Chapter 16.3.1

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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?"