The Master of Paths, the map.

Here is the visual synopsis for the part of The Master of Paths which takes place in the Bardlands. It is also a rough schematic for the Bardlands itself. If you click on it, I think you will see an enlarged version of the map.

The Wizardslands are to the south, below the Shelf. The Shelf is a sheer cliff (that rough, wavy sideways ladder-looking thing) caused by a sudden uplift of the northern land. The uplift is highest at the Southwest Corner, creating the high plains and the rather odd flow to the rivers. The Eastern Green Forest is also on a high knoll, and the river coming out of the mountains splits, with one branch going north and one going west.

If you are wondering why Guerney takes such a long route to Selice, the royal city, the answer is that he needs to convince certain lords and nobles to join his cause.

While I don't have a good scale worked out for this map, I can tell you that it takes about a month to go south from Slatten to the Shelf, and five or six weeks to travel overland from Slatten to Selice. Going by river boat takes a lot less time, but it's expensive. Of course, the time it takes one to travel is affected by such things as weather, bandits, the condition of the roads, and the health of the horses. And riders -- eating last week's roasted meat may slow you down a bit. As a result, I can make the journies last as long as I need them to.

Chapter 21

Two days later I returned to Songless, following my Lord Reinard and his Lady Laurice, but I came as a Bard and not as a servant. A grand wedding feast awaited my lord. Lord Guerney came, bringing all his court and his daughter’s ladies-in-waiting, so that the keep now bloomed with laughter and finery. When Lord Guerney left, however, he took the Lady Victoria with him. She had claimed him as a husband, as I suppose she could aspire no higher.

Over the course of time, Lady Laurice made a proper husband out of Wallen, just as Songless made a proper steward out of Peter. The monk indulged less in wine with honey, though it remained his favorite cure for all ills.

The Spring thaw brought Bards from Slatten. Master Master came to be the new Grandmaster, and under him came Journeymen Sieg and Van. Sharp came as well, though we all knew that he would not stay long – his is the path of wandering, just as mine is the path of habitation. The five of us, as well as two small boys and my own Lord Reinard, raised new beams over the ashes of the old Bardhall. Only the frame stood on the first day of spring, but we stood on rough planking and sang in the dawn while the Cathedral across the way opened its doors to Easter Mass.

In the fall Elise bore me a son. Two years afterwards, we had a daughter. The Lady Laurice was barren.

Each summer I returned to Slatten to sit before the Masters and earn another string on my harp.

And thus life flowed for us, until the fifth summer – but that’s another story, and not all mine to tell.

THE END

***********************************************************************************

And now, as Porky Pig would say, That's all, folks. For this book, anyway. My plans for it are now to go through it, cleaning up typos and editing what I can, and prepare it for publication through the Dead Fish Press. That project will hopefully be completed in the spring -- but as with all things, this plan is subject to modification by fate and disasters.

On the other tentacle, this is not the end of the blog. I will now start writing up another story set in this world, though in a different country and with a much different cast of characters. It's called Talaski the Starred, and tells the adventures of a hapless Gutter Rat and the Wizard Azygous, whom the Gutter Rat has managed to offend. Not a smart thing to do in the Wizardlands.

Helen E. Davis

Chapter 20.2.6

A huge, half-rotted carcass filled the path. White bones thrust up through the leathery skin, shreds of dark flesh hung down, and everywhere upon it white maggots squirmed. A single, flat eye stared unseeing upon the world, upon us. Though the sight was bad, the stench was worse: a mixture of sweet rot, excrement, and musk.

Beneath it’s swollen form I recognized it from Rockridge. This was one of the demons I had fought and killed. This was mine, and to me fell the duty of clearing it away. Of burying it. I had no tool but my hands, but the ground was soft. I started to dig a pit.

This task would take forever.

I was not alone on the path, I realized. Behind me stood all the Bards, Masters and Journeymen and Bards-in-training. There were also townspeople there, from both Slatten and Songless, standing in a cluster by themselves. Charles, Peter, Elise, and Wallen stood between the two groups. All of them watched me.

I dug a hole as large as my head.

Charles came forward first, followed by Peter, then one of the Bards. The four of us dug a hole as large as a fruit basket.

More people came forward, now in large groups, everyone helping to turn the soil. There were Silent Monks among the workers, and priests whose white frocks were not stained with dirt. People came out of the forest itself – Bards I had never seen and a Lady with Wallen’s fine features. One Bard had his hand around the Lady’s waist, and he stopped to speak to Sharp.

Their words were muffled, meant for them alone.

With so many hands helping, the pit quickly grew to the size of a small house. Then we put our hands to the stinking carcass, and rolled it in. With handfuls of dirt, we all covered it over – and the last thing I saw, before its form disappeared beneath the ground, was its face. The face of the Bard-killer, the old Lord Reinard.

May he rest peacefully, and not trouble us again.

When stones had been rolled over the loose dirt to finish the grave, I started the song of the dead. Wallen joined me, and Sharp, and then all the others. The Master of Paths flew over us, his loud cry joining the song.

The path was now clear, for all of us. We all stepped forward.

I blinked, finding myself on the steps of the Bardhall, my hands resting on silent strings. I had my answer – but how was I to put it into words that would satisfy the Grandmaster?

Then I saw that my fingers were filthy, my nails crusted with dirt. Blood flowed from scraped palms. My clothes were stained; sweat dripped down my face. I raised my face to Grandmaster Meiltung, and saw that he also was streaked with filth and sweat. All the Bards on the steps were so marked, and I could see tears coursing down Sharp’s face.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked down at his own filthy, bleeding hands, then wiped them on trousers which were no cleaner. He spoke in a shaken voice. "There will be a Bardhall at Songless Castle, Journeyman Gerard."

I was a Bard.

Chapter 20.2.5

"Play the Cycle of Songs," Grandmaster Meiltung said, without smiling.

And so I did. The notes bubbled from my harp, like water from a spring, smooth and refreshing. When I finished all the Masters smiled at me – save Meiltung.

"Play your original ballad, child."

I nodded to Peter and set my hands on my harp.

"The Flight of the Lady," he announced, then took a deep breath. I plucked the first string of notes, then launched into a complicated harmony that matched his mellow tenor voice.

"A Monk, a Bard, and One-in-training
Set out upon the road.
They went to visit Rockridge Castle:
Carved it was of stone,
Of black and ice-cold stone."

And thus, in a brief but lively narrative we summarized my journey of the last month, and ended with:

"For it is true that the Bard’s a Bard,
But the Monk is a Bard-in-training;
And the One-in-training is a Lord,
None other than Lord Reinard –
Oh, she has wed Lord Reinard!

A monk, a Bard, and one-in-training
Set out upon the road.
They went to visit Rockridge Castle
To catch themselves a Lady –
Lord Reinard caught his lady!"

The steps rocked with laughter then, from Bards and townsfolk alike. Grandmaster Meiltung stood glowering, his arms crossed, as he waited for the mirth to end. Wallen – it was hard to think of him by his more formal title when he stood barefoot and ragged among the boys, scowled at me, but his hands were not clenched.

Finally the crowd quieted. The Grandmaster looked at me, lifted his chin, and asked, "So tell us, Gerard of Jerden, Child of the Bardhall – why should we rebuild the Bardhall to please the murderers in Songless?"

I did not need to look at Wallen to see that he now clenched his fists, and I did not fault him. My own hands twitched in anger.

But peace is essential to the exercize. Shoving aside my personal thoughts, I wrapped my mind about the question. I considered it rationally, then set my fingers on the strings and my feet on the path. I let the music come as it would, out through my fingers and into the strings, resonating in first the soundbox and then in the people around me. I drew on the nervousness of the one who went before me and those who would someday follow, the anger of the Grandmaster and the outrage of my Lord Reinard, the commands I had been given by both the Master of Paths and the Prince of the Forest, and all the joys and pains of my life – these things wove themselves into the music and came forth in a silvery shine. Somewhere in the distance spindice rolled across the floor, changing human lives with each roll, and a dragon with emerald eyes flapped his heavy wings.

As I followed the path that led through the dark forest of the Spirit world, I watched sunbeams dance down through the tree-tops and light on vibrant wildflowers. A sparkling creek chuckled nearby; birds sang gleefully.

Then I passed a curve and found my way was blocked.

Chapter 20.2.4

Staring at the step, Breck bit his lip. It was a fair question, one for which we all knew the answer: to succeed, we must know how we can fail. However, it was also a pointed reminder of Breck’s previous humiliation, and from the green-tinged paleness on his face I knew it had found its mark.

Still, the boy bent forward and forced out a meditation melody, a tune that turned in a slowly shifting circle. For long moments he played, his face as tense as a harpstring, twitching every few bars as he rejected one path for another. The other Bards watched him with an assortment of faces: some bored, some hopeful, some with the keenness of a hunter harrying its prey. The Grandmaster stood over Breck like a hound certain of its kill, and for this reason I wanted Breck to succeed.

That and the promise from the Grandmaster that if Breck did not fail, neither would I.

Finally the strings stilled. Breck looked up and spoke in a voice that could barely be heard. "Failure gives us time to, to try harder."

Truly uninspired. I wasn’t the only one to shake my head.

With a confident smile Grandmaster Meiltung hooked his thumbs in his belt and glanced back at the other Masters. With barely perceptible gestures they made their vote, and the smile from the Grandmaster’s face. He turned back to Breck. "Rise up, Journeyman Breck – the doors to the Guildhall open before you."

Smiling broadly, Breck leapt to his feet, then caught the harp before it could tumble. Clutching it close, he made his way to the throng of Journeymen, who greeted him with slaps and smiles. In the feast to follow, he would be made drunk and his hand numbed with herbs, and then the harp of the Bards would be tattooed across the back. A harp with a single string, yet room to hold six more. With luck and a little help from the gods, I would join him.

"They gave it to him," Treble muttered. "But they’ll keep him here for a few summers more."

I nodded. Their choice was wise, all paths considered.

And now my turn had come. I rose to meet it.

