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

by Michael A. Hooten

  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.”

  Chapter 8: Law

  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.

  “We know everything,” Reitigh said.

  “That’s not quite true,” Roinnar said. “But we do know quite a bit, like your other name. And your true name.”

  Fidgen was surprised they knew his true name, but refused to be distracted. He said, “But do you know why I’m here?”

  “He’s smart, too,” Rothlu said, and Reitigh just grunted.

  “You came to find out how to help the Firbolg,” Roinnar said.

  Rothlu looked at Anghos. “We told you the time would come,” she said.

  “Although it’s amazing that it all worked out,” Reitigh said.

  “It hasn’t yet,” Roinnar said. She turned to Anghos. “The first step is to know this: are you ready to rest?”

  Anghos looked a bit surprised. “I think so,” he said.

  “Is your anger abated?” Reitigh asked.

  “It is.”

  Roinnar nodded and turned to Fidgen. “Are you willing to accept the responsibility for Anghos and his people?”

  “What do I have to do?” Fidgen said slowly.

  “You have to tell their stories.” Roinnar said.

  “Everywhere you go,” Rothlu added.

  “And you can never forget,” Reitigh said.

  “That’s it? Tell their stories?”

  “It’s no small thing we’re asking,” Roinnar said.

  Reitigh held up a thread that was so light that it was almost invisible. “This is the Firbolg. Right now they barely appear in the cloth we weave. Your job is to make them remembered.”

  “Admired,” Rothlu said.

  “And respected,” Roinnar said. “You do this by telling their stories everywhere you go, so that the people know who they were and what they did.”

  “Can I get the other bards to help me?” Fidgen said.

  “You’d better,” Reitigh said.

  Roinnar gave her an exasperated glance. “What she means is that you will need to teach the other bards the stories and have them spread them as well.”

  “You are trying to strengthen their thread,” Rothlu said.

  “You don’t want it cut off,” Reitigh said with a meaningful snip of her shears.

  “And how will know if I have succeeded?” Fidgen said.

  “You’ll know it in your heart,” Rothlu said.

  “Or never,” Reitigh said.

  “It’s not something that you achieve,” Roinnar said. “It’s something that you must live every day for the rest of your life. Are you willing to do that?”

  Fidgen turned to the king. “I am willing to take this on, but only if you trust me to do so.”

  Anghos seemed more real than he had since the first time Fidgen saw him. “You have done right by my people despite knowing us for a very brief time. I trust you.”

  Fidgen did not need any time to consider. Like when he fought Ky
rnin, the whole affair had a feeling of inevitable destiny. He turned back to Roinnar. “I accept this responsibility.”

  “I knew you would,” Rothlu said. She began spinning out a new thread, and handed it to Reitigh, who twined it with the Firbolg’s thread.

  “The pattern is set,” Roinnar said. She passed the shuttle back and forth several times. “The weaving continues, with the Firbolg providing an important strand to the strength of Glencairck.”

  “Is the Compact broken then?” Anghos asked.

  “Not broken,” Rothlu said. “It is fulfilled.”

  “You can go now,” Reitigh said. And with a faint pop! Anghos disappeared.

  “Where did he go?” Fidgen said.

  “Back to Innishmor, to prepare his people,” Roinnar said.

  “Do you mean,” Fidgen said, “that we didn’t have to walk here?”

  “Sometimes the journey is as important as the destination,” Roinnar said. “How many of his stories did you hear coming to us the way you did?”

  “Many,” Fidgen replied. “All about his people and their ancient glory.”

  “So you’re already learning,” Rothlu said.

  “But you’ve only scratched the surface,” Reitigh added.

  “And now he expects you to return the way you came, which gives you up to a week to get back to Innishmor,” Roinnar said.

  “Why is that important?” Fidgen asked.

  “Because you have other responsibilities as well, and other promises,” Roinnar said.

  “I still have over four weeks before my friends come looking for me,” Fidgen said. “Unless I have lost time being here, like I did with Epona and Mannanan.”

  “Time does not move at all in this house,” Roinnar said. “You could talk to us for what seemed like days, and outside, the sun will not have moved from where it was when you entered.”

  “I told you he hadn’t forgotten about his friends,” Rothlu said.

  “But four weeks is not as long as he thinks,” Reitigh said. “He is cocksure of his abilities, but he still has to learn all the stories of a whole people.”