But the fierce arguments they had with each other were only a game and a show for the Ollave, for each of them disliked him for their own reasons.
Kyle treated Donnel as he might a slow child, mostly due to Donnel being an unrepentant highlander, and Donnel responded with little but contempt. Fayla disliked the way he raked her with his eyes, and then treated her patronizingly, as though she were not attractive enough to merit his favor. Tagun hated him for the way he treated the others. But despite their own feelings, they hid them from the Ollave, mostly because Fidgen asked them to. And he asked it of them so that they would not get the same treatment the Ollave gave him.
It didn’t matter what Fidgen did, or didn’t do, Kyle spent half of his lectures berating him for some wrong. Fidgen took it as meekly as he could, but would occasionally blow up, yelling at the Ollave about how wrong, how unfair, or how pig-headed he was, Kyle seemed to relish the outbursts, using them as an excuse to hand out punishments like working in the kitchens or the stables. Although losing his temper was real enough, Fidgen knew that the extra work was Kyle’s way of humiliating him.
But he did his part to goad the Ollave as well. He asked as many questions as he could, seeking clarity and understanding, but what he found was that Kyle’s knowledge of the law was not as thorough as the Ollave pretended. And when challenged, Kyle responded with a temper of his own, swearing that Fidgen would never be a true bard. The hatred between them remained a festering, untreated wound throughout the winter and into the spring.
As the weather changed, so did Kyle’s attitude. He didn’t let Fidgen’s probing get to him, instead responding with a smugness that Fidgen didn’t understand. He still didn’t trust the man, and both he and his friends tried to figure out what Kyle was up to without success.
It became clearer when Kyle gathered his students two weeks before Beltane and said, “It is about time to go out and practice what I have attempted to get through those thick skulls of yours. This will not be like the other fifths, however; I have specific instructions for each of you. I want to see each of you, alone, in this order: Donnel, Fayla, Tagun, and lastly, Fidgen. Come with your packs ready to go; you’ll be leaving as soon as I give you your assignment. I’ll send a page when I’m ready for you. Don’t make me wait.”
They went to the bunkhouse together. “I wonder what he’s up to,” Tagun mused.
Fidgen shrugged. “It’s just him being controlling again, I’d guess.”
“I’d guess it’s more than that,” Donnel said. “He wants to see ye last, which cannot be a good sign.”
“I’m not worried,” Fidgen said. “It’ll be good to be away from under his evil eye, and that’s enough for me.”
They started packing their few things, and Fidgen could hear them whispering behind him. He turned around to find all three ready to go, but avoiding his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Just saying goodbyes,” Donnel said.
“And we’re worried about you,” Fayla said.
“I’ll be fine,” Fidgen said.
“You say that, but you don’t know,” she said.
Tagun gave the other two a warning look. “We’re not saying you’re not capable,” he said. “We just think that Kyle is going to try to make your life as miserable as he can.”
There was a knock on the door, and Donnel shouldered his pack and his harp. “I’m off then,” he said. “Luck to you all.”
“And to you,” they replied.
When he was gone, Fidgen said, “As long as I don’t have to deal with Kyle every day, I’ll be fine.”
Tagun took a breath to respond, but Fayla cut him off by saying, “I’m sure you will.” This time the warning look was from her to Tagun. He just shut his mouth and nodded.
The three friends sat in uncomfortable silence until there was another knock at the door. “My turn,” Fayla said. “Be well.”
“And you,” they replied.
Without her, Tagun seemed to struggle with wanting to say something. Fidgen sighed. “Just spit it out,” he said.
Tagun grinned. “You know me well.”
“Enough to know that the three of you are planning something,” he said.
“Maybe,” Tagun shrugged. “Mostly though, we just think that whatever Kyle has planned, it’s going to be as bad for you as he can make it.”
“I don’t know,” Fidgen said. “I think he’s going be as happy to see me leave as I am going to be to go.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” Tagun said. “But we have all seen him look at you in a way that makes us think he would harm you if he could.”
“He’s still a bard,” Fidgen said. “I don’t think I’m in any danger.”
They heard a knock, and Tagun’s name being called. “It’s my turn then,” he said. “Luck to you.”
“And to you as well,” Fidgen said.
He sat in the quiet bunkhouse, using the time to think about everything that had passed between them. The shift in the ollave’s attitude recently worried him some, but he could find no reason for it. By the time the page knocked for the last time, he had resigned himself to his fate.
He shouldered his pack and harp, and followed the young boy to the door of the great hall where Kyle waited with a horse. He handed the bridle to Fidgen. “Your assignment is simple,” he said without looking at his student. “Off the west coast, on an island named Innishmor, is a place called Dun Aonghasa. It’s the final home of the Firbolg, who ruled this land far in the past. They have a law that is both like and unlike our own. I want you to go there and learn all you can, then return and report to me.”
