When the splash of cold water hit him in the morning Turgeon sputtered and jumped from the mat, swinging at Aelfredd and madder than he’d ever been at his brother.

  Of course he realized quickly that it hadn’t been Aelfredd, that Aelfredd was dead, and the man now holding him by the wrist with an iron grip and glaring down at him was the one who had killed his brother.

  The Swordmaster’s expression softened slightly as he looked down at Turgeon and sighed. “I know that was your brother I killed in the market, boy, and I’m sorry for it. More than you would probably believe. But if anyone else in this castle learns that man was your brother it will be the end of you. Do you understand me? You mustn't tell anyone else of your brother or give them any reason to suspect you knew the man.

  “I’ve got them all convinced that you’re an unrelated foundling, lost in the general chaos of the day. Truth knows how, but they fell for it and we must keep it that way. Do you understand me boy? Do you even know how to speak? By Truth, the King might’ve had reason to be concerned…”

  “I can speak. And I can read, and write, sir,” Turgeon spoke for the first time since Aelfredd had died. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, broken yet harder, as though a spine of iron had been rammed through it.

  The Swordmaster nodded and released his arm, which – despite the firmness of his grip – was unbruised and none the worse for it.

  “Get dressed,” the Swordmaster gestured at a stack of clean garb he had placed on the room's small desk. “I’ll wait outside. Then we begin your training.”

  He immediately made good his word and exited the small chamber. Turgeon paused for a moment and for the first time took in the room he had been assigned to. His new home.

  The room was small but it had a high ceiling, which was necessary to accommodate a small window through which the faint morning light was the room’s only illumination. The room itself was mostly below ground as were most of the servant’s quarters. A grown man would have been challenged to lay in the room in any direction but diagonal. The furnishings consisted of the straw pallet he had slept on, a small desk which held the pile of clothing the Swordmaster had left, a basic chair and a small trunk without a latch or lock in the corner for personal effects.

  Despite his family having been simple farmers, he was at least used to sleeping in a real bed in the home he shared with Aelfredd. These simple accommodations would be a trial for him.

  In the stack of clothing on the desk he found a few changes of clothes. The clothing was also far more plain and of a coarser weave than what he was used to wearing, even the old clothes he wore for cleaning the pigsties would be more comfortable than these. The loose weaving of the tunics and breeches in this stack would surely be scratchy and uncomfortable.

  Folding his slightly soiled clothing carefully, he placed it in the trunk along with the spare tunics and breeches he had been given and donned a set of the new clothing. Scratchy, as expected, but surprisingly warm, which would be good with the autumn chill in the air.

  Something he hadn’t noticed before caught his eye on the desk where it must have been covered by the clothing: a small but very ornately carved box. He couldn’t be sure when it had been put there, he hadn’t paid particularly close attention to the room the previous day, but didn’t recall seeing anything of the sort. If the Swordmaster had been able to enter his chamber without waking him anyone could have entered during the night as well.

  “You alright in there? We need to get going, you’ve already missed breakfast,” came the muffled exhortation of the Swordmaster through the door.

  “Coming!” Turgeon replied while picking up the box from his desk. It had no obvious seam or latch, and he could not quickly determine how to open the device. It went into the trunk, buried under the clothing, for safekeeping.

  Almost immediately when he opened the door he was hit in the face with a heel of bread, which he managed to catch as it rebounded and before it hit the floor.

  “You’ve missed breakfast sleeping in so late, but I brought you some,” the Swordmaster began as he beckoned for Turgeon to follow him then turned abruptly and began to walk quickly down the hall away from the kitchen. Turgeon practically had to run to keep up with his loping gait. “Tomorrow try to wake up in time to eat your breakfast in the servant’s dining hall,” he gestured towards the door opposite the entrance to the kitchen.

  Despite the seething hatred for this man that consumed him, Turgeon’s curiosity got the better of him. After all, if he was one day going to avenge his brother and slay this so-called Swordmaster, wouldn’t any information he could pry out of the man aid his endeavors?

  “What is your name anyway?” Turgeon asked between huffing breaths as they approached the end of the hall.

  “I have no name. Like all members of the King’s Own Guard I have forsworn the name I bore before I joined. I am known simply as the Swordmaster, or formally as The King’s Own Swordmaster. You may call me Master.”

  With that the Swordmaster – his Master – flung open the servant’s entrance to the castle and stepped into the bustling castle yard. Already this early in the morning it was a hive of activity, with washerwomen collecting laundry, stable boys leading mounts from the stables to the front of the keep for a morning hunt, a blacksmith’s apprentice awakening the forge and more. It was more activity than Turgeon could take in while also trying to keep up with the Swordmaster and hear his words over the hubbub.

  “Today you will begin your strength training,” the Swordmaster began as they approached a large pile of unsplit wood. Turgeon had a feeling he knew where this was headed, but he was no stranger to splitting wood having spent many hours of punishment at the task already in his young life.

