Arthurian Cultivation

Witnessing an erupting volcano had been the Harkley''s last-ditch effort to push me over the line to Bronze, something I stubbornly resisted. For a long time, it only served as a reminder of the nature of ash. It showed me how even fine particles of dust, when gathered together, could strike with twice the wrath of a rockslide and thrice the heat.

Now, it served as a measuring stick. A way to conceptualize the apocalyptic force of a Steel-ranked bear having a bad morning. It was the only thing I could compare to the destruction we found at the mountain.

A good third of the mountain's base was cracked. A vast rent in the stone, where Ursul had emerged from his rest, was big enough to march a hundred men through, arm in arm. The forest around was littered with rocks, trees were broken, and huge branches, as big as oaks, lay scattered across the forest floor.

“So, they’re growing out of the sky as well,” I muttered. The tree directly opposite the entrance was broken in half, the top half still anchored to the mess of leaves that made up the sky. It hung their eerily suspended.

“Fae realms, man,” Bors chuckled as we walked alone through the devastation. The plan was for Bors and me to head into the cavern and set up a position. We were two hours early, but that was part of the plan. It would give Sephy time to observe us and decide whether or not to show herself.

We were also acting as bait. If there were beasts or Divine Cultivators waiting for us, the two of us would likely provoke some kind of reaction. The others would rely on the mobility of their flying mounts to assist us if necessary, hidden in the forest, ready to help.

The only reason I agreed to be bait was simple. As we set up on the bare earth, on a hill defended by boulders, I glanced at Bors as he shuffled a few stones into better positions. The shattered rocks glistened, embedded within rough cubes of pyrite. Anything approaching us would be at Bors’ mercy. With Earth and Crystals at his disposal, this expanse of rock was his domain.

We set up a small fire and settled in. I pulled out my lute and started playing, trying to distract the part of my brain that was counting each second. Out of habit, I tried to cultivate. I didn’t sing this time, just played the song of ‘Home’ that I’d learned on the bagpipes.

It was so peaceful. I’d been finding it so natural to cultivate in this manner that I’d forgotten how dangerous the forces I worked with were. As my tune formed, rich glamour surged. The glamour here was thicker, more potent, and it writhed beneath my will. My lute absorbed it so swiftly, and it bucked so wildly that the instrument itself seemed to shift and writhe beneath my fingers. I lost concentration. My cloak wrapped around me as my fingers slipped.

A discordant clash dumped the accumulated death glamour out in a wave before me. Wisps of uncontrolled death tried to carve into me, but the cloak absorbed them, using its stored power to counterbalance the sudden burst of unchecked energy.

I sat, breathing deeply, staring out across the barren stone. To the naked eye, my glamour had done nothing, but I could feel it. A void of life lay before me.

“You know, I don’t think I compliment your playing often enough,” Bors said, pulling down a stone wall he had raised before himself.

“I think I’ll put the lute down for a while.”

“It’s rare that I want less of your music, but on this, we agree.” Bors gently let the last of the stone wall collapse.

“Sorry,” I said, still trying to calm my racing heart.

“It never occurred to me that this might happen if you didn’t get the song right. You’re braver than I am. If I mess up, the ground doesn’t try to stab me. Earth and crystal like to stay still.”

“It’s odd. The wrong note, and it all falls apart. My cultivation works by impressing my will on the glamour externally. I kind of forget I’m gathering a cauldron of power as I play.” I had known it was dangerous but had never fully sensed how it could go wrong. Yet, as much as I was terrified, part of my mind was intrigued. The burst of power had lashed out before me, uncontrolled and chaotic. Maybe I could refine it into something more.

“You know, I just realized you don’t ponder your cultivation much, do you?” Bors asked. He was busy building a rough fort around us, dragging stones into place and fusing them with his glamour.

“Not really. It’s something I actually used to avoid. I didn’t want some inspiration pushing me forward where I might attract the wrong kind of attention.” I focused on building up the fire, pulling firewood from my ring. Having a source of fire might empower Astor, but it would burn out quickly.

Until then, the flames would help me spread smoke to expand our awareness of the area. I’d take the warning for the small risk. I just had to remember to keep the fire small.

Bors pulled up a pair of seats, using slices of the blocky cubes of pyrite to fashion regal thrones. I checked mine carefully before sitting on it. “Have you developed your concept?”

“I’ve got a bit of something. Ironically, it came up when I was yelling at Gaz. Discord, beauty, and death were part of it. It’s not clear. How difficult was it for you? I know Maeve couldn’t find hers for years.”

