Arthurian Cultivation

So began my time with Bors. He set up a tent for me, another looted goodie from the hunting cultivator. In fact, he ‘loaned’ me the man's entire storage ring and most of its contents for the duration of our partnership. The tent was pleasant, but everything else the man owned made me feel as though a hunting lodge had thrown up over it. One thing I wasn’t going to complain about was the fur-lined camp bed. Bors grumbled about that, grousing about short men and tiny beds.

Not that size alone was the issue. I suspected that with his huge body, he’d collapse most beds, even if they were built to scale.

For the first few days, our companionship was quiet, a distant silence as we got used to each other. That changed when I asked to borrow a bastard sword and shield to train. Bors was ecstatic to get in some fighting. He wasn’t a great teacher, but I was focusing on relearning what I’d forgotten.

Part of his difficulty in explaining anything was that his martial skill was simply on a completely different level from mine. Even when limiting his strength, he could beat me hands down with one hand tied behind his back—literally. He was polite about my failings, but I could sense a little frustration. Bors lived to fight.

He explained why it was going slowly after a particularly tough fight.

“You fight more like Gawain or Percy than me. You’re fast and can attack quickly. You fight tricky too. You can use both hands for the sword, and that quick switch almost got me.”

“Alright, but why am I on the floor while you’re untying the arm you didn’t use?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’m used to fighting Gawain, who is faster than you, and Percy is even trickier. Both are Iron, too. Sorry to say, you’ve got a ways to go before you can compare.”

“Any tips?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, and get to Iron rank.”

With that sage wisdom ringing in my ears, we flipped our roles on their heads. I volunteered to give some lessons on control. Being stuck for so long meant control was one of the few things I could develop. Control was essential for techniques, like my smoke illusions. Techniques weren’t often possible until high Bronze rank. They tended to require excessive amounts of glamour and a level of control that ranged from middling to excruciating heights I never reached.

Techniques were a melody you could play, while control was your command of the instrument. I had one technique: my smoke illusions. And illusions required a song to make them work. So, my control had to match. Thankfully, it was low on glamour usage.

Teaching Bors control, though, was stretching my self-control. He just bulled through everything like an avalanche. It was reflected in the techniques he could use, which had to be demonstrated a good distance away from the bridge. Destroying your own bridge is another big no-no in the Knight Errant community.

The least destructive technique was something that turned everything within ten paces of him into splintered hexagons. While he ran through some exercises I suggested, I tried to work out how to help him. For that, I needed space.

I hunted and foraged again while retrieving the Gale Hare's corpse. Bors let me know there was a small bounty in the local town on them. The local government paid Cultivators to handle them, as they were such a disliked enemy that, without some coin, they’d be ignored in favour of better prey.

Our time continued. We shared stories. I was careful not to share so much as to fully out my identity—not that I thought Bors would share, but I didn’t want him to accidentally say something that made its way to the wrong ears.

In turn, I learned about the small group of knights he belonged to. There were four of them currently, and all of them were, according to Bors, at least as proficient as he was. Though he was happy to say he was physically the strongest. Their leader, Arty, was a true prodigy. If the man who trounced me without breaking a sweat considered himself a simple dabbler in the sword compared to the man, then I could believe it.

The other two members were Percy and Gawain. Percy was their lifeline; she knew people and was somehow always able to keep the heat off the group. She sounded like some kind of confidence trickster from the way Bors told it.

Gawain was a master trainer of beasts. He had a soul bond with a Whispering Kestrel, an impressive fae beast. It allowed them to communicate over longer distances and acted as a scout.

All of them had run afoul of demonic cultivators. All had been less than impressed with the reaction of the Orders to the threat.

The rest of the group was out hunting down a group of ‘Inquisitors’ who’d been found putting entire towns to blade and flame to aid their foul rituals. It was within the borders of a local Order that Bors had annoyed previously, and so their response would be aimed at him rather than the rampaging murderers.

We agreed that was the height of folly.

I spent much of my time apart from Bors just thinking, playing my lute, and settling my mind. I passed it off as cultivation, but really, I was just trying to anchor the fact in my mind that I was actually free.

It had taken years. I still half expected to wake up in chains back at the Harkley mansion. I woke up from nightmares, tangled in my bedding. I kept expecting tests or challenges.

I caught him watching me carefully on a few occasions. He could no doubt sense the storm of emotions that raged within. Even if my mask was normally excellent, the change was so overwhelming. And that didn’t even touch upon what happened after I escaped.

I played the lute. My initial cover as a Bard had been based upon the gifts I’d received, but I increasingly found I enjoyed the role. I’d spent the last few years in an unending performance. It was more normal to act up to a role than it was to be myself, given that I wasn’t overly sure who I was.

I could be Regus’s revenge, pursuing the Harkleys, hunting them down and vanquishing them. While there was an ember of fury that idea connected with, I knew that in a way seeking that out would just be saying they still had power over me. What I liked most about it was the idea I’d gather power, ensuring none could put me back into that situation again.

If I wanted power, I could be a Knight, or maybe even seek out a Witch to teach me. Both of those options felt risky; I didn’t want to find myself under another’s power. The looming sense of the Lady was already enough pressure, though at least she was Fae. I could no more fight her than I could stop day turning to night.

My confusion was probably why I didn’t move on. Bors and his bridge were a safe place to be for the moment. He had no expectations of me beyond asking me to fetch meat. It helped that I felt comfortable in his company. It was clear he was a good person from how he treated the mortals we met.

