Mercedes Lackey: Castle of Deception

“We’ve done it,” he told the mule. “That is definitely the castle of Count Volmar.”

He forgot about elves and hunger, loneliness and mocking minstrels. Excitement shivering through him, the bardling kicked his mule forward. Soon, soon, the real adventure was going to begin!

The closer Kevin got to Count Volmar’s castle, the more impressive it seemed, looming up over him till he had to crane his head back to see the tops of the towers. The North Road ran right past the base of the crag, but the count’s own road led its winding way up and up to the castle gates. Just when the bardling had almost reached the top (riding all the way this time, in case someone in the castle was watching him), the mule stopped short, long ears shooting up. In the next moment, two knights in gleaming mail, faces hidden by their helms, came plunging skillfully down the steep road on their powerful destriers, trailed by two younger, more cautious, riders—squires, Kevin guessed—on smaller horses.

“Get out of the way, boy!” they shouted.

Kevin hastily kneed his mule aside. With a shout of “Peasant fool!” the riders were past him, showering him with dirt and pebbles, and gone.

“Peasant fool, is it?” Kevin muttered, brushing himself off. “At least I know better than to force a horse down a steep hill at full speed!”

The bardling glanced down at himself. He had saved his best tunic and breeches for now; the neat red tunic and brown breeches and cloak might not be of the most noble quality, but they were, he thought, quite suitable. Definitely not what a peasant would wear. Not even a rich one who owned his farm; the doth might in such a case be finer, but there was such a thing as style and taste.

Feeling better about the whole thing, Kevin prodded his mule up the last few feet to the open gates, huge, heavy brass-sheathed things—

Which were slowly shut in his face.

“Hey!” he yelled indignantly.

“Servants use the postern gate,” an officious voice called down from one of the narrow tower windows.

“But I’m not—”

“Use the postern gate,” the voice repeated.

Kevin sighed. He was hardly about to shout out his business here for everyone to hear. This is just someone’s mistake he told himself. They’ll correct it once I’m inside.

He rode around the massive base of the castle to the humble little servants’ entrance, which was sealed by a heavy, brass-bound oaken door. Standing in the stirrups, Kevin gave it a solid rap with his fist, then, when that got no results, managed a more satisfying thump with a foot

“Hey! Anybody in there?”

A tiny window creaked open high in the door. “State your business,” a voice demanded. This one, Kevin thought, sounded more bored than officious,

“My business,” he said firmly, “is with Count Volmar. I have a message here from my Master.”

The bardling drew out the sealed parchment the old Bard had given him and held it up so whoever was behind the door could see it There was a long moment of silence. Then Kevin heard the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn. The door creaked open.

“Enter.”

“At last!” the bardling muttered, and kicked his mule through the doorway.

As he’d expected, he was faced by a long stone tunnel; the outer walls of a war castle could hardly be anything but thick!

FU never get the nude in there.

But the animal, after a brief hesitation about entering this narrow, shadowy cave, sniffed the air and moved eagerly forward, so eagerly Kevin suspected it must have smelled oats.

As they came out from the tunnel, the bardling Found himself in what looked almost like a small town, tucked into the outer ward, the space between the ring of the outer walls and the inner walls of the count’s keep. To one side was the castle stables, and the mule did its best to get Kevin to let it head off that way. But the bardling kept a tight hold on the reins, trying to see everything without making it look like he was gawking.

So many people!

He’d never seen so many crowded into so small a space, not even on market day. Here was the blacksmith’s forge, the smith hard at work shoeing a restless gray destrier, calmly avoiding the war horse’s attempts to bite; there, the carpenter’s workshop echoed with hammering; and next to that, the armorer sat in the sunlight before his shop, mending the links in a mail shirt. A tangled crowd of castle folk chattered away as they did their tasks, while their children ran squealing and laughing all around the ward. Maybe the whole place did smell a hit too strongly of horse and dung and humanity, but it was still such a lively place that it took Kevin’s breath away. He drank it all in, only to come back to himself with a shock when someone asked shortly:

“Name and business?”

Kevin glanced down to see a guard watching him warily. Mail glinted under a surcoat embroidered with the count’s crest, and the weather-worn face held not a trace of warmth.

“Uh, yes. My—my name is Kevin, I’m a bardling, and my Master has sent me here with a message for Count Volmar.”

He showed the guard the sealed parchment. To his dismay, the man snatched it from his hand. “Hey!”

“Leave your mule with the stable hands. Your bags will be brought to you—Am!”

A small boy, a page clad in the count’s blue livery, came running. “Sir?”

“Take this bardling to the squires’ quarters.”

“But my message!” Kevin protested—

“It will be given to Count Volmar.” The guard’s contemptuous stare said without words, Did you really think a mere bardling would be allowed to bother a count? “Go get your mule stabled.”

With that, the man turned and disappeared into the keep. Kevin hesitated, toying with the idea of hurrying after the guard and insisting he be admitted to the oowxt at once!

Oh no. Not only would something like that destroy what little was left of his dignity, it would probably get him thrown out of the castle!

Kevin’s shoulders sagged. So much for being able to rub elbows with nobility!

“I’m supposed to wait here.”

“That’s what I was told,” little Am answered. “In the squires’ quarters.”

“But here?” the bardling repeated. “There’s nobody —Am! Wait!”

The boy had already scurried away. Kevin, feeling helpless, stood looking uneasily about. The squires’ quarters was nothing more than this long, dark, chilly hall broken up by a row of cots and clothes chests. The high roof was supported by thick columns, and the only light came from narrow windows set high in the walls. The silence was heavier than anything back in the forest.

The bardling sat down on (he edge of one of the cots to wait. And wait. And wait.

Kevin had just about decided he’d been abandoned, and was wondering what would happen if he went hunting for Count Volmar himself when he heard a sudden rush of cheerful voices and sprang to his feet. A crowd of boys in their late teens came ambling into the hall, all of them in blue livery.

These must surely be the missing squires. Kevin watched them in sudden uneasiness, painfully aware that his secluded musician’s life hadn’t given him many chances to spend time with anyone his own age.

A stocky blond boy stopped short, staring at Kevin with bright blue eyes. “Holla! Who’s this?”

“My name is Kevin,” the bardling began, “and I—”

“You’ve got a lute. You a minstrel?”

“No!”

“You seem kinda young to be a Bard.”

The boy’s voice was brusque, but a hint of respect shone in his eyes. For a moment Kevin toyed with the idea of claiming that yes, he was a Bard. But he could picture his Master’s disapproval only too well. A Bard, after all, was always supposed to be truthful. With a sigh. Kevin admitted: