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

by Michael A. Hooten

  “Thank you,” Fidgen said. “Now, before we begin, I have one question that has been on my mind, but was not important until now. What did I eat when I was here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Fidgen said, “that you are ghosts. You can affect the world of the living, but not enough. I know that you have neither herded nor harvested since your death, and when I broke your illusion, the fire was gone. So what did you feed me before that?”

  “We fed you real food, if that’s what you’re asking,” Anghos said.

  “I’m still alive, so I figured it was real,” Fidgen said. “What I don’t know is how you are going to sustain me for the rest of the time I am here.”

  Anghos looked a little sheepish. “We fed you gull eggs and seaweed,” he said. “It’s what we could handle, and we used illusion to make you think it was mutton and bread.”

  “And that was not beer I drank, I’m sure.”

  “Just water,” Anghos said. “Our cisterns were well designed, and are still pure.”

  Fidgen looked around. “I have a feeling I’m going to be here awhile. I am going to use my unnatural abilities to feed myself, getting fish from the sea, and the occasional sheep. How is the weather?”

  “Best in Glencairck,” Anghos said. “As long as you like it windy.”

  “And the winters?” Fidgen said. “How am I going to warm myself?”

  “We used to burn dung,” Anghos said. “No reason you couldn’t do the same. And as long as you stay inside, it’s never too cold.”

  “I’ve survived a Duvnecht winter,” Fidgen mused. “I think I’ll manage, somehow. For now, call everyone together, and we’ll get started. There is much for me to learn, and I cannot stay forever.”

  “But you will stay?” Anghos asked.

  “For as long as it takes.”

  Fidgen quickly settled into a routine. Mornings and evenings he spent as a pelican or a kingfisher, scooping fish out of the waters around the island. The rest of the day he spent in the great hall, harp in his hands, listening to each Firbolg as they came to him with their songs, stories and poems. He started with Anghos, who told him his genealogy and the history of the Firbolg that he had learned from his father. The other ghosts watched with silent attention, only stirring when Fidgen left to eat or sleep. Their stares made him uneasy at first, but he ignored it as best he could.

  When he finished wringing every memory he could from the King, the ranks stirred, and they began coming forward one at a time, stuttering in nervousness at first, then finding that they could not stop talking to the man who held their fate. Fidgen listened closely, and repeated everything back to them until he got the story right. Days turned to weeks, and the summer passed by as quickly as the clouds scudding across the sky, blown by the ever present wind. Fidgen lost track of time, noticing the passing of the season in the back of his mind, but only conscious of his work.

  One rare calm day, his routine was interrupted. “There is a visitor at the gate,” said Elpys, the same guard that had greeted Fidgen the day he arrived. He stood respectfully at the foot of the dais, and when Fidgen looked at him, his words did not register at first. Instead, all Fidgen could think about was how he had met his wife on a visit to the mainland, and the courtship that lasted a year and a day while he convinced her to come live at Innishmor.

  Anghos, after waiting for Fidgen to respond, said, “It will be Samhain tomorrow. Is it a bard?”

  “Yes,” Elpys said, “But it’s not Ollave Kyle.”

  Fidgen broke out of his stupor. “A bard here?”

  “To keep the Compact,” Anghos said gently. “They don’t know it has been fulfilled.”

  “Did the bard give his name?” Fidgen asked.

  “He said he was Pen Bardd Columb MacCol,” Elpys said.

  Fidgen stood up. “I’ll need to talk to him.”

  Anghos said, “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” Fidgen replied. “Would you lead the way, Elpys?”

  The guard beamed at the request. “Of course, bard Fidgen. That is, if would be alright with you, chief?”

  Anghos nodded, and the three made their way through the gates to the outer wall, where faint harp music drifted in the still air. Elpys lead them up stone steps to a spy hole. Fidgen looked out and said, “You failed to mention the other bards with him.”

  Elpys shrugged. “I figured he always travelled with a group.”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of.” Fidgen sighed, “Let’s get this over with.” They climbed to the top of the wall, and looked out.

