Arthurian Cultivation

So goes the tale of Inquisitor Ulfast, the poor and dim,
Let's toast the end of one so grim,
May we all remember, as we sing and cheer,
Beauty's a curse when it's nowhere near.

The notes rang out across the vast hall. We'd been invited into the 'Silver Hall', a beautiful space with enough room to seat a hundred easily. The hall lived up to its name, as the ceiling was covered in shimmering patterns of silver polished to a mirror shine. The walls were decorated with beautiful art, and even the windows were inlaid with artful patterns. It was by far the grandest stage I'd ever played to, and yet I had decided to see out the final part of my performance with one of my most irreverent songs.

Had I chosen well?

As the last note faded, the tables of watching Knights and Squires broke out into a mixture of laughter and applause. The power of their auras fed into my cultivation, making my hearth ignite. The power felt all but overwhelming. The closest I'd ever come to feeling such an influx of power was when I'd absorbed some of the natural treasures we'd looted from the fey realm.

I bowed, fully hoping to drink in the moment a while longer, only for a little bit of discord to make itself known.

"You dare to insult my honour, you cur? I challenge you to a duel – both of you." The words were slurred as the Knight in front of me staggered from side to side, trying to draw his blade. After a moment he forgot me, and instead checked his side and noticed he didn't have a weapon, given that this was a feast and all.

"Ulfgar, sit down. The song is about Ulfast, not you, you moron. It's not a worthwhile cause for a fight." A yell came from the crowd.

"You dare to insult my honour?" The drunken Knight turned to where the voice had called out from the crowd. "I challenge you to a duel."

"Duelling people for telling you that your cause is weak isn't allowed or we'd be here all night. Sit down! Find something that actually works, and pick a fight with an actual Knight."

"By the Sidhe, would someone go dunk him in a trough of water? He's interrupting the entertainment." That bellow came from the high table, and I recognised Knight Commander Jorge's voice.

"I shall take that as my cue to pause and take a breath," I called out, slipping my lute over my shoulders and bowing to the crowd. The hall burst into another raucous applause and cheers, and I felt the power of a hundred or so cultivators pouring through me. It was intense.

"Ulfgar, you spoon." One of the man's friends walked over and started to drag him away. I heard a distant "You dare to insult my honour!" before they were lost in the crowd. All was well.

I'd learned in playing in taverns and inns on the way here that Ulfast the Ugly was one of the greatest songs in my arsenal. I'd tweaked the lyrics to make it clear that Ulfast was an inquisitor, ensuring his villainy was clear. And people lapped it up. I doubted even a handful of people in the room had ever heard of the now-deceased inquisitor before, but there was something about laughing at the folly of the enemy that everyone could get behind.

Their interest, the connections I'd felt as I played, were still pouring into me, aura and glamour swirling around. I could feel their engagement with my music, with my art, however base it may be.

It felt incredible. This is what a bard should do.

The conversation melted back into the general wash of noise that was the feast in our honour. I took my seat at our long table and tucked into some suckling pig, while Gawain passed me a foaming flagon of beer.

"Well, this lot knows how to throw a good shindig," Lance said, and I nodded, temporarily rendered mute as the tender pork all but melted in my mouth.

"It's a great evening! And I've only been asked to duel three times!" With the exception of the last one, both of the other duelists who'd accosted me had actually apologised when I'd explained I was a bard. They'd then moved onto other members of our retinue.

"Let's get back to the duels," I heard Jorge's voice cut over the conversation of the tables. "Next, we have Sir Gareth fighting Sir Koss over the matter of who gets the last spiced chicken leg."

I turned to look at the ring. The Golden Keep had a somewhat unique practice when it came to duels and feasts. Most of their entertainment came from picking minor fights over equally petty slights. There was even an award for the most trivial reason for a duel.

The fights took place out of armour and with only wooden training weapons. The use of glamour was restricted to low-power enhancements, and the fight lasted only to disarm, ring out, or a fall. If battle ever got too rough they'd be called off.

If it were just that, it would basically be a series of sparring matches with some feasting set around it. But every fight would be themed around whatever nonsense caused the fight.

