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

  The Bardic Academy

  A Bard Without a Star Book 3

  by Michael A. Hooten

  Text Copyright © 2013 Michael A. Hooten

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Photo: Stone altar in a forest

  © Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com

  For my son Adam, who shows all the signs of becoming a great wizard

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Options

  Chapter 2: Pooka

  Chapter 3: Duvnecht

  Chapter 4: Stories

  Chapter 5: Leinath

  Chapter 6: Magic

  Chapter 7: Airu

  Chapter 8: Law

  Chapter 9: Responsibilities

  Chapter 10: Faerth

  Chapter 11: Kingship

  Other books by Michael A. Hooten, available from Amazon.com:

  Cricket’s Song

  Book 1: The Cricket Learns to Sing

  Book2: A Cricket at Court

  Book 3: The Cricket That Roared

  A Bard Without a Star

  Book 1: Wizard’s Heir

  Book 2: The Two Tanists

  Chapter 1: Options

  Gwydion ap Don woke as soon as the door opened, and every muscle tensed with the adrenaline rush. He started slowly moving his hand to the dagger he had under his pillow.

  “Get up and get dressed,” said Columb macCol, Pen Bardd of Glencairck. “We are going to take a walk, you and I.”

  Gwydion quickly did as he was told, although he put the dagger in his boot out of habit. He stepped out of his room into the dim light just before dawn. The Pen Bardd, his thick blonde hair and beard well styled despite the hour, gave him a glance up and down. “Get your harp,” he said. “You are entering the Bardic Academy today, and it is one of the first things we expect. It should be the first thing you grab in the morning, and you should sleep with it close by. I will not tell you not to have a sword, or a dagger, but those are no longer your first weapon of defense, but your last.”

  They walked out of Caer Gorath, past the ruins of Caer Cadia, and into the hills. The Pen Bardd said nothing as they wound their way through the rocky hills punctuated by bright green pastures. Gwydion followed without concern, but his curiosity began to assert itself, and he asked, “Is this a shepherd’s path?”

  “It is,” Columb said. “Do you know much about raising sheep?”

  “Only what I got as a Tanist, visiting the caers and duns.”

  “And what did you get?”

  Gwydion thought about it. “I admire the people who make this world work. The ones who farm, and herd, and weave. The ones who work in wood, and metal, and stone. They amaze me, and I do not think I could do what they do.”

  “That may be true,” Columb said. “But you obviously can do things that they can’t either.”

  “Right,” Gwydion said. “I can kill people with swords, arrows, spears, Cymric magic, or Bardic magic.”

  Columb stopped him. “Let me make this perfectly clear,” he said. “If anyone thought that you had killed your uncle with Bardic magic, then Ollave Aodhgán would not have brought you to me; he would have killed you on the spot. The fight you had with Math ap Mathonwy included both Cymric and Bardic magics, but you were only trying to stay alive. The fact that doing so shook down your uncle’s tower is more about how seriously both of you fought than about what weapons were used.”

  “But he’d be alive today if I hadn’t used Bardic Magic!” Gwydion said.

  “And you’d be dead,” Columb replied. “Never forget that.”

  They continued on until they came to a small dell filled with soft green grass and lined by low cliffs. The sun had not yet reached it, and the turf was cold and damp with dew. Columb ignored this and sat down, pulling his harp around before leaning against a smooth boulder. Gwydion found his own place to sit, and waited.

  Columb nodded. “You show a lot of patience, and centeredness. Many young men, alone with me, might get talkative or fidgety.”

  Gwydion shrugged. “I learned to be comfortable in my uncle’s presence. He is—was—the most intimidating man I know.” He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

  “I only met him once, but I am inclined to agree with you,” Columb said. “But we are not here to talk of your past, but your future. What do you know of the Bardic Order?”

  “I know that there are Ollam, who are senior bards, and bards teulu, who are attached to a caer or cantref,” Gwydion said. “The Ollam lead companies around Glencairck, rendering judgment where necessary and providing entertainment where it’s not.”

