Ban—he’d requested I drop “Captain” once he was off duty—was walking to his ho. This part of town was beautiful. We walked over the clean, cobbled streets, with small rune lights guiding our way. It was so different from Albion. The average town outside the major cities there was dreary and dark, while the cities glowed and teed with cultivators and mortals alike. It made realise how gaudy so of the cities I’d known truly were.
The people were pleased to see their Captain and waved to him often. It was a pleasant change from how most cultivators were treated—being sohow both a leper and a lord. All the way, he waved right back, knowing many people by na.
He did an excellent job of it as well, given I knew just how drunk he was, having seen him finish the rest of the whiskey and now serving as a living crutch. The one upside to supporting an Iron rank cultivator was that he was introducing to everyone. I bandied words with those he chose, getting a chuckle out of the gruff n or an “oh stop” from the older ladies.
I was not introduced to any younger folk for so reason. I guess bards do have a reputation.
Ban’s ho was a gorgeous mansion set in wide gardens on a raised area overlooking most of this part of town. It was perhaps the nicest dwelling around and made question exactly who Captain Ban really was. My suspicions could wait; with the height advantage, I could take in the whole town. It was a breathtaking sight.
First, there were the vast falls—a ribbon of blue with crests of churning white, crashing from the high cliff. I could hear the roar of the water in my chest, even as runic spells reduced the harshness of the noise. I’d learnt today that the falls were so high that, when they weren’t boosted by ltwater, the raging water mostly turned to mist before it could even hit the ground. That mist, in turn, fed the rolling fields of farms I could see illuminated by the setting sun. They were already showing shoots of green despite the early spring. The water glamour of the river was supplented by earth glamour pulled from the mountain, which kept the plains fertile.
The part of town I was in was neat, tidy, and spoke of quiet wealth—the kind you got from stability and having skilled mortals putting down roots. So far, this had been my main experience of Fosburg, but from this vantage point, I could see the town was far from homogeneous.
There were high walls and a strip of mansions, beautiful compounds, and glittering towers on the side of the bridge that faced the waterfall. I was confused until I saw the various banners of Orders and Covens, ones I knew to be famous for manipulating water glamour. It must make for a rich water cultivation resource.
On the other side of the bridge, on the hills that led down to where the farms were, lay a town that was bigger than the one perched on the stone bridge. Its construction, apart from a few places, was rough. Not like the shanty town we’d passed through on our way in, but more like the less affluent towns of Albion, with so cultivator touches.
Watching Ban, I saw his gaze lovingly sweep over the regular bridge town, his eyes only briefly touching on the extres of wealth and poverty that boxed it in.
Just before a second set of higher walls that marked the inner town stood Ban’s ho. It was apparently based on a “chalet” design he’d seen out in the mountains. Beautiful wood slats fronted the upper floors, while white paint highlighted the splashes of colour. The only hint that a tal cultivator lived here was a small forge I could see at the side.
As we approached, a pair of servants were waiting for us. They opened the gates to the short wall around the space. I could see their surprise as their master stumbled. I caught him easily. The butler turned his eyes to accusingly.
“Don’t be like that, Jasper, not his fault. We had a run-in with the Lady in Peach today.” The butler nodded at his master’s words knowingly.
“Ah, I shall go decant so wine, shall I, sir?”
“Yes, and please let my wife know. This is the Bard Taliesin, who has been invited to tea by the Elder in a few days. I was asked to give him directions.”
“I take it this is the bard from the gate earlier today. I already made up a bed.”
Ban nodded. Stepping through the door, he sent his armour into a storage ring. He was now in a fine silk shirt with a long green sleeveless tunic over it, subtly embroidered with a pattern I recognised as fleur-de-lys—a common design in the area.
“News certainly travels fast. Does everyone know I’m here?” I said, following him to the receiving room.
Inspired by my earlier fumble with my blade, where I’d choked it in smoke trying to transform it under the Evil Eye, I blew smoke around . Beneath the glamour, I changed my travelling clothes into a knee-length tunic—black and grey, of course—with so simple stockings beneath, which, despite my best attempts, refused to be any colour but red.
It was actually a great way to obscure the Lady’s gifts. Cultivators couldn’t see through it, and it would take another, stronger cultivator to disrupt my smoke, which I’d sense. Of course, a crafty Steel or higher could possibly work around it, but by then I’d already ssed up by drawing that level of attention.
“Bard Taliesin, a pleasure. I am Sir’s butler. It is my job to stay apprised of events concerning Sir Ban and his household. Speaking of which, your daughter is waiting for you in the next room, Sir.” Jasper’s tone remained even yet still managed to carry a sense of warning.
“Thank you, Jasper. Let’s get this done.”
Ban pushed open the door. A blonde form zipped under his arm and was before in a split second. If I didn’t have exceptional control—after years of learning not to blink at almost anything the Harkleys sent at —I’d have lashed out.
