“And I saved Moryus’ life.”
“Twice, mind you,” Cofach said. “He’d follow you over a cliff, he would.”
Gwydion focused on the chieftain. “And what do you think?”
Cofach shrugged. “You’ve proven yourself when you didn’t even have to be involved. I don’t know you, but I trust my Laird, and I will follow him when he follows you.”
“Thank you.”
Cofach just grunted in reply, but Gwydion could tell he was pleased. He left the next day, but found the story had sped ahead of him. He spent the rest of the summer among a much more open and accepting people than he had expected. And he gained an appreciation for their rough and tumble lives that made him feel strangely humble, as though he could never live up to their expectations of him.
Chapter 2: Company
Gwydion had just turned his steps north towards Caer Dathyl when he encountered a bardic company on the road. He didn’t recognize any of them, but their leader, a gangly man with unruly black hair, said, “Hail, Tanist!” in a voice that was much deeper than Gwydion had expected.
Gwydion knew enough about the bards to bow and say, “Hail, Ollave. Where are you and your company headed?”
“To Dyfed for a bit,” the man answered. “I am Ollave Aodhgán, and I am leading this company throughout Cairnecht this season.”
“I am sure my uncle has already given you welcome, but allow me to add my own,” Gwydion said.
“Math did indeed feast us well these last two months,” Aodhgán said.
“You’ve been at Caer Dathyl that long?” Gwydion said.
“Well, I have.” He gestured to his company. “These fine bards have been out judging among the small caers and duns, wandering much as I hear you have.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t run into any of them,” Gwydion said.
“As are we,” a young bard with straight brown hair said.
“But we are met now,” Aodhgán said. “If you have a few hours, perhaps we could share a meal, and maybe swap a story or two?”
“I would like that,” Gwydion said.
They found a place off the road to set up camp. Two of the bards went to a nearby stream for water, two more made a fire, two took care of the horses, and two began setting up tents. Gwydion sat next to Aodhgán, watching it all with a twinge of guilt. “Isn’t there something I can do?”
“Not really,” Aodhgán said. “We have this down pretty well, as you can see.”
“Are all bardic companies this organized?”
One of the bards, a young woman carrying an armload of firewood snorted. Aodhgán said, “Not really, as Eithne’s reaction might indicate. But I like to keep my company in good order.”
“I see,” Gwydion said.
“But while we wait for dinner, could I pick your brains a bit?” Aodhgán said. “We like to get a feel for the lay of the land as we travel, but your people are a bit tight lipped with outsiders, even when they wear the star of the bards.”
Gwydion grinned. “I get some of that myself.”
“But I hear that you’ve proven yourself to some of your lairds and chieftains,” Aodhgán said.
“It wasn’t much,” Gwydion shrugged.
“So you didn’t save Laird Moryus from an ambush and a thrown dagger? And on your first ever cattle raid no less?”
“Well, yes,” Gwydion said. “But I have heard some of the stories from that night as well, and I did not turn into either a ravenous wolf or an angry bull.”
“Too bad,” Aodhgán said. “It makes the story more interesting. Can you tell me what did happen?”
“Why?” Gwydion said.
“The truth is important to us,” Aodhgán said. “We like the tall tales as much as anyone, and will embellish when we feel it’s warranted, but we also like to keep an accurate account of things.”
“I thought you guys just judged when you travelled.”
“That’s only part of our job,” Aodhgán said. One of the bards handed them each a plate with a slice of ham and cheese and a crust of bread on the side. “Thank you, Essoghan,” he said. The bard sketched a quick bow, and joined the others around the fire with their own plates.
“What kinds of things came up in Caer Dathyl?” Gwydion said. “If you can talk about it, that is.”
“We can about some,” Aodhgán said. “But how about your stories for ours? Would that be a fair trade?”
Gwydion said, “I think it might be.”
He spent dinner telling them about the cattle raid, and about the other caers and duns he had visited. Occasionally one of the other bards would interject a comment about a judgment that had been made in that area either before or after Gwydion’s visit. As dinner wound down, Gwydion said, “I’m surprised I didn’t hear about these judgments, or even that the bards were around.”
“Why would you?” Aodhgán said.
“Well, I am Tanist.”
“Ah, but it sounds as though you have only recently proven yourself to your people.”
“There is that,” Gwydion said. “It makes me even more surprised that the people would open up to you at all.”
“We are bards,” Aodhgán said. “Our tradition spans centuries, and we have proven ourselves many times over.”
“At Caer Dathyl, people always bring their complaints to Math to be judged.”
“And that’s proper,” Aodhgán said. “But suppose that Math’s judgment was suspect for some reason.”
“No one would accuse Math of such a thing,” Gwydion said quickly.
“I’m not saying they would,” Aodhgán said. “Okay, think about the Ard Righ. One of his sons, Bessac, is known to be a bit of a rowdy, and he has gotten into trouble a time or two. Would you take a complaint about him to Ard Righ Fergus, who is known to be much more lenient with his sons than he should be?”
“Not if there is a history of him going easy on Bessac.”
“And there is. So who do you seek justice from?”
