof appeared to be
limestone as well, with a chimney that dribbled a steady stream of smoke.
Three steps led from the mud onto a covered porch, and Fidgen felt very
conscious of the dirt he was tracking onto the shining stone. He looked at the
solid black door in front of him, and his vision shifted for a moment; instead
of looking at wood or even stone, he felt like he was looking into an abyss.
He shook his head to clear the vision and lifted his hand to knock.

The door
opened before he could touch it, and a beautiful young woman greeted him. “Come
in,” she said with a bright smile. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Fidgen
followed the sway of her hips into a room that held only a loom and a spinning
wheel. A middle-aged woman, stout but still attractive, sat in front of the
loom, her hands busy picking the shuttle though the threads. An old woman, her
bright silver hair and wrinkles unable to hide her beauty, sat behind the loom,
adding some threads to the pattern, and snipping others with a pair of bronze
shears. The young woman said, “They’re here, mother.” She went and sat at the
spinning wheel but did not touch it.

The
middle-aged woman stopped working and looked at them. “Welcome, King Anghos of
the Firbolg, and Bard Fidgen. I am Weaver Roinnar, and this is my daughter,
Rothlu, and my mother, Reitigh.”

“I am
honored to be here,” Fidgen said with a bow.

“It took
you long enough,” Reitigh said.

“You were
expecting me?”

“Of course,
dear,” Roinnar said.

“We didn't
know you’d be so handsome, though,” Rothlu said.

“I’ve seen
better,” Reitigh muttered.

“Shush,
mother,” Roinnar said. “He’s quite appealing, as you well know.” She turned
back to Fidgen. “Very little is good enough for her, but pay her no mind; it’s
just her nature.”

“So if you
knew I was coming, do you know why I’m here?” Fidgen asked.