Chapter 3.9

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Leaving the kitchen, I found a break in the rain, and took the chance to wander up to the gardens. I knew they would be brown and withered at this time of year. What I did not know was that Lord Guerney had built a greenhouse.

It was a marvel, a green heart in the beast of stone, as large as the Great Hall. Paths wound between flowering bushes and small trees, and here and there a bench provided respite for no more than a pair of intimate friends. I saw where Sharp had taken his rose, from a bush than guarded a private bower – his gift had been an invitation, then, not just a gesture of appreciation.

Pushing deeper, I found plants both intriguing and disturbing. Their odd-shaped leaves and twining branches marked them as having come from deep within the Easter Green Forest. Lord Guerney did not fear that wood, but delighted in it.

Perhaps he valued that land more highly than an association with Lord Reinard, and that was why the Lady Laurice was so slow in coming? A troubling thought. Land is good, but worthless without trusted allies.

Leaving those stunted shrubs behind, I turned a corner in the path, and came across something worse. It was a bed of flowers, their translucent petals colored in the pale shades of a moonbow, their stems and leaves shimmering like frosted silver. I took a quick step backwards.

“Jewels!” Charles exclaimed, reaching forward. “Where did they come from?”

I grabbed his arm and yanked it back. Scrabbling out the slate and chalk, I hastily wrote, “The Heart of the Eastern Green Forest.”

Charles read what I wrote, his lips shaping each word, then frowned. “Wouldn’t that make them cursed?”

I nodded, though it is not the flowers that carry the curse, but those who grow them. Here before me was proof that Lord Guerney did not just visit the Eastern Green Forest, but traded with the soulless Silver-eyed.

The sooner I left this place, the better.

Refusing to follow the path past the flowers, I backtracked to the entrance. On the way I found a bramble of mountain roses climbing the far wall, and I conceived a thought. They were not so fine that Lord Geurney would take offense at my plucking a few, and their carried no secret invitation. A few, however, would make a pleasing bouquet – perhaps in that way I could ingratiate myself with one of the maids-in-waiting, and perhaps discover some tidbit about the Lady Laurice, some bit of news to carry back to my lord.

Sick

Due to illness, there will be no update today.

Chapter 3.8

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The warmth of the kitchen bathed my face; the smell of baking bread and roasting meats filled my nostrils. A kitchen maid, crouched on the hearth to stir a large pot, turned to face me, and smile. She rose, flour-streaked skirts swirling about her legs, and hurried over. It was nice to be recognized, for once.

“Are ye hungry?” Elise asked.

With her question, I was. I nodded.

She slipped away, and returned just as silently. “Fresh-baked bread, just out of the oven. And some of the best cheese Ay’ve ever aged.”

At Songless, when the Old Lord was still alive, I was lucky if the handouts from the kitchen were no more than a little stale. I nodded my thanks at her generous charity.

“Do ye know, that sweet-voiced boy hasn’t been seen today, and the Lady Victoria was caught dozin’ at her needlework. They must have been all night in the garden!”

I shook my head at her words.

“Ye don’t like my saying that?”

Again I shook my head, this time sternly. The Lady Victoria was a lady of the castle, a beautiful rose among brambles. Kitchen maids were too easily replaceed.

“Aye, well, I’m no Christian to call a Bard a horrible Pagan beneath the sun, then kiss him by moonlight. I stand by my bard no matter the weather.”

Another conquest for Sharp, I thought bitterly. He was the only Bard to be found in this castle. I nodded my thanks for the meal and turned to go.

“Ay’ll see ye tonight,” she said quietly.

Behind me, Charles said loudly, “Gir-rl. Go-od.”

I looked back to see him make exaggerated gestures of the feminine shape with his hands. Then he laughed, and the other workers in the kitchen laughed with him. Face burning, I shouldered him aside and stalked ot the door.

“Why are ye bothering with that mute creature?” another woman asked behind me. “Do ye think he even knows what ye are sayin’?”

You lose your voice and you lose your ears. Soon I would be nothing more than a ghost.

Chapter 3.7

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Ghost-like, I wafted along the hallways of the upper floor, relearning the maze of decorated corridors and bare service hallways. I peeked behind tapestries, finding the secret passages and hidden staircases, and made my way into the spyhole beside the chapel. Through a slit in the wall I watched the two Silent Monks sing their mid-afternoon mass. Brown cowls and robes hid their features, but their voices were distinct. The taller one was a strong tenor, filling the room with the bells of his voice, and he led the other, a feeble baritone, down the twisting path of their music.

At this time, before their god, no silent monk is denied his voice. He is free to shape the words and music, giving what is sacrificed elsewhere. But it had been years since I had heard their mass, for the Church’s interdict took these services from them. We were equal there – perhaps that is why they took an interest in me.