“So, what school of combat did you train under? Also—urk.” The voice was cut off as Ban wrestled the manic form into a hug.
“By all the Seelie, Lance, let him get in the door first,” Ban laughed, holding his daughter in a vice-like grip. Jasper, using that small window of ti, led through to the main room of the house. It was warm, refined, and slled of the forest and smoke.
Being a cultivator had ant I’d mostly forgotten the bite of the cold, but this place still thawed a chill I hadn’t known I’d been carrying.
“Dad. Let go. Also, are you drunk?” I heard “Lance” grumble.
“Not as drunk as I’d like.”
“Mum’s going to be pissed.”
“Watch your language, Squire Lancelot! Also, it is rude to assu soone else’s disposition.”
A vision of a woman swept down the stairs. I was used to beauty, having seen many of the won Albion considered its finest. Their flawless forms, worthy of carving in marble and being immortalised for the ages. The lady of the house was not one of those chilly princesses. Hers was a gentle beauty, one befitting her ho. She had a kind face frad in golden locks, a look enhanced by the light wrinkles earned through frequent smiles.
She was definitely a cultivator, and her attention tugged on like a silk thread. It felt gentle, but there was a strength there, an echo that reminded of the Lady in Peach’s Evil Eye. She was likely quite high in cultivation—just like Ban.
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“Elaine, my sweet, co here and console my weary soul,” Ban chuckled, dragging his struggling daughter with him to embrace his wife.
I felt like I was watching a mont I should not. It was a glimpse into kindness and family I’d almost forgotten. My mother’s passing so fourteen years ago had left with little mory of such genuine love and care. I had long refined the control of my face and actions, but never in all my years, through bullying and beatings, could I rember struggling to hold back tears as hard as I did now.
“Elaine, Lance, this is our guest Taliesin, a bardic cultivator. The Lady in Peach is expecting him for tea soon,” Ban said.
“A pleasure, Taliesin. I take it that, because you lack the maudlin air of those waiting for the gallows, you have sohow impressed her?” Elaine asked, offering her hand, which I duly kissed as was appropriate.
“I did little. My friend Sir Bors helped protect her Apprentice from so unsavoury types. I rely rooted out those involved,” I offered. At that mont, the struggling form of ‘Lance’ finally broke free of her father.
“What combat school did you study under?” Lance sought to zip up to , but her mother’s gaze slowed her to an unladylike yet not rude stride.
Lance was the most aggressively handso girl I’d ever t. Her hair was shorter than mine, styled like a boy’s, and she wore a dress that might as well have been a n’s tunic. Her hair was golden like her mother’s, and her features were a mix of both parents—with warm eyes and a button nose, but with a sharp jaw and cheeks.
I guessed she was about Maeve’s age—likely eighteen or nineteen—but she possessed the boundless energy of soone much younger. Despite the bubbling energy, she moved gracefully. It reminded of how dancers moved, and even her gentle movents carried confidence in each step.
Even when she stopped, her stance was wide, and I could see the muscles under the dress. She was as tall as I was but felt like she was bearing down on —a complete warrior.
“By the Sidhe, Lance, did you not hear he’s a bard?” Ban rubbed his face.
“Squire Lancelot, be polite. For that, no questions about combat until we’re sat down.”
“But Mother! It’s a reasonable question. You’re an Oracle and can fight almost as well as Dad. Besides, I can see it in his stance—he knows how to fight.”
That answered my question about Elaine’s cultivation. Oracles were a subset of witches focused on divination.
“I an, I do, but that’s nothing special. I am a travelling troubadour. It’d hardly be safe to make music if I couldn’t make my way from one place to another.”
“No need to be modest. You killed two Gale Hares and were able to move under her Evil Eye. Plus, I saw you moving about during your performance—you can use Levity at your level. No single one of these is a simple feat,” Ban said over his shoulder as he headed into another room from which delicious slls escaped.
“You did what? Are you one of those who prefer the Mystic styles? I hear they focus on speed a great deal,” Lance said, looking over with a critical eye.
“Lancelot, what did I just say? No more questions until pudding. Taliesin, do please join us. It’s been a long ti since we had a bard at our table.”
“I wouldn’t dare to impose. Your husband has already been exceedingly kind,” I replied, though I could feel my stomach practically strangle over that small politeness. It slt so good.
“It’s no imposition. When I heard there was a bard at the gates, I made sure an extra place was laid. Ban and I do so love good music. My husband plays quite a rare instrunt himself, on the rare occasions he has the ti to do so.”
She ushered through the door, piloting effortlessly to the table.
I was spared more questions from Lance as the first course arrived—an onion soup with crusty bread covered in cheese, plus a hint of rare peppercorns. A humble dish, but lavish in execution.
“So, you’re a bardic cultivator? What does that entail? It’s honestly an enviable concept,” Elaine said, conducting court at the table. Ban was sipping wine, his sips leisurely now he was in his ho. Lancelot was clearly waiting for permission to speak but deferred to her mother.