  Anghos said, “Greetings Pen Bardd. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

  Columb stopped strumming his harp and looked up. “King Anghos. I have come to sing for the Firbolg, and to collect my wayward student.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Anghos said. Fidgen counted nine bards, a full company. He did not recognize any of them, and was not sure which was the Ollave.

  “If you expect Fidgen to sing for you, you must know that he is not a full bard,” Columb said. “He cannot keep the Compact.”

  “You’re right, he can’t,” Anghos said. “But neither can you. The bards no longer have to come here.”

  Columb looked at Fidgen. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing bad,” Fidgen replied. “Unlike Ollave Kyle.”

  “You still have to prove that his intention was evil,” Columb said.

  “He thought he was sending me to my doom,” Fidgen said. “It may not have been evil, but it was not done for good.”

  “Kyle will be judged, as will you,” Columb said. “But not here.”

  “That’s right,” Fidgen said. “When I am finished here, I will come to you.”

  “You will come now,” Columb said, touching his harp strings meaningfully.

  Fidgen shook his head. “I would be forsworn if I left now, and the Firbolg would be doomed to haunt this area forever.”

  Columb looked back at the company behind him, who shifted nervously, but did not touch their harps. He sighed and looked back at Fidgen. “Then I want to leave this company here, to insure that you will return as you say.”

  Anghos said, “I will not allow that. Fidgen is the only one welcome until he completes his task.”

  Columb strummed a chord, and Fidgen felt the probing magic he used. Anghos evidently felt it too. “Do not try to force this issue, Pen Bardd. Fidgen must remain here for now, and none other may enter, and we will fight anyone who tries.”

  Columb stilled his strings. “Very well, sire,” he said. “When do you expect him to be finished?”

  “At this rate? Probably sometime after Beltain.”

  Columb sighed. “We will wait in Caer Carrick. Meet us there.” He turned on his heel and walked away, with the bardic company scrambling in his wake.

  Fidgen shook his head. The Pen Bardd could be mad all he wanted, but it didn’t change what he had to do. He went back down the ancient stone steps, and re-entered the history of the Firbolg.

  He continued listening as the sky outside became permanently grey and the sea kicked into jagged peaks. He stopped becoming a sea bird to eat, and instead became a shaggy wolf once a week to thin the sheep herds. It was the only time he noticed the weather; when he was a man, he sat in the great hall, filling his life with the Firbolg.

  Not long after midwinter and a light snow that barely turned the island white, four Firbolg ghosts appeared that Fidgen had never seen before. “What is your name?” he asked the youngest.

  “Conall macAnghos.”

  Fidgen looked at the king, who was beaming, and then back to Conall. “And these are...?”

  “My uncles.”

  Fidgen stood and bowed. “I am honored, but confused. How are you here?”

  “You called us,” Conall said. “To tell our tale.”

  “You remind me of your father,” Fidgen said, sitting. “Start at the beginning, and leave nothing out.”

&n
bsp; Fidgen listened to Conall and his uncles for three days, at which time he thought his head would burst. “Is there anyone else?” he asked to the hall in general.

  Anghos, who had been talking to his son, said, “That is all.”

  “No other unexpected visitors or long lost cousins?”

  “None,” Anghos said. “So now what?”

  “I’m not sure,” Fidgen replied. “How do you feel?”

  “At peace.”

  “But you are still here,” Fidgen mused. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do next.”

  Anghos said, “Take some time. Think, or don’t, as your conscience dictates. I have my son; I am no longer in any hurry.”

  “Thank you,” Fidgen said. He felt an urge to become a raven and leave Innishmor. “Would you mind if I left for a week or so? I will return.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Anghos said. “Take whatever time you need. We’ve burdened you with the whole of our people, and I’m sure you need a bit to digest it all.”

  “Thank you,” Fidgen said.

