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

by Michael A. Hooten

  Fidgen thought back to the day when he found the high wind. “I did.”

  “Then you should be able to hear that wind,” Oengus said. “As for the rest, you will need to create your own bonds now that your unc--I mean, now that your teacher is gone.”

  “Thank you, majesty,” Fidgen said. “And now, what knowledge would you have of me?”

  “Want I want to know,” Oengus said, “is how you found this place, and our procession.”

  “The Pooka brought me here to see you,” Fidgen said.

  Fionnuala clucked her tongue. “That one is due another lesson.”

  “Agreed, my love,” Oengus said. “Perhaps our young friend here will deliver it.”

  “Me?” Fidgen said. “I will feel blessed to live through this experience. Why would I seek him out again?”

  “Because he will be drawn to you until you give him a reason not to be,” Fionnuala said. “If you don’t seek him, he will find you.”

  Fidgen sighed. “I just want to be done with him.”

  “Many of us have felt that way,” Oengus said. “Now, though you must be free of us. How are you going to do that?”

  The warriors lowered their spears again, and Fidgen knew he couldn’t fight his way through them. He cast about, looking for inspiration, and the queen caught his eye. After she was sure he was watching, she glanced at the sky.

  Fidgen understood immediately. He bowed low to her and her husband and said, “My gratitude to your Majesties for all that you have given me.” Then he leapt up into raven form, and without a backward glance, flew quickly away. He heard the warriors yelling, but they threw no spears and shot no arrows. He made it out of the valley without further incident.

  He flew through the night, thinking about both what Oengus had told him and how he might use it to find the Pooka. He shifted into eagle form and aimed for the moon. When he had flown as high as he could, he shifted back to human form, and called the one wind he still knew.

  The wind responded, and held him aloft while he began using all the skills Math had taught him, explaining what he wanted. He held up the hair from the Pooka’s tail, and the wind circled it like a hound. Fidgen felt tendrils of the wind shoot towards the ground, probing nooks and crannies throughout the countryside. When he felt his magic was secure, he turned back into an eagle and glided along, listening for any sign of the Pooka.

  The high wind found him an hour before sunrise, drinking from a stream near where Fidgen had first encountered him. Fidgen released the wind with thanks, and descended rapidly, shifting to human form at the last moment, and ringing the area with bright blue bael fire.

  “I've come to avenge myself on you,” Fidgen said.

  The Pooka looked unperturbed. “But you escaped,” he said. “You didn't need me there.”

  “But you left me there not knowing that I would get away.”

  The Pooka shook his mane. “I had full faith in your abilities.”

  “Still, you owe me something.”

  “Oh? And what are you thinking?”

  “Two more hairs from your tail.”

  The Pooka bucked and whinnied, and it took Fidgen a minute to realize he was laughing. “And they accuse me of not being serious!”

  “So what would you offer?”

  The Pooka settled himself down, gave a shake, and said, “Would you like to learn how to turn invisible?”

  “Like when you followed me?”

  The Pooka nodded. “It cloaks you from most magics, as you know.”

  Fidgen considered for a long moment, trying to detect what the Pooka was up to. He finally let the bael fire die out and said, “Tell me what we’re going to be doing first.”

  “You’re going to turn into the wind,” the Pooka said.

  Fidgen shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “It’s perfectly safe,” the Pooka said. “It’s mostly illusion, but you have to disguise your mind as well as your body. The net result is that everything sees you as air, including magic.”

  Fidgen turned this over in his mind. “And none of my shields excluded the air.”

  “As well they shouldn’t have,” the Pooka said. “You could create such a barrier, but do not forget that if you cut yourself off from the air, it would be like being in a cave. You would suffocate before long.”

  “But you say that it’s mostly illusion,” Fidgen said.

  “That’s how the wind found me,” the Pooka said. “It’s also how you were able to feel me near you. You have an affinity for the air, and you could tell something was not right, even if you didn’t know what it was.”

  “And you can teach me how to do this?”