Chapter 20.2.3

Breck bent his head and hands to the task. The notes came out smooth and perfect as he worked through the Cycle of Songs, a set of tunes that marked each stage of a person’s life. Birth was a simple melody with a steady heartbeat, then a long, joyful rise. With a ripple of sound it changed to Growth, a swelling, circular air that slowly became more complex. With Maturity it deepened, moving to a lower register, and then came the fast-paced, giddy dance of Pairing. Livelihood, a sturdy melody with a strong beat, gave way to the whisper of Old Age. Then all the harmonies gathered into a single strand of notes that faded into a soft hum of the strings – Death, and the journey beyond it.

A flawless performance. Breck had indeed worked hard – but his only reward was a stern nod from the Grandmaster. "Now play your original ballad."

With a shaking voice, Breck forced out the title. "Ballad of the Willow Tree." He bowed his head, plucked the harp strings, and sang.

"My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see.

Once – I was a true man
With a heart and hands and eyes;
But now I’m rooted to this soil
With a pain that never dies.

I had myself a maiden,
Fair Bridgett was her name.
But I was just a toy to her,
For loving was her game."

The ballad went on to tell William’s tragic story. He had loved his Bridgett so much that he had bragged about her to all he met, and even traveled into the Eastern Green Forest to tell the trees. There he met a tall man in a dark cloak who laughed at his story and told him that no woman ever truly loves a man. William claimed that his Bridgett was different; the stranger replied that the woman would be in the arms of another when William left the forest. Taking offense, William had called the man a liar, and said that on his soul he would prove his Bridgett to be true. At this the man threw off his cloak and revealed himself to be Oberon, lord of the Herart of the Eastern Green Forest. He then offered a bargain: if Bridgett did indeed prove true, then William could return and fill his hat with jewels and silver, but if Bridgett was false, then William was to lose his soul and belong to the forest forever. William agreed, then left the forest in search of his true love. But:

"I saw her with the iron-smith’s son
Embracing by the river;
Her took her face between his hands
And then he sweetly kissed her.

And then he pulled his knife out
And stepped up to a tree;
With swift, deep strokes he carved their names
Inside a heart – on me.

My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see."

An interesting idea, carefully played, but the tune was stiff and unremarkable. And long – Master Iving wasn’t the only one to blink himself awake at the end.

Grandmaster Meiltung did not comment on it, however. He only closed his eyes, then recited, as if from memory, "For everything there is a purpose. What is the purpose of failure?"

Chapter 20.2.2

Grabbing his shoulders, I pulled him down to sit. The seven hopeful boys would go before us.

They were led, one at a time, to stand alone before the Masters. Each was asked his name, his place of birth, and to play a simple tune. Three of them broke down in tears, one could not seem to answer, one answered but could not make sounds come out of his pipe, and one dropped his pipe as he started to play. That boy picked the instrument back up, dropped it again, picked it up but fumbled with it, and finally managed to get the mouthpiece to his lips and play a few shaky notes. He was chosen, along with the last two boys who had done all that was asked of them without trouble. The others were sent back, but told that they could try again in the spring.

Now it was our turn to be tested. I looked toward Elise for comfort, then unwrapped my harp. Breck shivered beside me.

Grandmaster Meiltung stood and crossed his arms. "Child Breck of Slatten, come stand before us."

Breck jumped slightly, then froze, too terrified to move. I touched his arm, smiled, and ran my fingers my fingers over my harpstrings. He stared back, white and senseless.

Now Treble stood up, hauled Breck to his feet, and said, "The gods will watch over your path." Then with a shove he sent the poor boy to his fate.

I shook my head in pity.

"Oh, he doesn’t think he’ll make it, but he will," Trebled added quietly.

Did Treble’s gift of sight tell him this? Or knowledge learned from the masters? I held up my hands in question, but Treble only shook his head.

Out on the steps, Breck had collapsed before a harp that had been brought out for him to play. He wrapped shaking fingers around the strings, and stared up at the Grandmaster’s face.

"Play the cycle of songs," Grandmaster Meiltung intoned.

Chapter 20.2.1

Two days passed, days of work and preparation. Elise kept me fed while Peter learned my ballad, his beautiful tenor a worthy accompaniment to my harp, and Master Iving listened while I practiced the Cycle of Songs. Breck also worked, though always alone – I sometimes heard his music late at night while all the others slept.

The Winter Solstice dawned grey and cold after a night of freezing rain. All the Bards gathered on the steps before dawn, dressed in their formal clothes: linen tunic embroidered with Bardic runes and dark trousers – linen for the Bards-in-training, wool for the Journeymen, and warm velvet for the Masters.

The Master stood in a line along the top step. On the steps just below, clustered left and right, stood the Journeymen. Below them stood the shivering Bards-in-training, arranged by height, with the shortest and youngest on the lowest step. I stood with Treble and Breck, far to the side – too tall and old to be among the boys, but without the right to stand with the men.

Opposite us, standing behind the other Bards-in-training, I spied another tall figure. In the early dawn light I could not see who it was, and had no thought as to who it could be.

Far to our left, where a gap in the buildings allowed us a clear view of the mountains, the sky lightened, then a drop of liquid gold pooled at the horizion. Grandmaster Meiltung gestured, and a Journeyman rang a chime. That was the signal for us all, and in perfect harmony we sang in the dawn.

I could not sing, except in my mind, but I played the tune on a lute. There were thirty-seven verses to the Song of the Dawn, and as we sang them the people of Slatten brought forth their winter gifts: harvest fruits and clucking fowls, gems and precious metals, pottery and cloth, whatever they might spare to keep the Bards through the winter months and so bring blessings on their own households. Seven eager mothers came up, bringing young boys that they were offering for training. There were no orphans today, which the Bardhall took in as an act of charity, so all these boys would test to see if they deserved a place here.

When we finished, steaming cups of soup were passed around as the older Bards-in-training carried the gifts into the Bardhall. I looked to see who was the tall Bard-in-training standing on the other side of the steps, and nearly dropped my cup. Lord Reinard, barefoot and dressed in rags? No, it would have to be Peter – except that the monk was standing with Charles among the townspeople. That was indeed my lord, playing some sort of dangerous game – but not as dangerous as it could have been, for Bards are forbidden to shed blood on the days we sing in the seasons.

Was he then so determined to see me follow him that he would not leave until I sat before the Masters? Did he expect me to go with him if I failed?

But I would not fail.

"It’s time," Breck said to me, his voice as weak as his face was white. The Masters were sitting into their chairs and all the other Bards were sitting down. Breck clutched his harp and swallowed.

Chapter 20.1.2

The Grandmaster’s look was one of cruel amusement. "Why try when you can’t succeed?"

I flushed with anger. "How can you say I won’t succeed when you haven’t let me try?"

"I think I will let you try – just to see you fail."

"I will not fail," I declared in bold gestures.

At Peter’s translation, Meiltung laughed. "And do you know that? Are you sighted? Or have you made a deal with the gods? It would take the work of the gods to convince the Bardhall that a mute should be a Bard. You think too highly of yourself, child, to suppose that you would be made a favorite of the gods."

I saw the black road then, tempting me with its power. If I but stepped upon it, all the power in the world would be mine – and Grandmaster Meiltung would never laugh at me again. No Bard would laugh at me again, nor any man, woman, or child. I would be feared, not mocked. I...

A ray of sunlight broke over the windowsill and struck Peter’s crucifix, and I remembered the god in agony. According to the stories, he faced worse than I, and still refused the black road. I bit back my anger.

Would I always be cursed by the temptation of the black road? Yet other Bards seemed not to – especially Grandmaster Meiltung, who was as free with his anger as any man. Perhaps my visions were no more than the dreams of a fevered mind and I was wrong to think that I should be a Bard. As my anger melted away, so did my confidence.

Seeing that, the Grandmaster smiled with victory. "Sit before the Masters, if you dare, though you’ll do no better than Breck. And you may keep the monk until you do – but the knight must go."

I nodded.

Grandmaster Meiltung left then, smiling widely. Charles entered and reached for his saddlebags. "I heard what he said."

"I’m sorry," I signed.

The knight blew out his breath, then shrugged. "But it is time I leave and follow my lord. I fear I will have to beg his forgiveness, and discuss a thing or two."

I frowned at that.

His eyes flickered toward Peter.

I nodded.

"But it’s not the end of our adventures," he added. "We’re to travel together this summer, remember?"

I nodded again, this time smiling.

"But I want you to watch out for the rats. There are some here that almost six feet tall." With that he looked toward the door, then laughed. "And one thing more, Gerard – may I have my prayerbook back?"

Oh, yes. It was still in my traveling bag. I picked up the poor, battered thing and reached inside. My fingers closed on something cold, an object more chilling than ice. I drew it out, and found it was the coronet that Spara of the Eastern Green Forest had given to me.

I smiled. Dreams indeed.

Chapter 20.1.1

Grandmaster Meiltung was waiting for me in our room. His eyes were angry, though controlled, and his face was hard. "I want to speak to you, Gerard – alone."

I signed and Peter translated, "I must keep Peter as my voice."

"Very well," he assented, and waved Charles and Elise out the door. I didn’t like his acquiescence – he only gave ground when he had a bigger battle to fight. I was in no mood for another fight – but as a Bard, I would do what I must.

When the door closed, he crossed his arms. "The Christians – and especially Reinard’s knight – must leave immediately. I will not have the Bardhall further spoiled by their presence."

"These Christians are good men. They are my friends, and have protected me even when in danger for their own lives. Do they not deserve some courtesy?"

"Friends? You have better friends here in the Bardhall than you will ever find among a thousand Christians."

I lifted my eyebrows. "Then who was it who threatened me in the dinning room last night, and who protected me?"

Grandmaster Meiltung looked away briefly. "You’re in no danger, here, Gerard, if the Christians leave. You do not need the knight to protect you, and it seems that your lady can speak well enough for you. They must go – now."

"Peter must stay. I need him to sing for me."

"Why should he have to sing for you?" Grandmaster Meiltung said slowly. "There’s no sense in your sitting before the Masters, child. You can’t be a Bard if you can’t sing."

