He awoke from the dream in a cold sweat, the memories of that day flooding back to him suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere. Were they true memories? Or had it just been a dream? If true, he must have repressed them for years.
Months had passed and seasons had slid by since his brother had been killed and he had come to live in the castle. He had fallen into a routine of manual labor in the morning, lunch with Geoffry and studying in the library in the afternoon. Harvest season once again approached, causing the flood of memories that perhaps had provoked the strange dream.
The tasks he had been assigned under the auspices of “strength training” had ranged from chopping wood, as he had done in his first day, to hauling water from the well to the kitchen for hours on end. He had repaired the crumbling masonry of the castle’s inner curtain wall, mended guard’s gambesons and polished halberds. He’d helped the stable crew with regular stall mucking and with the less frequent deep cleaning of the stable.
His time spent in the library studying with the Royal Librarian, who now allowed Turgeon to call him Master Jesphat, had made it all worthwhile. Under Master Jesphat’s tutelage Turgeon’s knowledge of the kingdom – and the world beyond – had grown exponentially.
Long since he had earned the privilege of borrowing books from the library to read on his own time, which is how he spent most evenings in his small servant’s cell.
The knowledge collected in the royal library was vast, with volumes of history spanning back to the dark times after the collapse of the First Empire of Atenla, atlases and maps rendering the entire continent of Atenla in great detail and literature from every corner of the land. The library housed tomes on fields mundane and obscure from botany to faerie ecology – and Turgeon felt as though he had read them all.
All, of course, except for those that were housed in the restricted section of the library. It had been months before Turgeon had even realized there was a restricted section. When he had first noticed the small and unassuming door mostly hidden behind a bookshelf in the back corner of the library he had immediately approached Jesphat to ask what was behind the door.
“None of your business, that’s what!” had been the curt reply to his inquiry.
Which had only further fueled Turgeon’s curiosity and desire to learn more about that door. At dinner that night, he brought it up with Geoffry, who had quickly become his best friend in the castle and with whom he now shared most meals and spent the free time he didn’t spend reading.
“Geoffry, what do you know about the royal library?” He began his questioning.
“Why’re you asking me about that? You’re the one who spends all your time in the library. I’ve never even set foot in the place!”
“Aren’t there stories though? What do the servants say about it?”
“That it’s full of books and a pain to dust?” They both laughed at that.
“What else, though? Are there any rumors or gossip about it?” he pressed his friend.
Geoffry glanced around to make sure none of the other servants were paying attention to their conversation, and as usual they were not. He lowered his voice and leaned conspiratorially closer to Turgeon.
“Well… there is one thing I’ve heard about the library. Supposedly there is a restricted area that the Librarian never lets anyone else into. The books in there are supposed ta have nasty spells and such, like demon summoning.”
This was, of course, very interesting to young Turgeon. Forbidden knowledge is always tempting, and the possibility of actual, real, magic made it even more so.
The next day he decided to revisit the subject with Master Jesphat, leveraging the information he had gleaned the night before to guide his questioning.
“Master Jephat,” he began, “with your wisdom, surely there is a good reason for keeping some of the library’s tomes in the restricted area. But having exhausted all there is to learn from the available material, surely to progress in furthering my education under your tutelage I must be given access to that knowledge as well.”
The librarian sighed and removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Turgeon, you have learned all this library and master have to teach. There is no knowledge in that room worth knowing.”
“But how can that be so?! You’ve taught me that all knowledge is worth knowing, that the pursuit of learning never ends,” he was beginning to become angry at the librarian, frustrated by his words that contradicted all he had been taught in his time at the castle.
“The restricted area contains nothing but lies. False tales of the First Empire of Atenla, crazy theories about the fall of the First Empire, and the like. There is nothing there for you to learn.”
“But master, how do we know if they are lies and crazy theories if we don’t study them?”
“Enough!” Turgeon had never seen the librarian so angry, a fury that came on suddenly, like a summer squall, “We’re done for today. Leave me.”
*****
That evening The Swordmaster had come to him as he read alone in his servant’s cell. It had been weeks since Turgeon had even seen the man, and his appearance brought all the rage and hatred that he normally kept buried deep inside simmering back to the surface.
He expected to be reprimanded for his argument with the Librarian, and was surprised when the Swordmaster didn’t mention it at all. Surely he knew of Turgeon’s earlier insolent behavior.
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“Tomorrow morning, your real training will begin. Tonight, you will move to your new quarters. Pack your trunk and bring it.”
There wasn’t much to pack. Despite the months he had lived here he had failed to accumulate much in the way of possessions. Some newer, slightly more comfortable clothing had been provided as he had outgrown the rough rags he had been provided upon arrival.
There were a handful of books he had on loan from the library. Returning those would be awkward. Especially the Klaava Romances, a book of short stories featuring the heroes and ladies of the neighboring kingdom of Klaav.
A rusty knife he had acquired while repairing gear for the guard. It had been tucked inside the straps of a gambeson he had worked on months ago and he had taken it in case he might need it someday. Aelfredd had always said you can never have too many knives, and even with this rusted old piece of metal he only had one to his name.
And the strange wooden box he had not made any progress in opening.
He surprised himself by easily hefting the trunk onto his shoulder. He had thought himself strong from his years of farm work when he had arrived, but he knew he wouldn’t have been able to lift the trunk above his waist before even with great effort. The Swordmaster’s methods and his advancing age had paid dividends and he was now much stronger and taller than he had been, altogether quite lean and wiry.
