“I didn’t seek those things out,” Fidgen said.
“No you didn’t,” Columb said. “But that mollifies me but a little. Prepare yourself. Tomorrow we leave for Caer Bardd in the fifth of Faerth, where you will face the judgment of as many bards as we can gather. And since I sent the word out when I returned from Innishmor, I expect that to be quite a few.”
The Pen Bardd did not lock the door when he left, and he did not return in the morning. Instead, it was Ollave Aodhgán, who still looked like he had just rolled out of bed. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” he said with a wide grin.
Fidgen shrugged. “I never know what to expect anymore.”
“I can well imagine,” Aodhgán said. “The stories about you...”
“There are a few, aren’t there?”
“More than a few. And if you count your time before you joined the bardic order, it grows even more amazing,” Aodhgán said. “Are you ready to go?”
“I suppose so,” Fidgen said. “Do you have my harp?”
Aodhgán patted the case on his back. “This is yours. Mine is on my horse, waiting for me.”
“When do I get it back?”
“When we get into Faerth,” Aodhgán said. “I’d like to give it to you before then, but the Pen Bardd had very specific instructions.”
Fidgen sighed. “He would. Can we go now?”
“Absolutely,” Aodhgán said. He led them down the stairs and through the great hall, where very few people took notice of them. Two horses waited for them, and they rode out of the caer. At the gate, Unnan saw them and saluted Fidgen. The other guards, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same. Fidgen saluted them in return, and Aodhgán just shook his head.
The journey to Faerth took ten days, and Fidgen was grateful to spend the time with Aodhgán. They talked about his experience, both before and after the fall of Caer Dathyl, and sang many songs as they rode. They avoided people, both on the road and at night when they stopped. Fidgen knew that Aodhgán was pushing them to get to Caer Bardd quickly, and that they didn’t have time to tell stories of the Firbolg constantly, but it still made his heart ache. So he told them to Aodhgán instead.
As soon as they crossed the border from Airu to Faerth, Aodhgán stopped, handed Fidgen his harp, and said, “It is time to begin preparing for your battle with Kyle.”
Fidgen took the case and opened it, touching the strings. Relief flooded through him unexpectedly, but all he said was, “What do I need to do?”
“Do you remember the day we met, and I told you that I couldn’t give you the details of settling disputes between bards?” Aodhgán asked.
Fidgen nodded. “You said it wasn’t something you felt comfortable talking about.”
“Well, now we will speak of it, no matter my comfort or discomfort,” Aodhgán said. “Because now you are about to enter into bardic battle. It will take us two days to reach Caer Bardd, and when we do, there will be bards from all over to judge you and Kyle to determine the truth.”
“What do I need to do?” Fidgen asked.
“You have already written the satire that started the process,” Aodhgán said. “Now you must compose a song that explains why you felt such a step was necessary. And Kyle will present a song of his own, giving the reason why you wronged him. And then the audience will offer their opinion, and the Pen Bardd will hand down the final judgment.”
“What happens if I lose?” Fidgen said.
“You will be taken to Gorsedd Ogham and stripped of your power.”
“And if Kyle loses?”
“No one is really sure,” Aodhgán said, scratching his ear. “I’ve never heard of an Ollave losing. But the charge is serious, and the consequence would be equally serious. Almost certainly he would be stripped of his rank.”
Fidgen thought about what he had to do. “Who goes first?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Kyle has had months to prepare for this. I’ve only got two days.”
Aodhgán nodded. “I can see your concern. Kyle goes first.”
“And am I allowed to use magic?”
“Of course!” Aodhgán said. “The whole environ is heavily protected from any kind of harmful magic, but whatever you can use to make your song better, you should use.”
“Music, storytelling, magic, and the law,” Fidgen said. “It seems like the natural culmination of my training.”
“There is nothing natural about the position you find yourself in,” Aodhgán said. “I don’t even know what to advise you.”
Fidgen shrugged. “I have some ideas.”