  Gesturing an at a simple axe resting on the splitting block the Swordmaster expounded on his instructions, “Split these logs and stack them over there,” at which he gestured at a much smaller pile of already split wood, “I’ll come back to get you when it’s time for lunch.” With that he abruptly turned and left Turgeon to his task.

  He picked up the axe and began chopping. He chopped wood with an untamed fury, unleashing all his rage and resentment at the events of the last few days. Time passed quickly as he thought about the life he had lived, his comfortable home with his brother. The farm chores he would be doing if he was there instead: feeding the pigs probably, maybe even weeding their small vegetable plot. All gone now.

  His reverie was broken when the axe refused to drop and he realized someone had grabbed it from behind. He turned to find the Swordmaster holding the axe handle, and blinked as the sun directly overhead hit his sweat shrouded eyes.

  Stumbling away from the chopping block he surveyed the area and saw the semicircle of chopped wood surrounding him and the block. He had been so focused on his task, and his anger that he had completely lost track of time, nor had he noticed the small crowd of servants that had gathered to observe his efforts.

  Most of them were snickering and whispering but at least one older servant woman was watching him with what appeared to be an approving grin. Her flame red hair and bright blue eyes reminded him of his brother Aelfredd, which brought on a discordant pang of sadness. The woman had probably been gorgeous when she was younger, Turgeon thought, but the hard life of a servant had left her worn and thin. The life that was likely in store for him when he failed to live up to the Swordmaster’s expectations and washed out of training.

  A sudden chill overtook him as a breeze swept through the courtyard and he realized his new clothes were drenched with sweat from his exertion.

  A slow clap drew his attention and he turned to see the Swordmaster smirking and applauding his work, his stance and general air making clear that this was more mockery than appreciation.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Very well done indeed. You may make a better go of this training than I anticipated after all lad. Come, let’s get changed and eat some lunch. This afternoon you will begin your studies with the Royal Librarian and he would not appreciate you entering his library sweaty and dirty.”

  Now that at least sounded interesting to Turgeon. When his brother Aelfredd had taught him to read he had done it voraciously, neglecting chores and earning more chores as punishment to instead spend hours hiding in the hayloft of the barn. Affording books had been a struggle for them, but Aelfredd had always managed to supply a new book when it was needed. Turgeon was fairly sure that at times Aelfredd had forsaken meat for his own plate to make it so. Now he was going to see the royal library!

  For the first time in days he felt the now unfamiliar feeling of excitement, mixed with a bit of hope.

  *****

  Servant’s lunch in the castle was a chaotic affair, with people coming and going with no rhyme or reason that Turgeon was able to diagnose. After the Swordmaster dropped him off in the dining hall and explained that he was to fill a plate with whatever food he preferred from the large table along one of the room’s walls Turgeon surveilled the room on the lookout for his tormentor from the previous night but she was nowhere to be seen.

  He approached the table of food with caution, keeping an eye out lest she should manage to sneak up and surprise him again. The spread was not extravagant by any means, but it was generous. There was bread and meat, and there were various dried fruits and cheeses available. He filled a plate with a modest portion and made his way to an empty table in the corner where he hoped to be alone with his thoughts.

  That proved to be wishful thinking. It wasn’t long before a boy that, judging only by the smell of him, Turgeon guessed was probably employed in the castle stable, sat down next to him at the table.

  “Hi! My name’s Geoffry, what’s yours?” he inquired, his speech so rapid that Turgeon was barely able to keep up. The boy looked to be about Turgeon’s own age, perhaps a bit younger. He was quite a bit smaller than Turgeon, both in height and girth, nearly waifish but not quite, with a wan, pale face strongly offset by his coal black hair.

  Turgeon sighed, and provided the requisite reply. He may have wanted solitude, but he was in no position to cultivate more enemies here.

  “My name is Turgeon.”

  “What’dya do at the castle? Are ya gunna workin the stable or the keep or the laundry or the kitchen…”

  With the impression that Geoffry’s list of potential castle employment opportunities would continue all day if allowed, Turgeon broke in to reply and avoid the continued litany, “I have been apprenticed to the Swordmaster, which so far has meant chopping wood.”

  “Wastha you I heard choppin all morning?” The boy asked somewhat incredulously.

  Of course it had been, and so Turgeon replied in the affirmative.

  “Woooooow… that was some impressive choppin’. I didn’t see it myself, but all the other stable boys were talkin’ about it.”

  For a passing moment this seemed odd to Turgeon, as the chopping block had been in full view of the stables. How had the boy not witnessed this morning’s labors?

  He was distracted from this train of thought by the entrance of his tormentor from the previous night. Geoffry saw her arrive as well, and stiffened immediately, quieting his previously ceaseless prattle.

  “Who’s that?” Turgeon asked in a whisper.

  “Tha’s my older sister, Brigitta. She’s Princess Suzette’s handmaiden, and very proud of it. See how she even walks like she’s better than all the other servants.”

