Songless Bard

Publication coming sometime this year

2012-01-16T10:10:00.000-05:00

I am, finally, in the process of making a last revision on this story, and bringing it one step closer to publication. The basic story will not be changed, but there will be some significant improvements to the prose. I intend to publish it first on Kindle, then in print and on other e-publication sites. At that time this version will be deleted.

It's my intention to start publishing the Wizardland stories this year. Yes, there is far more than just Songless Bard and Talaski the Starred. There is a very large epic which I have described as being "of the length and breadth of Lord of the Rings." (For some reason this has angered people, and I don't know why. I don't claim that The Master of Paths is as good as the Lord of the Rings, or as deep, or set in a similar world, just that it will take up several books and cover a lot of geography in the world. On the other hand, I predict it to be much shorter than the Wheel of Time series.)

Thank you for reading.

Silent Monks Sing the Halleluia Chorus

2010-01-06T09:25:00.002-05:00

Have you ever wonder how Silent Monks might sing the Halleluia Chorus? From the entries on You tube, this skit has been around for a few years, but this is one of the best film versions of it.

2010-01-01T12:22:00.000-05:00

Come one, come all to the new serialized story, Talaski the Starred. This is the grand adventure of a Gutter Rat who is caught by a wizard, and then discovers love, wealth, giant spiders...

You can find it at www.talaski.blogspot.com

Come and see!

Helen

The Master of Paths, the map.

2009-12-14T09:26:00.000-05:00

Here is the visual synopsis for the part of The Master of Paths which takes place in the Bardlands. It is also a rough schematic for the Bardlands itself. If you click on it, I think you will see an enlarged version of the map.

The Wizardslands are to the south, below the Shelf. The Shelf is a sheer cliff (that rough, wavy sideways ladder-looking thing) caused by a sudden uplift of the northern land. The uplift is highest at the Southwest Corner, creating the high plains and the rather odd flow to the rivers. The Eastern Green Forest is also on a high knoll, and the river coming out of the mountains splits, with one branch going north and one going west.

If you are wondering why Guerney takes such a long route to Selice, the royal city, the answer is that he needs to convince certain lords and nobles to join his cause.

While I don't have a good scale worked out for this map, I can tell you that it takes about a month to go south from Slatten to the Shelf, and five or six weeks to travel overland from Slatten to Selice. Going by river boat takes a lot less time, but it's expensive. Of course, the time it takes one to travel is affected by such things as weather, bandits, the condition of the roads, and the health of the horses. And riders -- eating last week's roasted meat may slow you down a bit. As a result, I can make the journies last as long as I need them to.

Chapter 21

2009-12-08T08:52:00.000-05:00

Two days later I returned to Songless, following my Lord Reinard and his Lady Laurice, but I came as a Bard and not as a servant. A grand wedding feast awaited my lord. Lord Guerney came, bringing all his court and his daughter’s ladies-in-waiting, so that the keep now bloomed with laughter and finery. When Lord Guerney left, however, he took the Lady Victoria with him. She had claimed him as a husband, as I suppose she could aspire no higher.

Over the course of time, Lady Laurice made a proper husband out of Wallen, just as Songless made a proper steward out of Peter. The monk indulged less in wine with honey, though it remained his favorite cure for all ills.

The Spring thaw brought Bards from Slatten. Master Master came to be the new Grandmaster, and under him came Journeymen Sieg and Van. Sharp came as well, though we all knew that he would not stay long – his is the path of wandering, just as mine is the path of habitation. The five of us, as well as two small boys and my own Lord Reinard, raised new beams over the ashes of the old Bardhall. Only the frame stood on the first day of spring, but we stood on rough planking and sang in the dawn while the Cathedral across the way opened its doors to Easter Mass.

In the fall Elise bore me a son. Two years afterwards, we had a daughter. The Lady Laurice was barren.

Each summer I returned to Slatten to sit before the Masters and earn another string on my harp.

And thus life flowed for us, until the fifth summer – but that’s another story, and not all mine to tell.

THE END

***********************************************************************************

And now, as Porky Pig would say, That's all, folks. For this book, anyway. My plans for it are now to go through it, cleaning up typos and editing what I can, and prepare it for publication through the Dead Fish Press. That project will hopefully be completed in the spring -- but as with all things, this plan is subject to modification by fate and disasters.

On the other tentacle, this is not the end of the blog. I will now start writing up another story set in this world, though in a different country and with a much different cast of characters. It's called Talaski the Starred, and tells the adventures of a hapless Gutter Rat and the Wizard Azygous, whom the Gutter Rat has managed to offend. Not a smart thing to do in the Wizardlands.

Helen E. Davis

Chapter 20.2.6

2009-12-07T10:14:00.000-05:00

A huge, half-rotted carcass filled the path. White bones thrust up through the leathery skin, shreds of dark flesh hung down, and everywhere upon it white maggots squirmed. A single, flat eye stared unseeing upon the world, upon us. Though the sight was bad, the stench was worse: a mixture of sweet rot, excrement, and musk.

Beneath it’s swollen form I recognized it from Rockridge. This was one of the demons I had fought and killed. This was mine, and to me fell the duty of clearing it away. Of burying it. I had no tool but my hands, but the ground was soft. I started to dig a pit.

This task would take forever.

I was not alone on the path, I realized. Behind me stood all the Bards, Masters and Journeymen and Bards-in-training. There were also townspeople there, from both Slatten and Songless, standing in a cluster by themselves. Charles, Peter, Elise, and Wallen stood between the two groups. All of them watched me.

I dug a hole as large as my head.

Charles came forward first, followed by Peter, then one of the Bards. The four of us dug a hole as large as a fruit basket.

More people came forward, now in large groups, everyone helping to turn the soil. There were Silent Monks among the workers, and priests whose white frocks were not stained with dirt. People came out of the forest itself – Bards I had never seen and a Lady with Wallen’s fine features. One Bard had his hand around the Lady’s waist, and he stopped to speak to Sharp.

Their words were muffled, meant for them alone.

With so many hands helping, the pit quickly grew to the size of a small house. Then we put our hands to the stinking carcass, and rolled it in. With handfuls of dirt, we all covered it over – and the last thing I saw, before its form disappeared beneath the ground, was its face. The face of the Bard-killer, the old Lord Reinard.

May he rest peacefully, and not trouble us again.

When stones had been rolled over the loose dirt to finish the grave, I started the song of the dead. Wallen joined me, and Sharp, and then all the others. The Master of Paths flew over us, his loud cry joining the song.

The path was now clear, for all of us. We all stepped forward.

I blinked, finding myself on the steps of the Bardhall, my hands resting on silent strings. I had my answer – but how was I to put it into words that would satisfy the Grandmaster?

Then I saw that my fingers were filthy, my nails crusted with dirt. Blood flowed from scraped palms. My clothes were stained; sweat dripped down my face. I raised my face to Grandmaster Meiltung, and saw that he also was streaked with filth and sweat. All the Bards on the steps were so marked, and I could see tears coursing down Sharp’s face.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked down at his own filthy, bleeding hands, then wiped them on trousers which were no cleaner. He spoke in a shaken voice. "There will be a Bardhall at Songless Castle, Journeyman Gerard."

I was a Bard.

Chapter 20.2.5

2009-12-04T10:32:00.000-05:00

"Play the Cycle of Songs," Grandmaster Meiltung said, without smiling.

And so I did. The notes bubbled from my harp, like water from a spring, smooth and refreshing. When I finished all the Masters smiled at me – save Meiltung.

"Play your original ballad, child."

I nodded to Peter and set my hands on my harp.

"The Flight of the Lady," he announced, then took a deep breath. I plucked the first string of notes, then launched into a complicated harmony that matched his mellow tenor voice.

"A Monk, a Bard, and One-in-training
Set out upon the road.
They went to visit Rockridge Castle:
Carved it was of stone,
Of black and ice-cold stone."

And thus, in a brief but lively narrative we summarized my journey of the last month, and ended with:

"For it is true that the Bard’s a Bard,
But the Monk is a Bard-in-training;
And the One-in-training is a Lord,
None other than Lord Reinard –
Oh, she has wed Lord Reinard!

A monk, a Bard, and one-in-training
Set out upon the road.
They went to visit Rockridge Castle
To catch themselves a Lady –
Lord Reinard caught his lady!"

The steps rocked with laughter then, from Bards and townsfolk alike. Grandmaster Meiltung stood glowering, his arms crossed, as he waited for the mirth to end. Wallen – it was hard to think of him by his more formal title when he stood barefoot and ragged among the boys, scowled at me, but his hands were not clenched.

Finally the crowd quieted. The Grandmaster looked at me, lifted his chin, and asked, "So tell us, Gerard of Jerden, Child of the Bardhall – why should we rebuild the Bardhall to please the murderers in Songless?"

I did not need to look at Wallen to see that he now clenched his fists, and I did not fault him. My own hands twitched in anger.

But peace is essential to the exercize. Shoving aside my personal thoughts, I wrapped my mind about the question. I considered it rationally, then set my fingers on the strings and my feet on the path. I let the music come as it would, out through my fingers and into the strings, resonating in first the soundbox and then in the people around me. I drew on the nervousness of the one who went before me and those who would someday follow, the anger of the Grandmaster and the outrage of my Lord Reinard, the commands I had been given by both the Master of Paths and the Prince of the Forest, and all the joys and pains of my life – these things wove themselves into the music and came forth in a silvery shine. Somewhere in the distance spindice rolled across the floor, changing human lives with each roll, and a dragon with emerald eyes flapped his heavy wings.

As I followed the path that led through the dark forest of the Spirit world, I watched sunbeams dance down through the tree-tops and light on vibrant wildflowers. A sparkling creek chuckled nearby; birds sang gleefully.

Then I passed a curve and found my way was blocked.

Chapter 20.2.4

2009-12-03T05:52:00.001-05:00

Staring at the step, Breck bit his lip. It was a fair question, one for which we all knew the answer: to succeed, we must know how we can fail. However, it was also a pointed reminder of Breck’s previous humiliation, and from the green-tinged paleness on his face I knew it had found its mark.

Still, the boy bent forward and forced out a meditation melody, a tune that turned in a slowly shifting circle. For long moments he played, his face as tense as a harpstring, twitching every few bars as he rejected one path for another. The other Bards watched him with an assortment of faces: some bored, some hopeful, some with the keenness of a hunter harrying its prey. The Grandmaster stood over Breck like a hound certain of its kill, and for this reason I wanted Breck to succeed.

That and the promise from the Grandmaster that if Breck did not fail, neither would I.

Finally the strings stilled. Breck looked up and spoke in a voice that could barely be heard. "Failure gives us time to, to try harder."

Truly uninspired. I wasn’t the only one to shake my head.

With a confident smile Grandmaster Meiltung hooked his thumbs in his belt and glanced back at the other Masters. With barely perceptible gestures they made their vote, and the smile from the Grandmaster’s face. He turned back to Breck. "Rise up, Journeyman Breck – the doors to the Guildhall open before you."

Smiling broadly, Breck leapt to his feet, then caught the harp before it could tumble. Clutching it close, he made his way to the throng of Journeymen, who greeted him with slaps and smiles. In the feast to follow, he would be made drunk and his hand numbed with herbs, and then the harp of the Bards would be tattooed across the back. A harp with a single string, yet room to hold six more. With luck and a little help from the gods, I would join him.

"They gave it to him," Treble muttered. "But they’ll keep him here for a few summers more."

I nodded. Their choice was wise, all paths considered.

And now my turn had come. I rose to meet it.

Chapter 20.2.3

2009-12-02T09:12:00.000-05:00

Breck bent his head and hands to the task. The notes came out smooth and perfect as he worked through the Cycle of Songs, a set of tunes that marked each stage of a person’s life. Birth was a simple melody with a steady heartbeat, then a long, joyful rise. With a ripple of sound it changed to Growth, a swelling, circular air that slowly became more complex. With Maturity it deepened, moving to a lower register, and then came the fast-paced, giddy dance of Pairing. Livelihood, a sturdy melody with a strong beat, gave way to the whisper of Old Age. Then all the harmonies gathered into a single strand of notes that faded into a soft hum of the strings – Death, and the journey beyond it.

A flawless performance. Breck had indeed worked hard – but his only reward was a stern nod from the Grandmaster. "Now play your original ballad."

With a shaking voice, Breck forced out the title. "Ballad of the Willow Tree." He bowed his head, plucked the harp strings, and sang.

"My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see.

Once – I was a true man
With a heart and hands and eyes;
But now I’m rooted to this soil
With a pain that never dies.

I had myself a maiden,
Fair Bridgett was her name.
But I was just a toy to her,
For loving was her game."

The ballad went on to tell William’s tragic story. He had loved his Bridgett so much that he had bragged about her to all he met, and even traveled into the Eastern Green Forest to tell the trees. There he met a tall man in a dark cloak who laughed at his story and told him that no woman ever truly loves a man. William claimed that his Bridgett was different; the stranger replied that the woman would be in the arms of another when William left the forest. Taking offense, William had called the man a liar, and said that on his soul he would prove his Bridgett to be true. At this the man threw off his cloak and revealed himself to be Oberon, lord of the Herart of the Eastern Green Forest. He then offered a bargain: if Bridgett did indeed prove true, then William could return and fill his hat with jewels and silver, but if Bridgett was false, then William was to lose his soul and belong to the forest forever. William agreed, then left the forest in search of his true love. But:

"I saw her with the iron-smith’s son
Embracing by the river;
Her took her face between his hands
And then he sweetly kissed her.

And then he pulled his knife out
And stepped up to a tree;
With swift, deep strokes he carved their names
Inside a heart – on me.

My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see."

An interesting idea, carefully played, but the tune was stiff and unremarkable. And long – Master Iving wasn’t the only one to blink himself awake at the end.

Grandmaster Meiltung did not comment on it, however. He only closed his eyes, then recited, as if from memory, "For everything there is a purpose. What is the purpose of failure?"

Chapter 20.2.2

2009-11-24T14:05:00.000-05:00

Grabbing his shoulders, I pulled him down to sit. The seven hopeful boys would go before us.

They were led, one at a time, to stand alone before the Masters. Each was asked his name, his place of birth, and to play a simple tune. Three of them broke down in tears, one could not seem to answer, one answered but could not make sounds come out of his pipe, and one dropped his pipe as he started to play. That boy picked the instrument back up, dropped it again, picked it up but fumbled with it, and finally managed to get the mouthpiece to his lips and play a few shaky notes. He was chosen, along with the last two boys who had done all that was asked of them without trouble. The others were sent back, but told that they could try again in the spring.

Now it was our turn to be tested. I looked toward Elise for comfort, then unwrapped my harp. Breck shivered beside me.

Grandmaster Meiltung stood and crossed his arms. "Child Breck of Slatten, come stand before us."

Breck jumped slightly, then froze, too terrified to move. I touched his arm, smiled, and ran my fingers my fingers over my harpstrings. He stared back, white and senseless.

Now Treble stood up, hauled Breck to his feet, and said, "The gods will watch over your path." Then with a shove he sent the poor boy to his fate.

I shook my head in pity.

"Oh, he doesn’t think he’ll make it, but he will," Trebled added quietly.

Did Treble’s gift of sight tell him this? Or knowledge learned from the masters? I held up my hands in question, but Treble only shook his head.

Out on the steps, Breck had collapsed before a harp that had been brought out for him to play. He wrapped shaking fingers around the strings, and stared up at the Grandmaster’s face.

"Play the cycle of songs," Grandmaster Meiltung intoned.

Chapter 20.2.1

2009-11-23T09:01:00.000-05:00

Two days passed, days of work and preparation. Elise kept me fed while Peter learned my ballad, his beautiful tenor a worthy accompaniment to my harp, and Master Iving listened while I practiced the Cycle of Songs. Breck also worked, though always alone – I sometimes heard his music late at night while all the others slept.

The Winter Solstice dawned grey and cold after a night of freezing rain. All the Bards gathered on the steps before dawn, dressed in their formal clothes: linen tunic embroidered with Bardic runes and dark trousers – linen for the Bards-in-training, wool for the Journeymen, and warm velvet for the Masters.

The Master stood in a line along the top step. On the steps just below, clustered left and right, stood the Journeymen. Below them stood the shivering Bards-in-training, arranged by height, with the shortest and youngest on the lowest step. I stood with Treble and Breck, far to the side – too tall and old to be among the boys, but without the right to stand with the men.

Opposite us, standing behind the other Bards-in-training, I spied another tall figure. In the early dawn light I could not see who it was, and had no thought as to who it could be.

Far to our left, where a gap in the buildings allowed us a clear view of the mountains, the sky lightened, then a drop of liquid gold pooled at the horizion. Grandmaster Meiltung gestured, and a Journeyman rang a chime. That was the signal for us all, and in perfect harmony we sang in the dawn.

I could not sing, except in my mind, but I played the tune on a lute. There were thirty-seven verses to the Song of the Dawn, and as we sang them the people of Slatten brought forth their winter gifts: harvest fruits and clucking fowls, gems and precious metals, pottery and cloth, whatever they might spare to keep the Bards through the winter months and so bring blessings on their own households. Seven eager mothers came up, bringing young boys that they were offering for training. There were no orphans today, which the Bardhall took in as an act of charity, so all these boys would test to see if they deserved a place here.

When we finished, steaming cups of soup were passed around as the older Bards-in-training carried the gifts into the Bardhall. I looked to see who was the tall Bard-in-training standing on the other side of the steps, and nearly dropped my cup. Lord Reinard, barefoot and dressed in rags? No, it would have to be Peter – except that the monk was standing with Charles among the townspeople. That was indeed my lord, playing some sort of dangerous game – but not as dangerous as it could have been, for Bards are forbidden to shed blood on the days we sing in the seasons.