He said little else during their journey, but asked for all the stories of bardic battle Aodhgán knew. The Ollave complied, but the worry lines increased until the morning of the third day, when he stopped and said, “Over this rise is Caer Bardd. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know,” Fidgen said.
Aodhgán blew out a frustrated breath. “I have not even seen you touch your harp since I returned it to you, and I have not seen any evidence that you are composing anything at all.”
“I’m not.”
Aodhgán gaped. “But you have no time left, and you are about to face an accomplished Ollave! Are you a fool?”
“Maybe,” Fidgen said. “But I have no idea what Kyle is even capable of in a situation like this. How can I prepare for the unknown?”
“You seem confident nonetheless.”
“I just spent most of a year composing the history of an entire people,” Fidgen said. “I think I can come up with something when the time comes.”
Aodhgán shook his head. “There is no helping it,” he said. “We must continue.”
They rode over the rise, and Aodhgán gestured. “Welcome to Caer Bardd, seat of the bards of Glencairck.”
Where most caers sat on a hilltop or some other defensible area, Caer Bardd had been built in a natural bowl, with all the roads sloping down not to a keep, but an amphitheater. A great hall stood on one side, but everything else seemed unfamiliar and unnatural to Fidgen’s eyes.
The gate had no guards, only two bards who played their harps softly while they watched those that passed. Aodhgán passed them easily, but Fidgen felt like he had hit a wall. He looked at the bards, who nodded grimly at him, then adjusted their song to let him pass.
Walking down towards the amphitheater, he saw very few people that weren’t either bards or student bards. Music filled the air from all sides, sometimes competing discordantly, but more often combining into wild harmonies. He didn’t recognize anyone, but people stopped and pointed at him as he passed, and before long, he heard songs about himself being sung.
The crowds got thicker towards the amphitheater, but Aodhgán turned before they got stalled and led him into a nondescript building. Three bards stood guard inside, and they nodded to the Ollave, who nodded back. They went through five doors, down a long flight of steps, and through a torch lit tunnel.
At the heavy door blocking the end, Aodhgán stopped and turned to Fidgen. “You are about to enter the Star of the Bards,” he said. “You will face Ollave Kyle MacMairtin in bardic battle to determine if you were wrong in your satire of him. Are you ready?”
Fidgen shrugged. “I suppose.”
Aodhgán shook his head in amazement, and knocked three times on the door. It opened, and they walked onto the stage. Fidgen felt his stomach flip to see the audience, which were more people than he had ever seen together. He looked for individual faces, but could only see the crowd. He looked away, to the Pen Bardd who stood in the middle of the stage, waiting.
A matching door opened on the opposite side of the stage, and he saw Kyle emerge. The Ollave looked smug and assured, but as he approached the Pen Bardd, who stood in the middle of the stage, Fidgen did not miss the look of pure hatred aimed at himself. The nervousness in Fidgen’s stomach turned to cold anger, and he strode forward confidently.
Columb macCol held a staff that he thumped on the wooden stage. The booming quieted
the crowd in a moment, and he nodded approvingly. “We are met today to witness and judge a bardic battle,” he said. “Student Bard Fidgen has written a satire against Ollave Kyle MacMairtin. First, we shall hear the satire.”
A bard that Fidgen didn’t know stepped forward and began to play. He did a good job of the satire, but lacked a passion and mischievousness that Fidgen knew he would have brought to the song, and wondered if he was chosen for that reason. Fidgen looked to see the audience reaction, and saw angry muttering in both directions, but mostly against Kyle.
Columb pounded his staff on stage again. “We have heard the complaint,” he said. “Each side will now make their case, in the bardic manner, with harp and song. Ollave Kyle, you may go first.”
