Chapter 17.2.2

Inside, the Bardhall was all I remembered it to be. The floor was oak, the walls were marble, and the ceiling was covered in gold leaf. Long benches ran along the sides, interspersed with bronze lamps, and on the walls behind them hung all the common instruments: tambourines, lutes, pipes of every size, drums, trumpets, horns, psalteries, tabors, lyres, chimes, triangles, and small harps. Woven tapestries, each depicting a natural god, hung over the windows that were shuttered for the winter.

At the far end of the room, on a raised dias, six carved chairs stood before the hearth. Each was made from a different tree, and on the back was carved the leaves of that tree. The largest, the Grandmaster’s chair, was oak, and Master Iving always sat in the yew. There was also one of ash, one of maple, one of beech, and one of pine, which was given to the youngest master of the hall. Two concert harps stood on either side of the chairs, which, even empty, held ghosts for me.

Classroom, court, and judgement chamber – this was the heart of the Bardic life. Here Bards-in-training learned their notes, their writing, and their histories, and here the Masters conducted the business of the Bardhall and discussed difficult cases. On poor days, grievances were heard here, instead of on the open steps. And it was here that poor travelers could seek shelter from the storms and sleep before the fire.

There were doors in the back two corners. The one on the right led to the library above us, and then up to the private rooms for the masters. The one on the left led to the large common room where the Bards-in-training slept, and then the rooms that the journeymen shared, two or three to a room. Both stairways continued up to the roof, which doubled as a practice area on good days, and down to the dining hall.

"You’ll sleep with the other young boys," Grandmaster Meiltung said to me. "Your friends will sleep before the fire – until other arrangements can be made."

I nodded, even as I decided that I also would go with the other arrangements when they were made.

Beside me, Peter looked around nervously, then slipped his crucifix inside his shirt. Hiding it. A strange reaction, I thought, as Bards would never hurt a Christian for simply walking into the hall. Yet he acted as a Pagan might, inside a church.

Then, remembering my own adventure in the chapel at Rockridge, I nearly laughed out loud.

Chapter 17.2.1

Home. I climbed down from Master’s Iving’s cart and stared up at the face of the Bardhall, it’s facade lit by the flickering light from the firepots where Lord Guerney’s men warmed themselves. Thirty marble steps reached up to the wide porch where the Masters would sit in judgement, and six ornate pillars held up the tympanum. I stared at the instruments carved there and remembered the feel of each one beneath my hands. Heard the sound of each in my mind. Smelled the scent of the common meal, wafting from the dining room. Felt both the ache of homesickness and the joy that I would soon be there.

And feared the reception when others found what had happened to me.

Our little parade moved on, turning to the alley behind the Bardhall where a door opened into the back courtyard. Here was the stable and the cart shed. Here also was a young man with shaggy dark hair and deep, black eyes. Old clothing, a bit on the small side. His skin was dusky, as if he had spent too many nights sleeping in the ash of the fireplace.

It couldn’t be, could it?

"What are you doing here?" Grandmaster Meiltung asked gruffly.

"I saw you coming," the young man answered.

"You – saw?" The Grandmaster stiffened, not at all pleased.

The young man brushed back his hair from his face. His voice took on a surly tone. "I was watching from the bedroom window."

"Why?"

"So I could be here to take the horses." He held out his hand for the reins.

Master Iving climbed down from his carriage. "Treble, have you eaten?"

"I was waiting for you to arrive."

It was indeed Treble. The child was a man. He was taller than I was, and there were muscles on his arms and shoulders. His voice had deepened to a tenor; his jaw was strong. I felt old.

"Don’t dwaddle, then. You don’t want to miss your portion. And there will be a treat tonight, if Gerard will play for us."

Treble looked at me. His gaze intensified, and I found myself being examined. Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A bitter smile.

Some things about him had not changed.

Charles dismounted and helped Peter down. Then the knight announced, "I’ll care for my own horse, thank you."

Treble just shrugged and led the way to the stable, with Charles following behind. The rest of us went toward the Guildhall. I glanced back, just in time to see Charles pass something white to Treble.

Chapter 17.1.4

"The girl made Treble agree to help her trap a young man she had set her eyes on – a Christian, one both proud and pious. Afterwards, he was so distraught at his deeds that he tried to kill himself." Master Iving shrugged at that. "A Silent Monk convince the young man that he should enter the monastery, instead, and serve the order as his penance. And we masters decided that Treble should also be under restriction as long as Pierre served the monks."

Pierre, the man who had sworn eternal faithfulness to the order after listening to my music. If his resolution were serious, then poor Treble might never leave the Bardhall, stuck there more firmly than I had been at Songless.

"And he cannot, of course, sit for his string. We had thought this would be only a matter of a few months, but Pierre has stayed on."

And seemed to be staying even longer, thanks to my music. Would Treble forgive me for that? I still had not forgiven the Bardkiller for shutting the Bardhall doors to me.

But – remembering my vision – were the Bardhall doors shut to me?

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.