  He walked outside, blinking against the weak winter sunlight. The snow only remained in the corners of the walls, although stray flakes swirled about the courtyard. He blinked, and saw the courtyard filled with warriors girding themselves with weapons and shields, and heard their curses against CuChulainn. Another blink, and the crowd was no longer angry, but proud, looking at Anghos as he presented the baby in his arms as their new prince, Conall. Fidgen shook his head to clear the visions, and launched himself into the air. As a raven, he could still feel the weight of the memories he had been entrusted with, so he spread his wings and let the wind blow him to the mainland.

  He did not become human, but instead flew from caer to caer, listening and watching. He was satisfied to hear all of his stories being spread, and even though the satire was the most talked about, the Firbolg stories struck a chord with the people. He heard bards telling it in great halls and in small duns, and every time the people would nod their heads, and murmur about the loss of such a strong people. And he began to feel the desire to spread the rest of the stories he had learned, but he also knew who the first audience should be.

  He flew back to Innishmor, battling a rainy headwind that left him exhausted when he landed. He shook himself off, shifted to human form, and shivered. No ghost appeared in the courtyard. The entire fortress felt empty and lifeless, and he wondered if the Firbolg had already disappeared.

  He walked into the hall and stopped; it felt as warm and real as though all were alive, and the Firbolg packed the hall. Nobody noticed him at first, but as he began making his way to the high table, the ghosts that saw him would stop and bow low. The effect rippled through the hall, and by the time he stepped up onto the dais, every ghost was honoring him. Anghos and Conall, smiling warmly, were the last, bowing as though Fidgen were a king. He felt unnerved by it all, and just took his customary stool. No one raised their head until he began tuning his harp, at which point they all stood and stared expectantly.

  Anghos said, “Welcome, Fidgen. What will you play for us today?”

  “Today,” Fidgen said, “I want to give you back all the stories you have given me.”

  “Like Taliesin did?”

  “Yes.” Fidgen looked around. “I think that I will start with you and your family, sire.”

  “We would be honored.”

  Fidgen set his fingers on the strings and brought forth a chord that brimmed with magic. “I give to you the stories of the Firbolg, beginning with the life of Anghos, their last king.”

  He began singing, and felt the magic swirling about him. He did not control it so much as he let the ghosts draw it from him. He first sang about Anghos, with all of his triumphs and his tragedies. And as he sang, the king began to fade from his sight, but instead of disappearing into nothingness, he felt the king becoming a part of him.

  Fidgen finished his song, and Conall said, “He is finally at peace. Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome,” Fidgen said. “Are you ready for your song now?”

  “I am,” Conall said.

  “Then I give to you the life of Conall macAnghos, prince of the Firbolg.”

  It took him three months of playing, stopping only when his body demanded food and rest. He began to feel like a ghost himself, as caught up with the Firbolg as he was. Only his training and his experience kept him whole, able to pull himself back to reality often enough that he did not follow the Firbolg into their final rest.

  Finally only Elpys remained. “The first to see me arrive, and the last to see me go,” Fidgen said. “It seems fitting.”

  “It is an honor beyond anything I ever dreamed would happen to me,” Elpys said. “And, I got to hear every other story you told. That was amazing.”

  “I’m glad that you enjoyed it,” Fidgen said. “So now, I give to you the life of Elpys, warrior of the Firbolg.”

  He began playing and singing, and Elpys’ smile could be seen clearly through his thick beard. It was the last thing to fade from sight, and the hall became dark, cold, and silent.

  Chapter 10: Faerth

  Fidgen flew from Innishmor to the mainland, where he shifted back to human form and started the long walk to Caer Carrick. The weather had turned to spring, with warmer days and many showers, but he didn’t mind. He spent the first night in a Caer Carrib, where he shared the story of how the Firbolg haunted the area until Taliesin made the Compact. The laird rewarded him with a horse to ease his journey, but it did not speed his progress too much, since he stopped at every caer or dun that he encountered to spread the tales he had learned.

  The word of his coming sped well ahead of him. When he reached Caer Carrick just after Beltane, the guards looked at his cloak and stopped him. “Are you the student bard called Fidgen?” asked a gruff older guard.

