Chapter 3.4

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After I dressed, I practiced on my harp, moving from scales to a tune I had never played within the walls of Songless. Sharp had reminded me of it, and my fingers stumbled as I taught them long forgotten strains, but before the morning was over I had it slipping easily into the air. With no words to voice the story, I could only weave the tale of a hunstman and his swan lover with notes.

I finished, put away my harp, and rose to leave the room. Stiff from the chill and from kneeling so long, I needed to walk, to explore the castle, to have some time alone.

Charles fell into step behind me.

I tried to pretend he was not there, and for a time he kept his silence.

I wandered through the keep, then through the garrison in the outer curtain wall. I passed servants and soldiers, a few of whom I recognized but whose gaze slid smoothly away from my face. I walked through the armory, where Charles looked longingly at the practice floor, but I shook my head and climbed to the parapets. There I looked over the wall, and saw that the whole of the Dragon’s Mouth Mountains draped in fog. Only the nearest slope could be seen, its scrubby trees and flinty boulders fading into the mist like ghosts.

"Seems like we’re cut off from the rest of the world," Charles said, leaning on the wall beside me.

"This castle is hanging onto the rock, but the rock is floating in a big pond of nothingness. This is the way the world began, isn’t it? A monster dragging itself from a lake of milk?"

Something like that, I thought as I nodded to the knight. Though Master Meiltung would have groaned at such a simplistic retelling.

Chapter 3.3

With the introduction of Elise, things start to spice up -- but it takes Gerard a bit to get the message.

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Morning intruded on my eyes like an unwelcome guest. The soldiers were already awake and active, polishing their weapons and oiling their leather armor. I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.

The door creaked open. "Mornin’," I heard a woman say.

"Morning," chorused the soldiers. Ison added, "Is that breakfast?"

"Aye."

I peeked out to see the serving maid from the night before, with a wooden tray in her hands.

"Ay’ve got bread and sausages, all stolen from his lordship’s table. An’ a couple of pies."

Charles took the tray, which held a small feast for the four of us. He sampled a sausage. "Good."

"The best a’ my hands." She looked at me. "And Ay’m willing to give you anything you want."

I pulled the covers back over my head.

Ison then whistled, and I peeked back out to see that the maid had lifted her skirts to step over the pieces scattered across the floor. She bent over the bed, drew the covers down to my waist, and whispered loudly, "Anythin’."

Ison whistled again, and Charles widened his eyes.

"Don’t you want to see what I have for you in my skirt?"

I swallowed. Hard.

She drew out a piece of slate from her apron, and a hunk of chalk. She marked a word on it, then showed it to me. "See? I’ve learned to write my name."

Elise, it read. I took the slate from her hands and wrote, Gerard.

She puzzled over it long enough that I realized that I would not be writing her any notes. Finally
Charles looked over her shoulder, mouthed the word, then said, "That’s his name. Gerard."

She smiled at me. "Ah, you understand. Now, if you want anything..."

I took the slate from her hands and drew a rough sketch of a washbasin and a towel.

"That’s all you want?"

I nodded, then wished I hadn’t. Too much wine the night before.

"As ye wish, my good Gerard." She smiled regretfully. "I’ll bring some hot water straightaway."
After she left, Ison sat down on the edge of the bed. "Forgive my forwardness, you being my master and all, but ah see ye’ve been with the Silent Monks too long. That thar’s a woman, and women are for, well – ah’ll see to it that you have a time and a place tonight."

I growled at him.

He winked back, knowing full well I could not command him to stop.

Chapter 3.2

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Sharp’s music stopped, bringing me back to Lord Guerney’s hall. He stood with a gentle smile on his angular face, facing a woman of incomparable beauty. Her hair, gold and bright, was caught up in thick braids which disappeared behind her veil, and he face was round and full. Her eyes were quick and her red lips invited. Her dress, with long sleeves brushing the floor, was the delicate green of forest leaves waking to a new year. In her pale hand, a single white rose bloomed.

Had I a voice, I would have sung in her honor and battled a knight to claim her as my own. But her eyes and her rose went to Sharp, and he kissed her fingers softly.

There were no ladies in Songless Castle. There had been none since my Lord Reinard was four, when his mother died. She had been burned to death in the Bardhall, along with her lover and all the Masters, Journeymen, and Bards-in-training. Any Bard who escaped the flames hunted down and hanged, as well as any that chanced to pass the castle afterwards. In all, twenty-six men died at the hands of the Bard-killer, and the twenty-seventh was ruined. The Christian Church responded to this outrage by putting the castle and its people under interdict., and both church and Bardhall shunned the place. Proper fathers snatched their daughters home, and Songless Castle, silent and hard, earned its name.

How came I to wander into the jaws of the lion? Wallen had never been precise about where he lived. I was too foolish to ask, blinded by the thought of an easy summer of food and wine. Perhaps he thought that the Old Lord would not notice me, or perhaps he felt that with my future crushed, I would have to stay there, his private harpist in a silent castle.
I do not believe that such things are beyond my Lord Reinard, true son the Bardkiller, who never did speak his full name within the Bardhall. Bitterness is a black rose that grows on the grave of a friendship.

Again the music stopped, this time for good. Sharp bowed a final time, then put his pipe and lute away. I rose, unsteady, and my soldiers helped me out of the hall.

Chapter 3.1

Strong wine blurred the edges of the night, flinging wide the gate between dreams and memories. The serving maid, goddess of the wine flagon, kept my mug filled as she smiled and chattered, but her words were lost in the music of the Bard. With pipe and lute, harp and voice, he worked his way through all the songs which had once been mine.

Some were offerings to maidens, others I gave to the stars. Some bought wine in the local taverns, others paid for food on our travels. There were stories born of nightmare, poems of love, and ballads of crime. And some brought back nights in a small boarding house in Slatten, where we laughed and sang until the night was stained with dawn.

Three of us: Sharp, myself, and younger boy named Wallen who slept in that room while studying at the nearby University. He was much more interested in Bards and music than in his lessons, and offered us the best wine and meat. He was a treasure-trove, a rich man’s son, and my discovery.

I had found him standing on the steps of the Bardhall, a child with blonde curls and fine clothes, staring at the typanum. There, carved in veined marble above the big bronze doors, were all the instruments of our trade. "What is that?" he asked as I walked past.

"What?" I replied with the voice I once had.

"The thing shaped like a square, almost, with lines running from top to bottom."

"The harp?" Who was this fool who didn’t know about a Bardic harp?

"What is it? What does it do?"

"It makes music."

"Music?" His blue eyes widened. "How?"

I sighed. I was late for weapon practice, Sharp would already be calling me a dozen names worse than Silver-eyed, and Master Meitung would be about to notice my absence. On the other hand, I had a duty to serve all people with my knowledge and wisdom – Master Meiltung had lectured us on that very point that morning. Could I walk away from a child’s request, shame myself before the gods, simply to save my standing before the Master?

So I sat down upon the steps, pulled my harp onto my knees, and began to play. And I sang, weaving a magical net with my voice. The net fell upon the boy, filling him wonder. I saw in his eyes a transformation as his soul opened to the sound, and after that taste he could never get enough, or pay too little for it.

But was I who paid too much.