Fidgen said, “Yes, Ollave.” Not having anything else to say, he mounted the last horse and steered it towards the west gate, not caring if Kyle watched him go or not. The whole demeanor of the man said all Fidgen needed to know: he was being sent on an errand that Kyle expected him to fail, and he intended to prove the man wrong.
The road from Caer Carrick ran quickly into a forest, and Fidgen was lost in his own thoughts as rode under the trees. Rounding a bend in the road, he almost ran into Fayla before he saw her. Donnel laughed out loud at his reaction, and Tagun said, “You seem surprised to see us.”
“That’s an understatement,” Fidgen said. “What are you lot doing here?”
“Checking up on ye, of course,” Donnel said. “The Ollave may have thought he was being oh so clever in splitting us up, but we’re not that easily distracted.”
“But how did you find me?” Fidgen said.
“Simple,” Tagun said. “The three of us had already decided to meet up no matter what, and when we compared notes, we saw that he had sent Donnel north, Fayla east, and me south. So here we are, on the west road.”
“Where is he sending you?” Fayla asked.
“Innishmor,” he said. “Do you know it?”
“Only that it’s a cursed land,” Fayla said.
“Is that all?” Donnel said with a snort. “Fidgen’ll take of that in the first week he’s there, I’d warrant.”
“Your faith is touching,” Fidgen said with a bow, “but I’m not sure of much except that Kyle wants me to fail.”
“We’ll go with you then,” Tagun said.
“No.”
“Ye can’t stop us,” Donnel said.
“And I don’t want to try,” Fidgen said. “But what you’re talking about is sacrificing your chances at earning the star for me, and I would not want to see that happen.”
“We can make that sacrifice if we want to,” Fayla said.
“Yes, you can,” Fidgen sighed. “But I can also choose to face this challenge alone. So can we compromise?”
The three looked at each other. “What kind of compromise?” Fayla asked.
“Give me two months,” Fidgen said. “If you haven’t heard from me in that time, then you may come and look for me.”
The three huddled together for a moment, talking quietly but forcefully. Finally they faced him again. “Eight week
s,” Donnel said. “Not a day more.”
“And you’re all agreed?”
“We are,” Tagun said.
Fidgen looked closely at each face. “On your honor as bards?”
“We so swear,” they said together.
“Alright,” he said. “It’s getting late, so let’s make camp, and you can tell me where I can find you when my time is up.”
They found a clearing where they built a fire that they sat around, eating and talking.
“He wants me to go to the abbeys around Caer Cadia, and learn from the priests,” Donnel said. “Seems to think that I could use some of that sort of thing.”
The other three laughed. “If you mean that you could stand learning some patience and empathy, then yes, I suppose he’s right,” Tagun said. “Tell Fidgen where you’re going, Fayla.”
“I get to visit the crannogs,” she said. “It seems that they hardly ever get a bard of any sort.”
“Ye told us this before, but I still don’t understand,” Donnel said. “What’re the crannogs?”
“They’re villages built out over the water in the lake district,” Fayla said.
“On islands?” Fidgen said.
“No, they’re more like huge docks, platforms built on top of pilings that are driven into the lake bottom,” she said. “Kyle seems to think that I will be accepted because I grew up in that area.”
“But you don’t think so,” Fidgen said.
Fayla shrugged. “I’ll do my best, but they are a notoriously private group. Some of them aren’t even connected to the land at all, and the ones that are have bridges that can be destroyed in moments.”
“Sounds challenging.”
“Wait till you here where Tagun’s going,” Fayla said.
They all turned to him. “I get to go and help the bards in Cantref Clare and Cantref Jaryd. Seems like they’re getting close to war, and I’m supposed to help with interpretations of the law while trying to avoid open combat.”
“That sounds a bit dangerous,” Fidgen said.
Tagun shrugged. “Kyle assured me that even student bards are seen as neutral, so I should be fine.”
“That’s where I should go,” Donnel said.
“They want to prevent a war, not start one,” Tagun said with a smile.
“Oh, well, when you put it that way,” he said.
The others laughed. “Kyle chose well for each of you,” Fidgen said.
“He’s not stupid,” Fayla said.
“Just evil,” Donnel added.
“I don’t know if I’d say evil,” Tagun said. “At least, not about everything. But when he looks at Fidgen...”
“Aye, it makes me want to draw a sword,” Donnel said.
“I’ll be fine,” Fidgen said. “I’m sure he’s given me something challenging, but I have to try to handle it by myself first.”
“We know,” Fayla said. “But that doesn’t mean we have to like it.”
They talked and played late into the night, enjoying their friendship. One by one, however, sleep claimed them, until only Fidgen remained awake, playing softly, and thinking about everything they had said. He did not know what to expect, and he worried some about what might happen if he did not return to his friends on time. When the sky began to lighten and the birds began their early morning song, he packed his harp and his gear, and led his horse quietly down the road a bit, until he was sure that he was out of earshot. He mounted and urged his horse into a quick trot, fearing that he might change his mind and ask his friends to come with him if he stayed much longer.