"As the cause of the fight is this chicken leg, both shall remain holding their prize, and neither shall let it go or lose it, and if it comes to destruction through force, there will be a draw." Jorge shouted from his place at the high table overlooking the proceedings. All pretence at being a mere Knight was gone. He wore a resplendent outfit picked out in gold, looking more peacock than Knight. His aura was heavy Steel, and the flickers of his glamour left my mouth tasting like copper.

Beside him were Rowena, Elaine and Rensleigh, who looked to be enjoying themselves. Or at least Elaine and Rensleigh were. I didn't bother to look at Rowena too closely. She could be sitting on pins for all I cared.

The fight began and immediately devolved into a comedy. With both men unable to let go of the chicken leg between them or stress it overly, they were limited to battering at each other with their wooden swords and small bursts of glamour. The area's runic formations flared as Gaz's attacks deafened the other Knight, whose fire strikes were being quenched by a floating ball of water that Gaz kept on defence.

It was farcical, and somewhat balanced until Gaz switched his grip on his blade. Realising they were just too close for a proper match of blades, he instead flipped his weapon and stepped in close, using the pommel as an extension of his fist.

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A moment later, the other man collapsed backwards under the assault. Cheers rang out from the crowd. They only grew louder as Gaz bowed, while taking a bite of his prize.

Our table of course roared our approval of his victory. Gaz slowly returned to the table under the watchful eyes of his betrothed, Tiffany raising a delicate eyebrow.

"What? The recipe is amazing," Gaz said in his defence.

"Is such a duel really worth you begging for my favour, Sir Knight?" Tiff indicated the bit of cloth she'd tied to his arm. Knights who went into duels often bore signs of their loved ones. Embroidered handkerchiefs or flowers were common. The fact that it was a scrap of torn tablecloth with 'do your best' hastily scrawled in charcoal was of course immaterial to the true meaning of the message.

"Oh, my fair maiden, may I offer you part of the bounty I fought so hard for?" Gaz knelt before her, offering up the mangled piece of poultry. Tiff took it and took a refined ladylike nibble. Her eyes went wide and she then bit a huge chunk out of it.

"Okay, you're right, this is really good. Lucan, we need this recipe."

"I'll note it down, Lady Tiffany," the older man sighed. The Squire seemed a bit overwhelmed by the boisterous nature of the meeting, given he'd been raised to see Orders and the Houses of Renown as the pinnacle of culture, this had to be a bit of a shock.

"Who's up next?" I asked.

"Well, now they've realised that Lance, Maeve and Arty are beasts with a blade, they keep going after them."

"Where's Tristan?" I inquired, noting his absence.

"He's gone to hide. He was getting a bit much attention. Turns out the ladies took the argument that 'my hedonism is greatly exaggerated' as a personal slight," Kay muttered, glaring at some of the female Knights who prowled around our table.

"I'm surprised it didn't turn into a duel. Though I certainly wouldn't have wanted to know what the special rules might be," I said, sipping my drink.

"I think they're just annoyed they were late to the party with Bors," Lance laughed, pointing to the other end of the table where the giant Knight was laughing, an equally titanic woman resting in his lap. I had heard that some mortals believed that giant warrior women would come collect the dead from the battlefield, and I wondered if some ancestor of hers was where the belief started.

"Are we sure Tristan didn't retreat to avoid being snapped in half?" I joked.

Our banter was interrupted as Jorge stood at the high table. As others spotted him, they fell silent and began to pound their fists to their chests in a slow rhythm that spread across the room until there was nothing but the beat of fists on chests.

"Honoured cultivators, listen well, and listen clear." The Knight Captain's voice had power to it. It crackled with glamour and I could feel a touch of aura as well. I wanted to study the effect to understand exactly what he was doing, but the power behind it focused my attention on his words alone.

"Today we celebrate hosting a new ally, a new Order! The Order of the Round Table has seen the plight of the mortals abandoned by the traitors." At mention of the treachery, I heard the murmur of resentment and frustration and anger from the rest of the room. "They go to handle the scourge in the mountains, but I wish all who have grown frustrated to know that we do not send them alone."