Kyle strode to the center of the stage and took the stool. He set his fingers to his harp, and brought forth a beautiful chord that pulsed with power. He let the music do the talking at first, using the bardic magic to remind everyone present of the power and prestige of an Ollave. When he began singing, his rich voice made the eloquent argument that he had no idea that the Firbolg would try to doom a bard; he merely saw it as a way to teach one of his most promising students. His voice dipped lower, singing of his sorrow at discovering the Firbolg’s reaction to Fidgen’s presence, but even more, his disappointment in such a promising student.
As he sang, the air pulsed with power, mostly in amplification of the music and adding layers that reinforced the idea that Kyle deserved the position and prestige of his rank. Most of the audience was nodding by the time he finished, and they applauded enthusiastically. Kyle stood and bowed graciously, then strode confidently back to his side of the stage. He turned around to watch with a smug smile.
Fidgen walked out to the stool and sat, putting his fingers on the strings. He looked out at the audience, now slightly hostile to him, and his mind raced. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and thought about how to counter Kyle’s lies. It came to him in a flash: the one song of the Firbolg he had yet to sing.
He began with a series of chords that called up the wind of Innishmor and sent it out to stir the hair and cloaks of the audience. He used magic to share to loneliness and isolation or the ghosts, and the last bard to play for them under the terms of the Compact.
He told it from Anghos’ point of view, first meeting Ollave Kyle, and then the few years that Kyle played for them at Samhain. The hunger of the ghosts gnawed at the belly, and made them restless. And then a student bard arrived, unexpectedly, and Anghos thought that Kyle had found a way to calm them in between his annual visits. Fidgen intended to sing his story then, but he was so caught up in the music and the magic that Anghos himself appeared, towering thirty feet tall over the stage.
The last king of the Firbolg looked at the gathering of bards before him with a hard stare. “Taliesin himself made the Compact with my people,” he said in a voice that shook the ground. “Only one of the men you have heard today would have been accepted by that wise one as a true bard. And it is not the one with six colors in his cloak. Fidgen has fulfilled the promise of the Compact, and proven himself to my people. Kyle never did.”
Anghos shrank to his natural size, and bowed deeply to Fidgen. Fidgen ended his song and stood and bowed in return. Just before he disappeared, Fidgen saw the king wink. Then he was gone, and the audience erupted, all talking at once.
Columb pounded the stage until the talking died down. “We have now heard the songs each of the combatants have offered. Who votes for Ollave Kyle?” Almost half the hands went up. Columb said, “And for student bard Fidgen?” The rest of the hands went up, and the audience began arguing amongst themselves again.
Columb waited until it quieted down. “The audience is too evenly divided, so I call upon the twenty four Ollam of Glencairck to vote.”
The front row stood and bowed. “For Kyle?” Columb said, and eleven hands went up. “And for Fidgen?” Twelve hands went up.
Columb nodded. “Fidgen it is--”
“You did not count my vote,” Kyle said.
“That’s because you are one of the ones on trial,” Columb said.
“But I have not lost my rights as an Ollave,” Kyle said.
Columb sighed. “How vote you?”
“For myself, of course.”
“Of course.” Columb turned back to the crowd. “Our order is deadlocked, leaving me to decide the issue.”
He began pacing back and forth across the stage. ”The bards before us have shown themselves evenly matched in music and magic. Each tells a story well, and each has followed the law in this battle. So I must look somewhere else for the truth.
“I have talked to everyone in Caer Carrick about how Kyle and Fidgen acted towards one another, and all agree that no love was lost between them. Only one song mentioned that fact.
“So I enquired as to the character of each. Both have their faults, but both are well accomplished as well. And only one song boasted at all.
“And finally, the one question still remained: who spoke truth?
He walked over to Fidgen. “You are proud and impulsive. You have shown a quick temper and strong passion. I do not know how you will fare as a bard. “
He turned and walked over the Kyle who looked smug. “Ollave Kyle, your years as an Ollave have been taken into account. And found deeply lacking. “
Kyle went from smug to ashen in a heartbeat. “Fidgen accused you of intent to harm,” Columb continued. “And your response was to claim incompetence. That perception was only reinforced by the Firbolg king. You have failed to live up to the standards of your position, and are hereby found guilty of the charge against you.”
