So it was that Turgeon found himself entering the library and approaching Master Jesphat’s desk with his head bowed. The long walk the entire length of the library gave the librarian ample time to observe Turgeon and take in his dour mood.

  Before he could launch into his apology speech, the librarian took the lead, “Come, boy. There is no need to apologize. The desire for more knowledge is not something to be ashamed of, and, well, you were right: I have been withholding information from you. And I will continue to do so as I see fit.”

  “Master,” he knew this would not do, and he would not fail this test, “My behavior was still unacceptable. I raised my voice with you, and was rude. For that, I must apologize.”

  “Well then, your apology is accepted.” The librarian’s kindly smile disarmed Turgeon, and though his hatred for everyone in this castle but Geoffry still simmered, the flames were dimmed if only temporarily.

  “Today, I have been instructed to share a new volume with you. One that few are allowed to peruse, the kingdom’s only copy of the Fiorian Martial Arts, as recorded by the last High Battlemaster of the Empire of Atenla, Klaaverius the Third.”

  As he spoke, the librarian unlocked a low drawer behind his desk and withdrew an ancient leather tome. “This volume is preserved by ancient magic, the kind we no longer practice. It keeps it safe from aging, but you must still be careful with it.

  “Today, you will read the first chapter on the Ideals of the art. All practitioners of the Fiorian Martial Arts choose one of the Ideals to guide their training and future application of the skills they learn. Go, now, and read only the first chapter, then return to me and we will discuss it.”

  This had become their standard approach to his lessons with Master Jesphat. The librarian would choose a book, or a subject, from the library and task Turgeon with reading all or some of it – which could constitute a single chapter or a multi-volume tome – and return for further discussion. Beyond confirming Turgeon had completed his assigned reading, these conversations always stimulated him to further think about the material he had read.

  Through the history of Falkaria’s first war with Summor, fought over the fertile Ko Valley less than a century after the fall of the Empire, he had learned the danger of hewing too closely to the Ideal of Justice in the story of King Gaerdryn the Second’s downfall. In the romance of Helena and Bargariad he had learned of the trials of a heart caught in the web of forbidden love and the dangers of magic use.

  A consistent thread through all of his learning had been the concept of the High Ideals, the five aspirational Ideals all Atenlans followed and strived for. Justice, Wisdom, Peace, Truth and Love. Most Atenlans chose one of the ideals to focus their lives on and direct their striving here on earth, in the hope that they would earn a place in their ideal’s hall in the afterlife. Turgeon knew that at a young man or woman’s coming of age ceremony, usually around their fifteenth year, they would be asked to choose an ideal to follow. He had given his own choice of ideal much consideration, especially in light of all he had learned in the past year.

  He had learned that all of the High Ideals also had a dark side. Followed too purely, in willful ignorance of all else and caught up in absolutes any one of the ideals could be turned to evil.

  What he learned in the first chapter of Fiorian Martial Arts shattered his prior conceptions of the ideals. Battlemaster Klaaverius taught that there were more than five ideals. Klaaverius stated that in reality the scope of ideals was infinite as any man could imagine, and that one could choose any concept as his ideal and follow it as Atenlans now followed the High Ideals.

  A man could choose to follow Life as an ideal, striving to live fully. Or one could choose Death, a path and a destination.

  All his planning and thought for his choice of Ideal had been wasted. He must start his contemplations anew.

  After he read the chapter he spent a long while sitting at the reading desk in the quiet library staring into the distance. The light grew dim as the sun sunk below the high windows.

  Eventually the librarian appeared behind him and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know what to choose anymore, Master Jesphat,” he said and sighed.

  “There is no need to choose tonight, lad, the Five High Ideals will be waiting for you tomorrow.”

  “The Five Ideals!? There aren’t just five ideals, Battlemaster Klaaverius says I could choose anything as my ideal!”

  The librarian chuckled quietly and sat down in the seat next to Turgeon at the desk, sighing lightly as he did so, “Ah, in my advanced years I forget the fancy of youth. Yes, you can choose anything for your ideal. Most choose one of the High Five Ideals, and though they have dangers at least these dangers are understood and known.

  “Should you decide to choose an ideal outside the High Five the dangers you face – the risks of following your ideal as an absolute, to the exclusion of all else – will be yours alone. The Perfects won’t be able to guide you on your path.”

  Perfects, who served in the Halls of Ideals and counseled followers on the path of their ideal, were often the only ones with whom people shared their chosen ideals. They would provide counsel on one’s path and guidance to aid in avoiding the pitfalls of absolute idealism. Each Perfect focused on one of the Five Ideals, and gave counsel to followers of that ideal. If Turgeon chose an ideal outside of the Five they would have no counsel for him.

