Chapter 10.5.2

We shivered in the wind until he returned, accompanied by the Steward. The man looked us over and said, “Things are not well here. It would have been better if you had sought shelter in town. The Lady Laurice – is not well.”

I felt Wallen stiffen beside me, and saw him try to clench his hand. His fingers were too swollen.

“My Bard-in-training is in a very bad way.” Sharp pointed to frozen blood drops on the ground.

“I doubt he could make it to Krast. If you let us stay, it will be only for a night or two – and we will not bother the Lady Laurice.”

The Steward pulled his face into a long frown. He gazed into Wallen’s pain-filled face, then looked at me. “And the monk?”

Sharp shook his head. “”I can’t speak for a man who refuses to speak for himself. He joined us on the road, when the child first had trouble walking, and has stayed with us ever since. Ask him yourself.”

The Steward peered at me with an intensity that could have penetrated the cloth and shadows of my robe. “How long do you plan to stay, monk?”

I shrugged in my meekest way and gestured to the now bloody rags on Wallen’s feet. As a Silent Monk, my thoughts would be on how I would serve the needy, not how long my journey would take.

“Very well,” the Steward said. “You may stay – but keep out of the way and leave as soon as you can.”

Sharp nodded, and we followed the Steward inside the gatehouse. We had breeched the castle, but the breath of the Dragon was hot upon our backs.

Chapter 10.5

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Without our furs and cloaks, the cold was sharp. We struggled with both ice and snow along the mountain path, and my lord frequently slipped and fell. By the time we reached the gates of Rockridge, he was bruised, scraped, and his feet so swollen that I had to half-carry him. Tears had frozen on his cheeks.

He now knew the roughness of the other half of the fireside tales.

"Greetings to your lord and master," Sharp called to the guards in ther gatehouse. "And the blessings of the Gods upon your household. I am on my way from Slatten, and request shelter."
One of the soldiers peered at him. "You’re that Bard who left just two months back. I thought you went on your way toward Songless, on a quest."

Sharp’s smile was honey dripping from a jar. "I was turned toward Slatten, where I was given new duties and a quest for the Bardhall. I’m to meet a Caravan from the Outlands, and lead them to Bartiese. I have with me a novice who is not as hardy as he should be, and in sore need of rest.

The soldier scratched his head. "My lord isn’t welcoming visitors this yule season – but I can’t see him turning away a Bard. Geoff will go ask him his pleasure."

The other soldier moved off at a trot.

Chapter 10.4.2

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As I pulled on the Monk’s robe, I noted the protective runes that Elise had stitched into the hem, and that the rope for my waist had been rubbed with garlic. I pulled on the cruxifix, making sure that the suffering man would be looking out onto his world and not into my own Heathen heart. Elise handed me my traveling bag, well-stocked with bandages, ointment, and a begging bowl. I was ready to walk my path.

Charles stood, and held out his prayer book. "Could you keep this safe for me?"

I shrugged, then signed slowly for him, "You will be safer than I."

"Perhaps." He grinned, a big, boyish smile of innocence. "But you’ve always kept your word, Brother Gerard. If you promise to return it safely, you will."

A bit of Christian magic – though they claimed not to believe in it. I nodded to him, and put the book in my bag.

"You can’t take that!" Sharp snapped. I turned around, but he was speaking to Lord Reinard, who clutched a leather boot in his hand.

"I have to wear something!" my lord protested. "There’s a foot of snow on the ground!"

"Bards-in-training always go barefoot, whether they walk in snow or briars. If you are discouraged by the discomforts of the road, how can you live the rough life of a Bard? You must learn to rise above the sharp stones and bitter frost, and so prove yourself to the Gods!"

Exactly as Master Meiltung would have said it.

Lord Reinard crossed his arms. "I can’t do it."

Sharp leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, and looked straight into my lord’s blue eyes. In the same even tone that Master Meiltung used, he said, "Do you want the Lady Laurice – and the Eastern Green Forest?"

It was Wallen who bit his lip and lowered his gaze. He let the boot fall to the floor.

"If it would help at all, my lord," Elise said sweetly, "I could wrap your feet in rags. There’s no leather at all in them, and they’ll give ye some protection."

Sharp nodded reluctantly. Wallen accepted the rags, covering his last shred of noble dignity.

