Lord Reinard’s bath was large enough to lay down in, and fashioned from copper and bronze. The water was heated by a fire in the base, and already it steamed. Six castle maids stood beside it, with brushes, soaps, and oils in their hands. A pile of thick towels waited at the side. This looked serious.
"Morning, Gerard," said one, who was older than the others. "Ready to get all clean?"
The others, mere girls, giggled. My face grew hot.
"Come on," said the matron. "By the Goddess of the River, ain’t you never had a bath before?" She stepped forward and tugged on my tunic.
I hastily brushed her hands back, then pulled off my clothes. One girl pushed the rags aside with her foot while the others dragged me into the warm water. I was scrubbed, sanded, and polished over inch of bare skin, as if they were determined to scour off every trace of Heathen from me.
For the ten years that the old lord forced me to live in the stables, and the four months that his son had allowed me to sleep in the keep, I had not had such a thorough cleansing. If it had not been for the motive, it might have been enjoyable.
#
As a child, my favorite place to bathe had been an ice-cold stream that sprouted from the moutainside above my hometown of Jerden. It was a magical place, the elders said, and anyone who could stand to stay in those waters would be filled with the strength of the mountains. Later, as an apprentice Bard in Slattern, I went to the public baths and wallowed in the bubbling springs. There, it was said, the sulfuric taint of the water carried both magic and healing from the depths of the earth. Between the ice and the steam fall all other baths, none quite as magical as the favorites of my youth.
====================================================================
Author note: Sorry, guys, at this point, this is as steamy as it gets.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Chapter 1.3
#
Between the Solar and the grand staircase ran a gallery that overlooked the great hall with its huge, stone-backed fireplace behind the high table. Trestle tables were stacked against the long walls, waiting to be pulled out when the household was ready to eat, and the floor was covered in a thick layer of reeds. Long, narrow windows set high in the walls let in the late autumn light. From the gallery I could look through those, out over the castle courtyard and what was beyond it.
Songless Castle stood on a high motte, its inner curtain wall holding the keep, the kitchens, the well, and all of Lord Reinard’s private gardens in a protected embrace. The outer bailey held the stables, the pigsty, the aviary, and the workhouses of castle tradesment. The outer curtain wall was ten feet thick, with a mural tower at each of the four corners. A double-towered gatehouse protected the entrance. On the eastern side the Gateway river hurried past the castle on its way to the Southern Wizardlands. The town hugged the other three sides of the keep, and a town wall kept out the wolves and the thieves.
I could also see the empty lot where the Bard Hall once stood, where burnt timbers and bones now rotted beneath weeds and waste brush, and the cathedral whose doors were locked with iron chains and whose bells were bound by black cloth, both the legacy of the old lord. Only the Silent Monks comforted the people of Songless.
Beyond the walls lay farmland and open wood, all worked by Lord Reinard’s serfs and tenants. Far to the east lay the long shadow of the Eastern Green Forest, enchanted and deadly, and beyond that towered the Dragon’s Mouth Mountain. Their white tops never disappeared, not even in the heat of summer. From them flowed the Dragon Tears river, which swept past the city of Slattern, just north of the Eastern Green Forest. The Gateway split off from it north of Songless Castle, heading south, but the Dragon Tears continued to Selice, where the High King held court, and then on to the western sea.
The Gateway River continued south to the Great Cliff, and there crashed down to the stunted desert a thousand feet below. Now the Teraze, it flowed to Bartiese and the southern sea.
The Great Cliff ran from the southern tip of the Dragon’s Mouth mountains to the western sea, holding our lands out of the reach of the Wizardkin, who lived in the desert with their strange, twisted gods. Only a determined man could climb that cliff save at the falls of the Gateway River, where a man with a pack-mule might pass.
It was by that pass that the Christians had come to our lands, a dozen generations earlier.