After my ill-treatment by the Bard-killer, I fled to the hayloft in the stable and hid there. I vowed not to come out and beg, even if it meant that I would perish. But the monks came to me with blankets and bread softened in wine, and stayed with me through the long days that followed.

For me they pulled back their cowls, showing themselves to be common men, not formless shadows. Then they took my hands in theirs – rough, work-worn hands – and taught me to shape them into their signs. With a slate they taught me the meaning of the word: those that could write, did, and those that could not drew pictures. Without demanding that I join their order, they pulled me into their witty, lively world.

When the young lord found me in the stables, and demanded that I play for him, he soon learned of my new way of speaking. He would not be satisfied until the monks taught him the signs, as well. Why anyone who does not listen would want to know what is said, I do not understand.
Still, the monks taught him, and ceased to converse in his presence. Only blessings flowed from their fingers until the doors were shut.

In the chapel before me, the two voices rose in a crescendo, ended with a flourish, then faded with an echo. I, mute and hidden, could watch but not touch the experience. The wall between myself and the chapel was more than physical. I was soul-mate to the monks only while they where at Songless Castle, for elsewhere they still had their Mass.

Chapter 3.6

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Remembering the story, I also remembered sitting at Master Meiltung’s feet with the other Bards-in-training, learning the stories I would tell to the children of the world. Stories learned to no avail – I would never teach them. I threw the memory away into the fog and hurried over an arching bridge to the main keep. There was cold water beneath my cloak, and I wanted to be near a fire. As if any fire could melt the ice around my heart.

I entered one of the upper hallways, a long passage lined by portraits of stern and somber Guerneys, all looking down at me over large, sharply hooked noses. It held a multitude of other treasures: covered chairs, engraved chests, and locked showcases containing books, Christian icons, and pieces of Lord Guerney’s famed knife collection. A chambermaid moved up the hall, carefully dusting as she went.

I recognized her.

Ten years earlier, in the warmth of the kitchen after the big meal, the servants would gather and listen to our music. She was always there, a maiden not many years older than myself, and she seemed to favor my tunes over Sharps. Once, even, she sat in my lap and dared me to play. I did, if badly, and everyone laughed. It was all light and innocent, but even then she rose up quickly when her soldier walked into the room.

Days of laughter and pretty maids.

I touched her shoulder, wondering if she remembered those days as fondly. But when she turned to me, with a face older but still sweet, she dropped her eyes and bowed her head.

"Yes, me lord?"

I touched her chin to tilt her head up, so that she would look me in the face.

"Oh no, my Lord." She stepped back from my reach, but watched me cautiously. Her hand rested on her swollen abdomen. "Ay beg ye let me go. Ay’m a wife and a mother."

I gestured to my face.

She quickly shook her head, and backed away further.

I was forgotten then, my memory lost with my voice. I had ceased to exist, and even my songs belonged to another.

Chapter 3.5

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Before there was land, sky, and sea, there was ice, mist, and milk. Some of the ice broke away and floated to the surface of the milk, and upon it lay the Master of Paths and Earth Mother, two halves of the same whole. Looking upon each other, and seeing that each was only a half but together they were a whole, the Master of Paths and the Earth Mother lay down with each other and were joined together. That is why men and women seek each other.

In the days that followed the Earth Mother became aware that she carried the joining within her, and so she gathered together all the ice to make a land for her children to live in. She warmed the ice with her body, and caused plants to grow upon it, and then she filled the plants with bright flowers. Every spring the Earth Mother remembers that she did this, and brings out green plants and bright flowers where the snow and ice has been.

Looking down on this land, the Master of Paths was so moved that he began to cry. As each shimmering drop fell, it became a god and flew into the Earth Mother’s world. But these gods were not of the Earth Mother, and did not belong in her world, and were rejected. They cried out to their father, the Master of Paths, who told them that if they joined themselves to the Earth Mother’s world, they would be her children, too. So the gods went forth and joined themselves to her rocks and waters, her plants and her fires, and thus made themselves complete. This is why gods are found where they are, bound to streams and groves, mountains and grassy plains, and sometimes burning as a bonfire.

The Master of Paths caught two of the fire gods, Snir the Greater and Snar the Lesser, and set them high above the Earth Mother’s land There they wander restlessly, treading the same path day after day, warming the land and giving it light. Then, so that Snir and Snar should not be lonely, he caught up two god-sized handfuls of Silver-eyed and threw them into the sky. It is their eyes that shine at night.

When the Earth Mother’s time came, she made a bed on the land, and lay down. She spread her thighs and sang, and the birth waters came out in a rush and made the sea. Then from her womb spilled every animal of the earth, from fish to bird. Each child went to a place of the land and claimed it as its own. That is why certain creatures are found one place, but not another, and why the sea tastes of salt.

