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

by Michael A. Hooten

  “First of all,” Ogmah said, “I want you to give up the idea that you are either Cymry or a bard. You are both, and you aren’t even truly a bard yet. You have already learned a lot of self-control, and to forge this path, you will need even more. Power doesn’t care how it’s used, so it’s up to you to be like Cathbar or like Taliesin.”

  “I don’t want to be like Cathbar,” Gwydion said.

  “Neither did he, at first,” Ogmah said with a sigh. “You would have liked him when he was your age. By the time Amergin was born, you would have hated him. He changed that much. But we’re talking about you. So secondly, you need a new name. Not your true name--that will come later.”

  Gwydion blinked. “I don't know my true name?”

  Ogham smiled. “Don’t be so surprised. Most people don't. Bards, however, need theirs and need to guard it, because if someone discovered it, they could use it to gain power over you. And so for the next little while, you shall go by Fidgen.”

  “But when will I learn my true name?”

  Ogham stroked his beard. “Usually bards learn just before they get the star. But for you? Well, it seems like the timing of things is a little off. So I’ll just say soon.”

  “And I’m guessing soon to a god could be a day or a century.”

  “We do have a different sense of time, it’s true,” Ogmah said. “But I don’t think it will be a century.”

  Gwydion said, “But you’re not sure.”

  Ogmah ignored the jibe and said, “Thirdly, your training will be little different than normal. Usually, you spend some time in each of the five fifths. But you need to stay out of Cairnecht for now. “

  “Is that because I was Tanist?” Gwydion said. “Or because of Caer Dathyl?”

  “Some of both, I would say.” Ogmah looked at him and Gwydion felt the same way as he did when Ruchalia had opened herself to him. His own experience seemed suddenly trivial and insignificant. But Ogmah said, “I know your guilt, how it eats at your confidence and your sense of self, and I promise you that there will be a way to be relieved of it. Be satisfied for now, and do not dwell on it too much. “

  “Do you see the future then?” Gwydion asked.

  “In a way,” Ogmah said. He blinked, hiding himself again. “There are details that no one can predict, and you always have your own free will.”

  Gwydion snorted. “You make it sound like I could walk away from all of this.”

  “You could,” Ogmah said. “The universe is very good at nudging you back towards what it needs, but it will find a replacement if you still refuse. For instance, Amergin was not the first person who could have overthrown Cathbar; he was just the first one who did.”

  “So I both have a destiny and a choice about it.,” Gwydion mused.

  “You do, along with every other mortal. No one is immune from this law. Who was Finn macCuhal?”

  Gwydion said, “One of the greatest warriors of Glencairck, leader of the Fianna in their golden age.”

  “That is true; but how did he die?”

  “Alone and abandoned, because he betrayed his friend Diarmuid out of jealousy, and let him die when he could have saved him.”

  Ogmah sighed. “It wasn't supposed to be like that, you know. He was supposed to have established the Fianna firmly in the land. Instead, it was his grandson Oscar who completed that task.”

  Gwydion did not know what to say.

  “Do you remember the day Math blessed you to be his heir?” Ogmah said.

  “It seems so long ago, but yes, I remember.”

  “He saw that you, like Finn, have a destiny,” Ogmah said. “He also saw in you all along the potential for both great good and great evil. Which would you choose?”

  “I want to be good,” Gwydion said softly. “But I'm scared I won't be.”

  “So last of all, you should trust your instincts,” Ogmah said. “The Creator makes no one to be evil, and if you trust in Him, the guidance you need will find you.”

  Ogmah stood up, and with a clap of his hands, the stools and table disappeared, and Gorsedd Ogham looked the same as it had when Gwydion had first opened his eyes.

  Ogham took his harp back in his hands. “Luck, my young friend,” he said. “You and I will meet again, I think.”

  “Wait!” Gwydion said. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Meditate. Play.” Ogham looked up at the sky. “Columb will be here within a day, I'm thinking. He'll give you your next task.”

  “Can I ask you one last thing before you go?”

  Ogmah chuckled. “I'm sure you have more than one thing.”

  “Yes, but I don't know who else to ask this.”

  “So ask.”

  “Why can't I hear the winds anymore?”

  Ogmah shook his head. “That I cannot answer. It is Cymric magic, and you will have to find the answer somewhere else. I'm sorry.”

  Gwydion sighed. “It was just a thought.”

  “Farewell, young Fidgen,” Ogmah said. “Be good. Be strong.” He faded from view and a moment later, the music faded, too.

  Chapter 2: Pooka

  Fidgen rode slowly northward, rolling his new name around his tongue. He did not feel like a different person exactly, but more like he was wearing a costume or a shape that would allow him to act differently if he chose.

  Columb had arrived just as Ogmah had predicted, and had listened to Gwydion’s tale with a scowl. He didn’t say much after that, although Fidgen had found out that his time with Ogmah had lasted almost ten days. With a great sigh of resignation, the Pen Bardd told him to go to Ollave Fenella in Cantref Kiernally for training. He gave him a horse and a pouch of coins, and told him to be careful. He also gave him a cloak of four colors: three broad stripes of green, white, and brown, with a bright yellow star in the middle. “I know it’s not very stylish,” Columb said as he fastened the clasp. “But it is the mark of your station now. All student bards wear one, and it is recognized all over Glencairck.”