“I had mine in my head as soon as I reached Bronze. It formed like a diamond, under the great heat and pressure of all my experiences. Knowing I couldn’t back down, I had to push on. I had this chance to be someone, and I couldn’t let my momentum falter.” I remembered the little Bors had shared of his intent: I am stone. I am immovable until I become unstoppable. I knew that wasn’t the exact wording, but it revealed a lot about the man and his approach to combat.

“What does it feel like?” The books waxed poetic about the beauty of purpose, but never really said much beyond “you’ll know.”

“It felt right. Your gifts are your tools, your cultivation is your strength. Intent is your commitment to how you’ll use that power. It’s the final foundation of your cultivation. For me, it felt like having something I could build a mountain on. Strength and balance were there.”

“I’m close to Iron, which feels strange. I never thought it would happen. I was Wood just a couple of months ago. Now, there’s this odd strangeness in my soul, like something’s missing.” I knew I wasn’t quite there yet with my cultivation. Maybe a week of cultivating here would top me off. Or maybe another death.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that’s a bastard,” Bors replied. “Arty complained about it. He was so full of purpose he didn’t know what to pick. Said not knowing left him with a sense of wrongness. He kept trying things, but nothing fit.”

“It’s irritating. I haven’t had much time to think on it, but ever since our fight with the Inquisitors, I keep asking myself all these questions.” I paused, reflecting. “It’s different now. I used to live in constant uncertainty with the Harkleys, knowing my life was mostly out of my control. Now, with the Lady, it’s not the same, but something feels... off. My mind is constantly nagging me.”

“That could be an imbalance in your cultivation, or,” Bors pulled out a piece of jerky and bit into it, “or you could just be stressed?”

“Why not both?” I brooded for a moment. I needed to think more about my concept. It was going to be crucial to my future. Concepts were both the most studied and least understood aspects of cultivation.

Your hearth wouldn’t accept an intent that didn’t fit you, yet some people’s intent seemed almost contrary to their nature when they advanced. It was a promise to yourself, a reflection of your innermost thoughts, and a method to channel your power. I recalled an old, dusty tome I had read years ago. It said intent should describe the actions that would guide you to Steel. But I hadn’t really planned on reaching Steel. The book mentioned that a poor intent would lead to death on the path, though it probably wasn’t written with someone like me in mind.

Most people didn’t include death as a step toward their goals, and if they did, it was the final step.

I felt my hearth blaze, the concept of dying to move forward striking a chord within me. Unexpected, but not surprising. Death glamour hadn’t been part of me for long, but I had courted death intimately for years, planning to use it as an escape. I still had one extra life stored, though I hadn’t thought much about it. Would that help? I discarded the idea. The second return had consumed more power than the first, and if I abused it, I feared I might never be able to return again. The risk wasn’t worth speeding my meditation from a trot to a canter.

“If I looked back on my experiences, my concept would probably be something like, ‘Don’t look at me too hard so I can bash your head in.’”

“Nah, not poetic enough. It’d have to be something like, ‘Hidden in plain sight is where I have the most might.’ It needs a certain rhythm to it.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t make the rules. It’s all tied to the Fae. The Steels get real intense about it but never say anything concrete. I once joked about my intent being ‘Bors smash,’ and my master laughed before smacking me upside the head. He then threatened to have a talented dream witch erase the idea if I couldn’t do it myself.”

“Sounds serious.” I thought over what Ursul had told me about the importance of names. The fae was a consistent theme there.

“Oh, it was. I got so drunk that night I woke up in a different town. In the stables! Apparently, I insisted that Gring take the last room at the inn.” We both laughed, but a cloud of seriousness passed over Bors’ face.

“The Fae worry me. I like earth and crystal. They’re rigid, they follow rules.” His hands twitched on the armrests of the crystal seat he’d made. “This place, though... it feels wrong. The earth isn’t deep enough. It’s like I’m standing on a bowl. And the trees that are the sky... it’s unsettling. I feel like I’m being watched, but the earth tells me nothing about who or what’s out there.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve had my share of Fae shenanigans.”

“You shouldn’t have been a Bard. You know how they love art,” he teased.

“Well, I became a Bard after meeting the Lady, so that horse had already left the stable.”

“Why don’t you play us some music, then? Non-death music, please. At least Percy will know you’re not Fae—they can’t play a lick of music. If we’re going to be bait, we might as well enjoy it.”

“This is exactly why I don’t ponder my cultivation. There’s always music to play! How am I supposed to fit in time to contemplate the hidden truths of the universe when I’m busy playing songs and avoiding death by bears, witches, nobles, Fae, and evil cultivators?”

“Well, here’s hoping the next few hours include more music and less imminent death.” Bors rumbled, surveying the barren land beyond his makeshift castle. “I’m not too worried about Astor, but there’s always someone else who could come bother us.”