At the very last, the first man and the first woman climbed from her womb. They looked upon each other, and saw that each was only half of the same whole. They went to the grass of the new world, and there celebrated the creation of the world. And that is why, to this day, men and women lie together in joy and celebration.

Chapter 3.4

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After I dressed, I practiced on my harp, moving from scales to a tune I had never played within the walls of Songless. Sharp had reminded me of it, and my fingers stumbled as I taught them long forgotten strains, but before the morning was over I had it slipping easily into the air. With no words to voice the story, I could only weave the tale of a hunstman and his swan lover with notes.

I finished, put away my harp, and rose to leave the room. Stiff from the chill and from kneeling so long, I needed to walk, to explore the castle, to have some time alone.

Charles fell into step behind me.

I tried to pretend he was not there, and for a time he kept his silence.

I wandered through the keep, then through the garrison in the outer curtain wall. I passed servants and soldiers, a few of whom I recognized but whose gaze slid smoothly away from my face. I walked through the armory, where Charles looked longingly at the practice floor, but I shook my head and climbed to the parapets. There I looked over the wall, and saw that the whole of the Dragon’s Mouth Mountains draped in fog. Only the nearest slope could be seen, its scrubby trees and flinty boulders fading into the mist like ghosts.

"Seems like we’re cut off from the rest of the world," Charles said, leaning on the wall beside me.

"This castle is hanging onto the rock, but the rock is floating in a big pond of nothingness. This is the way the world began, isn’t it? A monster dragging itself from a lake of milk?"

Something like that, I thought as I nodded to the knight. Though Master Meiltung would have groaned at such a simplistic retelling.

Chapter 3.3

With the introduction of Elise, things start to spice up -- but it takes Gerard a bit to get the message.

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Morning intruded on my eyes like an unwelcome guest. The soldiers were already awake and active, polishing their weapons and oiling their leather armor. I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.

The door creaked open. "Mornin’," I heard a woman say.

"Morning," chorused the soldiers. Ison added, "Is that breakfast?"

"Aye."

I peeked out to see the serving maid from the night before, with a wooden tray in her hands.

"Ay’ve got bread and sausages, all stolen from his lordship’s table. An’ a couple of pies."

Charles took the tray, which held a small feast for the four of us. He sampled a sausage. "Good."

"The best a’ my hands." She looked at me. "And Ay’m willing to give you anything you want."

I pulled the covers back over my head.

Ison then whistled, and I peeked back out to see that the maid had lifted her skirts to step over the pieces scattered across the floor. She bent over the bed, drew the covers down to my waist, and whispered loudly, "Anythin’."

Ison whistled again, and Charles widened his eyes.

"Don’t you want to see what I have for you in my skirt?"

I swallowed. Hard.

She drew out a piece of slate from her apron, and a hunk of chalk. She marked a word on it, then showed it to me. "See? I’ve learned to write my name."

Elise, it read. I took the slate from her hands and wrote, Gerard.

She puzzled over it long enough that I realized that I would not be writing her any notes. Finally
Charles looked over her shoulder, mouthed the word, then said, "That’s his name. Gerard."

She smiled at me. "Ah, you understand. Now, if you want anything..."

I took the slate from her hands and drew a rough sketch of a washbasin and a towel.

"That’s all you want?"

I nodded, then wished I hadn’t. Too much wine the night before.

"As ye wish, my good Gerard." She smiled regretfully. "I’ll bring some hot water straightaway."
After she left, Ison sat down on the edge of the bed. "Forgive my forwardness, you being my master and all, but ah see ye’ve been with the Silent Monks too long. That thar’s a woman, and women are for, well – ah’ll see to it that you have a time and a place tonight."

I growled at him.

He winked back, knowing full well I could not command him to stop.

Chapter 3.2

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Sharp’s music stopped, bringing me back to Lord Guerney’s hall. He stood with a gentle smile on his angular face, facing a woman of incomparable beauty. Her hair, gold and bright, was caught up in thick braids which disappeared behind her veil, and he face was round and full. Her eyes were quick and her red lips invited. Her dress, with long sleeves brushing the floor, was the delicate green of forest leaves waking to a new year. In her pale hand, a single white rose bloomed.

Had I a voice, I would have sung in her honor and battled a knight to claim her as my own. But her eyes and her rose went to Sharp, and he kissed her fingers softly.

