Over the course of several months under the South Wind's tutelage, Galahad's body grew strong and powerful. He had long since memorized the 100 exercises from that first day's instruction and had now mastered countless more. The skin on his hands and feet, tested by endless hours of running and working became as strong as leather and as rough as tree bark. And he was fast. Quicker than the meadow sprites, though never quite as fast as his venerable teacher. He was getting closer each day, though.

With the growing strength of his body, so too did his spirit gain strength. As he revelled in his physical capability, his confidence grew, as did his sense of worth. He eagerly sought out challenge, determined to surpass the expectations of his teacher, though also, secretly, to try and overcome his fate. Deep inside, Galahad dreamed of the freedom to forge his own path, and he believed that perfection might allow him to do so. Relentlessly he threw everything he had into the South Wind's teachings, pushing himself beyond even his teacher's high expectations. Fueled by a need for vengeance, freedom, and purpose Galahad excelled at every challenge Lord South could put before him.

Finally, one morning The South Wind came to take Galahad for his lessons. He came in the flowing white robes that he wore when Galahad had first met him in the Queen's Great hall. These wee not the clothes for their usual exercises.

“Are you hurt, Lord South?” asked Galahad.

“No, lad,” answered the older man. “I am as healthy as a bull. Don't worry on that score. But, as you've surely surmised, we will start another phase of your instruction today. There is more to being a warrior than physical fitness.”

“Yes!” Galahad cried. “Finally! Weapons!”

“Ha, ha,” laughed the South Wind. “I love your spirit, Galahad, but no, we will not be learning the art of combat today. That will be for your second teacher. No, we have much work to do before you are ready to be wielding weapons.”

“Then...” Galahad started. “Then, what are we learning today?”

“Come and walk with me, Galahad, and you'll learn that answer and more,” said Lord South. “And tell Lady Nimay we will be back for today's second meal.”

Galahad stood still, his body and mind frozen to inaction by his confusion. This was not what he expected to happen today.

“Now, Galahad!” barked Lord South, shocking the boy out of his reverie. As Galahad ran to tell his mother of the new plan, the South Wind muttered to himself, “This one has a long way to go...”

Galahad quickly returned, having not only advised Lady Nimay of their plans, but put on clothes more in line with Lord South's own. “Excellent adaptation, Galahad. Very good choice of clothing. Come, we walk.”

They walked in silence at first. Just strolling through the city of Lyonesse with no apparent agenda. The walked along the smooth streets, with small stones packed so closely they were more like a riverbed than a road. They drank from a few of the many fountains, saw the grand bazaar finish its morning preparations and lingered awhile to see the patrons begin to come in. At first, Galahad was tense, ready for a surprise by the South Wind and refusing to be lulled by the ease of their pace and surroundings. But after they had walked a while and no attack or orders came, he began to relax and let his eyes drift across the city, his mind appreciating the otherworldly beauty of the fairy city.

And it was otherworldly, though in a subtle way. For despite their alien appearance, they fairy peoples were mostly shaped the same has humans – two legs, two arms, one head – though they did vary quite wildly in size and color. But it was the change in size that caused the buildings to take on an alien appearance. Their proportions were off, some doors too large, some too small, and these changes tugged at the human mind, triggering his imagination to to try and fill the gaps of his experience to make sense of the odd proportions. Galahad thought, then, how odd it must be for the South Wind to be in this place. For Galahad had been in this city for over three years, where his teacher had only been here a few months. He wondered what the man thought of the city. He also wondered what he was supposed to be learning.

But he had learned long ago that the South Wind had a plan and it would be revealed in a time of his choosing, not before. And, so, they continued to walk throughout the city.

As shops began to open, the South Wind would steer his way into ones that caught his fancy. Though the shop owners would attend him, he paid them no mind, seemingly intent on looking at some object or another. Then he would leave and walk out, no word or warning. Galahad at first thought it strange, then he just found it boring. If Lord South wanted to shop, Galahad thought, he should have brought Nimay and left me at home to sleep.

As the mid day meal grew closer, Galahad could tell they were moving slowly back to his home. As they continued to walk, he was deeply confused by the strangeness of his teacher's behavior. He was supposed to be trained to be a warrior, but all they had done that morning was walk and shop. In silence, no less.

Finally, they returned to the house of Lady Nimay. As was her usual, she met them at the front door. “And both of you in one piece,” she said, “I must say that I am surprised. Even for a human, you are very unpredictable, Lord South.”

“I take that as a compliment, Lady Nimay,” said Lord South. “Is that glorious meal I smell for us?”