Was he then so determined to see me follow him that he would not leave until I sat before the Masters? Did he expect me to go with him if I failed?

But I would not fail.

"It’s time," Breck said to me, his voice as weak as his face was white. The Masters were sitting into their chairs and all the other Bards were sitting down. Breck clutched his harp and swallowed.

Chapter 20.1.2

2009-11-20T09:19:00.000-05:00

The Grandmaster’s look was one of cruel amusement. "Why try when you can’t succeed?"

I flushed with anger. "How can you say I won’t succeed when you haven’t let me try?"

"I think I will let you try – just to see you fail."

"I will not fail," I declared in bold gestures.

At Peter’s translation, Meiltung laughed. "And do you know that? Are you sighted? Or have you made a deal with the gods? It would take the work of the gods to convince the Bardhall that a mute should be a Bard. You think too highly of yourself, child, to suppose that you would be made a favorite of the gods."

I saw the black road then, tempting me with its power. If I but stepped upon it, all the power in the world would be mine – and Grandmaster Meiltung would never laugh at me again. No Bard would laugh at me again, nor any man, woman, or child. I would be feared, not mocked. I...

A ray of sunlight broke over the windowsill and struck Peter’s crucifix, and I remembered the god in agony. According to the stories, he faced worse than I, and still refused the black road. I bit back my anger.

Would I always be cursed by the temptation of the black road? Yet other Bards seemed not to – especially Grandmaster Meiltung, who was as free with his anger as any man. Perhaps my visions were no more than the dreams of a fevered mind and I was wrong to think that I should be a Bard. As my anger melted away, so did my confidence.

Seeing that, the Grandmaster smiled with victory. "Sit before the Masters, if you dare, though you’ll do no better than Breck. And you may keep the monk until you do – but the knight must go."

I nodded.

Grandmaster Meiltung left then, smiling widely. Charles entered and reached for his saddlebags. "I heard what he said."

"I’m sorry," I signed.

The knight blew out his breath, then shrugged. "But it is time I leave and follow my lord. I fear I will have to beg his forgiveness, and discuss a thing or two."

I frowned at that.

His eyes flickered toward Peter.

I nodded.

"But it’s not the end of our adventures," he added. "We’re to travel together this summer, remember?"

I nodded again, this time smiling.

"But I want you to watch out for the rats. There are some here that almost six feet tall." With that he looked toward the door, then laughed. "And one thing more, Gerard – may I have my prayerbook back?"

Oh, yes. It was still in my traveling bag. I picked up the poor, battered thing and reached inside. My fingers closed on something cold, an object more chilling than ice. I drew it out, and found it was the coronet that Spara of the Eastern Green Forest had given to me.

I smiled. Dreams indeed.

Chapter 20.1.1

2009-11-19T10:37:00.000-05:00

Grandmaster Meiltung was waiting for me in our room. His eyes were angry, though controlled, and his face was hard. "I want to speak to you, Gerard – alone."

I signed and Peter translated, "I must keep Peter as my voice."

"Very well," he assented, and waved Charles and Elise out the door. I didn’t like his acquiescence – he only gave ground when he had a bigger battle to fight. I was in no mood for another fight – but as a Bard, I would do what I must.

When the door closed, he crossed his arms. "The Christians – and especially Reinard’s knight – must leave immediately. I will not have the Bardhall further spoiled by their presence."

"These Christians are good men. They are my friends, and have protected me even when in danger for their own lives. Do they not deserve some courtesy?"

"Friends? You have better friends here in the Bardhall than you will ever find among a thousand Christians."

I lifted my eyebrows. "Then who was it who threatened me in the dinning room last night, and who protected me?"

Grandmaster Meiltung looked away briefly. "You’re in no danger, here, Gerard, if the Christians leave. You do not need the knight to protect you, and it seems that your lady can speak well enough for you. They must go – now."

"Peter must stay. I need him to sing for me."

"Why should he have to sing for you?" Grandmaster Meiltung said slowly. "There’s no sense in your sitting before the Masters, child. You can’t be a Bard if you can’t sing."

I had told Lord Reinard that I would sit before the Masters to prove myself a Bard to make him leave me here. I hadn’t been serious – or had I? I remembered the vision I had walked through while playing at the monastery, and a fairly clear directive it was. Just an impossible one. Yet, looking into the Grandmaster’s forbidding face, I knew that I now had to try.

"There is more to being a Bard than just knowing how to sing," I told him.

He flushed, remembering as well as I did that it had been one of his favorite sayings to the boys.

"I can still weave adventures into stories, I can find wisdom in books, and most importantly, I can walk in the spirit world to find answers and help people."

Meiltung snorted. "And have you found an answer to your muteness?"

"I am to see that a Bardhall is returned to Songless. That is my path, and I may not turn from it. So if I must borrow a voice to sit before the Masters, I will."

Chapter 9.2.5

2009-11-18T08:41:00.000-05:00

The Lady Laurice turned back. "Peter! Come with us!"

The monk shook his head. "I must stay with Gerard. God has commanded me to be his voice."

From the look on her face, I guessed it was the first time she had refused him. But Lord Reinard took her hand and smiled generously. "Gerard will be coming with us, along with his lady – and my knight."

It was my turn to shake my head. I signed, "The Bardhall is my place, just as Songless is yours. I am returning to my rightful path. In two days I will sit before the Masters and prove myself worthy to be a Bard."

His face darkened, even as Peter translated my words for everyone to hear. I knew then that I would have to tell the monk which conversations were private, and which were not.

"Gerard, you belong at Songless." Lord Reinard clenched his hands.

"I belong in a Bardhall." Then, because I felt bold, I added, "If you set things right at Songless and the Bardhall is restored, then I will return."

He glowered at that, then put his arm around his lady’s waist and walked off. Lord Guerney and his soldiers followed.

I was free of Songless at last. I felt a cold, cleansing wind blow across the steps, and took a full, deep breath of my new life as the other Bards went back to the warmth of the Bardhall. Soon there was only myself, along with Charles, Peter, Elise, and Sharp.

The Bard came over to me and spoke quietly. "Gerard, thank you for not pointing out to Meiltung that it was I who brought the Bard-killer’s son into the Bardhall."

Others would remember it, though. But that was the path Sharp had chosen to walk, and the penalty would be his to bear. I changed the subject. "I owe you something."

"You owe me?" He laughed.

"For claiming Elise as your lady." Then I struck him square on the chin with my fist.

A pity, but he went down without a fight. I would have liked to have added a few more kicks as he lay on the steps, helpless to resist, but I knew the god in agony would not approve. Instead I signed to Charles, "Drag him into the hall and lay him before the fire. He might freeze out here."

Charles nodded happily – and picked up the Bard’s feet.

Chapter 9.2.4

2009-11-17T09:29:00.000-05:00

"Take this!" shouted the woman standing with Wallen, who was indeed the Lady Laurice. She threw back her hood and pulled down her scarf, then pulled Wallen with her as she stepped proudly down the steps. "Here I am, father, and here I’ll stay! I wedded this man, before the church and in deed, and only death can separate us."

Lord Guerney frowned. "So, child – what happened to your belly? Your babe was indeed an act of fiction, was it not? Why should I believe your story?"

"I have witnesses." She pointed to Sharp.

"Co-conspirators."

"The good people of the town of Goshawk will speak for me."

"Will they?" Lord Guerney mused, and in a flash I saw that he knew that a sword could change a story faster than gold. But then he seemed to give ground. "Well, then, if I must accept this wretch – bring forth your husband and let us see what kind of stump you have grafted yourself to. And if he is still willing to keep you when I say that you’ll bring no dowry nor inheritance to your wedding bed."

The look on her face was sour, but Wallen unwrapped his scarf, showing that he had shaved. Then he straighten his back, lifted his chin, and so transformed from the humble beggar to the noble Lord Reinard. His arm around his wife’s waist, he drew her down the steps and closer to her father – and further from the danger of the swords. "I am – though I do insist on the fulfillment of the bargain you made with me."

Anger melted into astonishment on the old Knight’s face, and then he whooped with laughter. Sheathing his sword, he held out his hands. "Come to me, my son! You have caught the uncatchable!"

The Lady Laurice was clearly perplexed as she moved into the now welcoming embrace of her father. "A bargain with him? What of the Bard-killer?"

"The Bard-killer is dead, and thus our agreement moved to his son." He slapped Wallen on the back. "Or did you not know that this is Wallen Reinard, the lord of Reinard Castle?"

All the Bards stared as Lord Guerney pulled Lord and Lady Reinard into the safety of his soldier. The red-headed Journeyman, who must have been Van, threw out a rude and impossible curse, but the rest seemed shocked into silence.

Charles was smiling smugly. Beside him, Peter’s face was red, almost purple, and his hands were clenched.

Grandmaster Meiltung turned to me and growled, "Did you know this? Did you know that he was blood-kin to the Bard-killer?"

"Not until I followed him to Songless," I signed back.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked at my hands with disgust. "Get your voice to speak for you."

Peter stumbled over and attempted to translate my words. "He knew nothing until they went to Songless together, he says."

"That was years before this! Why did you let him come into the Guildhall yesterday, eat our food, share our fire, and sleep beneath our roof?"

With those words, the Grandmaster made it clear to all that no matter how much the Bards detested any kin of the Bard-killer, Wallen was safe from our vengeance – as little as he himself like the idea. But he also made it clear that I was to blame for this state of affairs. I started to protest that it had been Sharp who had knowingly brought in the Bard-killer’s blood and granted him hospitality – but then realized that would doom the man. He would be driven from the Bardhall, perhaps even stoned – and from his round eyes and white face, I knew he was aware of this. As a Bard-in-Training I faced a beating, at most.

But as I thought, an answer came to me, one that would save both our skins. "You must see that Wallen is a good man, so that you will build a new Bardhall at Songless."

"There will never be a Bardhall at Songless," Grandmaster Meiltung roared, his anger turned to a new target. All the other Bards cheered assent. Now the Grandmaster turned to Lord Guerney and growled, "You have want you wanted. Leave us in peace."

Chapter 9.2.3

2009-11-16T08:34:00.000-05:00

"What is this?" Grandmaster Meiltung bellowed from the porch. He was dressed only in his trousers and boots, but had his broadsword in his hands. Bards edged back from this spector of steel and anger -- no one ever woke Meiltung or summoned him from his chamber without hesitation -- but kept their gaze on Guerney's soldiers.

Ever prudent, Master Mrlin snatched up his harp and dashed inside with it.

Master Iving spoke mildly. "I believe this good man has a matter to lay on the steps."

"Out with it, then." The Grandmaster flourished his blade, showing great strength with the heavy weapon.

With great condescension, Lord Guerney lowered his blade. "I want my daughter. She is betrothed to Lord Reinard, but a week ago she ran off with this Bard. He has no right to her, and I demand that he tell me where she is."

The Grandmaster replied coldly. "You ask for our help in a matter concerning Lord Reinard?"

Charles kept his face blank, emotionless. He was a good man.

Lord Guerney frowned darkly. "I ask for justice. Surely a man as great as you are would not deny me that. Return my daughter!"

The Grandmaster looked as if he would be happy to deny anything to anyone.

"With a Bard's bastard in her belly!" the dark-haired troublemaking journeyman shouted out. "She'll take that as a wedding gift to her husband!"

"Sieg, Sieg," muttered Master Iving, with a shake of his head.

Hardly anyone else noticed that Lord Guerney seemed neither surprised nor dismayed by the outburst.

The Grandmaster face darkened. "I will not betray one of my own to salve your pride. Leave us.

Lord Guerney raised his sword again. "What you won't give-- I'll take."

Chapter 9.2.2

2009-11-13T09:32:00.000-05:00

As he came to me, frowning in puzzlement, Lord Guerney called out from below, "Where’s my daughter, you lily-fingered, girl-voiced scoundrel?"

The Bard stopped and crossed his arms. "By what right do you insult me?"

Lord Guerney pushed his way through the crowd and set his foot on the lowest marble step. He drew his sword and pointed it at Sharp. "Give me my answer, theif – or I’ll cut it out of you!"

Master Iving raised his hand. "Gently, gently – just state your complaint, and Grandmaster Meiltung..."

Lord Guerney moved his sword toward Master Iving. "No more out of you, withered tree, or you’ll never sing again."

With that threat, every Bard with a sword pulled his weapon, and every soldier did likewise. I pushed Elise toward Charles, who pulled her behind his body, and picked up Geldswan. Blades and blood would solve nothing, however, so with a sweeping motion I sheathed my sword.

I was the only one. Everyone else stood tense, waiting for the first shout.

Chapter 19.2.1

2009-11-12T09:16:00.000-05:00

#

Master Iving, leaning on his cane, stood halfway up the marble steps. One step below him, Elise and I faced each other. She wore a green robe and a chaplet of dried flowers in her hair, a gift from the Warlocker. I wore Geldswan and formal linen clothes that Master Marlin had found for me: an embroidered shirt and dark trousers. Quite properly I wore no shoes, but the chill of the marble step was tempered by my lady’s warm smile. Master Marlin, his harp in his lap, sat further up, while Peter and Charles watched from the side. A knot of Journeymen and Bards-in-Training looked down from the porch, Sieg and Van among them. Wallen was also there, standing to the side with a scarf wrapped over his chin. At the foot of the steps a knot of soldiers gathered, no doubt eager for the wine and cakes that would follow.

As the first edge of the sun broke the eastern horizon, sending a shaft of light into the face of the Guildhall, Master Marlin plucked a single string. With that note we set our feet upon the path. I took my lady’s hands in mine, catching their warmth in the midst of the chill. Master Marlin played a simple melody and Master Iving sang. His voice seemed weak at first, but gathered strength as he went on, until he was the envy of any young man.

"Gods look down and bless this day,
Clear this path, guard this way.
Let the lovers here be paired,
Heart to heart, lives to share."

As Master Marlin played the tune again, softly, Master Iving looked down at me. "Here before all witnesses, both mortal and god, state your name and offer."

I signed to my lady as Peter spoke for me. "I am Gerard of Jerden, Bard-in-training, and a Freeman. I offer you my heart, my hand, my life, my children, and all else that I possess." With the last I drew Geldswan and lay it at my lady’s feet.

Master Iving looked at Elise and repeated the charge.

Smiling, she signing clumsily as she spoke. "I be Elise of Krast, Goodwife, and a Freewoman. I offer ye my heart, my hand, my life, my children, and all that I possess." Untying the scarf over her hair, she laid it at my feet along with a wooden spoon and a pair of scissors.

More of Guerney’s soldiers had come to watch, and almost all of the Bards were there. The two groups eyed each other nervously, but respectfully kept their silence. Sharp, still tucking in his shirt, had joined Wallen, and behind them stood a woman wrapped in a hooded cape.

"Is there a dowery?" Master Iving asked.

Elise started to shake her head, but before she had finished Charles had dug three coins out of his purse. He handed them to her, and earned a grateful smile.

Master Iving took the coins from her hand and passed them to me. "Gerard of Jerden, take this dowry and hold it secure. Should ever you betray Elise, or drive her away, you must return this dowry two-fold to her. Should ever she betray you or leave you, the dowry is forfeit to you. Do you understand?"

We nodded. Charles beamed.

Then Master Iving held up a piece of ribbon and sang heartily:

"Heart to heart,
Hand to hand,
Life to life,
Woman to man."

With each phrase he tied a knot in the ribbon, and with the last he tied the loose ends together. He gave it to Elise, then took our hands – hers holding the ribbon and mine holding the dowery – and pressed them against each other.

"Eagles hope to brush the sky;
So may your love soar.
Oaks stand solid in the earth;
So may your love endure.
Rivers run both swift and clear;
So may your love flow.
Hearths comfort, warm, and fill with cheer;
So may your love glow.
You are one."

With those words, our hearts were bound together. I turned her around and kissed her twice, completing the ceremony. Then, seeing no reason to stop, we kissed several more time.

And now that we were properly sung together and Elise was clearly mine, I had a little matter to settle with Sharp. I pointed to him and beckoned.

Chapter 19.1

2009-11-11T09:56:00.000-05:00

Peter woke me early, when the only light came from a small candle on the windowsill. He had reached over Elise to touch me, and he kept his eyes on my face. "Time to rise."

Very gently, I freed my hands from my lady’s waist. "There is no Matins service here."

"The wedding," he reminded me. "You have to be on the steps by dawn."

I closed my eyes and sought a moment longer the warmth of my lady; then I stroked her hair. I kissed her eyes, her mouth, then the base of her throat.

"I’ll be reading by the fire," Peter said as he beat a hasty retreat.

I threw back the covers and let the cold shock us awake. Charles lay motionless in the other bed – apparently Peter had drawn the short straw and been forced to sleep on the floor. No wonder he had awakened so easily. I let Elise pull on her dress, then lobbed a pillow at the knight.

He caught it with one hand, then slowly opened his eyes. A crafty smile graced his face. "Time to be wedded?"

"To be sung together," I corrected him.

He nodded, rose, and pulled on his own clothes. As he belted on his sword, he glanced around the room. "Where’s the monk?"

"Reading by the fire," I signed. "He left before dressed."

Charles grinned. "I surprised. After all that wine and honey he drank last night, he should still be asleep."

So Peter had made himself at home. "I thought you went to say your evening prayers."

"Oh, this was afterwards," he assured me. He paused, looked around, and then signed with clumsy gestures. "You should know. He is Reinard’s older brother. He can claim Songless."

