After dressing, he lay down on the comfortable down filled mattress, crossed his arms and wondered if he could doze off. For comfort's sake, he got up once again and carefully placed a footstool with a tray of fruit he found himself absentmindedly eating in front of the doorway. It was a precaution that Sorn hoped was completely unnecessary, and done as much to soothe his nerves as for any other reason.
Sorn lay down once again and tried to doze off. It was, however, not to be. Too much had happened on this day. Excitement, yes. Adventure, of a sort. But in truth, when all was said and done, this was the first time his cousin's lives had ever actually been in any real danger. True, the magic inherent to their very nature would do much to counter and minimize the damage of any blow they might suffer. This protection, combined with the arcane wardings that he had his cousins place over themselves had no doubt had kept them quite safe. Nonetheless, he wouldn't be their denmother if he didn't worry.
Sighing once more, unable to really relax, he was able to take some comfort in the fact that at least he had insisted that the trio cast their protective spells before he had left their sight. It had been a magic which would subtly but definitely cause almost any blow to go somewhat awry. Most effective at redirecting thrusts and missiles, less effective against slashing blows and shorter blades where the foe had better leverage to force the blade in straight and true. Nonetheless, those magics combined with his cousins' mithril shirts had given him some assurance of their safety.
The real worry of course had been the bandit's crossbows. In truth, seeing those weapons in the bandit's hands had chilled him to the quick. What if their warding spell had not worked? For although his cousin's mail shirts, constructed of unbreakable mithril links that they were, afforded them excellent protection, their heads, hands, and lower legs were still vulnerable.
Though Sorn knew full well that those bolts could no more pierce his cousins' thick skulls than they could burst the links of their mithril shirts, and indeed, would in all likelihood be deflected specifically away from the eyes, the neck was a chilling vulnerability, despite their protective mail. A hard enough blow to the neck could cause the throat to swell shut, resulting in one choking to death, whether or not the flesh was actually pierced. A cool head indeed would be needed to shift forms in such a state, and a being would be unlikely to get a second chance if he failed the first time. It was too disturbing a thought to allow him any rest.
Crossbows were the enemy, Sorn reflected with a sigh. He would have to make certain the triplets cast wards against missiles each and every time they were likely to get involved in combat, no matter how slim the risks of a crossbow bolt being fired might seem at first glance. As long as he insisted that they accept the vulnerabilities of their present disguises, he would not place any undue risk on his cousins' lives.
However impetuous they were, and however likely they were to charge into danger for thrill's sake alone without a second thought, they still in truth were little more than children, and he felt a very strong sense of duty to their care. He would make them practice, he promised himself, until they had mastered those spells, able to cast them instantly with utter ease, no matter their state of calm. One day their lives might well depend upon it.
With such resolutions firmly in mind, Sorn finally began to relax, only to find himself jolted awake a short time later by what he assumed was the dinner bell Maleks had informed him of. With a yawn, he rubbed his eyes while making his way to the door and managed to trip over his own alarm. Unnatural reflexes alone saved the footstool and bowl of fruit from scattering as he shoved it all to the side with a grumble and went downstairs to the dining hall.
Pulling his mind back from afternoon reflections, Sorn could only smile as his cousins devoured their third heaping plate of venison, pork, mashed potatoes, and freshly baked bread. He was not so far behind himself, tearing into a particularly tender pork rib, no less hungry for all the stew he had devoured just hours ago.
The feast was a fine one, and, Sorn's cousins basked in the admiring gazes of the keep folk, moved as they were by Chestnut's exuberant if slightly exaggerated retelling of the so-called ‘battle of Deepwood'. Not necessarily accurate, but warmly received by all, with rapt expressions and warm cheers at just the right moments.
It was only Canterbier's rather delicate looking wife, who seemed a bit discomforted by the telling. She looked to be only a few years older than her stepdaughter, possessing auburn locks that flowed down her shoulders, and soft green eyes still filled with fear.
