Arthurian Cultivation

Not having my music was weighing on me. It had only been a couple of days since we had been gifted the strong box and my arm felt no closer to whole. I had not really appreciated just how often I played my lute when I thought. It was a tool to loosen up my mind and soul.

But with one arm out of commission the most I could do was pluck a few strings.

It also impacted what I could offer to the group. My music served as a distraction or a boost when the mood was low. I could sing, do not get me wrong, but there was something missing without a melody to back it up.

Right now we could really have done with more distraction.

The Round Table was having a minor crisis.

The initial boost we had received from learning of the Grail’s last whereabouts had driven us straight into a bog. We now knew that the Grail was out there. Not in the hands of some king, but in the hands of a charlatan making use of the name of a long-buried monster.

And there was not so much as a hint as to where he was.

Sephy had to go and lie down once that had sunk in. Her family's long guardianship of a prophecy seemingly disrupted by some random act of larceny. I had checked in on her, to find her lost in searching her memories of the text to see what insights might be gleaned from this conflicting situation.

I personally suspected that the Lady of the Lake had a cruel sense of humour. What little she had been allowed to share did not explicitly state we would find the Grail in the hands of a king.

The core of the prophecy she had shared was ‘When the keepers of the pass falter, the desperate will seek tools to alter their fate. Look to the place forsaken by the eyes of traitors and dutiful alike. There you will find the grail of sacrifice being supped from once more. A place of pain, where kings shall falter, alliances will be sundered, and demons shall haunt your halls.’

This was a foundation of mist. While I knew that the De Grailles had worked hard on interpreting this, using arcane powers beyond mere wordplay to pick it apart, I could not help but feel that any sense of certainty was a falsehood.

The Lady might be benevolent, but she was still fae.

I went over a few things with Sephy and tried to help her by bringing up the mention of traitors potentially referencing Merlin. The other factor to consider was the explicit mention that the grail was being ‘supped’ from, probably by Merlin. We had assumed that any use of the Grail would leave a trail of corpses, as the corrupt magic demanded a greater and greater toll.

That might be counteracted by the revelation that Merlin had at least had passing contact with the book, which might have warned him, or at least given him some insight into avoiding the obvious death toll extended use would require.

Sephy had eventually kicked me out as she sought to dive into her musings without distraction.

So I had left and settled into a front-row seat as the spies and investigative souls among us tore into the dossier on Merlin that Phischer had provided. Tristan and Maeve I had expected, but they were joined by Gawain, whom I often forgot had a mind for strategy and plots, if only to keep Arthur safe. Together we pored over the collected notes.

There were plenty of things I might say about the decrepit king, but he was nothing if not thorough.

The dossier only bogged us down further. The fact that Phischer, the petty, aggressive bastard, had no idea where the conman had gone left us without momentum. Over the next day or so everyone spent some time looking over the collection of papers, hunting for hidden truths or exploring dead ends. There were pages upon pages of meticulous notes. The work of multiple professional trackers, missives from other courts, reports from distant lands that had been reached out to.

None of it revealed any sign of this Merlin character.

If this frustration was not enough, there was also the recent attack by the Divine Cultivators, and how our entire mission and the lives of our members had been balanced upon a knife edge.

That attack had laid low the rest of the Order in different states of melancholy. Those who had fought and been wounded saw themselves as weak. Bors had become obsessed with honing his tremor senses. The earth that had always been his warning had been silenced by simple runes. He spent hours listening to the earth while fiddling with crystal structures.

Those who were absent saw themselves as to blame for being so easily tricked and pulled away. Kay was perhaps the worst. She was angry at herself for failing to properly organise us to protect what we had known was something of potentially huge value.

There were lots of drills.

For too long we had been the most powerful force in the land. Our nearest rivals were the other groups of our nascent Order that we occasionally received reports of. They had started spreading out about a month or so ago, having gathered and trained in the Golden Keep. These other ‘Lances’ of Knights were mopping up the areas we had yet to reach or handling resurgent problems in lands we had already passed through.

Before she had headed off, taking away the strong box and book, Rowena had promised to spread a warning about the cultists to the other Round Table groups.

Normally I would have aimed to lift the mood with a song, but right now it just felt wrong. The absence of my lute reminded everyone of my injury, looping back into blaming themselves for letting such cruelty happen.

So it was that I was left listless and wandering. Only I could not wander too far as we all had to walk around in pairs. I was expected to walk in a three, as Kay had bluntly put it. While the others were Knights, I was a Bard, and a wounded one at that. It meant I was left with spare time to ruminate and fester.

