Arthurian Cultivation

“You alright there, Taliesin?” A deep voice roused me, I startled out of the frenzy I'd been in since I'd spoken with Maeve earlier, or rather last night, if the sun streaming through the windows was anything to go by. As I shook myself to full wakefulness, I knocked the desk and a stack of paper started to fall. I tried to grab it, but my wounded arm was still clumsy, so I only hastened the destruction by smacking the papers further away.

“There we go.” Bors caught the falling stack with shocking speed and deftness for his size. “Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt, but you missed breakfast and I'm in charge of making sure you eat some lunch, under threat of Percy.”

“Wait, lunch? What time is it?”

“It's time to get some food and wipe the ink off your face.”

“I've got ink on my face?”

“And in your hair, and on your arms. Honestly, you're more ink than man right now. If you weren't wearing a wonder of fae magic, I'm sure you'd be out a set of clothes.”

Bors chuckled, hustling me downstairs to a pail of water. A lot of scrubbing and bracingly cold water later, I was merely smudged. Clean enough to be taken to the hall where some bread, meat, and hard cheese awaited me. Bors loaded up a plate for me, my arm still useless, and then we found some seats at one of the long tables where Tristan already sat.

“So it looks like you had a breakthrough.” Bors sat opposite me, next to Tristan. The shadow knight was reading through my stack of notes, his lips moving from time to time as he noted something. He perked up at Bors’ words though.

“I think I've got a clear lead to follow on Merlin,” I offered, grinning as I immediately took a bite of my food, leaving my two fellows in suspense. I particularly enjoyed the way Tristan literally shook himself, as if checking whether he was in a dream. I finished my mouthful and was about to go for another before Bors grabbed me.

“Explain!”

“He’s not trying to gain more power. He’s a wizard. He’s trying to gain knowledge. If we don’t think of him as trying to sacrifice enough to maintain the power the Grail gives him, and instead look at how it could be used as a cure…”

I smiled as Tristan jerked in his seat, his eyes lighting up.

“That would make so much sense,” Tristan said, a faint smile spreading to his lips.

“Oh come on, don't leave me out,” Bors groaned.

“He's selling the temporary healing power of the Grail,” I explained.

“What? But I thought it could kill you unless you fed it more, or did whatever nonsense is in that book that Vermald has.”

“That's the point. He's not using it to gain power. He's using it as a temporary fix. A momentary reprieve for the mortals. I looked through the notes from the bounty board, both those bounties for ‘fake healers’ and also requests for assistance with healing. A good number of them were taken down with complaints that some manner of conman had healed the illness only for it to come back even worse.”

I shared some pieces of paper with the pair from my ring. “He’s been using the bounty board to find experiments.”

Tristan started to examine them and let out a short laugh. “That’s what I think. There’s a lot of these as well where the ‘false healer’ is being hunted, and there are a lot of similarities between them.”

“Not conclusive, but a good theory to go on,” Tristan muttered.

“Oh it gets better. Here are the descriptions of these ‘healers’.” I passed over another page, which Bors took. He frowned at it.

“These all seem like a different bloke. This one has a hump, and this one a nose covered in warts.”

“But they’re all similar heights. All an older man. All presented as a wise cultivating sage of some nature. Same person, just with some disguises. Disguises should either make you plain and boring, or they should be distracting, loud and memorable in all the wrong places. Who needs to remember what the rest of someone's face looks like when they have a giant nose covered in warts?”

Tristan paused, then stood up, running off with a shout that he was going to fetch the map.

“You're telling me that this guy has been wandering around the mountains, killing people, and then selling sips out of the cultists’ grand artefact?” Bors growled. The mood soured. I'd been happy to find the man, but I'd somewhat ignored the implications of what he was doing.

“Seems that way,” I said, taking a moment to pause and eat, even as my appetite fled.

“Cruel fucker. The sacrifices are horrid, but it's the healing. To trick them and make them think they're getting better and then it all falls apart. That's a special kind of evil,” Bors growled.

