As soon as Turgeon held a sword in his hands he knew he had found his first love.

  He became completely immersed in his training, focusing all of his efforts and energy on learning the sword. In the morning, before his lessons with the Librarian, he trained by himself. One morning he became so absorbed in his training that he lost track of time and missed his lesson, and there were no consequences. The Swordmaster acknowledged that for now his time in the salle was more important. He still visited the library on occasion, but began to spend more and more of his mornings training. Sometimes the Swordmaster even joined him and the two of them worked for hours before the afternoon lesson with Suzette.

  At night, after dinner in the feast hall and sometimes instead of eating dinner with the court, he trained. When he did attend dinner instead of having it delivered to the tower he ate quickly and left quickly, spending little time with his friend Dael. Dael took it in stride, understanding after only one discussion that Turgeon had to focus on his training and devote his time to becoming the best swordsman he could be.

  Learning the sword had started with the wooden dussacks. Turgeon and Suzette had learned the first play of the sword through a basic drill. One would cut down at the other, who would bring the dussack up from a low guard in a crossing motion, pushing the attackers weapon out to the side and thrusting back at the attacker in one fluid maneuver.

  Once they had mastered executing this basic play from a stationary position they worked on chaining the play back to back against each other, eventually adding in motion to develop their footwork and timing. More plays were added, increasing the complexity of the dance with thrusts and cuts from multiple angles requiring additional blocks and counters.

  After they had mastered the basic techniques and tempo with the wooden dussacks, they graduated to blunt steel one handed swords with protective basket hilts to prevent hand injury. The ringing sound of metal on metal replaced the clack clack clack of the dussacks and was a beautiful music to the student’s and master’s ears.

  It was around that time that the healer, Melora, paid him a visit in the Swordmaster’s tower to check up on his healing progress. She came in the evening, after a hard day of training. Turgeon had skipped his lessons with the Librarian that morning and taken all of his meals in the tower. When she came he was exhausted, but still up reading in the tower’s common room. Jesphat did still send him reading assignments, this one was about the First Summorian War.

  “You don’t look well,” she opened, “have you been eating?”

  He had, and well. Rich meats, thick breads and a harvest of enriching vegetables. He’d found himself exceedingly hungry since his stay in the infirmary.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been eating well.”

  “Good, good. The healing body needs nourishment.”

  There was an awkward silence as she inspected him from across the room.

  “Care to explain why you look like corruption?” She prodded.

  “I’ve been training hard,” he replied brusquely, resentful of the accusation.

  “Maybe take it easy for a bit then. I owe it to your brother to keep you safe.”

  “You knew my brother?” Shit and corruption, he couldn’t let those secrets get out. “I have a brother?”

  She seemed to believe his attempted cover up of his slip, or at least she chose not to call him on his dissembling if she did see through it.

  After a moment she nodded, apparently deciding something in her own head.

  “I believe I did. If you are the Turgeon I think you are, I knew your brother. He was a good man.”

  “But, how?” He almost said something about Aelfredd not frequenting the castle but caught himself.

  “It’s a story for another time, I knew him years ago, before I came to the castle. Get some rest Turgeon, you really do look ill.”

  Moments after she left, the Swordmaster returned to the tower from the feast hall.

  “I saw Melora in the hallway,” he stated gruffly, “She said you need more rest. To bed with you, and for the rest of the week you’ll go to the library in the morning. You’re falling behind on your studies with Master Jesphat.”

  That wasn’t true, Turgeon knew. His self study of the books the Librarian sent him had kept up with the pace Master Jesphat set. “But, master…”

  “No arguing, Turgeon. To bed.”

  *****

  In the morning, after their usual breakfast, Turgeon went to the Library as instructed. He wasn’t too disappointed to skip his morning training: he had some questions that had been brewing in his head for some time now.

  “Ah, Turgeon, welcome back to the library,” Jesphat’s voiced boomed at his entrance. “You have questions about the reading I’ve assigned? Perhaps you wish to know more about Gaerdryn’s folly? Falkarian historians like Grevans do tend to gloss over that part of the story…”

  Turgeon sensed that Jesphat was about to launch into a lecture, so he took the opportunity of his brief pause to interject and begin his line of questioning. “No master, I can read between the lines in Grevans’ telling. Gaerdryn was a ‘rupting ass who drank too much and embarrassed Falkaria and himself at Hiveria’s crowning, what more is there to say?”

  “Language, Turgeon. That’s our King’s ancestor you’re speaking of. You’re not wrong though. If not Gaerdryn’s folly, what can I help you with? Surely you haven’t made it to the siege and Bargarth’s solution yet?”

  “No master, I wish to inquire about the One God.”

  “The One God, eh? Where have you been reading about that? Have you been deviating from my assigned materials?”

  “No, sir. The King mentioned the One God to Prince Gyuszki during his second audience. He said that worship of the One God had turned Klaav into a land of heathens and fools, or something like that.”

  “Ah, it is true that Klaav is a bastion of the One God’s worship. The King has accepted it as the official state religion, replacing the Ideals. He even ejected the Perfects from Klaav.”

  “What is the One God master?”

  “Well, worshippers of the One God believe that there is a benevolent spirit, a deity, that oversees Atenla and guides our futures. They believe that by worshiping him and begging for his intervention through something they call prayer he will provide them with aid and guidance in their lives.”

  “What is prayer? Is it sort of like meditating on your Ideal?”

  “Yes, something like that. But instead of looking within oneself for answers and guidance, worshippers of the One God defer their agency and insight to an external force, the god they worship.”

  “How strange… how did all of this start?”

  “A good question. No one is absolutely certain where worship of the One God originated, but the religion definitely arose after the Fall of the Empire. Sometime in the first century after the fall a charismatic prophet arose in the land, most believe he got his start in Falkaria not far from here. The prophet capitalized on the turmoil of the time, and people’s chief fear: the corruption of magic. Memory of a time before the corruption was still fresh then, and people had hope that things might go back to the way they were before the Fall, when magic was safe and ubiquitous.

  “The Prophet of the One God claimed to have received a vision from this God of his that showed him a hope for the future: that one day a great magi would arise, protected from the corruption by the One God and able to use magic safely. Supposedly this magi would use his powers for the good of all Atenlans, finding the source of the corruption and healing it.

  “People were desperate for hope, and a hope that magic might be made safe again was a brilliant star in the night for many at the time. He quickly grew a large following here in Falkaria, but he was a threat to the throne and the Perfects. They conspired to eject the Prophet and his nascent following from the land, but the new faith found succor in Klaav.

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  “There it has festered for years like an open wound, spreading and growing in strength. In time, it has overtaken the following of the ideals not just with the peasant class but even with the nobility and ultimately the royal family itself. A few generations ago it was named the official religion of Klaav, the Perfects were expelled and followers of the Ideals hunted down and forced to convert, forswearing their own faith.”

  “That sounds… terrible.” That was all Turgeon could think to say. There was so much to unpack and consider in what his master had told him.

  “Klaav has always been a wild and dangerous place, Turgeon. A kingdom founded on the principle of war and death was never destined to be at peace.

  With a glance out the window Turgeon realized the sun was nearly at its zenith. It was already time for him to return to the tower and his practice.

  “Thank you Master Jesphat, I think I must be going now though.”

  “Of course Turgeon, it’s good to see you back in the Library. I hope you don’t let yourself become too absorbed in the study of the sword and neglect the sharpening of your mind as well.”

  “I won’t, master. I’ve been keeping up with the reading. I’ll try to visit more often to chat too.”

  “See that you do, boy.”

  *****

  His lessons with the Swordmaster did absorb him though. Turgeon felt as though he was finally learning what he needed to learn to become a true warrior. They learned how to properly thrust and cut with their steel training blades, practicing thrusting and the four cuts for hours on end. They learned that a thrust, while deadly, must be perfectly timed as it can be turned aside and defended against with the meekest of effort.