“Indeed,” said Nimay. “I made sure there was plenty. Given your usual exploits, I imagined you two to be returning in far worse condition. I may have prepared too much.”

“Nonsense,” replied Lord South. “Walking and shopping makes me hungry. What about you, Galahad? I'm sure a growing lad like you is always hungry.”

It was at that exact time that Galahad's stomach, that had gone empty the entire day, voiced its own concerns about hunger. Nimay gave her ward a small smile as she motioned the two inside. “Sounds like we'd best hurry, Galahad may fall over from his hunger.”

“Nimay...” said Galahad, voicing his embarrassment.

They sat down at Nimay's grand table, now covered with dishes and platters of a wide variety of foods. Several kinds of fairy cakes, meats, vegetables, fruits and breads. It was a feast, much more than Galahad and Nimay usually had at meals. Nimay served Lord South, but left Galahad to his own devices. Galahd and Lord South had a pile of food on each of their plates, while Nimay maintained her usual small portion.

The South Wind, using his knife to peel an orange, turned to Galahad. “How much did the shopkeeper quote me for the green Griffin feather?”

“I... I don't know, Lord South.” Galahad answered.

“Hmmm,” noted the South Wind. “Not a good sign to miss the first question, young one. How many sprites were dancing on the water's surface at the fist fountain we stopped to drink?”

“Two...?” squirmed Galahad.

“Five,” returned Lord South. “And should I even bother to ask about the number of guards at the Bazaar or the color of the flags atop the gate of the Queen's Palace?”

“No, Lord South,” mumbled an embarrassed Galahad.

“Will you care to explain why you do not know these things?” asked Lord South.

“Well, I...” started Galahad. “I didn't know it was a memory test!”

“It wasn't a memory test, Galahad.” said the South Wind. “It was an assessment of your level of observation, which, unfortunately, was not very high.”

“But it's easy for you,” protested Galahad, “ you knew it was a test the whole time! I just thought we were going out for a walk!”

“That's enough of that,” said the South Wind, letting the timbre of authority resonate slightly in his voice. “We have rebuilt you physically to prepare you for the stresses of battle. But now we must work on the mind that drives the engine of your body. The first step in this development is to foster the ability to obtain a full awareness of your situation.”

Taking a bite out of a section of orange, Lord South turned to Nimay. “While Galahad is in my charge, we will be continuously working on his ability to observe his surroundings and remember the information he gathers. But that won't be enough. I will need you to test him here as well. In addition,” he said, as he turned to face Galahad, “we must also continue your physical training.”

“Two tests?” asked Galahad.

A small chuckle escaped the South Wind. “Galahad, every day from now on, for the rest of your life, will be a long series of tests. I doubt if you will pass them all, but as a warrior, and as my student, you must strive to pass as many as possible. For men such as we, mistakes are costly. We must strive each day to make as few as possible.”

Galahad was struggling to keep his body above the ground, his arms arms shoulder so weak they were trembling, hos lower back was burning, sweat dripped from his nose. Never had he been pushed to such a level of exhaustion. The day before was nothing compared to the exertions of today.

“Up and Down, up and down, Galahad! You must make your body go up and down! Now, down!” boomed the South Wind.

Galahad struggled to lower his body, but his strength failed him half way and he crashed to the ground. “Now, up!” ordered Lord South.

“I...I...” struggled Galahad.

“You can't?” said the old man, kneeling down close so he could get his face directly next to his student's. “Well, if you can't then I guess it's ok, then!” the sarcasm dripping from his words. “I suppose we should tell the enemy we've had enough, then. I'm sure they'll see how tired we are and give us a break, eh? I hear most enemies are charitable fellows, always willing to give their opponents a breather when they need it. Is that what enemies do, Galahad?”

“No...no...Lord South...” Galahad stammered.

“Are you sure?” taunted the teacher. “You don't sound sure. Were the people who killed your parents charitable men?”

“No!” Galahad cried, anger flooding into his body.

“That's better!” affirmed the South Wind, “Now, give me five more!”

And, Galahad, spurred by his rage, pushed again, lifting is body up off of the ground. His strength failed again as he lowered back down, but he foung enough to push upwards again. Finally, his arms shaking, his back quivering, he raised himself up for the fifth and final time.

“Excellent, boy!” said Lord South. “You're starting to find the strength inside of you. That is good, you're going to need all of that and more to survive what's coming.”

“You shouldn't have said that.” gasped Galahad, after wedging his arms underneath his chest to wedge his body up. “You shouldn't talk like that about my parents.”