  “I am,” he said.

  The guards took a step back and conferred among themselves. Finally a younger guard, barely older than Fidgen himself, stepped forward. “We’ve been instructed to take your harp and escort you to the Pen Bardd,” he said. He looked both embarrassed and somewhat fearful, as though expecting a fight.

  But Fidgen just took off his harp case and handed it over, saying, “Please try not to damage her.”

  “Of course not!” the guard said. “I’ll guard it--her--like my own, uh, daughter.”

  “Thank you,” Fidgen said.

  “I am Unnan macCruinn,” the guard said. “I will be escorting you to the great hall, where the Pen Bardd waits.” He turned and gave a signal that Fidgen took to mean no resistance. One of the kerns began sprinting towards the keep, and the rest looked relieved to not be involved at all. Looking back at Fidgen, Unnan said, “If you would come with me?”

  “Of course,” Fidgen said. They headed towards the keep, and people along the way stopped and pointed at them. Fidgen didn’t need to hear the winds to guess what they were saying.

  Unnan’s attitude concerned him more; the guard became increasingly nervous as they walked, talking rapidly about the weather, his family, and the various buildings that they passed. Fidgen finally stopped him and said, “I do not know what you have heard, but I am not a danger to you or this caer.”

  “No one thinks that!” Unnan protested, but he touched the harp case reassuringly. “I, ah, I remember you from when you were here last.”

  “That seems like forever ago to me,” Fidgen said.

  “It’s only been a year since you left,” Unnan said.

  “What do you remember?”

  Unnan blushed. “Your fights with Ollave Kyle. Everyone knew that he took great satisfaction in punishing you with menial jobs. And now, they are saying that “The Martin and the Raven” is about the two of you.”

  “That’s true, it is,” Fidgen said.

  “But there are many other stories about you, and what you’ve done while learning to be a bard...”

  Fidgen sighed. “I’m just a man, Unnan. I just want to live my life and bec
ome a full bard, nothing more.”

  Unnan bobbed his head. “Of course. It’s just... I’m very honored to have met you.”

  It took Fidgen aback. “But it looked like no one wanted to be the one to escort me.”

  “You are a powerful person, who has been known to exact swift punishment on those that do wrong,” Unnan said. “We respect you, we honor you, but we fear you, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fidgen said. “That was not my intent.”

  “No, no!” Unnan protested. “It’s not a bad thing! We may fear you for what you could do, but we admire you for what you have done.”

  “Thank you,” he managed to say.

  “Think nothing of it,” Unnan said, continuing to walk.

  But Fidgen thought about it, and wondered.

  If Unnan was honored, then Columb macCol had a certain guarded disdain. He took the harp from Unnan and dismissed the guard with a curt thank you. Then he looked around at the number of people in the hall, and said, “Follow me.”

  He led Fidgen out the back of the hall and down a long corridor to a staircase that spiraled up into a tower. They were near the top when Columb stopped at a plain door that opened into a small room that had a bed, a rug on the floor, and a table with two chairs next to a small window. The furnishings were all sturdy and workable, and Fidgen had not missed that the door barred on the outside.

  Columb sat in one of the chairs and indicated the other for Fidgen. They sat in silence until a servant brought bread, cheese, and wine. Columb poured them each a glass and took his without drinking it. Fidgen knew he should feel nervous, but he was more bemused than anything

  Columb sighed. “You are forcing me into choices I would not make were it up to me.”

  “How so, master?” Fidgen asked.

  “Because if you were a normal student, you would have been punished or banished from our ranks,” Columb replied. “I am barred from either. Your reputation demands that I let you battle Kyle in the bardic manner.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Fidgen said. “My reputation should not alter your options.”

  “But it does,” Columb said. “If it were known that I punished you for the grave offense of satirizing an Ollave, the people would rise up against us and demand that you be given a chance to defend yourself, because you are not some obscure student. You are Fidgen, who has fought lairds, talked to gods, and soothed ghosts.”