Chapter 3.9

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Leaving the kitchen, I found a break in the rain, and took the chance to wander up to the gardens. I knew they would be brown and withered at this time of year. What I did not know was that Lord Guerney had built a greenhouse.

It was a marvel, a green heart in the beast of stone, as large as the Great Hall. Paths wound between flowering bushes and small trees, and here and there a bench provided respite for no more than a pair of intimate friends. I saw where Sharp had taken his rose, from a bush than guarded a private bower – his gift had been an invitation, then, not just a gesture of appreciation.

Pushing deeper, I found plants both intriguing and disturbing. Their odd-shaped leaves and twining branches marked them as having come from deep within the Easter Green Forest. Lord Guerney did not fear that wood, but delighted in it.

Perhaps he valued that land more highly than an association with Lord Reinard, and that was why the Lady Laurice was so slow in coming? A troubling thought. Land is good, but worthless without trusted allies.

Leaving those stunted shrubs behind, I turned a corner in the path, and came across something worse. It was a bed of flowers, their translucent petals colored in the pale shades of a moonbow, their stems and leaves shimmering like frosted silver. I took a quick step backwards.

“Jewels!” Charles exclaimed, reaching forward. “Where did they come from?”

I grabbed his arm and yanked it back. Scrabbling out the slate and chalk, I hastily wrote, “The Heart of the Eastern Green Forest.”

Charles read what I wrote, his lips shaping each word, then frowned. “Wouldn’t that make them cursed?”

I nodded, though it is not the flowers that carry the curse, but those who grow them. Here before me was proof that Lord Guerney did not just visit the Eastern Green Forest, but traded with the soulless Silver-eyed.

The sooner I left this place, the better.

Refusing to follow the path past the flowers, I backtracked to the entrance. On the way I found a bramble of mountain roses climbing the far wall, and I conceived a thought. They were not so fine that Lord Geurney would take offense at my plucking a few, and their carried no secret invitation. A few, however, would make a pleasing bouquet – perhaps in that way I could ingratiate myself with one of the maids-in-waiting, and perhaps discover some tidbit about the Lady Laurice, some bit of news to carry back to my lord.

Sick

Due to illness, there will be no update today.

Chapter 3.8

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The warmth of the kitchen bathed my face; the smell of baking bread and roasting meats filled my nostrils. A kitchen maid, crouched on the hearth to stir a large pot, turned to face me, and smile. She rose, flour-streaked skirts swirling about her legs, and hurried over. It was nice to be recognized, for once.

“Are ye hungry?” Elise asked.

With her question, I was. I nodded.

She slipped away, and returned just as silently. “Fresh-baked bread, just out of the oven. And some of the best cheese Ay’ve ever aged.”

At Songless, when the Old Lord was still alive, I was lucky if the handouts from the kitchen were no more than a little stale. I nodded my thanks at her generous charity.

“Do ye know, that sweet-voiced boy hasn’t been seen today, and the Lady Victoria was caught dozin’ at her needlework. They must have been all night in the garden!”

I shook my head at her words.

“Ye don’t like my saying that?”

Again I shook my head, this time sternly. The Lady Victoria was a lady of the castle, a beautiful rose among brambles. Kitchen maids were too easily replaceed.

“Aye, well, I’m no Christian to call a Bard a horrible Pagan beneath the sun, then kiss him by moonlight. I stand by my bard no matter the weather.”

Another conquest for Sharp, I thought bitterly. He was the only Bard to be found in this castle. I nodded my thanks for the meal and turned to go.

“Ay’ll see ye tonight,” she said quietly.

Behind me, Charles said loudly, “Gir-rl. Go-od.”

I looked back to see him make exaggerated gestures of the feminine shape with his hands. Then he laughed, and the other workers in the kitchen laughed with him. Face burning, I shouldered him aside and stalked ot the door.

“Why are ye bothering with that mute creature?” another woman asked behind me. “Do ye think he even knows what ye are sayin’?”

You lose your voice and you lose your ears. Soon I would be nothing more than a ghost.

Chapter 3.7

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Ghost-like, I wafted along the hallways of the upper floor, relearning the maze of decorated corridors and bare service hallways. I peeked behind tapestries, finding the secret passages and hidden staircases, and made my way into the spyhole beside the chapel. Through a slit in the wall I watched the two Silent Monks sing their mid-afternoon mass. Brown cowls and robes hid their features, but their voices were distinct. The taller one was a strong tenor, filling the room with the bells of his voice, and he led the other, a feeble baritone, down the twisting path of their music.

At this time, before their god, no silent monk is denied his voice. He is free to shape the words and music, giving what is sacrificed elsewhere. But it had been years since I had heard their mass, for the Church’s interdict took these services from them. We were equal there – perhaps that is why they took an interest in me.

After my ill-treatment by the Bard-killer, I fled to the hayloft in the stable and hid there. I vowed not to come out and beg, even if it meant that I would perish. But the monks came to me with blankets and bread softened in wine, and stayed with me through the long days that followed.

For me they pulled back their cowls, showing themselves to be common men, not formless shadows. Then they took my hands in theirs – rough, work-worn hands – and taught me to shape them into their signs. With a slate they taught me the meaning of the word: those that could write, did, and those that could not drew pictures. Without demanding that I join their order, they pulled me into their witty, lively world.

When the young lord found me in the stables, and demanded that I play for him, he soon learned of my new way of speaking. He would not be satisfied until the monks taught him the signs, as well. Why anyone who does not listen would want to know what is said, I do not understand.
Still, the monks taught him, and ceased to converse in his presence. Only blessings flowed from their fingers until the doors were shut.

In the chapel before me, the two voices rose in a crescendo, ended with a flourish, then faded with an echo. I, mute and hidden, could watch but not touch the experience. The wall between myself and the chapel was more than physical. I was soul-mate to the monks only while they where at Songless Castle, for elsewhere they still had their Mass.