"We will be giving them an escort to the edge of our territory and into the borderlands. In line with the ancient pact, we shall not push into the territories of the honoured mountain kings, but we shall see them to their doorstep, and pass word to them of their just and noble purpose." Jorge paused, and the room erupted in cheers – and not just because the level of drinking had reached that point where people were cheering when servants brought more food through.

"These are only the first of their Order to arrive. More will be arriving soon, and each new group will form up here and begin their staging from our halls. They will go with our training, and our well wishes as we let our resolve be known."

As the applause continue I leant over to Percy sitting next to me, "Wait, the Order will be training here? Doesn't this diminish our whole plan to be neutral?"

"It would, but everyone round here gets on with the Golden Keep. They are steadfastly neutral, and while even that is enough to brew resentment at times, they control flow through the passes, so even the occasional House or Order who feel slighted wouldn't dare antagonise them. It's a positive, and lends us a nice legitimacy," Percy whispered into my ear, the brush of her lips making my spine tingle. She's the only woman I knew who could make politics sexy.

"I still can't believe you managed to talk them into doing it." Kay turned to Tiff and Lucan.

"Honestly, we had to negotiate them down. The Knights are very keen to get out there. They're worried some might turn Errant and go out on their own, training up the next few groups and escorting them will give them something to focus on," Tiff replied.

"Well, it's a great deal for us. I was getting worried about the other groups. They won't be used to working together, so they'll need some training time. I feel a lot more confident to do it under the guidance of a proper Order than just leave them to work it out on their own," Gawain chimed in from across the table.

"They want to do some training with us tomorrow. You'll have to be careful. There are quite a few Knights who want to do some friendly sparring – the biggest troublemakers who want to make a case that we're not good enough and they should be added to our cohort, or replace us entirely," Percy reminded them, and I thought back to Jorge's earlier reminder to ensure we didn't disappoint.

"Thanks for the heads-up. Can someone remind me when I'm not drunk. Or otherwise indisposed?" Bors called out as he was being dragged away by his new 'friend'.

The next morning I slipped out of Percy's room early. For once, I didn't have to worry about Arthur, as the man had got thoroughly drunk after being challenged to so many duels.

I managed to avoid getting too drunk myself, pacing myself and relying on my beautiful paramour's ability to clean the alcohol from my bloodstream. Was it somewhat insane to entrust her with total control of my blood, a sign of my deep and abiding trust just to render me sober? Maybe, but it was what I did with that sobriety that mattered.

Having accomplished our main goal that night in the first cultivator-proof bed we'd had in weeks, I now slipped out to handle the secondary task. Gathering information.

Percy, while tight-lipped on the prophecy, had shared a lot of associated history over the last couple of weeks, and I better understood what we were looking for, as well as the signs that might be connected to it. The biggest challenge was understanding the focus of our quest – the Grail.

Knowledge of the artefact was patchy, and while many features were claimed, one stood out above all. The ability to turn sacrifices into boons. The most fundamental of these was the ability to provide physical boosts and healing. Though everything I read seemed to imply that any boons it granted were temporary unless the cultivator blessed with them did something to make them stick.

Given we were looking for this item primarily amongst mortals, it painted a dire picture. A chalice that could cure any wounds with a sacrifice, but that wound would always return unless the cup was fed again. It made sense why a King might have it – only the powerful would be able to hide such a cruel price.

While our minds remained open, our top priority was to identify Kings whose families and courts held rumours of miraculous recovery, and stories of mortals capable of great feats of short-lived strength. Though given the prevalence of cultivation, that would be difficult to identify. It wasn't the biggest hurdle though.

That was the fact that between here and the lowlands that led to the Thousand City Sea, there were some thirty courts who claimed the title of King. It seemed all you needed in this place was to find a mountain, gather a few men and call yourself a King.

Of course, your neighbours might take offence, and then it'd be up to you to defend your crown. But if you held on for even a few years, you'd start to be recognised as a monarch. A lonely king of a petty mountain, but a king nonetheless.

My first stop was to go to an institution that I'd been excited to see since I'd heard about it. The Grand Bounty Board.