  They learned of time and tempo, developing an understanding of how to move in space with an opponent to keep safe defensively but also to put oneself ultimately in a position to strike a killing blow. The Swordmaster referred to this as the True Place, where it is possible to strike the opponent in a way that they are unable to defend while at the same time protecting oneself by being positioned in a way that makes it impossible for the opponent to achieve a similar strike.

  They learned the time of the hand, body and foot. The time of the hand is fastest, when one is close enough to strike only in the time of the hand a true attack can be made quickly. The time of the body is slower, requiring a lunge to strike. The time of the foot is the slowest, being far enough away from an opponent that one must step towards them to strike means they have more time to defend against that strike.

  They learned how to execute a feint with the sword, building on their knowledge of timing and tempo. It was simple to understand that when one is positioned in a place requiring a step to strike but strikes without taking that step it is a feint. With this knowledge it becomes a simple matter to deduce when an opponent is executing a feint and avoid whatever trap was being laid.

  Of course they had learned the sword versions of all of the guards they had learned in grappling. The basic guards of flowing river, blowing wind, grasping flames and stone wall all translated easily. Variants were added, accounting for the additional positions one could hold a sword and the position of the sword itself: whether the point of the blade pointed up or down.

  The direction of the sword’s point when beginning a play or engagement in their free play sparring dictated the ideal next move. To keep the blade flowing and moving quickly a cut would bring the point from down to upright, but when defending it is best to keep the point down or up as it was in order to execute a defensive play as quickly as possible.

  They learned of the parts of the blade, the strong and the weak and how to understand advantage in the bind based on whether an opponent’s blade was upon the strong or the weak part of your own blade.

  In a short time Turgeon and Suzette were mastering the one handed swords. They were both quick learners taught by a skilled instructor. Afternoons were filled with the beautiful music of steel on steel as they flowed through plays in free play, sometimes managing to fight for up to an hour nonstop with neither student gaining the advantage of the true play and ending the bout.

  Turgeon and Suzette also became closer in this time, developing a bond through training not unlike siblings. It took conscious effort, but Turgeon studiously avoided allowing himself to develop any romantic feelings for her. Between the differences in their stations and the requirements of their training – specifically the close physical proximity frequently required – such feelings would lead to nothing but pain and awkwardness.

  Suzette began to confide in him often when they chatted after training and during rest breaks, complaining often about the hardships she endured as a princess. It took every bit of will Turgeon possessed not to roll his eyes at most of her complaints. Of late, most of Suzette’s complaints seemed to center on her handmaiden, Brigitta.

  “What happened between you two?” Turgeon probed one day after their lessons, “The two of you used to be inseparable, but I haven’t seen you together in months.”

  Suzette made a sour face, puckering her lips in a way that would’ve been singularly unattractive on most girls but somehow made her face more beautiful.

  “The girl has turned sour in recent weeks. She used to be warm and friendly, but of late she’s all sharp edges and snide remarks.”

  “She was never warm and friendly to me,” Turgeon told Suzette of his first night in the castle, and how Brigitta had welcomed him by humiliating him in the kitchen and sending him sobbing to his pallet.

  “Two months ago I would not have believed that story of her If you had told me, but now… it seems that I’m only now seeing the real Brigitta. It’s not only her attitude either, she seems unhealthy too, like she’s not eating well.”

  That was interesting. Perhaps there was more to Brigitta than met the eye. Turgeon wondered what her brother, Geoffry, might know and how he could manage to corner him for questioning.

  The days passed quickly as Turgeon became one with the blade. He became more and more comfortable with the weapon in his hands, until it felt like it was merely an extension of his own body and will, precisely executing plays from muscle memory alone with no conscious thought. When he sparred with Suzette he practiced emptying his mind of all thought, simply flowing with the blade from play to play to play. Suzette was good, but it was clear to everyone that Turgeon could be a great swordsman with time and practice.

  One afternoon, when he returned from his studies with Master Jesphat, Turgeon was surprised to see two of the King’s Own Guard outside the entrance to the tower and at full attention. Even the princess didn’t merit a guard within the castle walls, so their presence could only mean one thing. The King himself was in the tower.