Gwydion nodded. “So that is the role of the bards. To provide an impartial decision.”
Aodhgán shrugged. “Mind you, we’re only human, too. We don’t always get it right, but we try very hard, and we’re trained for it.”
“What happens if someone feels the bards are wrong?”
“You can take it to the Pen Bardd,” Aodhgán said. “He consults everyone before making a final decision, but his word is final.”
“It seems like that would go to his head,” Gwydion said.
Aodhgán nodded. “Power can be seductive, and we always have the example of Cathbar, who overthrew the Ard Righ and set himself up as the King Bardd. Notice, though that it was the bards themselves who overthrew Cathbar in turn, and restored the High Kingship.”
“Like you said, you’re trained for it.”
“We sure are,” Aodhgán said. “So if you hear of something in your travels, feel free to seek us out. There’s usually a bardic company nearby, but even a free bard or Bard Teulu has the right to make a judgment.”
“Thank you,” Gwydion said. “I will keep that in mind.”
“Now, how about a song or two?” Aodhgán said, pulling out his harp. The other bards began pulling out instruments, including a fiddle, a bodhran, and a flute.
“I thought all bards played the harp,” Gwydion said as he pulled his own from its case.
“And we do,” Aodhgán said. “But all bards have a secondary instrument, which is good, because let’s face it: nine harps playing are pretty boring. So every night, in my company, we play something different. Sometimes we even try out new instruments, to stretch our skills.”
Gwydion watched as Eithne gave her pan pipes to another bard, and took his uillean pipes in return. Her face clearly indicated that she felt she had gotten the worse deal.
“What would happen,” he said, “if a bard had a disagreement with another bard?”
“Ah, yes,” Aodhgán said. “Well, we try to keep it from happening, of course…”
&nb
sp; “But you’re only human,” Gwydion said.
“That we are. So a bard may challenge another bard, with the only weapon we have: satire.”
“And then what?” Gwydion prompted.
Aodhgán looked around. “Look,” he said, “This is not really for non-bards, okay?”
“Is it secret?”
“No, not exactly,” Aodhgán said. “But would you want to talk about how you and your Uncle settle your disagreements?”
“He just tells me what to do, and I do it,” Gwydion said. “It’s not a mystery.”
“But do you like that arrangement, where your uncle’s word is law?”
Gwydion laughed. “Sure, I’d like him to see my point of view more often.”
“You laugh, but it covers some bitterness. Would you like to explain?”
“No,” Gwydion said slowly. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“And that’s what I’m talking about,” Aodhgán said. “Yes, bards sometimes disagree. But I’m not comfortable going into the details with you. It’s a little personal.”
“Okay, I get it,” Gwydion said. “So why you don’t just call in another bard to render judgment?”
“Depending on the nature of the disagreement, we might,” Aodhgán said. “And depending on what you and your uncle disagreed about, you could, too.”
Gwydion plucked a string mindlessly. “I can’t think of a time when I would want to do that.”
“That’s not a bad thing, you know,” Aodhgán said. “Do you know The Plooboy Laddie?”
Gwydion shook his head. “It doesn’t sound familiar.”
“It’s pretty easy,” Aodhgán said. “We use it to warm up, and get used to whatever we’re playing. Listen to the opening phrase, and see if you can copy it.” He played a simple melody. Gwydion watched his fingers while he listened, and managed to play it back fairly smoothly.
“Excellent!” Aodhgán said. “Just keep playing that; it repeats throughout the song. When you’re comfortable, throw in a riff or change up. And away we go!”
Gwydion played with the bards for a couple of hours, and even tried his hand at some of the other instruments, although he did not care for any of them. He had never been with a group who loved music the way he did, and it surprised him how at ease he felt. For their part, the bards treated him not as an outsider, but as a distant cousin just discovered. Gwydion was careful to use no magic, but the winds left him alone for the most part anyway. As it got later, bards bowed out and retreated to their tents, until all that remained were Aodhgán and himself.
A great yawn interrupted Gwydion’s playing, and he said, “Many pardons.”
Aodhgán waved it away. “It’s late. We should both be asleep.”
“I know, but I’m having too much fun,” Gwydion said. “You’re not like other Ollam I’ve met.”
“Like who?” Aodhgán said.
“Kyle.”
Aodhgán nodded. “He was there when you were named heir apparent, right?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised, that you know, but it still catches me off guard,” Gwydion said.
Aodhgán shrugged. “It’s part of my duties to know these things. I can also guess that Kyle came off as a pompous windbag.”
“I would never put it that way,” Gwydion said.
“But I would,” Aodhgán said. He shrugged. “There are some of the Ollam that are like that. I hope that I showed you a different side to us tonight.”
“That you did!” Gwydion said. “So much so, that I wish I could go with you tomorrow.”
Aodhgán began putting away his harp. “We all have things we wish he could do.”
Gwydion took the hint and pulled his harp case up onto his lap. “I could at least escort you to the border.”
“I would like that,” Aodhgán said. “Until the morning then.”
Gwydion spent the next two days with them, playing every time they stopped, and generally seeing the world through their eyes. At the Dyfi River, he bade them farewell, saying, “Luck in your travels.”
