Chapter 9.2

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I needed my own interpreter: someone who would speak for my interests, with more loyalty to me than my lord, and not sworn to him by an oath of honor. Someone who had the strength to stand up to him. Elise was the obvious choice.

But how was I to teach her the words for the hand signs? I could not speak, and she could not read. I would need Sharp’s help.

I went to him with my slate and chalk in hand, and wrote out my request. He paused in his wooing of the castle maids, and agreed. We summoned Elise and, as it was a fine day, went to the bailey. They shared a bench outside the smithy, and I sat on an upturned barrel.

"Food," I wrote on the slate, and turned it around. Sharp read the word out loud while I made the sign, and they both practiced it. Then I wrote "Eat," and "Food," followed by the sentence, "We eat Food."

Elise traced the signs deftly with her supple fingers.

"Not quite," Sharp said softly, as if he were an expert. He took my lady’s fingers in his own and adjusted her fingers. "That’s much better."

"It seems the same to me," she said, and pulled her hand free. She scooted several inches away from him.

We went to the next sentence. "I drink wine and water."

Again Sharp reached over to touch my lady’s hand, and this time she jerked it free.

Once could be a misunderstanding, but not twice. I growled at Sharp and bared my teeth.

He smirked in return. "Do you know that it is the gift of speech that separates man and beast?"
He placed his hand on my lady’s knee.

Had not Geldswan still been locked in my room, he might have lost his hand. Still, I was reaching for him when a hand caught my shoulder.

"Trouble?" Charles asked. His hand was on his sword hilt.

"Sir Charles!" Elise cried out. "We’re learning to speak with our hands, as Gerard does. Will you join us? You can sit by me." With that, she shoved Sharp into the dirt.

"And then I can say prayers with the monks!" His sat down, sprawling in a manner that took up all of the bench save Elise’s portion. Sharp was forced to sit on the ground. "But I warn you, I’m not a quick learner."

I was starting to doubt that.

Chapter 9

We spent the rest of the evening making plans. If we took a month to prepare for the trip and a week to travel there, then we would arrive at the start of the Yule season. The castle would be too caught up in its festivities to pay much attention to a straggling band of travelers seeking shelter from the winter storms, and the long nights around the Solstice would aid our escape.

Lord Reinard served as my interpreter to Sharp, though he frequently changed my statements to serve his own purpose. Sometimes he omitted them all together – such as my request to have Sharp sing Elise and myself together.

"What?" Lord Reinard cried out, then brought up his hands to sign. "I thought you had already married Elise."

I replied, "Our spirits are joined, yes, but we have had no chance to stand with a Bard."

His gestures grew curt. "You must have a proper Christian ceremony, one with worth before the eyes of God. I’ll send for a Silent Monk, one who is a priest, and have you blessed properly."
Elise would pluck out my eyes and feed them to the blackbirds, if I suggested that. "We are Heathens, and a Singing would be more appropriate than a Christian wedding."

His hand clenched twice. "You will be married by a Christian Priest, or not at all. And if you are not married, then Elise will not sleep with you, but with the other women servants."

I ceded to him with a short nod. Stolen love is sweeter, anyway.

Watching us, Sharp asked, "What was that about?"

"Oh, just a discussion of how many horses we should take with us," my noble lord replied.

Chapter 8.5

The beggar’s gloves lay folded on the table in front of Sharp, alongside the remains of a noble meal. Between gobbles he had given us the news of the country – the king was still poor in health, but no closer to death, his heir was still a fool, two northern lords had plotted to take the throne but had fallen on each other’s throats instead, and fishing on the wester coast had been bad all summer. There was also news from the Guildhall in Slatten: crumbs dropped casually, but they meant all the world to me. The old Grandmaster had passed on, and his position fell to Master Meiltung, who in turn gave his position of Master over the Bards-in-Training to Master Marlin, the youngest of the Masters. I missed a few sentences while I remembered Master Marlin, who had earned his first string the day I became a Bard-in-Training. I idolized him for the fanciful stories he could weave and the stories he could tell.

When I returned to the world, Sharp was telling of Breck, a Bard-in-Training who played so poorly before the Masters that he was told to leave them before he finished his first piece. They asked him to play again at the Winter Solstice, and he had replied that he could not sit before them again. At the time Sharp left Slatten, just after this, Master Irving was gently trying to get the boy to change his mind, but Breck had not agreed.

“So you’re a full Bard now?” Lord Reinard asked, as if he could not see the tattoo on Sharp’s hand.

“Third level.” Both his confidence and conceit had been restored. “Soon to be fourth, once I’ve killed Lord Reinard.”

My Lord choked on his wine. “Any particular reason?”

“He killed my father.”

I hadn’t known that; or even that Sharp knew who his father was. Still, if Sharp could no longer mourn for a childhood friend, then a dead father would have to do.

My lord stirred the wine in his cup. “When was this?”

“When I was but a child.” His voice dripped with such drama that I could almost hear the notes of a strummed lute. “He went traveling for the summer, and was here the day the Guildhall burned.”

“Ah. So it is the Bard-killer you are looking for.” My lord seemed to relax.

Sharp stood. “And I’ll give my life for just the chance to strike him!”

Around the room, soldiers set their hands on their weapons.

My lord waved his hand. “I regret to tell you this, Sharp, but you’ve come too late.”

“What? Who did this?”

“A sudden chill, last spring.”

“Then – who is the lord here at Songless?”

“I am.” Steel rang in his voice.

“You? But the Lady Laurice, she is to marry Lord Reinard!”

