Arthurian Cultivation

To say that the response to the Order of the Round Table had been positive would be like describing the Lady as a powerful fae. Factually correct, yet utterly failing to capture the true scale of the situation. A better statement would be to say that the Artoss Manor had to employ two clerks to handle the sheer number of requests that were coming in.

As we rode back to the manor we came to understand the unexpected storm we had found ourselves at the centre of. News of the Order of the Round Table had spread far and wide due to seeking the signatures of the greatest houses of renown. The concept of an Order made up exclusively of Irons with a simple goal to push back against the chaos caused by the Divine Cultivators had offered an outlet for a pressure that even the Mithrils had underestimated.

The main issue being that the Knights of Euross were furious. There was a war going on and they were being kept out of it, as the powers above them dithered as they sought to negotiate and scheme. All the while the Divine Cultivators, a far more united force, spread unchecked like a plague.

While their families would not accept these Knights going directly to war with the cultists, the aim of the Order, to clean up their mess, offered a path that gave purpose without shattering any perceived neutrality. Even better, it was a group backed by some of the great powers of the land, offering prestige and protection. Their young scions could go out, make names for themselves and test their mettle against beast and bandit, and then return home with noble stories and nobler connections.

The current list of potential recruits was a collection of Knights, mostly from the signatories of the Order's writ and their vassals, who were clamouring to get in on the action. Tiff read out many of their names on the journey back to Felix Lodge, focusing on the most promising candidates. The young woman had joined the Order as well, acting as a Chamberlain to the whole endeavour, and had already proven her skill. There was something quite intimidating about a woman who could conduct a personnel review while her horse was at a full gallop.

We had left the village behind in good hands. The two Knights who had escorted the others remained to look after the town. Lucan had nearly stayed until Tiff learned of his skills, at which time he had been all but conscripted into the Order. She was not about to let an exceptional administrator go to waste. The Squire spent most of the ride slack-jawed, looking like he had taken a serious head wound as he struggled to keep up with his abrupt shift in fortunes.

At least he had left in good mood, as we were all waved off by those who had managed to rouse themselves from their hangovers. A fair few giving Lucan heartfelt farewells and cheering him as he left.

We had finally reached the Felix Lodge late in the night, and were told to be ready to wake early by Lady Rowena. A bugle call sounded as the sun rose, a scant few hours after we had put our heads down, and the work of mobilising an Order began.

Sephy, Tiff, Lucan and Elaine were in the map room plotting the path the group would take. Their collective knowledge of politics and administration was setting out the best way for our group to push forward. While the rest of us gathered at the original round table that had sparked the name, which had been moved down into the lodge's main hall. Reviewing paperwork for applicants who would probably be shocked that we were using our namesake for such a mundane task.

The only two not sat with us were Rensleigh and Tristan, who were in deep discussion off to the side. The pair no doubt trading secrets, given how they would occasionally appear and remove an otherwise promising candidate from the list of applicants.

"And are we sure just saying no and heading out is not an option?" Bors muttered as he leafed through the paperwork.

"Why would we say no?" Gawain asked. The man seemed in his element. Given his love of rules and protocol, he was one of the few who seemed to be enjoying himself.

"The paperwork?" Bors muttered.

"Why do you think we have Tiff and Lucan?" Kay smiled. "Besides, we will need all the help we can get."

"Indeed, besides, I am sure if you do not accept this power others will try to claim it. Do you want another nascent Order rising to compete with you in cleaning up the passes?" Rensleigh's voice cut through the grumbling.

"Let us avoid that. I might not be a Knight but I know enough stories to be certain that two Orders trying to do the same thing would turn into rivalry of some sort, and somehow we would all become sworn enemies by the end of the year," I added, and saw the others pause before nodding.

"What should we do if people try and join us while we are 'campaigning'?" Gaz asked the sensible question.

"You should direct them to join us at whatever city we are setting up in," Rensleigh added.

"How will you set up in a city? Is not half the issue that doing so will have the other Orders and Houses breathing down our necks? I am not certain how that will work under the laws of chivalry," Gawain asked that question. I winced, praying we would not get lost in another discussion about the chivalric law. If I had learned one thing over the last day or so, it was that if Gawain had not been a cultivator he would have ended up a judge. The man talked about past cases with an enthusiasm that I thought only the greatest epics could inspire.

"Power respects power. We are three Steels from separate Houses of Renown. Very few Orders have the spare power to handle three Steels in a fight, and none have the political capital to endure the response if they were to step out of line. Simply put, they will ignore us. Are we stepping on their toes? Yes. Is it worth it, especially given we are there to 'watch over' an immensely popular initiative that aids them even if they might not like it? Yes." Rensleigh smiled, and I shivered. I pitied any fool who thought to challenge her.

"So your role is to protect us?" Lance asked.

