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

by Michael A. Hooten

  “And there is the matter of Ollave Kyle,” Roinnar said. “Your plan needs some time to be fruitful.”

  “Can you see the future then?” Fidgen asked. “Do you know what the best course of action is for me?”

  “We see patterns,” Rothlu said.

  “Of the past, not the future,” Reitigh said.

  “But they are instructive,” Roinnar said. “We cannot predict for sure, but it seems to us that in order to have time learn what you need to from the Firbolg, and start your revenge against Kyle, you would do better to visit your friends now.”

  “But it is up to you which path you choose,” Rothlu said.

  “And neither is easy,” Reitigh said.

  “I could have predicted that much,” Fidgen said with a sigh. “I seem to move from difficulty to difficulty in my life.”

  “You are capable of handling it,” Rothlu said.

  “And you are also capable of failing,” Reitigh said.

  “I will not do either if I stay here,” Fidgen said. He bowed low. “Many thanks for your wisdom, and your patience, my ladies.”

  They nodded to him, and Rothlu opened the door for him. He left the Weavers’ house, and stood for a moment, breathing deeply of the swamp air, and feeling oddly refreshed despite his new burdens. He leapt into raven form and began flying at a quick but steady pace towards Caer Cadia.

  Chapter 9: Responsibilities

  It took him two days to find Donnel, who sat under a tree playing to a group of children and looking more relaxed than Fidgen had ever seen him. He perched above the group, listening for a bit before flying to a more secluded place to transform. When Donnel saw him, he jumped to his feet and said, “Is it really ye?”

  “It is indeed,” Fidgen said.

  Donnel grabbed him in a great bear hug. “I was worried for ye, truly I was. I’ve heard stories of Innishmor in my time here, and I feared what may have happened to ye almost as much as I feared having to go and find out.”

  “I’m fine, truly,” Fidgen said. “But I’m not going to be if you keep squeezing me so hard.”

  “Oh, right,” Donnel said, letting him go. “Sorry about that, ye know how carried away I can get.”

  Fidgen threw his arm over his friend’s shoulders. “I missed you, too.”

  Donnel said, “Kids, this is my friend Fidgen I was telling ye about.”

  The awe in their faces made Fidgen say, “Whatever he’s told you about me is most likely exaggerated, and definitely more interesting than the truth.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your truth is very dull and plain,” Donnel said with a roll of his eyes.

  “Did you really meet Epona?” a young girl asked.

  “I did,” Fidgen said.

  “And tricked the Pooka?” a boy asked.

  “Well, sort of,” Fidgen said. “It didn’t feel tricky at the time. It felt desperate.”

  All the children started talking at once, and Fidgen held up his hands. “I wish I could talk to you for hours, truly I do, but I don’t have much time, and I need to talk to my friend alone for a bit.”

  The children wandered towards the caer with disappointed grumblings. “What is it?” Donnel asked. “Ye’ve got a serious look about yer face.”

  Fidgen grimaced. “I wanted to hear how you’re doing first.”

  “Me? I’m doing well,” Donnel said. “The priests are wonderful, and they love answering any question I have, the more obscure the better.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Oh them,” Donnel said with a sheepish grin. “I just like playing for them. They love hearing anything I have to offer.”

  “That’s because you’re a fine storyteller,” Fidgen said. “And that is one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “What d’ye need?”

  “Thank you,” Fidgen said, feeling a great relief. “I’ve got two stories that I need you to spread for me, and I need you to start today.”

  “Two, huh?” Donnel asked. “And they’re important?”

  “Very important,” Fidgen said. “The first is about the Firbolg, and how they came to be confined to Innishmor. And the second is a satire on the man who sent me there.”

  “Oh, that’ll be fun,” Donnel said with a mischievous look.

  “Not for him,” replied Fidgen with a grim smile.