  In fact he could see that the way she walked, with poise and her head held high, not afraid to make eye contact with even the older servants did imply that she considered herself above the rest of them. When she wasn’t making ugly faces and soaking his pants in beer, she did possess a quiet beauty. Not the same as the princess’ shining beauty, which was like that of the sun. This was the dark beauty of the full moon and the darkness of the night in the shadows it makes. Turgeon realized that he found her quite alluring.

  His reverie was broken again by the Swordmaster’s firm hand on his shoulder. Where had he come from?

  “Quit mooning and finish your lunch, boy. It’s time to meet the Librarian.”

  Gobbling down his remaining bread as quickly as he could manage, Turgeon stood and nodded goodbye to Geoffry as he followed the Swordmaster from the dining room.

  *****

  The castle library was everything Turgeon had dreamed it would be and more. Larger even than the throne room, with tall windows that let in the midday sun and illuminated row upon row of stuffed bookshelves… for Turgeon it was love at first sight. Two rows of towering bookshelves lined the more open center aisle, which was filled with reading tables and chairs, and at the far end of the row, behind a massive dark desk sat a man with a long graying beard.

  That beard was, however, the only thing about the Librarian that met Turgeon’s expectations and preconceived notions of him. He had expected the Royal Librarian to be a stooped, bearded and bespectacled old man. That’s how librarians were always described in the tales he had read in the books brought by Aelfredd. This man, however, was large and powerfully built. He looked like he could best a member of the King’s Own Guard in a wrestling match. The red robes he wore were bulky and looked as though they concealed much.

  His shock yet again clear on his face, the Swordmaster chuckled and spoke to him under his breath, taking care to ensure the Librarian would not hear his words, “Not what you expected, eh?”

  Honoring the implied need for discretion, Turgeon gave only a short shake of his head in acknowledgement.

  “Welcome!” The Librarian’s booming voice echoed and bounced off of the library's vaulted ceiling to sound like it was coming from every direction at once. Wood paneling covered the Keep’s stone walls in this room, and it seemed to amplify every sound made in the space no matter how quiet – or in this case, loud.

  As he spoke the Librarian rose, revealing his height to be truly astonishing. This was probably the largest man Turgeon had ever seen, hidden away in this quiet castle library.

  “Welcome to the library! Take a seat, we shall begin your education posthaste once I confer briefly with your master,” the Librarian boomed as he made his way around the desk and along the row of reading tables towards them. His long stride ate the distance in no time, and Turgeon quickly followed his instructions and chose a seat while the two adults quietly conferred and walked back towards the entrance.

  When the Librarian returned he found Turgeon engrossed in an atlas of the kingdom, admiring the detailed maps of the region surrounding the capital city.

  “Ah, I see you have found a book with pictures. Must we begin with the alphabet then? The Swordmaster says you claim to be lettered.”

  “Yes, sir. I can read and I can write.”

  “Well then, we shall begin with Erlingarth’s A History of Falkaria Castle. You should know the story of your new home.”

  Turgeon had read A History of Falkaria Castle already. He still remembered the day Aelfredd had brought it home for him. From their little farm in the shadow of the city Turgeon had spent many an afternoon gazing wistfully up at the castle’s crenellations and dreaming of knights and ladies when he should’ve been doing his chores. It had quickly become his favorite, and his own copy was worn and missing pages.

  So he nodded to the Librarian and accepted the copy of the book the man produced from a pocket in his robes, confirming his earlier suspicion of their capaciousness. The Librarian returned to his desk and Turgeon began to read.

  *****

  Hours had passed and the sun was setting when Turgeon woke the Librarian from a doze at his desk.

  “I’m done, sir.”

  “What? Oh, yes, it is getting late, time for dinner. You’d best be going or you’ll miss the buffet. We can be done for today.”

  “No, I’m done with the book, sir.”

  “Already? A quick one, eh? Well, let’s see what you learned. Who was the first king to occupy the castle keep?”

  “Gaerdryn…” Turgeon began, and grinned slightly when the Librarian began to frown, “Is what most would say. But any reader of Erlingarth knows that Gaerdryn didn’t occupy the keep because the castle didn’t have one until his son, Kaerdryn’s, reign. Back then a simple longhouse stood where the keep now stands.”

  “So you read the first chapter,” the Librarian grumbled, “tell me this: Who was the hero of the Summorian Siege?”

  “The first siege or the second, sir?”

  “The second.”

  “That would be Bargrath of Illheim, sir.”

  “And the first Summorian Siege?”

  “Bargrath of Illheim, sir,” Turgeon replied with a grin.

  With a chuckle the Librarian nodded, “Run along then, I’ll see you tomorrow after lunch. I should hope your master won’t be obliged to personally drag you in here tomorrow?”

  “No sir,” Turgeon replied quickly and turned with a grin to leave the Library.

  “Turgeon,” the Librarian called behind him, causing him to pause his retreat, “Leave the book for now. One must earn the privilege of checking out a book from the Library.”

  Red-faced, Turgeon removed A History of Falkaria Castle from under his shirt, placed it on the nearest table and ran from the room. But as he ran, he realized his heart was lighter than it had been since his brother’s death.