"No, by signing your writ, our Houses are tying our honour to yours. Let us imagine a Steel from another Order takes exception to your behaviour. As you have no Steels to respond, and having such a lauded cultivator fight an Iron would be nothing but a further insult, one of our families would offer a combatant to protect your honour."

"So officially you are there to ensure that nothing occurs to sully your House's honour," Lance mulled it over.

"Indeed, we cannot directly assist you, but we act as a deterrent, a reminder that our Houses are committed to this action, and that we will swiftly respond to any who seek to sully the Order we have sponsored."

"And if any of these new recruits misbehave?" I asked.

"We will be there to punish any dishonourable actions by members of the Order to protect our Houses' honour, though only if your own response proves lacking. I think it best that I not get involved." Rensleigh's response elicited a shudder from Maeve, who had been working quietly in the corner.

"We cannot wait for these people to gather though, it has already started to slide into anarchy out there," Kay muttered, unconcerned with the terrifying threat of the Steel's punishments.

"Indeed, you will be heading out first, then other columns will form at the edge of Artoss territory before heading up to the mountain passes. You will be the trailblazers, cutting a path and making the name of your Order, you cannot afford to get bogged down. You must push through and rely on the others to catch any stragglers."

"You cannot afford to get stuck looking after some provincial village because of a minor issue. The Raven has agreed to lend us the use of some of our messenger crows for the other columns, and with Lancelot's dream gift we will be able to stay in touch with you as well. If you encounter an issue that needs more attention, or a specific solution, we will expect you to ask for help."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"This is a lot of investment. I am surprised that the Houses are so supportive."

"You are not the only ones who have spotted this problem, and your solution while not one the families would ever normally consider, is novel and useful to the cause. Plus, it is cheap, we are relying on volunteers. That said, I suggest that you mandate that all Knights keep the cores and proceeds of the sales of the beasts they slay, as well as cultivator resources they take off bandits, but suggest that you tell them to return any mortal fare directly to the villages affected."

"I am surprised you do not mandate our behaviour. Do you not favour a specific chivalric model?" Gawain began to talk cultivator law, and I felt my attention slip away. The conversation ebbed and flowed as the group explored the smaller parts of what it was to run an Order.

I found myself feeling like a third leg to the whole endeavour. I knew little of how Orders were run, and beyond my research to establish one I had absorbed little. Turning back to the applications was no help.

I was not the best judge of Knightly character, nor did I have the kind of knowledge needed for the political side of things. If these candidates were here in the room, I was certain my personal skills, including my truth sense, would have allowed me to offer some insight, but as I reviewed the pieces of paper all I was certain of was that there were too many damn names that began with B.

"Are we certain that Bedivere and Bevidere are different people? I have also got another Bors here, and is this guy called Blamor?" I said, breaking the silence that had settled on the group.

"Blamor's my cousin," Lancelot chimed in, reaching over at the piece of paper. "Oh good, this is a different Blamor. We would not want my cousin, he is a tit."

"Aren't your cousins dead?" Maeve asked, her brow creasing.

"I had two uncles, Roland and Bleoberis. Roland was the cultist, and Bleo was just a greedy sod. Mum said he is behaving himself really well now that Ursul is back. Apparently letting Roland amass a cult because he was so busy keeping Ban in check is not exactly the kind of behaviour fitting a Fos."

"Alright, even I am starting to hear it now, and I agree Blamor is a tit." Gaz muttered.

"Bard, come meet me in the alchemy labs, you are distracting the rest of them." Rowena's voice cut through the room, her voice projected by some manner of glamour that I did not begin to understand. Though from the look of confusion on Gaz's face, it was not any simple sound glamour.

"Another B," Lancelot whispered, as if that would have stopped the Steel hearing her. A soft round of chuckles followed me out of the room.

I walked briskly through the halls of the lodge, finding a room towards the back of the building. The lab jutted out from the main building, with barely any window, and with double thick walls and thrice as many chimneys as any other room, it was heavily insulated against any mistakes. Previously I had not been permitted to use the room unsupervised, with my witch mentor Marek refusing to give me access until I proved myself capable of not blowing myself up.

I had only just managed to convince him that I could be left alone before we had been summoned to deal with the monsters. Now though, with my impurities filled thanks to the couple of unsupervised days out at the village and a few spare monster cores and part of share of natural treasures from the fae realm, I had managed to poison myself the exact right amount and had not felt the need to visit the dark rooms.

Pushing open the heavy iron-banded door I found Rowena waiting for me in the gloom. A bit of lamplight was all that illuminated her, resting in the corner of the room behind heavy benches and empty hearths over which hung an assortment of cauldrons. I found myself hesitating.

"Come in and shut the door behind you. I want you to make me a healing brew." Her tone had me marching in, the lash of a teacher or marshal impatient to begin.