I had told Lord Reinard that I would sit before the Masters to prove myself a Bard to make him leave me here. I hadn’t been serious – or had I? I remembered the vision I had walked through while playing at the monastery, and a fairly clear directive it was. Just an impossible one. Yet, looking into the Grandmaster’s forbidding face, I knew that I now had to try.

"There is more to being a Bard than just knowing how to sing," I told him.

He flushed, remembering as well as I did that it had been one of his favorite sayings to the boys.

"I can still weave adventures into stories, I can find wisdom in books, and most importantly, I can walk in the spirit world to find answers and help people."

Meiltung snorted. "And have you found an answer to your muteness?"

"I am to see that a Bardhall is returned to Songless. That is my path, and I may not turn from it. So if I must borrow a voice to sit before the Masters, I will."

Chapter 9.2.5

The Lady Laurice turned back. "Peter! Come with us!"

The monk shook his head. "I must stay with Gerard. God has commanded me to be his voice."

From the look on her face, I guessed it was the first time she had refused him. But Lord Reinard took her hand and smiled generously. "Gerard will be coming with us, along with his lady – and my knight."

It was my turn to shake my head. I signed, "The Bardhall is my place, just as Songless is yours. I am returning to my rightful path. In two days I will sit before the Masters and prove myself worthy to be a Bard."

His face darkened, even as Peter translated my words for everyone to hear. I knew then that I would have to tell the monk which conversations were private, and which were not.

"Gerard, you belong at Songless." Lord Reinard clenched his hands.

"I belong in a Bardhall." Then, because I felt bold, I added, "If you set things right at Songless and the Bardhall is restored, then I will return."

He glowered at that, then put his arm around his lady’s waist and walked off. Lord Guerney and his soldiers followed.

I was free of Songless at last. I felt a cold, cleansing wind blow across the steps, and took a full, deep breath of my new life as the other Bards went back to the warmth of the Bardhall. Soon there was only myself, along with Charles, Peter, Elise, and Sharp.

The Bard came over to me and spoke quietly. "Gerard, thank you for not pointing out to Meiltung that it was I who brought the Bard-killer’s son into the Bardhall."

Others would remember it, though. But that was the path Sharp had chosen to walk, and the penalty would be his to bear. I changed the subject. "I owe you something."

"You owe me?" He laughed.

"For claiming Elise as your lady." Then I struck him square on the chin with my fist.

A pity, but he went down without a fight. I would have liked to have added a few more kicks as he lay on the steps, helpless to resist, but I knew the god in agony would not approve. Instead I signed to Charles, "Drag him into the hall and lay him before the fire. He might freeze out here."

Charles nodded happily – and picked up the Bard’s feet.

Chapter 9.2.4

"Take this!" shouted the woman standing with Wallen, who was indeed the Lady Laurice. She threw back her hood and pulled down her scarf, then pulled Wallen with her as she stepped proudly down the steps. "Here I am, father, and here I’ll stay! I wedded this man, before the church and in deed, and only death can separate us."

Lord Guerney frowned. "So, child – what happened to your belly? Your babe was indeed an act of fiction, was it not? Why should I believe your story?"

"I have witnesses." She pointed to Sharp.

"Co-conspirators."

"The good people of the town of Goshawk will speak for me."

"Will they?" Lord Guerney mused, and in a flash I saw that he knew that a sword could change a story faster than gold. But then he seemed to give ground. "Well, then, if I must accept this wretch – bring forth your husband and let us see what kind of stump you have grafted yourself to. And if he is still willing to keep you when I say that you’ll bring no dowry nor inheritance to your wedding bed."

The look on her face was sour, but Wallen unwrapped his scarf, showing that he had shaved. Then he straighten his back, lifted his chin, and so transformed from the humble beggar to the noble Lord Reinard. His arm around his wife’s waist, he drew her down the steps and closer to her father – and further from the danger of the swords. "I am – though I do insist on the fulfillment of the bargain you made with me."

Anger melted into astonishment on the old Knight’s face, and then he whooped with laughter. Sheathing his sword, he held out his hands. "Come to me, my son! You have caught the uncatchable!"

The Lady Laurice was clearly perplexed as she moved into the now welcoming embrace of her father. "A bargain with him? What of the Bard-killer?"

"The Bard-killer is dead, and thus our agreement moved to his son." He slapped Wallen on the back. "Or did you not know that this is Wallen Reinard, the lord of Reinard Castle?"

All the Bards stared as Lord Guerney pulled Lord and Lady Reinard into the safety of his soldier. The red-headed Journeyman, who must have been Van, threw out a rude and impossible curse, but the rest seemed shocked into silence.

Charles was smiling smugly. Beside him, Peter’s face was red, almost purple, and his hands were clenched.

Grandmaster Meiltung turned to me and growled, "Did you know this? Did you know that he was blood-kin to the Bard-killer?"

"Not until I followed him to Songless," I signed back.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked at my hands with disgust. "Get your voice to speak for you."

Peter stumbled over and attempted to translate my words. "He knew nothing until they went to Songless together, he says."

"That was years before this! Why did you let him come into the Guildhall yesterday, eat our food, share our fire, and sleep beneath our roof?"

With those words, the Grandmaster made it clear to all that no matter how much the Bards detested any kin of the Bard-killer, Wallen was safe from our vengeance – as little as he himself like the idea. But he also made it clear that I was to blame for this state of affairs. I started to protest that it had been Sharp who had knowingly brought in the Bard-killer’s blood and granted him hospitality – but then realized that would doom the man. He would be driven from the Bardhall, perhaps even stoned – and from his round eyes and white face, I knew he was aware of this. As a Bard-in-Training I faced a beating, at most.

But as I thought, an answer came to me, one that would save both our skins. "You must see that Wallen is a good man, so that you will build a new Bardhall at Songless."

"There will never be a Bardhall at Songless," Grandmaster Meiltung roared, his anger turned to a new target. All the other Bards cheered assent. Now the Grandmaster turned to Lord Guerney and growled, "You have want you wanted. Leave us in peace."

Chapter 9.2.3

"What is this?" Grandmaster Meiltung bellowed from the porch. He was dressed only in his trousers and boots, but had his broadsword in his hands. Bards edged back from this spector of steel and anger -- no one ever woke Meiltung or summoned him from his chamber without hesitation -- but kept their gaze on Guerney's soldiers.

Ever prudent, Master Mrlin snatched up his harp and dashed inside with it.

Master Iving spoke mildly. "I believe this good man has a matter to lay on the steps."

"Out with it, then." The Grandmaster flourished his blade, showing great strength with the heavy weapon.

With great condescension, Lord Guerney lowered his blade. "I want my daughter. She is betrothed to Lord Reinard, but a week ago she ran off with this Bard. He has no right to her, and I demand that he tell me where she is."

The Grandmaster replied coldly. "You ask for our help in a matter concerning Lord Reinard?"

Charles kept his face blank, emotionless. He was a good man.

Lord Guerney frowned darkly. "I ask for justice. Surely a man as great as you are would not deny me that. Return my daughter!"

The Grandmaster looked as if he would be happy to deny anything to anyone.

"With a Bard's bastard in her belly!" the dark-haired troublemaking journeyman shouted out. "She'll take that as a wedding gift to her husband!"

"Sieg, Sieg," muttered Master Iving, with a shake of his head.

Hardly anyone else noticed that Lord Guerney seemed neither surprised nor dismayed by the outburst.

The Grandmaster face darkened. "I will not betray one of my own to salve your pride. Leave us.

Lord Guerney raised his sword again. "What you won't give-- I'll take."

Chapter 9.2.2

As he came to me, frowning in puzzlement, Lord Guerney called out from below, "Where’s my daughter, you lily-fingered, girl-voiced scoundrel?"

The Bard stopped and crossed his arms. "By what right do you insult me?"

Lord Guerney pushed his way through the crowd and set his foot on the lowest marble step. He drew his sword and pointed it at Sharp. "Give me my answer, theif – or I’ll cut it out of you!"

Master Iving raised his hand. "Gently, gently – just state your complaint, and Grandmaster Meiltung..."

Lord Guerney moved his sword toward Master Iving. "No more out of you, withered tree, or you’ll never sing again."

With that threat, every Bard with a sword pulled his weapon, and every soldier did likewise. I pushed Elise toward Charles, who pulled her behind his body, and picked up Geldswan. Blades and blood would solve nothing, however, so with a sweeping motion I sheathed my sword.

I was the only one. Everyone else stood tense, waiting for the first shout.

Chapter 19.2.1

#

Master Iving, leaning on his cane, stood halfway up the marble steps. One step below him, Elise and I faced each other. She wore a green robe and a chaplet of dried flowers in her hair, a gift from the Warlocker. I wore Geldswan and formal linen clothes that Master Marlin had found for me: an embroidered shirt and dark trousers. Quite properly I wore no shoes, but the chill of the marble step was tempered by my lady’s warm smile. Master Marlin, his harp in his lap, sat further up, while Peter and Charles watched from the side. A knot of Journeymen and Bards-in-Training looked down from the porch, Sieg and Van among them. Wallen was also there, standing to the side with a scarf wrapped over his chin. At the foot of the steps a knot of soldiers gathered, no doubt eager for the wine and cakes that would follow.

As the first edge of the sun broke the eastern horizon, sending a shaft of light into the face of the Guildhall, Master Marlin plucked a single string. With that note we set our feet upon the path. I took my lady’s hands in mine, catching their warmth in the midst of the chill. Master Marlin played a simple melody and Master Iving sang. His voice seemed weak at first, but gathered strength as he went on, until he was the envy of any young man.

"Gods look down and bless this day,
Clear this path, guard this way.
Let the lovers here be paired,
Heart to heart, lives to share."

As Master Marlin played the tune again, softly, Master Iving looked down at me. "Here before all witnesses, both mortal and god, state your name and offer."

I signed to my lady as Peter spoke for me. "I am Gerard of Jerden, Bard-in-training, and a Freeman. I offer you my heart, my hand, my life, my children, and all else that I possess." With the last I drew Geldswan and lay it at my lady’s feet.