Chapter 10.4.1

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Later, as we stood in a room barely large enough hold all seven of us, I gently touched my lord’s arm. "You should know this – Old Sam will not trust anyone who will not drink his worst brew."
He glanced down at the holes in the floor, through which we could see the main room, then signed back. "It was a filthy trick."

"We all drank our portion without complaint."

He stared back with cold eyes. "Did any of you have a dead fly floating on the surface?"

Charles laughed out loud.

My lord turned on him. "What was that for?"

The knight widened his eyes. "Jason and Ison told me a joke before we left, about a monk and a priest and a nun who walked into a bar. But the Bard ducked. I just got it."

With a sigh, Lord Reinard turned away.

Sharp clapped his hands together to get our attention. "Quickly, now – change. We have time to get to Rockridge tonight, if we hurry."

"It’s a day’s walk away," Lord Reinard protested. "And it’s already afternoon."

"There’s a shortcut through the mountains."

"And there’s a storm coming."

"It makes more sense to seek shelter during the storm, than afterwards." Sharp smiled as he pulled out a bundle of rags from his pack and threw them at my lord’s feet.

"What’s this?" Lord Reinard unrolled the bundle. They were my oldest clothes: torn, ragged, and far too short in the sleeves and legs. The clothes of a stable-boy, a beggar, a cast-away.

"Your disguise," Sharp replied.

"But I have a beard!"

"You’re still a rich man, with all that fur and linen. You must play the part of a penniless wretch."
Petulant, my lord shed his fine coverings and pulled on the rags. When he turned around I saw, despite the hard set of his face, the fragile young boy I had once befriended. At that moment I wondered if certain doings could be undone, if a path could be rewalked, if a wasteland could bloom. If I played at that moment, would the gulf between us be bridged? Absently, I took my harp from the trunk.

"Not know," Lord Reinard snapped. "Get dressed so we can go."

Puzzled, I put the harp back down and pulled out the monk’s habit. Why had I even wanted to do that?

Sharp looked into my trunk. "You still have my sword. Will you please return it?"
Reasonably sure that he would not try to kill me again, I handed it over.

Chapter 10.3

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The stable was poor; the Inn was worse. As we stepped onto the porch, the beggar in rags thrust a filthy, sore-crusted hand at us. Lord Reinard stepped away, but Sharp dropped two silver coins into his palm.

"You’re quite generous," my lord growled.

"Silence is worth it," Sharp growled back, nudging Lord Reinard through the doorway.

Inside, the barmaid gave a us a gap-tooth grin. "Tham! Markth on the floor!"

Old Sam turned around, looked us over, and picked up four beer steins in each hand. The floor shook beneath his bulk as he strode over and set them on a table. He put his foot on a bench and rested his meaty hand on the hilt of the butcher knife he kept in his boot. His voice rumbled. "Have a seat, gentlemen."

Sharp nudged Lord Reinard forward, and the rest of us followed.

"Well, now," Old Sam said when we were all at our places. His eyes moved to Elise. "What have ye to sell me?"

Beside me, Charles reached for his sword. I caught his eye and shook my head. We would not be served by turning Old Sam against us.

"We have other business with you." Sharp moved his hand slightly, just enough to touch the purse laying there. He worked out a gold coin and caressed it. "We need a room."

"I have one, upstairs. You have it for a night."

"Four nights," Sharp said. "Longer if need be."

"No more than one."

The gold coin disappeared into the bag. Sharp made a show of counting the beer steins, then drew out seven tiny copper coins, which he stacked into a tiny tower.

Old Sam leaned forward. "Three nights are possible, but I’m expecting guests."

Sharp worked two gold coins free. "We won’t bother your guests, if they won’t bother us."

"Do I have your word on it?"

Sharp worked a third gold coin free. "I’m a generous man, and what ever you take away today, you’ll have twice as much when I leave. Can you say as much for your friends?"

Old Sam weighed this, then reached out his hand for the coins.

"Not yet," Sharp said. He added two more coins to the pile. "I’ll want my companions and my horses alive when I leave, and no one knowing of our stay here."

Lord Reinard paled at this – but was it the hint of death or the loss of wealth which bothered him?

Old Sam also paled, and hesistated. His eyes shifted sideways. "You’ll sleep well tonight."