There were no ladies in Songless Castle. There had been none since my Lord Reinard was four, when his mother died. She had been burned to death in the Bardhall, along with her lover and all the Masters, Journeymen, and Bards-in-training. Any Bard who escaped the flames hunted down and hanged, as well as any that chanced to pass the castle afterwards. In all, twenty-six men died at the hands of the Bard-killer, and the twenty-seventh was ruined. The Christian Church responded to this outrage by putting the castle and its people under interdict., and both church and Bardhall shunned the place. Proper fathers snatched their daughters home, and Songless Castle, silent and hard, earned its name.

How came I to wander into the jaws of the lion? Wallen had never been precise about where he lived. I was too foolish to ask, blinded by the thought of an easy summer of food and wine. Perhaps he thought that the Old Lord would not notice me, or perhaps he felt that with my future crushed, I would have to stay there, his private harpist in a silent castle.
I do not believe that such things are beyond my Lord Reinard, true son the Bardkiller, who never did speak his full name within the Bardhall. Bitterness is a black rose that grows on the grave of a friendship.

Again the music stopped, this time for good. Sharp bowed a final time, then put his pipe and lute away. I rose, unsteady, and my soldiers helped me out of the hall.

Chapter 3.1

Strong wine blurred the edges of the night, flinging wide the gate between dreams and memories. The serving maid, goddess of the wine flagon, kept my mug filled as she smiled and chattered, but her words were lost in the music of the Bard. With pipe and lute, harp and voice, he worked his way through all the songs which had once been mine.

Some were offerings to maidens, others I gave to the stars. Some bought wine in the local taverns, others paid for food on our travels. There were stories born of nightmare, poems of love, and ballads of crime. And some brought back nights in a small boarding house in Slatten, where we laughed and sang until the night was stained with dawn.

Three of us: Sharp, myself, and younger boy named Wallen who slept in that room while studying at the nearby University. He was much more interested in Bards and music than in his lessons, and offered us the best wine and meat. He was a treasure-trove, a rich man’s son, and my discovery.

I had found him standing on the steps of the Bardhall, a child with blonde curls and fine clothes, staring at the typanum. There, carved in veined marble above the big bronze doors, were all the instruments of our trade. "What is that?" he asked as I walked past.

"What?" I replied with the voice I once had.

"The thing shaped like a square, almost, with lines running from top to bottom."

"The harp?" Who was this fool who didn’t know about a Bardic harp?

"What is it? What does it do?"

"It makes music."

"Music?" His blue eyes widened. "How?"

I sighed. I was late for weapon practice, Sharp would already be calling me a dozen names worse than Silver-eyed, and Master Meitung would be about to notice my absence. On the other hand, I had a duty to serve all people with my knowledge and wisdom – Master Meiltung had lectured us on that very point that morning. Could I walk away from a child’s request, shame myself before the gods, simply to save my standing before the Master?

So I sat down upon the steps, pulled my harp onto my knees, and began to play. And I sang, weaving a magical net with my voice. The net fell upon the boy, filling him wonder. I saw in his eyes a transformation as his soul opened to the sound, and after that taste he could never get enough, or pay too little for it.

But was I who paid too much.

Chapter 2.8

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Sharp, we called him at the Bardhall. His true name was something much longer, quite burdensome, and quickly forgotten. He was two years younger than, but his voice was the most spectacular soprano that the Bardhall had seen in generations. He was also one of the wild boys, so much so that Master Meiltung often threatened to hand him over to the Christians who had, it was said, a way of keeping a boy’s voice high forever.

After an initial period of disagreement, Sharp and I became close friends. At night we would creep out of the hall and visit the taverns, earning coins and drinks with our songs. We paired up for sword training and book study. During the summers, he was my traveling companion – until the year he wanted to return to Rockridge, and I went instead to Songless.

Chapter 2.7

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In the Great Hall the trestle tables had been pulled out from the walls and set with trenchers. Serving maids carried in pots of food and baskets of bread, and set them on the table while fending off the groping hands of the soldiers and lesser servants. Lord Guerney’s table was up on the dais, laid with a tablecloth and set with roast meats. At the other end, by the door to the courtyard, two Silent Monks and a beggar waited for charitable scraps.

In Songless Castle, the Silent Monks had their own kitchen and dining hall, and they fed the poor with their leavings.

The servant pointed us toward the table furthest from the dais. Charles and Jason shoved aside two grubby tradesmen to make room for all of us, then proceeded to grab all the food they could reach. Charles snagged all the choice bits of meat from the pot and piled them on my trencher, then his own.

One of the serving maids fixed him with a cold eye.

"Official food taster," he gurgled, his mouth full .

The woman’s eyes moved onto me. They were Outlander eyes, green and rimmed with gold. Her thin lips – they matched her narrow, sharp-featured face – curved into a smile. "Ye’re new," she said.

I just stared back.

"He can’t speak," Charles said helpfully. "But he can use his hands."