Master Iving looked at Elise and repeated the charge.

Smiling, she signing clumsily as she spoke. "I be Elise of Krast, Goodwife, and a Freewoman. I offer ye my heart, my hand, my life, my children, and all that I possess." Untying the scarf over her hair, she laid it at my feet along with a wooden spoon and a pair of scissors.

More of Guerney’s soldiers had come to watch, and almost all of the Bards were there. The two groups eyed each other nervously, but respectfully kept their silence. Sharp, still tucking in his shirt, had joined Wallen, and behind them stood a woman wrapped in a hooded cape.

"Is there a dowery?" Master Iving asked.

Elise started to shake her head, but before she had finished Charles had dug three coins out of his purse. He handed them to her, and earned a grateful smile.

Master Iving took the coins from her hand and passed them to me. "Gerard of Jerden, take this dowry and hold it secure. Should ever you betray Elise, or drive her away, you must return this dowry two-fold to her. Should ever she betray you or leave you, the dowry is forfeit to you. Do you understand?"

We nodded. Charles beamed.

Then Master Iving held up a piece of ribbon and sang heartily:

"Heart to heart,
Hand to hand,
Life to life,
Woman to man."

With each phrase he tied a knot in the ribbon, and with the last he tied the loose ends together. He gave it to Elise, then took our hands – hers holding the ribbon and mine holding the dowery – and pressed them against each other.

"Eagles hope to brush the sky;
So may your love soar.
Oaks stand solid in the earth;
So may your love endure.
Rivers run both swift and clear;
So may your love flow.
Hearths comfort, warm, and fill with cheer;
So may your love glow.
You are one."

With those words, our hearts were bound together. I turned her around and kissed her twice, completing the ceremony. Then, seeing no reason to stop, we kissed several more time.

And now that we were properly sung together and Elise was clearly mine, I had a little matter to settle with Sharp. I pointed to him and beckoned.

Chapter 19.1

Peter woke me early, when the only light came from a small candle on the windowsill. He had reached over Elise to touch me, and he kept his eyes on my face. "Time to rise."

Very gently, I freed my hands from my lady’s waist. "There is no Matins service here."

"The wedding," he reminded me. "You have to be on the steps by dawn."

I closed my eyes and sought a moment longer the warmth of my lady; then I stroked her hair. I kissed her eyes, her mouth, then the base of her throat.

"I’ll be reading by the fire," Peter said as he beat a hasty retreat.

I threw back the covers and let the cold shock us awake. Charles lay motionless in the other bed – apparently Peter had drawn the short straw and been forced to sleep on the floor. No wonder he had awakened so easily. I let Elise pull on her dress, then lobbed a pillow at the knight.

He caught it with one hand, then slowly opened his eyes. A crafty smile graced his face. "Time to be wedded?"

"To be sung together," I corrected him.

He nodded, rose, and pulled on his own clothes. As he belted on his sword, he glanced around the room. "Where’s the monk?"

"Reading by the fire," I signed. "He left before dressed."

Charles grinned. "I surprised. After all that wine and honey he drank last night, he should still be asleep."

So Peter had made himself at home. "I thought you went to say your evening prayers."

"Oh, this was afterwards," he assured me. He paused, looked around, and then signed with clumsy gestures. "You should know. He is Reinard’s older brother. He can claim Songless."

I nodded and signed back. "Wallen doesn’t know this yet. Did you tell Peter who Wallen is?"

Charles shook his head.

"Neither have I. We should be careful, untill this has been explained to Wallen. Peter told me that he didn’t want Songless, but Wallen could still see him as a threat."

Charles frowned as his hands moved. "All he wants is a place. If our lord would assure him of that, he would waive all claims on the land. He told me that."

Songless did need a steward, having lost Daniel to Saint William’s monastery. Peter was learned in letters and numbers, and seneschaucie would suit him better than following after a mute harpist for the rest of his days. "It should be so. Will you go and explain this to Lord Reinard?"

"I’m not in his best graces," Charles said aloud.

Neither was I.

I thought for a moment, but no answer came to me. I would need to walk through the spirit world with this question – but already the darkness was fading and new duties called.

Chapter 18.4.2

Wallen’s eyes widened, round and blue. "Why, Gerard? Why did you treat me like dirt, to be spat upon and ignored? Do you still hate me so, after all these years, that you’ll turn from me when you can?"

Those words cut like a knife, exposing what I thought he, in his arrogance, would never see. I fumbled with the more immediate answer. "My Lord, at Rockridge we were being watched by the Lady Victoria, for she knew me despite my disguise. You were close to being found out, and would have suffered greatly – as I did, after you left me to the wolves!"

He frowned. "What do you mean? Sharp was to tell you that we were leaving, so that you could return to Songless and wait for us there."

"The first I knew of your leaving was in Lord Guerney’s private chamber in the middle of the night, after you’d fled." My gestures were curt, angry. "From there I was taken to the torture chamber, where I was to die by dawn."

He leaned forward eagerly. "How did you escape? How did you know to come here?"

I raised my hands, then paused. If I explained how Peter had saved me, I would have to explain who Peter was. I would have to tell him of my own choice, and my plans to not return to Songless. Nothing I wanted to face at the moment. I simply signed, "It is a long story, and there is not much time for it. Take your lady and go to Lord Guerney, for it is time to end the game."

He gave me a tired look. "I don’t know, Gerard. I don’t think I want to go back. There is a freedom in this life, a freedom from the hate my father left to me, a freedom to roam the world and travel its paths, a freedom to be myself – not just a hated name and the son of a hated face."

This, despite the bruises, the hunger, the discomfort? He must have been spelled. "Who told you this?"

"Sharp and I were talking, and I came to see it."

The Bard’s revenge. As the Bard-killer had taken Sharp’s father, now Sharp would take the Bard-killer’s son. The hurt that Sharp had pushed aside at Songless was a deep one, after all. "Sharp is like the wind. He travels from one place to another, making no more of a mark than a bent reed, a reed that straightens itself when he has gone. He holds nothing; nothing holds him. But you are Lord Reinard. You have a castle you must defend and subjects you must protect. And you have a duty, my lord. You must return to your lands, and there make peace with the Bardhall and the church. This is your path, my lord. You must walk your path, and let Sharp walk his."

Wallen was quiet for a long time. Then he said quietly, "Tomorrow. When Lord Guerney calls us to the steps, the truth will be known. And then we will return to Songless. Gerard, will you stand beside me on the steps?"

A hard question, after all he had led me to. He was asking me to risk my life for his father’s sins, sins that had shut me out of the Bardhall. Forgive, urged the god in agony. I did.

I nodded.

"And then you’ll return to Songless with me?"

I looked away, knowing that it was time that I walked my own path, as well.

Without further words, he left.

Chapter 18.4.1

#

Curtains of sleep drifted aside, and I still had my lady in my arms. I opened my eyes and stared at the rough-planked ceiling above me. From below came the sound of voices – the boys were getting ready for bed. I was very, very happy.

"Are you quite finished?" spoke someone on the other side of the room.

Wallen sat on the bed on the other side of the room, tired and ragged. A fresh bruise marked his cheek, high above his thick blond beard.

I rolled over and freed my hands. "My Lord, I don’t think that this is the time."

"There’s no other time. Sharp is in a drunken stupor. He has forbidden me to speak to you."

"We are away from Rockridge," I signed. "There is no longer a danger in speaking to me."

"The danger comes from Sharp." Wallen touched his cheek.

"Did Sharp give that to you?"

"This was from Master Marlin, for raising my fist to my elder and – better. The Masters here are stricter than they ever were in my old school."

I sat up, to make signing easier. "The Masters of your old school knew who you were. The Masters here don’t – fortunately."

His gaze drifted into the distance. "No – my teachers knew no more than the Masters of the Guidlhall. My father told me, and I thought it was all a game, to pretend that I was a rich merchant’s son, sent to school with all the other rich merchant’s sons. Just a game. But tonight, if Charles had revealed me as his Lord, they would have killed me – wouldn’t they?"

I nodded. "You remain in great danger. Take the Lady Laurice and go to her father – I doubt he will be angry when he knows who you are, and you’ll be safe from the Bards."

Wallen stared at his hands, sore and split by their recent ill-treatment, then up at the rough beams. His gaze then returned to my face, the eyes of the young boy on the marble steps of the Bardhall, so many years before. "I should, first, apologize for my actions of tonight. I was drunk, I was angry, I was hurt. God, was I hurt, when you held yourself away from me at Rockridge. I felt so lonely, so – little."

Welcome to the life of a beggar. But I kept my hands still.

I don't think I'll get an installment on this story today, either. The kid is home sick for the third time this week, plus there was the election on Tuesday.

Chapter 18.3

#

Up in the room, Elise told me what had happened with Sharp and Wallen. They had come to the Warlocker’s house in the middle of the night with Lady Laurice, announced that they had to leave immediately, and that I would be joining them on the road. Once out, however, they told her nothing more about me.

By morning they had reached Goshawk river, a small town on the Goshawk River. There Wallen and Laurice were married by a local priest while Sharp hired a boat to carry them all downstream. The happy couple consummated their union on the riverbank that evening, with mud and grass for a bridal bower. Afterwards they feasted on Journeycakes and water.

"I thank ye for leaving Geldswan with me," Elise added. "That Bard thought I should be a lady to him, and only the length of steel kept him off. And when he tried to name him lady on the Bardhall steps, it was all I could do to merely run away."

"You did well," I signed, and kissed her.

"That’s quite a tale," Master Iving said. I had forgotten that the two Masters were still with us. "Gerard, you should write that up as a Ballad and sing it before the Masters when you sit for your string."

Grandmaster Meiltung glowered. "Sit for his string? Why? He has no more chance of earning it than Breck!"

Were Breck’s chances as poor as mine? Was he also lacking a voice?

"I rather think..." Master Iving was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in."

Treble entered, followed by an slightly younger man whose face was covered with freckles. They both carried trays laden with food and drink.

"What’s this?" asked the Grandmaster.