I was glad that no one would be sleeping here at all. They might sleep too well.

"Then you can show us the room, once we’ve finished your beer."

I looked down into the pale, warm liquid, steeled myself, and took a hefty gulp. It tasted sour but yeasty, and I knew it would do me no harm. Around the table the others did the same, though Charles drained his stein and set it down with a grin. Lord Reinard, however, stared into his drink with a horrified gaze.

For an instant I was back in Slatten with Wallen, a wide-eyed boy with much to learn about life. Occasionally we would come face to face with some unpleasant duty, some ugly truth in the beauty of life. His eyes would open and his mouth would drop, and a pink tinge would cover his pale cheeks. I saw that look on Lord Reinard now as he stared back at Sharp with horror.

"Drink it," the Bard said firmly, leaving no one in doubt as to who was the leader here.
Lord Reinard blinked, then clenched his hand. But beneath Sharp’s firm gaze he picked up the stein and drank quickly, so quickly that the beer splashed onto his cheeks and dripped down his pale beard.

"Ye’re good men," Old Sam said easily, and grinned. He slapped Sharp on his back – and I knew that if Elsie and the soldiers decided to stay, they would sleep safe after all.

Chapter 10.2

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This was our plan. My lord, Sharp, and I would travel on foot to Rockridge Castle, a trio of poor travelers seeking shelter from the bitter winter weather. Once inside the castle, Sharp would persuade the Lady Victoria to help us. She would bring the Lady Laurice out of her cloistered tower and into our hands, and we would capture her, collect our horses and the others at the Old Night Inn, and bear her off to Songless Castle. Once there, she would be given accommodations befitting a lady, but no freedom until she married her betrothed.

Our disguises were as much story as the cloth of our clothes, and I was proud to have woven them. I would be a Silent Monk, and Sharp would be himself, returning from a journey to Slatten. Lord Reinard was to be Wallen, the once proud son of a man who had married a young, cruel second wife. She turned father against son and had Wallen driven out into the snow, with only the clothes on his back. These were stolen by thieves who then beat him almost to death. In desperation, this young man had thrown himself on the mercy of the Bardhall. While the Masters agreed that he was indeed a needy soul, they wondered if he was strong enough for the trials of the craft. And so, as a test, he was to travel for a winter with Sharp, and give him complete obedience.

Even I wondered at how well this would go.

Charles would be our hidden dirk, should things turn nasty. He was to travel separately to Rockridge, supposably in disgrace for having let harm come to his lord’s treasured servant. He was to take the job of a common soldier there – as long as he was not called upon to give his allegiance to Lord Guerney, his honor would be safe.

Elise, Jason, and Ison were to stay at the Old Night Inn and protect the horses. At least, that is what my lord thought they would do. The four of us had agreed that they would take the horses up to Krast and hide them at Elise’s sister’s house, a much safer place, and more convenient for a hasty escape.

Chapter 10.1

Half a day’s ride from Krast, a lord and his hunting party sought shelter from acoming winter storm. The weather had chosen to cooperate with our tale, as a veil of white flakes drifted from storm-dark clouds and frosted our clothes, hair, and new grown beards. The Easter Green Forest lay to our left, a long valley of ebony trees bedecked with ice as a lady wears jewels, and the sheer cliffs of the Dragon’s Mouth mountains lay on our right. Around us crouched the mud and wattle huts of a meager, nameless village.

"There’s the Old Night Inn," Sharp said, pointing to disorganized lumber stacked in the vague shape of a building. A courtyard of filthy mud was hemmed in by a jumble of stone. Beside the door lay a bundle of filthy rags. There was a scream behind the half-open door, then rough shouts and splintering sounds. The door was thrown open and a body, dripping blood, was flung onto the new white snow. The bundle stirred, sat up, then lay back down again.

Lord Reinard’s face fell. "This? I was hoping for a good meal and a soft bed."

"It’s not a place where one of your standing would stay," I replied, with cold-stiffened fingers.

"It most definitely is not."

"Thus no one will think to ask questions here. We can stable the horses without fear of discovery."

"But will your... Will Elise be safe here?"

"She will have Jason and Ison with her." As well as her own skill with a long knife, and her sister’s reputation.

Slowly my lord dismounted, and the rest of us followed. He stood for a long time, staring at the inn, then asked, "Will someone come out to tend to our mounts?"