A question I had long felt answered had sprung open.

What was my purpose?

On the small scale I was more than happy. I kept up the group’s spirits. I refined my music and spread it across the lands, pulling power as it resonated with souls far and wide. It was a noble pursuit I felt well suited to.

The question was what I was heading towards.

I considered my power. It was still growing. If anything I was far above the average for my age, and yet the way my power failed to move forward at the pace I felt the threats demanded worried me. What could I do to grow faster?

The others were Knights. They stabbed things, gained power to stab more things and avoid being stabbed themselves, and then stabbed bigger things. There was Intent, and the nebulous and hidden path to Steel that involved ‘owning’ your name that Pell had mentioned. Exactly how that worked we all had to work out or earn the secret.

Except me, as the Lady of the Lake had so graciously granted me my name.

It felt like I had worked out how to walk. I had found the path of the bard, but now as I travelled it I was surrounded by new options. Did I lean on that sensation of resonance? Did I work with Marek and refine my curses until my songs could curse even the greatest foes? Did I embrace the violence that surrounded me and learn how to balance telling the story and carving it out myself?

I had only the vaguest directions. Things I had picked up from Fash the brewer, Pell my uncle, and the little I had scraped together myself. The others talked about developing techniques, refining their armour and blades. Of searching out fae beasts to conquer, or seeking out fae realms.

Was it my fate to just follow? That did not seem quite right. There was something missing.

I sighed. The melancholy of the group was infectious. I needed out. I needed music. My bad arm twitched and I was about to sink again when I heard the ringing of bells from the nearby town, marking the end of the trading day. Soon people would be heading home, or out to drink and make merry. I could see a few inns with open shutters were busy, laughter and song pouring out.

“That’s it!” I jumped up.

From over behind a stack of books Tristan jerked upright. He blinked owlishly at me, and from the dopey look and the piece of paper stuck to the side of his face it seemed he had been asleep. He must have drifted off at some point, collapsing onto his desk. We were using a small office in the fortress we had been granted access to. Even during the day the light was thin, let in by a pair of arrow slits. We had supplemented it with candles.

“What’s it?”

“Are we getting anywhere?”

“Outside of my dreams? No.” He said as he peeled the paper from his face, squinting at it.

“I fancy some music. Do you want to come down to the local tavern?”

“We should—” He looked around at the maps and the mess of paper and shifted in his chair. “I should move. A tavern would be a good idea.”

As we headed out we collected Maeve, Lance and Gaz for my ‘escort’. Sephy was focused on some communications that had just arrived from her family and begged off, and the others were on patrol. We cleared it with Kay, who insisted we make sure not to drink to excess and that one of us should act as watchman.

A task Gaz nominated himself for, revealing he did not like to drink without his darling Tiffany at his side.

Stolen story; please report.

We headed into Corbinec. It was the largest settlement in the mountains and the only place we had visited that I might have called a real city. We slipped into our more casual clothes, and while that was not enough to make us blend in fully with the mortals, we did not scream cultivator. Merely wealthy. Everyone had been practising summoning their armour and weapons from their rings incessantly since the ambush, so the lack of armour was not a true concern.

With a few copper coins and friendly questions I managed to get us directions to ‘The Long Ascent’, a well-liked tavern known for its live music.

We found the tavern on one of the main streets. It was a bustling, lively place. The people were friendly and did not mind sharing their tables with unfamiliar faces. It was nice but it was not ‘The Fox and Harp’ from Alka with Fash’s brews. Still, it did not smell bad and had a warm feel to it.

We settled at a table off to one side. It was busy enough that we had to share, but the others who had already sat did not mind. Gaz went off to do a quick check of the tavern and to order us some drinks. As we sat down, a bard or minstrel of some sort stepped up onto the stage. He was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair. He waited until there was a lull in the noise before clearing his throat. He reached beneath his chair and drew out the instrument.

My eyes grew wide. It was a hurdy-gurdy, well made and cared for. Its polished wood was dark with age, the crank worn smooth by decades of work. He set it against his chest and began to turn the handle, slow at first, as if coaxing the thing awake.

The sound came out thick and droning. Strings were rasped beneath it, not plucked or bowed but ground into voice by the turning wheel. I felt myself still. I had heard the sound before, years ago, but it had been a long while since I had seen one played. There was something mesmerising about the motion, the steady crank, the way the music seemed pulled rather than performed.

Then the melody resolved itself, sliding into a shape I knew all too well. The opening bars of Ulfast the Ugly crept out into the tavern.

“Now a song from the lowlands. A favourite. Ulfast the Ugly!” The bard shouted, and the crowd chuckled.