"They were chased out before they could get their supper," Treble explained. The other boy simply stared at the floor.

"How kind of you, Treble, Breck." Master Iving gestured for them to put the trays on the desk. They did so, and quickly left.

"It seems you have all you need, then," Grandmaster Meiltung stated. He straightened his back and crossed his arms. "And I have other business. Stay out of trouble."

He left, but Master Iving pulled out the chair and sat down. He watched us eat, laughed as Charles made a few lame jokes, and then asked me to put the dirty dishes out in the hallway. "One of the boys will collect it later."

I nodded.

Then he looked at me, quite seriously. "Gerard, we will sing in the Winter in just three days. You must work very hard to be ready by then."

I shrugged.

"No, Gerard, you must sit before the Masters. When you played at St William’s, you showed your path, and it is one you must walk. It would be a terrible thing if you did not."

I thought of the command of the Master of Paths. Earning my string might be impossible, but I was to at least try. I nodded.

"Then that is settled. You will sit along with Breck." He rose to his feet.

"One thing," I signed. Peter quickly spoke for me. "Elise and I have not been properly sung together, and I would not have her wait any longer. Will you do this for us tomorrow?"

My lady flung her arms around my shoulders, then looked up hopefully at the old Master.

"I would be delighted, Gerard. Meet me on the steps at sunrise." With that he left.

My lady kissed me happily, enthusiastically. I responded to her warmth and pulled her tighter. She felt so good, so warm, and I was hungry. My hand stroked up her thigh.

"Peter!" Charles said, a bit too loud. "It’s time for evening prayers!"

The door closed behind them.

No river flowed as swift or as strong, no spring ever tasted as sweet or as clear, no breeze ever touched as delicately, no flower was ever so fragrant... We lay on the grass in the spirit world, with moss beneath us and flowers all about, her, I ...and just the whisper of another, of a promise to come.

Chapter 18.2

#

Elise was waiting in the shadow of the great bronze doors. She looked pale and lost, glancing about the Bardhall as if afraid that it might swallow her – but when she saw us she brightened like the morning sun that had just cleared the horizion. Hugging a bundle to her chest, she ran to me. Stopping just long enough to set the parcel down gently, she threw herself into my arms. No silk or satin ever felt as good as my lady’s skin; no wine ever tasted as good as her lips.

Some time later, Charles coughed. I looked up to see Grandmaster Meiltung standing before me, his arms crossed. He looked from me to Elise, and then back again. "Gerard, what is this?"
My hands were tangled in my lady’s clothing. I just smiled foolishly, like a Bard-in-training caught with a serving wench.

"That’s his wife," Charles explained. "Elise is a good woman."

Grandmaster Meiltung mouthed the Christian word, wife, then flicked a glance over the knight’s crucifix. Then he looked straight at Elise. "I thought Sharp claimed you as his lady."
My lady tossed her hair back. "And Aye thought my response to his claim was clear.

Journeyman Sharp is a scoundrel and a theif: he’d claim me, the harp, the sword, and Gerard’s good clothing. A pretty voice he has, but my Bard has more than he’ll ever have."

She stared at the Grandmaster firmly as he reddened.

By the Gods, someone who would stand up to the Grandmaster – and a woman at that. Grandmaster Meiltung reddened, but behind him, Master Iving smiled in amusement. "She has a tongue, hasn’t she?"

Enough for both of us.

"When you care to take a pause," Grandmaster Meiltung said with an edge to his voice, "follow me. I’ve decided that it would not be good for your friends to sleep in the open hall, nor for you to be among the children, Gerard. Journeymen Sieg and Van will lend you their room for as long as you need to stay. Does this please you?"

A Journeyman’s room with two beds was more than we had at Rockridge, that first time. I nodded as I freed myself from Elise.

Chapter 18.1.2

Wallen lifted his fist to strike, and I was pushed from behind to the floor. Charles stepped over me, caught his lord’s wrist, and quickly twisted the man around. With his free hand he trapped Wallen’s other elbow.

I scrambled out of the way and prepared to guard the knight’s side.

"What are you doing?" his lord hissed between clenched teeth.

"My lord has sworn me to protect this man from all harm," Charles stated. "I cannot let you hurt him."

"And just who is your lord?" Wallen’s hand clenched, unclenched, then clenched again.

"I serve Lord Reinard."

Wallen smiled tightly at Charles, then opened his mouth to speak.

"The Bard-killer?" shouted the dark-haired journeyman who had started all the trouble. "You serve the Bard-killer?"

"As long as the Bard-killer lives, I serve him. And then I shall serve his son for as long as he lives."

"The fruit is no better than the tree that bears it," the Journeyman snarled. He pulled his sword, and others followed.

Wallen’s eyes widened. He must not have realized how the Bards would blame him for his father’s works.

Charles let Wallen drop to the floor, then laid his hand on his own sword hilt. He looked straight at the Journeyman. "Do you mean to fight me because of my obligation?"

I held my breath. Charles had the skill to defend himself against one, two, or even three Bards, but the room was filled with men anxious to exact revenge. The Journeymen pressed forward, like a crowd at a cockfight, and even the Masters looked torn between their own anger and fear of a riot. Charles stood steady, like a stone monument, while Wallen lay on the floor in the center of it all, his hands open in fright.

"SIT DOWN!" Grandmaster Meiltung shouted, his face deep red with fury. "Or you will all be cleaning the Bardhall, every plank, stone, and rafter, before you sleep tonight!"

The anger flowed off, like demons on the rout. Chairs scraped back into place and Bards sat down, silent. The Grandmaster gestured curtly for us to leave, and we needed no other invitation.

Chapter 18.1.1

The dining hall roiled with laughter, the scents of spicy foods and new wine, and the jangled notes of a lyre and gittern playing separate tunes. Long trestle tables seated Bards-in-training at their lower ends and Journeymen at the higher ends; the Masters sat apart at their own table near the hearth. It was a timeless scene, a moment from every day of my youth now superimposed upon the present, yet it was completely strange. Some of the Journeymen I recognized as my classmates, but they were now seasoned men. Others whom I seen earn their first and second string now had lined faces and grey hairs. Marlin, a journeyman who had been a particular hero of mine, now sat with the Masters. But many people I once knew were missing, gone through the doors of the Bardhall to the corners of the world and their adventures, and they had been replaced by children and strangers.

I felt old.

We were noticed before we reached the bottom of the stairs. A Journeyman dressed in the vest and trousers of the western coast, with his black hair pulled into a ponytail, stood and raised his wine cup. "The Christians are here! Prepare for a sermon!"

Mocking laughter followed. Peter hung back at the top of the stairs; Charles crossed himself boldly and continued down.

"They’re beggars come for a handout!" A broad-shouldered red-haired Journeyman on the other side of the room raised his supper bowl. "Here, I’ll give him what’s left of my dinner!"

"And I’ve a swig of wine left," called out the first, as he prepared to throw his cup. He motioned for the Bards-in-training to follow suit, and many grabbed fistfuls of bread and cheese.

Had the Bardhall become a common tavern in my absence?

"SIT DOWN," Grandmaster Meiltung bellowed in a voice that age had not weakened. He stood, crossed his arms, and glared around the now silent room. "That is no way to greet guests – and Gerard of Jerden is a child of the Bardhall, due the respect you would give each other. Sieg, van – the two of will clean up after the meal by yourselves. And if there is any more such foolishness, the stables will be shining before the sun sets again. Is this clear?"

Then he looked about in a way that invited any others to join Sieg and Van in their punishment.

No one dared to respond.

Then he waved us down and gestured for us to take a seat at the end of a table.

I signed my thanks.

The dark-haired Journeyman knocked his chair back. "Child of the Guildhall? That man is a Silent Monk!"

The room exploded into mutterings and shouts that not even Grandmaster Meiltung could quell. Another chair fell with a sharp crack, and then I saw Sharp not ten feet in front of me, his naked blade in the air. The room quieted.

"Yes," my old friend said in a voice that was almost a mutter. "This good brother has turned traitor on us and taken skirts."

I signed back, "That’s not true, and you know it, bastard."

He laughed. "See? I threaten him, and he blesses me. Where’s your crucifix now, Christian dog?"

If only I held it, and the heavy chain it hung from, he might not be smiling so broadly.

Wallen then stepped up beside Sharp. His hair was disheveled, his face bruised, his feet wrapped in bloody rags – but his eyes were as hot as any nobleman’s. He laid his hand on his hand on Skyfire. "Let me – he’s mine."

I quickly signed, "I have always been faithful to you."

"I have always been good to you," he said in a low voice as he stepped closer. His father’s look was in his face, the one born of pain and drink but sired by the demons of hate. The look of a man who could burn a Bardhall to avenge his honor, or murder his most faithful friend – and this room was filled with men who help him. "I was good to you, but you turned on me."

Was marriage that bad?

Chapter 17.3

#

Peter and I waited until Charles came in, saddle bags in hand. Treble slipped in behind him, then darted away to the dining hall.

I lifted my hands and signed slowly, "What passed between you and Treble, out there in the stables?"

Peter started to translate, but I gestured for him to be silent.

"I was just telling him about the rats." Charles set down his bags. "The ones at Rockridge that ate a horse and didn’t even leave the bones behind. Five feet long they were, and black as evil..."

I cut him off with curt gestures. "I saw you hand him a letter."

Charles shrugged, then came very close to me. He spoke in a low voice. "As we came through the square, a young woman caught my eye, and asked me to deliver a note to Treble. I said I would, if she would go to the Warlocker’s shop and deliver a message for me."

I raised my eyebrows in question.

"To a certain lady, that we have arrived at the Bardhall, and my sword is at her service. And when Treble seemed unhappy to get her note, I told him about the rats to cheer him up."

Was this the Warlocker’s assistant that Master Iving had mentioned? "What was she like, the woman who gave you the note?"

Charles looked off into the distance and smiled. "Very beautiful – and charming. Black hair in a braid to her waist, with ribbons and greenery woven in. Skin like milk, lips like plums. And the greenest eyes I have ever seen. Odd, though – they seemed to flecked with silver."