Sharp took a deep breath. "In this place, we must stable the horses ourselves. If you will follow me..."

Frowning deeply, Lord Reinard took the reins and walked after the Bard.

Chapter 9.5

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The next day, I caught Sharp outside the solar. I wrote on my slate, "Have you ever seen a fountain of fire in the Shadowlands?"

"What?" He laughed.

I wiped the slate with my sleeve and wrote, "What do you see when you walk in the Shadowlands?"

"See?" His smile was half-puzzled, half-amused. "I don’t see anything, save what is in front of my eyes. I just play as I think about the problem, and eventually I work out a solution. You should keep your mind on your work, child – or you’ll never be a Bard!"

"I doubt that will ever worry me again," I curtly signed back.

His face screwed up in puzzlement. "You need to write that out for me."

Just then Lord Reinard stepped out of the solar, his fists clenching and unclenching. "What did you say to Daniel?"

How dare he accuse me of speaking? My hands flew into motion. "I merely played for him, in the hope that it would help him to feel better. He looked quite ill."

My lord snorted. "Ill? He’s well enough, now. Well enough to travel. He left for Saint William’s Monastery without telling anyone. There was only a note on his bed, stating that he is dedicating the rest of his life to the glory of God."

A better use for his life than withering with bitterness. I wished him well. "And his daughter?"

"She went with him. I hope she has sense enough not to commit herself to a nunnery." He ran a hand through his wild, blond hair. "I should go after them and prevent these foolish choices."

The only valid path is the one chosen for oneself. I touched my lord’s arm, then signed, "May I play my latest composition for you?"

Chapter 9.4

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I wore the formal clothes of a Bard-in-training, or at least the best imitation that Elise could borrow for me. I had a loose white linen tunic – though plain, without the special embroidery on the edges – and dark woolen trousers – if not black linen ones. I wore no shoes, no belt, and no hat. I threw a cape around my shoulders – though again, it was dark wool, not black linen.
Most formal occasions took place in the summer, and those in the winter were unusually short.
Harp in hand, I went to Daniel’s rooms.

Helena, his young daughter, opened the door. Although she still had the straight figure of a child, she wore a woman’s girdle and veil, having taken it on when her mother died. Her wide green eyes, still full of innocence, were all serious. I greeted with signs.

She frowned. “Did the Monks send you? Father is tired of them.”

I shook my head.

Disbelief replaced the look of annoyance on her face. “Then what do you want?”

I pointed to my harp, then stroked my hands over the strings.

“Father hit the last Monk with a poker.”

I turned up my hand in question.

“Just this morning. They’re very persistant.”

I nodded in what I hoped was an understanding smile, firmly pointed in.

She shrugged, and let me enter. “Father, the Harpist is here to play.”

“Send him away,” Daniel growled from his chair by the fire. He looked worse than I had expected. His skin was sallow and loose, and there were dark shadows beneath eyes that now wandered independently of each other – a very bad sign, I knew. Worse than his appearance was the way he slumped in his chair, waiting to die.

Had I once looked that way?

I knelt by his feet and arranged my harp.

“Has he left?” Daniel asked.

“He is going to play for you,” Helena insisted.

“Make him leave. I am useless. I want to be forgotten, left to the darkness.”

Instead Helena bit her lip. She was as trapped as her father, but worse for her was that she had to watch him in this way. I knew trapped. I knew uselessness. I would never be a Bard – except in Elise’s eyes. But I could still play, and I could give music to others.

And though Daniel was now blind, he had much wisdom that my Lord desperately needed, and could not afford to just let die. I touched my hands to the strings.

He started at the first notes, but I quickly wove a tune that often calmed my lord. Daniel also relaxed. Then I started a new melody, one that curled around the room and embraced us three. It was not what I had planned to play, and it was nothing I had practiced before – the notes flowed from my hands to the strings, and from there to the room, then opened a path to the spirit world.

I walked among dark trees whose heavy branches bent to the ground, laden as they were with an overgrowth of black leaves and sour fruit. The ground beyond the path was thick with thorns and briars, and behind us those bushes crawled over the path, trapping us and forcing us forward. This was the forest of despair, I knew, and few returned from its depths.
The path turned, and suddenly we faced a fountain of white flame that shot as tall as the highest tree. It bathed the forest in a light as warm of sunlight, and the encroaching trees pulled away, branches pulled back like arms before faces. No shadow could defeat that fire. We stood before it, three dark and hungry souls.

