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

by Michael A. Hooten

  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.

  “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.”