  “It should be easy for you,” the Pooka said. “Just watch how I do it.”

  Fidgen watched closely, and the Pooka suddenly disappeared. He cast about with all of his senses, including listening for the wind, and he could just make out that something was where the Pooka had been, but his eyes still struggled to make sense of it all.

  The Pooka reappeared and said, “You should watch with more than your eyes, you know.”

  “I was,” Fidgen replied.

  “Not until after the shift,” the Pooka said. “Watch the whole thing.”

  Fidgen used all his senses to concentrate as the Pooka made the shift again, feeling as well as seeing the change. It made sense to him immediately, and even more, he discovered that the Pooka had not disappeared completely, but that he could still see him like a reflection in a pond.

  “Excellent,” the Pooka said. “Are you ready to try it?”

  Fidgen said nothing, just cast the spell, and the Pooka whinnied delightedly. When he reappeared, the Pooka said, “You took to that like a bird to the air. How did it feel?”

  “A bit disconcerting at first. I felt like I had turned into just a pair of eyes.”

  “Yes, it has that effect,” the Pooka said. “Now, we should test your new skill.”

  “We should?” Fidgen said.

  “Of course!” The Pooka said. “How else will you know that I have taught you right?”

  “I have great faith in you.”

  “Then you are the only one,” the Pooka said with a laugh.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “We could visit the selkies, or there is a kelpie I know of not too far from here, or maybe the Wild Hunt...”

  “The Wild Hunt? How could we visit them?” Fidgen asked. “Aren’t they always on the move?”

  The Pooka shook his head. “Not always. And I happen to know that they are idle at the moment.”

  “That would be an incredible tale to tell,” Fidgen mused. “But if you want to take me there, I want another hair from your tail.”

  “Well that indicates no faith whatsoever.”

  Fidgen shrugged. “We don't have to go at all.”

  The Pooka pranced about a bit. “You drive a hard bargain, bardling.” He plucked another hair and gave it to Fidgen. “But I think this will be worth it.”

  Fidgen wound it around his finger and said, “Do we have far to go?”

  “Not really,” the Pooka said. “But you’d better shift into horse form, and don’t forget to use your new disguise.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” Fidgen said.

  They raced through the pre-dawn light, but instead of leading him into the mountains, the Pooka led him into a thickly forested dell where it was still as dark as midnight. They wound their way through massive old oaks that seemed somehow sentient, watching them as they passed. Ahead, Fidgen saw the glow of a campfire, which they headed towards. As they neared, he realized that it was closer to a bonfire, and the dogs that lay around it easily outweighed him even as a horse. Each had a black coat and ears the color of old blood, and the drool dripping from their mouths glowed with blue flame.

  But it was the man on the other side of the fire that caught his attention: the legendary Herne, taller than a man even while sitting cross-legged on the ground, honing the head of a spear. He wo
re a mask made from a giant human skull that covered the top of his face, topped by a pair of antlers spreading out fifteen feet or more. His bare torso gleamed in the firelight, covered by dark figures of men and women that moved on their own, writhing about in mortal pain.

  Fidgen felt the Pooka’s lips near his ear. “Did you know,” he whispered very softly, “that Herne as an affinity for the air much like yours?”

  Fidgen shifted back into human form and dropped his disguise. “I’m counting on it,” he said, stepping into the firelight.

  The hounds jumped up immediately, growling and showing sharp white fangs while they watched him with glowing red eyes. Herne stood up slowly, and a word from him caused the dogs to quiet. He came around the fire, staring at Fidgen with eyes that glowed as red as his pack’s. “I know not how you found this place,” he said in a deep voice, “But you had best start running if you want to live.”

  “Mighty Hunter,” Fidgen said. “I was led to this place by a creature that you might take more sport in pursuing than myself.”

  “You think so?” Herne said. “I am quite fond of human game.”

  “As I well know.” Fidgen said. “But I speak of the Pooka, who is at least as cunning as a man.”