  “Thank you, master,” Gwydion said with a bow.

  Columb sighed and shook his head. “Try to stay out of trouble, would you?”

  Fidgen rode through wide plains of emerald green grass where fat cows munched contentedly. He thought over all that he had knew about Duvnecht, but most everything he knew came from stories. The cattle raid of Cooley had started when Queen Maeve of Airu had invaded the lowlands of Duvnecht to steal a cow, and had ended when CuChulainn defeated her entire army singlehandedly. It was a fantastic tale with many feats of heroism and magic, and Fidgen had always wondered how much of it had been made up. His recent experiences had caused the question to flip in his mind, and now he wondered if any of it was untrue.

  He had plenty to think about, but every time he tried to focus, he felt like he was being watched. He saw very few people except for the occasional cowherd, but the hairs on the back of his neck kept rising.

  He cast about with his Cymric senses, but felt nothing out of the ordinary. On a hunch, he pulled his harp around, and strummed a simple melody, using bardic magic to look for anything unusual, and again found nothing. But the longer he rode, the more uneasy he became.

  That night, as he sat next to his fire, he played a sword dance while he wove a shield around himself and his camp. He worked mostly by intuition, feeling his way through the power that he called with his music. He drew the song to a close, and felt about him, making sure the spell would hold. He still slept fitfully, waking every hour or so, checking his horse and his shield each time.

  When the sun finally rose, he played his harp again, undoing the magic, cursing his own paranoia. But as he broke his camp, he saw fresh hoof prints on the other side of the fire from his horse, and well within the shield he had set up.

  He rode through the day, trying everything he could think of to figure out who or what was following him. And when the sun set, he used his Cymric magic to both shield his camp and to lay a trap for the phantom rider. And again, in the morning, he found recent hoof print
s where none should be.

  That day, he felt haunted despite the warm sunshine and blue skies. Birdsong made him jump, and he strained his eyes and ears looking for something, anything, that would explain the ghost. The third night he stayed up all night, playing his harp, weaving magic, and finding nothing.

  He spent the next day nodding off as he rode, trying to stay in the saddle, and worrying about the spirit dogging him, and what it might want from him. He suddenly wished that he could ask Bethyl to help him search the library for clues. The memory of his afternoons with her brought up a well of emotion that his exhaustion made it hard to fight; he wasn’t even sure if the librarian was still alive.

  As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Fidgen managed to catch a second wind, and he stopped by a rippling stream for the night. An idea tickled his brain, something from a book he had read, and he decided to give it a try. He built a fire, ate half a loaf of bread for energy, and made sure his horse was well tied to a small tree. The he sat with his back against a larger tree, tuned his harp carefully, and began to play just before the sun went down.

  He used no magic, but played to entice. He used all his skill as a musician to infuse the music with an air of mystery and intrigue, the same as had been done by men and women for eons. It was a call to every listener to come closer, and to tickle the ears of those who hadn’t started listening yet.

  The twilight faded into dark, and he continued playing, continued calling. Bright eyes shone around him as the wild creatures responded, putting aside their fear of the fire, but sitting just at the edge of the light. When the logs collapsed with a puff of sparks, they all disappeared except for one pair, glowing bright yellow and unblinking.

  Fidgen continued to play, and slowly the eyes moved closer, coalescing into the face of a black stallion with a long mane. Fidgen watched in awe as it stepped fully into view. Softly he said, “I wonder who you belong to.”

  “To myself, of course,” the horse answered.

  Fidgen blinked in surprise, but did not stop playing. “Are you the one that has been following me then?”

  “I am,” the horse said with a toss of his mane. “Most mortals cannot tell that I am around unless I let them, but you--well, you are interesting to me on many levels.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the Pooka,” the horse said.

  “The infamous trickster?” Fidgen said.

  The Pooka turned into a wizened old man, who doffed his cap and bowed low. “In the flesh.” When Fidgen said nothing, the old man said, “Does this shape repulse you so?”

  “It’s not that,” Fidgen said. “I am simply concerned for my safety. The stories told about you are various, but they all center on how dangerous you are.”

  The little old man smiled, revealing pointed teeth. “Afraid, are you?”

  “I would prefer the term cautious.”

  “A good term, and a better habit,” the Pooka said, turning back into a stallion. “But perhaps you’ll get the better of me.”

  “The only one I know of who did that was Brian Boru,” Fidgen said. “And I’m sure that I will not best you the way he did. He bridled you with three hairs from your own tail, didn’t he?”

  “That he did, and a wild ride we had,” the Pooka said. “He won from me the promise not to kill anyone outright.”

  “That’s not very comforting,” Fidgen said.

  “Maybe, but it has made the game much more interesting for me.”

  “I’m sure,” Fidgen said. “So what do you want from me?”

  “I thought I might show you a wonder,” the Pooka said.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Because you intrigue me. Isn’t that enough?”

  Fidgen shook his head. “I don’t think so. Give me a hair of your tail, and I will consider it.”