“The path it’s taking now is to be in the shadow of other cultivators, learning of their stories, travelling to new places, and experiencing new things. I am in no rush to shoot through the ranks. I also find there’s sothing unique about performing—it strengthens and pushes my skills.”
“Few cultivators would wish to be in others’ shadows or take their ti to appreciate the world. It’s an unusual outlook and one I think we could all use more of,” Elaine replied.
“Damn right. If I could let my younger self know just how long a cultivator’s life truly is, I’d have made far fewer mistakes and enjoyed myself more when I was in my ‘Noble Squire’ phase,” Ban added.
The conversation continued over another two courses of delicious, hearty fare. I was feeling quite stuffed. We strayed across a few topics. A bit about Bors ca up, who was known to Ban. Apparently, a well-respected Young Knight of Fos had gone out to challenge him to prove his worth. The Knight was soundly beaten, but they parted on good terms, as Bors was always willing to impart knowledge.
Despite Ban’s assurances that Bors would be alright, I still felt unsettled. I was keen to check on my friend. Ban reassured that not only was that path particularly quiet, but his view of the Golden Hind was poor. They picked up those who couldn’t hack it in the Orders and were often the kind of cultivators who couldn’t work together enough to make it in the watch or as caravan guards. The path between the two towns was rarely used at this ti of year, but he said another caravan should likely be heading through in a couple of days, bringing news.
With that topic closed, I learned a little more about Ban’s family. Ban was himself a foundling. When Lancelot tried to expand on the story of him being found by the Fos family head, he waved her off, saying, “We don’t need a repeat of that old story.” Colour intrigued.
Elaine had left her coven and was officially a ‘hedge witch,’ offering services to the cultivators based out of Fosburg. Lancelot was their first and only child, the couple having t during a bout of Ban’s questing so twenty years ago.
We didn’t talk about local politics, nor did they probe overly into my past, which was pleasant. I was getting used to the half-truths and technical truths my fae curse allowed. I realised I had actually spent most of my ti as a Harkley in a similar state of truthfulness. It was easier to be partially honest than to gather lies around yourself. My lies mostly consisted of speaking of my loyalty to, admiration for, and, of course, ownership of the Harkley na.
Diverting a lot of attention from years of my life would be beyond . Lancelot was remarkably well-behaved, keeping the conversation going without diving into combat or battle. That, though, seed to be a tactic to let us all relax and beco addled by drink. Her parents were less willing or able to corral her.
Lancelot struck as pudding was served—a rich pudding of so kind of sugary syrup called treacle over a sponge cake. It was delightful.
“Dad said you moved under the witch’s Evil Eye. How’d you manage that?”
“Lance, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand tis—you can’t just ask cultivators for their secrets. That’s how you get duels,” Ban sighed.
“I don’t mind. It’s not really a secret—it’s just exposure. I’m used to harsh critique,” I replied.
Lancelot seed annoyed at the response—at from the very first sentence. I paused.
“Lancelot, were you hoping I’d challenge you to a duel over that question?”
“Well, aren’t you delightfully sharp? See, Lancelot, you are not as cunning as you think. Please let apologise for my daughter. She is a champion of bladework in many regional tourneys, obsessed with her craft, and rather upset that we expect her to be more than just another Noble Squire going around and causing a ruckus.” Elaine shot a smile at her daughter, who was going steadily redder.
“But Mum, the others have their gifts to help them. I am falling behind, and there’s only so much one can do with a sword against soone who can coat themselves in magma.” The implication she didn’t have options intrigued . She was certainly a cultivator. She'd been introduced as a Squire, so Bronze with two gifts, or a single exceptionally powerful one.
Gifts could be quite different, and I'd heard of plenty of souls who had one “weaker” gift. Weakness was often asured by its application to battle. My Smoke gift was one such example. I'd not heard of anyone totally cursed by their gifts. Besides, even a “weak” gift could be put to use.
“Oh great, in combat I'm going to use dream glamour and whatever this is!” She flared both her palms, and the dream glamour made wince. For a combat specialist, dream glamour was not helpful until you were Iron-ranked at least. She'd most likely got it from her mother's side. It was a very Oracle-type of gift.
The other gift, though, was such a shock that it froze my spoon mid-transit to my mouth, despite its delicious load of sponge and treacle.
I felt the focus of Elaine on . She'd seen my flinch. She could tell I knew. I could feel the weight of her gaze—not the Evil Eye, but the total attention of a Peak Iron cultivator. It made my skin crawl. Ban was hissing at his daughter for showing off, and Lancelot was arguing back, rather fairly, that “no one knew what it was anyway, so why be so careful?”
It was her poor luck that I did, in fact, recognise one of the rarest gifts in cultivator circles. I also knew the fae it was supposedly tied to.
Elaine watched as a cat watches a mouse, but the pressure from her was nothing compared to the weight of the image of those eyes—like lakes—which sprang up in my mind.
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