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

#

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

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

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.