Tristan returned. The mood lifted, the evil of the mage losing out to the knowledge we might have finally got a lead. We laid out the map on the mess table and started to plot locations. The map was one created by those cultivators who flew, a bird’s-eye view, it was called. There were notes as to how steep mountains were, but it was still hard to understand true distances or how the mountains, valleys and streams really broke up travel time.

Still, a pattern rapidly formed. There were a few outliers. A few times issues popped up on the far edges of the map, but there were going to be false positives.

“Of bloody course. It makes perfect sense,” I said as the last mark was made. A clear ring of ‘sightings’ forming a rough circle.

“Eurgh, this isn't going to be fun,” Bors muttered. He could see it now.

“What's going on here?” Gawain, with Arthur by his side, had walked in.

“We think we know where Merlin might be,” I said, and both of them rushed over.

“Why do you all look so glum then?” Gawain's brow scrunched as he looked at the map. “Well shit.”

The sudden profanity from the uptight knight almost made me chuckle. If there was a cause to curse, this was it. The map was covered in little marks all across it. Green ink used for sightings from Phischer, brown for bounties on medical fraudsters, and red for those given fake healing. The colours spread across the whole map, but in one place they gathered like leaves swirling around a drain.

The centre of this vortex was the last place any of us wanted to go. The ruins of the Verdant Folly. It seemed our conman was hiding, if not in the ruins, then at least directly under their shadow.

The place was cursed, with a capital C. The great oak left by the greater fae was only part of the curse. It was said that beneath its boughs the fae realm tended to bleed through to our world. True fae were said to be spotted moving from one shadow to another, and voices would call to travellers who dared to get too close.

“I'll go get the others,” Arthur volunteered.

We all nodded. We had to get planning. This wasn't something simple.

“What do we know of the Verdant Folly?”

“I know the song, and a few other tales that speak of it.” My arm twitched as I said that. The Verdant Folly had a truly lovely accompaniment.

“I got a report from my sources,” Tristan added. “It's a place of great bounty and power. It sucks up all the glamour across the mountains, so items of great value can be found there. However, the risk is too great for most to consider looting it. Irons sometimes go exploring there looking for its bounty. At least half don't return. Those who do tend to be very clear on advising others to avoid the place.”

“What threats might we expect?” Bors asked.

“It is a place where the fae is invading our world. This isn't a mini-fae realm like we went into before. It's worse. Kay knows more,” I replied, frowning.

“I have to admit I'm blind on this. The cultists talked about the fae as little as possible. I know of fae realms, but I thought they were bits of the fae that broke off or something.”

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“So is it not like a fae realm?” Bors asked, directing his question to Tristan. He paused before answering.

“Imagine you are before a basin of soapy water. The water is the fae, our world is the air above it. The film of soap is the barrier between worlds. The bubbles you get are fae realms. A pocket where the barrier has grabbed part of our world and brought it close to the fae. It’s a place where the fae and mortal realms have nothing between them, allowing our worlds to mix.”

“Then what is the Verdant Folly in this metaphor?”

“It's more like the drops of water climbing up the sides of the basin. An invasion, not a contained connection. It’s a place of power and confusion. We cultivate the steam that rises off the water. What do you think happens when we get properly soaked?”

“Nothing good,” Bors rumbled.

“No,” Tristan finished.

Most everyone gathered. Gaz and Lance were on watch, but for the rest we outlined our theory. I made certain to credit Maeve for helping me puzzle part of this out, which she accepted with a curt nod.

We discussed what we knew of the Verdant Folly. None of it was good. It seemed that everyone had been warned to some extent about going near it. Kay was actually the biggest font of knowledge. Her old Order, the ones who'd sold her out to appease the cultists, would occasionally raid the location. Apparently nature cultivators were more likely to return than most.

The picture that was painted was of a place overflowing with plant life even in the depths of winter. Powerful Iron beasts roamed the far reaches, with occasional Steel-ranked monsters being found beside the trunk. The place was seen as cursed. Even as it offered up a huge bounty of treasures, it killed too many to be seen as a reliable place to push oneself.

