“Humph,” Fenella said. “Very well then, you may play for the hall tonight, and I will judge your skill. And I warn you now, the chieftain has a very discerning hall.”
“That’s because they have heard all manner,” Catriona said. “From you, Ollave, to the children who have just barely learned to play.”
Fidgen bowed to both women. “I will do my best.”
Fenella looked skeptical, but Catriona gave him a smile that made him think of more than just friendly interest. His felt a natural urge to flirt with her, and she seemed to invite it; he decided to be very cautious in both word and deed around her.
He played for six hours that night, honoring every request that he could, watching the people respond to him and his music. There were about thirty families, with a plethora of children who ran about before, during, and after the meal. Most wore thick sweaters under their cloaks, which seemed shorter than standard to him. At first they requested jigs and reels common throughout Glencairck, but as the night wore on, the requests became more local or esoteric. They also asked for key changes and tempo modifications, but despite Fenella’s claim, he found them no more difficult as an audience then the duns he had played for in Gwynedd. The only thing that bothered him was the way that Catriona kept requesting more romantic stories and songs. He purposefully made them blander than he had to, relieved at the disappointment in her eyes.
He tried to gauge Fenella’s reaction to everything he did, but she remained impassive throughout the night, saying little in response to his questions. The people of the dun gave him much more feedback. He worked hard to give them what they wanted, and they were not hesitant to correct him when they felt they needed to. But overall, the mood was positive, and as the night drew to a close, several people stopped and told him he had done well.
He shook his cramped fingers and looked for the Ollave. She was talking softly to Catriona at the high table, so he approached and bowed. “By your leave, ladies, I would bid you goodnight.”
Catriona nodded. “You did a fine job for a student bard, Fidgen. We thank you, and hope that you sleep well.”
Fenella waved him away. “Let me ruminate, and I will talk to you in the morning.”
Fidgen walked through the dark yard to his quarters. He felt uneasy among the empty beds, and restless in his human shape. The music still tumbled through his head, making it hard to settle and finally he shifted into owl form, flying through the nearby fields in search of mice and voles. He caught several, striking swiftly and silently. Belly full, he glided back towards his quarters like a ghost.
His owl eyes made out movement near his door, and feeling suddenly cautious, he landed in a tree that gave him a good view of the area. Catriona came out after a moment, looking frustrated. He watched her cross back towards the hall, keeping to the shadows that would have hidden her from human eyes. When he was certain she was not coming back, he floated down, landing in human form. The smell of the chieftain’s perfume lingered, and he had little doubt about her intentions. After a moment’s deliberation, he shifted into cat form, and found a warm corner in a bunk near the fire to curl up in. He slept the rest of the night undisturbed.
In the morning, he woke, stretched, and shifted back to human form. He washed his face and headed to the hall, where he found Fenella eating a bowl of stirabout porridge. He got a bowl for himself, and sat across from her. She said nothing until she scraped up the last little bit. “We have a lot to cover today,” she said. “I hope you slept well.”
He shrugged. “It’s a new, unfamiliar place.”
“Get used to it,” Fenella snapped. “You’ll be doing that for most of the next four years at least.”
“Can I ask you how these years are supposed to go?” Fidgen said. “I missed the orientation somehow.”
Fenella held up four fingers and ticked off each. “A year in Cairnecht learning music, a year in Duvnecht learning storytelling, and year in Leinath learning magic, and a year in Airu learning law. After that, you’ll be a cerddorian for at least a year, though some do it for longer.”
“And I am skipping the first year, and getting started late on year two,” Fidgen said.
“The years are just guidelines,” Fenella said. “Based on what I heard last night, I think you are a fine musician, and I would not have guessed that you were not trained by an Ollave. And as for me, I will not let you proceed until I feel you are ready, whether that takes eight months or eight years. I will work with you as long as you are willing to learn.”
“Thank you, Ollave.”
She stared hard at him again. “I’ll tell you straight up, young Fidgen, that I don’t trust you. I think that you are going to find the bardic code to be too restrictive, and will soon beg your freedom, which I will gladly grant you, right after a trip to Gorsedd Ogham to strip you of your powers.”
Fidgen bowed his head to her. “Thank you for letting me know where I stand with you.”
“You’re not going to tell me how wrong I am?”
He shrugged. “Would it matter? I believe that you will be very hard on me, but very fair. So I will either succeed or fail, but it will still be up to me.”
“Humph,” Fenella said. “The first lesson is on the seven times fifty stories that are the bard’s standard repertoire. I expect you know their names by tomorrow morning, and by the end of the week, you will tell me the first fifty in the bardic form.”
“Yes, Ollave,” Fidgen said.
“You will not leave here until you can tell me the first five of the fifties; the last two fifties are stories reserved for only an Ollave to tell, but you still need to be aware of what they are, and why they are reserved. Any questions?”
“No, Ollave.”
“Then let’s begin at the beginning: how the sons of Myl arrived in Glencairck, and what they found here.”