I nodded and signed back. "Wallen doesn’t know this yet. Did you tell Peter who Wallen is?"

Charles shook his head.

"Neither have I. We should be careful, untill this has been explained to Wallen. Peter told me that he didn’t want Songless, but Wallen could still see him as a threat."

Charles frowned as his hands moved. "All he wants is a place. If our lord would assure him of that, he would waive all claims on the land. He told me that."

Songless did need a steward, having lost Daniel to Saint William’s monastery. Peter was learned in letters and numbers, and seneschaucie would suit him better than following after a mute harpist for the rest of his days. "It should be so. Will you go and explain this to Lord Reinard?"

"I’m not in his best graces," Charles said aloud.

Neither was I.

I thought for a moment, but no answer came to me. I would need to walk through the spirit world with this question – but already the darkness was fading and new duties called.

Chapter 18.4.2

2009-11-10T10:07:00.000-05:00

Wallen’s eyes widened, round and blue. "Why, Gerard? Why did you treat me like dirt, to be spat upon and ignored? Do you still hate me so, after all these years, that you’ll turn from me when you can?"

Those words cut like a knife, exposing what I thought he, in his arrogance, would never see. I fumbled with the more immediate answer. "My Lord, at Rockridge we were being watched by the Lady Victoria, for she knew me despite my disguise. You were close to being found out, and would have suffered greatly – as I did, after you left me to the wolves!"

He frowned. "What do you mean? Sharp was to tell you that we were leaving, so that you could return to Songless and wait for us there."

"The first I knew of your leaving was in Lord Guerney’s private chamber in the middle of the night, after you’d fled." My gestures were curt, angry. "From there I was taken to the torture chamber, where I was to die by dawn."

He leaned forward eagerly. "How did you escape? How did you know to come here?"

I raised my hands, then paused. If I explained how Peter had saved me, I would have to explain who Peter was. I would have to tell him of my own choice, and my plans to not return to Songless. Nothing I wanted to face at the moment. I simply signed, "It is a long story, and there is not much time for it. Take your lady and go to Lord Guerney, for it is time to end the game."

He gave me a tired look. "I don’t know, Gerard. I don’t think I want to go back. There is a freedom in this life, a freedom from the hate my father left to me, a freedom to roam the world and travel its paths, a freedom to be myself – not just a hated name and the son of a hated face."

This, despite the bruises, the hunger, the discomfort? He must have been spelled. "Who told you this?"

"Sharp and I were talking, and I came to see it."

The Bard’s revenge. As the Bard-killer had taken Sharp’s father, now Sharp would take the Bard-killer’s son. The hurt that Sharp had pushed aside at Songless was a deep one, after all. "Sharp is like the wind. He travels from one place to another, making no more of a mark than a bent reed, a reed that straightens itself when he has gone. He holds nothing; nothing holds him. But you are Lord Reinard. You have a castle you must defend and subjects you must protect. And you have a duty, my lord. You must return to your lands, and there make peace with the Bardhall and the church. This is your path, my lord. You must walk your path, and let Sharp walk his."

Wallen was quiet for a long time. Then he said quietly, "Tomorrow. When Lord Guerney calls us to the steps, the truth will be known. And then we will return to Songless. Gerard, will you stand beside me on the steps?"

A hard question, after all he had led me to. He was asking me to risk my life for his father’s sins, sins that had shut me out of the Bardhall. Forgive, urged the god in agony. I did.

I nodded.

"And then you’ll return to Songless with me?"

I looked away, knowing that it was time that I walked my own path, as well.

Without further words, he left.

Chapter 18.4.1

2009-11-09T06:13:00.000-05:00

Curtains of sleep drifted aside, and I still had my lady in my arms. I opened my eyes and stared at the rough-planked ceiling above me. From below came the sound of voices – the boys were getting ready for bed. I was very, very happy.

"Are you quite finished?" spoke someone on the other side of the room.

Wallen sat on the bed on the other side of the room, tired and ragged. A fresh bruise marked his cheek, high above his thick blond beard.

I rolled over and freed my hands. "My Lord, I don’t think that this is the time."

"There’s no other time. Sharp is in a drunken stupor. He has forbidden me to speak to you."

"We are away from Rockridge," I signed. "There is no longer a danger in speaking to me."

"The danger comes from Sharp." Wallen touched his cheek.

"Did Sharp give that to you?"

"This was from Master Marlin, for raising my fist to my elder and – better. The Masters here are stricter than they ever were in my old school."

I sat up, to make signing easier. "The Masters of your old school knew who you were. The Masters here don’t – fortunately."

His gaze drifted into the distance. "No – my teachers knew no more than the Masters of the Guidlhall. My father told me, and I thought it was all a game, to pretend that I was a rich merchant’s son, sent to school with all the other rich merchant’s sons. Just a game. But tonight, if Charles had revealed me as his Lord, they would have killed me – wouldn’t they?"

I nodded. "You remain in great danger. Take the Lady Laurice and go to her father – I doubt he will be angry when he knows who you are, and you’ll be safe from the Bards."

Wallen stared at his hands, sore and split by their recent ill-treatment, then up at the rough beams. His gaze then returned to my face, the eyes of the young boy on the marble steps of the Bardhall, so many years before. "I should, first, apologize for my actions of tonight. I was drunk, I was angry, I was hurt. God, was I hurt, when you held yourself away from me at Rockridge. I felt so lonely, so – little."

Welcome to the life of a beggar. But I kept my hands still.

2009-11-06T08:52:00.000-05:00

I don't think I'll get an installment on this story today, either. The kid is home sick for the third time this week, plus there was the election on Tuesday.

Chapter 18.3

2009-11-05T10:33:00.000-05:00

Up in the room, Elise told me what had happened with Sharp and Wallen. They had come to the Warlocker’s house in the middle of the night with Lady Laurice, announced that they had to leave immediately, and that I would be joining them on the road. Once out, however, they told her nothing more about me.

By morning they had reached Goshawk river, a small town on the Goshawk River. There Wallen and Laurice were married by a local priest while Sharp hired a boat to carry them all downstream. The happy couple consummated their union on the riverbank that evening, with mud and grass for a bridal bower. Afterwards they feasted on Journeycakes and water.

"I thank ye for leaving Geldswan with me," Elise added. "That Bard thought I should be a lady to him, and only the length of steel kept him off. And when he tried to name him lady on the Bardhall steps, it was all I could do to merely run away."

"You did well," I signed, and kissed her.

"That’s quite a tale," Master Iving said. I had forgotten that the two Masters were still with us. "Gerard, you should write that up as a Ballad and sing it before the Masters when you sit for your string."

Grandmaster Meiltung glowered. "Sit for his string? Why? He has no more chance of earning it than Breck!"

Were Breck’s chances as poor as mine? Was he also lacking a voice?

"I rather think..." Master Iving was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in."

Treble entered, followed by an slightly younger man whose face was covered with freckles. They both carried trays laden with food and drink.

"What’s this?" asked the Grandmaster.

"They were chased out before they could get their supper," Treble explained. The other boy simply stared at the floor.

"How kind of you, Treble, Breck." Master Iving gestured for them to put the trays on the desk. They did so, and quickly left.

"It seems you have all you need, then," Grandmaster Meiltung stated. He straightened his back and crossed his arms. "And I have other business. Stay out of trouble."

He left, but Master Iving pulled out the chair and sat down. He watched us eat, laughed as Charles made a few lame jokes, and then asked me to put the dirty dishes out in the hallway. "One of the boys will collect it later."

I nodded.

Then he looked at me, quite seriously. "Gerard, we will sing in the Winter in just three days. You must work very hard to be ready by then."

I shrugged.

"No, Gerard, you must sit before the Masters. When you played at St William’s, you showed your path, and it is one you must walk. It would be a terrible thing if you did not."

I thought of the command of the Master of Paths. Earning my string might be impossible, but I was to at least try. I nodded.

"Then that is settled. You will sit along with Breck." He rose to his feet.

"One thing," I signed. Peter quickly spoke for me. "Elise and I have not been properly sung together, and I would not have her wait any longer. Will you do this for us tomorrow?"

My lady flung her arms around my shoulders, then looked up hopefully at the old Master.

"I would be delighted, Gerard. Meet me on the steps at sunrise." With that he left.

My lady kissed me happily, enthusiastically. I responded to her warmth and pulled her tighter. She felt so good, so warm, and I was hungry. My hand stroked up her thigh.

"Peter!" Charles said, a bit too loud. "It’s time for evening prayers!"

The door closed behind them.

No river flowed as swift or as strong, no spring ever tasted as sweet or as clear, no breeze ever touched as delicately, no flower was ever so fragrant... We lay on the grass in the spirit world, with moss beneath us and flowers all about, her, I ...and just the whisper of another, of a promise to come.

Chapter 18.2

2009-11-01T07:04:00.000-05:00

#

Elise was waiting in the shadow of the great bronze doors. She looked pale and lost, glancing about the Bardhall as if afraid that it might swallow her – but when she saw us she brightened like the morning sun that had just cleared the horizion. Hugging a bundle to her chest, she ran to me. Stopping just long enough to set the parcel down gently, she threw herself into my arms. No silk or satin ever felt as good as my lady’s skin; no wine ever tasted as good as her lips.

Some time later, Charles coughed. I looked up to see Grandmaster Meiltung standing before me, his arms crossed. He looked from me to Elise, and then back again. "Gerard, what is this?"
My hands were tangled in my lady’s clothing. I just smiled foolishly, like a Bard-in-training caught with a serving wench.

"That’s his wife," Charles explained. "Elise is a good woman."

Grandmaster Meiltung mouthed the Christian word, wife, then flicked a glance over the knight’s crucifix. Then he looked straight at Elise. "I thought Sharp claimed you as his lady."
My lady tossed her hair back. "And Aye thought my response to his claim was clear.

Journeyman Sharp is a scoundrel and a theif: he’d claim me, the harp, the sword, and Gerard’s good clothing. A pretty voice he has, but my Bard has more than he’ll ever have."

She stared at the Grandmaster firmly as he reddened.

By the Gods, someone who would stand up to the Grandmaster – and a woman at that. Grandmaster Meiltung reddened, but behind him, Master Iving smiled in amusement. "She has a tongue, hasn’t she?"

Enough for both of us.

"When you care to take a pause," Grandmaster Meiltung said with an edge to his voice, "follow me. I’ve decided that it would not be good for your friends to sleep in the open hall, nor for you to be among the children, Gerard. Journeymen Sieg and Van will lend you their room for as long as you need to stay. Does this please you?"

A Journeyman’s room with two beds was more than we had at Rockridge, that first time. I nodded as I freed myself from Elise.

Chapter 18.1.2

2009-10-30T14:20:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 18.1.1

2009-10-29T09:48:00.000-04:00

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?

Chapter 17.3

2009-10-22T08:33:00.000-04:00

#

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.

Chapter 17.2.2

2009-10-21T12:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 17.2.1

2009-10-20T10:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 17.1.4

2009-10-19T11:49:00.000-04:00

"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?

Chapter 17.1.3

2009-10-16T16:09:00.000-04:00

"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.

Chapter 17.1.2

2009-10-15T07:38:00.000-04:00

"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?"

Chapter 17.1.1

2009-10-08T09:27:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 16.4

2009-10-07T08:33:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 16.3.3

2009-10-06T08:49:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 16.3.2

2009-10-05T11:51:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 16.3.1

2009-10-02T11:22:00.000-04:00

#

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?"

Chapter 16.2.2

2009-10-01T08:52:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 16.2.1

2009-09-30T09:01:00.000-04:00

#

The next day I found I could move easily. I rose went out the door, then through another door that led outside. I looked upon an inner court, a square of pristine snow bordered by covered walkways. Before me the spire of the church thrust higher than the red tile roofs of the cloister, and beyond it I could see the low, dark stain of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains. I faced to the west, therefore. Towards Slatten, the Guildhall – and Elise. I closed my eyes and basked in her memory.

Not long, my lady, before I hold you again.

"Gerard!" Charles called out.

I opened my eyes to see him running across the square, a broom in his hand. I signed, slowly and with broad movements, "Careful. You ruin the snow."

He looked back at his footprints and shrugged. "More will fall. Go back inside, where it’s warm."

I hadn’t noticed the cold until he mentioned it. I retraced my steps, motioning for him to follow me.

Inside the room, he pulled the chair next to the fireplace, Then he sat on my bed, leaving the chair for me. "How are you doing?"

"The Abbot knows I’m a Heathen."

Charles looked as if this were not news to him. "What is he going to do?"

"I don’t know. He is letting me stay, but when I can travel, I think he will want me to leave."

Charles puzzled for a bit, then asked, "Will you go back to Songless?"

I shook my head. "I’m free of that place. I owe no allegiance to Lord Reinard. I will go to Slatten to look for Elise, and then – did you mention that you might go on a pilgrimage? To Bartiese?"

Chapter 16

2009-09-29T09:29:00.000-04:00

Peter returned with my supper, a dish of beans, cabbage, and boiled fish. He also brought a cup of red wine. As he set these down, I signed to him, "Have you heard the news about the Bard-killer?"

"He’s dead." Peter spoke quietly, and not happily.

"That means you are free. You told me, back at Rockridge, that you wanted to walk your own path. This is your chance."

"Walk your own path." He frowned. "That’s a Heathen saying, isn’t it?"

I signed quickly. "I may have picked it up from the Bard I was traveling with. Tell me, where will you go now that the Bard-killer is dead?"

His look was one of disbelief. "Nowhere. I hoped to follow my cousin and take a place in her husband’s home, no matter who she married, but she has taken a Heathen beggar for a mate. She will realize what she has done, no fear of that, and return to her father – but hen she’ll not be a fit wife for any man of honor."

"Will the Bard be that bad a husband for her?"

He looked out the window. "The Bard would have been a better choice than the wretch who followed him. That’s the one my cousin went with – the penniless ne’er do well."

"Where did they go?" I asked innocently, hoping to show him the possible path.

"My cousin said that they were bound for Slatten."

Another change of plans. What was Wallen thinking? "So what will you do? Will you stay here?"

"I’ll stay here, but the circumstances of my birth prevent me from taking serious vows." He folded his hands in his lap.

"How is that?" I signed.

"I’m a bastard." He shrugged. "Imperfect in the eyes of God and man."

What a strange idea. "Why should your father’s actions mark you?"

He looked straight at me, and said without rancor, "You are a Heathen, Gerard. You don’t understand why a bastard can not be child of God."

"What a strange God you have, to throw away the hearts of those who are unpleasant to him." Even as I signed this, I knew that the suffering god did not think this way.

Peter frowned sharply. "The Lord God and his son Jesus Christ do not throw people away. They give their mercy to all the poor sinners of the world!"

And here I thought they had only one God. "If that is true, then any poor sinner could devote himself to your God, and this be a monk. Is that right?"

He shook his head. "A monk must be more perfect than the sinners of the world."

"Then a man must be perfect before he can be a monk?" This did not fit at all with the monks I had known at Songless Castle, many which were men first and men of faith second.

Taking a deep breath, Peter leaned forward and spoke patiently. "We find perfection through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Our hearts are purified through worship and his mercy."

Had he ever listened to the words he had learned? I pointed out, "Then if you worship your god, you’ll be perfect, and it won’t matter how you were born."

He frowned, then crossed his arms. "Church law states that no man of illegitimate birth may take orders."

"The Church says that," I signed. "But what does your god say? Ask him in your heart, and listen to his answer. Walk the path set before you."

He frowned sharply. "Eat your supper. I must talk to Father Alfred."

He did not return that night.

Chapter 15.5.2

2009-09-25T05:54:00.000-04:00

"The problem is one that has been with me for some time. I have learned to live with it." There – let him find fault with that.

The abbot leaned back, the mouse gone from view. "The monks here who know you: they say they have seen you at Lord Reinard’s holding."

"I spent some time there, yes."

"Did you ever meet the man who is called the Bard-killer?"

Sourness burned the back of my throat. How would a pious Christian answer that? My movements were still curt. "I did indeed. He is not an easy master, but his people should not have to suffer for his sins."

"Indeed." The abbot linked his hands together on his lap. "Have you heard that the old lord is dead, and his son now rules the holding?"

This seemed an honest question, so I answered it truthfully. "Yes. But no priest has come to unlock the church so that the people may enter."

"The new lord has neither petitioned the Bishop for forgiveness, nor made peace with the Bardhall. Until he does, his people will stay without grace."

Had anyone explained this to Wallen?

Suddenly the abbot straightened. "But we were talking about you. The things I have heard about you, Gerard, since you came through our gate! Brother Peter swears you are a brother in good standing. Brother Umberto thinks you are a wizard in disguise, for he found strange symbols sewn into your robe. A maiden who lives with the nuns claims that you are a saint – though her father says you are a black-souled Heathen, yet a good man. None of the brethren will speak against you, but none will explain you, either. Tell me truthfully, Gerard, what are you?"

"I am a humble beggar who does not pretend his is anything." Thus I proved that I did indeed pay attention to the sayings of the Silent Monks.

The abbot leaned forward. "Oh, I heard that you play a harp. Gerard, are you a Bard?"

I jerked up my hands, palms inward, to show him that no harp was marked on them, and I glared – then realized that I had answered his question. No one but a Bard would gesture so. Slowly I signed, "What will you do with me now?"

"Rest. You are safe and will remain so." Father Alfred stood and laid his hand on my head. "May the gods watch carefully over your path."

