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.