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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 19, 2009
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?
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?
Friday, October 16, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
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?"
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?"
Thursday, October 8, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
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.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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.
************
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.
Monday, October 5, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 2, 2009
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?"
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?"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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.
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.
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