A week later, he landed on the rocky shore of Innishmor, pulling his tiny coracle out of the water. He looked around for something to tie it to, and finally settled on a big rock that looked like it would withstand another thousand years of waves. The fisherman who had sold the little boat to him seemed skeptical that anyone would willingly go to Innishmor, but a couple of gold coins convinced him that student bards should be allowed to do what they liked.
The only sound on the beach was the gentle lapping of the waves and the far off cry of some gulls. He saw a few houses, but when he reached them he found them empty, with no roofs or doors. The land sloped up away from the water, and he found a road that led up the hill. As he walked, he saw fields neatly separated into rectangles by stone walls, some with wheat or barley, and some with flocks of sheep. But all the gates were missing, and the fields looked to be sown randomly, not in neat rows. The higher he climbed, the quieter it became, leaving only his footfalls on the dirt road to convince himself he hadn’t gone deaf.
The top of the hill leveled off into a gently sloped plain with more low stone walls dividing the land. He could see a taller wall in the distance, and the road led him to it. As he stood in front of the gates, closed and forbidding, he could hear the ocean again, faint but unmistakable. He pulled out his harp and tuned it quickly before playing an old sea song he had learned in Duvnecht. He did not use any magic, but he still felt it all around, like a storm that hovered overhead.
The wall loomed above him, twice his height, and made of grey stone stacked one atop another without mortar. A face appeared at the top, all dark, bushy hair except for two shining eyes. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“My name is Fidgen. I am a student bard who has come to learn the law of the Firbolg.”
“You came here willingly?”
“I was sent by my teacher,” Fidgen said. “But I am here because I choose to be, yes.”
“Alone?” the man said, his eyes widening.
“There’s just myself.”
“Humph.” The man’s brow creased. “It’s not the season, but I am not in charge of these things. So come in, says I, and the chief can sort it out.”
The gates creaked open, and the hairy man beckoned him in. “Your music is good,” he said. Fidgen was surprised to find that he stood a good six inches taller than his host. “Are you going to play for us then?”
“I will,” Fidgen said, not understanding the concern he heard in the man’s voice.
“Good, that’s good,” the man said, obviously relieved.
The passage through the outer wall showed that it was as thick as it was wide. Inside a path led to another wall with another gate, but not directly; it twisted its way through a wide field of sharp rock set up and out like pike heads raised from the earth. Fidgen could only imagine how hard it would be to attack through such a defense. The second gate led to a thin and empty ribbon of grass and another wall. Another warrior joined them as they passed through. After the third gate, the ground inside sloped upwards to a fourth wall, twice as high as the first two, with no visible entrance. The warriors steered him to the left, where a dozen round huts occupied a rocky courtyard. A couple of dozen men and women, all stout and dark, watched him silently, though their eyes shone with a hunger he did not understand. There was no back wall, only a sharp end of land with the sea and sky visible in the far distance. As they followed the curve of the inner wall, Fidgen realized that a back wall was unnecessary; the ground ended in a cliff, hundreds of feet tall.
They came to a gate in the massive wall, which was more of a narrow door leading into a dimly lit tunnel. Walking through it made Fidgen acutely aware that the only thing holding up the tons of stone above him was the skill of some long forgotten mason. Inside he heard the echo of thunderous waves from far below. Again, there was no back wall, just a knife edge of rock. The warriors led him to a long, low hall, and into the dim, fire lit interior. At the far end, sitting on a throne made of the same grey stone as the walls, a massive bear of a man watched him approach through cynical eyes.
“I am Anghos, king of the Firbolg,” he said when Fidgen stopped a few feet away. “Who are you, and why have you dared to step foot in my lands?”
With a low bow, he replied, “I am Fidgen, a student in the Academy of the Bards. I have been sent here to learn your laws, so that I may better serve my own people.”
“Our laws,” Anghos sai
d, with a bitter laugh. “You have been sent on a fool’s errand. Our only law is survival, and we barely manage that. But you say you were sent? By who?”
“Ollave Kyle MacMairtin.”
The king snorted. “That old blowhard barely fulfills his part of the Compact, and now he sends you here. I wonder what he hopes to gain?”
“I don’t understand,” Fidgen said. “What is the Compact?”
Anghos said, “You carry a harp. Will you play for us?”
“I will,” Fidgen said. “But I’m afraid I know none of your people’s songs.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Anghos said. “We have been so long without our own songs that I am not sure that any of us remember them. Whatever you wish to play would be wonderful.”
Fidgen looked around. The hard, cynical attitudes of the warriors had vanished, and they all talked like excited children receiving gifts at midwinter. The word quickly spread, and the hall filled while Fidgen sat on a stool and tuned his harp. But instead of the low hum of conversation that was normal in a hall, the people watched him in eerie silence.
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.
The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) Page 9