  The sun had not yet set before he was flying again, this time towards the lakes in eastern Airu. It took him another day and a half to reach them, and the crannogs were obvious to his avian eye. They looked like a network of docks, with small huts built around a large central hall. At least, Fidgen assumed they were halls; instead of being rectangular, they were round with tall conical roofs. Fidgen flew around a half dozen before he found Fayla, getting into a small coracle that she rowed to shore. He followed her to a camp that was obviously a semi-permanent arrangement for her; she had built a small wattle and daub hut, although two of the sides had not been finished yet, and a stone lined fire pit out front had a thick layer of ash in it.

  Fidgen landed on a branch near her as she took off her pack and her harp case. She looked at him, glancingly at first, then closer when he squawked at her. “You’re the first raven I’ve seen in these parts,” she said with a smile. “Do I know you?”

  Fidgen bobbed his head, and then shape shifted back to his human self. “I thought I might scare you,” he said.

  “If I hadn’t realized what I was seeing, you would have,” she said. “But it hasn’t been eight weeks. Is something wrong?”

  “In some ways yes, in some ways no,” Fidgen said. “I have a couple of things I want you to spread for me.”

  “Since storytelling is the only reason theses lake dwellers tolerate me, I guess I can help you,” Fayla said.

  “Are you making any headway at all?” Fidgen asked.

  Fayla shrugged. “There are four crannogs in three different lakes near here that allow me to sing for them. There’s another half-dozen that threatened my life just for being too close. So I live here, and am making it somewhat permanent, as you can see.”

  “Didn’t they recognize your cloak?”

  “No, but even after I explained who I was, they wanted nothing to do with me,” Fayla said. “But they did let me live. And the ones that let me come up love a good story. The two stories you want me to tell are good, right?”

  “Well, one’s a story, and it takes place as part of CuChulainn’s story,” Fidgen said.

  “They’ll like that one,” Fayla said. “But if the other’s not a story, what is it?”

  “A satire,” Fidgen said. “And if they have any sense of honor at all, I think they’ll like it, too.”

  “They have enough honor to make Duvnechtmen look fickle,” Fayla said. She indicated a log nearby. “Have a seat on my softest cushion, and tell me your tales.”

  She listened to him with wonder as he gave her the tale of how Anghos’ three brothers and his son went against CuChulainn, and what Anghos did to avenge their deaths. And the satire made her laugh. “You’ve nailed Kyle with that song, you know,” she said.

  “That’s the idea,” Fidgen said.

  “But you know that telling these stories in the crannogs doesn’t exactly spread them.”

  “Do the crannogs trade with each other?” Fidgen said.

  “Well, yes, but it’s still a very closed culture,” Fayla said.

  “The story of the Firbolg has to be told,” Fidgen said. “It has to become ingrained in the history of Glencairck, and so I intend to tell it everywhere a story can be told. And the satire... well, I want Kyle to face the consequence of his choices no matter where he may flee.”

  He had Fayla repeat both until he was confident she had learned them, and then said, “Do you know where Tagun is? I need to find him quickly so I can get back to Innishmor.”

  “Why would I know?”

  “Please,” Fidgen said. “You two would be in touch even if he was in Fairie and you were at the bottom of the sea.”

  Fayla blu
shed. “We usually trade messages twice a week. He’s in Cantref Jaryd, assisting Lord Jaryd’s chief bard, Glaws.”

  “Which Caer?” Fidgen said.

  “Caer Loughrea was where his last message came from.”

  “Is there anything you want me to tell him while I’m there?” Gwydion said.

  “Just to be safe,” Fayla said. “And that I miss him.”

  “You be safe, too,” Gwydion said. He leapt into raven shape and began flying southwest.

  He arrived at Caer Loughrea near midday. Sitting on the shores of a good sized lake and at the intersection of two major roads, the caer was busy with too many people to transform safely. He found a quiet copse outside the walls to shift back into human form, and walked back.

  The guards at the gate, in the blue and silver livery of Lord Jaryd, looked him over despite his cloak and his harp, and let him in with a brusque welcome. Walking the streets, he saw more soldiers, all with a similar look of weariness and cynicism.