Kyle said, “But that’s not what happened--”
“Are you claiming you sent Fidgen to the Firbolg in order to kill him? Because if that’s the case, the sentence will be to take you Taris in chains and ask the Ard Righ to execute you.”
Kyle hung his head. “I accept your punishment.”
“Good.” Columb unclasped his cloak and took it off. “Kyle macMairtin,” he said, holding the Tuigin in front of him. “You are hereby removed from our order.” He shook the cloak between himself and Kyle, and instead of rustling feathers, Fidgen heard chimes.
Columb swung the Tuigin back onto his shoulders, and Kyle looked around in amazement. “Where am I?” he said. “Why are there so many people looking at me?”
“Do you know your name?” the Pen Bardd asked.
“Yes, it’s--” Kyle stopped, his forehead wrinkling. “Well, it was on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to recall it.”
“Your name is Kyle,” Columb said. “Something has happened to make you forget everything, but we are here to help.” He gestured to a couple of nearby bards. “These men will help you in the next little bit, while you figure out your place in the world.”
“Thank you,” Kyle said. “I appreciate it greatly.”
“You are quite welcome.” Columb waited until Kyle had been led away, then turned back to the audience. Striking the stage three times with his staff, he said, “Our meeting is now concluded. Please resume your duties, and serve Glencairck to the best of your abilities.”
As the amphitheater began to empty, Columb turned to Aodhgán. “Take young Fidgen here to Gorsedd Ogham,” he said. “After he has received whatever instruction or inspiration he can, bring him to meet me in Taris.”
“Yes, Pen Bardd,” Aodhgán said with a bow.
As they turned to leave, Columb placed a hand on Fidgen’s shoulder. “You have much to prove to me before I will trust you as a bard. But there is space for you do that.”
Fidgen bowed low. “It is all I can ask for, master.”
As they left Caer Bardd, Fidgen received many congratulations, and just as many cold stares. Aodhgán said nothing until they were well beyond the gates and on an empty stretch of road. After several false starts, he said, “You are unlike any other bard I have ever known.”
Fidgen nodded. “I seem to get that a lot.”
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br /> “But the worst part is, I still do not know if that is good or bad,” Aodhgán said. “How will you affect our order?”
Fidgen mulled the question over for a bit. “I am not trying to change anything,” he said. “My background has given me an unusual set of tools to deal with what I encounter, but I am trying to follow the bardic code, just as I would expect of any other bard.”
“It’s not the how that bothers me,” Aodhgán said. “It’s what you encounter in the first place. Dishonorable leaders, gods, dead kings, and one of the worst Ollam in this last generation. Most of us will only never have to deal will any but the most mundane of these problems, and you have already overcome them all. What are you being prepared for I wonder?”
“I wish I knew,” Fidgen said.
They entered the forest of Uislign later that afternoon, and arrived at Gorsedd Ogham before noon the next day. They stood outside the stones looking in, and Fidgen said, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Go in,” Aodhgán said. “Meditate, pray, play your harp.”
“You’re not going in with me?”
The Ollave shook his head. “This is your time, for your inspiration. When you have received whatever you can, come find me. I will make camp just down the path there.”
“How long will it take?” Fidgen asked.
“Can’t say,” Aodhgán said. “I have seen it take a few hours, and I have heard of it taking a few days. Most students spend a single night. But given the kind of things happen to you, I wouldn’t even make a guess. The most important thing you are seeking is your true name; anything else you receive is a blessing.”
“Thank you, Ollave Aodhgán,” Fidgen said with a bow.
“Luck to you,” Aodhgán said. He turned and led their horses back into the trees.
Fidgen took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into the circle of stones. He paused, looking around, wondering what might happen, but all he saw was the green grass shining in the sun, and the triangle of flat stones at the far end. A few puffy clouds drifted across the blue sky, and a warm breeze teased his hair.
The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) Page 13