  “And a hard one to find,” Herne said. “I will not go chasing a will o’ the wisp just because you think I might enjoy it. Not when you are here, with your scent to bait my pack upon.”

  “The Pooka and I came to your camp together.” Fidgen pointed to where he had come into the camp. “There, just back in the trees.”

  Herne spoke a single word, and the hounds ran towards the spot Fidgen indicated. They sniffed around, and one of them looked up and gave a series of short barks. Herne said, “They see horse tracks, but can smell nothing.”

  Fidgen pulled out one of the tail hairs. “Try baiting them on this.”

  Herne snapped his fingers, and one of the hounds came up to Fidgen, towering over him, lip lifted in a suppressed growl. Fidgen held himself very still looking up into the red eyes. The dog sniffed him over thoroughly, but ended with his nose almost touching Fidgen’s finger, causing the Pooka’s hair to flutter upwards with each sniff.

  The growl disappeared and the dog grinned at Fidgen. He turned and barked at Herne, who nodded. “You are very lucky, Gwydion ap Don. What you hold will indeed allow me to hunt the Pooka down.”

  “You know my name?”

  “I know all men’s names, true and otherwise,” Herne said. He held out a hand as big as Fidgen’s head. “Give me the hair, that I may begin my sport.”

  Fidgen laid it reverently across the wide palm. “What will you do when you catch him?”

  “Do you not know what my purpose is?” Herne said. “I judge those that are guilty, making them run until all that is left is the pure spirit. I think that I will have a good long hunt with this one.”

  Fidgen felt suddenly weak. “And if it had been me?”

  Herne looked at him, and Fidgen could feel the weight of judgment. “You,” Herne said, “would have barely made it into the forest.”

  He lifted a great whip and cracked it towards the hounds. They leapt into the air, and he chased after them, lightning shooting from his whip and thunder sounding from his footfalls.

  Fidgen sank to the ground, suddenly weak from the night’s ordeals. He dozed off for a few minutes, lulled by the heat of the fire, but he managed to rouse himself after a bit and shift into raven form. He flew above the treetops in ever widening circles, thankful for the morning sunlight to help him find landmarks that led him back to his camp.

  His pack appeared undisturbed, and his horse looked up briefly at his sudden appearance, then went back to contentedly munching grass. Fidgen leaned on him for a few minutes, thankful for the solid familiarity. Then he sank to the ground and crawled to his bedroll, where he slept until the sun rose again.

  Chapter 3: Duvnecht

  Fidgen found his new mentor sitting under a tree overlooking a herd of cattle. Ollave Fenella macKelvie looked like a cattle herder herself, with work worn hands and sun darkened skin. Her hair showed streaks of gray in the brown, but her eyes were large and violet, and made it impossible to judge her age.

  Fidgen dismounted and bowed low before her. “I have come at the bidding of the Pen Bardd, to seek training and guidance.”

  She sized him up and down like a cat studying a crippled mouse. “Are you Fidgen?”

  “I am.”

  “And your family name is...?”

  “Just Fidgen.”

  “Very well, Fidgen just Fidgen,” she said. “I expected you a week ago. Would you care to explain yourself?”

  “I was delayed.”

  “Obviously.” She stared hard at him, but he kept his face impassive. “You will tell me the tale before you are allowed to leave my training, and you will tell it like a bard, even if it was merely a tryst that lasted too long.”

  Fidgen shook his head. “It wasn’t a pretty girl that was the problem.”

  “We’ll see.” She stood up and brushed herself off. “Let’s go to the dun and get you settled, and we can begin talking about my expectations of you, and you of me.”

  He said, “Thank you, Ollave.”

  Fenella laughed. “Don’t thank me yet. I guarantee you’ll be cursing me before a month has passed.”

  “A woman of your beauty and charm?” Fidgen said. “I sincerely doubt it.”

  “At least I don’t have to teach you flattery,” she said. “Did Columb tell you what I do teach?”

  “Storytelling is what he called it,” Fidgen said.

  “And you wonder why you have to learn something you already know, am I correct?”