His new room in the Swordmaster’s own tower was luxurious compared to the servant’s cell with its straw pallet. Perhaps the first night of sleep in a real bed in nearly a year was what had brought on the dreams of forgotten memories.
Determined to get on with this day, which he expected he would be spending entirely with the hated Swordmaster, he put the night behind him and got out of bed.
He had barely gotten dressed when a soft knock on the door was followed by the muffled voice of the Swordmaster, “Breakfast in the common room.”
A comfortable residence had been provided to the King’s Own Swordmaster in this tower. In addition to the full floor training chamber on the penultimate floor, and what Turgeon assumed were the Swordmaster’s own sleeping chambers above, there was a common room, a private privy and quarters for up to three students of which he now occupied one. Another had been furnished as a small study and office, and the third was used as a storeroom. Based on the condition of his own sleeping chamber he had deduced that the current Swordmaster had not taken on a full apprentice in years, possibly ever.
In the common room, which held a dining table as well as a more comfortable lounge area, Turgeon found the Swordmaster at the table eating a simple breakfast of eggs, toast and sausage. A second seat was set with an identical meal awaiting him.
“You can change your breakfast request with Staven this afternoon if you’d like. You’ll have to be fine with that for today.” They ate together in silence, Turgeon’s glowering hatred of the Swordmaster a palpable presence in the room that perhaps could’ve claimed its own seat at the table.
After breakfast, they went upstairs to the training chamber, which the Swordmaster called the salle. The room spanned a full floor of the tower, with tall raftered ceilings three times the height of the living chambers and more than sufficient for a tall man to swing a fully extended longsword over his head. The main floor of the space was covered in leather padding with a wooden platform surrounding it.
Turgeon’s eyes were immediately drawn to the racks that lined the walls, filled with the most impressive array of weapons he had ever seen. The majority of the steel was bare, indicating that it was blunt and specifically for training purposes, although there were a few sheathed, and therefore, he assumed, sharp blades in the mix as well.
Short swords without cross guards, arming swords with fancy basket hilts, rapiers with elaborate quillons and hilt guards, longswords taller than Turgeon and a few larger still – longer even than the Swordmaster was tall, these massive weapons boasted hilts the length of a man’s arm.
Swords accounted for probably half the weaponry but not all of it. There were daggers and knives of various lengths and styles from small, thin stiletto knives to long and sturdy rondel daggers, spears and halberds, mauls and maces.
His fascinated attention had been noticed by the Swordmaster, who chuckled and began what sounded like a rehearsed introduction.
“Welcome to your new home, boy. Here I will train you in the lost Fiorian martial arts of the imperial guard of the First Empire, known to only a select few Swordmasters of the three splinter kingdoms and handed down generation by generation over the centuries.”
Now that caught Turgeon’s attention. A lost martial art of the First Empire? Hiding in plain sight in every kingdom of Atenla?
“I see your attention has been captured by the weapons we use in the art. You have much to learn before you will handle even a simple knife like the rusty junk you keep hidden in your trunk.”
At that, Turgeon’s face turned red, embarrassed by the crudeness of his treasured knife in the context of the array before him.
“Worry not, boy. It bodes well for your training that you saw value in the knife and kept it, I will not punish you for this. We shall begin your training today by learning how to stand and walk properly.
With that the Swordmaster began hours of instruction, spending the morning teaching Turgeon an entirely new stance, a new way of carrying himself and moving about the world. When it was time for lunch Turgeon’s leg muscles burned and he could barely stand. Despite the strength training of the past year, this new training utilized muscles he didn’t even know he had before.
“We will break for the day, and resume tomorrow. You may eat lunch with me, or if you desire to see your friend you may eat with the servants. After lunch you will return to the library and apologize to Master Jesphat for your behavior yesterday. If your apology is sufficient, I have instructed him to allow you to review the only known extant complete copy of the Fiorian Guard’s training manual.”
“I thought you didn’t know about that…”
“Or I would have punished you last night? No, Turgeon, you are past boyish malfeasance and punishments now. Don’t let me down. Be back in time for dinner, you will dine with me in the main hall tonight.”
The main hall, with the king and… the princess. As he left the Swordmaster’s chambers and headed towards the servants quarters he was so distracted by the thought of dining in the main hall with the royal family that he nearly collided with the princess herself while rounding a corner too quickly.
Brigitta was with her, and the only thing that saved him actually running into the princess and probably losing his head in the process was Brigitta rudely shoving him into the wall.
“What are you doing outside the servant’s quarters, boy?” the princess asked haughtily.
“I… I’m staying with the Swordmaster now,” he stammered back, “He’s… training me.”
Brigitta snickered at him, while the princess seemed to eye him appraisingly.
“Well, then your days are numbered,” Brigitta laughed as she pushed him down again and they continued on their way.
Turgeon collected himself and regained his footing, if not his pride. Brigitta’s regular assaults had only become more brazen and frequent as he had grown closer with her brother, Geoffry.
Who was probably anxiously waiting for him, with lunch. Turgeon was anxious to share what he could of his first day of real training with his friend.
Upon arriving at the servant’s dining hall, however, Turgeon was disappointed to find his friend was nowhere to be found. None of the other servants could give him any good answers as to why, but it sounded like Geoffry had been sent on an unusual errand by the stablemaster, into the city to collect a needed item.
So instead of chatting with his friend, Turgeon found himself picking at his lunch and dreading the task before him: apologizing to the Royal Librarian for his behavior the day before.
