Arthurian Cultivation

My fingers twitched at the strings of my lute. I read the text for what had to be the fifth time, propping the book up against some rocks and turning the pages with hints of smoke, making sure I understood the concept. Infusing my glamour into something other than myself in its aspected form was not something I was used to.

All gifts had upsides and downsides, Smoke while amazing for fine control, cheap to manifest, illusions, and speed didn’t infuse well. Its power tended to rapidly bleed off, wreathing whatever it was pushed into in fumes. That was compared to something like earth, great for infusing into things and suitable for good control but almost impossible to manifest, you either had earth or you didn’t. So most of my training focused on ‘refining’ the glamour to strip it of its gift before infusion. An inefficient process that was time-consuming to get right.

To remind myself how it felt I tried a bit of smoke glamour into my shirt. My mind was so practised that my first attempt had me refining the glamour without even thinking, I sent the power spinning like a top, the ‘gift’ moving to the outside edge, while the denser power remained in the centre. I caught myself before I wasted it, allowing the spin to slow and the glamour to mix together again. I cursed and tried again, and this time I was able to do it without issue, it was actually much easier, now all I had to do was take the glamour directly from my hearth and press it against the hungry artefact. It was easy, too easy, this was something designed to soak up that power and it was currently a barren desert.

As I sat with wisps of smoke curling up from my chest, I added another task to my list of things to do, I had to infuse my armour again, its reserves had been taxed by the battle yesterday. I put that thought to the side, in a pinch I could throw a load of Smoke glamour into the armour for temporary protection, though it would leave me looking like a mobile smoking hut. An image of playing my ‘death music’ my armour wreathed in smoke flashed through my mind, perhaps that wasn’t the worst idea. If I was going to have people point at me in fear, I should at least look stylish doing it.

Taking a a deep breath, I looked within, feeling my hearth, there were the two pools of power within. Both felt greatly replenished compared to the starvation of last night. They’d gone from sputtering flames to merry ovens, but that was a far cry from the roaring forges that I was getting used to. I wanted to make more use of the extra potential my mini-breakthrough had last night. I needed to think upon those words again, they’d resonated with my intent enough to stir my power further.

My death glamour waited, this would mark the first time I pulled on it in its raw form. It felt so much heavier than the winding smoke, yet both had an etherealness to them. They were intangible things, both marking passing, whether that was flame consuming the burning wick, or the light fading from the eyes. The difference was death glamour had a weight of purpose, it demanded my respect in a way that Smoke didn’t.

Wind whipped at me and disturbed the pages of the book bringing me back to task. My fingers rested on the strings, and I felt my mind wheel through a thousand and one songs. The right song was essential. I was going to get this right. The process was simple, I would let death glamour infuse the strings, and amplify my voice, a trick that I was more than familiar with. Still, I hesitated to play a few test chords, it felt like spitting on a grave to waste the power on something so mundane.

I respected death and music in equal parts. Even before my captivity, I’d enjoyed music and song. I could picture music so clearly in my mind that even without a band to listen to I could entertain myself with nothing but a thought, it was one of the things that couldn’t be taken from me. I couldn’t always control the music that flowed through my head though.

In the darkest times, when even the burning core of spite that kept me running in that terrible household was dim, the music that played had turned grim. Funeral Dirges would wind through my mind, driven forth by the march of songs dedicated to lost friends written by the soldiers who survived. My fingers twitched but still didn’t play.

This was the first time I was going to harness my death glamour, it was a moment of triumph. Death ruled out a celebration, and the occasion ruled out a wailing dirge. I thought back on when I’d brushed against my intent.

“I can be a Bard though, spreading knowledge and helping those who stand against them. Dancing around my foes so my allies have time to strike. I’m going to sow discord and bring hope where I can and I will not let the threat of death turn me aside.” I spoke the words out loud to myself, there was no accompanying thrum in my hearth. That was odd, it should still connect. What was I missing?

I thought back on how I’d been feeling at that moment. The anger at Gaz, but even more so at the Harkleys for tainting me with their name, forcing me to see evils that I could not forget. With it came a pressure, a burning desire to break down and bring low all those who touched upon those memories. That same energy pushed me to spy and deceive, to not just lie down and take it. To bring the fight to them. My hearth glowed.