  Fidgen entered the hall, and began asking around for Tagun or Glaws. A soldier finally took pity on him and led him past the high table and into a room where several men stood looking at a map and talking loudly. Tagun sat off to the side, playing a soothing tune on his harp, but with a resigned look on his face reflected in his playing. It changed when he saw Fidgen.

  Tagun jumped up and ran across the room. “Are you ever a welcome sight!” he said, catching Fidgen in a hug.

  “As are you,” Fidgen said. “Donnel and Fayla send greetings, but Fayla more than Donnel.”

  Tagun blushed. “Ah, well,” he stammered. “We’ve been, ah, communicating these past few weeks...”

  “It’s okay,” Fidgen said. “She talks about you the same way.”

  “Who is this, young Tagun?” asked a tall man with six colors in his cloak and a harp on his back.

  “This is Fidgen, who you have heard of,” Tagun said. “And this is Bard Glaws, Lord Jaryd, his champion, Kiarán, and Laird Loughrea.”

  Fidgen bowed low. “Many pardons for the interruption, gentlemen. But if I could borrow Tagun for a few hours, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lord Jaryd said. He had thick black hair and eyes that matched. “We’re trying to avoid a war here, and unless you can contribute something, you are welcome to leave.”

  Fidgen wanted to sigh, but thought better of it. “What is the problem?” he asked.

  Glaws indicated the map they had been studying. “The problem is simple enough,” he said. “This area here is in dispute, and has been for generations. Every decade or so, Lord Jaryd or Lord Clare will take a more hostile stance, and we play this game of who is the rightful owner.”

  Fidgen studied the map. The area in dispute was colored grey, and marked as Ballyshaymor. It looked like an egg between the two cantrefs on either side, and a string had been laid down from north to south, with each end pinned where the two borders met. “Does each cantref have a legitimate claim?”

  “At this point, yes,” Glaws said. “But they cannot agree how to divide it.”

  “Have one lord make the division, and the other lord choose which division to keep,” Fidgen said.

  “Are you an idiot?” Kiarán said. “No matter who makes the division, they will favor their side, and what is the other to do? Choose the half away from their cantref?”

  Fidgen said, “You should always be careful who you call an idiot, lest they make you look like one in return.” He pulled out the pins holding the string, and turned it so that instead of running north to south, it ran from east to west.

  Everyone stared at the map, and then started nodding, except for Kiarán, who had turned red. “And just how should we decide who divides, and who chooses?” he said very slowly.

  Fidgen shrugged. “Make it a contest. Champion against champion in several areas of skill, like javelin throwing or chariot racing. Turn it into a fair, with plenty of opportunity to diffuse tensions, and let the winner decide if they will do the dividing or the choosing.”

  “You can beat their champion, can’t you?” Laird Loughrea said.

  “Of course,” Kiarán said. “That’s why I keep pushing for single combat to settle the score.”

  “But this way costs no one their life,” Glaws said. “And as Fidgen said, it takes a tense situation and makes it an opportunity to find friendship and common ground.”

  Kiarán was still clenching his fists, but he said, “What say you, my lord?”

  Lord Jaryd, who had been studying the map intently, looked up. “It makes sense,” he said. “There’s no guarantee that Lord Clare will go for it, but I want a letter drawn up and on its way before sundown.”

  Kiarán let out a noisy sigh and bowed his head. “As you wish.”

  Glaws nodded to Tagun, and he grabbed Fidgen and pulled him out of the room. “How do you do that?” he said as soon as the door was closed.

  “Do what?” Fidgen said.

  “Come in and cut through all the garbage with a single stroke,” Tagun said.

  Fidgen shrugged. “It just seemed so petty,” he said. “And I’ve got more important things going on.”

  Tagun shook his head. “You would. Let’s find a place to talk.”

  They ended up in a quiet corner of the courtyard, where Fidgen told Tagun of everything that had happened since they had seen each other last. He sang him the history of the Firbolg, how they had first come to Glencairck, and how they had been defeated and sent into exile, and how they had returned. When he had finished, there was a small group of soldiers standing at a respectful distance, but still listening. Tagun glanced at them. “You hardly need me, with this lot to spread the tale.”