Chapter 15.5.1

2009-09-24T07:06:00.000-04:00

That afternoon, as Peter read with me, an elderly monk arrived. He was white-haired but not yet frail, with stern features and a gentle smile. The blue of his eyes was flecked with gold – he had some Heathen blood in his Christian veins. He wore a mantle of white cloth over his shoulders.

Peter jumped up, then knelt. "Bless me, my Lord Abbot."

The abbot laid his hand on Peter’s hair and said quietly, "Go in peace, my child. See if the cooks could use a hand with the supper."

Peter rose and left quickly, not looking back.

The abbot settled himself in the chair. He picked up the cup Peter had brought me, sniffed it, and smiled. "Brother Peter’s favorite remedy for all ills. He is not made to be a monk, that child – even if he could take vows. But no one else will have him."

A feeling I knew all to well.

"But I have come to speak not of his troubles, but of you. I am Father Alfred, the guardian of these sheep, and I have been told that you are Gerard. Is that true?"

I nodded.

"Did you enjoy your book?"

I lifted my hands. "I found the stories most entertaining."

He leaned forward with a smile, looking a bit like a cat who has found a mouse. "Why don’t you use your voice? You know that our order does not prevent us from speaking in places such as this."

I signed back, honestly, "I have a problem with my throat."

"Brother Peter mentioned that – but you’ve rested for several days. Surely your voice must be better – and it is obviously not too sore to eat or drink." He shifted forward, the cat having glimpsed the mouse’s ears.

Chapter 15.4

2009-09-22T08:39:00.000-04:00

I read for a time, a story of a knight who outwits an three-headed ogre. It was obviously an invented tale, unlike some of the others which had a sense of truth about them. Many, however, rested in the border between obviously true and obviously invented. Much like my adventures in the cavern and the forest. Were those real, or were they only the wanderings of a battered mind? What message did they hold?

I ached for my harp, for the music that would help me probe the mystery. All I had were the words that echoed in my mind.

Walk the path before you, the Dragon commanded.

Sing from your heart, advised the Prince of the Forest.

And the fate of the world rode on my actions.

Chapter 15.3

2009-09-21T11:32:00.000-04:00

I looked up to see Charles standing beside my bed. His clothes and weapons had been replaced by a simple monastic robe, tied with a rope. He looked excited, though, not deprived.

"Good day," I signed.

"You’re awake. Good." He smiled and sat down in the chair. "The abbot thinks you are a monk from west of the Royal City."

I signed, "Did you tell him that?"

Charles shook his head. "I said only that I met you on the road and agreed to help you. But some of the other monks said that they had seen you off to the west, and that you might be of Saint Sebastian’s Monastery."

Songless was indeed west of here, but any monk that had seen me there would know who and what I was. I had friends here, apparently. Their silence, however, was a message that I too needed to keep the truth quiet. "What have you been doing while I’ve been here?"

"Penance." He grinned. "I’m to keep all the walks free of snow as penance for my many sins."

"That makes you happy?"

"When I’m finished, I may take my first communion. I’ll be a complete Christian then – and I can pray for your soul."

"And I shall sing for your heart," I signed back.

He laughed, a joyful sound. Then he sobered. "I only hope that this will pay for all my sins, even the ones I had no time to confess. I talked from Terce to Sext, until the priest sent me away. When I asked if I could come back, he suggested a pilgrimage instead."

"Perhaps I may join you," I signed. There was, after all, no need for me to return to Songless after this. I owed no allegiance to the lord who had abandoned me.

"I’d best go now, before I am missed," Charles said. "No one is supposed to see you or talk to you, other than Peter or the herbalist – but I’ll still come tomorrow."

"Wouldn’t that be a sin?"

He grinned, wide and easy. "It can go with the other unconfessed sins."

For some reason, I felt that all his sins against me, minor as they were, went in that category.

Chapter 15.2

2009-09-18T08:53:00.000-04:00

Three days passed in this way, with food, slumber, and the pleasure of Peter’s reading – though his topics could have been more entertaining. On the fourth day I found that both pain and stiffness had eased, and that I could sit up. I signed to Peter, "Would you please find me a book to read?"

"The Abbot gave me a book, saying that it would be suitable for you. But why are you signing? You needn’t keep strict silence in the infirmary."

I thought quickly. "My voice is still bothering me."

"I’m sorry about that." Peter picked up a book from the side table and handed it to me. "I will fetch you some wine with honey. It’s very soothing to the throat – and other ailments."

So the good monk was as free with the monastery larder as with his uncle’s wine cellar? Far be it for me to complain. I nodded, and he went on his errand.

I turned my attention to the book. It was old and well-read; the leather cover was scuffed and cracked with age, and the ink was faded on the brittle pages. But I could read it. And as I flipped through it, I realized that this was not a book one normally found in within a Christian stronghold.

This was not a book that had been copied by a monk, sitting for hours in a cold, pristine scriptorium as he labored to make every letter a work of art. The handwriting was plain, sometimes hasty, with stains that smelled faintly of ale and grease. The subject was not considered philosophy or enlightened meditations, but stories of fiction and fantasy. They seemed to come from every corner of the world and from every walk of life. Some were boasts and some told of gods and demons. It was if the author had spent his days in a busy tavern, writing down every story that came to his ears.

Why had the abbot chosen such a book for me?

But they were good stories, and I was soon lost in them.

Chapter 15.1

2009-09-17T06:17:00.000-04:00

Things blurred for me after we rode into the monastery courtyard. A crowd of people in brown robes came out and helped me from the horse, then carried me into a room scented with herbs and soap. I was bathed, bandaged, and fed. Somewhere in that I lost consciousness.

I woke in the morning in a bright room where dried plants hung from the rafters. On one side of me stood a desk surrounded by shelves filled with large glass bottles and leather-bound books. On the other side sat Peter, reading from a book. His hood was thrown back so that the sunlight from the window struck his wealth of blonde hair and transformed it into an angelic halo. It was not trimmed short in the center, as other monks wore their hair, but was full and lush like a warriors.

Like his brother’s, I thought uncomfortably.

He looked up and smiled, then spoke in a rich tenor voice that would have been the envy of any Bard, "Good morning. Would you like something to drink?"

I nodded and tried to lift my hands to sign. Pain shot through the stiff, bruised muscles of my shoulders and back.

Peter moved toward me, a cup in his hand. He held it to my lips. I tasted something tart, but not unpleasant. "Brother Umberto says that this will ease your suffering and help you to sleep. Slumber is God’s best medicine. He also wants you to drink soup until you have an appetite."

I’m a Bard; I already had an appetite. But my jaw, I found, was too sore to move properly. I accepted the soup and a little more of the potion.

Peter helped me with other things, then settled me back into the bed. I was already tired.
"Do you want me to read to you?" he asked.

I tried to nod.

His sweet voice, discussing the philosophy of sin, was a lullaby that sent me back to sleep.

Chapter 14.5

2009-09-16T08:32:00.000-04:00

"Finally!" Charles pointed ahead of us.

I blinked. We were on the crest of a hill, and the trees stretched left and right in an unbroken line. Before us, spread over the slope of the hill, was Saint William’s Monastery. Fields and orchards, asleep beneath the snow, lay within its grey stone walls. One on side huddled the church and cloister, accessible to the traveler yet separated by high walls from the world. The winter sun was already setting, its red light staining the underbelly of the heavy clouds, and I could hear the bells announcing None. From the kitchens came a thick plume of smoke, and the scent of dinner was on the wind.

A good time to arrive, I thought. It had been a long day.

Peter signed a prayer of thanksgiving, then went ahead of us to the gate. Behind him, Charles leaned in and said, "If we were this close, why didn’t we hear the bells before?"

I shook my head in reply and twisted my stiff back to look over my shoulder. Neither a dark road nor a simple path broke the brush behind us.

Chapter 14.4

2009-09-15T08:08:00.000-04:00

If you haven't done so, or don't remember the story, now would be a good time to read The Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest. This tells the backstory of Taynair :

http://www.sff.net/people/dragonwriter/fiction/heart.html

I opened my eyes on a different world.

Neither Charles nor Peter seemed to notice. They, along with the horse, trudged along a road that was now pure black and unmarred by leaf litter or mud – but none of us made progress. It was as if we were in current that moved us downstream as fast as we rowed up it. On either side of the path, the trees and bushes shone silver. Pale flowers, blossoms grown from gem stones, grew in clumps in the covering silver moss, and translucent mushrooms sprouted in perfect rings.

This was the true Heart of the Eastern Green Forest.

I looked for, and saw a man seated on a boulder, a man with milk-white skin and no smile. His silver hair, adorned with twigs and leaves from the surrounding trees, hung to his waist, and he wore a circlet of fire. His robe was woven of muted colors that shifted as I watched., and he balanced a long sword between his knees. A dozen ladies lounged at his feet, dressed in soft colors and hard gems, their eyes and hair glittering silver.

Taynair, Prince of the Eastern Green Forest. Beware his smile, for the pleasure of the Silver-eyed is mortal pain.

His frost-filled eyes fell on me. "Speak."

I raised my hands.

"None of that! In my realm, you will speak!"

I had spoken to the Master of Paths, though my mouth felt no less empty than it usually did. And so I spoke to the Mirthless Prince. "Please let us go. We mean you no harm."

The corner of his mouth twitched – the beginning of a smile. "Why are you here?"

I shivered. "We are just passing through. Please, let us go."

His eyes appraised me. "Do you wish to bargain? A promise for a promise?"

My breath caught. Never bargain with a Silver-eyed, and never accept a promise from Prince Taynair. "No. But I will freely give you anything you ask."

The Prince of the Forest smiled openly, and I felt as cold as if standing naked in a frosted wind. "Give me a song, Bard. Give me a story."

"I have no harp," I protested, before I thought to stop. "I can make no music."

He leaned forward, his silver eyebrows flicking up as Master Meiltung’s did when we argued with him. "Sing with your heart, as you always have, Gerard, Bard of Songless Castle."

I started. "How do you know me?"

His smile widened, like a river of ice on the move. "Long have I waited for you, to hear your music and magic. Sing for me and remember me – though your path now curves away, we will meet again."

What would I play? For the people of the world I played of the spirit-lands. For a spirit, then, I need play of the world. So I sang of Lord Reinard and his follies, of our adventure together and its bitter end, and the words of the Dragon. Then I sang of the wider world, of the rising sun on a new-mown meadow, of the yule-fire crackling on the hearth. I sang of the Bardhall in Slatten and the one that I knew would never be again at Songless. As I emptied my heart to the Mirthless Prince, it filled with more. The cries of a newborn, the joy of a bride, the cold thud dirt filling in a grave.

The prince’s cold smile dropped away and was replaced by a gentle curve of his lips. It was a foreign, frightful thing to see, an unnatural warmth amid the chill.

At his feet the maidens gathered jewel flowers and wove them into daisy chains. One wove a coronet, the pale gems flickering within a nest of silver stems and leaves.

Abruptly Prince Taynair dropped his smile and raised his hand. "That is enough. Go, now, before the Night Riders travel the path."

The maiden weaving the coronet stood. "A gift! From Spara to your lady, the mother of your children."

Taking the offering, I brushed her fingers with my own – ice was never so cold. I put the coronet away in my pouch.

Price Taynair spoke again. "Remember Gerard – walk the path before you and always sing from your heart.

Then he let his hands fall, and the Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest disappeared, and with it the black path of the Night Riders.

Chapter 14.3

2009-09-14T05:32:00.000-04:00

I woke in the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest. Snow fell lightly, creating a crystalline veil through which ice-clad trees stood guard. The sky above shone with an unbearable whiteness, though no sun could be seen, causing the ice to glitter like polished silver. No wind stirred the brush. Beside the path stretched a snow-covered river, as flat as a road. On the farther bank, a cliff that towered above us, there were icefalls colored like moonbows.

I looked down to where the horse’s hooves had churned mud and snow together, and saw that we walked on a black road.

Gods protect us. At least it is still day.

Peter slogged along, head down and arms hanging at his sides, breathing heavily. He had carried me for a long distance from the castle, and now he had walked while I slept. I touched his shoulder to catch his attention, then signed, "Ride for a time. I’ll walk."

He shook his head and signed back, "Please stay on the horse. I am in good health, and it would be easier on you if you did not try to walk."

Obviously he had never ridden a war-horse while bruised. "Perhaps we could stop a few minutes to rest."

He nodded, then caught Charles’ attention. Together they released my bindings, and helped me down. Charles unpacked a feedbag of grain for the horse, then pulled out cheese, bread, and a skin of wine. "Join me?"

Charles could ride with me, anytime. I nodded eagerly; Peter accepted what he was given. We ate, and then the other two helped me back into the saddle. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.

Chapter 14.2

2009-09-10T08:43:00.000-04:00

#

The snowfall hid us as we took a path that led south from Krast. Soon a wide, dark road crossed it, leading us into the forest. There knobby trees closed around us, like a withered fist. Clumps of snow filled the branches, wet and heavy. Shaggy vines hung down, ropes waiting to bind us, and the bushes below the trees filled with white. Yet the road stayed clear and black.

A wind blew, knocking a clod of snow onto the horse. He snorted and shook his head, but otherwise kept his training.

Charles pulled his cloak tighter around his frame. "I was knighted on a day like this. Bitterly cold and bleak. There was ice on the inside of the chapel walls – and when I put my hands between my lord’s to swear my fealty, they felt even colder."

I remembered the day. It was so cold that Wallen had insisted that I sleep inside, in his room, and attend the festivities afterward. I wondered what omen this was for the new knight, this stinging cold and shadowed skies, but his warm manner seemed not to notice anything amiss.

Charles continued. "That night, though, there was a feast to suit royalty! Two pigs roasted on the fire, and there was swan and fat goose. Four kinds of pudding, and the breads were shaped like rabbits and ducks. Roasted nuts, candied fruits. And for desert there were a sugar confection, a whole glorious battle with men, machines, and a castle wall."

The detail had been perfect, down to the fainting maiden and the sappers undermining the wall.

"And while we feasted, there was music. A rare thing, in truth."

No, I thought to Charles, trying to catch his eye. Don’t tell Peter where you’re from.

"For we had with a Bard – and almost Bard, that is. When my lord called for presents, this man came forward to play the harp. What he played, I don’t quite know, but the notes themselves were words that embedded in my heart. As he played I saw the duty and honor of being of knight. I was to be as serious about my service as a monk is about his vows, and if I soiled my honor I would have broken faith with God himself. That was the message I heard, and I swear by my life that I will honor it forever."

I hadn’t realized that my simple meditation melody had affected him so deeply. At the time he had looked as pleasantly blank as everyone else in the room, but perhaps I had allowed him to look within and see what he had sworn himself to.

My thoughts returned to pleasant memories of the feast, of the food I was not likely to see that day. From there I slipped into dreamless slumber.

Chapter 14.1.2

2009-09-09T09:58:00.000-04:00

Peter responded to his offer by shoving me forward; Charles caught me before I sprawled in the snow. They worked together to put me in the stiff saddle of the warhorse. Peter tied me in with roped while Charles shorted the stirrups to feet my feet. When my sleeves fell back to reveal the raw flesh on my wrists, I heard the knight suck in his breath.

He had yet to see my face or ribs.

"Which way do you travel?" Charles asked.

Peter pointed toward Krast.

"The town is filled with soldiers." His tone was light, disinterested, as if gossiping. "They’re searching every house and building, and stopping every one, looking for people who left Rockridge last night. It might be easier for us if we went a different way."

We could go over the pass and into the Badlands, passing Rockridge on the way, or into the Eastern Green Forest. Perhaps, while the sun shone, the powers of the forest would be weak. If we could pass before sunset, we might be safe. There was a better chance among the enchanted boughs than with the soldiers, slim as it was.

I nodded. We would follow Peter’s path, after all. Hopefully it was the same one that the Master of Paths wished me to travel.

As we moved forward down the road, I thought of Elise. Was she safe? Would the soldiers recognize her, as well as Jason and Ison? Or would her sister’s gifts be enough to protect them? What did Charles know? I waited until he glanced back to check on me, and clumsily signed, "What of the lady and the harp?"

"It’s a good thing for you two that I happened to be free. I had just decided to go on a pilgrimage, and had planned to travel with companions, but they went on without me. The whole lot of them. It’s my own fault, of course. They sent the message for me to come, but I was too much into my cups and dice to pay any heed."

Charles? Drinking and gambling?

Then I realized what he was saying. My lord and my oldest friend had summoned Charles to go with them, but he ignored his lord and stayed for the one they were leaving behind. Not all Christians were evil. But Elise had gone with them, and taken my harp.

What had they said to make her leave me? That I was dead?

Probably. If not for Peter, I would have been.

Charles continued on, as if he was bothered by what he said. "I do not think I broke faith with my companions. I believe they broke faith with me, by leaving before they knew that all of our company was free. And I had made a promise that I found bound to keep. Do you think I did wrong?"

Peter lifted his hands, palms up. Those of his order do not judge.

Chapter 14.1.1

2009-09-03T08:49:00.000-04:00

Sir Charles, by all the gods of nature and man! My lord had left behind the hidden dirk when he fled the castle, and Charles had known where to wait when he heard that a monk had disappeared. He must have been waiting for some time, as his cloak was caked with snow and he slid stiffly from the saddle.

He stepped forward enough that I could see his face, then he quickly sheathed his sword and threw himself on the ground. "Forgive me! I did not mean to threaten a pair of God’s own servants! May I be allowed, for my penance, to care for these who I have wronged. I will give my horse and the service of my hands, so that they may ride in comfort through the snow and ice."

He should have been a Bard.