I shivered. The mortal children of Oberon all had green eyes flecked with silver. This would be quite a dangerous woman, indeed – not just beautiful enough to wrap men’s hearts in their handkerchiefs, but a daughter of a god. And she wished to control a Bard.

Treble was safer here, as a prisoner of the Bardhall. And if there was any truth to the rumor that his father was a wizard, then the world was safer as well.

Chapter 17.2.2

Inside, the Bardhall was all I remembered it to be. The floor was oak, the walls were marble, and the ceiling was covered in gold leaf. Long benches ran along the sides, interspersed with bronze lamps, and on the walls behind them hung all the common instruments: tambourines, lutes, pipes of every size, drums, trumpets, horns, psalteries, tabors, lyres, chimes, triangles, and small harps. Woven tapestries, each depicting a natural god, hung over the windows that were shuttered for the winter.

At the far end of the room, on a raised dias, six carved chairs stood before the hearth. Each was made from a different tree, and on the back was carved the leaves of that tree. The largest, the Grandmaster’s chair, was oak, and Master Iving always sat in the yew. There was also one of ash, one of maple, one of beech, and one of pine, which was given to the youngest master of the hall. Two concert harps stood on either side of the chairs, which, even empty, held ghosts for me.

Classroom, court, and judgement chamber – this was the heart of the Bardic life. Here Bards-in-training learned their notes, their writing, and their histories, and here the Masters conducted the business of the Bardhall and discussed difficult cases. On poor days, grievances were heard here, instead of on the open steps. And it was here that poor travelers could seek shelter from the storms and sleep before the fire.

There were doors in the back two corners. The one on the right led to the library above us, and then up to the private rooms for the masters. The one on the left led to the large common room where the Bards-in-training slept, and then the rooms that the journeymen shared, two or three to a room. Both stairways continued up to the roof, which doubled as a practice area on good days, and down to the dining hall.

"You’ll sleep with the other young boys," Grandmaster Meiltung said to me. "Your friends will sleep before the fire – until other arrangements can be made."

I nodded, even as I decided that I also would go with the other arrangements when they were made.

Beside me, Peter looked around nervously, then slipped his crucifix inside his shirt. Hiding it. A strange reaction, I thought, as Bards would never hurt a Christian for simply walking into the hall. Yet he acted as a Pagan might, inside a church.

Then, remembering my own adventure in the chapel at Rockridge, I nearly laughed out loud.

Chapter 17.2.1

Home. I climbed down from Master’s Iving’s cart and stared up at the face of the Bardhall, it’s facade lit by the flickering light from the firepots where Lord Guerney’s men warmed themselves. Thirty marble steps reached up to the wide porch where the Masters would sit in judgement, and six ornate pillars held up the tympanum. I stared at the instruments carved there and remembered the feel of each one beneath my hands. Heard the sound of each in my mind. Smelled the scent of the common meal, wafting from the dining room. Felt both the ache of homesickness and the joy that I would soon be there.

And feared the reception when others found what had happened to me.

Our little parade moved on, turning to the alley behind the Bardhall where a door opened into the back courtyard. Here was the stable and the cart shed. Here also was a young man with shaggy dark hair and deep, black eyes. Old clothing, a bit on the small side. His skin was dusky, as if he had spent too many nights sleeping in the ash of the fireplace.

It couldn’t be, could it?

"What are you doing here?" Grandmaster Meiltung asked gruffly.

"I saw you coming," the young man answered.

"You – saw?" The Grandmaster stiffened, not at all pleased.

The young man brushed back his hair from his face. His voice took on a surly tone. "I was watching from the bedroom window."

"Why?"

"So I could be here to take the horses." He held out his hand for the reins.

Master Iving climbed down from his carriage. "Treble, have you eaten?"

"I was waiting for you to arrive."

It was indeed Treble. The child was a man. He was taller than I was, and there were muscles on his arms and shoulders. His voice had deepened to a tenor; his jaw was strong. I felt old.

"Don’t dwaddle, then. You don’t want to miss your portion. And there will be a treat tonight, if Gerard will play for us."

Treble looked at me. His gaze intensified, and I found myself being examined. Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A bitter smile.

Some things about him had not changed.

Charles dismounted and helped Peter down. Then the knight announced, "I’ll care for my own horse, thank you."

Treble just shrugged and led the way to the stable, with Charles following behind. The rest of us went toward the Guildhall. I glanced back, just in time to see Charles pass something white to Treble.

Chapter 17.1.4

"The girl made Treble agree to help her trap a young man she had set her eyes on – a Christian, one both proud and pious. Afterwards, he was so distraught at his deeds that he tried to kill himself." Master Iving shrugged at that. "A Silent Monk convince the young man that he should enter the monastery, instead, and serve the order as his penance. And we masters decided that Treble should also be under restriction as long as Pierre served the monks."

Pierre, the man who had sworn eternal faithfulness to the order after listening to my music. If his resolution were serious, then poor Treble might never leave the Bardhall, stuck there more firmly than I had been at Songless.

"And he cannot, of course, sit for his string. We had thought this would be only a matter of a few months, but Pierre has stayed on."

And seemed to be staying even longer, thanks to my music. Would Treble forgive me for that? I still had not forgiven the Bardkiller for shutting the Bardhall doors to me.

But – remembering my vision – were the Bardhall doors shut to me?

Chapter 17.1.3

"Peter, and I am the voice of Gerard."

Grandmaster Meiltung crossed his thick arms. "How did you come by that?"

"It is my vocation, given to me by the Lord God himself."

The Grandmaster scowled, then turned to the knight. "Are you part of this, as well?"

Charles straightened himself and peered down at the other man. "It is my sworn duty to protect and serve Gerard of Jerden. I am Sir Charles."

The grandmaster looked from one to the other, then at me. "You don’t travel light, do you?"
I shrugged, then signed. Peter translated. "But what about the two women?"

Grandmaster Meiltung threw back his head and laughed. "There’s a story worth telling, even it keeps up standing in the snow! Wallen’s lady, for all her rags, must have been born to a noble family. No sooner had she set foot in the Bardhall than she began to give orders. The floor before the fire wasn’t good enough for her, and she must have better lodging – though Wallen hasn’t a penny in his purse. And she must eat better than in the common dining room. To keep the peace I gave her a room among the masters – but declared that Wallen must sleep with the Bards-in-training. At the end of the room with the smallest of them. Heh!"

But what of Elise?

"And as for the other, well, no sooner did Sharp her his than she turned and pushed him down the steps, grabbed up her bundle, and ran for the Warlocker’s shop!"

I grinned as bitterness faded from my heart. Charles laughed out loud, long and hearty, then added, "That Bard will learn not to claim what isn’t his."

"Is she yours?"

"His." The knight jerked his meaty thumb towards me. "They’re married."

Almost. I scratched my beard.

Both Master Iving and Grandmaster Meiltung looked at me sharply. "Bards and Warlockers should not mix," grumbled the grandmaster.

"She’s not a Warlocker," I protested.

As Peter translated it, the grandmaster frowned. "Maybe not. But even the wife of a Bard should steer clear of Warlockers."

Not a good time to mention that my lady’s sister was a Warlocker, then.

"Let’s be on our way," announced Grandmaster Meiltung. He kicked snow over the fire to bury it, then mounted his horse.

Master Iving snapped the reins in his hand, and the cart moved forward. Then he spoke to me, quietly. "It’s not the Warlocker who is dangerous, but the vixen she has for an apprentice. Three years ago, she trapped poor Treble with her games."

Treble. That was someone I had not thought about for years. He had been a toddler when I first came to the Bardhall, an orphan who was always underfoot. His dark eyes and dusky skin marked him as a child of the Wizardlands, and it was rumored that he was the offspring of a powerful wizard. Therefore, he must have the same dark nature as a Wizard. His vile temper tantrums certainly argued for that.

As he grew older, his temper quieted under Master Meiltung’s firm discipline, but the rumors continued and the other boys shunned him. He spent a lot of time by himself, until the Masters learned that the only way to keep him in sight was to load him down with chores and lessons. He learned quickly, but seemed to have no passion for it.

What, I wondered, had the Warlocker’s assistant done to this poor child? I turned my hands palm up, in question.

Chapter 17.1.2

"I also remember that he disappeared." Grandmaster Meiltung looked into my eyes. "What happened to you, child?"

Master Iving gently pushed my hands back into my lap and told for me the story of my journey with Wallen and how it had ended at Songless Castle.

The Grandmaster’s face hardened at the story; then he laughed sharply. "You’ll get your chance to make that scoundrel answer on the steps of the Bardhall. He and your old friend Sharp arrived today, each with a lady on his arm."

Elise, as Sharp’s lady? A bitter hand clenched my heart. I had not thought she would ever betray me so, but only a fool would think that could never happen.

Grandmaster Meiltung kept talking. "They tried to pass off Wallen as a Bard-in-training. A strange game, and I’m curious to see what comes of it. Especially as they arrived with Lord Guerney and a hundred of his men at their heels. The Christian has set up camp in the marketplace, and says he’ll stay there until we turn Sharp and Wallen over."

"By the Gods!" Master Iving touched his forehead. "And the mayor with all his guardsmen has done nothing?"

"Guerney has done no harm to the city, and has brought profit to the merchants. The mayor is on the side of the money." The Grandmaster spread his hands. "And so I’ve come to give you safe-conduct to the hall, lest the Christians decide they want more leverage, in the form of a hostage."

Master Iving swore again, with words I did not think he knew. Then he shrugged sharply. "We’ll clear up this matter in the morning. Let us get home to our hearth and guests."

Women did not, as a rule, sleep in the Bardhall. The married Bards kept their ladies in other houses. Yet in times of crises the Bardhall would not turn her away – and perhaps an angry father counted as a crises? I raised my hands. "What of the women? Are they spending the night in the Bardhall, or elsewhere?"

Peter called out my question in his clear, fine voice.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. "Who are you?"

Chapter 17.1.1

We made good time that day, traveling at a steady pace over the snow, but winter days are short and it was night before we reached our goal. Master Iving lit the lamps and we continued on, as it was too cold to stop.