“Don't like that, do you?” his teacher asked.

“No.” answered Galahad. “It's not right.”

“Right or not, it's true,” said the old man as he handed Galahad some water. “And the truth is never something to shy away from or deny.”

Lord South sat down across from Galahad, the better to look at him face to face. “The truth is your parents were murdered, their kingdom stolen and their bodies burned. They would have burned you, too, if the fey had not needed a vessel for their affairs. Was this fair?” he asked. “No, it was not. It was not fair – but it happened. Is it a pleasant memory? No, it isn't.”

The old man picked up a blade of grass and placed it between his teeth. “But it is a memory, and it serves as a reminder to us of the reasons why we struggle. You are being made strong to avenge your parents, young Galahad of Ban. I have asked this of the Lady Queen, and I was assured that when you became a man, you would find the man who murdered your family on the opposite end of the field. To beat him, you must be hard and strong. On the battlefield, nothing else will do. There is a place for poets and a time for culture and compassion – but the battlefield is not that place or time.”

“Come now, boy,” he said getting to his feet. “We have much more to do today, and tomorrow we will do more still. To survive training, you must harness the power of your spirit and find that reserve of strength inside. On the battlefield, eventually, your body will weaken and your mind will wander. Wounds and fatigue will take their toll – but the spirit must stay strong. It is the fighting spirit that keeps you alive and moving, the warrior within that allows your arms to continue to fight when death is upon you. Harness your spirit and you will be unbeatable.”

Seeing that his student was almost to his feet, the South Wind turned and began to run across the grassy field back towards Lyonesse. “Some on, buy, home won't come to you!” he called over his shoulder.

Galahad straightened, moved one foot in front of the other, and slowly trudged after his master.

When they arrived at Nimay's home, she was again waiting for them at her door. Though this time she wore a scowl on her face instead of a smile.

“Your charge, Lady Nimay,” said Lord South. “He did well today. I will be back for him in the morning.”

“No,” said Nimay.

“What?” asked Lord South.

“You are taking him out beyond the wall,” said Nimay. “This is not allowed. The Open Country is not safe. I will not allow him to go with you until you choose a new location for your... lessons.”

“That was not the agreement,” said the South Wind. “I am to train the boy as I see fit. Train him for war, I might add. Your Queen wants to transform this lad into the greatest warrior of his age. I'm afraid danger is a part of his destiny, he may as well become comfortable with it now.”

“There must be a better place,” said Nimay. “There are things in the Open County that are too much for any mortal man, even one such as yourself.”

“There is nothing out there that can't be faced,” challenged the old man. “I have faced down a God King with a million faceless soldiers behind him. I am a match for any beast this realm has to offer. The boy is under my care, he will survive until the end of his training.”

“And I am his mother,” countered Nimay, “I will say where he will go and where he will stay.”

Galahad could only stand between them in silence. He had never seen Nimay act this way on his behalf. He felt both warmed and embarrassed by it. He felt trapped by these two adults, boxed in by his destiny, and swept away by events and forces beyond his control. He longed to hold on to Nimay, be comforted by her as one would seek shelter from a storm. But his other half knew that he was not of this place, that he had been brought here for a reason, whatever it might be. And while Nimay may know what that reason was, it was the Lord South who had actually voiced it.

“I think,” Galahad started, but he was quickly cut off by a withering glare from Nimay as well as a slight wave from the South Wind.

“I will not counter the wishes of a boy's mother,” answered the South Wind. “But I know that if we halt this now, we will not be able to start it again. Many things about this boy's training will not sit well with you. He will be pushed, tested, and injured. As he grows older, his training will be rougher. I am to prepare him for that. If you are balked this early, the later stages will be impossible.”

“Then the Queen can pick another,” said Nimay.

“We both know that will not happen, Lady Nimay.” said the old warrior, quietly.

“He's just a boy,” she said. “He's already lost everything, let him stay here in Lyonesse. Let our eternal sunlight heal his spirit. The Queen can pick another boy. He is not the first, he certainly won't be the last. He's a child, a damaged little boy. Leave him with me in my care, warrior. Surely there are other boys that can fulfill this destiny?”

“And what will you say to that boy?” asked the Warrior. “Will you tell him he was swept out of his life to fulfill another man's fate, to live another man's life? No, Nimay, the boy's fate is his own. We must do our best to prepare him for it.”

“What assurance do I have from you, warrior? What will you give me to prove that my son will be returned to me safely?”

“None, Lady Nimay,” said the South Wind. “There is nothing I can give for that. He will not return to you safely each day. All I can promise is that he will return.”