He spent the next four weeks in a predictable pattern: days were spent with Ollave Fenella, going over each story, its uses and the best occasions for telling it; learning the proper telling of each; understanding why it was reserved to the bards. He used all the tricks Math, Bran, and Bethyl had ever taught him to train his mind to accept all the new knowledge. Evenings were spent playing in the hall, where he got to know the fisher folk and their songs so well that even though he never set foot on a boat, he could still sing of water and wave as though he sailed every day.
And every night, he avoided Chieftain Catriona, who was very persistent in her pursuit of him. She came at different times, and from different directions, always trying to catch him, and never able to. But she never suspected the cat that lived in the bunkhouse, or the raven sleeping in the eaves. And every morning, Ollave Fenella found him in his bed alone.
At the end of four weeks, he had learned the five fifty stories so well that he dreamed about telling them, and Ollave Fenella could not find fault in his presentation. She spent two days quizzing him about every aspect, and in the end she admitted that he had learned them satisfactorily, but she didn’t look happy about it.
“There is one last thing for you to do before I send you out into Duvnecht by yourself,” she said. “Take two days, and compose the story of your tardiness. Do a good job and I will allow that you are fit to take the next step. Mind, I’m not looking for floral phrasing or overblown symbolism. Tell it simply, but tell it like a bard. Now go, and let me be.”
He bowed to her, and headed back to the dun. It was close to dusk, and they had missed the evening meal, but he thought he might be able to scrounge a loaf end from the kitchen. As he came out of the larder, chewing on a mouthful, he saw the chieftain coming his way. No one else was in the yard, and he felt very vulnerable as she closed in on him. For prudence’s sake, he met her in the middle, where the setting sun bathed everything in yellow light.
She looked him over and licked her lips. “I understand you will be leaving us soon.”
“In a few days, if I do a good job,” Fidgen said.
“You’ve done a good job avoiding me,�
�� she said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Catriona stepped close enough that he could feel the heat of her breast on his arm. “I see you enter that bunkhouse every night, and come out every morning, and yet no matter when I go there in between, you are nowhere to be found. Do you sleep in Faerie every night, I wonder?”
“Why would you look for me in the middle of the night?” Fidgen said. “That doesn’t seem appropriate to me.”
She stepped away from him. “Play games, then,” she said, and the lust in her eyes went from hot to glittering cold in a moment. “I will get what I want, or your days training as a bard will be over.”
Fidgen could feel the yearning of his body for hers, and it took all his willpower to say, “I will not break my code for you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Catriona said. With a swish of her cloak, she glided away, swaying her hips seductively.
When Fidgen was sure she had gone, he went to the bunkhouse and closed the door. He confirmed that there was no easy way to bar it, then stirred up the fire, throwing on a couple of logs against the sudden chill he felt. He stood staring into the flames for a long time while his brain raced around seeking a solution. In the end, he went to talk to Ollave Fenella.
Later that night, when Catriona snuck into the bunkhouse, she said, “Are you here then?”
“I am,” Fidgen said.
“I knew you would come around,” Catriona said as she undressed next to the fire. “I could tell when I first met you that you wanted me as much as I wanted you. To think that we’ve wasted all this time apart.”
She slipped into the bunk, and found to her surprise that the warm body she wrapped herself around was not Fidgen. “Chieftain, we should talk, you and I,” said Fenella.
Catriona jumped out of bed and scooped up her clothes, holding them in front of her. Fidgen stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the fire, and her eyes darted from him to the Ollave nervously. “Your student tried to seduce me,” she said.
Fenella shook her head. “I think not, though that is what I suspected when he came to me a few hours ago. But your actions have damned you as a willing participant, and your words have shown that he has behaved honorably.”
“It’s not what it seems,” Catriona said desperately.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Fenella said. “My guess is that it is much worse. Fidgen, can you find a place to sleep tonight?”
“Yes, Ollave,” he said.
“So don’t just stand there ogling, get going!” Fenella barked.
Fidgen hurried out the door, and in the dark yard, he shifted to cat shape. His sensitive ears could hear the two women, Fenella’s voice low and stern, Catriona’s lifting almost to a wail. He could not make out the words, and did not try. Instead, he went to the barn where he found a nice sheltered spot in the hay to sleep.
Ollave Fenella met him in the morning with her harp on her back and a traveler's pack in her hand. At his questioning look, she said, “I think I have stayed in Dun Keeldrin long enough. You and I will travel a bit, and you will tell me your tale, or I will not let you out of my sight.”
“The tale of Catriona, or the tale of my tardiness?” Fidgen said, trying not to grin.
“Both,” Fenella answered, climbing onto a bay horse. “But let’s start with the one I am more familiar with. Tell me about Catriona, and I especially want to know how you avoided her all this time.”
So he told her about his first night as her student, and how he had handled the situation up until the day before. When she asked why he hadn’t come to her sooner, he shrugged and said, “My head was full of other things most of the time.”
Fenella grunted. “It was a clever trap you set, and one that led Catriona to reveal much that I had not seen before.”
“I wasn’t the first,” Fidgen said.
Fenella looked at him sharply. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I am not innocent. And I could tell the same about her.”
“I couldn’t,” Fenella sighed. “And I should have. But I have known her since she was just a chieftain’s precocious daughter, and I had a hand in helping her when her father died to get used to wearing the torc. I thought we had taught her better.”