Whereas Lord Canterbier's wife seemed barely recovered from the harrowing afternoon that had near ended in tragedy, his daughter appeared to have recovered completely. More exhilarated than anything else, she happily regaled everyone with her vibrant description of the foiled ambush. Eyes sparkling with her animated dialogue, rich chestnut hair tied up in an elegant coif, Chestnut was filled with a vibrant beauty all her own as she captivated her audience with her exuberance and charm.
In truth, Sorn did not remember half the acrobatic moves, graceful disarms, or triple beheadings of which the tale was filled, and was quite sure that the actual number of bandits was closer to eight than twenty, only three of which the triplets had actually had to put down, but he was enjoying the tale nonetheless. Chestnut, after all, had only the second-hand account given to her by his cousins to go on, cousins who were at that moment grinning like a trio of well-fed cats, Sorn noted.
"Wow, Fitz, I never realized how wonderfully dexterous you were! Two beheadings and a back flip all at once, how very remarkable." Sorn smiled at his cousin.
Fitz gave an embarrassed cough. "Well, you know how these things get exaggerated, never the same telling twice."
"Oh, indeed." Sorn himself was now grinning like a cat. "Never the same telling. Not even twice."
"Oh, come now, Sorn, you know how it is," Hanz explained. "Everyone gets caught up in the moment. The thrill of battle and all that. Obviously, Chestnut was so caught up by our magnificence that she chose to focus on the spirit of our deeds, rather than the substance itself. A springboard of inspiration, if you will."
"Precisely," chimed in Lieberman. "And isn't it true, Sorn, that it is the poetic essence of a story, capturing the spirit of the struggle that is symbolic of the larger tale of life's trials and tribulations that really matters? The underlying truth one might put it, as real as life itself? So isn't Chestnut's capturing the poetic majesty of our glorious battle of far greater significance than the mundane little details of cause and effect themselves?"
Sorn couldn't help but smile at that. "Well said, dear cousins. Now pray tell me, how on earth did you get your mouths around such utter rhetorical crap?"
"Actually it was something Chestnut showed us from her book of rhetoric 'In Defense of Poetry' when we got back to the keep," Lieberman confided.
"Yup, she just told us to bask in our justly earned glory and let her do the rest," Hanz agreed.
"Besides," Fitz exclaimed, "her version's a lot more exciting than ours!"
Sorn could only sigh and shake his head. And eat lots of venison, of course. No matter how exasperating his cousins, Sorn reflected, there was always room for venison.
It was a pleasant evening for the four youths, amidst much cheering, revelry, and good food. Even Sorn found himself enjoying the respect and accolade that came of being recognized as a hero, and since recognition was so often a transient thing, Sorn reflected, he might as well enjoy it.
It was late when the feasting died down, animated storytelling on the part of Chestnut in regards to the heroes of the hour having given way to other tales of noble daring-do. All true, of course, to greater or lesser extent, if one would believe the enthusiastic claims of the revelers. They included tales demonstrating the feats of the very guardsmen before them, such as the shaggy red-headed guard Richard Ironthews' story of how he had intimidated an escaped bull back into docility with a single mighty blow to its nose, his great frame shaking with laughter as he recounted the be
ast's expression of utter surprise. Ever after, Richard went on to claim, no matter how fierce the bull pranced in his yard or intimidated the younger farmhands, one look from Ironthews and the beast was as docile as a newborn lamb. And from the respectful nods sent his way, the tale appeared to have been witnessed by more than one guest at the table that night.
Timothy, a younger guard, spun the last story of the evening, enchanting his rapt audience with a tale of the ancient past, more along the lines of a favored bedtime fairy tale than historically accurate, Sorn assumed, but then again, you never knew. His mellifluous voice waxing eloquent, Timothy went on to describe a time, centuries ago, filled with witches, evil warlocks, and dragons, evoking a wondrous adventure in the mind's eye starring Timothy's own great uncle many times removed, who had managed to fool a sorcerer, defeat a witch, and save a fair maiden, all whilst melting the evil sorcerer's ice castle in the space of a single evening.
