The Bardic Academy (A Bard Without a Star, Book 3) by Michael A. Hooten

you’ve got
your bearings, then, I’ll be off.”
    “My horse?”
Fidgen said. “And supplies?”
    Manus
gestured to a path that led away from the dun. “There’s a copse down there
where I have set up camp. You’ll find everything there, including food for
your journey.”
    “Thank you,”
Fidgen said.
    Manus
looked him in the eye and said, “Thank you. I would have wasted away if you
hadn’t come along.”
    “I don’t
think Epona would have let that happen.”
    “Maybe,
maybe not,” Manus said. “Any road, luck to you, and may your further
adventures be less intense than this one.” He turned and almost ran down the
path to the dun. Fidgen shook his head, and still chewing on the loaf Manus
had given him, went the opposite direction to find his camp.

Chapter 6: Magic
    Fidgen began heading
southeast to the coast, but unlike in Duvnecht, he only stopped in larger
caers, where his presence was both accepted and unremarkable. It was a new
type of anonymity for him, but he found that he preferred the time between
caers, when the solitude of the open road was his surest companion.
    The land
began to change again as he got closer to the water, with large limestone
outcroppings replacing the smooth green hills. It was not exactly mountainous,
but the road wound through valleys that were faced with tall white cliffs that
reflected sound strangely. It didn’t feel malevolent, just different; Fidgen
played his harp as he rode, feeling how the land shaped the music, and forced
him to find new patterns for familiar tasks like making his voice louder.
    He came out
of one such valley to find himself looking down on plain that sloped down to
the glittering sea. The day was exceptionally clear, and he could count a
dozen duns and several caers, with the largest sprawling at the mouth of the
river he rode next to. It looked to be several leagues away, too far to make before
sundown, but he figured he could make it there by the next day. He still
didn’t know what he was supposed to find.
    It found
him instead, coming towards him at dusk: a long, low ship that rowed its way
through the land as though it was water. Fidgen couldn’t see any rowers, but a
tall man stood at the bow, watching him as the ship approached. A gold torc
circled his neck, and a silver fillet held his long dark hair back. His
clothes were shades of green and blue, and his cloak had the iridescence of mother
of pearl. Fidgen bowed low in the saddle, which caused the man to start. He
ran towards the stern as the ship passed by, and leaned hard on the tiller,
bringing the ship around and to a stop, bobbing in the grass like it was
sitting on a placid lake.
    The man
called out, “I’m not mistaken then; you do see me, right?”
    “Yes, I see
you,” Fidgen said. “You’re rather hard to miss in your boat that sails the
land.”
    The man
grinned. “You’d be surprised. I’ve been cruising this plain for some time
now, and you’re the first that has noticed.”
    “How is
that possible?” Fidgen asked. “Your ship is huge, and you yourself are not
exactly inconspicuous.”
    “Mortals
have a remarkable capacity for ignoring what doesn’t fit their expectations,”
he said.
    “You’re not
mortal?” Fidgen said.
    “Mannanan
MacLir, God of the Sea,” the man said with a sweeping bow. “A grandiose title,
but it’s what I am, so it’s what I’m stuck with. And you are...?”
    “Forgive my
poor manners,” he said with a bow. “I am Fidgen, a student bard.”
    “Fidgen
fits you at the moment, I suppose,” Mannanan said. “But other names will come,
I am sure. And your old one will return as well, Gwydion ap Don.”
    Fidgen
scowled. “What’s the use of hiding your name when everyone seems to know it?”
    Mannanan
laughed. “There are names, and there are names,” he said. “Ogmah gave you a
mask, not a new face. That will come later. Or is it your true face he
gives? I’ve never been quite sure how that works.” He lifted a