  “True,” Columb said. “And the entertainment side may seem frivolous or secondary, but it’s actually a key part of what we do. What are the bards in the companies called?”

  “They have a title?”

  “They do,” Columb said. “They are called cerddorian, and are usually more junior than other bards. And there are free bards as well, who wander on their own where they will. Who founded the Bardic Order?”

  “Taliesin,” Gwydion answered.

  “And what was he before he became the first bard?”

  “A priest.”

  “And what was he before he became a priest?”

  Gwydion blinked. “I’m not sure.”

  “He was mentor to Finn MacCuhal, and fed him the Salmon of Wisdom. Then, when Finn let his friend die because of his jealousy, Taliesin was the one showed him that he had lost everything, including his wisdom. What was he before that?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwydion said.

  “He advised the Ard Righ Brian Boru. Brian was trying to undo all the harm King Arthur caused with his pride, and reunite the country. And he was wise enough to listen to Taliesin’s wisdom, which made that happen with less bloodshed than might have happened otherwise. Who was Taliesin before that?”

  Gwydion raised his hands. “I don’t know!”

  “He was an orphan named Gwion Bach, who was taken in by the wizard Merlyn as a servant. But as Arthur united the five fifths of Glencairck, Merlyn had a vision, and gave him to the witch Cerridwen. Cerridwen was brewing a potion of wisdom for her stupid, ugly son. But Gwion accidentally tasted the potion first, and gained the wisdom instead. Furious, Cerridwen chased him in many shapes, until Gwion turned into a kernel of wheat on a threshing room floor. She turned into a hen and ate all the grain, but instead of dying, Gwion began growing inside of her, and nine days later, she gave birth to a baby boy. She could not find it in her to kill him outright, so she put him in a sack and threw it in the river. Elffin ap Gwyddno found the bag, and when he opened it, he exclaimed, ‘What a radiant brow!’ The baby said, ‘Then that shall be my name: Taliesin.’ And though he had all the wisdom of the world, he lived with Elffin for many years while his body caught up with his mind, learning the things that wisdom cannot provide: love, duty, honor.”

  Gwydion had never heard the story before, and thought about why Columb thought it important. But as he turned it over in his mind, Columb said, “Who was Cathbar?”

  “The King Bardd, betrayer of the bards.”

  “That is true,” Columb said. “But what was he before that?”

  “The Pen Bardd.”

  Columb nodded. “He was, and evidently did a good job of it before he decided that he could do so much more. But what was he before that?”

  “An Ollave?” Gwydion said.

  “Yes, but I meant before he became a bard.”

  Gwydion thought about all the he had read on the Bardic Wars, but none of them had even alluded to Cathbar’s life before earning the star. “Again, I don’t know.”

  “He was the s
on of a scullery maid and a Faerie lord. Much of the power he used to take over the country came from his father’s lineage.”

  Gwydion made the connection immediately. “He was Cymry.”

  “More or less,” Columb said. “But why did I tell you Taliesin’s history?”

  “To show me that there have been bards who had powers that came from other sources than Bardic magic,” Gwydion said. “And obviously, Taliesin was one of those.”

  “Very good,” Columb said. “Now what about your namesake?”

  “Another bard with a Cymric background,” Gwydion mused.

  “When that Gwydion stole the pigs from Pryderi, the Pen Bardd called him to answer for what had happened,” Columb said. “Now, the Pen Bardd at the time was Flynn, who was only the second Pen Bardd, having received the calling from Taliesin before that great one died. But he had been trained well, and he demanded to know why Gwydion had broken the peace with Bardic magic. Gwydion’s defense? He had not used Bardic magic, only Cymric magic. Flynn let him keep the star, but made a new rule for the Bardic code: bards are not to use their talents for personal gain.”

  “But I have seen bards receive handsome rewards at Caer Dathyl,” Gwydion said.