His great uncle, obviously not one to settle for modest fame, then went on to win a bet with a silver swan that was far more than it appeared to be, and so was transported to the hot lands of the south and made a prince, in time to rule with his princess over his very own kingdom.
The whole dining hall banged their mugs good-naturedly at this tale's closure, fanciful as it was. It marked as well an excellent point to call it a good night, and a feast well fed, for all had chores on the morrow, as Lord Canterbier gently reminded them. And so most of the keep's denizens who worked the fields and cared for the livestock or were responsible for the other numerous chores needed to keep what was for all intents and purposes a glorified farm running smoothly, found themselves cheering once more for the safe return of their lord, known for his decency and fairness for miles around, before calling it a night.
Following soon after, the four youths made their way up to their adjoining rooms, yawning and content, led by the ever competent Maleks up numerous stairs and through several elegantly appointed corridors to their own assigned quarters.
"Gentle sirs, on behalf of Lord Canterbier, I bid you all a restful and peaceful night. Please don't hesitate to avail yourselves of the keep's resources on the morrow. Consider us entirely at your disposal." Maleks smiled. "I understand that Lord Canterbier would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience after the noon bells on the morrow, at which time I will be happy to escort you from the dining hall to his quarters. Once again, young sirs, for saving the lives of our beloved lord and his family, you have our deepest gratitude."
With a solemn bow Maleks made his way to quarters below and the cousins, smiling, made their way to their own rest.
Lieberman sighed happily. "Now this was a fine start to our adventure, wouldn't you agree, Sorn? We saved a damsel, defeated our foes, and feasted all in the same day!"
"Now all we need to do is get some treasure and were set! Imagine, we're already heroes!" Fitz smiled, lost in the joy of his own inner heroicness.
Sorn smiled and nodded. "Yes, cousins, we truly had a remarkable day. I'm glad you all approve, but really, shouldn't you guys be heading to bed? A good hero needs his sleep, no? And we will have plenty of time to talk in the morning." Sorn couldn't hold back his yawn as he once more addressed his cousins. "Besides which, excitement aside, I still want you all sharp and ready. Tomorrow we are definitely going to practice our swordplay, and I would see us perfect our defensive magics as well. I'm sorry, guys, but today was too close. Glory we may have gotten, but I fear we were simply a crossbow's trigger away from a far grimmer tale."
Sorn gave them a grave look. "No arguments, cousins. Tomorrow you guys are practicing what few warding spells you know. I will not have one of my cousins, whom I have cared for since you were toddlers, fall prey to one of those bastard's crossbow bolts!"
Sorn reined in his sudden burst of emotion, catching the triplets' solemn stares, and he realized that he had been near shouting at them. It wasn't so much that he was angry with them, he thought, but rather that he had genuinely feared for their safety.
"Of course, Sorn," Fitz said solemnly. "We will practice".
"Yes, Sorn, no need for us to get rusty on their account, hey?" chimed in an agreeable Lieberman.
"As long as we can eat first, I'll practice," sighed Hanz, who of all the triplets, was the least likely to exercise his arcane talents if not pushed.
Sorn smiled. "I shall assure that we eat well indeed, though I hope we don't piss off the cook! But no need to focus overmuch on that, for in these guises, most of our appetite is in our heads. Trust me, you will know it when you are truly hungry, and we can afford to wait ‘till then, but I agree that there is nothing wrong with making use of what is given to us freely here from our new friends!”
Sorn's voice once more became solemn. "Little ones, please understand. Yes, we had a glorious battle and did noble deeds today. But if nothing else, we need to remember that outside of the story books, every hour of glory entails a hundred hours of sweat, and it is that discipline, focus, and skill that we develop in arts both martial and arcane that will allow us to so readily triumph over our foes. Indeed, had we not already paid our dues, so to speak, having practiced as we had back home, had I lacked the skill to handle the two bandits at my end, do you really think this chapter in our own story would have ended so well? Remember, my cousins, those moments of glory require hours of training. The secret is simply this: learn to enjoy the training! You all already enjoy our fencing practice, something I am glad of, but so too can you find similar pleasure, if not far sweeter, in practicing the arts arcane."
