Mercedes Lackey: Castle of Deception

The bardling wandered on down Bracklin’s one street to the end. It didn’t take long. He stood looking out over the fields beyond the edge of town, each neatly plowed strip of land exactly like the next, and shuddered. Making his way back towards the Blue Swan, Kevin politely returned the greetings of baker and seamstress and butcher. All of them, he realized, were quite peacefully going about their various tasks just as they did every day. And not a one of them seemed to mind! Suddenly frustrated to the point of screaming, Kevin hurried back into the inn and his room. At least he could learn a new song!

There wasn’t a sound out of his Master’s room. Of course not The old Bard probably had his nose buried in old manuscripts, just as he had whenever he wasn’t playing himself, or giving the bardling a music lesson —just as he had for almost all the time Kevin had studied with him.

I know he’s hunting for something important. But he won’t tell me what it is! And while he hunts through all those dusty books, I’m stuck here in Bracklin with him. Fm not a child anymore! I can’t be content like this!

The bardling snatched up his lute and struck a few savage chords. But he couldn’t play anything with that broken string.

“Blast it all to Darkness!”

Kevin rummaged through the mess on floor and table till he found a replacement string. This was ridiculous? All Master Aidan had to do was say the word, and King Amber would gladly name him the royal bard. They could be living in the royal palace right now.

And wouldn’t that be grand? Kevin pictured his Master in elegant Bardic robes, people bowing respectfully as he passed. He would be a major power in court. And his brave young apprentice would be a figure of importance too ....

“Right,” Kevin muttered. “And pigs could fly.”

His Master had tremendous musical talent, no doubt about that; every time the old Bard took his own well-worn mandolin and showed the boy how a song should be played, a little shiver of wonder ran through Kevin, and with it a prayer: Ah, please, please, let me someday play like that, with such grace, such—such glory! Of late he had begun to hope that his prayers, if not answered, had at least begun to be heard. But even Ada insisted Master Aidan was also an adept at Bardic Magic ....

I don’t understand it! If I had such a gift, I’d be using it, not —not hiding it away in the middle of nowhere!

Oh yes, “if,” Kevin thought darkly. It wasn’t as though every Bard had the innate gift for Bardic Magic, after all. Master Aidan seemed to believe he possessed it, had assured Kevin over and over that in some bardlings the gift blossomed fairly late. But surely if he was going to show any sign of magic, it would have surfaced by now. After all, he was nearly a man! Yet so far he hadn’t felt the slightest angle of Power no matter how hard he’d tried. To him, the potentially magical songs his Master had taught him remained just that:

songs.

The bardling gave the lute an impatient strum, then winced. Sour! Lute strings went out of pitch all too easily.

As he retimed them, Kevin admitted to himself that yes, he did take a great deal of joy in creating music, and in creating it well. But aside from that music, what did he have? Of course it was true that a musician seldom had time for much else; if he was to succeed at all, a musician must give himself totally to his craft. Kevin could accept that But did the rest of life have to be so—drab? What did he do from day to day, really, but run his Master’s errands like a little boy, keep all those old manuscripts dusted, see the same dull town and the same dull people?

I might as well be apprenticed too—a baker!

“Kevin,” a weary voice called from across the hall, and the bardling straightened, listening. “Come here, please.”

“Yes, Master.”

Now what? Maybe he was supposed to order their supper from the innkeeper? Or go find out from Ada exactly when their wash would be done?

But when the bardling saw the old Bard’s pale face, his impatience slipped away, replaced by a pang of worry. He had never known the Master as anything but a white-bearded old man, but surely he’d never seen him look quite this tired. Quite this ... fragile.

It’s because he never goes out, Kevin tried to persuade himself. Never even gets any sunlight, cooped up in here with his books. “Master? Is—is something wrong?”

“No, Kevin. Not exactly.”

But a hint of fire flickered in the man’s weary blue eyes, and Kevin tensed, all at once so wild with hope he nearly cheered. “You’ve found what you were looking for!”

“Alas, no.”

“Then ... what is it? Are we going somewhere?” Oh please, oh please, say yes!

“We? No. boy. You.”

Kevin felt his heart thunder in his chest. Yes! At last something new was going to happen! “You w-won’t regret this!” he stammered. “Just tell me what the quest is, and I—”

The old Bard chuckled faintly. “I’m afraid it isn’t a quest, my fine young hero. More of an errand. A longer one than usual, and further away than most, but an errand never the less.”

“Oh.” Kevin struggled to keep the disappointment from his face. I should have known better. Just another stupid errand.

“What I want you to do,” the Bard continued, “is go to the castle of Count Volmar—”

“And deliver a message from the King?” At least that would be something halfway dramatic!

“And copy a manuscript for me,” his Master corrected, looking down his long nose at the bardling. “You’re to copy it—copy it exactly, understand—and bring the copy back to me.”

Kevin barely silenced a groan. “Is it very long?”

“I believe so.”

And it was probably unbearably dull, too. “But, Master,” Kevin asked desperately, “why don’t you just ask them to send the manuscript to you?”

“No! It’s too valuable to be moved.”

Naturally. “If you want it copied exactly,” the bardling said as casually as he could, “why not hire a trained scribe—”

“No!” For a startling moment, the Bard’s face was so fierce Kevin could almost believe the heroic tales—But then the fierceness faded, leaving only a weary old man behind. “I have given you your orders. The manuscript you are to copy is known as The Study of Ancient Song. It is approximately three hands high and one and a half hands wide, and is bound in plain, dark brown leather that, I imagine, must be fairly well worn by now. The title may or may not be embossed on the spine, but it should be printed clearly enough on the cover.” He paused—”In brief: the manuscript cannot be moved from the count’s library. And only you are to copy it. Each day’s work must be hidden. It must not be shown to anyone. Is that understood?”

Kevin frowned. Had the old Bard’s mind turned? Or, more likely, was he simply trying to enliven a dull job for his apprentice with a touch of the dramatic?

The bardling bowed in resignation. “Yes, Master,” he muttered.

“Good. Now, here’s a letter of introduction to the count from me. He should recognize my seal. Be sure you keep it safe in your belt pouch; nobles are suspicious sorts, and unless they know you’re really from me, you’ll never get past the castle gates.”

Kevin obediently stuffed the parchment into his pouch. Ah well, he’d try to make the most of this. At least it meant getting out of this dull old inn for a few days. Yes, and he would be staying in a castle. Hey now, maybe even rubbing elbows with the nobility!

The bardling fought down a sudden grin, imagining himself at court, impressing somebody important, maybe even the count himself, with his talent. Who knew? If he was really lucky, he might get a chance to really prove himself. He might even end up being named a true Bard!