Chapter 13.4.3

2009-09-02T08:58:00.000-04:00

We made our way down the narrow trail, Peter and I. I stumbled at times, and Peter kept me from falling, but I was safe when we reached the floor. The old hermit was gone from his camp, but I had Peter fetch wood for his fire anyway. Then we followed the path out, and stepped from the darkness of the earth into the grayness of morning. We had not beaten the dawn.

Nor the soldiers. Through a curtain of snow I could see the shadow of a warhorse, and astride her a man as wide as a mountain, with a sword in his hand. He could have been any of Lord Guerney’s soldiers, as his face was hidden by a thick grey cloak. The horse stamped at our presence. The soldier turned, raised his sword, and said, "You owe me a book, monk!"

Chapter 13.4.2

2009-09-01T10:29:00.000-04:00

The path seemed longer than the last time I had traveled it. I scraped the crusty surface of the tunnel, and I stumbled on the uneven floor. Peter kept me from knocking my head on the ceiling, as I was pulled down when he bent over, but I often caught my shoulder on the side at the narrower parts. Bruised and bleeding more than when I started, I stepped with gratitude onto the narrow ledge that looked over the great cavern.

Then remembered the narrow, slick switchback trail. It had been a test when I was well, but now it was an impossibility. I sank to my knees, defeated.

The shadows of the cavern lightened, and I saw the stone dragon. He shifted, his wings spreading slightly, and turned his head toward me. Emerald eyes glittering, he spoke in a voice that shook the mountain. "If you think this path is hopeless, it will be. If you see it as only a challenge to overcome, you will."

I rose to my feet. Peter did not move, as if turned to stone when the dragon came to life.

Was this a demon or a god? It spoke, and thus was more likely the latter – but only one of our gods is known to take the form of a dragon, and that is a god who is far above the affairs of mere mortals. So this must be a demon. Irritated at its impudence, I thought, And where does your path lead, that I must suffer to travel it?

My thoughts came out as words, spoken in the voice I did not have.

The dragon’s throne began to shine with a light that would have dimmed the sun, then the damp stone became gold and silver that looped up and cascaded down the sides. Glittering jewels – rubies, sapphires, and diamonds – crusted the armrests and backrests that curved up from the soft velvet seat. The dragon now had emerald scales and ruby eyes, and his breast plate and underwings gleamed gold. When he spread his wings a moonbow cast across the darkness, touching the far wall. The stone opened, letting a multitude of beings creep forth. Demons, spirits, and animals crept forward and lay down at the base of the throne.

A crown of fire circled his head as the throne turned milky-white, a swirl of clouds. The whiteness parted, showing the whole world beneath the dragon, his wide wings covering what is, what has been, and what will be. He roared, "Do you challenge the Master of Paths?"

A god, most definitely, and none other than the oldest and greatest of them all. Mere mortal that I was, I bowed and said, "Forgive me. I only wanted to know, not to challenge."

The Master of Paths gave me a tolerant smile. "For an ignorant child, you pass the tests well. Look on this."

Beneath him, the image of the world shifted and twisted, then formed itself into unnatural warriors that fought among desolation and waste. "This will be, should you fail your greatest test. You, small but chosen one, have no small part to play in the fate of the world."

Chosen one? I was but a mute cripple, shut away from his calling, without even the support of the Christian lord who had abandoned him. And yet, if the Master of Paths himself pronounced it so, I must be, though I could not see how it could be. If the fate of the world depended upon my actions, I must be careful of them. Still, there was one thing I had a right to know.

Gathering up my courage, I said boldly, "Tell me what I must do to succeed."

"Do not turn back from the path set before you!" With that, the Master of Paths folded his wings about him, plunging the room once more into darkness.

I shook my head to clear the last of the vision. Peter stooped then, and signed in the pale light of the lamp, "You fainted. Should we rest?"

I shook my head. The command from the God had been quite clear.

Chapter 13.4.1

2009-08-31T09:07:00.000-04:00

I came back to the world, and found myself moving. Someone was dragging me from the torture chamber, scraping my heels over the rough stone floor.

I raised my hands to the arms circling my aching chest, and felt the rough cloth of a monk’s robe. My rescuer – if he was indeed rescuing me – paused, then helped me to my feet. Then he pulled me against his taller frame and half-carried me beyond the door.

There he paused to pick up a lantern, and the light flickered up under the cowl, highlighting familiar features. Had my lord come back to save me? No, this man was too tall for my lord. This was Peter, determined to get me to lauds.

As long as it got me away from the torturers, I was grateful.

We went down a long hallway, then stopped before a wooden door. Peter pulled a key from his robe and opened it, then helped me through. He paused to relock the door.

It was the dusty storeroom. The secret passage, and freedom, was not far.

This time, when he moved the screen that revealed the passage, he came with me. He put the screen back in place, but there was no one to move the chest. I lifted swollen fingers and said, "They will know the screen was moved."

"The dust will tell them we came this way," Peter’s hands replied. He took a deep breath. "We will rest for a moment, no more."

"Can we hide in the cavern?"

"We have no food, nor fuel, and when the soldiers do not find us in the castle, they will scour all the land around. We must starve or go out to be caught. Our only hope is to leave quickly, before sunrise, and hide in the forest. Later we will make our way through it to the monastery."

"The Eastern Green Forest?" I signed. "Before dawn?"

"Lord Guerney’s soldiers are superstitious heathens – they would never follow us into that place, fearing as they do the simple shadows of the night."

There is nothing simple about those shadows, I thought back.

"By my faith in Christ, I know I have nothing to fear from it. I have seen a road that cuts through it – how could it exist, if people did not travel on it?"

The people who travel on it are doomed, I replied to myself. But I faced a forked path: did I tell the monk what I knew to be true, and unmask myself as a heathen unworthy of his sacrifice? Or did I stay quietly in character and face destruction of both body and heart? Perhaps his faith was strong enough to protect us both. Or perhaps I could change his mind before we stepped foot into that evil place.

For now, however, I struggled to my feet and accepted his help.

Chapter 13.3

2009-08-26T09:23:00.000-04:00

#

As I hung, the feeling in my wrists and arms faded, and with it went the outer world. I now stood on a black path in a dark world, one without music. It was made of black shale, blade-thin slices set on end, sharp knives marking a desperate trail.

Demons crouched on either side, their forked tongues licking fire-redden chops. Their scarlet eyes watched me, waited for my command. I could send with a word, through the paths of the spirit world, to catch a lord, a Bard, or a faithless lady with razor-sharp teeth. After that they would be mine, devoted servants all, to reclaim the Bardlands from their Christians Slavers. They would die in agony to befit their god, every lord and lady, every pious priest, every Silent Monk...

No – I would not set the demons upon the Silent Monks, those who had comforted me to no gain of their own. In their debt as I was, I could not repay them with hate. But they would think it no honor to be spared from the destruction of their fellows, so if I spared them, I would have to spare all Christians. Even the faithless lords. Then, how could I hunt a Heathen if I spared the much more deserving Christians?

With just their meekness, the Silent Monks had bought my anger.

My feet were poised to step onto that black, poisonous path, the path of hatred. I pulled back. I would not be seduced into setting the demons free. I turned and left the path, the one that makes slaves of those it calls its masters.

My death would not come easy, but at least I would stand before the gods without the stain of the black path on my feet, or the betrayal of my power as a Bard in my heart.

Chapter 3.2

2009-08-24T11:38:00.000-04:00

#

I came to as the soldiers were dragging me down the steps. They pulled me up, and slammed me into the wall. Several more times they tripped me or simply pushed me into the stone, until finally dropping me on the cold floor of the torture chamber. I lay there, bleeding and wondering why Lord Guerney even bothered to keep torturers.

"Duke! Jesse! Get yer lazy bones up!" yelled the Captain of the Guard.

The torturer’s apprentice stumbled through a door and pushed greasy hair out of his eyes. "What do ye want?"

"The Lady Laurice has run off, and this monk knows where. Lord Guerney wants to know it by breakfast."

Jesse rubbed his head, looked at me, and frowned. "Duke’s out."

"Where’d he go?"

Jesse shrugged. "With a wench. He’ll be back, soon enough. Her husband is jealous."

"Get to work on this fool as soon as you see him." The Captain hauled me up by my protesting arms and locked my wrists into chains that hung from the ceiling. I was too short for them, and hand to balance on my toes while the iron cut into my wrists. Before the soldiers had all left the room, I could already feel blood trickling down my arms.

Jesse stumbled back to his bed, leaving me to hang, and to await a slow, miserable death because my Lord and my childhood friend could not be bothered to take me with them.

The world is filled with bastards.

Chapter 13.1

2009-08-21T09:47:00.000-04:00

Lord Geurney’s private chamber was a lush place, with tapestries on the wall, pillows on the bench, and thick velvet curtains on the bed. A brace of flickering candles threw shadows over the bearskin pelts that kept the sleeper warm, both those in the soft bed and those making do on the floor.

Lord Guerney, dressed only in his linen nightshirt, towered over me. His steward huddled beside him, wringing his hands nervously. The Captain of the Guard stood on his other side, grinning. Behind them all, curled in the bed like a contented cat, lay the Lady Victoria.

Raising the massive hand that carried a broadsword into a battle, Lord Guerney bellowed, "Where is my daughter, monk? Speak!"

Apparently he did not recognize me. I shook my head – all I could do, as two soldiers held my arms in a bruising grip.

His blow brought blood to my mouth.

"She disappeared with those beggars you came with. You’re with them; you know where they went!"

If I were truly with them, I would have left with them. That truth hurt worse than the slap. I shook my head.

Lord Guerney slapped me again, several times, until I felt that my head spin off. Then he turned to his night’s entertainment. "Are you sure this is the monk?"

"I recognize his feet." Her eyes sparkled with laughter. She knew I could not answer, and was enjoying watching my pain.

Now the Steward spoke up, his voice unusually high. "But are you sure that this is the man who acted between the Lady Laurice and the Bards?"

She ran her fingers through the thick pelt, then sat up slowly. It fell away, showing that she wore nothing to protect her from the chill of the night. With a toss of her head, her golden hair settled behind her creamy shoulders. Then she looked up with wide eyes.

I was surprised to see that they were not pure silver.

"I saw him talking to the Bard, in the language of the hands, and the next day he found his way to my Lady’s chambers. What do you think?"

The steward spoke. "Perhaps he was merely blessing the Bard. A little salvation would do nothing for those soot-black Heathens, but the monks still try."

"I think not." The lady traced designs in the fur, designs that were the property of Warlockers. "I know all the signs for the blessings, and those were not among them."

Damn. We had not thought of others knowing the language of the hands.

Lord Guerney turned to me. "How do you answer, Monk? Where have the Bards gone?"

I would have liked to have known that myself, and why they did not take me with them. Again I shook my head.

Now Lord Geuirney hit me with his closed fist, until blood flowed from my nose. "I’ll not have my daughter disgraced by a Heathen. Speak – or they’ll rip it out of you, below!"

"My Lord." The Steward’s nervousness had turned to a panic. "Would it be such a wise thing to risk the anger of the church? If they find out that you sent a monk to torture..."

"If they find out, the dungeon will be a busy place." Lord Guerney said firmly, a warning to the man and everyone else in the room. "Now, monk, do you choose an easy death, or a hard one?"
I could only shake my head.

This time when his hand fell, it brought darkness.

Chapter 12.6

2009-08-20T12:13:00.000-04:00

It was afternoon before I ventured from the kitchens, with a purloined loaf and a pork pie stashed in my bag. I found Wallen sitting in a corner of the Great Hall with Sharp’s lute in his lap. His face was swollen, with a bruise on one side, and he sullenly picked out the notes of a scale.

Great music, he was learning, comes through pain and hard work. He was also learning the lot of the abused and the helpless, the downtrodden, and those beneath his noble notice. This was becoming a bitter adventure for him – perhaps it would put some compassion in his heart.
At least I had the medicine for it. The thought of meeting his bride-to-be, and talking her into his trap, should lighten his spirits.

I knelt and reached for the bandages on his foot. He yanked it away, but I gently took it back.

He leaned forward. "You had no need to treat me like that. Have I even been anything but good to you?"

Not even thinking of how to answer that, I glanced around the hall. There were others present. Two soldiers were looking in our direction. I pressed my lips together firmly and jerked my head in their direction.

Wallen glared back. He said nothing more, however, and withstood my ministrations. I was able to finish, and when I signed a blessing, I let the note fall from my sleeve to the ground by his hand. I looked at it, then into his face, and smiled.

He glared back with ice hard eyes. He clenched his hand.

I rose quickly and walked off. This storm, like so many before it, would surely pass.

The glass garden at vespers, the note read. After the prayers I rushed to the dining hall, to see if Wallen showed any more hope, but he was not there. Neither was Sharp, leaving Lord Guerney to be entertained by a untalented minstrel. The ladies-in-waiting announced that their mistress was tired and would sup in her chambers. Charles caught my eye and grinned, but had no news. In the morning, I assumed, I would hear how the final act of our adventure would be.

It was not yet morning when I woke to the sound of someone climbing into the hayloft. I rolled over, thinking it was Peter come to fetch me for Matins – and looked into the face of the Captain of the Guard.

Chapter 12.5

2009-08-18T09:14:00.000-04:00

When the lord and his ladies had retired to their chambers, I found Sharp cleaning and storing his instruments. I tried to explain myself to the bard. First he ignored me, then turned and threw a crust of bread in my face. "Christian dog."

Stung, and all too aware of who might be watching, I signed my thanks and slunk off to the stables. In the morning, I felt, there would be time to explain. Still, the long night was cold and lonely, and I was a long time in finding sleep.

All too soon I was shaken awake. I rolled over, hoping that it was Wallen or Sharp come for an explanation. Instead, backlit by the grey morning light, I saw Peter the Monk. His eyes were red and puffy, but he seemed otherwise none the worse for his indulgence of the night before.

"What is it?" I signed clumsily, unaccustomed as I was to the early hour.

Hos hands flew numbly. "You missed Lauds. I should have warned you of the dangers of drinking too much honey and wine. How is your voice?"

"The same," I answered truthfully. "How did you know to find me here?"

"When I didn’t see you at Lauds, I searched the castle. I knew you would not miss an office on purpose."

Of course not. Thanks to my new companion, my disguise had just gotten harder to maintain. "Thank you for your concern."

"It is more than that. After seeing the Heathens last night, my cousin has expressed an interest in the apprentice. Since you have been tending to the boy’s misery, I thought you could deliver this to him." He handed over a folded piece of paper.

"I hope it is written simply," I signed. "I fear the boy is rather simple."

"It has a time and a place – that should be simple enough. Come, let us do our morning charity in the kitchen."

I made a face.

"They are baking bread and pies today, which will not be counted until they are put in the storeroom."

Peter, I realized, would have made a wonderful bard.

Chapter 12.4

2009-08-17T09:35:00.000-04:00

#

There was nothing I could do for Peter, but to arrange him comfortably. I went up to the great hall where the dinner was well underway. Sharp again played for delicate tidbits while Wallen crouched, miserable, by the cold door.

Wallen’s feet needed attention. I set to work with salve and clean rags, then looked at his face. It was red and swollen, as if he had been hit hard.

"I couldn’t sleep last night," he muttered. "The floor is too hard. And all day I had to practice on that damned lute. I kept making mistakes. I don’t think I’m going to survive this."

I put salve on his bleeding finger tips, and wondered about his face.

Just then the door to the Ladies’ tower opened, and two women walked out. One was the Lady Victoria, who examined me with a critical eye, and the other was the Lady Laurice. She swept her skirts back from a prominent belly and announced, "Tonight I will eat with the company."

"She is pregnant." Thankfully, Wallen spoke in a quiet voice, or he might have been heard throughout the silent hall. "She sticks out a full mile."

I shook my head as gently as I could, aware of the gazes from both the Lady Victoria and the Steward. I dared say nothing now.

"And I say she is." His voice raised in volume, catching the attention of nearby diners.

I made a swift, subtle motion for him to be quiet, and finished with his feet. I needed to leave.

He grabbed my arm angrily. "Talk to me, damn it."

Twisting free, I hastily blessed his feet, then added, to remind him of his place here, "Heathen child."

"What!" He jumped to his feet and cuffed my head. I scurried to the side, but he jumped on me and hit me again. There was anger, pent-up and fermented, in that blow, and he started to give me another one. He may not have inherited a full measure of his father’s cruelty, but he did have the Old Lord’s temper.

Sharp caught his hand, and pulled the attention of the room away from me. "What is this?"

"He insulted me!"

"What did he do – stick out his tongue?" This brought laughter from, and only from, the Lady Victoria. "You need a lesson, child. You do not – hit – a – Silent Monk."

In each pause, he backhanded Wallen across his face, and there was no playful acting here. Then Sharp turned to Lord Guerney with a bow, "Please forgive the interruption, my Lord. My apprentice is new, and very rude."

Wallen clenched his fists as he lay in the straw. He turned his face toward me, and I saw fury among the specks of blood.

I fled.

Chapter 12.3

2009-08-14T09:51:00.000-04:00

#

A little while later we sat on the cool floor of the wine cellar, our backs against the heavy wooden casks, with a pot of honey between us. We each had a large pewter cup filled with burgundy. No one had questioned us as we took our supplies and made our way to the basement, and I thought that strange. Setting down my cup, I signed, "At Songless the Brothers are not so free with the castle larder, but it seems to be different here."

Peter smiled bitterly within the shadow of his hood, and signed back, "My uncle would not deny me these pleasures – even though it was he would consigned me to the glory and poverty of God."

"Your uncle?" The mixture of wine and honey was good, but potent.

