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, and then dressed 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 sometimes he bought a snack in town so that he didn’t have to bother any of the house servants to make him a meal. Afterward, he would meditate at the collegia under the supervision of Swordmaster 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, and told him many stories, folktales, and lesser-known myths.

He usually made it back to the manor house just in time to share a warm dinner with his family, though Caedmon was a busy man, and oftentimes it was just him and Anice. These meals 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 meditate 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 constant inquiries into when the 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 shaped wood, a beautiful piece that had been crafted with care.

“Swing it around on your own time,” 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 meditation, but he’d read in several manuals that the most important thing when it came to learning swordsmanship was to build a strong base. He took this to mean that he needed to become accustomed 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 meals. They would part soon after, he to the collegia and her to study under their private home tutor, a wispy old woman with a prim and proper bearing.

Mrs. Dawn didn’t spend nearly as much time 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 came 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 memory. Such praise reminded him of his mother’s encouraging words every time that she had sat down to teach him at the end of the work day, exhausted, yet hopeful. He much preferred Mrs. Dawn’s approving compliments to the eternal frustration of his teacher of the sword.

On the day of his second lesson with Tramon, he had snuck into his master’s apartments 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 excitement as he meditated under the young elm that sat off to the side of the apartment. Tramon had been angry for the intrusion, but couldn’t argue against the difference that the meddling had made. After that, Alistar was forced to become somewhat 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 garbage, as well as gathering and organizing the many books that cluttered the room.

As days turned to weeks, Alistar grew tired of the constant meditation. There were many things that he wanted to do, and while it was quite relaxing, he felt that his time 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 days 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 something correctly, he was simply told that his efforts weren’t wrong. His master 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 meal together, which Alistar cooked, of course, simple things like meat fried in butter, or bread paired with sliced vegetables. The food was far from perfect, but his master never complained.

Two weeks after Alistar began his daily meditations, 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 smell 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 an hour to get to the point of utmost focus, though this was now something 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, which eventually materialized as a warm tingle within the middle of his belly, though only after a certain degree of concentration was achieved. He had been completely taken aback by the sudden sensation, which quickly disappeared when he gave in to his shock. Tramon called the strange phenomena an inner aura, and said that it was an essential state of mind for a swordsman. Once attained, it manifested as a unique source of energy that was entirely different from the energies that were used in the workings of magic.

Apparently, the long hours of meditation weren’t simply for show. If one were to lose focus while in action, their control over their inner aura would slip away, and so too would the enhancements that came with it. Unlike with magic, everyone had the potential to cultivate this internal source of energy, which could be honed over time if enough effort was invested. Alistar had read that, usually, it took anywhere from one to five months for a novice to become aware of this energy. Through agonizing and repetitive labour, he had cultivated a unique sense of discipline in the mines, which he believed was the reason why he had been able to achieve the necessary state of mind within a mere two weeks. This feat was impressive by the standards of the book he had been reading, but not worthy of any mention from his master.

One night at dinnertime, he complained to his cousin about the situation with the swordmaster.

“He hasn’t praised me a single time. 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 me.”

Caedmon would have reprimanded her for the sloppy manners, though he had skipped dinner in order to attend to some urgent business.

“It’s different…”

“Why?”

He sighed. “He makes me clean his home and prepare his food, but he never thanks me. 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?”

She sighed. “Why wouldn’t I? You do all my chores, and you help the servants with everything possible.”

“I help them because you don’t do your chores.”

“Liar. You like doing those things, and this 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 meal. “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 come in to clean up after them, so she ran over 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 slammed 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, and then retreated to his room. That night, he skipped out on his sword swings.