A mile before the city, we saw a small fire by the side of the road, with a man and a horse keeping themselves warm. As we approached, the man looked up, and in the lamplight I saw a face from my childhood: Master Meiltung.

The master over the Bards-in-training was a big man, wide-shouldered and tall, with the black hair and swarthy skin of the Wizardlands. His parents had come from the south, and had dedicated their eldest son the to the Bards in return for acceptance in the town – at least, that was what was whispered among the youngest Bards and older Bards-in-training. To the boys he was an image of fury and discipline, quick with his temper and his fists.

To the man I had become he was still big, but time had redrawn his other features. Wrinkles shadowed his face, grey hair showed beneath the hood of his cape, and he stood slowly, as if tired.

"Good evening to you, Grandmaster," Master Iving said.

Another change, which also meant the Grandmaster of my youth had walked the long path.
Grandmaster Meiltung looked at me, then at the riders on the Percheron. "Well – your journey bore fruit, and then some."

"Indeed." Master Iving waved toward me. "You remember Gerard of Jerden? The boy who could play the harp like the wind among the reeds?"

I glowed in his compliment, only to be dashed by Grandmaster Meiltung’s reply.

"And had the voice of a camel?"

"It wasn’t that bad," Master Meiltung protested, then added quietly, "Though it wasn’t especially good."

The quality of my voice would never bother them again, I thought darkly.

Chapter 16.4

#

Master Iving and I waited for Charles to receive first communion, then as he gathered his horse and arms the brothers loaded up Master Iving’s sleigh with cheese and honey, a show of hospitality. I looked over at the two men and saw standing close together, trading smiles and laughter. The Abbot slapped the Master on the back, and the master responded with a clumsy version of a signed blessing.

It suddenly occurred to me that the Bardhall had never lacked for either cheese or honey.
And I knew where the book of stories had come from, and what the Abbot had been trying to tell me.

And then we were off, Master Iving and I sitting on the running board with a patient cart horse pulling us, and Charles behind us on his big Percheron. Snow began to sift down, fat wet flakes that freshened up the fields but did not threaten our travels.

After a time we saw a traveler walking our way, his faded, patched clothes marking him a beggar. Master Iving pulled alongside him and reached for a gift of cheese, an act of charity. The man turned toward us.

It was Peter. "Take me with you!"

I raised my hands. "We are going to Slatten, to the Bardhall. Where do you mean to go?"

"With you." He looked straight into my eyes.

"My path is a hard one, filled with hardship and hunger. Why not stay at the monastery, where you will be safe?"

His gaze stayed steady. "Father Alfred commanded that I not speak to you – but Christ my Lord says that I must follow you. I must – sing for you. That is my vocation: to be your mouthpiece."

Without a word, Charles put down his arm to Peter, and lifted him to a seat on the Percheron.

Chapter 16.3.3

In this section, we see a bit with Pierre the monk. His backstory can be read in Heartmagic, at http://www.sff.net/people/dragonwriter/fiction/heartmagic.html

************

I pushed aside the world and thought on the question. Where did I want to go? Where did my path lead, the one I was to follow? I spun my thoughts into a fine thread of music, then wove it into a glittering net that I cast over all the brothers and sister, binding us together. We became golden sunlight that poured down upon a wide, smooth path, one lined with bright flowers. The dark woods stood behind us, and before us was a rounded hill. On its peak stood a great Bardhall, fashioned of white marble and yellow gold, shining brighter than the summer sun. Its doors stood open to welcome me.

Harp in hand, I ran up the hill and through the door – and found myself in the shadow of Songless Castle. On my right I saw the Cathedral, all draped in balck, and on my left I saw the grave of the Bardhall. A single shaft of sunlight fell on my harp, then it widened and spread to the weed-filled lot. Brambles and brush faded away, to be replaced by a Bardhall that shone with its own light. That light spread over the faces of the people, who started to sing. Their songs were taken up by the monks and nuns behind me, and joined by the bells swinging in the church’s tower. The doors to the Cathedral swung open as the black cloth faded.
Everywhere was light and joy.

I blinked, suddenly back on the steps of Saint William’s Monastery. Full night had come, and with it a nasty chill, but no one had moved. I set down the harp for my master.

He stirred, slightly.

"Praise be to God and the Heavens above!" shouted a monk as he threw himself to the ground. "Praise be to Jesus Christ, his only son! I have seen the glory of God eternal; I have drunk from his cup! He has called to me and I respond: I give my life to him forever! Take me, poor sinner that I am, into your glorious embrace – here and now I swear myself eternally to your service!"
I must have played well.

Beside me, Master Iving shook his head. "Pierre, Pierre – have you still not learned moderation?"

Since when did Bards worry about the fate of Monks?

On my other side, Father Alfred smiled. "It is good for a man to give himself so enthusiastically to God."

Provided that he is of the proper birth.

Now the Abbot turned to Master Iving. "You will take Gerard with you in the morning? Before he causes even more of a disturbance?"

"Or furthers the will of the gods?" Master Iving replied. "Of course, I must. The child has unfinished business in the Bardhall."

Peter helped me stand. His face was troubled, and he spoke with a tremor in his voice. "Come. You should not be out so long in this cold."

The abbot gave Peter a sharp look. "Remember what I said."

Peter nodded, and said nothing as he guided me back to the infirmary. Once there, he stayed silent, but after putting me to bed he took off his crucifix and looped it over the chair back. Then he knelt on the hard wooden floor, clasped his hands beneath his chin, and was silent. Twice that night I woke, and he had not moved. But in the morning he was gone.

Chapter 16.3.2

I signed, "I have been in the hands of the Bard-killer, and then his son, the current Lord Reinard."

Master Iving caught my hands and frowned. "What is this? Can’t you talk?"

I clenched my hands and shook my head. I had been spoiled by having companions who knew the language of the hands, and now I remembered my muteness.

Peter stepped forward. "He said that he has been a servant of Lord Reinard."

The cheer was gone from his voice. He now knew some of what I had kept hidden from him.

"The Bard-killer?" Master Iving was alarmed, his voice harsh. "Why? And what did he do to you?"

I turned to Peter. "Translate this exactly: That last summer when I went traveling with Wallen, the Christian boy who would come to the guildhall, he took me to Songless Castle. The Bard-killer caught me and cut my tongue short, so that I can no longer speak not sing. With no reason to return to the Bardhall, I stayed there and became a harpist for his son."

Peter stumbled over the words, no doubt recognizing that Wallen was the same as the beggar who had run off with his cousin. The Abbot frowned at the words, and Master Iving darkened with anger.

"And how did you come to be here, but in such a poor state?"

How best to craft my story, so as not to tell a lie to a master? "This fall I met with Wallen and Sharp. The Christian had fallen in love with Lord Guerney’s daughter, who is betrothed to Lord Reinard. He had a plan to steal her away from Rockridge Castle, but needed my help, and so I donned a disguise. He did steal her, but once again left me in the hands of the Lord of the Castle. This good monk, Brother Peter, rescued me and with the help of Sir Charles, brought me here."

If I was lucky, Master Iving would not ask further about the knight. But he frowned as Peter spoke for me, and asked, "How do you know this knight?"

"I saw him often at Songless Castle." Alright, he lived there.

Master Iving thought for a moment after hearing this. "I think you have a ballad here, Gerard. But now, it is your turn to play for the master."

I took my place behind his harp and set my fingers on the strings – then realized what he had done. I was still a Bard-in-training, still subject to its rules and customs, still its child. Not abandoned to fate. I could go home.

He spoke again. "Think on this question as you play: where will go in the Spring, when you are once more free to roam?"

Any place but Songless Castle.

Fingers plucking strings, I played. I worked scales at first, loosening up my fingers, then played a simple melody to set my feet upon the path. Around me, the crowd watched, and I saw certain people smile with anticipation. Helena, who had come here with her father and now stood with the nuns, knelt with her hands before her breast. But Master Iving and the Abbot both looked at me sternly, waiting to judge.

Chapter 16.3.1

#

For the next three days Peter visited me only briefly, and spoke little to me, but I was far less lonely than the Abbot would have wished. Charles came by two or three times a day, staying until either Peter or the herbalist chased him out, and many others who had passed through Songless found excuses to come by and share a few words with me. They all asked how the Old Lord had died and how I fared under the New Lord, and I answered truthfully that I was treated better. I healed and strengthened, read the book of strange stories, and planned for the day I would leave.

The herbalist did not give me back the monk’s robe to wear, but found me a set of old but warm clothing. There were even boots, which I set aside. I no longer had a Christian Lord to tell me to wear them.

On the evening of the third day, as Peter brought me my supper, I heard the sound of a harp. "Is one of the brothers a musician?"

"A Bard has come by, and he is playing on the steps of church. You have leave to go and listen, if you wish." He gazed toward the music, his face shadowed by the same look Lord Reinard had when I played.

"You can go," I signed.

"I’m to stay with you, to show you the way if you wish to attend."

Very neat, I thought as I turned to my food. Peter’s desire was painfully clear, but it was on me if we would go or not. I turned to my simple meal, wondering if I could and face someone who might know me, someone to whom I would have to explain myself. What then?

And yet, the music was persistent in its summons. It reached into my heart, assured me that everything would be fine, and pulled me forward. There were few who could play like that, and I knew, before I reached the church steps wearing the cloak that I did not quite remember Peter draping around my shoulders, who would be seated at the harp.

He was an old master, frail, with seven strings marked on the back of his pale, aged hands. His hair was white and his face a map of winkles. His painted, carved cane rested on the steps beside him. He had always been old, for as long as anyone remembered, yet his fingers moved lightly over the strings, drawing out notes brighter than summer sunlight, yet softer than moonlight. He was Master Irving, whose gentleness brought out more confidences than Master Meiltung could ever get by force.

The music pulled me forward, through the crowd of monks and laymen, and commanded me to sit cross-legged at the master’s feet, the proper place for a Bard-in-training. I was a child again, trusting him as much as I could trust anyone, a student before the master. He paid me no mind but kept on with his playing, forming a melody that calmed and soothed me.