"Lord Guerney did not think it seemly that his sister should bear and raise a bastard, so I was given to Saint William’s when I was old enough to walk." He clenched his hand, just as I had seen my Lord Reinard clench his hand. Then Peter picked up his cup and drained it.

Sipping my own brew – which I was convinced would not help my affliction – I decided to brave a question that bothered me. As causally as I could, I signed, "Tell me – why do you wish ill of Lord Reinard?"

The monk helped himself to another serving of wine. "I don’t wish him ill – he gave me life, though denying me the enjoyment of it. I only wish him dead, so that my cousin will not be forced to marry him. He is cruel and hateful, an aged relic unworthy of her youth and beauty. She needs a strong, young, adventurous young man – and a home where I also would be welcome. And not just as a barefooted half-monk."

"He denied you the enjoyment of it?" I had already guessed the first part.

Peter downed the second drink in a single gulp. "I should be the next Lord Reinard, heir to Songless Castle – as if that were a prize! But he refused to marry my mother, after spoiling her, after learning of me. Instead he took a young maiden, fresh from the convent – who repaid his kindness by taking a Heathen for a lover. The fool."

"The Old Lord or the maiden?" I asked.

"The Heathen," Peter replied. He closed his eyes and tilted back his head.

And snored.

I looked at his face, still troubled in his sleep, so much like my own lord’s. So that was why Lady Laurice had used the lie that she had, and why she thought it would work.

The Old Lord’s legacy of suffering fell far wider than I, or anyone, had known.

Chapter 12.2.1

2009-08-13T09:43:00.000-04:00

#

I spent the day in menial tasks, as was expected of me, and waited to catch Wallen in a private place. I did not, for Sharp kept him busy with lessons on the lute, forcing him to learn the first of the cycle of songs. By late afternoon I had not succeeded.

I went out to the courtyard and watched the snow fall in a steady white curtain. A haycart turned into a drift before my eyes; a barrel became a mound. One lump rose up suddenly – it was a dog, shaking the thick shell from its fur. The clods flew off and ruined the perfection of the new-fallen snow, but within a minute the roughness was filled and smoothed by fresh fall. Such is the action of the goddess of snow, that she casually repairs the destruction of her work – but when her ire is roused, the catastrophe she brings is worse than any man or beast could ever wreak.

A hand touched my arm. I recognized Brother Peter by his height. He signed, "It is time for Vespers."

Vespers – the service just before dinner. Since I was not serving another in need – the only thing a monk considered more worthy than attending a service – I was bound to attend. Gods help me, what would I do?

Everything Brother Peter did, I realized.

I turned and followed him to the chapel. Although I had come here before, and had not been torn apart by the guardians of the chapel, I was still nervous as I stepped into its gloom. Today the stained glass windows were dull, and only candles lit the way. Their god, writhing in his eternal agony, seemed to glare at this Heathen intruder.

Peter dipped his hand int a silver chalice beside the door, drew a cross over his breast, and bowed to his god. He looked at me expectantly.

I peered into the chalice. Did it contain the elixir of truth? Would the anger of their god fall heavy on me if I touched it? Or was this the path by which he would steal my soul and keep me captive forever? I feared to touch it – until the steward of the castle, wringing his hands in a determined way, stepped into the chapel behind me. Should any action convince the man that I was not the Christian he thought I was, it would be this. I plunged my hand in, nearly knocking the chalice over, and dress a cross of my own. Then I bowed hastily and followed Peter to a bench at the very front of the room.

I had survived; I was intact. Among the enemy I bowed my head and thanked my gods for watching over me.

When the service began, I faced a second test, and this one I could not pass. The priest, standing before us but facing the god, sang out the service in a rich baritone. Everyone, including the Silent Monk beside me, sang back responses. Even if I could have sung, I did not know the words. All I could do was pull my hood deeper over my face and hope no one noticed that this monk was silent.

But then, who could have heard me over my companion’s strong tenor? The voice that only a god could have given to a man filled the room until nothing else could be heard. The service soon became a dialogue between the priest and the monk, holding all the glory, suffering, and forgiveness of their god. As I listened I came to believe that this was a god who would look kindly on a Heathen soul and hide him in the folds of his robes. Anger and fear could not stand against the pureness light of his love. Like a fountain of light, I thought, a fountain from a vision.
I breathed easily in the assurance of his charity.

Then the song faded away, leaving a peace upon the souls of the faithful.

The god in agony seemed no longer to be glaring at me, but smiling sadly. There was a great power here and a lesson here, even for a Heathen. Perhaps we were wrong to shun it all.
In silence, the people filed out of the chapel. Peter turned to me and signed, "Why did you not take part in the service, good brother?"

Quite truthfully, I responded, "I have lost my voice."

The monk pressed his lips into a thin line, then signed, "For that you must have wine with honey. Follow me."

No true Bard would refuse an offer of wine – though I doubted that the potion would restore my voice without an extra measure of magic.

Chapter 12.1

2009-08-12T09:41:00.000-04:00

"We have come to a truce, he and I," I signed quickly. "And to help heal the wound, I have dedicated this season to serving him."

A true enough statement.

The Silent Monk paused, then signed in quick little movements, like whispers. "Did you travel west with him – near Songless Castle?"

How much did he suspect? I framed my answer carefully. "I have been to Songless Castle, and recently, but it has been only the last few days that I have traveled with the Bard. Do you suspect him of treachery?"

"I care nothing of the Bard. Tell me of Songless – so news of it comes to us."

"It still stands."

"But what of Lord Reinard? How is his health?"

"Hale and hearty." I was almost truthful. "And looking with joy to his wedding day."

The monk a gesture with his hand – a Heathen gesture that accompanied a cry for justice from the god of fate. The monks often used it, though they refused to believe in that god. He then signed, "Will he never sicken and die?"

I started. Where was the good charity of my adopted order? I glanced back to where the ladies watched us with gleeful smiles.

"Look at this!" the Lady Laurice called out. "Brother Peter has found a friend!"

He bowed to her, then signed a quick blessing over me.

"Come to me, brother. I have much to tell you!"

I slipped around him and stole to the door, deep in thought. So the monk who looked like Wallen was known to her, and considered a confidant. Perhaps there was something here we could use?

Chapter 11.4.2

2009-08-11T09:31:00.000-04:00

I went to her and laid my hands upon her satin-covered waist, and played upon it as if it were my harp. I thought of my Elise as I did so, if her devotion and steadfast heart. Then I thought of Wallen and the Lady Laurice, of the Bard-in-training and the woman who would give everything she had to be with him. Barefoot, both of them, running over hill and dale to escape her father’s wrath.

Beneath my touch, she twisted back into my hands. Something had awakened within her, something that Christians tried to guard their women against. I could feel her hungering passion, which would soon be hunting for a target.

Was this how a Bard had claimed the heart of Wallen’s mother, and so earned a generation’s worth of misery for her people and her son?

On the couch, the Lady Laurice moaned softly. "Brother, you are wasted in that skirt."

"Is he that good?" The Lady Victoria glanced at me lightly. She played with a lock of her golden hair. "Perhaps I should introduce him to the wonders to be found without his vows."

"By the Virgin Mother!" Lady Laurice growled. "You will try for Saint Peter himself, at the very gates of Heaven! Let this monk be!"

"As you wish." The Lady Victoria rose, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Her gaze raked over me, and stopped at my bare feet. She opened her mouth, glanced at her Lady, and firmly shut it again.

I decided to leave quickly.

Straightening up, I signed a Heathen blessing on that fair waist, and turned to leave – then found myself face to face with another Silent Monk. My heart hammered – I was about to be exposed for the fake that I was.

The monk lifted his head enough for me to catch a glimpse of his features, and I saw that it was Wallen.

Taking an easy breath, but staying in character, I signed a greeting.

He returned the greeting, then said, "I see you have made peace with the Bard who meant to harm you."

But – what? Wallen already knew that. I looked down in puzzlement, and saw that his feet were calloused, tough – not torn by rocks and ice. I looked back at the monk’s face, and saw that he was not my lord. Not quite. But certainly close enough to be his brother.

Chapter 11.4.1

2009-08-10T11:05:00.000-04:00

#

Morning came with a dull yellow light that struggled through snow-filled clouds and failed to penetrate the darkness of the castle. Shrouded in shadows, I easily passed the guards and entered the forbidden cloister of the ladies tower. This time my quarry filled the workroom. Some spun, some wove, and some embroidered, all beneath braces of candles. At first the Lady Laurice was out of sight, but then I found her reclining on a bench strewn with pillows. She held a small one against her belly.

“The child, the child!” she cried out, rocking the pillow. “I feel it move!”

The room echoed with laughter.

“Tell me,” said the Lady Victoria, perching on a cushion beside the bench. “Have you named a father for your child?”

Lady laurice wrinkled her petite nose. “How about that sweet boy of yours? Father would believe that.”

“Please, my Lady, no. Lord Guerney would have him flayed and gutted, then used for target practice.”

I doubted that she was joking.

Lady Laurice shrugged. “Only if he finds the boy. Didn’t he leave months ago to sing his songs for Lord Reinard?”

“Sing? Oh, you mean the singer?”

Singer? Who was this whore, to call a third-string bard a singer?

To her credit, Lady Laurice gave her handmaiden a hard look. “I thought he was a Bard.”

The Lady Victoria shrugged.

“He’s come back for you,” cackled Auld Martha. A shuttlecock flew between her fingers. “He sang for supper, just last night.”

Lady Victoria sat up sharply. “Back? Oh, my Lady, you must name him the father, and quickly, before he comes to bother me. Besides, if Lord Reinard has heard about the child, and decided to marry you regardless, learning that the father was a Bard should certainly change his mind.”

“What was his name?”

Lady Victoria screwed up her delicate face in thought. “I think...”

Sharp, I thought. And he was in trouble.

“Sharp,” Auld Martha said for her. “He has an apprentice with him – not a bad looking creature, for a Heathen.”

The Lady Victoria rose. “I’ll have to try him out.”

No, I thought firmly. As much as I wanted my lord to give up his false lady, he did not need to replace her with a fickle one.

Auld Martha threw the shuttlecock. “Ah, but if you want a man with muscle, then he’s not for you. His face is strong, but he could hide behind a post. And he wears the poorest excuse for a beard that I have yet seen on a man.”

“Oh.” Lady Victoria sat back down.

Lady Laurice sat up, and spied me. “Is that our monk? Brother Peter, is that you?”

“Not unless he’s lost some height,” Lady Victoria replied. She knew her men – but fortunately, she did not dwell on my feet.

“No matter, he’ll still hold our secrets. Come to me, brother, and rub my back. The child has made it hurt.” She threw the pillow to the floor and rolled over.

Chapter 11.3

2009-08-07T10:18:00.000-04:00

As I lay in my bed of straw, my fingers ached for my harp. For decades it had been my constant companion, my voice when I could no longer sing, my comfort. With it I had woven bandages to bind a shattered heart, and arrows to pierce the demons of the night. In times past, it had fed me and given me a place to sleep, and now it assured my shelter at Songless. Friend, shelter, comfort – my harp was like a wife to me.

Perhaps that is why so few Bards marry – any woman who takes a Bard for a husband must remain mistress to his music. Likewise, we seldom stay in one place for too long a time, less our feet become like the roots of a great oak tree and fasten us to the ground. Music needs adventure and change.

Bards are not trees, but the wind which sweeps through the trees, spreading news and songs as we travel. Yet I would never be the wind, for the wind is not dumb. It howls, it cries, moans, and it shudders. It comes in the evening and is gone by morning.

I had stayed ten years at Songless, ten years in which ivy had marched across stone walls, and tree roots had dug deep into the soil. I had grown into the castle, become a part of it, and it was the only place I could live. And I had taken a wife.

I missed the touch of my harp, but I realized that I missed Elise more.

Chapter 11.2

2009-08-06T08:52:00.000-04:00

At the end of the evening, the dishes were cleared and the tables put away, so that soldiers and servants could lay down in the great hall. I headed toward the stables, a place of greater warmth and privacy, but Sharp stopped me. He guided me toward a dark corner, then pressed his hands to his chest. “Dear Brother, I must confess my heart, or it will shatter from anguish.”

“Heathens don’t confess and we don’t have hearts,” I signed back, but I do not know that he understood me.

“Hear me, please. My very heart has been shattered by the pains of love.”

Perhaps he should learn not to be so casual with his heart. I held out my hands and bowed my head.

Behind me, servants moved, but perhaps not as quickly as they could have.

“I once loved a lady, one so fair and so fine that the birds would sing at the mention of her name. She was sweet as nectar, as beautiful as the summer sky, as gentle as a lamb. Freely I gave her my love, and freely she returned it. Then, and for this sin I beat upon my breast and call upon the gods for mercy, I freely left her. Now I have returned, but she will not have me. She has taken a new lover, a soldier who is constant of heart and will, strong in body, weak in mind. She will not have me, and I am unconsolable.”

He did not looked grieved, not then nor when he was accepting his dinner from the fair fingers of maidens – but his message bothered me. How were we to persuade the Lady Victoria to help us now?

“Who is her new lover?” I signed slowly. “Will he help?”

“She lies under the spell of the captain of the Guard.”

Ouch.

I thought, then signed, “I will approach Lady Laurice myself.”

“How?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She stays in her tower, with only the company of her ladies.”

“And Silent Monks, remember?”

The darkness of his expression showed me that he did, and only too well.

Chapter 11

2009-08-05T09:43:00.000-04:00

Voices and rich scents filled the Great Hall. I could see Charles sitting with the other soldiers, filling himself with thick soup and beer. Sharp played before Lord Guerney’s table, and accepted bites of roast venison and blood blooding from the ladies. Wallen and I crouched with the beggars at the end of the hall, waiting for leavings.

I dressed my Lord’s torn and swollen feet with ointment, wrapped them in fresh rags, and signed a blessing.

"You’re good at that," he said, his fingers too stiff to sign, thankfully.

I signed back. "I’d better be – others are watching."

Behind me, the Steward was watching with more than a casual interest.

A serving maid came by with day-old bread. Wallen took a piece, and winced as he bit into it. "Is this worth it?"

"We can leave if you are willing to give up the Easter Green Forest."

He closed his eyes and seemed to consider the choice. I held my breath, hoping.

Then with a sigh he opened his eyes and looked at the high table. "Which of those is the Lady Laurice?"

"Don’t you know your own betrothed?"

His voice fell to a whisper, thankfully. "My father made the arrangements – for himself. I inherited her."

So the Lady’s fears had not been unfounded, after all. I quickly signed, "She’s not here."

"Then where..."

I glanced back and saw the Steward looking at me with a frown. "Enough of this," I signed quickly, then moved away.

My noble Lord Reinard dropped his stubbly chin onto his rag-covered chest – obviously disillusioned with the adventure that had barely begun. By the time this was over, I realized, he would be a different man. But for better or worse, I could not say.

Chapter 10.5.2

2009-07-27T14:49:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-23T09:40:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-22T10:10:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-21T10:38:00.000-04:00

#

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

2009-07-20T10:57:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-17T14:25:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-13T11:33:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-10T09:17:00.000-04:00

#

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

2009-07-09T10:22:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-02T09:25:00.000-04:00

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

2009-07-01T09:24:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 9

2009-06-30T09:58:00.000-04:00

We spent the rest of the evening making plans. If we took a month to prepare for the trip and a week to travel there, then we would arrive at the start of the Yule season. The castle would be too caught up in its festivities to pay much attention to a straggling band of travelers seeking shelter from the winter storms, and the long nights around the Solstice would aid our escape.

Lord Reinard served as my interpreter to Sharp, though he frequently changed my statements to serve his own purpose. Sometimes he omitted them all together – such as my request to have Sharp sing Elise and myself together.

"What?" Lord Reinard cried out, then brought up his hands to sign. "I thought you had already married Elise."

I replied, "Our spirits are joined, yes, but we have had no chance to stand with a Bard."

His gestures grew curt. "You must have a proper Christian ceremony, one with worth before the eyes of God. I’ll send for a Silent Monk, one who is a priest, and have you blessed properly."
Elise would pluck out my eyes and feed them to the blackbirds, if I suggested that. "We are Heathens, and a Singing would be more appropriate than a Christian wedding."

His hand clenched twice. "You will be married by a Christian Priest, or not at all. And if you are not married, then Elise will not sleep with you, but with the other women servants."

I ceded to him with a short nod. Stolen love is sweeter, anyway.

Watching us, Sharp asked, "What was that about?"

"Oh, just a discussion of how many horses we should take with us," my noble lord replied.

Chapter 8.5

2009-06-29T12:06:00.000-04:00

The beggar’s gloves lay folded on the table in front of Sharp, alongside the remains of a noble meal. Between gobbles he had given us the news of the country – the king was still poor in health, but no closer to death, his heir was still a fool, two northern lords had plotted to take the throne but had fallen on each other’s throats instead, and fishing on the wester coast had been bad all summer. There was also news from the Guildhall in Slatten: crumbs dropped casually, but they meant all the world to me. The old Grandmaster had passed on, and his position fell to Master Meiltung, who in turn gave his position of Master over the Bards-in-Training to Master Marlin, the youngest of the Masters. I missed a few sentences while I remembered Master Marlin, who had earned his first string the day I became a Bard-in-Training. I idolized him for the fanciful stories he could weave and the stories he could tell.

When I returned to the world, Sharp was telling of Breck, a Bard-in-Training who played so poorly before the Masters that he was told to leave them before he finished his first piece. They asked him to play again at the Winter Solstice, and he had replied that he could not sit before them again. At the time Sharp left Slatten, just after this, Master Irving was gently trying to get the boy to change his mind, but Breck had not agreed.