Nimay stood in silence as she looked down at the old man, just as he looked back to her. Galahad, still between them, could only shift his head from left to right, trying to understand what each of these forces in his life were doing. Was he going to continue to train with the South Wind? Would he get the chance to avenge his family? Would he still live with Nimay, his mother these last three years?

“Very well,” whispered Nimay. “Very well... Is it too much,” she continued, “ to ask for my child to have a better life? To live in safety and plenty?”

“No,” agreed the South Wind, “it is not too much. But I must ask you, Lady Nimay, is the life you describe meant for a human to live? Unlike you fey, we were not made to live in leisure. We were made for conflict. Always has it been so for us. The life you describe, while easy, is not a man's life. He would grow restless. We must continue to face challenge, always proving ourselves, testing ourselves. For us, that is living.”

“Is it?” asked Nimay. “I had hoped with all of this, the outcome would be to show you a better way of living.”

“Better is open to interpretation,” said the man.

“Is it?” repeated Nimay.

“Come on, my Galahad,” said Nimay, gesturing for him to come inside. “Let us get you bathed and fed. You'll need your rest when you leave with Lord South in the morning.”

When Galahad came closer, Nimay put her arms protectively around his shoulders as she looked to Lord South. “I am putting my faith in you, Lord South,” said Nimay. “You must bring him back to me.”

“I will, Lady Nimay,” said the old man. “I promise you that he will return each day and that I will keep him as safe as I am able.”

“Then he will be ready for you after first meal,” said Nimay.

“Until then,” said Lord South, as he walked to his quarters.

Galahad struggled to open his eyes, his sleep last night had been restless and full of nightmares. When he did, his vision was filled with the man from the throne room, his new teacher. His face was so close, Galahad could see very hair in his bushy, black beard and smell the wine from the previous night's drinking. By instinct, he recoiled, and in that instant the man reached up and grabbed him b the head, forcing him to stay close.

“Time to begin your training, little one. Dress quickly and be quiet, the rest of your hold is still asleep.”

Galahad was frozen, who was this man to come to him so. As if expecting his hesitation, the man tugged harder on Galahad's head. “Now, boy!” he said in a shockingly commanding whisper. Galahad was a out of bed before he could realize, grabbing at the clothes the man handed him. “Better,” the man said. “Tomorrow will be much faster.”

The man now stood at the entrance of Galahad's room. “Come boy, you have much to learn today,” he said as he moved out into the hallway, beckoning Galahad to follow.

The man led him out into the main thoroughfare in the front of the home Galahad shared with Nimay. It occurred to Galahad that he had no idea where the man was staying. Did he have a house of his own? Was he somewhere tucked away in Nimay's house as well? He took a moment to try and figure that out when he was sharply rapped on the top of the head by his new teacher.

“Focus, boy!” he said, no longer whispering. “You must always focus on this instant, and no other. The events of the world happen in the here and now, not the past or future.”

As Galahad rubbed his head, he wondered just what kind of teacher this man was. In his quick moment of reverie, he was tapped again on the top of the head.

“Boy, if I teach you anything it will be this lesson!” the new teacher urged, having gotten down on his knee to look Galahad square in the eyes. “I am to train you for battle, not philosophy. To let your mind wander is to die, and worse, to let your men die as well. Always focus on where you are and what you are doing. This is essential!”

“But,” retorted Galahad, “if I'm always in the present, when do I take time to think?”

“Learn to do both at the same time, boy,” replied the man as he started walking toward the edge of the city. “Come, we have a long day ahead.”

When Galahad caught up to the man, his teacher started to jog toward the edge of the city. The pace was slow and constant. Galahad got the impression his teacher could have gone much faster, but was maintaining a slower pace for the benefit of his young student. The jogged in silence under the eternal sunshine of Lyonesse. Soon they were past the last structure and almost to the wall surrounding the fairy city. Galahad had never been past the wall, and even his rebellion drew the city limit as a boundary. Nimay had warned him about the free country where many creatures roamed, few of them friendly. If his teacher was worried about crossing the boundary, he did not show it, as he simply moved on at his constant pace. Galahad's reservations caused him to slow almost to a walk as he approached the Gate, but then quickened his pace when he saw his teacher was leaving him behind.

Galahad could not say how long they ran, but it was for a long time. They were far outside the shining city, so much so that Galahad could barely see the spires, much less the wall. Finally, at a large stretch of clear field, the bearded man called a halt.

“Catch your breath, boy,” he said gruffly.

