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Chapter Ten:
The Master

Wulf woke up lying on the floor of his bedchamber wrapped in a blanket. Getting to sleep had not been a problem last night after his return. He’d been completely exhausted. He’d stripped off the fustian cloak and thrown it in a bundle in a corner. The dead smell had still lingered, so he’d tossed the rest of his clothes in the pile, too. Then, not wanting to ruin his down mattress by the stink he still carried on his skin, he’d stripped off a blanket, wrapped himself up in that, and fallen asleep on a bearskin rug near the fireplace.

He’d dropped off instantly. But when he opened his eyes to the morning light, it all came back to him full force. The land-bond where there should have been only the slightest feeling. His sister’s being with, of all people, his friend Grer, the smith.

The draugar attack.

It mixed in his head like some horrible pudding until he groaned trying to keep it straight.

First things first. He needed to get the stink of the dark thing completely off him. Tomorrow was the usual bath day for the week, so there would be no tubs ready. It would have to be a cat bath or nothing.

As if in answer to his desire, Grim came in with a half-barrel urn of hot water for Wulf’s washing bowl. The faun was really strong, even though he didn’t look that muscular at first glance. Wulf figured that it was in the way Grim used his backward shaped legs to lift. It gave him perfect balance, and he could keep the weight on his haunches and not on his arms that way. The servant set the filled washbasin down on the rug beside Wulf. As usual, Grim didn’t utter a word.

Wulf looked around. His clothes from the night before were gone, probably taken away by Grim while he still slept. Grim had lit the fire as well. When Wulf peeled himself from the blanket, his room was warm.

Grim went to stand silently beside the door. Wulf sat up cross-legged on the bearskin rug. He soaped up and bathed with a sponge of dry peat moss, trying to keep the run-off in the washbowl, but not caring if he slopped water all over the floor in the process. He needed to get clean.

He asked for more water from Grim, and dunked his head entirely before scrubbing down and rinsing once again.

Wulf wrapped himself in a newly washed blanket and went to change into the clothes that Grim had laid out for him on the bed.

Before Wulf changed, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders. He took a long drink from a cup of the coffee Grim had set on the side table. Perfect. Grim had also brought in a glass of blackberry juice, and Wulf downed it. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He got dressed in light gray pants and a white linen shirt. Over this he wore a green and gray wool surcoat, which was a sleeveless vest that fell about to the middle of his calves.

When he was done, he stood straight and let Grim tidy up his rumpled appearance. The faun brought the surcoat front together and tied on Wulf’s belt. Wulf’s hair was beginning to dry, and the faun brought him a whalebone comb to run through it.

Grim opened the window shutters. Through the glass, Wulf could see that it was well past sunrise. The bell in Allfather Cathedral must have rung the morning bell tolls, dammern and melken. They had hadn’t woken him up. Today was Sturmersday, which meant he’d missed going out with his father. His father went either hunting or falconing on Sturmersdays, but early. Today it was falconing. He’d be out with the birds till noon. Wulf had a standing invitation to skip morning lessons and come along. Wulf’s father, Duke Otto, believed that bringing his children on hunts was as important as anything the lore masters had to teach them.

I could have gotten out of morning lessons, Wulf thought. Curse it to blood and bones.

Now he would have to explain his absence to the tutor.

He was starving. Grim came to the rescue again with breakfast on a large platter, which he put on Wulf’s desk. Wulf sat down at his chair to eat, while Grim knelt and pulled on Wulf’s wool socks and boots. Breakfast was two eggs over easy, their yolks running as Wulf liked them. There was fresh-baked bread to sop with, along with three links of buffalo sausage and a bowl of grits. Wulf shoved all of it down, barely taking time to chew. He drank two more cups of coffee to top it off.

Wulf felt like a new man when he was done—that is, until he saw his reflection in the looking glass inside his wardrobe door. His eyes had dark circles under them. There were a couple of patches of charcoal dust left on his forehead. Grim, standing nearby, handed Wulf a damp cloth without having to be asked, and Wulf rubbed the smudges off.

Rainer raised his eyebrow in greeting when Wulf came into the classroom. First things first. Wulf excused himself to the tutor, Master Albrec Tolas. Tolas scowled at him, then nodded his acceptance of the apology. Wulf took a seat in a corner chair.

Albrec Tolas was a gnome. He was barely taller than a seven- or eight-year-old human. But he was not a child. He had the round features of his people, but you would never think of Tolas as chubby or slow. He kept himself fit with lots of exercise. Despite the reputation of gnomes for being pleasant, easygoing creatures, Tolas was downright ruthless as a teacher. In his classroom you learned—or else.

Wulf had found out about what that meant when Tolas, recognizing Wulf’s gift for memorizing the sagas, had set him to work on the king of them all, Andul’s Saga. It was Wulf’s favorite. What Wulf liked most about the story was that it didn’t have much magic in it. It did have lots of battles, sword fighting, poisoning, and drinking from skulls.

