Alistar spent most of the month of June getting used to his new schedule. After tidying up his room each morning, he would use a washcloth and a bucket of warm water to clean himself. Following this, he would put on in one of the ten sets of clothing that filled the upper drawers of his dresser. His inflated wardrobe was a little much, but his uncle had insisted.
Once he was decent, he usually ventured over to the dining hall for a solitary breakfast, though sotis he bought a snack in town so that he didn’t have to bother any of the house servants to make him a al. Afterward, he would ditate at the collegia under the supervision of Sword Master Tramon, until the irritable old man allowed him to leave. Once given permission, he would hurry to the Hanging Hill in the hopes of catching the tail end of the daily public lessons, and would stick around until early in the evening to talk to Mr. Herst, who answered any questions that popped into Alistar’s head with eager words, and told him many stories, folktales and lesser-known myths that he would be hard-pressed to find in the local libraries.
He usually made it back to the manor house just in ti to share a warm dinner with his family, though Caedmon was a busy man so oftentis it was just him and Anice. These als weren’t long though, since he was always in a rush to read one of the many books he’d hoarded in his room, or to ditate in the central gardens for an hour or two. He ended each night with a long stint of physical training, swinging around the polished wooden sword that his master had gifted to him out of frustration after his constant inquiries into when his practical training would begin.
"I told you, we’ll start whenever I say so."
"But all I do is sit around all day. Are you just making this up as you go?"
When Alistar jumped out of the cane’s range, Tramon had growled like an animal and gone off to his closet to retrieve a long bundle of cloth. The fabric fell to reveal a sleek, varnished length of carved wood, a beautiful piece that had been crafted with care.
"Swing it around on your own ti," he’d snapped, tossing it at him hard enough to knock him down, "and stop being a thorn in my backside."
Alistar didn’t know much about what he was doing, since Tramon refused to have him do anything aside from ditation, but he’d read in several manuals that the most important thing when it ca to learning swordsmanship was to build a strong base. He took this to an that he needed to beco accustod to swinging a sword, and so for three hours each evening, he did just that.
After a week of solitary breakfasts, Anice began to wake up earlier so that they could share their morning als. They would part soon after, he to the collegia and her to study under their private ho tutor, a wispy old woman nad Mrs. Dawn with a prim and proper bearing.
Mrs. Dawn didn’t spend nearly as much ti with him as she did with Anice, perhaps seven or eight hours in a given week. While he and his cousin ate dinner, she would check over his work at the other end of the table and then outline any errors in his writing, approaching him to explain the correct answers once the house servants ca to clear the table. She assigned him various Chapter readings from the two books that she had bade him to study—both of which he had already read—along with several worksheets to fill out each week. She often remarked at the elegance of his handwriting and the scope of his vocabulary, as well as his exemplary mory. Such praise reminded him of his mother’s encouraging words every ti that she had sat down to teach him at the end of the work day, exhausted, yet hopeful. These days, he much preferred Mrs. Dawn’s approving complints to Tramon’s eternal frustrations.
On the day of his second lesson with the sword master, he had snuck into the man’s apartnts through an open window and attempted to tidy up his living space. He employed all of the skills that he’d picked up from Madeline and Patricia, and then waited for his master with excitent as he ditated under the young elm that sat off to the side of the little ho. Tramon had been angry for the intrusion, but couldn’t argue against the difference that the ddling had made. After that, Alistar was forced to beco sowhat of a house servant for the grumpy man, and was tasked with cleaning his dishes, drying and folding his clothes, making up his bed, sweeping the floors, dusting the walls, collecting and disposing his garbage, as well as gathering and organizing the many books that cluttered the room. For all of the man’s complaints about well-read people, he certainly had a sizeable collection of literary works.
As days turned to weeks, Alistar grew tired of the constant ditation. There were many things that he wanted to do, and while it was quite relaxing he felt that his ti would prove more useful if it were allocated elsewhere. He kept quiet, however, so that Tramon wouldn’t smack him. The hits hurt, though not nearly as much as when the young captain of the guard had constantly beat him senseless during his final months in Crystellum.