When he finished, his spell remained. I sat calmly as he studied my face, then placed his hand on my head.

"Yes, this is one of our lost children. I will take him home. Gerard, where have you been for so many years?"

Chapter 16.2.2

He frowned, and looked out the window. "This summer, perhaps. Now the roads are covered with snow."

I might be free to go where I wished, but he was still bound to his lord.

He brightened. "Still, the road to Slatten should be open. We could go there, and see if we find anyone we know."

"When would we go?"

"I need to finish my penance, first, then take communion. And it will be best for you to rest at least a week more."

"I don’t wish to wait long," I signed back.

A rattle of dishes came from the door. Peter stood there with a tray in his hands, his eyes wide and his face stern. He looked at Charles, then at me.

The knight lifted his hands. "Do you remember the rats in Wellcome’s dungeon? They were four feet long, the color of swamp mud, and stank worse than a midden. Three of them took less than to hours to strip that horse to its bones, then..."

Peter set down the tray by my bed. "Idle chatter is not becoming to a monastery, and neither are idle hands."

Charles snatched up his broom and darted out the door, surprisingly quick for one of his frame.

"There is more between you and the knight than I thought," Peter said quietly.

"This is not our first adventure together," I signed back. "He knows the language of the hands, and is a welcome companion."

Peter bit his lip, as if blocking off further questions. "Here is your breakfast."

Had our discussion from the night before offended him? I asked him about it.

He shook his head, paused, then spoke. "I talked with the abbot. He reminded me that you are a Heathen and ignorant of the truths of the Christian faith. That you have good intentions, but still, it is best that I speak to you no more than necessary. Then he sent me to ponder the stations of the cross until all impure thoughts were cleansed from my mind."

What was impure about accepting the summons of a god?

"But I must know, Gerard – why did you come to Rockridge disguised as a Silent Monk?"

"There truly is something wrong with my voice, and I cannot speak. No one questions a Silent Monk’s lack of speech."

"But – why did you come to Rockridge at all?"

"To help the Lady Laurice escape with the Bard." That was true enough.

He sighed. "And now that she has chosen his apprentice, we are both cast aside."

Far too true.

Chapter 16.2.1

#

The next day I found I could move easily. I rose went out the door, then through another door that led outside. I looked upon an inner court, a square of pristine snow bordered by covered walkways. Before me the spire of the church thrust higher than the red tile roofs of the cloister, and beyond it I could see the low, dark stain of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains. I faced to the west, therefore. Towards Slatten, the Guildhall – and Elise. I closed my eyes and basked in her memory.

Not long, my lady, before I hold you again.

"Gerard!" Charles called out.

I opened my eyes to see him running across the square, a broom in his hand. I signed, slowly and with broad movements, "Careful. You ruin the snow."

He looked back at his footprints and shrugged. "More will fall. Go back inside, where it’s warm."

I hadn’t noticed the cold until he mentioned it. I retraced my steps, motioning for him to follow me.

Inside the room, he pulled the chair next to the fireplace, Then he sat on my bed, leaving the chair for me. "How are you doing?"

"The Abbot knows I’m a Heathen."

Charles looked as if this were not news to him. "What is he going to do?"

"I don’t know. He is letting me stay, but when I can travel, I think he will want me to leave."

Charles puzzled for a bit, then asked, "Will you go back to Songless?"

I shook my head. "I’m free of that place. I owe no allegiance to Lord Reinard. I will go to Slatten to look for Elise, and then – did you mention that you might go on a pilgrimage? To Bartiese?"

Chapter 16

Peter returned with my supper, a dish of beans, cabbage, and boiled fish. He also brought a cup of red wine. As he set these down, I signed to him, "Have you heard the news about the Bard-killer?"

"He’s dead." Peter spoke quietly, and not happily.

"That means you are free. You told me, back at Rockridge, that you wanted to walk your own path. This is your chance."

"Walk your own path." He frowned. "That’s a Heathen saying, isn’t it?"

I signed quickly. "I may have picked it up from the Bard I was traveling with. Tell me, where will you go now that the Bard-killer is dead?"

His look was one of disbelief. "Nowhere. I hoped to follow my cousin and take a place in her husband’s home, no matter who she married, but she has taken a Heathen beggar for a mate. She will realize what she has done, no fear of that, and return to her father – but hen she’ll not be a fit wife for any man of honor."

"Will the Bard be that bad a husband for her?"

He looked out the window. "The Bard would have been a better choice than the wretch who followed him. That’s the one my cousin went with – the penniless ne’er do well."

"Where did they go?" I asked innocently, hoping to show him the possible path.

"My cousin said that they were bound for Slatten."

Another change of plans. What was Wallen thinking? "So what will you do? Will you stay here?"

"I’ll stay here, but the circumstances of my birth prevent me from taking serious vows." He folded his hands in his lap.

"How is that?" I signed.

"I’m a bastard." He shrugged. "Imperfect in the eyes of God and man."

What a strange idea. "Why should your father’s actions mark you?"

He looked straight at me, and said without rancor, "You are a Heathen, Gerard. You don’t understand why a bastard can not be child of God."

"What a strange God you have, to throw away the hearts of those who are unpleasant to him." Even as I signed this, I knew that the suffering god did not think this way.

Peter frowned sharply. "The Lord God and his son Jesus Christ do not throw people away. They give their mercy to all the poor sinners of the world!"

And here I thought they had only one God. "If that is true, then any poor sinner could devote himself to your God, and this be a monk. Is that right?"

He shook his head. "A monk must be more perfect than the sinners of the world."

"Then a man must be perfect before he can be a monk?" This did not fit at all with the monks I had known at Songless Castle, many which were men first and men of faith second.

Taking a deep breath, Peter leaned forward and spoke patiently. "We find perfection through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Our hearts are purified through worship and his mercy."

Had he ever listened to the words he had learned? I pointed out, "Then if you worship your god, you’ll be perfect, and it won’t matter how you were born."

He frowned, then crossed his arms. "Church law states that no man of illegitimate birth may take orders."

"The Church says that," I signed. "But what does your god say? Ask him in your heart, and listen to his answer. Walk the path set before you."

He frowned sharply. "Eat your supper. I must talk to Father Alfred."

He did not return that night.

Chapter 15.5.2

"The problem is one that has been with me for some time. I have learned to live with it." There – let him find fault with that.

The abbot leaned back, the mouse gone from view. "The monks here who know you: they say they have seen you at Lord Reinard’s holding."

"I spent some time there, yes."

"Did you ever meet the man who is called the Bard-killer?"

Sourness burned the back of my throat. How would a pious Christian answer that? My movements were still curt. "I did indeed. He is not an easy master, but his people should not have to suffer for his sins."

"Indeed." The abbot linked his hands together on his lap. "Have you heard that the old lord is dead, and his son now rules the holding?"

This seemed an honest question, so I answered it truthfully. "Yes. But no priest has come to unlock the church so that the people may enter."

"The new lord has neither petitioned the Bishop for forgiveness, nor made peace with the Bardhall. Until he does, his people will stay without grace."

Had anyone explained this to Wallen?

Suddenly the abbot straightened. "But we were talking about you. The things I have heard about you, Gerard, since you came through our gate! Brother Peter swears you are a brother in good standing. Brother Umberto thinks you are a wizard in disguise, for he found strange symbols sewn into your robe. A maiden who lives with the nuns claims that you are a saint – though her father says you are a black-souled Heathen, yet a good man. None of the brethren will speak against you, but none will explain you, either. Tell me truthfully, Gerard, what are you?"

"I am a humble beggar who does not pretend his is anything." Thus I proved that I did indeed pay attention to the sayings of the Silent Monks.

The abbot leaned forward. "Oh, I heard that you play a harp. Gerard, are you a Bard?"

I jerked up my hands, palms inward, to show him that no harp was marked on them, and I glared – then realized that I had answered his question. No one but a Bard would gesture so. Slowly I signed, "What will you do with me now?"

"Rest. You are safe and will remain so." Father Alfred stood and laid his hand on my head. "May the gods watch carefully over your path."

Chapter 15.5.1

#

That afternoon, as Peter read with me, an elderly monk arrived. He was white-haired but not yet frail, with stern features and a gentle smile. The blue of his eyes was flecked with gold – he had some Heathen blood in his Christian veins. He wore a mantle of white cloth over his shoulders.

Peter jumped up, then knelt. "Bless me, my Lord Abbot."

The abbot laid his hand on Peter’s hair and said quietly, "Go in peace, my child. See if the cooks could use a hand with the supper."

Peter rose and left quickly, not looking back.

The abbot settled himself in the chair. He picked up the cup Peter had brought me, sniffed it, and smiled. "Brother Peter’s favorite remedy for all ills. He is not made to be a monk, that child – even if he could take vows. But no one else will have him."

A feeling I knew all to well.

"But I have come to speak not of his troubles, but of you. I am Father Alfred, the guardian of these sheep, and I have been told that you are Gerard. Is that true?"

I nodded.

"Did you enjoy your book?"

I lifted my hands. "I found the stories most entertaining."

He leaned forward with a smile, looking a bit like a cat who has found a mouse. "Why don’t you use your voice? You know that our order does not prevent us from speaking in places such as this."

I signed back, honestly, "I have a problem with my throat."

"Brother Peter mentioned that – but you’ve rested for several days. Surely your voice must be better – and it is obviously not too sore to eat or drink." He shifted forward, the cat having glimpsed the mouse’s ears.

Chapter 15.4

#

I read for a time, a story of a knight who outwits an three-headed ogre. It was obviously an invented tale, unlike some of the others which had a sense of truth about them. Many, however, rested in the border between obviously true and obviously invented. Much like my adventures in the cavern and the forest. Were those real, or were they only the wanderings of a battered mind? What message did they hold?

I ached for my harp, for the music that would help me probe the mystery. All I had were the words that echoed in my mind.

Walk the path before you, the Dragon commanded.

Sing from your heart, advised the Prince of the Forest.

And the fate of the world rode on my actions.