The room quietened. Conversation did not stop but everyone was that bit quieter so the music could be heard. To my surprise I could feel that resonance again, much diluted. Where when I played it was a light rain, this was little more than a few drops of morning dew. It was next to nothing, but it was still something. I suppressed my shock.

Did this mean I could cultivate just by having others sing my works? That was revolutionary. Wait, no, it was impossible for this to lead to any significant power. I knew from talking to the brewer Fash that other bards did exist. They had to have discovered this themselves. If so, then it made sense this was not a reliable path to power, otherwise bards would be everywhere.

I was pulled from my musings as the song ended. The almost imperceptible dribble of power dried up.

“I can’t believe that is your most popular song,” Maeve said quietly to me.

“Or that the song about Gring has caught on so much. You should see how he preens when the children run up to him crying his name,” Lance chuckled from beside us. We were all tucked in tight to fit at the busy table.

“I’m just surprised that the king hasn’t mandated Vermald’s Fall to be played every night,” Gaz said, returning with a tray loaded heavily with mugs. His gift-enhanced hearing had followed our conversation from across the room.

“Oh, are you lot wanting to hear the new song? That will be playing later. The criers have been shouting about it all day!” one of the men from the other end of the table asked.

“I’m surprised it has caught on so quickly. I thought it was only sung yesterday,” I said. I had shared copies of the song and music with the king’s aides but I had not expected people to already know about it.

“It was played late last night. Our king sent out riders with the song and had it played at the taverns. He has even announced a day of wealth and reward to celebrate the end of that monster. I’m told the more respected bards all received a copy and a small stipend to play it,” a ruddy-faced man in a more clerical outfit added.

I was impressed with Phischer’s obsession with spreading word of his victory. It seemed he could not wait even a few hours to further bury his enemies.

“Thanks, we look forward to hearing it.” I nodded back to them, then added quietly to myself, “I hope they follow my notes on the accompaniment.”

“Well, it’s good. It seems that word of the Round Table is spreading,” Lance said as she sipped her drink.

“That Order is exactly what we need. They’re great, proper noble types!” a broad-chested man from the other end of the table picked up on it. Beside him his fellows nodded and added their agreement.

I smiled. “Oh, we’re quite new to Corbinec. What have you heard?”

“They killed that fire owl over in Downspike!” a gangly man, who looked to still be in his teen years, shouted.

“I heard it was a bear!”

“Nah, you’re both wrong. I heard it was a bear and owl. The two beasties working in tandem to spread terror till the Round Table came and put them to the sword,” another chimed in.

“What was it I heard about this Vermald fellow?” Gaz asked, a smile on his lips as he realised the game I was playing.

“That monster in human skin. Good riddance.” The four faces at the other end of the table scowled.

“My wife used to say to the kids that the sorcerer would come and eat them if they didn’t behave. You wouldn’t believe how the pair of them celebrated when the criers went out with the news.” The ruddy clerk relaxed first. “She’ll have to come up with a new threat now. Not that I mind.”

“Can’t believe the Winding Path never put him down. They must have been planning to turn traitor for years. Leaving all these monsters for the Round to have to put down,” the broad farmer grumbled into his drink.

“You can trust the Round. They don’t turn up to taverns and kick everyone out. Once I was here and some of the Path’s Knights came through and demanded we all leave so they could drink in peace. We like Knights here but they didn’t live up to the title.” The last of them, an older man who had a sharp look to his eyes, was the only one who watched us carefully, likely already suspecting we were not the average travellers.

“Oh, and you don’t think the Round would do that?” I asked smoothly, ignoring the jab to the ribs I received from Maeve.

“Nah, can’t see it.”

“I want to meet Lancelot. She’s meant to be a feisty woman,” the pimply teen muttered drunkenly. Now I focused I realised he looked softer than the rest. His outfit was a touch finer than the rest of the rabble, and he looked to have done something to his hair to dye it to a lighter shade, but the roots were coming through. Beside me I heard Lance choke on her drink. Maeve slapped her on the back. Thankfully any further crisis was averted as the rest of the table cackled and laid into the kid.

“Kurt, you couldn’t handle a feisty carrot. I once saw you being chased by a rat!” the farmer roared with laughter.

“It was a big rat.”

Any further banter was cut off as everyone’s attention was pulled to the stage. The bard was up there again, his hurdy-gurdy being cranked.

“Now I have a song from our illustrious king. A tale of the fall of a vile monster. The words may seem fantastical but I’m told it is a true, if poetic, account of the last moments of the dark sorcerer Vermald.”