Her smile broke open into a grin. "Can he, now? Ay’ll have to see that for meself."

"Aye," Jason agreed.

She winked at me and moved on.

Jason’s hands slammed between my shoulder blades. "That’s the way. Now git one fer me!"

I looked down at my plate and began to pick at my food. Eating in public is not easy for me. Fortunately Charles attracted all the attention at the table away from me by asking Jason questions about what I should do with the girl, and Jason entertained the table by answering in graphic detail.

Suddenly the sound of a reed pipe cut through the din and into my bones. The piper was standing in the center of the room, his fingers dancing over the holes while the notes wove a spell. His right hand was toward me, and I could see tattooed on it a harp with three strings. This was a Guild Bard, from the path stolen from me.

It spoke of Lord Guerney’s prestige that he could command a third-level Bard for his dinner entertainment. It’s spoke of the Bard’s power that the room quieted around him. He finished his tune, lowered his pipe, and spoke.

That face, that voice – coals and ice scraped my soul. The sweet tenor voice washed away years like so much travel dust, and I saw before me a barefoot Bard-in-training, my laughing, fighting, traveling companion of many years. His black hair was now combed straight, his clothes were tightly woven and trimmed with gold thread, and he wore boots as fine as the ones my Christian lord had forced on my feet, but he still moved lithely and spoke sweetly.

"My Lord Reinard, this evening I have prepared a special ballad for you, The Story of Sir Rowen and the Two Red Knights."

I choked, but no one paid me mind other than Charles, who patted me half-heartedly on my back.

The Bard lifted a lute and began to sing, his voice shredding my heart. It wasn’t just because I would never stand where he did, molding the song with my own voice, or that his presence taunted me with memories of my years in Slattern. No, it was something much deeper, much darker.

That was my ballad.

Chapter 2.6

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Some hours passed. Jason and Ison cleared a piece of floor between them, emptied their pockets of copper coins, and settled down to a game of spin-dice. Charles commandeered the writing desk, pulled a dog-eared prayer book from his belt, and worked on memorizing the Lord’s prayer. "In case I run into a demon," he told me, before returning to the book. I unpacked my harp, which had been carefully wrapped in a Silent Monk’s robe, checked it for damage, and practiced scales. Evening shadows thickened around the window, then curled in with sunset.
Jason was about to search for a candle when someone scratched on the door. It was a servant of some low sort, his hair uncombed and tunic ripped, and he mumbled something. In response, Jason buckled on his hunting knife and Charles belted on his sword.

Ison stayed as he was. "Ah’ll guard tonight. Jest send back some bread, some wine, and a tight, round wench!"

"If any are left," Jason said. "Charles and me get first pick."

"Don’t ye go fergetting that tomarrow ye’ll be sittin’ here!"

"Ah’ll send back what ye would send to me," Jason assured him.

Charles motioned for me to go ahead of him. I shrugged and turned up my palms in question.

"Sup-per," he said loudly, so that the uncouth servant looked up. Charles pointed at his mouth. "E-at."

I growled at him, and he laughed.

Chapter 2.5

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Lord Guerney lounged in front of a crackling fire, burning wood which his serfs had dragged in from miles away, his three mastiffs gnawing bones at his feet. He still had the craggy features I remembered, and the swarthy skin that hinted at an ancestor in the Wizardlands, but the years had gathered themselves around his waist and most of his pale hair had fallen from his head. Still, the eyes that flickered over me were quick and clear, warrior’s eyes.

He raised his golden goblet and drank deeply.

I stepped onto the dais, bowed, and extended Lord Reinard’s letter to him.

He gave me a flicker of interest, then stared past me down the length of the hall.

I waited, glancing surreptitiously around the hall as I did so. The heraldries of his knights, long woven banners, lined the walls so thickly that there was no need for tapestries. A gallery ran beneath the high, narrow windows, and wooden doors gave access to the towers. I knew, however, that there were many more passageways in the stone walls, to keep servants and soldiers out of sight. Behind every narrow slit a notched arrow might be waiting. The back of my neck itched with danger.

Eventually Lord Geurney grunted and reached out for the letter. I bowed and placed it in his hand.

He broke the seals, glanced over the note, and dropped it to the floor.

I bowed again.

"Does he want a response?"

I nodded and bowed a third time.

"I’ll give him one." Lord Geurney drained his cup. He frowned into its depth, and yelled, "Bring me more, fools! Are your feet filled with lead?"

A frightened servant pushed past me and hastily refilled his lord’s goblet.

"Hurry faster next time, or you’ll have nothing to hurry on."

Pale and trembling, the servant backed away.

Lord Geurney turned to me. "I’ll give your master his response, in my own time. Find someplace else to roost."