  “Yes, but there is a difference between seeking reward for what you do, and doing what you have to do and being rewarded for it.”

  Gwydion frowned. “That sounds like a clever dodge that could be interpreted however you like to fit the situation.”

  “It could, but think of it this way: should the fact that a bard is at Caer Dathyl change the quality of either his playing or his judgment?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But he will receive gold and jewels at Caer Dathyl. Doesn’t that encourage him to do better?” Columb asked. “And how about the same bard in a crofter’s hut? Will he play as well, knowing that his reward might only be an extra helping of porridge?”

  “He should,” Gwydion answered.

  “But before Flynn, that wasn’t necessarily the case,” Columb said. “But even more, the examples of Gwydion and Cathbar have made it so that those with Cymric powers have been, ah, strongly discouraged from seeking the star.”

  Gwydion sighed. “Where does that put me?”

  “I have talked about it with the High Druid, trying to decide that very thing,” Columb said. “It comes to this: I want you to give up your Cymric powers.”

  “How would that work?” Gwydion said suspiciously.

  “He and I think that between us, we can use Bardic magic and druidic magic to make it happen,” Columb said. “But we would never do it without your permission.”

  “And if I don’t, you want to take me to Gorsedd Ogham and strip me of my Bardic magic.”

  “That I know I can do,” Columb said. When Gwydion didn’t answer, he said gently, “You must choose one path or the other.”

  Gwydion pondered for a few minutes. “If I must choose,” he said slowly, “I choose the bardic path.”

  Columb let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I was worried that you might decide to stay with the Cymry.”

  Gwydion said, “No, I think I have severed those ties. When are we going to do this?”

  Columb looked at the sun, which was near the zenith. “Gareth should be here in a few hours.”

  Gwydion laughed. “You sure were confident in what my decision would be.”

  “Not as much as you think,” Columb said. “I thought it would take longer to persuade you.”

  “So what are we going to do while we wait?”

  Columb began tuning his harp. “Now I get to see how good a musician you are. Tune that old pot of yours, and play me, let’s see… play me the story of Deidre.”

  “That’s a very sad story,” Gwydion said.

  “That it is,” Columb said. “But it gives me a chance to see how you handle strong emotion.”

  The image of Math staring blindly at the sky flashed in his mind, and Gwydion said, “So far… well, we’ll see.”

  Gareth, the High Druid of Glencairck, arrived about an hour before the sunset. He wore no cloak, only the simple brown robe worn by all priests. But despite the lack of outward indications of his rank, he radiated an aura of power that set him apart from others.

  He found the two harpists playing intently. He waited for several minutes for them to notice him, and then finally made a loud harrumph. Without looking up, Columb said, “Almost done.”

  Gareth waited patiently while they finished with a flourish. He applauded them, and Gwydion felt both proud and somewhat embarrassed. “I guess I know what his decision was then,” Gareth said to Columb.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  Columb turned to Gwydion. “Are you ready?”

  Gwydion shrugged. “I suppose.”“

  “Feeling nervous?” Gareth asked.

  “I don't know what to expect, except to lose a part of myself. So yes, I think nervous would describe it.”

  Columb said, “Don't be disrespectful.”

  The High Druid chuckled. “He's training to be a bard,” he said. “If you teach him respect now, he'll just have to unlearn it later.”

  “True enough,” Columb said with a grimace. He cocked his eye at the sun. “Five minutes. Let's get in position.”

  Gwydion stood in the middle, with Gareth north of him and Columb south. When the sun touched the horizon, the Pen Bardd began to play softly on the harp, and the High druid began a chanting prayer. Gwydion felt the power build in both of them, and felt it directed at him.

  They were pulling him apart. The bardic magic was holding him steady, and the druidic magic tried to coax the Cymry part of him out. But instead of coming apart easily, he felt stretched, like a bow pulled too hard, and it took all of his concentration not to fight back. The wind began to howl, and lightning crackled across the clear blue sky.