But there in Andul’s Saga, near the very beginning, and for no reason Wulf could figure out, was a weird list of names. The skald, the teller of the saga, was supposed to recite these to get things going. This list was known as the “Roll Call of the Dwarves.” Nobody was sure why it was there. But, for nearly a thousand years, the Roll Call had been stubbornly passed from storyteller to storyteller, memorized and re-memorized.

Wulf had figured he could skip the dwarves. Nope. After class one day, he’d gotten instructions to meet the tutor in the castle library afterward. Wulf remembered that his stomach had been grumbling—and he was going to miss midday meal.

The gnome was also the castle librarian. The library was filled with rune-covered scrolls in bins. On shelves were vellum codexes, and a few books made with papyrus pages. This was Tolas’s office while at the castle. And this was where Wulf began to learn the Roll Call of the Dwarves.

Wulf and Tolas had sat down at an old oak table in the library. Tolas had Wulf spread his right hand out on the table. Tolas asked for Wulf’s dagger—it was the same dagger that was now stuck in the oak tree at Allfather Square—and Wulf handed it over.

The gnome had then played mumblety-peg with Wulf’s fingers. He started poking through the space between the fingers with the dagger point, going back and forth, back and forth, as fast as Wulf could call off the names of the dwarves. He’d stab into the wooden table between one of Wulf’s fingers and then the next as Wulf called off the list he was supposed to have memorized from Andul’s. When Wulf missed one or got one out of order, Tolas missed, too. He delivered a small but painful prick to the skin of a finger. It wasn’t long before Wulf’s fingers had little blood roses all over them.

Wulf had threatened to tell his father. Tolas had taken a puff from his pipe, then sat back and dared him to. This had shut Wulf up on the matter. Tolas had probably known it would. Wulf hated to ever appear to be whining around Duke Otto. He spread his hand back out on the table.

“So you want to continue, von Dunstig?” said Tolas. “Or should we just cut your fingers off now because you’ll never get it?”

“I’ll get it. Go on,” Wulf had demanded. “The first one is Lori!”

“Good,” the gnome said, and stabbed down expertly and powerfully between Wulf’s thumb and forefinger. “Next?”

“Swert.”

Pop, went the dagger between forefinger and long finger.

“Nim,” Wulf said. “Slanhanker.”

Pop. Pop.

“Fremdeb, Kor,” Wulf said, even faster. Tolas did not miss a beat. The gnome was really good at this. “Those are the Five Hewers, masters of copper and bronze.”

“Yes, now give me the shapers of arrow and spear.”

“Gelbert, Knitbert, Shem, Sothi—”

Pop, pop, pop, pop went the dagger into the wood of the table.

“And…and, and, and . . .” Wulf tried to remember. The dagger hovered over his pinkie.

Egbert, Ilbert, Ulbert…no, no, no…something “bert”. . .

The dagger began to descend.

Not fair! I didn’t get it wrong yet! I didn’t get it. . .

The dwarf’s name came to him.

“Unbert!”

Pop. The dagger struck precisely to the outside of his pinkie, missing it by a hair’s breadth.

That had been two years ago. By now the Roll Call of the Dwarves was second nature to him, and Wulf was working on part three of Andul’s. What was more, he used Tolas’s knife trick on himself when he was having trouble with one of the saga lists.

Now Wulf sat through the lore lesson, which had something to do with famous northern cathedrals dedicated to both Sturmer and Regen. Normally this would have interested Wulf. There weren’t many cathedrals for two divine beings at the same time. But today he was having trouble concentrating. Then thankfully he heard the midday bell ring from the cathedral. Wulf stood and begun to file out. When he was almost out the door, Tolas called him by name.

“Lord Wulfgang, stay a moment please.” Tolas called him “Lord Wulfgang” when the cousins were around, “von Dunstig” when he was the only family member present.

Tolas said nothing else until the others had left. Wulf heard the boys’ chatter ringing off the stone walls of the castle hall as they made their way toward the midday meal and a rest period before afternoon fight practice.

“Sir?” Wulf finally said.

The gnome hopped down from his box and went over to gather up several of the scrolls and Masshoff’s Codex of Cathedrals he’d taught from. Tolas always reshelved these materials carefully in the castle library after class. During class, though, he used them as if they were common and familiar objects.

“You look terrible, von Dunstig,” said the gnome. “Are you sick?”

Wulf shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”

“How is the third section of Andul’s coming?”

“Fine, sir,” Wulf said.

“No doubt you were working on Andul’s, and that’s why you were late to my class.”

Wulf felt his face blush. Tolas could always catch him off guard. Sometimes he wondered if gnomes could read thoughts. “No, sir. I overslept.”