Charles stepped forward. "We beg your pardon, my lord, but we will need a place to keep ourselves in the meantime.

"Who are you?" Lord Geurney growled.

Charles drew his sword and knelt behind it. "Sir Charles, sworn to Lord Reinard, my lord. I am Master Gerard’s bodyguard and voice."

By identifying himself as my knight and as a knight of the realm, Charles put Lord Guerney into a delicate position. He could no longer insult me without insult my knight, and through that knight, the High King himself. With a grunt Lord Geurney pulled himself upright and bellowed for his steward.

Within seconds a little man ran up, gasping for breath. "Please forgive my tardiness, my lord, but I was in the tower rooms."

Lord Guerney scratched at his beard. "This emissary has come to us from Lord Reinard’s castle. Be kind enough to show him to the guest rom."

With that, I expected to be led out to the stables or down to the cellers. Instead we were shown to a room not far from the Great Hall. It had a window with wooden shutters which could be closed, a narrow bed pushed against one wall, a small writing desk against the other, and a cold brazier at the back. It didn’t seem small until Jason and Ison set down my trunk and piled their shields on the floor. Then there was but a little space left, in which we all stood.

"This will be fine," the steward said, more of a command than a question.

"Just as long as there are no rats under the bed." Charles drew his blade and thrust it under the mattress. He made several bold passes, then sheathed his sword. "Nope, nothing now. But I’ll check again later."

The steward swallowed, wrung his thin hands together, and ran from the room.

Chapter 2.4

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Krast was no more than a road with a few small side streets, all lined by hovels which seemed to have grown from the mud. In summer, I remembered, open-sided tents crowded the main street, their meager stores filling the needs of the village, the castle, and the few outlaws who slipped over the mountains to sell smuggled goods. Under the almost-winter sky, however, the town was empty, showing little life beyond the tavern. A tiny church, large enough to hod a dozen Christians if they didn’t breathe too hard, huddled on one side of the road, and a Bardhall, barely any larger, crouched on the other.

This was a people barely religious enough for the necessities of life.

The road wound up from the village, bordered on either side by thorny bushes and flinty rocks. We climbed it slowly, listening as rocks rattled down the slope and struck the carriage. Most were pebbles, but a few were large enough to rock us, and I heard the swearing of the men on top.

Finally we came to the black fortress walls, and turned into the maw of the beast. We rattled through the gatehouse, and came to rest in the bailey. The carriage door was opened – by James, and not by a servant of the castle.

I stepped out. The only person I saw was a stable hand, who ambled over as he wiped his hands on his dirty tunic. "An’ what be yer business here?"

I couldn’t see soldiers, but I was aware of the arrow slits in the wall behind me. When I brandished my lord’s letter, with its wax seal and ribbons, it was as much for them as for the servant.

"What would Ay be wantin’ with thet?" the stablehand asked.

"We wish to see Lord Guerney," Charles said for me.

"Ay’ll send word thet yer here." He turned away.

"We wish to be taken to him," Charles said. "Immediately."

The stable hand looked back.

Charles drew his sword and knelt before it. This was not a threat, but a statement that as a knight of the realm, he had the right of audience with any man in fealty to the High King.

The stable hand shrugged. "M’lord is at leisure in his hall."

Charles stood and replaced his sword. "Then show us the way."

Chapter 2.3

"Ye’d better get in." James rubbed the bow in his hands. Other than for a pair of rabbits, he’d found no reason to use it.

I shook my head. I had been walking beside the carriage, a respite from the spine-crunching jolts, and saw no reason to give that up.

"Yeah, ye’d better be gettin’ yer ass back in." Ison shifted the heavy iron pike in his hands. For most of the trip it had been at hand beside him, but now he held it at arms.

Perhaps they expected trouble? I touched Geldswan, which I now wore openly. Its appearance brought no comment from my guard, other than a comment by Charles that I was wearing it on the wrong side. I restrained from showing him that my sword hand is sinister.

"See here." James leaned forward. "Ye jest can’t walk into the castle like a wanderin’ beggar. A man uf yer station needs to go in respectfully."

I looked sideways at him and growled. I can still do that; the old lord did not force me into complete silence.

"Yer an obstinate bastard," he chuckled.

My hands flew briskly, though he could not read them. "Do you know more of my parents than I?"

Ison leaned down. "Ye’d best not do that here. These mountain fold live by the Badlands, and they know all ‘bout wizards. They’ll say yer puttin’ a curse on ‘em. Get inta the carriage now – we’re almost on Krast."

Ten years and a lifetime before, I would have taken insult at this command, and tested his iron against my steel. As a true Bard, with the harp tattooed on the back of my hand, no one would have thought to dictation to me like that – but a burned gate cannot be locked. Regretfully I climbed back in, and turned my face to the window.