The blood of a phoenix in me, even in death I rose in flame ready to fight again. And fight I would, I could’ve lived quietly but I refused to, the second I saw that Guiding Star I knew I wanted to shatter it. My hearth roared, and my fingers twitched.

Looking up at my friends…and Gaz, I knew the issue. I wanted to protect my newfound friends, but that was hardly a revelation, no it was my frustration and anger at Gaz that clicked it all into place. I’d thought I’d quenched that spiteful core, an ever-burning lump of hateful coal that kept me going these past five years with my escape and revenge. No, it burned still.

Endless fury sat within me, harnessed and hidden but never far. I’d not thought twice about killing the mortal, I’d killed the Squires and only cared when the death glamour all but forced empathy upon me. Murder should not come so easy, but I had spent years unable to confront the horrors about me, unable to let my rage be seen, I had found a way to bury it, lose it where even I couldn’t find it. Even lost it still burned.

Anger riddled me, like a burning building still whole, with only whisps of smoke escaping. Now I knew, I had to look, I threw open the door, and the starved flames drank deep and burst into life.

My fingers rested on the strings, and death glamour moved within me for the first time. Shivering I felt twists of ice-cold smoke passing through me, like a heavy cloying mist like that which clings to the forest floor on a gloomy night. I pressed it into the strings of my lute and my fingers began to dance. The tide of power rose up my throat. It was time for an angry song.

The first notes got my heart beating, my body twitching, the death glamour adding a bass echo, to the high strings. The sound that followed belonged to no mortal instrument but had a feel to it that matched my anger. I picked a song to celebrate my escape, to revel in my freedom, and to vent my hate.

“I said the jester is a wanted man

He roams the realm with a cunning plan

See him wander 'cross the ancient land

So gather 'round, for a story

Of the jester and the thief in the night”

The words came spilling out. I felt the infused power humming in my words. Within I felt the buried rage breaking out, fires bursting through cracked ground.

“He's always laughing at those in power

Always thieving till the final hour

Taking their hearts and power

And he is not going home

Can you hear the jester singing over

As she's waiting in the syleeie tower?

Listening out everyday

I wonder what would happen if he stole her away”

The chorus pulsed rang out and I kept singing, even as I sensed the glamour moving around me, a swirling vortex of death the centre of which was the body of my lute. Surrounded by death the contrast left me a beacon of life. I was overwhelmed by it, it reminded me of my dance at the Mirror Lake. There I celebrated my freedom, here I expelled my rage.

“Where they go, well, we may not know

There a feelin' though, comin' after a show

The jesters smile is aglow

So I'll sing you all the story

About the jester and the thief in the night

All those fae the jester fools in the night

Hides their names from their sight

Seelie beasts go hunting her light

And they are not going home”

With each line my lute grew heavier, I pushed on through the chorus and the refrain, the infusion trying to slip from my fingers and throat. As the power writhed in my grip I let my voice grow softer, let my fingers linger on the notes as I left the peak of my anger behind having forged something within me.

"And I’ve sung you all the story

About the jester and the thief

And I’ve sung you all the story

About the jester and the thief in the night”

The power was rippling beneath my fingers, a churning pool of glamour sucked into the open mouth of my lutes. I whistled carefully at first, but when I found the Death glamour without will I drew it in with a bellows breath. The rich heady power of it still echoed with the rage I’d poured into my song.

I opened my eyes and felt whatever trance I was in subside. I found my three compatriots staring at me, hands gripped around weapons looking ready to fight me. Actually, it was Four compatriots, I’d not included Gring, who looked ready to stamp someone to death.

“What was that Taliesin? How are you so angry?” Lance asked, she seemed the most calm of them all, but even if she’d kept her sword sheathed she had a white-knuckled grip on the hilt. I didn’t know exactly what I’d done, it was clearly related to the music but the book had not warned me of this. Were they angry at me?

“I WANT TO FIGHT SOMETHING SO HARD RIGHT NOW!” Bors roared before stamping off and starting to summon spikes of rock and flinging them into the gorge the bridge spanned. I was spared even if the cliff face was not, somehow I’d spread my anger with the music.

In hindsight, I probably should’ve read the whole book before attempting this. While it was ‘the lesser’ the fact the rest of the title was 'book of death curses' should've earned it a cover-to-cover read.