  The Pooka snorted. “One won’t do you any good, you know.”

  “No, but it is a third of the way to something, and more than that, it is an act of good faith on your part.”

  “Fair enough.” The Pooka stretched his neck back and very carefully took one strand of his tail in his teeth. With a great whipping motion, he pulled it free, and dropped it in Fidgen’s lap. “There you go,” he said. “Now will you come with me?”

  “How far do we need to go?”

  “Can you shape shift?”

  “Yes,” Fidgen said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Then transform into a horse, and follow me!”

  Fidgen tried to become a black stallion much like the Pooka, but ended up with a more silvery coat instead. The Pooka had already raced ahead, and Fidgen leapt into a gallop, trying to catch him.

  The Pooka led him across the plains, and Fidgen was grateful for a full moon. As it was, the Pooka was so dark that Fidgen almost lost sight of him several times, only finding him again when he whinnied or turned his head so that Fidgen could see his shining yellow eyes.

  The Pooka led him to some rocky hills, where his hooves struck sparks with every footfall. Fidgen expected him to slow, but he kept his breakneck speed, forcing Fidgen to transform into a raven to keep up. The Pooka just laughed at his frustrated cry.

  They finally stopped in a bowl shaped valley with a low mound in the center. Fidgen shifted back to human form and sank to his knees, breathing hard. The Pooka nudged him and said, “You’re going to want to watch that mound.”

  As he caught his breath, Fidgen could feel the power in the valley. “Where are we?” he said.

  “Just watch,” the Pooka said.

  Fidgen sighed and stared at the mound. The moonlight and the shadows made it hard to see clearly. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make them focus, and looked up again just in time to see the mound being split by a line of light.

  The side of the mound opened like a door, and a column came out, marching in stately procession in their direction. First came several ranks of warriors dressed in vivid colors, holding weapons that shone in the moonlight. Behind them, riders on silvery steeds talked and chatted like they were out on a summer stroll, not a midnight ride. Their robes flowed in gossamer waves off their shoulders, radiating light from within. Behind the riders, musicians walked and played various instruments, some of which Fidgen had never seen. The music, wild and rollicking, filled the valley.

  The Pooka’s lips tickled his ear. “Stay very still, or else they will notice you.”

  Fidgen nodded, not taking his eyes off the riders. Two in particular caught his eye, a man and a woman who rode side by side, each with a simple crown on their head. They talked easily with those around them, but the look they gave each other shut out all the worlds. “Who are they?” Fidgen asked.

  “This is the Fairie Procession,” the Pooka said. “That is King Oengus and Queen Fionnuala, who are your distant relatives. Would you like to meet them?”

  “What do you mean?” Fidgen said. In reply he felt a quick shove in the middle of his back, and he stumbled into the light from the procession.

  The riders pulled up sharply, and many yells came from the back ranks that could not see. The warriors quickly surrounded Fidgen, spears leveled at his chest. Every face reflected anger and shock, and several spear tips poked him hard enough to hurt. He held very still, but he thought he could hear the Pooka’s laughter on the wind.

  An older warrior pushed through the ring and stopped short at the sight of Fidgen. “A human!” he exclaimed. He drew his sword and placed it against Fidgen’s neck. “Tell me why I shouldn't separate your filthy head from your body right now.”

  “Let him go, Allód,” the King said, coming up from behind him. “Obviously the boy is too scared to say anything with your sharp sword making it hard for him to even swallow.”

  The warriors raised their spears, and Allód reluctantly backed away. Queen Fionnuala came up beside her husband and linked her arm in his. “Is this what has interrupted us?”

  “It is, my love,” Oengus said. “The question is, what should we do with him?”


  Thinking quickly, Fidgen sank to his knees. “I would ask a boon of thee, my lord,” he said, bowing his head.

  “And why would I grant such a thing to a human?” Oengus asked. There was a touch of amusement in his voice, but Fidgen knew that his life hung in the balance.

  “I ask out of bonds of kinship,” Fidgen said.

  The company went completely silent. Fidgen did not dare even glance up, but kept his eyes on the grass just in front of the king’s boot. “And what kinship do you claim with us?” Oengus asked.

  “I am of the line of Don.”

  Fidgen thought he heard the company sigh, and Oengus said, “We will not kill you out of respect for this bond, but why would we do anything more?”

  Fidgen said, “I have been learning the magic of the Cymry, and I seek your help. I have already caused the death of my uncle and my cousin, and I do not wish any more harm to befall those around me.”

  Fionnuala said, “What is your name?”

  Fidgen hesitated. “I have been commanded not to speak it for now.”

  “Who would require such a thing?” she said.

  “Ogmah.”

  Oengus tapped his toe. “You make it difficult to make a wise decision,” he said. “Ask your boon, so that I might better judge its merits.”

  Fidgen looked up. “Can you tell me why I can’t hear the winds?”

  The king and queen shared a long look, and she nodded slightly. Oengus looked down at Fidgen. “Your question both confirms some of our suspicions, and raises others. So instead of simply granting the knowledge you seek, I will trade it for other knowledge.”

  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?”