Beasts were only the second concern. The oak was the bigger threat. It carried the will of the Green Knight, and if it decided you’d violated the laws of the place, it would see you slain. The trees themselves would turn against you.

“So the plants are trying to kill us?” Bors asked as Kay finished her explanation.

“I only ever heard of the outside edges. There's Steelbriars. Those are like hedges that are tough for even a cultivator to cut and have thorns as tough as reinforced steel. A… friend told me that she was retreating from a beast she'd angered and tried to escape back the way she'd come, only to find the briars blocking her path, trying to force her to fight the beast. Another told me of how they'd woken up to their camp surrounded by the briars and had to fight their way out,” Kay explained.

“Nature glamour can't control intelligent plant life. It works well against them like water cultivators might be able to restrain a water nymph, but it's nowhere near as effective,” Tristan added.

It seemed this was a charming place indeed.

“And that's the least of the threats. I heard there are even walking trees close to the trunk of the oak,” Kay muttered.

“I really wish I could bring in a few others. It would be nice to have a fire cultivator,” Arthur added.

“No you don't. They get it the worst. The Folly is a load of competing plants, but when fire gets involved they put aside their differences to quench it,” Kay explained. “There are also rules to that place. It’s sensitive about how you use fire.”

“Ah crap, it’s going to try and kill us and we can’t have hot food?” Bors groaned theatrically. A few chuckles broke out.

“Yes and no. Firstly, small flames are fine. It's just if the forest notices fire starting to spread, the forest gets extinguished with utmost haste. Secondly, use fallen fuel, sticks and wood that's on the ground already. If you cut down a tree you're going to have a bad time. My seniors used to bring in fuel with them, as some of the wood can release toxic fumes.”

“So we can’t cut down the trees? But you said that people hacked apart Steelbriars?”

“That's different. There are some rules to venturing into the Folly, but I only vaguely remember them. I’d need to check, but I’m not certain who to ask. The things that stuck were more the murderous bushes, not the arcane laws that governed the place.” Kay’s brow was creased as she clearly struggled to unearth some long-buried memories.

“That rule lines up with the tale of the Verdant Folly,” I offered.

“I've heard that song before, but I must admit I didn't pay the most attention,” Tristan chimed in, with others round the table nodding or adding something similar.

“It's old, and forgive me. It's more of a poem worked into a song and I’ve heard several versions. It's popular among the locals and they all have variants of the poem. The song though is a bit less variable, given there is an accompaniment that…” I noticed everyone was staring at me with expectant looks. “I should just sing it, shouldn't I?”

I stood before the table. I pulled on the memories of the song. The cultists considered it a banned piece, to be studied as a bit of history, so of course I'd learned how to sing it. Without my instrument I felt my words slip into place, layered with my aura that slid into the words as it used to the strings of my instrument. It gave weight to my words and, if I was honest, added something more to my voice that I wasn’t entirely sure I could identify.

“Hearken, good folk, and hold this in mind,

Of pride run to seed and vows undone,

Of green oaths broken and thrones unearned,

Of folly that flowered at the bitter end.

From far-off roads came a haughty band,

Mail-clad and boasting, with banners high,

Who crossed bleak vales and the backs of hills

Till mountains rose like the spines of the world.

There they beheld the highest horn,

A peak that pierced both cloud and star,

And cried with laughter and clashing steel,

“Here shall our Order be drawn and named.”

Yet that land had a lord long crowned by leaf,

A warden old as root and rain,

Whose name was known in whispered oaths,

The Green Knight, the Verdant Shepherd.

Still these men scoffed at tale and song,

Set stone on stone with iron will,

And named themselves the masters there,

As though the earth had none before.

Before the year had worn its ring,

Ere frost had long kissed field and bough,

There came a rider from the deepwood’s heart

In sheen of green and splendour dread.

His helm was wreathed with living vine,

His mantle moss and emerald scale,

An axe he bore, broad-bladed, ready to bite,

And holly held within his hand.