“I see.” Tolas rolled a scroll neatly and loosely. He’d taught Wulf never to roll them too tightly, since that was bad for the sheepskin. He tied a leather strip around it to hold it in place.

Tolas was the size of a child, but you ignored him at your own peril. He was very good and very quick at whacking with a stick, for one thing. Koterbaum, the marshal of weapons, had asked Tolas for lessons in fighting with singlestick. The two practiced once a week together.

The gnome and the human weapons master were on friendly terms, even though both were about as opposite as could be in personality. Koterbaum was a good instructor, but he also wanted the boys he worked with to like him. Tolas didn’t care whether his students liked him or hated his guts.

The gnome had on a gold and gray University of Raukenrose robe. He wore a purple shoulder covering. He also had on a striped black, white, and red sash under the shoulder covering that went down to his waist. All of these things meant that Tolas held a high position at the university. One of the university’s highest ranked scholars was always given the honorary appointment as castle tutor. This person usually sent a student aide to do the actual teaching. Not Tolas. He took his appointment seriously and taught at the castle in the morning. In the afternoon and evening he was back at the university, where he was docent of law and lore, and a master of the library.

Tolas’s feet stuck out from under the folds of the robe, and, like all his folk, they were covered with a mat of curly hair down to the tips of the toes. Bound to the sole of his foot was a strip of flat leather that was as thin as a piece of scroll parchment. This was as much of a shoe as the tutor wore. Wulf had heard Tolas more than once muttering about the “dictatorship of boots, imprisoning the toes.”

Tolas set down the scroll he was rolling up and reached inside the front of his robe. From one of the many pockets in his robe he pulled out a clay pipe with a long stem. From another pocket, he took a tobacco pouch and a clump of dried willow sticks. He picked out one of these wands and handed it to Wulf. “Do me a favor, von Dunstig, and light this for me in the fire.”

Wulf took the long stick to the fire and got a good coal burning on the end. When he returned, Tolas had loaded his pipe with tobacco and put the pouch away. Tolas accepted the burning stick, put it to the tobacco wad, and took a long drag on the stem of the pipe. He breathed out a couple of huge clouds of smoke until the tobacco was all the way lit in the bowl. After that, he took a long first puff, blew out the burning end of the stick, and pulled the pipe from his mouth. He handed the stick back to Wulf, who took it over and tossed it in the fire. He went back to stand in front of Tolas.

“A curious thing that may interest you, von Dunstig…I was walking over from my quarters at Ironkloppel this morning,” said the gnome. “Now, as you may or may not know, the quickest path between here and there is through Allfather Square.”

Uh oh.

“Now usually I enjoy my walk through the square. The oak is magnificent, a marvel of its kind. It is Eastern white oak, by the way. I estimate its age to be around four hundred years. Not the original Olden Oak, of course, but a remarkable tree nonetheless. Usually it is just myself and the oak tree in communion. But not this morning.”

Tolas took another drag on his pipe, and breathed out. They both watched the trail of smoke as it rose.

“There was a crowd gathered around the oak this morning,” he continued. “Naturally, I wanted to see what the excitement was about so I made my way through the crowd—nearly got stepped on a couple of times, let me tell you. I’m sure it was an accident.” Tolas took his pipe from his mouth and frowned at the stem. “At least, pretty sure,” he added darkly.

“What was it all about, Master Tolas?” Wulf asked.

“I’m coming to that,” said the gnome. He carefully took the pipestem in his fingers and expertly broke off a section of the clay. This gave him a new mouthpiece. He did this whenever the taste of the pipestem got sour. He handed the used bit of pipestem to Wulf. “Take care of this on your way out, please, von Dunstig.”

“Yes, Master Tolas.”

Tolas pulled in and puffed out another cloud of smoke. He smiled. Evidently the stem now tasted better to him.

“As I was saying, I finally got to the front of the gathering—there were perhaps fifty people there, all told—and had a look at my friend the tree. And what do you think I saw?”

Tolas gazed up at Wulf as if he expected him to know the answer. And, since he did, Wulf almost blurted it out. But he managed to keep from doing that and answered, “I don’t know, sir. What was it?”

“Someone had plunged a dagger into the Olden Oak.”

“A dagger, sir?”

“That’s right. And not just a little way in. All the way to the hilt.”

“That would be…well, almost impossible to do, sir.”

Tolas nodded. “And yet not impossible, because I saw it with my own eyes. Several of the older town boys were trying to pull it out, but no one had any luck with that. I suppose someone may eventually chisel it out, which will be bad for the tree, but probably not fatal. I guess my old friend the tree has seen worse.” Tolas took a puff. “Much worse,” he added.

“I’d hate to see the tree harmed, sir,” said Wulf. “Will that be all, sir?”

Tolas nodded. “I recommend you get some rest directly after your afternoon practice,” he said. “You look terrible, like you’re coming down with something.”