I reached out and caught a bit of the flame in my hands. It did not hurt me, though it warmed me within. My hands shone like silver. I passed it to Helena, who held it to her face and smiled as I had not seen her smile for years. Then she turned to hand it to Daniel.

Instead of accepting the flame in her hands, he plunged himself into the fountain. The darkness within him burned away like dross, and he laughed. Like Helena’s smile, it had been a long time since I had heard that laugh, and even then it had never been as loud or as joyful as what I heard now. No one at Songless ever laughed like that.

The Daniel stepped from the flame, a being of pure light that harbored no shadows.
I returned to the room. My hands were still; the strings were quiet. Sunset stained the windowsill with a blood-red light, and the scent of roasted meat wafted in from the kitchen. Daniel slept.

Helena helped me rise, then silently showed me the door. She paused, then bowed, crossed herself, and whispered, “You are a saint.”

Hardly. A Pagan Bard-in-training who defied his lord and spent his evenings in the hay with a willing woman was not what the Christians wanted in their saints. I smiled at her, wanting to laugh, but I knew that would hurt the maiden more than letting the untruth stand.

She smiled back.

Chapter 9.3

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And so we made our way through the next month, planning for the adventure while I taught my students to speak without their tongues. It was a sweet time, an easy time. With the burden of entertaining my lord carried more by Sharp than myself, I found plenty of opportunities to steal away to the hayloft and entertain my lady. I let my beard grow, to mark my new status with Elise. My lord did likewise, though his reason was disguise. It did make him look older, and more mature. Not at all like himself.

One thing bothered me, as the days went on. I saw no sign of Danial, the messenger Lord Reinard had sent before me to Rockridge. Knowing the depth of Lord Geurney’s cruelty, I feared what might have been done to him. A Silent Monk gave me the answer.

"He was beaten at Rockridge. Beaten so hard that he lost his sight, and it has not returned." The Monk paused to clench his hand, then slowly opened it. "Your lord shelters him, and his daughter cares for him, but he has locked himself away with self-pity and anger."

I understood that. There was little I could do for him, I thought. I could not speak words of comfort, and he could not see his gestures. But he could hear me play. I resolved to take my harp to him.

Chapter 9.2

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I needed my own interpreter: someone who would speak for my interests, with more loyalty to me than my lord, and not sworn to him by an oath of honor. Someone who had the strength to stand up to him. Elise was the obvious choice.

But how was I to teach her the words for the hand signs? I could not speak, and she could not read. I would need Sharp’s help.

I went to him with my slate and chalk in hand, and wrote out my request. He paused in his wooing of the castle maids, and agreed. We summoned Elise and, as it was a fine day, went to the bailey. They shared a bench outside the smithy, and I sat on an upturned barrel.

"Food," I wrote on the slate, and turned it around. Sharp read the word out loud while I made the sign, and they both practiced it. Then I wrote "Eat," and "Food," followed by the sentence, "We eat Food."

Elise traced the signs deftly with her supple fingers.

"Not quite," Sharp said softly, as if he were an expert. He took my lady’s fingers in his own and adjusted her fingers. "That’s much better."

"It seems the same to me," she said, and pulled her hand free. She scooted several inches away from him.

We went to the next sentence. "I drink wine and water."

Again Sharp reached over to touch my lady’s hand, and this time she jerked it free.

Once could be a misunderstanding, but not twice. I growled at Sharp and bared my teeth.

He smirked in return. "Do you know that it is the gift of speech that separates man and beast?"
He placed his hand on my lady’s knee.

Had not Geldswan still been locked in my room, he might have lost his hand. Still, I was reaching for him when a hand caught my shoulder.

"Trouble?" Charles asked. His hand was on his sword hilt.

"Sir Charles!" Elise cried out. "We’re learning to speak with our hands, as Gerard does. Will you join us? You can sit by me." With that, she shoved Sharp into the dirt.

"And then I can say prayers with the monks!" His sat down, sprawling in a manner that took up all of the bench save Elise’s portion. Sharp was forced to sit on the ground. "But I warn you, I’m not a quick learner."

I was starting to doubt that.