  With this clue and his powers of deduction, Turgeon was proud that he wasn’t surprised when he entered the salle to find the King, Suzette and the Swordmaster awaited him there.

  “Hold a moment, Turgeon, we await one more member of the royal family who will be in attendance for this ceremony,” the Swordmaster gestured for Turgeon to take his place at the edge of the training mat where Suzette waited patiently.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered to her, but she just silenced him with a glare and quick shake of her head.

  Moments after Turgeon entered, Master Jesphat climbed into the salle, breathing hard from what had clearly been a quick dash from the Library. Turgeon had only left him there minutes earlier and had nearly run to the tower in eagerness for the afternoon’s lesson.

  Jesphat took up a position on the King’s left and slightly behind him, while the Swordmaster took a position on the King’s right even with the Librarian.

  Channeling the weight of tradition and the authority of his position, the King began what was clearly an ancient ceremony for the rulers of Falkaria.

  “Come, students, kneel and receive your first blade,” the King intoned.

  Turgeon followed Suzette’s lead, kneeling beside her in front of the King.

  “In exchange for this blade, I must receive your oath’s and know the truth of your commitment.”

  Suzette had been prepared for the ceremony it seemed, because she knew exactly what to say to that.

  “My King, I swear to use this blade in service to you and the Kingdom of Falkaria. I swear to always follow the path of the Ideals, and to strive for the perfection of Love.”

  Turgeon was pretty sure he caught Jesphat rolling his eyes at the Princess’ declared ideal, and while it seemed he was the only one in the room who hadn’t been aware of her choice in advance he was also not surprised by it based on what he knew of her Idealism.

  “I will strive to Love all of the people of Falkaria equally when I am Queen, reigning with an even hand and bringing the light of Love to all of my subjects.”

  That bit seemed off script to Turgeon, and the King’s somewhat disgusted look confirmed this.

  “Yes, yes, daughter. We all know of your interpretation of your Ideal and wish you well in that endeavor.” It didn’t sound like he really did though.

  With that, the Swordmaster handed the king a blade that he presented to Suzette. It was a thing of beauty, with an ornate leather scabbard and gem encrusted basket hilt blazing in the afternoon sun. The King drew the blade from the scabbard to present it to her hilt first, and the blade itself was even more beautiful than the scabbard. It was etched with an ornate pattern of roses and waterfalls the entire length. The weapon wasn’t a court toy though, it was as practical as it was beautiful. The edge was honed and deadly sharp, and the leather grip on the hilt was practical and wouldn’t slip even if covered in blood and sweat.

  Suzette accepted the blade solemnly, returning it to the scabbard and stepping back.

  Now it was Turgeon’s turn, he tried to recall the words Suzette had spoken and to repeat his own version of them accurately.

  “My King, I swear to use this blade in service to you and the Kingdom of Falkaria. I swear to always follow the path of the Ideals, and to strive for the perfection of Freedom.”

  From the reactions in the room, Turgeon surmised that the King had been informed of Turgeon’s choice already as he accepted Turgeon’s oath and confession calmly. Suzette, however, had not. From where he knelt her face was not visible, but her sharp intake of breath made her shock known.

  Given the climate in the room, Turgeon opted not to add on an explanation of his Ideal and purpose as Suzette had done.

  The weapon the King presented to Turgeon was far less ornate than Suzette’s, but no less beautiful to him. The scabbard was plain black leather, the basket hilt a simple worked silver to protect his hand. The hilt itself was covered in a gritty black leather, the skin of a creature Turgeon was not familiar with it seemed. The blade was unadorned and deadly, slightly longer than Suzette’s to account for Turgeon’s own longer reach and size.

  He accepted the blade and returned it to his sheath as Suzette had down before him.

  “Congratulations to you both on this achievement. You have taken one step closer to the master of the Fiorian arts of combat, and you honor the Kingdom of Falkaria through your efforts.”

  One step closer, Turgeon thought to himself. One step closer to Freedom.