  Gareth increased his pull, and Gwydion screamed in pain. He felt something give, but it wasn’t him; instead, the competing magics slipped, and he saw Columb and Gareth both flung backwards. He snapped back together, and found himself in raven form, thrown high into the air.

  The wind blew him east. He tried to fight it, but the wind ignored his efforts both physical and magical. It had a name that Gwydion could not find, but he heard it laughing at his efforts. He tried to land and find shelter, but updrafts drove him back into the sky. He tried to shape shift to another form, but the wind blew him back into a raven every time. He felt his energy wane, and he blacked out.

  He woke up, lying on the ground in human form. Everything ached; lifting his head made it worse. He found himself in the middle of a ring of standing stones, half of which had lintels across the top like doorways. Beyond the stones, he could see the top of a thick forest, wrapped in thin mist. The sky above was gray with clouds, but the cold and the quiet made him think it was just before dawn.

  He tried to stand, but only made it to his knees. The ring of stones surrounded an area of soft grass. At one end, three stones of the same size as the circle lay flat in a triangle. He saw no one else, and he heard neither birds nor winds. The silence weighed on him, and he coughed just to make sure he had not gone deaf; the reflection of the sound from the stones around him crackled with power.

  A different sound began to tickle his ears, but so softly he could barely determine that it was music. He strained to hear more, and as it grew louder, he could tell it was harp music, but so sweet and pure that it made his heart ache. He did not recognize the tune but it too tugged at his soul, and made him feel both humble and happy. The three flat stones began to glow, and became so bright that Gwydion covered his eyes. A shadow fell on him, and he looked up at the harpist.

  The man playing had a bald head, a white beard, and skin like well-tanned leather. His harp looked like it was made of crystal and gold, with silver strings that he plucked with long fingers. His blue eyes twinkled, but everything about him radiated power. “I am Ogmah, god of the bards,” h
e said.

  Gwydion ducked his head. “Master,” he murmured.

  Ogmah clucked his tongue. “Gwydion ap Don, you’ve rarely known a humble day in your life. Don’t start now.”

  Gwydion looked up. “You know who I am?”

  “It’s one of the perks of being a god,” Ogmah said with a wink. He set his harp aside, where it hung in the air and played by itself, and helped Gwydion stand, brushing him off.

  “Are you here to take my Cymric powers?” Gwydion asked.

  “And what would I do with them?” Ogmah said.

  “Help me be a bard,” Gwydion said.

  “I don’t need them, but they might be helpful to you,” Ogmah said. “I wouldn’t be giving them away just yet.”

  Gwydion shook his head. “But the Pen Bardd said--”

  Ogmah shushed him. “The Pen Bardd and the High druid are receiving their own counsel from other powers even as we speak. They went too far in asking you to give up a part of yourself, but you are to be commended for wanting to try.”

  “Then why am I here? And why are you here?”

  “You are here because every potential bard needs to spend time in Gorsedd Ogham,” Ogmah said. “The stones here are tuned to bardic magic, and it is a good place for inspiration and visions. And I am here to instruct you.”

  Gwydion felt a wave of vertigo wash over him, and only Ogmah’s arm around his shoulders kept him upright. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “Generally, an expression of gratitude would be in order.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Gwydion said. “And forgive my rudeness.”

  Ogmah snorted. “If I minded rudeness, I wouldn’t be the god of the bards. Now, let’s have a seat and get comfortable. We have much to cover, and not much time.”

  Ogmah clapped his hands, and two stools appeared, with a low table between. Another clap produced a tray of honey cakes and a flagon of mead. Ogmah sat and poured out two cups, handing one to Gwydion. “Eat,” Ogmah said. “It will renew your energy.”

  Gwydion took one of the cakes, and bit into it. The sweetness was momentarily overpowering, causing his teeth to ache and his throat to burn. His took a quick drink to wash it down, and found the mead to be even sweeter, but after a moment, he felt better than he had in days.