The song began. I relaxed as it clearly followed my accompaniment. It was good to hear the music I had imagined accompanying the words. The hurdy-gurdy perfectly captured the merry tune I had imagined to pair with it. I delighted as people laughed at the right moments, and I did not let myself get distracted by the sensation of resonance. Such wonders of cultivation could be pondered another time.

Once the song wrapped up we continued to chatter with the others at our table. Somehow no one seemed to associate ‘Lance’ with Lancelot. Maeve had become Mae for the night so as not to tip them off. Gaz was distinct enough that no one suspected he might be Sir Gareth, while Tristan was a popular enough name and he spent most of his time blending into the background.

My songs never mentioned the name Taliesin, so there was no need to hide it.

The others explained us away as mercenaries, calling ourselves petty cultivators looking to winter in Corbinec due to my wound. Thankfully Corbinec was big enough that cultivators were not completely exotic, and the implication that we were just starting on the path was enough that the rowdy bunch did not clam up.

It soothed us all to hear the outpouring of support and faith. These people believed in the Round Table. With the focus on the Grail we had forgotten the other half of our mission. To help the people of the mountains.

Now to hear people talking about distant relatives who had reported being helped, of traders spared destruction as we had reconnected passes, of the way what had looked to be a bitter winter of monsters and bandits was now just another passing of the seasons. It was better than any music I could have played.

I spotted it when the first one of them sussed us out. The older man who had been there from the start of the conversation was frowning as Lance beat another strapping lad at arm wrestling when his eyes shot wide. His hand came up to point at her, his lips framing words even as his throat caught.

I shifted and reached out with the barest touch of my power.

He froze and I leaned over to him. “Don’t worry. You’re in no danger from us. Please relax and know we just wanted some easy company this evening. Tonight you might consider us simple mercenaries.”

He nodded, his face a mess of emotions. I hoped he was not too frightened. In my experience most mortals felt that cultivators were best appreciated from a distance. I did not want to scare him, and I wondered if there was any way to ease the situation when the man surprised me.

He nodded to himself and then, to my great pleasure, he smiled at me and delivered a reverential nod. That was honestly the best news of the night. To imagine that we had built a reputation strong enough that he did not feel the need to hide from our presence was proof that what we were doing out on the passes was working.

I felt my soul sing as I imagined him telling his fellows about the truth of their encounter the next day. But I could imagine that none would believe him.

So for my own amusement I slid across a small token. It was a little disc, a token of favour that was common among the Orders. A thin piece of ceramic, the edge coated in red enamel with gold leaf adding detail to the embossed heraldry of twelve blades resting on a circular table.

The Steels had commissioned them for us. They offered a valuable tool for communication and reputation. On a practical level, if one of us needed to leave a message with a mortal, rather than code words or leaving something valuable to prove the mortal was speaking with our voice, we could instead leave a token.

And a code word of course. The more security the better.

Of a more general nature there was power in spreading our legend and our network. Leaving the coins with those we found to be trustworthy and competent helped the other cohorts know who to trust, and perhaps the most lasting impact was how it brought mortals closer to us. In my days in Portsmode I had seen similar favours treasured for generations. The simple icon revered as proof that an ancestor had been found noble and courageous.

It was a little silly to give one out merely so a man could prove to his friends that they had been drinking with the Order they lauded so much. Yet it felt right, speaking to my bardic side.

It was not just following the Knights. It was building a story, spreading a little bit of whimsy in the world.

The man blinked as he accepted the coin and then smartly and swiftly tucked it into a pocket.

“Feel free to tell them the day after tomorrow. I think I might try to get the others to come out. This has soothed us. Though if we ever meet again I would like to hear what the spotty one’s face looks like when he realises the ‘feisty woman’ he’s pining over has been sitting less than a pace from him all night.”

Beside me the man’s eyes jumped to the pimply young man who had been goaded into reciting some of the poetry he had concocted. The result reminded me of the kind of failed brews that made me throw out a cauldron.

Mae was currently dissecting his composition with the practised ear of one raised in high society. Her advice was helpful but brutal in the extreme. Behind her Lance was hiding so none would see her creased over with laughter.

“I would ask why you prepared this poetry. To what end?” Maeve paused as she reached the end of her autopsy.

“I just wish to be properly armed if I ever were to meet the object of my affections.” The young man pressed his hand to his chest. He had borne the criticisms with the utter confidence of two pints and too few conversations with women. Behind Maeve, Lancelot began to howl.

The old man and I exchanged a look and then broke out into gales of laughter.