“We are betrothed, yes.”

“But – how? How could you be Lord Reinard?”

His name had never applied to his brains.

My lord smiled, a thin smile that always made me cringe. “When my father died, I inherited his title.”

Slowly this sank in. Then Sharp jumped to his feet and swept his plate to the floor. “You are the son of the Bardkiller? You are the get of that bony pile of worm-ridden hate, offspring of an ass and a whore, whose spit would poison the ground it touched, whose cowerdly offspring drown in the sweat from their nightmares, may he sit by Hel’s cold fire for all days with only shadows to eat and dry sand to drink, he?”

“The same,” Lord Reinard said, with a clench of his fists.

I gestured to the archers by the door, who were drawing their bowstrings.

Sharp looked, then took in all the soldiers around him. He sat back down. “I’ll be damned. And you say he’s dead?”

“Dead and buried.” His voice was cold as winter’s frost.

“So.” Sharp rubbed the point of his chin. He continued as if he had not abused his host so throughly, and luckily for him, I knew my lord’s hunger for music would forgive any insult. “This leaves me without the adventure that would have raised me to fourth level. I suppose I shall have to find another one. Well, I thank you for the dinner, but I think I should be on my way.”

Lord Reinard leaned forward with a crafty smile. “You need an adventure? Shall I make a suggestion?”

Chapter 8.4

It is a long tale, when properly told, and I spent a good hour with it. A young man, the heir of a nearby castle, is taken by the Nightriders to the Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest, where the Silver-eyed dwell. He begs that he be allowed to return to his father’s house, and when Lord Oberon, the king of the Silver-eyed agrees, the boy makes him swear in moonlight that this will be done. In return, Oberon makes the boy swear that he will accept being returned to his father’s house. This the boy does gladly.

Lord Oberon gives a the boy a new name, Taynair, and clothes him as a Silver-eyed. He offers the boy food, drink, and a lovely maiden. The boy abstains from this, and thinks himself safe.
But Lord Oberon’s treachery is deep and old, and when he reveals himself to be the boy’s true father, the boy is transformed into one of the Silver-eyed and must accept his position as Oberon’s heir.

I finished with these words, "That is what you fight for, my lord: a wood with a heart so cold and evil that you could never trust the soul of any man you sent into it."

Lord Reinard laughed. "I seek a pretty tract of land with a pretty tale."

As I raised my hands to argue further, the door opened. Charles entered, disheveled and breathless, and the soldiers with him held a struggling figure wrapped in a ratty blanket.
Lord Reinard frowned. "You didn’t have to bring him here against his will."

"You will want to question him, my lord."

"I will?"

"Indeed."

Charles’ manner made me nervous.

"It will be hard to question a man who is wrapped up like that."

"Yes, my Lord." Charles nodded to the soldiers, who pulled the cloth away from the man’s body. Before it was off his head, however, the prisoner started to swing his limbs and kick. Ison and Charles knocked him down and sat on him while Jason tied his hands and feet. Finally he was hauled back up to face Lord Reinard.

"Filthy Christian dog!" Sharp spat out. He was thinner than when I had seen him last, and his fine clothes had been changed for rags.

"Yes, that’s the man," Lord Reinard said. He paused, then said, "I know you."

"Foul offspring of a donkey and a whore," Sharp shouted.

"More of an ass, actually. Sharp – do not you not remember me?"

The Bard stopped and cocked his head. "Wallen?"

"Indeed! Sharp, will you sing for me?"

Sharp looked sideways at the soldiers. "Wallen, are you in charge of these soldiers?"

"Yes, I am."

"Could you ask them to let me go?"

"Will you promise not to fight if they do?"

"I won’t fight them, if they do not strike me first."

"Fair enough." Lord Reinard smiled his most innocent smile and gestured to the soldiers.

Reluctantly, they freed the Bard. "Now, would you care for some food or drink?"

Sharp did look as if he needed it. He took a step toward the high table, then saw me. "Monk! You owe me a sword, monk!"

I nodded.

"I would prefer that you not attack my advisor, either. Please, sit and eat."

Now Sharp seemed to waver between the offer of food and the promise of revenge. "Answer me two questions, first."

"Of course."

"What are you doing here, Wallen?"

"I live here. And your second?"

"Do you serve Lord Reinard?" Sharp spat the name out.

"Not exactly. Now, a feast and then some music!"

Trust a Christian to never give a straight answer.

"What happened to Gerard?"

My lord paled at that question. Ignoring that it was a third, and not in the bargain, he answered slowly, "I erred, Sharp. I honestly thought that he would be safe with me – but the Old Lord discovered him. He silenced Gerard."

"But where is he?" Sharp cried. "Where do his bones lie?"

"Above his lady, most nights," Jason muttered.

Sharp frowned.

"The Old Lord silenced him, but did not kill him," Lord Reinard explained.

Sharp frowned deeper. "What do you mean?"

"Just as your Lord Guerney tried to do." His fair hand flipped towards me.

"I serve the Guild, not a Christian lord," Sharp snapped. Yet, as he followed Lord Reinard’s gesture, I could see that he was finally starting to think. His face pulled down, as if this was very hard for him. "No. You’re not – are you?"

I nodded.

He stood there, stunned. Then said, "I tried to kill you."

I nodded again.

"That’s why you were playing those songs, wasn’t it? You were trying to tell me."

I felt like a doll, with so much head bobbing.

"But you can’t talk."

My hands lifted. "I can talk, just not with my mouth."

"He says plenty," Charles said. "You just can’t listen."