“So you’re a full Bard now?” Lord Reinard asked, as if he could not see the tattoo on Sharp’s hand.

“Third level.” Both his confidence and conceit had been restored. “Soon to be fourth, once I’ve killed Lord Reinard.”

My Lord choked on his wine. “Any particular reason?”

“He killed my father.”

I hadn’t known that; or even that Sharp knew who his father was. Still, if Sharp could no longer mourn for a childhood friend, then a dead father would have to do.

My lord stirred the wine in his cup. “When was this?”

“When I was but a child.” His voice dripped with such drama that I could almost hear the notes of a strummed lute. “He went traveling for the summer, and was here the day the Guildhall burned.”

“Ah. So it is the Bard-killer you are looking for.” My lord seemed to relax.

Sharp stood. “And I’ll give my life for just the chance to strike him!”

Around the room, soldiers set their hands on their weapons.

My lord waved his hand. “I regret to tell you this, Sharp, but you’ve come too late.”

“What? Who did this?”

“A sudden chill, last spring.”

“Then – who is the lord here at Songless?”

“I am.” Steel rang in his voice.

“You? But the Lady Laurice, she is to marry Lord Reinard!”

“We are betrothed, yes.”

“But – how? How could you be Lord Reinard?”

His name had never applied to his brains.

My lord smiled, a thin smile that always made me cringe. “When my father died, I inherited his title.”

Slowly this sank in. Then Sharp jumped to his feet and swept his plate to the floor. “You are the son of the Bardkiller? You are the get of that bony pile of worm-ridden hate, offspring of an ass and a whore, whose spit would poison the ground it touched, whose cowerdly offspring drown in the sweat from their nightmares, may he sit by Hel’s cold fire for all days with only shadows to eat and dry sand to drink, he?”

“The same,” Lord Reinard said, with a clench of his fists.

I gestured to the archers by the door, who were drawing their bowstrings.

Sharp looked, then took in all the soldiers around him. He sat back down. “I’ll be damned. And you say he’s dead?”

“Dead and buried.” His voice was cold as winter’s frost.

“So.” Sharp rubbed the point of his chin. He continued as if he had not abused his host so throughly, and luckily for him, I knew my lord’s hunger for music would forgive any insult. “This leaves me without the adventure that would have raised me to fourth level. I suppose I shall have to find another one. Well, I thank you for the dinner, but I think I should be on my way.”

Lord Reinard leaned forward with a crafty smile. “You need an adventure? Shall I make a suggestion?”

Chapter 8.4

2009-06-04T08:51:00.000-04:00

It is a long tale, when properly told, and I spent a good hour with it. A young man, the heir of a nearby castle, is taken by the Nightriders to the Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest, where the Silver-eyed dwell. He begs that he be allowed to return to his father’s house, and when Lord Oberon, the king of the Silver-eyed agrees, the boy makes him swear in moonlight that this will be done. In return, Oberon makes the boy swear that he will accept being returned to his father’s house. This the boy does gladly.

Lord Oberon gives a the boy a new name, Taynair, and clothes him as a Silver-eyed. He offers the boy food, drink, and a lovely maiden. The boy abstains from this, and thinks himself safe.
But Lord Oberon’s treachery is deep and old, and when he reveals himself to be the boy’s true father, the boy is transformed into one of the Silver-eyed and must accept his position as Oberon’s heir.

I finished with these words, "That is what you fight for, my lord: a wood with a heart so cold and evil that you could never trust the soul of any man you sent into it."

Lord Reinard laughed. "I seek a pretty tract of land with a pretty tale."

As I raised my hands to argue further, the door opened. Charles entered, disheveled and breathless, and the soldiers with him held a struggling figure wrapped in a ratty blanket.
Lord Reinard frowned. "You didn’t have to bring him here against his will."

"You will want to question him, my lord."

"I will?"

"Indeed."

Charles’ manner made me nervous.

"It will be hard to question a man who is wrapped up like that."

"Yes, my Lord." Charles nodded to the soldiers, who pulled the cloth away from the man’s body. Before it was off his head, however, the prisoner started to swing his limbs and kick. Ison and Charles knocked him down and sat on him while Jason tied his hands and feet. Finally he was hauled back up to face Lord Reinard.

"Filthy Christian dog!" Sharp spat out. He was thinner than when I had seen him last, and his fine clothes had been changed for rags.

"Yes, that’s the man," Lord Reinard said. He paused, then said, "I know you."

"Foul offspring of a donkey and a whore," Sharp shouted.

"More of an ass, actually. Sharp – do not you not remember me?"

The Bard stopped and cocked his head. "Wallen?"

"Indeed! Sharp, will you sing for me?"

Sharp looked sideways at the soldiers. "Wallen, are you in charge of these soldiers?"

"Yes, I am."

"Could you ask them to let me go?"

"Will you promise not to fight if they do?"

"I won’t fight them, if they do not strike me first."

"Fair enough." Lord Reinard smiled his most innocent smile and gestured to the soldiers.

Reluctantly, they freed the Bard. "Now, would you care for some food or drink?"

Sharp did look as if he needed it. He took a step toward the high table, then saw me. "Monk! You owe me a sword, monk!"

I nodded.

"I would prefer that you not attack my advisor, either. Please, sit and eat."

Now Sharp seemed to waver between the offer of food and the promise of revenge. "Answer me two questions, first."

"Of course."

"What are you doing here, Wallen?"

"I live here. And your second?"

"Do you serve Lord Reinard?" Sharp spat the name out.

"Not exactly. Now, a feast and then some music!"

Trust a Christian to never give a straight answer.

"What happened to Gerard?"

My lord paled at that question. Ignoring that it was a third, and not in the bargain, he answered slowly, "I erred, Sharp. I honestly thought that he would be safe with me – but the Old Lord discovered him. He silenced Gerard."

"But where is he?" Sharp cried. "Where do his bones lie?"

"Above his lady, most nights," Jason muttered.

Sharp frowned.

"The Old Lord silenced him, but did not kill him," Lord Reinard explained.

Sharp frowned deeper. "What do you mean?"

"Just as your Lord Guerney tried to do." His fair hand flipped towards me.

"I serve the Guild, not a Christian lord," Sharp snapped. Yet, as he followed Lord Reinard’s gesture, I could see that he was finally starting to think. His face pulled down, as if this was very hard for him. "No. You’re not – are you?"

I nodded.

He stood there, stunned. Then said, "I tried to kill you."

I nodded again.

"That’s why you were playing those songs, wasn’t it? You were trying to tell me."

I felt like a doll, with so much head bobbing.

"But you can’t talk."

My hands lifted. "I can talk, just not with my mouth."

"He says plenty," Charles said. "You just can’t listen."

Chapter 8.3.2

2009-06-03T09:52:00.000-04:00

Oh, no. No, my lord, no, no. But I could see in his face that the idea was set. I signed, "We can’t just walk in. I’m well-known there, and your reputation precedes you."

"We’ll be in disguise." He leaned back and regarded me with half-closed eyes. "We could grow beards, and dress as commoners. Wait – we could be Bards! Yes!"

"You can’t." My hands sliced the air. "You don’t play any sort of instrument, and you don’t know the songs and stories. As for me, I can’t sing – the most I could be is a Silent Monk!"

He smiled. "No one would ever suspect a Silent monk of kidnapping. And I’m sure I learned enough in Slatten to pass for a Bard-in-training."

"You’re too old for that."

"I was a late convert."

"I was a late convert, and many years have passed since then."

"And I’m a slow student."

That was believable. Still, "No Bard-in-training would be wandering during the winter. Not unless he were in the service of a full Bard."

Lord Reinard paused. "So we still need a full Bard. I’ll send my soldiers out to look for one."

"You not find a Bard within miles of this castle."

"But a minstrel would do just as well, right? We could paint a harp on his hand, or have him wear beggar’s gloves. He wouldn’t need to fool Lord Guerney – just the common people would be enough."

"The Heathens will be much harder to fool."

He ignored me, caught up as he was in his dream. "I thought I saw such a minstrel in the market square. Sir Charles, take Ison and James and find this man."

They left, and my lord turned to me. "Now, shall we have some music?"

"My harp is still packed away."

"Then tell me a story."

My hands were tired, but I thought to try one last time to dissuade him. And so I told the tale of Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest.

*****
This story is available in its entirety by following this link. It is an original story of mine, and is available as free web fiction.

Chapter 8.3

2009-06-02T08:56:00.000-04:00

Lord Guerney’s letter lay among the scattered remains of our dinner. It began with a vague, non-committal missive, but ended with an assurance that the wedding would take place soon – no later than the next spring. With my hands I wove my version of events, and concluded with, “Marriage to Lady Laurice would result in your joining to a cruel and treacherous people. I think you should consider this before pursuing the matter.”

My lord smiled tightly and said, “Don’t forget, Gerard, that cruelty runs in my blood, as well.”

I was reminded of this every day. I chose my next words carefully. “It is their treachery which is most worrisome. The lady is more likely to find a child than admit to this falsehood. Lord Guerney will swear that this child is your son and heir, conceived after the legal betrothal. But he would raise the child to be loyal to himself, and when he is old enough, the child will come and kill you as you sleep. The the Lady Laurice...”

“What?” Lord Reinard shouted, startling Elise. “Where did that idea come from?”

“The Ballad of John Marks.”

Lord Reinard waved me off. “That wouldn’t happen. But he could use the child to embarrass me, should I try to break the betrothal. Which I will not do, because I will not lose the Eastern Green Forest.”

“Why, my lord, why do you want that thicket of half-dead trees and mud-clogged creeks? It is inhabited only by night monsters and the Silver-eyed.”

He scoffed. “You pagans are always running from your fairy tales. That wood had nothing worse in it than good hunting and good winter fuel. And control of it would shelter this castle from an attack from the north.”

Behind me, Elise muttered, “He hasn’t lived beside it, has he?”

“Still,” he went on. “I don’t care to have this seed of trouble waiting to grow. I must expose the Lady Laurice before he story bears fruit. How might we get her to come here?”

“Other than going to Rockridge and dragging her out, I don’t know.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And how shall we do this?”

Chapter 8.2

2009-06-01T10:00:00.001-04:00

As the carriage entered the courtyard, Lord Reinard bolted from the doorway with one fair hand fumbling with the clasp of his cape and the other reaching for me. I had barely stepped onto the ground when he enveloped me in a welcoming hug.

Had he missed his music that much?

"How was your trip? Learn any news? Any new songs? God, how I’ve missed you, Gerard – it’s a lonely supper without a dessert of music. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can’t wait to hear you play. Oh – and any news of the Lady Laurice?"

I pushed him back to free my hands. "You would be wise not to marry her."

"What?" His blue eyes opened in astonishment. Snowflakes collected on his long, blonde lashes, and – I noticed disrespectfully – on the tip of his nose. "What do you mean? No – don’t tell me now. Don’t tell anyone until you’ve spoken to me in private."

I had a choice?

He glanced back at the carriage, where Charles was helping Elise step down. "Who is this?"
"My lady," I signed quickly. "I beg that you allow her shelter here."

"Oh. Of course." He turned to her, and bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elise. I am Lord Reinard, and I pray you will find my humble castle a comfortable home."

She blushed. "I beg yer pardon, my lord. I thought you’d be much older."

"My mother was my father’s last wife," he explained smoothly. "The only one to give him an heir. Come inside, my lady, where it is warm and we can feast on fine food and music."

She gave me a worried glance. "I’m Gerard’s lady, but not the high-born lady you think. I’m but a kitchen maid."

"If you are the wife of my friend and advisor, then you shall be a lady of my castle." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her in.

I blew out my breath. Wife, my Lord Reinard had just pronounced. Now she would not rest until we had been properly sung together – but the Bard Hall here was only bitter ashes, and I did not see myself leaving any time soon.

Chapter 8.1

2009-05-29T10:14:00.000-04:00

We did not rush back to Songless Castle. None of us was anxious to account for ourselves to our lord, or to explain why his betrothed refused to come to him. The inns along the way were much more comfortable than the carriage, and I had my harp and my lady to occupy me. Jason and Ison had their dice and the beer, and Charles had his prayer book. When the storms rolled through, we stayed longer than we had to in rented rooms.

It was with regret that we rolled up the road along the Gateway River and into the town below the castle. Snowflakes danced in the air, and the puddles in the street were crusted with ice. On the motte above us, the castle towers thrust up into the cloud-filled sky.

"Is that Songless?" Elise asked, peering out the window.

I nodded.

"It’s small, and quiet."

It did seem so, after Rockridge.

"We’ve only got the river to guard," Charles explained.

We turned a corner and trundled past the church. The doors were still tied shut with black cloth, though it was ragged with age. Elise looked at this, then peered up at the bell tower, muffled in swaths of black cloth. "Why is that building in mourning?"

"It’s our Cathedral," Charles said solemnly, though Cathedral was much too big a word for the building. "It’s closed to worship, until the day that the Old Lord makes his amends with the Bishop of Slatten. Though that may be hard, what with him being judged by a higher judge now."

"Did you ever go there?"

He nodded. "I was baptized properly – but it was closed before I could take communion."

"And where’s the Guildhall?"

I pointed to the other side of the street, where snow-draped bushes covered the rotten remains of scorched timbers.

She frowned.

"That was the Bard-killers best work," Charles said, but his voice was sour. "That’s what upset the church."

Chapter 7.5

2009-05-28T08:38:00.000-04:00

We were to meet at the tavern – at least, that was what my guards had told me. As I walked across the muddy courtyard to the roughhewn two-story building, however, I saw no sign of my carriage. Worse, there was no light shining from the upper rooms, as if they were occupied, and no sign of my guards in the common room.

There was, however, the Captain from Rockridge, along with four of his favorite henchmen. They were speaking to the owner as I slipped through the door.

"I can’t imagine that they would have gone far, not with the one man in such bad shape," said the Captain.

"I haven’t seen them," the owner said. "No one’s stopped here tonight, other than the usual."
A scruffy trio beside the fireplace watched over their battered tankards.

"Did you hear anyone come through the town?"

"Oh, aye. Someone came through in the early evening. The dogs bayed like crazy. But I didn’t hear them stop." The man saw me, and his face twisted in anger. "You, moocher! Get out! I don’t need your kind here!"

Not a generous man, I thought darkly, but his actions pleased the Captain.

"Gwenna!" the owner yelled at a woman who polishing tableware. "Show that monk what we do with Christian dogs!"

She set down her work and walked toward me. I could see from the charms hanging around her neck that she was a Warlocker, and from the jewels on her bracelet I knew that she was a successful one. I left quickly.

Not three steps from the door, however, her hand caught my arm. "Walk with me, monk."
I raised my hands in question.

A flicker of light, like a candle flame, burned in her palm. She lifted it, and peered beneath my hood, then smiled. "My sister has good taste."

I tilted my head.

"And I can see you’re honest, too. Tonight you sleep beneath my roof. Tomorrow you and your friends will go on your way."

I blew out my breath in relief.

"And that will give me to lay a spell on you." Her smile deepened into craftiness. "If you should prove false to my sister, then you will find that you will never love another again. You might as well join the church, if you do that."

I nodded, accepting her terms. They were not objectionable to me. Any man who takes a woman away from her sister and then treats her falsely deserves such a fate.

Gwenna smiled again. "My sister has indeed chosen well."

Chapter 7.4

2009-05-27T18:03:00.000-04:00

The tunnel was a twisty path that bore like a hungry worm into the flesh of the mountain. The floor was rough, litter with stones and slabs rock, and sometimes I splashed through pools where death-white fish darted from my feet. They had no eyes. The damp walls were covered with a hard, crusty rock. Sometimes it seemed to flow like water, other times it bulged like mud, and sometimes it was hard and sharp, tearing my skin where I touched it. The ceiling soared out of range of my candle in places, and in other places it dipped so low that I was forced to bend double to pass.

Then I turned right, and walked into the largest room I had ever seen, a hall for the gods. I stood on a cliff high above the floor, gazing down. There was a hole in the high ceiling, and the moonlight lit what my candle could not. To one side of me fell a stone waterfall, cascading down a hundred feet or more, but with only a trickle of moisture on its surface. To the other side of me a dragon seemed to sit on a stone pedestal, his tail wrapped around his massive legs, his wings folded over his great body. Before me stood a tree, as tall as the tree of life, and I could even make out a rodent gnawing on its roots and the cock roosting in its branches. Further on, in the dimness that was hidden like the future to mortals, I could see more shapes.

Then the moonlight disappeared, and I had only the candle to light the path just before me.
I could see a switchback trail leading down the cliff, and I followed it. I walked past meditation holes and empty fire pits – but saw no skeletons. Whoever had come here had left again – so there had to be a way out.

At the bottom of the cliff I saw a burning fire, though I had not noticed the light before I saw it. An old man, wrapped in a monk’s robe, crouched beside it. His cloudy eyes stared into the vast emptiness of the room, but at the sound of my footsteps he turned to me. I stopped, unsure of how a dumb man could talk to a blind man.

Then he smiled, showing a single, crooked tooth, and pulled a bit of bread and a flask from his bag. I took them, and ate gratefully – the walk had been long and I was tired.
But what would I give him in return? Elise wore my jewels and my clothes – I had nothing more than a monk would have.

Then I saw that he had only a stick of firewood. There was a large pile several feet away, but it was untouched. Of course it was, because he was blind and did not know it was there.
I gathered up as much wood as I could carry, and brought it back. I did this several more time, until he had a stack by his knee that would keep him for days.

