The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) (11 page)

“I don’t
think that I can learn everything in a few weeks,” Fidgen said. “I will be in
Innishmor until I know it all, however long that may be.”

Tagun
snorted. “The way you work, it will take six weeks, at the most.”

“You give
me too much credit,” Fidgen said. “Now, there’s one other song I want to sing,
but it’s a satire.”

“On Kyle,
I’m guessing,” Tagun said.

“And you’d
be right,” Fidgen said.

He lifted
his harp into playing position, and the few soldiers who hadn’t left started
calling their friends to come back. Fidgen drew in a little magic so that all
could hear. “This is the story of how a teacher tried hard to kill his
student,” he said. “It’s called ‘The Martin and the Raven’.”

He watched
the audience as he played; Tagun had the look of concentration he had seen many
nights when trying to memorize a particularly tricky phrasing of the law, but
the soldiers laughed when he hoped they would, and looked shocked and appalled
at what Kyle had attempted. When he finished, Tagun grinned and started to
speak, but was interrupted by one of the soldiers.

“Oy!” he
said. “Is that true, or some made up story to teach children?”

Fidgen
said, “It is true. I am the raven, and my teacher is the martin.”

The soldier
said, “So how can we help you right the wrong he did?” Many of the other
soldiers nodded.

“Spread the
word,” Fidgen said.

“What’s
your name?” another soldier said.

“Fidgen.”

“
The
Fidgen?”

“There’s
only the one,” Tagun said, grinning hugely. He took his friend by the elbow
and began walking towards the gate. The soldiers behind them continued talking
and pointing in their direction.

“Where are
we going?” Fidgen asked.

“Out the
gate,” Tagun said. “I’m afraid if you stay much longer, you’re going to have a
hard time getting out of here discreetly. That story and satire are going to
spread like wildfire, given your reputation.”

Fidgen
sighed. “It should be enough that Kyle would do that to anyone.”

“It is
enough,” Tagun said, nodding to the guard at the gate as they passed. “But you
have something that not every student bard has: a reputation. And if you just
diffused the potential war around here like I think you did, that reputation is
only going to increase. Especially with the way you called out Kiarán.”

“You don’t
have to put that in,” Fidgen said.

“It won’t
be me,” Tagun replied. “It’ll be Glaws. He’s a good bard, and will tell the
story before I ever get the chance.”

They entered
the same copse where Fidgen had changed when he arrived. “Do you have those
stories down, or do you need me to repeat them a few more times?” he asked.

“I’m good,”
Tagun said. “They’re easy to memorize, compared to some of the things we’ve
learned together.”

Fidgen
gripped his hand and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you.”

Tagun said,
“You are welcome.”

Not having
anything else to say, Fidgen shifted into raven form, circled his friend twice,
and then began flying west towards the sea.

When he
landed in Dun Anghos and became human again, the king materialized in front of
him with a furious look on his face. “You never told me you were a shape
shifter,” he said.

“It never
came up,” Fidgen replied calmly.

“It’s
unnatural,” Anghos said with a scowl. “I’m not sure if I want someone who
can’t even stay human to spread our story.”

“Two
things,” Fidgen said. “First of all, you should be dead, but you’re not. So
you’re hardly one to judge whether or not I’m unnatural. And secondly, I have
already started. Inside of a month, three key stories of the Firbolg will be
all throughout Airu at least.”

“It’s
begun?” Anghos said.

“It is,”
Fidgen replied. “And now, I am here to learn all I can of you and your
people. Every story, every song, every memory of every ghost here. I will
remain until I learn it all, and I will spread it everywhere I go, until I draw
my last breath.”

Anghos
sighed. “I believe you now. Truly I do.”

“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.”

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.”