In the refuge of my mind, a dismal ballad took shape. There was the usual murder and mayhem, treachery between false friends, and jolting horseback rides through the soggy brown leaves of late fall. That I would never sing the words did not stop them from forming.

Charles slapped my knee, and when I turned to look, he held his hands a arm’s length apart. "Those rats had tails two feet long!"

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Chapter 2.2

On the afternoon of the third day, we were traveling at the base of the Dragon’s Mouth Mountains, a massif of sheer faces and summits which pierced the clouds, when Rockridge Castle, a black spider on a cliff of grey shale, came into view. It had not changed since that day, many years before, when I had visited it with Sharp – a fellow student, a good friend, and my traveling companion for several summers. Sharp had liked Rockridge, but I had been anxious to leave. The whole thing is built of rock and shadow, and even now it holds the taint of the twilight world. Treacheries are at home there, slithering down the halls like cold snakes in their pits, and untruths chirp like crickets beneath the stairs. No yule-fire could ever burn away the shadows of that place.

It’s outer curtain, a half-ring curving from the face of the mountain, has two stories. The upper half belongs to the soldiers, holding their barracks, armory, and storehouses. The lower hold stables and workshops. Eight observation towers rise from the wall, and from each arches a slender bridge to the main keep, the body of the spider. The kitchen sulks behind the keep, close to the moutain wall. Gardens – kitchen, herbal, ornamental, and trysting – cling to the slope above the castle, while deep in the stone beneath the keep lies the dungeons and torture rooms, so far below that the screams of the damned will not disturb the pleasure-seekers in the garden.

The keep itself has four towers. One holds the library and the chapel, a second holds Lord Guerney’s private rooms, the third is given over to the ladies and their servants, and the fourth is for the Steward, servants, and distinguished visitors.

Lord Guerney has many castles which perch on the spine of the mountains, but Rockridge is his seat and winter home. It guards a narrow pass to the Badlands, where gangs of bandits and wizard-kin live among thorns and prey on the weak. Below the pass huddled the town of Krast, where lived the families of those in Rockridge, both those who served Lord Guerney and those shut away in his dungeons.

And that was the monstrosity that my lord wanted to ally himself with.

Chapter 2.1

Author's note -- I assure you, when I have this printed up, I will not be heading each section with a number, i.e. 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, etc. This is only for the blog.
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Two miles from the gates of Songless Castle, the road forks. One branch follows the Gateway upstream to Slattern. This is the road traveled when I came to Songless Castle, ten years and a lifetime ago. The other road swings south and below the Eastern Green Forest, then plods northeasterly through the foothills of the Dragon’s Mouth Mountains. This is the road we took for three long, jolting, jouncing days. My main entertainment was Charles, who told me again and again just how badly the last messenger had been treated.

Lord Reinard had only given up, with an angry flip of his hand, that his last messenger had not been treated well and that he had received no response to his inquiries. From Charles’ lips tumbled horrors. The messenger had been given a cold, tiny room to sleep in, one that overlooked the stableyard. Soldiers were posted outside his door, and he was not allowed to leave. His meals arrived cold and half-eaten. When he could leave, he returned to find personal items missing. On the fourth day, he woke to find rats in his room. When he complained about this treatment on the fifth day, he was severely beaten, dumped into a farm wagon, and sent home. At no time did he find anyone who would answer his questions.

My Lord Reinard is such a wise man. To people who will not talk, he send a messenger who cannot speak.

When I wasn’t listening to Charles’ chatter, I was staring at the withered countryside. The fields were stubbly, with harvest leavings scattered across the brown earth, and a cold wind harried the clumps of dead grass. Here and there a rotten apple lay in the dirt. Trees reached bare branches toward the heavy grey sky, pregnant with rain but unable to deliver. The landscape warned of storms raging before the week was through, then bitter cold. Poor omens for my journey.

Chapter 1.9

I stood in the courtyard with a carriage behind me and Lord Reinard before me
He presented to me a traveling trunk and three guardsmen. Ison, the pikeman, was a heavy-set man with bushy red hair. James, the bowman, was tall and stringy, and his limp brown hair hung from a fringe around his freckled pate. Charles, the knight, had thick black curls framing his boyish face. He wore a silver crucifix and a rare steel sword. These were three of my lord’s best men.

That I should need such an escort, either for protection or to guard me, did not relieve my uneasiness.

My lord put a bracelet, a golden snake, on my left arm, and two rings, an opal and a sapphire, on my right fingers. "These will protect you. They can open locked doors; they can buy you safe passage home. Don’t hesitate to use them. Is there anything else you need?"