He passed their gates unchallenged,

For fear went first and courage lagged,

And stood within their daunting hall

As oak stands firm amid thin reeds.

Soft-spoken then, and smooth of tongue,

He bowed as one who honours forms.

“Fair sirs,” quoth he, “your fame runs swift,

Yet faster still does rumour stir.”

“I greet you not with drawn-up war,

Nor bloodshed in this candle-lit court.

I come with courtesy and with care

To warn the proud before the fall.”

“Come visit well my wooded demesne,”

He said, with smile both kind and keen,

“But know this truth, as green is leaf,

I test all those who claim my ground.”

His gaze ran slow from helm to helm

And lingered long on arrogant eyes.

“I find,” quoth he, “much bark and boast,

Yet little ring of seasoned hearth.”

Then rose their master, red with wrath,

First among fools and last to be named wise,

Who stamped and swore to be made known,

And bade the knight his name proclaim.

The Green Knight laughed, a sound like wind

That bends the bough but breaks it not.

“A name is naught when deeds are bare.

Let game decide what words cannot.”

He set his axe upon the floor

And named the sport the Noble Strike.

“One blow I grant, as strong as thou wilt deal,

And I shall stand and take it still.”

“But mark thee well the binding bond.

In year and day thou shalt seek me

And bare thy neck for answering stroke,

As law and honour both demand.”

“And more,” quoth he, “three rules I set

By which thou shalt my patience keep.

Hold fast to these, and fae nor root

Shall lift a hand against thy folk.”

“The First. Burn thou only fallen wood,

The dead and downed the fire may claim.

I shear my sheep, so will suffer not

The slaying green for petty gain.”

“The Second. Bow low where oak stands tall,

For king of trees is oak by right.

Let pride bend knee where boughs reach heaven,

Else pride be snapped like winter twig.”

“The Last. Seek me out, nor shirk nor stall,

When year and day have come full round.

Delay is debt, and debt draws blood.”

The master sneered, yet stepped ahead

And took the axe with arrogant mirth.

He struck full hard. The hall rang sharp.

The green head rolled upon the stones.

Yet wonder fell like sudden snow,

For still the body stood upright.

The Knight swooped down, took head in hand,

And mounted swift, with living smile.

“Forget me not,” the head did say,

“Nor count this done till debt be paid.”

Then horse and rider fled to green,

And laughter leafed behind their path.

Time turned its wheel. The fools grew bold.

They broke the first law without shame.

They felled the forest, fire-fed,

And fed their forges with fresh-slain wood.

They broke the second, worse than first.

An ancient oak, broad-rooted, wise,

Was hacked and hewn and shaped to throne,

Where sat their lord brooding every night.

The third they mocked with stubborn heart.

No road was taken, no quest begun.

Instead the master sought witch and fae might,

Yet each drew back, pale-eyed and mute.

“For we will not,” they all said,

“Earn green wrath for fool’s gold.”

The final day came, dark and still.

The master sat on his oak-wrought seat

And swore the Knight was tale and trick,

A myth to frighten childish minds.

Then root and stone and timber groaned.

The carved doors swelled and sealed as bark.

Vines burst forth with choking speed,

Green fingers clutching wall and tower.

The keep did shake. The people wailed

As leaf and limb claimed stone for soil.

No sword could bite, no fire take hold.

The Green Knight’s law had come full due.

A day passed on. The storm fell still.

Where once rose walls and banners proud,

There stood an oak, vast, verdant, crowned,

Its roots deep-fed on shattered stone.

From every bough there hung a helm,

The master first, then all his knights,

A grim harvest for broken vows,

Their folly writ in leaf and limb.

So stands the oak, unbent by years,

Its leaves whispering ancient oath.

Bow thou before its hoary crown,

Or claim thy lot in Noble Strike.

For here is writ in root and stone

The Verdant Folly, monument to fools’ pride.”

“Wait, should we have been bowing before now?!” Bors shouted.