“We all make our choices,” Fidgen said.
“True,” she replied. “So tell me about your choice to be late.”
“That was not much of a choice,” Fidgen said. And he then told her of the Pooka, of the King and Queen of Fairie, and of Herne and the Wild Hunt. When he finished, they rode in silence for a bit while she digested the story.
“Normally,” she said after a while, “I would credit you with being imaginative and outrageous, but not very truthful in your tale. Do you still have the Pooka’s tail hair?”
“Of course,” Fidgen said, pulling it out of a small pouch he wore on a cord around his neck.
Fenella looked it over. “Well, it certainly looks normal enough, but it absolutely stinks of magic.” She sighed. “I really don’t want to do this, but I hereby proclaim your worthiness to go out on your own, to practice storytelling and the bardic code. The code is more important, by the way.”
“Yes, Ollave.”
“Come and find me as soon as travel is safe in the spring,” Fenella said. “I will want a report on all you have seen and done. My advice is to go into mountains early, and if you don’t care for it, get out before the snow blocks the roads. The lowlands are fine places to winter, and a bit more open to strangers and students.”
“How will I find you?” Fidgen asked.
“I’ll be sticking around Lough Garadice, so just start asking for me as you get close,” she said. “I have a feeling that the story of my departure--and your role in it--will be well known before a fortnight passes. So listen to stories as much as you tell them, and you’ll find me without problem.”
“Thank you, Ollave.”
She cast him a sour glance. “I really don’t want to like you, you know that? But I have a feeling that I will fall for your charms despite myself.”
“I hope not,” Fidgen said. At her startled look, he said, “I have been privileged, pampered, and coddled in my life. And those times never helped me grow as a person. I value your distrust more than you know.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “It’s talk like that that gives me hope for you as a bard. And makes it that much more difficult to dislike you.”
“Oh, you can like me all you like,” Fidgen said with a wave. “I just don’t want you to trust me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Fenella said dryly.
A couple of hours later, they came to a crossroads. “We shall part ways here, I think,” Fenella said. She gestured to the left hand fork. “This is my path, around the Lough. That one is yours, leading to Cantref Aerness, home of some of the fiercest warriors in Glencairck. Watch yourself closely, because they will test your honor as much as anything else.”
“Yes, Ollave.”
She gave him one last hard stare. “Luck to you, Fidgen. May you find what you seek.”
“And you as well, Ollave Fenella,” he answered. He felt her eyes upon him as he turned his horse onto the new road and began making his way towards the mountains.
Chapter 4: Stories
Fidgen rode through the lowlands of Duvnecht, stopping at every small dun and caer he came across, practicing the five fifty stories whenever possible, and generally getting to know the people. Everyone asked him if he were going into the Mounts, and he always replied that he would before long. They would then give him plenty of advice on how to deal with the highlanders, the most common being to stay away from them.
Even though he avoided the lager caers two stories kept making their way to his ears: the destruction of Caer Dathyl, and the humiliation of Chieftain Catriona. No one connected him to the former, but all he had to do was say his name to be grilled about his role in the latter. He tried to keep the story truthful, and to correct any embellishm
ents that crept in, but was shocked to find that people admired him for what he had done, and gave him respect for it.
And then he entered the foothills.
The first caer that he visited, Caer Gorvan, let him in without comment, but the laird, a large man named Fingal macGorvan, greeted him with a mischievous grin. “Are you the famous Fidgen that taught Chieftain Catriona such a lesson then?”
“I am,” Fidgen answered slowly, feeling that he was being led into some kind of trap.
“Then I can trust my daughter, Shona, to serve you,” the laird said, indicating a beautiful young woman standing nearby. “She will do anything you ask, but I don’t need to worry about you asking for anything inappropriate, do I?”
“I am just a student bard, but I follow the bardic code,” Fidgen said. The laird’s grin still made him feel like there was more going on than he knew, and he saw the grin reflected on many of the faces around him, especially the men. The women looked less pleased, and he even saw scowls among some of the older ladies.
He quickly figured out why. Shona had lustrous red hair, a marvelous figure that curved invitingly and swayed temptingly, and eyes that promised more than conversation. Everyone watched his reaction to her fairly blatant attempts to tempt him. He played his best for the hall, treating Shona no differently than anyone else, never allowing her too close, but not treating her harshly, either. As the night wore on and the men fell more deeply in their cups, they began encouraging him to give in to what they saw as the inevitable. He heard them shouting, “Take advantage of her... generous spirit!” and “She’s got a great personality, or so we’ve been told!”
As the jests became more rude, edging into the graphic, Fidgen wrapped himself in a layer of bardic magic that allowed him to be still despite the fury he felt inside. The reaction of the women told him all he needed to know: their disgust had become palpable, and most had left the hall, making the men all the more bold.
What he couldn’t figure out was Shona herself. She seemed to be a willing and eager participant, and he saw her being as forward with some of the other men as she was with him. He wished he could hear the winds again, so that he could hear the things being whispered to her, and her response. But when she began flirting with the laird, it all became clear.
The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) Page 4