Sorn paused a moment, making sure he still had their attention. His cousins, for a change, appeared quite riveted to his every word, which was quite a rarity, Sorn thought with a smile, when the discussion had to do with magic.
“As you all practice becoming more in tune with your essences, you will find it less of a chore to bring it into focus. It will eventually become second nature to you, as easy and quick as breathing. And although it may be a struggle right now, you will find that it takes far less effort to focus your arcane energies and channel them into a spell construct as you practice. Indeed, over time you will find that it’s less about forcing the energies into a web of power and more about letting it flow effortlessly, near instantly! And then, cousins, the sweet joy of summoning and channeling your power won't be so overwhelmed by the effort of bringing it to bear and controlling it. It will come naturally, I promise you."
Sorn's look was imploring as if he so wanted to convey his love for the arcane to his cousins. Yet for all their potential, summoning their arcane energies into a particular spell web while in their present form was like trying to steer a combative mule. Exhausting. As often as not, they felt too drained to take much joy in it. It was, after all, a lot easier to cast spells in one's native form.
His cousins looked at Sorn doubtfully, but their hearts went out to his pleading expression, he who loved his magic so well and who wanted them to take the same joy in it as he did. Perhaps it would get easier, they allowed, though they doubted it.
"Alright, Sorn," Fitz said, "for you, we will practice. I can only hope it gets more comfortable with time!"
"If nothing else, brothers, we can then truly call ourselves warrior mages. Sounds even better than knights!" Lieberman said, eyes glimmering with newfound excitement.
Sorn smiled. "Well and good, cousins. And now, if you will allow, I believe we should get some rest."
The trio looked a bit awkward at this friendly dismissal, and Hanz finally gave voice to what was troubling them. "But, Sorn, all of our rooms are separate!"
"Yes, Sorn, it’s all quiet and lonely. We can't even see each other! And what if we get cold?" said a concerned Lieberman.
Sorn smiled. "Ah, now I get it. The truth, of course, is that you three have slept together since your baby teeth, and the thought of sleeping alone in a strange den none of us have ever been to before is a tad bit on the disturbing side, no? Truth to tell, I don't totally blame you," Sorn conceded.
Hanz nodded in agreement. "You got it, Sorn. Besides, you’ve slept with us since we were little as well!"
"Well yes, that's true enough, Hanz. I'll tell you what. Bring what blankets you like, and you all can sleep in here tonight. But you all must be quiet, mind you! And don't forget to take off your clothes, so you don't wrinkle them.
"Oh boy, a proper nest!" Fitz exclaimed happily after they had dragged a couple mattresses with blankets in tow to set in the center of Sorn's chamber. "You’re sleeping with us, right Sorn?"
"Well, might as well, I suppose," Sorn allowed. In truth, he too would feel more at ease with the comforting warmth of his cousins around him, echoing a companionship they had shared for most of their lives, soothing what traces of loneliness and alienation Sorn had sometimes felt from his people when not in his cousins' company. "Now are you all comfortable? Good. For I'm going to set a basic spell of warning, just for form's sake."
And with a few quiet words of power, Sorn summoned forth a complex matrix of energies very much like a giant web, sparkling in the ether like glistening dew drops to gently settle over the room entire. Should any sentient being attempt to open the door, or otherwise cross one of the invisible strands, the spell would discharge, alerting Sorn and his cousins instantly to intruders. Sorn beamed in satisfaction and turned toward his cousins, in truth hoping for a word of admiration, but could only shake his head and smile, seeing them already asleep.
4
The dawn came bright and early, a bit too much of both as far as Sorn was concerned, trying his best to roll over and fall back to sleep. "Get your foot out of my mouth, Fitz."
"Sorry, Sorn." The foot promptly removed itself to bump into another relative who was, fortunately for Fitz, still deep in slumber. At which point, Sorn heard the polite knocking once again, pinpointing that as the source of his abrupt rise to consciousness. Bleary eyed, Sorn made for the door, opening it to see a rather startled looking chambermaid gazing at him attentively.
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