  “That may be true, but I want a bardic telling, not just something told around the fire at night,” Fidgen said. “Many people already know this story, but it needs to be brought back to the realm of active stories. And this is only the broad outlines: I still need to learn the whole of what the Firbolg will share.”

  “And that’s why you came now, isn’t it?” Tagun said.

  “I don’t think that I can learn everything in a few weeks,” Fidgen said. “I will be in Innishmor until I know it all, however long that may be.”

  Tagun snorted. “The way you work, it will take six weeks, at the most.”

  “You give me too much credit,” Fidgen said. “Now, there’s one other song I want to sing, but it’s a satire.”

  “On Kyle, I’m guessing,” Tagun said.

  “And you’d be right,” Fidgen said.

  He lifted his harp into playing position, and the few soldiers who hadn’t left started calling their friends to come back. Fidgen drew in a little magic so that all could hear. “This is the story of how a teacher tried hard to kill his student,” he said. “It’s called ‘The Martin and the Raven’.”

  He watched the audience as he played; Tagun had the look of concentration he had seen many nights when trying to memorize a particularly tricky phrasing of the law, but the soldiers laughed when he hoped they would, and looked shocked and appalled at what Kyle had attempted. When he finished, Tagun grinned and started to speak, but was interrupted by one of the soldiers.

  “Oy!” he said. “Is that true, or some made up story to teach children?”

  Fidgen said, “It is true. I am the raven, and my teacher is the martin.”

  The soldier said, “So how can we help you right the wrong he did?” Many of the other soldiers nodded.

  “Spread the word,” Fidgen said.

  “What’s your name?” another soldier said.

  “Fidgen.”

  “The Fidgen?”

  “There’s only the one,” Tagun said, grinning hugely. He took his friend by the elbow and began walking towards the gate. The soldiers behind them continued talking and pointing in their direction.

  “Where are we going?” Fidgen asked.

  “Out the gate,” Tagun said. “I’m afraid if you stay much longer, you’re going to have a hard tim
e getting out of here discreetly. That story and satire are going to spread like wildfire, given your reputation.”

  Fidgen sighed. “It should be enough that Kyle would do that to anyone.”

  “It is enough,” Tagun said, nodding to the guard at the gate as they passed. “But you have something that not every student bard has: a reputation. And if you just diffused the potential war around here like I think you did, that reputation is only going to increase. Especially with the way you called out Kiarán.”

  “You don’t have to put that in,” Fidgen said.

  “It won’t be me,” Tagun replied. “It’ll be Glaws. He’s a good bard, and will tell the story before I ever get the chance.”

  They entered the same copse where Fidgen had changed when he arrived. “Do you have those stories down, or do you need me to repeat them a few more times?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” Tagun said. “They’re easy to memorize, compared to some of the things we’ve learned together.”

  Fidgen gripped his hand and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you.”

  Tagun said, “You are welcome.”

  Not having anything else to say, Fidgen shifted into raven form, circled his friend twice, and then began flying west towards the sea.

  When he landed in Dun Anghos and became human again, the king materialized in front of him with a furious look on his face. “You never told me you were a shape shifter,” he said.

  “It never came up,” Fidgen replied calmly.

  “It’s unnatural,” Anghos said with a scowl. “I’m not sure if I want someone who can’t even stay human to spread our story.”

  “Two things,” Fidgen said. “First of all, you should be dead, but you’re not. So you’re hardly one to judge whether or not I’m unnatural. And secondly, I have already started. Inside of a month, three key stories of the Firbolg will be all throughout Airu at least.”

  “It’s begun?” Anghos said.

  “It is,” Fidgen replied. “And now, I am here to learn all I can of you and your people. Every story, every song, every memory of every ghost here. I will remain until I learn it all, and I will spread it everywhere I go, until I draw my last breath.”

  Anghos sighed. “I believe you now. Truly I do.”