  “For now, there is time to think on it. There is no rush to make a decision, yet. We can discuss more in the days to come, and you should talk to the Swordmaster about it as well.”

  His dismay at the thought of discussing something so personal with a man he so reviled must have been obvious on his face.

  “You do not like the Swordmaster? The man who has taken you in and given you a life here in the castle?”

  He would have to be careful here, the Swordmaster had been very clear that no one could know the truth of his brother Aelfredd’s death that day. “It’s not that, Master Jesphat. I do appreciate what he’s given me, but he’s not a good man. He’s a killer. The day he found me I watched him kill a man in the market.”

  “Did not that man strike first? Was the Swordmaster not defending himself?”

  This was, of course, the truth of the matter. Turgeon still did not understand why Aelfredd had attacked the Swordmaster that day.

  “Perhaps the man that attacked the Swordmaster without provocation that day was a bad man, certainly the Swordmaster can not be considered evil simply for having defended himself – albeit very efficiently.

  “Go now, to your master. I believe you are to dine with him in the great hall for the first time tonight and it will not do to be late for that.”

  With that the librarian stood up and pulled Turgeon’s chair back from the table, ushering him from the library.

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  While the Swordmaster’s tower was not far from the library, the short trip proved eventful with another run-in with the dreaded Brigitta, this time sans princess. A second encounter in one day.

  She had approached him from behind this time, shortly after he left the library. Part of him wondered if she had been waiting for him to leave. He would need to start being more observant as he traveled the castle.

  Her footsteps approaching were the first thing he heard, but the hallways were busy with servants, courtiers and guards so at first he wasn’t concerned with the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from behind. That would have to change too, he realized. Instead of passing him, the follower fell into step behind him for a few paces – just long enough for them to be passing by a small but shadowed alcove.

  As he passed the alcove the follower, who was, of course, Brigitta, pushed him into it and followed after him, forcing him up against the far wall and drawing a curtain behind her to partition the alcove off from the main hall.

  “The princess was being nice this afternoon, but you’ll get no such pleasantries from me as you well know. You’d better be careful in the castle – I’ll be keeping an eye on you. And my weaselly little brother won’t be of any help to you.”

  The events of the day had moderately emboldened Turgeon, so instead of meekly cowering before the older girl he snapped back, “Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

  Brigitta scowled, but did let up a bit of the pressure holding him against the alcove wall.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” she replied, then shrugged and left him in the alcove.

  Turgeon picked up the pieces of his shattered pride for the second time that day and made his way to the Swordmaster’s tower, where he found the man himself awaiting him at the table in the common area.

  “New clothing awaits in your chambers,” he immediately announced while flipping a small dagger around on his knuckles. “Do hurry, I do not want to be late for dinner. The King would be most annoyed, and you don’t want that either.”

  *****

  After dressing in his new clothing, which was of obviously higher quality than anything he had been supplied previously including his new training gear, he and the Swordmaster made their way to the main dining hall in the castle, where the King and his court dined every night.

  Despite his new doublet and leggings, he felt vastly underdressed in this company. Where his clothing was drab and unadorned, solid fabric in muted grays and blacks, the courtiers wore clothing in a myriad of fanciful colors covered in ribbons and lace in a compounding array of hues.

  Elaborate hairstyles and hats also topped the heads of many of these lords and ladies, as if they were trying to outdo the King’s own crown through their coiffures.

  At a long and elaborately carved table on a dais raised above the rest of the room the King sat with the princess. Their own dress was even more elaborate than the courtiers: the princess had at some point in the time that had elapsed since their encounter in the late morning changed into a brilliant blue formal evening gown dripping with jewels that refracted the lamplight filling the room.

  To the king’s right Turgeon was surprised to see the Royal Librarian seated on the dais. He had known the man was greatly respected in the castle, but to elevate him above the rest of the court seemed a bit more than merited by his position. An open spot awaited at the other end of the table, to the left of the princess.

  “I must take my place on the dais,” the Swordmaster informed him while indicating the open seat, and after allowing him a moment to take in the scene in the hall, “You will sit there, and try not to cause any trouble tonight,” he finished while pointing at a small table in the back corner of the room. Well – small in that it had only six chairs, compared to the three long tables in the room with dozens of chairs each. Tonight only the central table was set for the guests, the other two had been pushed against the sides of the room.

  “Yes, master,” Turgeon acknowledged his command obediently and went to take his place.

  As he approached the table he took in its lone occupant. His dinner companion didn’t look like the other courtiers. He was not much older than Turgeon himself was, he estimated fifteen or sixteen years, and dressed in a similar fashion. His hair was unstyled, plain and brown much like Turgeon’s own, though it had been cut more recently. He appeared to be sleeping, or perhaps gazing wistfully at the back of his eyelids, and barely noticed Turgeon’s arrival.