His bridge wasn’t completely desolate. We met a few passing travellers. They were in small caravans or in dedicated wagons. They were hardy and suspicious people, none more so than cultivators who guarded them. They did, though, offer some entertainment.

The cultivator guards would bluster when they saw Bors, and then shrivel like a man headed to the outhouse in the height of winter when they really saw Bors. They were but grains of sand before a mountain.

None of the guards had yet fully realised their gift, their hearths not yet complete and ready to hold glamour. They could do a few tricks; they were slightly tougher and hit harder than any mortal should. That power was finite, though. They could get off maybe two or three punches before exhausting the little glamour they could hold.

They were of little threat to me and of no threat to Bors. I could practically feel the disappointment radiating off him each time he realised they weren’t worth a fight. He asked them for a simple toll, preferring goods like drinks, salts, or other simple things. Most had little; these were not the trade caravans. Those, we were told, would be starting up soon, as most were waiting until the snow melted.

They never had any word of any cultivators coming along, which further frustrated Bors. Our sparring tended to get intense after such a visit.

On the seventh day since I’d met Bors, we were visited by a small caravan, and I was in no mood to spar with Bors afterwards. Seeking a distraction, I noticed this caravan had a few children on it, four boys and girls, none of them older than ten.

As Bors exchanged pleasantries with the leaders of the group, the little ones chatted amongst themselves and kept pointing at my lute as they talked. I could hardly deny such an opportunity. Plus, Bors had just finished up with the adults and had that look in his eye that told me that sparring would start before this lot was out of earshot.

I did not need to have them hear me getting knocked to the ground, so I sought to buy myself some time. I plucked a few strings, wondering what I should pick. It took but a few moments to settle on something fun, that would also be an expression of my hard-earned freedom.

“In a garden green and shady,

Lived a girl named Lady Grady,

She found a mushroom ring, oh so small,

And took a step, she began to fall.”

Thankfully, entering the Fae was not so easy. The music bounced, and I could see recognition on a couple of the children’s faces. The parents smiled, though I saw one sour-faced old woman looking scandalised. There’s always a critic. At least she wasn’t giving me the Evil Eye over it.

“Oh, the glamour of the fae,

Turning night into day,

Trees with wings and stars that sing,

Fairy lights and magic springs!”

I belted out the chorus with gusto, the children clapping along. It was a nonsense song, though it did touch on how glamour came from their realm, a place warped and different from mortal lands. Despite it being a harmless tune for children, it had been banned in Harkley Manor and everywhere within the areas the Divine Cultivators ruled.

“The fae king laughed, his eyes aglow,

‘Welcome, dear, to our magical show!’

Her humble house turned into gold,

A talking chair, and bread that scold!”

Because it was banned, I of course set out to learn it as soon as possible. The Divine Cultivators claimed glamour was a blessing from their many-faced god, a belief so fragile that even a children’s song was enough to challenge it. I sang the chorus again, basking in the attention, revelling in the freedom to sing such nonsense. To my side, Bors was slapping the earth, adding a drum to keep the beat.

I grinned, nodding in thanks to him. Perhaps the sparring wouldn’t be so bad? I completed the chorus again and marvelled at the freedom I felt. It was like the dance on the shore of the lake. Even as I entertained, this performance was more for me than anyone else. It was not like the early days of my captivity when I tried to act like the cultivator they’d wanted me to be. Nor was I the bookish and refined perfumier I’d crafted to deflect their attention.

“A squirrel in a suit served tea on trays,

With cookies that danced in peculiar ways,

The clock struck twelve and chimed a tune,

Flowers sprouted in the middle of the room!”

My hearth was surging as I made music. This felt right—right in a way that nothing before had. It didn’t feel like when I sang to myself; this was different. It was the sense of making beauty and sharing it with others. It didn’t matter that it was silly and a terrible depiction of the Fae. I had died to sing this nonsense. That knowledge infused my words as I belted through the chorus. The kids and even a couple of adults sang along to the words.

“Her garden bloomed with colours bright,

With tulips that twirled and daisies in flight,

The pond turned into liquid gold,

Where fish told tales and secrets bold!”

I found myself dancing around. A cultivator’s body could move in ways a mortal’s couldn’t. I played the fool, capering about. None told me off for being ‘improper,’ no eyes watched me assessing my value like I was a prize flower waiting to be plucked.

“Lady Grady danced all night,

With fairies in the pale moonlight,

Her hair turned green, her nose a flute,

Her toes grew flowers, oh so cute!”

We were nearing the end, so I went all out. I pulled on a hint of my smoke glamour, manifesting a puff of grey ash right out of my nose. It took more glamour than I’d like, but the laughter of the children as I danced about with a nose flute and flowers on my feet made it worth it. My teachers would’ve spat blood at the ‘waste.’ I maintained the silly nose flute for the final chorus before the tune changed tone as we reached the outro.

“So beware the mushroom ring,

The fae’s enchantments they do bring,

Your world will change in a whimsical way,

When you step into the realm of the fae!”

I punctuated the line with a backflip and then a bow. The children were immediately clamouring for more. More I wanted to give. This was freedom. I could feel the thousand different paths that lay before me converge into one.

I had survived by playing a role. Now, I’d live for the role I wanted to play. I was a Bard, and I’d act as I damn well pleased.