Chapter 17.1.3

"Peter, and I am the voice of Gerard."

Grandmaster Meiltung crossed his thick arms. "How did you come by that?"

"It is my vocation, given to me by the Lord God himself."

The Grandmaster scowled, then turned to the knight. "Are you part of this, as well?"

Charles straightened himself and peered down at the other man. "It is my sworn duty to protect and serve Gerard of Jerden. I am Sir Charles."

The grandmaster looked from one to the other, then at me. "You don’t travel light, do you?"
I shrugged, then signed. Peter translated. "But what about the two women?"

Grandmaster Meiltung threw back his head and laughed. "There’s a story worth telling, even it keeps up standing in the snow! Wallen’s lady, for all her rags, must have been born to a noble family. No sooner had she set foot in the Bardhall than she began to give orders. The floor before the fire wasn’t good enough for her, and she must have better lodging – though Wallen hasn’t a penny in his purse. And she must eat better than in the common dining room. To keep the peace I gave her a room among the masters – but declared that Wallen must sleep with the Bards-in-training. At the end of the room with the smallest of them. Heh!"

But what of Elise?

"And as for the other, well, no sooner did Sharp her his than she turned and pushed him down the steps, grabbed up her bundle, and ran for the Warlocker’s shop!"

I grinned as bitterness faded from my heart. Charles laughed out loud, long and hearty, then added, "That Bard will learn not to claim what isn’t his."

"Is she yours?"

"His." The knight jerked his meaty thumb towards me. "They’re married."

Almost. I scratched my beard.

Both Master Iving and Grandmaster Meiltung looked at me sharply. "Bards and Warlockers should not mix," grumbled the grandmaster.

"She’s not a Warlocker," I protested.

As Peter translated it, the grandmaster frowned. "Maybe not. But even the wife of a Bard should steer clear of Warlockers."

Not a good time to mention that my lady’s sister was a Warlocker, then.

"Let’s be on our way," announced Grandmaster Meiltung. He kicked snow over the fire to bury it, then mounted his horse.

Master Iving snapped the reins in his hand, and the cart moved forward. Then he spoke to me, quietly. "It’s not the Warlocker who is dangerous, but the vixen she has for an apprentice. Three years ago, she trapped poor Treble with her games."

Treble. That was someone I had not thought about for years. He had been a toddler when I first came to the Bardhall, an orphan who was always underfoot. His dark eyes and dusky skin marked him as a child of the Wizardlands, and it was rumored that he was the offspring of a powerful wizard. Therefore, he must have the same dark nature as a Wizard. His vile temper tantrums certainly argued for that.

As he grew older, his temper quieted under Master Meiltung’s firm discipline, but the rumors continued and the other boys shunned him. He spent a lot of time by himself, until the Masters learned that the only way to keep him in sight was to load him down with chores and lessons. He learned quickly, but seemed to have no passion for it.

What, I wondered, had the Warlocker’s assistant done to this poor child? I turned my hands palm up, in question.

Chapter 17.1.2

"I also remember that he disappeared." Grandmaster Meiltung looked into my eyes. "What happened to you, child?"

Master Iving gently pushed my hands back into my lap and told for me the story of my journey with Wallen and how it had ended at Songless Castle.

The Grandmaster’s face hardened at the story; then he laughed sharply. "You’ll get your chance to make that scoundrel answer on the steps of the Bardhall. He and your old friend Sharp arrived today, each with a lady on his arm."

Elise, as Sharp’s lady? A bitter hand clenched my heart. I had not thought she would ever betray me so, but only a fool would think that could never happen.

Grandmaster Meiltung kept talking. "They tried to pass off Wallen as a Bard-in-training. A strange game, and I’m curious to see what comes of it. Especially as they arrived with Lord Guerney and a hundred of his men at their heels. The Christian has set up camp in the marketplace, and says he’ll stay there until we turn Sharp and Wallen over."

"By the Gods!" Master Iving touched his forehead. "And the mayor with all his guardsmen has done nothing?"

"Guerney has done no harm to the city, and has brought profit to the merchants. The mayor is on the side of the money." The Grandmaster spread his hands. "And so I’ve come to give you safe-conduct to the hall, lest the Christians decide they want more leverage, in the form of a hostage."

Master Iving swore again, with words I did not think he knew. Then he shrugged sharply. "We’ll clear up this matter in the morning. Let us get home to our hearth and guests."

Women did not, as a rule, sleep in the Bardhall. The married Bards kept their ladies in other houses. Yet in times of crises the Bardhall would not turn her away – and perhaps an angry father counted as a crises? I raised my hands. "What of the women? Are they spending the night in the Bardhall, or elsewhere?"

Peter called out my question in his clear, fine voice.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. "Who are you?"

Chapter 17.1.1

We made good time that day, traveling at a steady pace over the snow, but winter days are short and it was night before we reached our goal. Master Iving lit the lamps and we continued on, as it was too cold to stop.

A mile before the city, we saw a small fire by the side of the road, with a man and a horse keeping themselves warm. As we approached, the man looked up, and in the lamplight I saw a face from my childhood: Master Meiltung.

The master over the Bards-in-training was a big man, wide-shouldered and tall, with the black hair and swarthy skin of the Wizardlands. His parents had come from the south, and had dedicated their eldest son the to the Bards in return for acceptance in the town – at least, that was what was whispered among the youngest Bards and older Bards-in-training. To the boys he was an image of fury and discipline, quick with his temper and his fists.

To the man I had become he was still big, but time had redrawn his other features. Wrinkles shadowed his face, grey hair showed beneath the hood of his cape, and he stood slowly, as if tired.

"Good evening to you, Grandmaster," Master Iving said.

Another change, which also meant the Grandmaster of my youth had walked the long path.
Grandmaster Meiltung looked at me, then at the riders on the Percheron. "Well – your journey bore fruit, and then some."

"Indeed." Master Iving waved toward me. "You remember Gerard of Jerden? The boy who could play the harp like the wind among the reeds?"

I glowed in his compliment, only to be dashed by Grandmaster Meiltung’s reply.

"And had the voice of a camel?"

"It wasn’t that bad," Master Meiltung protested, then added quietly, "Though it wasn’t especially good."

The quality of my voice would never bother them again, I thought darkly.

Chapter 16.4

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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.