  As he sat at the table Turgeon coughed lightly, intentionally startling the other boy awake.

  “Hello,” he introduced himself once he was certain his table mate was alert, “I’m Turgeon, the Swordmaster’s apprentice.” The words left a foul taste in his mouth, and he struggled to prevent his distaste from showing on his face. It wouldn’t do to reveal his personal feelings to this stranger of all people.

  “Oh… hi…,” the older boy stammered awkwardly, clearly unused to the setting he was currently in, “I’m Daelrud. Pleased to meet you, Turgeon.”

  “I’ve been told this is where I’m to sit for dinner,” he informed Daelrud as he sat at the table across from him.

  “I won’t be stopping you. You’re new here?”

  “No– well, yes, kind of.” This was more awkward even than he had expected. “I’ve been living in the castle for a while now, but as a servant. I only just began my formal training with the Swordmaster this morning.”

  “That must be so interesting… it’s too bad you aren’t able to talk about it.”

  “You know about that?” Turgeon was surprised the boy knew even this much.

  “All the nobles know at least the basic outlines of the Swordmaster’s art,” Daelrud dropped his voice to a low whisper and leaned in across the table as he continued, “some houses even purport to own copies of Klaaverius’ writings, but I suspect what they really have are Vadiucus’ work.”

  “‘Vadiucus’ work’?” Turgeon repeated in his own whisper. Clearly Dalreud knew more than he did about this subject.

  “A cheap imitation, written from a partial copy of the original years later. How do you not know this stuff? Did you say you were a servant?”

  “No– well, yes, kind of,” he repeated himself and flushed with embarrassment. “I… was found in the market last year by the Swordmaster, wandering and lost. I have no memory of my life before that day.” He told the lie so easily now, but it had been hard at first. “I’ve spent the past year as a servant in the castle.“

  They sat in silence for a while. Servants brought food and placed it on one of the tables along the wall of the hall. Seeing the others rise to fill their plates, Turgeon began to do the same but Daelrud caught his wrist and shook his head.

  “We wait,” he informed Turgeon.

  “Why do you have to wait, and sit at this table? I know why I’m here… but why are you?”

  Now it was Daelrud’s turn to be embarrassed. “I’m also new here. From the Ko valley, my mother sent me to get experience at court.” His tone belied his disagreement with this assertion.

  Turgeon knew from his studies that the Ko valley was a rural agricultural area, a rich floodplain of the river Ko. It was also historically contested land with the neighboring nation of Summor, only part of Falkaria for the last century or so. Its residents were known in the castle to be simple farming folk, often mocked by even the servants for their perceived ignorance, though Aelfredd would not have condoned that designation or mockery and so Turgeon had not participated in it. In his experience it had mostly been directed at him anyway.

  “So… they cast you into the corner because they think you are a Summorian? Or because you are in their eyes just a simple farm boy despite your noble blood?”

  “Yes. Both, I think. For some people more one or the other. Does it really matter though?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Just then a boisterous boy, about Daelrud’s age but dressed in opulent and colorful finery in stark contrast to his clothing, crashed into their conversation and thumped Daelrud hard enough on the back to slam his forehead into the table.

  “Who’s your new friend, farmboy?” the young man shouted, his question clearly intended for the group of hangers on that stood at a distance snickering.

  “Good evening, Lord Y’grathen,” Daelrud used the newcomer’s name for Turgeon’s benefit, “this is Turgeon, the Swordmaster’s apprentice.”

  Y’grathen laughed at that and gave Turgeon an appraising look, “This is the new apprentice? How embarrassing for the King… well, welcome to the castle, boy,” his words were dripping with condescension.

  Despite his youth, Y’grathen did have the bearing of a man well acquainted with the sword. His walk was reminiscent of the Swordmaster’s own gait even to Turgeon’s as yet untrained eye. As he sauntered back to his friends he called out “That’s the new apprentice!” which sent them laughing ostentatiously, all clearly seeking the approval of their clique leader.

  Fortunately for Turgeon and Daelrud the rest of the evening was fairly uneventful. They eventually made their way to the buffet to fill their plates. Turgeon was impressed with the array of prime meat cuts, high quality vegetables and elaborate pastries and he ate his fill of them all. Instead of watered beer they were served watered wine, which Turgeon concluded must be an acquired taste because he did not enjoy it.

  At the end of the night the Swordmaster came to collect him and he took his leave of Daelrud, promising to sit with his new friend the following night, although they both knew he had no choice.