“And in yours,” Aodhgán replied.
Gwydion shrugged. “My time on the road is almost done, I’m afraid. I might stop at another caer or two, but it is time for me to return to Caer Dathyl.”
“And our time does not end until the snow flies,” Aodhgán said. “We’ll spend a couple of months in Dyfed, and then we’ll probably winter in Clwyd. But perhaps we’ll swing through Gwynedd again in the spring or summer.”
“It would be good to see you,” Gwydion said. Watching them ford the river into Dyfed, Gwydion had a sudden impulse to join them and abandon his responsibilities. But instead he heaved a great sigh, and turned towards home.
Chapter 3: Plans
“I want her, Gwydion, and I think she wants me too.”
The two young men rode through the forest east of Caer Dathyl, taking their leisure while the dogs sniffed out a deer.
“Gil, you're dreaming. She's completely devoted to Math, and you're not going to change that.”
“But if I could just get her alone for a while...”
Gwydion laughed. “What, you think you can sweet talk her into to loving you? How long do you think she's alone in a day, anyway? She spends all of her time holding the old man's feet.”
“No she doesn’t,” Gil said. “I talk to her at night, in the great hall, after Math goes to bed.”
“So seduce her then.”
Gil snorted. “Right, with a hall full of people watching. Not even you are that bold.”
“But it’s night, and she’s ready for bed…” Gwydion said.
“She would never do anything if she thought Math might call. And he does you know, at all hours of the day and night.” Gilventhy slapped his riding gloves on his pommel. “We've got to lure him away for a while.”
Gwydion pulled up sharply. “Now you're talking idiocy,” he said, all traces of mirth gone. “You know that the only time he would be without a footholder is if he went to war, and when do you think that will happen?”
“It could happen anytime,” Gilventhy said defensively. “Gwynedd has plenty of enemies.”
“And none of them are crazy enough to attack us right now.”
The larger boy looked at his cousin sideways. “But they might be able to be tricked by a talented man...”
Gwydion laughed again. “You are the flatterer, aren't you? You might have a chance with Goewin after all.” He sobered abruptly as the hounds began to bell. “We'll talk of this later.”
They hunted through the morning, bringing home three fat deer for the table. Gwydion could see the impatience in his cousin's eyes, and it amused him, especially since he was learning more and more self-control himself. He made sure that untrustworthy people were around him for the rest of the day, and watched Gil's countenance grow darker.
That night, as Gwydion prepared for bed, Gil burst in. “Well?” the taller boy demanded. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Keep your voice down!” Gwydion said sharply as he closed the door. “We will discuss this if you like, but you need to learn a little discretion.”
“What's to fear?” Gilventhy asked, throwing himself onto the bed. “I'm with the second greatest wizard in Gwynedd.”
“And the first greatest might take offense to what we're discussing. So again I say, keep your voice down!”
Gil subsided while Gwydion poured them drinks. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I guess I'm just a little impatient sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?” Gwydion said dryly. “I think you need to learn some more self-control.”
“Oh, and you're one to talk.”
“I've learned quite a bit in the last year,” Gwydion said.
“Sure. Everything except how to keep your trousers on.”
Gwydion shrugged. “That’s more of a reputation than a reality these days.”
“You? Chaste?” Gil scoffed. “That’ll be the day.”
“As I recall, you wanted to talk about Goewin.”
“Yes, I know her,” Gwydion said. “What I want to know is why I should help you.”
“Because you're the only one who can,” Gil said.
“That's not what I meant. I want to know what's in it for me.”
“The satisfaction of achieving the impossible?”
Gwydion smiled tightly. “Nice try.”
“Whatever you want, I'll get it for you.”
“Anything?”
“Well, anything I can.”
Gwydion tapped the rim of his cup absently. “I want your sister.”
“Mari is an adorable girl.”
“Not Mari. Arianrhod.”
“Arianrhod? But she's so—so—”
“Exactly. I feel the same way when you talk about Goewin.”
Gilventhy grunted. “Okay, so we like different types. Completely different. But I don't know how I'm going to get my sister to even give you a second glance.”
“Well, you figure that out, and I'll figure out how to start a little war. Deal?”
Gilventhy struggled with it for a moment. “Are you sure we're talking about the right sister here? I can't imagine what you see in Arianrhod.”
Gwydion shrugged. “She's a challenge. And I do like to overcome obstacles.”
“Alright, deal.”
After they shook hands on it, Gwydion said, “Now then, I'm tired and I'd like to get some rest.”
“But I thought you might start planning tonight,” Gilventhy complained.
“I am,” he said with a grin. “I'm going to go to sleep and think about it all night long.”
“You can think while you sleep?”
“Can't you?”
Gilventhy looked at him suspiciously. “I think you're teasing me.”
“Possibly,” Gwydion replied, steering him towards the door. “But you may never know, either. Goodnight, cousin.”
During the next couple of weeks, Gwydion used his growing skill with the winds to pick up fragments of conversation from throughout the cantref. People always had a complaint, and a new difficulty soon became apparent: separating the valid complaints from the baseless or petty.
The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) Page 2