I had already, under pretense of needing a trip to the privy, picked up my sword from the stable hayloft, where it had been hidden for ten years. Now belted beneath my robe, Geldswan poked me in the ribs. But I had not been able to get to the closet that my lord had granted me for sleeping, and thus retrieve my other precious possession.

"I would like my harp," I signed.

He smiled warmly. "I thought of that. It’s in the trunk."

I drew in a sharp breath.

"Don’t worry. I had a Silent Monk do the packing, and you know how careful they are. It’s perfectly safe."

I slowly let out my breath, but not in relief. It is the way of my lord to think that anyone can touch a Bard’s harp. Yet if someone had to touch it, let it be a Silent Monk, for they have the only gentle hands in this cursed castle.

I bowed to my lord, nodded to the Silent Monk standing behind him, and entered the carriage. Charles climbed in with me, and James shut the door. I felt the carriage rock as he and Ison climbed onto the top. A whip cracked, signaling to the horses, and the carriage bounced forward. After ten years I was leaving.

I was leaving the few people who could understand the only language I could now speak.

The young knight leaned forward and said in a cheerful tone, "I hope they don’t put rats in our room."

Chapter 1.8

Matters of love are best left to the Bards and the Heathens. We who see life and love as but parts of the greater nature of things know best how to love freely and easily, and how to travel the twisting paths of the entwined heart. We understand the ebb and flow of love, how whims and fancies can change with the phase of the moon. We work with love, rather than dictate to it and mold it into a sellable, tradeable commodity. A couple that has been sung together may be sung apart, if things do not work as they should.

Christians believe that marriage must stay as it was when it is bound, with no changes, no exceptions. It is an investment, and worthless if there is no dowry. Companionship and beauty mean nothing; only land or money makes a marriage good. And so it was with my lord, who smitten not by the lady, but by her dowry: the Eastern Green Forest.

I myself would not take the Eastern Green Forest, even if it came with a tower filled with beautiful maidens. At its heart lies an evil, a well-spring of the twilight world, and through its shadows roam bodies without souls and souls without bodies. The Silver-eyes live in that forest, they who feast on pain and treachery, and they claim all who step beneath the green leaves. No Heathen would go near such a nest of Faerie. Yet my lord was determined to have it.

Despite my warnings against the evil wood, he arranged to marry the Lady Laurice during the Harvest Festival. Yet the harvest had come and gone, and there was still no lady in Songless Castle. This was an omen, I told my lord, that the marriage was not fated to be – but he waved my warnings aside and sent a messenger to Rockridge Castle to ask about the delay. The news that messenger brought back had thrown my lord into a rage.

And now I was to go, the next sacrifice.

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Chapter 1.7

Lord Reinard sat in his favorite chair in the solar watching as a harried cleaning maid scrubbed the hearth. On the wall behind him hung a silvered mirror, and I could see what the washing women had done to me. My smooth, dark hair had been cut Christian-short, well above my shoulders and away from my earth-brown eyes. I still had my lump of a nose and my broad face, the features of my people, which no Christian could take away with mere water.

I am a small man, but thick-set, and my fists speak for themselves when my sword cannot. But could I handle my lord’s temper? Nervously I bowed to him.

"Gerard?" he asked lightly.

His mood was better. I relaxed, and wove my hands through the air. "Yes, my lord."

"I almost didn’t recognize you."

I bowed. "My lord, I feel properly chastised for having taken upon myself to clean your hearth."

He laughed out loud. "You have a sharp wit, good friend. May we share it for many a winter’s night to come."

Of course we will, I thought. I have no choice.

"Gerard," he said, somber again. "I need your help. I need you to deliver a message to Rockridge Castle."

Foreboding made my gestures more curt than they should have been. "Why are you sending me?"

"I think you can best handle the task," he said.

"And what is this message?" As if I didn’t know. I just wanted to confirm the uneasiness which sat on my shoulders.

"My marriage to the Lady Laurice, Lord Guerney’s daughter."

I knew it.

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Chapter 1.6

After I was scrubbed, trimmed, oiled, and perfumed, the maids brought out the clothes Lord Reinard had left for me. Quite noble clothes, indeed. First came the bleached-white undertunic and the woolen stockings, followed by a light blue robe than fell to my ankles. Gold embroidery trimmed the neckline, sleeves, and hem. They girded a leather belt at my waist, one trimmed with gold and silver studs, and fastened a dark blue mantle over my shoulders with an emerald and ruby pin. They forced leather boots on my feet: stiff, hard, and painful. All the clothes were crisp and new, a fortune to spend on a lowly harper.

"And you’ll be wanting this," said the matron, setting a fur-lined cloak in my arms. "Now you’re ready for high adventure."

There was more here than simple humiliation of a heathen harper, I knew. What was my lord up to?
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