I nodded, not bothering to ask more. This was not the casual banter I had with Pell or the relaxed conversation with Elaine, it was an order. I turned up the light first and lit a second lamp. It was one of the little things I had picked up from my mother, a cultivator might be able to see in low light, but spotting issues with an ingredient or noticing a brew was about to turn, every bit of light mattered. It also helped her fit in among the other mortals we had been hiding with.

As gloom fled, I could see Rowena sitting on a workstool, her back resting against the far wall, her grey eyes catching the light of the lamps. Her hair was not quite as dark as mine, but I could see small streaks of grey here and there, a sign that she was far older than most cultivators. Even if she had reached Steel late in her life, any Iron who started to go grey had to be a couple of centuries old at least.

I still had no idea what to make of the Artossian woman. She was not the most intimidating Steel I had met, she was not even the most intimidating Steel in the building, Rensleigh still gave me the chills. However, there was a quiet threat to her, she had an inexorable quality, like a stone rolling downhill that threatened to gather an avalanche with it.

I looked out at the collection of ingredients and tools before me. She had set out a collection of instruments and herbs. A collection of Swamp Throat Vine, Renwick's Moss, and Elder Root, they were the classic components of the most common healing brew. I checked the instruments she had provided, and paused.

I could make a brew with the tools provided, but there were a few choices that while acceptable were sloppy.

In my frequent chats with Maeve she had mentioned how she found any chat with a senior cultivator to be a test of some sort. Rowena exuded challenge, I would not have been surprised to be handed a list of pointers on how I had entered the room. That being said, to meet a challenge you had to understand it.

"Do you wish me to use the items here to make the brew?" I gestured to the table.

"Use the ingredients I have laid out." Rowena's voice was flat, giving no indication if she was pleased I had checked or if I had already failed by asking. It did not matter. I was now sure this was some manner of test, as was her response. She had not mentioned the equipment at all.

I swapped out the mortar and pestle for a different make. The pestle she had put out was only really suitable for handling the smallest ingredients that needed to end up as the finest powder. All alchemy required the core understanding of simple principles, mastery of these fundamentals and how to apply them was the mark of a true alchemist.

My eyes flicked to Rowena. What was it she was testing? The obvious answer was my ability to supply our Order with essential brews. While we could buy a lot, there was no substitute for having an actual alchemist at your side while out in the wilds.

That was why I started to take shortcuts. The mortar and pestle was just the first. I could reduce the various leaves and herbs to a fine powder, but this brew was very forgiving and would tolerate a less thorough approach. True, it would lead to a gritty consistency, but it would likely take half the time to make and be just as potent.

I used a few tricks to quickly assess the ingredients. One trick was to run my smoke over them. If the smoke was cool it rarely had an effect, but it did help me clean them of any dust or debris that might otherwise foul the mixture. Other than that I mostly focused on rapidly, but not sloppily, bringing together the brew.

The alchemists I had worked beside in the Harkley Manor would have had a fit to see the grainy dust that I added to the water. It would lead to a less than ideal texture, but would not impact the effect. Rowena had asked me for a healing brew, she had not asked for one suitable for sale.

The fire caught under the cauldron, and I started work on the actual infusion. This was one of the rare treats for me, alchemy was a passion planted before the horrors of the mansion. Even when I had limited myself to perfumes I still enjoyed the process.

I wrapped my senses around the cauldron, carefully observing the different glamours within. Brews were often called the great art by witches. It required patience and observation of the flow of glamour within, and unlike the other arts there was no space to add your own glamour. You had to focus on guiding the ingredients through a careful dance.

The only magic that mattered was the method of keeping the power within. A thin layer of my power wrapped itself around the cauldron. With that in place the glamour could not escape unless I permitted it. Occasionally I would let a sliver of power out, to keep the powers within balanced and flowing. The different elements that would normally disperse or clash had to be gently guided to a point of equilibrium.

I looked up at Rowena, but found her face a neutral mask. It was a trick the rare few good teachers I had known were blessed with. They were not there to guide you along a path with gentle nods or push you back with subtle frowns, no, your success or failure was your own. All I could tell was that she was paying close attention to my every movement and fluctuation of my control.

It took half an hour to complete the brew, for the swirling glamour to subside and the concoction to stabilise. While I had pretended to be useless at alchemy outside of perfumes, I had still learned to concoct a few brews to allay suspicion, and so knew that the brew before me was a perfectly acceptable creation.

As I decanted the liquid into the vial offered, I chased out the last dregs by tapping the cauldron twice and then a third time for luck as had been my practice for as long as I could remember. It was only as the last drop fell that I caught the faintest smile on Rowena's face.

"One healing brew, Lady Rowena." I presented it to her. I felt confident, ready for any and all questions. As punishment for my arrogance the woman cut the legs out from under me with her first question.

"Just the one question. Why exactly are you hiding that you are Gwendolyn's son?" Her eyes bored into me as my mouth went dry.