  Fidgen shrugged. “I just do as I’m told.”

  “I doubt that,” Fenella said.

  Dun Keeldrin was a small fishing village on the southern shores of Lough Garadice. Ollave Fenella walked through the front gates without pause, and the women and children Fidgen saw did not appear to take notice of the stranger with her. “Why do you live in such a tiny place?” Fidgen asked.

  “It suits me quite well,” Fenella said. “The people are grateful for my presence, and I can concentrate on my students, without a lot of political intrigue to distract or ensnare me.”

  Fidgen followed her into a small building behind the barn, where several rows of bunks lined the walls around a central fire pit. “You are the only student here at the moment, so feel free to sleep wherever you like,” Fenella said.

  “Where are the other students?” Fidgen asked as he looked over the bunks.

  “Most arrive around Samhain, and we spend the winter in training,” Fenella said. “Then come spring, everyone goes out into Duvnecht to put their new skills to the test. Most find comfortable spots to stay in by midsummer, but still, the idea is to wander like real bards.”

  “But here I am, and it’s just after Beltain,” Fidgen said. “So what’s the plan for me?”

  “I hope you’re a fast learner; you only have a month what everyone else learned in four.” Fenella looked him up and down. “Unless you think you can wander through Duvnecht in the winter.” When Fidgen said nothing, she said, “Don’t try anything stupid, boy. I assure you that wherever you are from, you have never experienced anything like a winter in the Mounts.”

  Fenella watched him as he chose a bunk and starting putting his things away. “Get settled, then be in the main hall for dinner. And be prepared to play; Columb said you skipped the first year of training in Cairnecht, so I’ll be seeing whether or not that decision was justified.”

  “What was I supposed to learn?” Fidgen asked.

  She shook her head. “Just be ready for the toughest audience you have ever faced.”

  Fidgen walked into the main hall an hour later, his harp in his hands and already tuned. The hall was nearly as small as at Dun Gareth, and Fidgen half expected to see Gareth or Columb at the high table. Instead, it was a striking woman, somewhat older than himself, with thick dark hair that s
treamed over her shoulders, and bright eyes that judged him in a moment. The four colors in her cloak and the torc around her neck marked her as the chieftain.

  Fidgen approached and bowed low. “I ask permission to play for you and your people,” he said.

  “Are you the ollave’s new student then?” she asked.

  Her voice was deep and throaty, and he felt a great desire for her. He pushed the impulse aside and said, “I am.”

  “I am chieftain Catriona macSconif, and you are welcome to my dun. And you are?”

  “My name is Fidgen,” he said.

  Catriona showed no surprise at his lack of family or place. “My expectations of you are simple: look to your code, and do nothing that would shame either your order or my people. If you do, I will haul you back to the Pen Bardd myself, and demand retribution.”

  “And she has,” Ollave Fenella said, coming up beside him. “I remember a young pup much like yourself--too handsome for his own good, too talented to be ignored, and too confident to be sensible--who decided to try and seduce Catriona herself. She had him trussed like a pig and thrown in a wagon before he even knew what had happened.”

  Catriona chuckled. “The Pen Bardd paid quite a bit for that rascal. Whatever happened to him, do you know?”

  The Ollave shrugged. “Who cares? He didn’t have the self-control he needed, and he is now someone else’s problem.”

  “True enough,” the chieftain said with a shrug. But Fidgen was uncomfortable with the look she gave him.

  Fenella turned to Fidgen. “While you are here, you will be playing every night for the dun. But before you can do that, you must ask for permission from the chieftain. This is one of the first and most important rules in the Bardic Code: we never intrude where we are not welcome.”

  “He has already asked, and been answered, Fenella,” the chieftain said. “It was close enough to what an actual bard would have done that I thought you had already had this lesson.”

  Fenella gave him a sharp look. “Who taught you this thing?”

  “Nobody,” he said. “It seemed to be the right thing to do, based upon the stories I have heard, the books I have read, and the bards I have met.”