He hadn’t felt the bite of Tramon’s cane since his earliest lessons, for he endured the harshness of the old man’s words without so much as a whisper of indignation. As far as his master was concerned, Alistar never did anything right, at least that was the impression that the man gave off. When he did do sothing correctly, he was simply told that his efforts weren’t wrong. Tramon was harsh and upfront in everything he did, but there was a kindness beneath his grizzled exterior, and it showed in the long hours that he spent sitting quietly out front of his house, patiently guiding his pupil when necessary. Occasionally, they shared a midday al—which Alistar cooked, of course—simple things like at fried in butter, or bread paired with sliced vegetables. The food was far from perfect, but his master never complained.
Two weeks after Alistar had begun his daily ditations, he felt that his senses had grown keener, if only by a bit. He spent long hours with his eyes closed, and as a result, he found that he was quicker to sll certain scents that were wafting through the air, and sooner to hear the slighter sounds that usually went unnoticed in a busy atmosphere. During his initial days of practice, it had taken at least half an hour to get to the point of utmost focus, though this was now sothing that happened within a few minutes of closing his eyes and clearing his mind.
With Tramon’s instruction, he began to build a solid centre of focus. This eventually materialized as a warm tingle within the middle of his belly that would appear after he achieved a certain degree of concentration. At first, he had been completely taken aback by the sudden sensation, which had quickly disappeared when he’d given in to his shock. Tramon called the strange phenonon an inner aura, and said that it was essential for a swordsman to maintain a specific state of mind in order to make use of it. Once cultivated, it manifested as a unique source of energy that was entirely different from the energies that were used in the workings of magic, a brand that was more widely known as swordsman’s aura.
Apparently, the long hours of ditation weren’t simply for show. If one were to lose focus while in action, their control over their swordsman’s aura would slip away and so too would the enhancents that ca with it. Unlike with magic, everyone had the potential to cultivate this internal source of energy, which could be honed over ti if enough effort was invested. Alistar had read that it usually took anywhere from one to five months for a novice to beco aware of this energy, which was far longer than the two weeks that it took for him to make said accomplishnt. Such thoughts excited him. Was he particularly talented in this regard?
His feat was impressive by the standards of the book he had been reading, but not worthy of any ntion from his master. After displaying his achievents and failing to so much as raise one of the man’s ashen eyebrows, Alistar judged that his quick success was due to the unique sense of discipline that he’d cultivated along the working line in the mines. Still, his master could have at least said so words of encouragent.
One night at dinnerti, he complained to his cousin about the situation with his lessons.
"He hasn’t praised a single ti. I know I’m making progress, but maybe I’m a bad disciple?"
"Who cares?" said Anice through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Mrs. Dawn never praises ."
Caedmon would have reprimanded her for the sloppy manners, though he had skipped dinner in order to attend to so urgent business.
"It’s different..."
"Why?"
He sighed. "He makes clean his ho and prepare his food, but he never thanks . Wouldn’t you be annoyed?"
"I thought your dream was to be a house servant?"
Seeing her sincerity, he recoiled. "Why would you think that?"
"Why wouldn’t I? You do all my chores, and you help the servants with everything possible. I quite like it, to be honest."
"I help them because you don’t do your chores."
"Liar. You like doing those things, and this Mr. Travis whatsit knows it." She stood up with a light burp, wiped her face with a napkin and tossed it onto the remains of her al. "Lessa’s coming by for desert, so hurry up and clear the table. I’m off to the gates to wait for her."
"But—"
Anice saw that Madeline had co into the dining hall to clean up after them, so she ran away from the table, grabbed the woman by the hand and dragged her towards the door.
"I’m sorry, Anice, but I have to clean the—"
"Don’t worry. Alie said he’d do it!"
His cousin slamd the door shut before Madeline could peak in to confirm.
Sitting in silence within the huge room, Alistar’s face had grown warm. Lessa’s coming over? He scrambled to clear the dishes, walked them over to the kitchens and then retreated to his room. That night, he skipped out on his sword swings.
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