Wulf nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.” Then he remembered. “But Rainer has a match, and I’m going to be his second.”

“Not the best day for it, perhaps. Mr. Stope didn’t look so well, either.”

Wulf shrugged. “You know Rainer. He won’t back out.”

Tolas nodded. Wulf turned to go and had taken a step when Tolas called him up short.

“Oh, von Dunstig?”

“Sir?”

“Speaking of daggers, where is yours?” Tolas pointed his pipestem toward Wulf’s belt. “You usually wear it attached to a dirk frog strap there on your belt, do you not?”

“I do, sir,” Wulf answered. Now he really was flushed, and about to break out into a sweat—he could feel it coming on. He scratched his chin nervously. “I must have forgotten to bring it this morning. I overslept and was in a big hurry to get here.”

Tolas nodded. “And your servant didn’t remind you?” he said. “Very unusual, because your man—I should say your faun—is quite competent, I hear.”

“Yes, sir. Grim’s the best, sir.”

Tolas eyed him for a moment.

Here it comes, Wulf thought.

But then the gnome shook his head and went back to rolling a scroll. “Good day, von Dunstig.”

“Good day, Master Tolas.”

Finally he was out the door and away. Rainer met him in the hall.

“What did he want?”

“He says he saw a big crowd around the Olden Oak this morning,” Wulf answered. “They were looking at the dagger.”

“Great,” said Rainer. “So much for nobody noticing it.” Rainer sniffed the air. “Did you manage to take a bath?”

“Yeah. You?”

“In the horse trough by the stables,” he replied.

“I’d hate to be the horse that had to drink that water,” Wulf said.

Rainer nodded his head. “What about the draugar last night?”

Wulf frowned. “I think you killed it.” He wished he sounded more convincing than he did.

“Wulf, that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

They turned and made their way toward the dining hall where the castle children were usually served a midday meal.

“I can’t think straight right now,” Wulf said. “The draugar, and Grer, and the rest. I don’t know.”

Rainer slapped Wulf on the shoulder and grinned. “We’ll figure it out. Right now, I’m going to play a round of Hang the Fool.” This was Rainer’s favorite card game. “The l’Obac Terror thinks she can beat me again, but I’m going to crush her and break her spirit.”

“Uh-huh.”

The l’Obac Terror was Ravenelle Archambeault. Like Rainer, she was a castle fosterling, but under very different conditions. Ravenelle was a war hostage. Her staying in Raukenrose was a pledge of truce from Vall l’Obac, the country that was on the border of Shenandoah to the south.

Ravenelle was not happy to be in the castle. She was not happy to be in Raukenrose or Shenandoah. She could be very mean about it, too. But at the same time, Wulf couldn’t help liking her. She had an incredible imagination. Plus, they were drawn together because they were both readers. Ravenelle’s rooms were filled with actual books, sent up from the Roman colony by her very rich family. They were all written in Tiberian. Ravenelle read it fluently. Wulf could read it, but only slowly and with a dictionary nearby.

Most of Ravenelle’s books were popular in the south. He’d read a few. Ravenelle called them “heartbreaking tales of ardor and terror.” They usually involved a misunderstood heroine, often a governess or disregarded princess, and some kind of brooding hero. He was always royalty, but had fallen on hard times. They took place in crumbling old manor houses overgrown with roses and castles full of ghosts. The books frequently ended with both lovers dying in some weird but fitting way.

He remembered one of them where the governess was rushing to meet her lover after receiving an urgent message from him. She believed he had finally overcome his father’s objection to their marriage. She pushed the horse hitched to her one-horse carriage too hard, and when the carriage bounced, her long hair had gotten tangled in a wagon wheel. This broke her neck. Her lover, on the other had, had found out just what his father’s opposition had been about. The governess was actually the hero’s half-sister. When he found out his lover—and sister, yuck!—was dead, he had died of shock and a shattered heart.

Wulf knew Ravenelle wanted to be in one of those stories and half the time imagined she was.

He sighed. “Maybe I’ll go take a nap. There’s nothing like Ravenelle to make a day even more complicated.”

“Yeah, on second thought, let’s avoid her,” Rainer said. Wulf knew Rainer would never do this. Ravenelle was their friend, despite her mean temper. The odd ones in the group of castle children tended to stick together. “She’s the only one around here who can play me a decent game of cards, though.” He nudged Wulf. “Come on,” he said. “You know she’ll be there. She and Ravenelle are tight as barrels these days.”

Saeunn would be there. Saeunn Amberstone.

The truth was that Wulf was in love with her. Rainer knew it. Wulf knew it.

And the hard and painful certainty was that all Saeunn would ever feel for Wulf—no, could ever feel—was pity.

Maybe he was stuck inside one of Ravenelle’s romances himself.

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