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
son 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.

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