The first Christian, Brother William, had been conjured up in Bartiese by an idiotic wizard who thought to fish in other worlds for wisdom. The monk he caught carried no magic, only a book he called The Bible and a message from his god. As the god of the enslaved and poor, the homeless and the powerless, he would grant to his followers might and strength and ownership of a promised land. When the wizard sold Brother William for a small price, Brother William preached his message to his fellow slaves. None listened better than the tall, fair-skinned slaves stolen from the Northern Icelands, and when, empowered by their god, they broke the chains of slavery and flowed to the north, they took the Bardlands as their own. They built churches and castles, overshadowing the bardhalls, and tried to force us to accept their god and their ways.
Even as my Lord Reinard was now forcing me.
I turned from the window, realizing that I had been standing there longer than I should have been. I glanced toward the Solar, half-expecting to see Lord Reinard storm out – but all I saw was a Silent Monk who wove a blessing into the air as he walked past me.
#
Between the Solar and the grand staircase ran a gallery that overlooked the great hall with its huge, stone-backed fireplace behind the high table. Trestle tables were stacked against the long walls, waiting to be pulled out when the household was ready to eat, and the floor was covered in a thick layer of reeds. Long, narrow windows set high in the walls let in the late autumn light. From the gallery I could look through those, out over the castle courtyard and what was beyond it.
Songless Castle stood on a high motte, its inner curtain wall holding the keep, the kitchens, the well, and all of Lord Reinard’s private gardens in a protected embrace. The outer bailey held the stables, the pigsty, the aviary, and the workhouses of castle tradesment. The outer curtain wall was ten feet thick, with a mural tower at each of the four corners. A double-towered gatehouse protected the entrance. On the eastern side the Gateway river hurried past the castle on its way to the Southern Wizardlands. The town hugged the other three sides of the keep, and a town wall kept out the wolves and the thieves.
I could also see the empty lot where the Bard Hall once stood, where burnt timbers and bones now rotted beneath weeds and waste brush, and the cathedral whose doors were locked with iron chains and whose bells were bound by black cloth, both the legacy of the old lord. Only the Silent Monks comforted the people of Songless.
Beyond the walls lay farmland and open wood, all worked by Lord Reinard’s serfs and tenants. Far to the east lay the long shadow of the Eastern Green Forest, enchanted and deadly, and beyond that towered the Dragon’s Mouth Mountain. Their white tops never disappeared, not even in the heat of summer. From them flowed the Dragon Tears river, which swept past the city of Slattern, just north of the Eastern Green Forest. The Gateway split off from it north of Songless Castle, heading south, but the Dragon Tears continued to Selice, where the High King held court, and then on to the western sea.
The Gateway River continued south to the Great Cliff, and there crashed down to the stunted desert a thousand feet below. Now the Teraze, it flowed to Bartiese and the southern sea.
The Great Cliff ran from the southern tip of the Dragon’s Mouth mountains to the western sea, holding our lands out of the reach of the Wizardkin, who lived in the desert with their strange, twisted gods. Only a determined man could climb that cliff save at the falls of the Gateway River, where a man with a pack-mule might pass.
It was by that pass that the Christians had come to our lands, a dozen generations earlier.
The first Christian, Brother William, had been conjured up in Bartiese by an idiotic wizard who thought to fish in other worlds for wisdom. The monk he caught carried no magic, only a book he called The Bible and a message from his god. As the god of the enslaved and poor, the homeless and the powerless, he would grant to his followers might and strength and ownership of a promised land. When the wizard sold Brother William for a small price, Brother William preached his message to his fellow slaves. None listened better than the tall, fair-skinned slaves stolen from the Northern Icelands, and when, empowered by their god, they broke the chains of slavery and flowed to the north, they took the Bardlands as their own. They built churches and castles, overshadowing the bardhalls, and tried to force us to accept their god and their ways.
Even as my Lord Reinard was now forcing me.
I turned from the window, realizing that I had been standing there longer than I should have been. I glanced toward the Solar, half-expecting to see Lord Reinard storm out – but all I saw was a Silent Monk who wove a blessing into the air as he walked past me.
#
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Chapter 1.2
His frown deepened. "Stand up."
