The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (10 page)

“We know
everything,” Reitigh said.

“That’s not
quite
true,” Roinnar said. “But we do know quite a bit, like your other
name. And your true name.”

Fidgen was
surprised they knew his true name, but refused to be distracted. He said, “But
do you know why I’m here?”

“He’s
smart, too,” Rothlu said, and Reitigh just grunted.

“You came
to find out how to help the Firbolg,” Roinnar said.

Rothlu
looked at Anghos. “We told you the time would come,” she said.

“Although
it’s amazing that it all worked out,” Reitigh said.

“It hasn’t
yet,” Roinnar said. She turned to Anghos. “The first step is to know this:
are you ready to rest?”

Anghos
looked a bit surprised. “I think so,” he said.

“Is your
anger abated?” Reitigh asked.

“It is.”

Roinnar
nodded and turned to Fidgen. “Are you willing to accept the responsibility for
Anghos and his people?”

“What do I
have to do?” Fidgen said slowly.

“You have
to tell their stories.” Roinnar said.

“Everywhere
you go,” Rothlu added.

“And you
can never forget,” Reitigh said.

“That’s it?
Tell their stories?”

“It’s no
small thing we’re asking,” Roinnar said.

Reitigh
held up a thread that was so light that it was almost invisible. “This is the
Firbolg. Right now they barely appear in the cloth we weave. Your job is to
make them remembered.”

“Admired,”
Rothlu said.

“And
respected,” Roinnar said. “You do this by telling their stories everywhere you
go, so that the people know who they were and what they did.”

“Can I get
the other bards to help me?” Fidgen said.

“You’d
better,” Reitigh said.

Roinnar
gave her an exasperated glance. “What she means is that you will need to teach
the other bards the stories and have them spread them as well.”

“You are
trying to strengthen their thread,” Rothlu said.

“You don’t
want it cut off,” Reitigh said with a meaningful snip of her shears.

“And how
will know if I have succeeded?” Fidgen said.

“You’ll
know it in your heart,” Rothlu said.

“Or never,”
Reitigh said.

“It’s not
something that you
achieve
,” Roinnar said. “It’s something that you
must live every day for the rest of your life. Are you willing to do that?”

Fidgen
turned to the king. “I am willing to take this on, but only if you trust me to
do so.”

Anghos seemed
more real than he had since the first time Fidgen saw him. “You have done
right by my people despite knowing us for a very brief time. I trust you.”

Fidgen did
not need any time to consider. Like when he fought Kyrnin, the whole affair
had a feeling of inevitable destiny. He turned back to Roinnar. “I accept
this responsibility.”

“I knew you
would,” Rothlu said. She began spinning out a new thread, and handed it to
Reitigh, who twined it with the Firbolg’s thread.

“The
pattern is set,” Roinnar said. She passed the shuttle back and forth several
times. “The weaving continues, with the Firbolg providing an important strand
to the strength of Glencairck.”

“Is the
Compact broken then?” Anghos asked.

“Not
broken,” Rothlu said. “It is fulfilled.”

“You can go
now,” Reitigh said. And with a faint
pop!
Anghos disappeared.

“Where did
he go?” Fidgen said.

“Back to
Innishmor, to prepare his people,” Roinnar said.

“Do you
mean,” Fidgen said, “that we didn’t have to walk here?”

“Sometimes
the journey is as important as the destination,” Roinnar said. “How many of
his stories did you hear coming to us the way you did?”

“Many,” Fidgen
replied. “All about his people and their ancient glory.”

“So you’re
already learning,” Rothlu said.

“But you’ve
only scratched the surface,” Reitigh added.

“And now he
expects you to return the way you came, which gives you up to a week to get
back to Innishmor,” Roinnar said.

“Why is
that important?” Fidgen asked.

“Because
you have other responsibilities as well, and other promises,” Roinnar said.

“I still
have over four weeks before my friends come looking for me,” Fidgen said. “Unless
I have lost time being here, like I did with Epona and Mannanan.”

“Time does
not move at all in this house,” Roinnar said. “You could talk to us for what
seemed like days, and outside, the sun will not have moved from where it was
when you entered.”

“I told you
he hadn’t forgotten about his friends,” Rothlu said.

“But four
weeks is not as long as he thinks,” Reitigh said. “He is cocksure of his abilities,
but he still has to learn all the stories of a whole people.”

“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.

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
blushed. “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.