He put his hand upon the stack, and smiled his toothless thanks. Then he signed a blessing on me, pointed off to his right, and signed again, "Walk out through the teeth, and do not fear."
I returned his blessing, heretical as it was for me to do so, and walked the way he showed me. I saw the teeth – a double row of spires reaching up from the floor and down from the ceiling, and stepped carefully between them.

Beyond the teeth my candle flame bent furiously away from a tunnel. It was short, and soon I stepped out behind a large rock and into the cool, damp night. The road lay ahead, and just below me waited the town of Krast.

Chapter 7.3.4

2009-05-26T10:29:00.000-04:00

Christians are a strange people, often inviting personal assault so that they can demonstrate their faith by not fighting back, yet killing if they think their god has been insulted. It is a strange logic to think that their god would demand violent justice when they may not, but people are rarely logical. Why should we expect more of the gods?

So it was that I, standing beside a devoted follower of the faith and wearing his trappings as a disguise, felt myself to be in grave danger. On the other hand, Silent Monks are sworn to do good by all.

And the way back led me into the hands of Sharp.

We stopped before an old, cracked screen, its brittle frame propped up by a heavy trunk. The monk handed me his candle, then stooped and shoved the trunk away. He pulled back the screen, exposing a crevice in the wall. Taking back his candle, he motioned for me to enter.
Nervously, I stepped in – and my heart slammed in my chest when I heard the screen move back. I turned as a loud scrape announced that the trunk was back in place. Through the cracks in the screen I could see his candlelight, and how it faded as he walked away.

I was trapped, quite alone, and no one knew I was there. For so many years I had prayed for such obscurity and loneliness, yet now I wanted to give it back. I had met a wonderful woman, and I did not want to die without her ever knowing what had become of me. Yet it seemed I had no choice, for I was trapped in a tunnel of rock, in silence, and when my flickering candle burned down, I would not even see death come.

Flickering candle. Candles do not flicker when there is no draft. The flame bent away from the depths of the tunnel; fresh air came from below. This wasn’t a trap, but an escape. I thanked the strange monk for his generosity, and took the path before me.

Chapter 7.3.3

2009-05-15T08:27:00.001-04:00

Nothing happened. The door closed behind me, and I was wrapped in flickering shadows. At the front of the room, a prayer table stood before an ornate gilded screen, and above it hung a sculpture of their god, in the form of a man nailed to a wooden cross. Briars cut his head and deep slash wounded his side. I knew that the Christians worshiped the painful death of a man, claiming that all goodness and mercy flowed from this act of horror, but I was not prepared for the emotion which flowed from this statue, their god. It was not anger and judgement, which I would have expected, but grace and forgiveness.

Is this, then, why they so freely tortured others? Did they expect that all people would follow their example of their god, and forgive those who hurt them the most? It made a strange sort of sense.

A dozen people sat in the pews, waiting, but for what I did not know. Nor did I know what I would do when the monk took me before them, and I would be expected to sing. Perhaps the guardians of the Christian shine were not the stone gargoyles, but the flesh and blood within. My heart now slammed against my rib cage as I looked at the man on the cross and saw that there were worse ways to die than by Sharp’s sword.

But the monk turned and took me to one of the alcoves on the side of the chapel, where a brace of candles lit the statue of a robed man. The monk bowed to the statue, then signed to me, "Go now while the Bard thinks you are in the service."

"Go where?"

The monk pointed behind the statue. Then, plucking two candles from a basket beside the statue, he lit them from one of the candles in the brace, and led the way to a hidden entrance. Beyond it was a tightly circling staircase leading down. Songless Castle has a tower which is five stories high; I think we traveled twice that distance.

We came out in a rough cut chamber filled with books and old furniture. The room smelled musty and mildewed, and everything was covered with a layer of fine, white dust. We followed a winding path past racks of wine bottles, battered chests, and faded screens. Our feet left marks on the floor, and empty shadows danced along the walls. This was a room rarely visited, a place to leave things, a tomb for forgotten dreams.

What better place to murder a Pagan intruder?

Chapter 7.3.2

2009-05-13T08:14:00.001-04:00

Just then a arm slid though mine, and I was guided away from the keep door and toward a smaller door in a castle tower. My savior was a Silent Monk, the taller of the two I had seen singing in the chapel days before. His hands moved as he said, "We must not be late for prayers, brother."

I nodded.

Within the shadow of his hood, I could just barely see his face. It was narrow, with a strong chin and a beak of a nose, and sharp blue eyes set close together. He was half-familiar to me – when had I seen him? During my one visit to Rockridge, years before? In Slatten? A visitor to Songless Castle? Nothing seemed right.

This was not the time to discuss our previous acquaintance, however. Sharp followed us closely as the monk led me to the chapel, his sacred shrine. What would happen when I put my Pagan foot upon that sacred floor? Would their god come out in fury and fire, and consume me where I stood? Would the stone guardians on the lintel come to life and tear me limb from limb? Would their angels and demons rip out my soul and feed my flesh to their dogs? Master Meiltung had told us all these stories, and more, and my heart hammered as I came closer to my doom.

Wary, Sharp stopped at the threshold, while I was led like a sacrifice over it.

Chapter 7.3.1

2009-05-12T08:59:00.000-04:00

My plan was to loiter in Rockridge castle until midnight, when I would slip out the sally port and then make my way down the mountainside to the town of Krast, where the others would be waiting at the tavern. It was a logical place for a badly wounded emissary to spend the night, and the visit of a Silent Monk to a dying man should bring no suspicion. My plans, however, faced a sudden fault in the form of the Bard leaning against the doorsill.

Sharp was wrapped in his traveling cloak, with his lute strapped to his back. His arms were crossed – but at the sight of me his narrow chin jerked upwards. Monk, he mouthed, as he reached for his sword.

Damn it, he should have been in the Great Hall, playing for his supper and smiling for his bed, not preparing himself for a journey. Once again I had no sword to defend myself, for it was locked in my trunk. Along with Skyfire.

Sharp’s eyes narrowed as his hand closed on nothing. But he still had his hands, and the power to pull back my disguise. He moved toward me.

Chapter 7.2

2009-05-11T08:38:00.000-04:00

Torches barely touched the sodden darkness of the courtyard where my carriage waited for us. Sounds of merriment came from the Great Hall, where Lord Guerney and his castle enjoyed their dinner while we were being sent on our way without ours. Only a few soldiers, the castle Steward, and a Silent Monk were there to watch us leave.

Jason and Ison came out first, carrying my trunk between them. They carefully lifted it to the top of the carriage and lashed it down, then went back to get the rest of their things. When those were secured, Ison climbed up to the driver’s seat while Jason went back to help Charles with my limp form. I was wrapped up tight against the cold, with scarf and gloves, and it was obvious that I was in no shape to travel. The Silent Monk signed a blessing at the travesty.

As I was placed into the carriage, the Steward came forward and spoke to Charles, and handed him a folded letter. He tried to look into my face, but I was not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing his Lord’s handiwork. I lay slumped in the seat.

Jason took his seat beside Ison, and Charles climbed in and shut the carriage door. And then the Captain of the guard moved forward with a tall, muscular man. The Captain gestured to the other man, who hefted a broadsword and drove it into the side of my trunk.

My men promptly protested this destruction of my property, but could do nothing else. The Captain responded that if were not smuggling anything from the castle, then no harm had been done.

Then the castle gates opened. My carriage rolled through, and the doors shut soundly behind it. I turned, pulling my bare feet from the ankle deep mud, and walked toward the keep. On my way I signed a blessing on the ashen-faced Steward who still stared after the departed carriage.

Chapter 7.1

2009-05-08T08:41:00.000-04:00

The hard bed slammed into my mouth as I was unceremoniously dumped by the soldiers. I twisted my face upwards with a grimace, and saw the Captain smirking with delight. Then he gestured at the soldiers who had my guardsmen pinned against the wall, motioning them to leave.

"What did you do to him?" Charles demanded to know.

"Gave him what he deserved," the Captain gloated.

"Lord Reinard will not be pleased with this."

"Lord Reinard had best think twice before sending a spy into another’s castle. You have half an hour to pack your things, and then you will be escorted out of the holding." He spun on his heal and left with his men.

Charles snatched up his sword and crossed the room to the door, and flung it open. There he found himself face to face with two armed soldiers. He drew his blade from its sheath and said, "Step aside, fools."

I snapped my fingers at him, then waved back at the scattered belongings. Honor and pride were delicate things – but our interests were best served by leaving quickly and safely.
Obviously disappointed, he retreated and closed the door.

I lay back and closed my eyes. I needed a few minutes to calm my stomach and my emotions. I could not afford much more than that, however. In the night, I would certainly have fresh nightmares as old demons crept out and danced in my head, but just then I needed to think clearly.

There was a thump on the shutter. Jason opened them enough to peek out, then opened them wide. A pair of feet dangled outside the window. Elise’s feet.

Jason and Ison reached out and helped her in. The rope she had climbed down still hung from somewhere above, trailing rain into the room.

"The corridor is filled with guards." She untied a bag from her waist, and pulled out bread and cold meat, which she offered to my men.

"We know that," Ison grumbled. "There would have been a small war if Gerard hadn’t called us back."

"Three against twenty is poor odds." Elise took a damp cloth from her apron pocket and started washing down my face. "Oh, my poor, poor Bard."

From the look on Charles face, he had not known how bad the situation was. "We’re being sent away."

"He’s an evil man, Lord Guerney is, sending Gerard off when he’s in such a bad way. He could die."

"What did he do?"

"Cut his tongue out, he did. They showed it off in the dining room, even."

Now my men looked puzzled. "A whole tongue?" Jason asked.

"Aye."

Charles frowned. "I don’t see how."

"You use a good sharp knife," Elise snapped.

"Yes, but..."

"There’s mischief here, isn’t there?" Jason said.

I nodded.

It was Elise’s turn to look confused.

"It’s why he doesn’t talk, ye see," Jason said quietly. "The old lord, the Bard-killer, he took exception to this child’s pretty voice. He took it out ten years ago."

"But the tongue, and the blood..." Her voice trailed off.

"Some sort of mischief. And where’s there’s mischief, there’s danger. The sooner we quit this place, the better." He gathered his things quickly into his bag.

Then Charles, showing a rare intelligence, said, "And we need to take her with us. She’s in danger, too."

"But I can’t go. Not without my Lord’s leave."

"You need to go without his leave or knowledge," Charles insisted. He pointed to my trunk. "Can we hide her in that?"

Chapter 6.8

2009-05-07T08:45:00.000-04:00

#

My limp, battered form was dragged into the Great Hall where all the castle folk waited to eat. I was the pre-dinner entertainment. Sharp, sitting at the foot of the Lord’s own table, grinned at my wretchedness. The Lady Victoria could not take her gaze from my bare feet, her expression one of recognition and horror. Elise, serving at the edge of the room, set down her tray and looked at if she might cry. Lord Guerney heaved his bulk from his chair and stepped down to stand in front of me.

"So, are we now what we appear to be?" He laughed.

Just like your daughter? I vomited blood at his feet.

"Excellent. Go back to room and pack – I’ll have my answer to Lord Reinard sent there before much longer. You can leave straight away."

And be on the road in the winter darkness, prey for the wolves and the Silver-eyed. Not even my Lord Reinard deserved such a man for a father-in-law.

Chapter 6.7

2009-05-04T12:50:00.000-04:00

"Enough screaming," the old man said. I was aware that the younger man was back in the room. "You’re fainted now."

I was grateful. My throat was sore from this command performance, which had been encouraged by a red hot poker held uncomfortably close to my fingers.

The younger man held up a blackish slab of flesh. "Fresh cut, even. He must have owed you a big winning."

"I caught him with the Miller’s daughter."

But I thought she was..." The younger man shook his head. He held up a bladder. "And he sent some fresh blood, too."

"Good." The old man took the bladder, then forced its sour contents into my mouth. I swallowed a good bit, but the rest splashed out onto my face and clothes. He chuckled. "Excellant. Couldn’t have done a better job myself."

Chapter 6.6

2009-05-01T09:34:00.000-04:00

#

I struggled as they forced me out of the hall, through the rain-soaked back gardens, and down a stairway cut into the mountainside. In a rough-cut room, dimly lit by smouldering torches and ringed by barred cells, they chained me to a table. Iron rings cut into my ankles and wrists as I strained against them.

"Lively one, aren’t you," muttered the Captain.

Two men rose from a bench at the side of the room. One was grizzled and balding, with sunken cheeks where he had no teeth. The other was young, probably an apprentice. Both wore leather aprons and high boots, and they stank of old blood and offal.

"What’s this?" asked the older man.

The Captain jerked his thumb at me. "His Lordship wants his tongue."

"What does he want to know?"

"Nothing. Just take his tongue and be quick about it."

The old man shook his head. "I don’t like no audience. I’ll send for you when I’m finished."

The Captain stared at him; the old man stared back, arms crossed. Finally the Captain turned and left, taking the other soldiers with him.

"Well, now," the old man said, slapping his hands together. "We’ve got work to do. Jesse, get those irons on the fire."

The stench of smoke, the sizzle of iron on the coals, the clank of tools by my head – it all brought back bad memories. The old man tightened leather straps on my face, and forced my mouth open. Then he paused, and brought the lamp closer.

"What’s this?" he said, poking inside my mouth with a stick.

If he couldn’t see for himself, I certainly couldn’t tell him.

The younger man peered in. "That’s a problem. Should we take what’s left?"

No, by all the gods. No.

"Nothin’ to gain by it." The old man tapped his stick on the table by my ear. "If his Lordship wants to see a tongue, he’ll want to see all of it. Tell you what – run over to the butchery and tell Elias I need a pig’s tongue, and it’ll make us even for last weekend. If’n he stays silent."

Then he leaned over my face. "And you better stay silent, too."

"Who’s he going to tell?" asked the younger man.

The old man shrugged. "If his Lordship finds out about this, it’ll be the pear for all of us."
I felt the blood run out of my face at that, and the young man whitened. He left without further comment.

Chapter 6.5

2009-04-30T08:41:00.000-04:00

On the way to the great hall, I was pushed into walls and tripped no fewer than seven times. Finally, bruised and bleeding, I was presented to Lord Guerney, who sprawled in his massive chair. “He didn’t come peacefully?”

“We found Sharp the Bard bound in his room. This dog intended violence to the man.”

Why would I intend that? The child had only tried to kill me.

“Well, then,” Lord Guerney huffed. “So it seems that you are not at all what you seem. Are you a spy?”

I shook my head.

“A spy, yes. But for who? Not Lord Reinard. My dear friend would never be so base as to send a spy into my castle. No, he must believe that you are as dumb as you act – and therefore won’t be insulted if I put truth into that dull fiction.” He looked at my keepers. “Take this man below and have his tongue ripped out.”

That bastard.

Chapter 6.4.3

2009-04-29T08:32:00.000-04:00

When’s Sharp’s gag was removed, he wasted no time in spitting on me. "Christian Dog."

Charles shifted his hand, bringing it closer to his sword hilt, but I shook my head at him.

"Hear now," said Ison. "He ain’t no Christian. Don’t insult the child."

Sharp glowered. "He serves a Christian Lord, doesn’t he?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Lord Reinard ain’t heard a Christian service in all his life."

That wasn’t true, I knew, as he had often visited the cathedral in Slatten to feast on the singing in the Mass. However, he had never participated in the ceremonies, choosing only to observe.

"What about his last wedding? I hear the Bishop of Slatten himself preformed the service."

"There ain’t been a proper wedding nor funeral in Songless since his lordship was a child. There ain’t no bells to ring, nor Bards to sing. Everyone under twenty is an unclaimed bastard. If it weren’t for the Silent Monks blessing all the babies, they’d most be changlings. And I still think many of the youngsters – " he glanced towards Charles – "are truly fairy born."

Charles narrowed his gaze and touched his crucifix. "My father in heaven died that I might live."

"Well, now," said Jason. "I’ve heard that my father enjoyed my creation."

I motioned for silence, then knelt with my harp before me. Touching my fingers to the strings, I called forth the tune I had worked on the night before, now named Taverns and Journeys.

"What is this?" Sharp snarled. "An audition?"

I shook my head and played The Story of Sir Rowen and The Two Red Knights. Unfortunately, my fingers fumbled over a tricky part.

"What a nice little parrot you are," Sharp sneered. "But not good enough. Do you want me to teach you how to play?"

Damn it, but it hadn’t played the thing for ten years. Since it was to have been one of the pieces I played before the Masters to earn my first string, I had refused to play it for Lord Reinard.

"So, have you anything decent to listen to?"

Now I played our private tune. Doing so, I looked into his eyes, now wide with surprise. Then they narrowed in anger.

"Where did you get that from? What miserable half-crazed minstrel played that for you?"
That was an easy question to answer. I pointed at him.

"Oh, no, not from me. But you do know what happened to Gerard, don’t you?"

I nodded and pointed to myself.

"Then tell me!"

His name had never referred to his mental powers. I looked around for my chalk and slate, and spied them on the desk. I stood and reached.

The door crashed open, and armed soldiers poured into the room. A mailed fist grabbed my hair and a cold knife kissed my neck. "Drop your things," the Captain of the guard said to my men.

They obeyed, sensibly.

The Captain shoved me into the hands of another soldier, then went over and freed Sharp. He turned back. "Is this how you Christians think to treat a Bard?"

I shrugged, and was rewarded with a slap.

Sharp stood and dusted himself. Then he stood and looked me in the eye. "Christian filth."

I growled back.

He hit me with his closed fist, then lifted his head and stalked from the room.