I obeyed. He is, after all, the lord of the holding, and I was but a common musician. I had trained to be a Bard, a singer of the Songs of Life and a servant of Justice, but the old lord had taken that from me and trapped me here. I was but a silent harpist in Songless Castle, a slave to the whims of my Christian master.
Lord Reinard looked me over critically, his blue eyes finding fault with everything. "Get a bath. Use my bath, not that wash basin of yours. I want you cleaned like a nobleman."
I raised my eyebrows. All noblemen are Christians, but I, still barefoot as Bard-in-Training should be, was resolutely Heathen. Did he mean to insult me, or did he simply wish for me to embrace his hypocritical faith?
Lord Reinard ignored my expression – or perhaps he missed it. He continued to talk. "I’ve set out some proper clothing for you to wear after you’ve bathed. And shoes. Hurry – you don’t want to keep the girls waiting."
I was not willing to walk off and leave my work undone. I pointed to the scrub brush and bucket, then turned my palm upwards. A daring gesture, when he was in a mood, but his insult deserved one back.
"There are maids to do that," he snapped. "Don’t waste any more time."
#
I obeyed. He is, after all, the lord of the holding, and I was but a common musician. I had trained to be a Bard, a singer of the Songs of Life and a servant of Justice, but the old lord had taken that from me and trapped me here. I was but a silent harpist in Songless Castle, a slave to the whims of my Christian master.
Lord Reinard looked me over critically, his blue eyes finding fault with everything. "Get a bath. Use my bath, not that wash basin of yours. I want you cleaned like a nobleman."
I raised my eyebrows. All noblemen are Christians, but I, still barefoot as Bard-in-Training should be, was resolutely Heathen. Did he mean to insult me, or did he simply wish for me to embrace his hypocritical faith?
Lord Reinard ignored my expression – or perhaps he missed it. He continued to talk. "I’ve set out some proper clothing for you to wear after you’ve bathed. And shoes. Hurry – you don’t want to keep the girls waiting."
I was not willing to walk off and leave my work undone. I pointed to the scrub brush and bucket, then turned my palm upwards. A daring gesture, when he was in a mood, but his insult deserved one back.
"There are maids to do that," he snapped. "Don’t waste any more time."
#
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Chapter 1.1
Chapter 1
Lord Reinard looked down at me, his fists rapidly clenching and unclenching. He does that whenever he’s in a full temper, working the air like a kitchen girl kneading dough. It’s best not to cross him at these times, best to not even be in the same building, for he has a touch of his father in him. More than a touch, some days. I normally find a way to avoid him at those times, but that morning he had caught me unawares as I crouched on the hearth of the solar, a scrub brush in hand.
"Gerard." His voice was as tense as his jawline. Blonde hair flew wild about his narrow face, like a madman’s. "Just what are you doing?"
I wiped my hands on my ragged trousers, my worst pair, then signed, "I am washing the hearth. It is very dirty."
"And who told you to do that?"
"No one. I saw it was dirty yesterday, when I played for you. I thought it should be clean." Even a simple harpist deserved a clean scrap of floor to kneel on – even if he had to clean it himself.
Lord Reinard looked down at me, his fists rapidly clenching and unclenching. He does that whenever he’s in a full temper, working the air like a kitchen girl kneading dough. It’s best not to cross him at these times, best to not even be in the same building, for he has a touch of his father in him. More than a touch, some days. I normally find a way to avoid him at those times, but that morning he had caught me unawares as I crouched on the hearth of the solar, a scrub brush in hand.
"Gerard." His voice was as tense as his jawline. Blonde hair flew wild about his narrow face, like a madman’s. "Just what are you doing?"
I wiped my hands on my ragged trousers, my worst pair, then signed, "I am washing the hearth. It is very dirty."
"And who told you to do that?"
"No one. I saw it was dirty yesterday, when I played for you. I thought it should be clean." Even a simple harpist deserved a clean scrap of floor to kneel on – even if he had to clean it himself.
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