“Who are you?” Galahad asked. “I mean, what is your name, sir?”

“My name?” the bearded man repeated. “Excellent question. I am the man torn out of his proper time and place to prepare you for a life of combat.”

“Combat?”

“Yes, boy. Battle in all of its violence and glory. I was, and perhaps still am, the most powerful war leader of my time. I have spent my entire life fighting. When I was a boy of your age, I had a spear in my hand, a shield on my back, and bloodied knuckles. And of all people, of all history, your lady chose me to come here, to this place, and teach you what I know.”

“Who am I? I am the mighty South Wind, brought here to this hollow place to forge your body for the perils ahead and prepare your mind and spirit for the task you will be called upon.”

“Your name is the South Wind...?” Galahad asked again.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the big man. “Why not? South Wind it is, boy. You may call me Lord South, if you wish.”

“Yes, sir, Lord South,” said the boy, getting his mind and tongue familiar with the name.

“Excellent!” roared Lord South. “Now, for today's exercises.”

Galahad, a tall and strong boy for his age, had never had his body worked so hard. Lord South was patient when explaining each exercise, but firm in his expectations. Each exercise would be done perfectly before he allowed his student to learn the next one. One such routine, comprised of ten smaller component movements, was repeated 28 times until Lord South was satisfied.

“I have no where else to go, boy” called Lord South. “If we have to do each exercise one hundred times, it is your choice to do so. I am patient – I assure you, I will outlast your inability to properly follow instruction.”

Each exercise was to be done perfectly ten times in a row, one mistake reset the count. Once ten perfect repetitions were attained, Lord South showed the boy another one. Soon, Galahad's legs, back, shoulders, and arms were sore with exertion. But still his instructor pushed on. At mid-day, Lord South reached inside the small bag he had brought, and produced to of the small, simple cakes the fairie seemed to eat in abundance. When they had consumed their small meal, the exercises began anew, this time they were combinations of running and jumping, but following the same process. Ten perfect repetitions, then he taught the next exercise.

“How many more?” asked Galahad shortly after their lunch.

“I am not yet tired, boy,” said Lord South, “so I imagine we have many more to go until weariness claims me.”

The first day was long, so much so that Galahad could have sworn that the eternal sunlight had begun to dip into sunset as they entered the city. Lord South took Galahad all the way back to the doorstep of Nimay's home, where she was standing there waiting for him.

“He did well, today,” Lord South told Nimay. “I will return for him again in the morning. For while today was a good start, we have much more to do.”

“I understand,” Nimay said, her arms now around the shoulders of her adopted son, “he will be ready.”

“See that he eats and rests. His body needs to recover and prepare itself,” he said as he turned away. “Tomorrow will be more difficult than today.”

Galahad let Nimay lead him inside the house. She had a bath prepared for him and fresh clothes laid out. “Wash and dress, Galahad, you smell unpleasant. When you are ready, come to the dining hall, I have food prepared for you.”

“Yes, Nimay” he said, nearly limping to the baths.

He sat and soaked in the hot bath for much longer than usual. The hot water felt soothing to his tired muscles, and he found himself trying to sink deeper to ensure his shoulders received the benefit. After nearly falling asleep and slipping beneath the water, he decided that it was time to get out and meet Nimay for the late meal.

They ate in silence, neither used to conversation. In his three years living here, Galahad and Nimay had shared very few civil conversations. There had been so much spite between them, Galahad didn't even know where to begin. He had apologized when they returned from the Court yesterday, and had washed her feet as he'd been told. She stroked his long hair and held him afterward. He realized that even these fairie folk, with their strange ways, were not so different than men. But even still, at this table, the silence remained. Galahad realized that he had gone so long without conversation that he didn't know how to begin one.

Luckily, Nimay had plenty of questions.

“What did that mean teach you, my Galahad?”

“He taught me these movements, he said they would make me strong and that we had to practice how to do them properly,” the boy replied.

“And are you stronger, then?” she asked.

“I don't know,” said Galahad after some thought. “I feel very weak, actually, but Lord South sounded very sure it would work. Maybe it just needs some time. I'm sure I'll be stronger tomorrow.”

“Yes,” mused Nimay, “tomorrow. And where did he take you to learn these movements?”

“Way outside the Wall,” said Galahad.

“What!?” cried Nimay.

And what better world than Lyonesse? With it’s eternal sunshine, beautiful fields, and colorful inhabitants. This was paradise, and she hoped that she could instill some of it in this young man-child so that when he returned to his own lands he could be a force for beauty in that horrid, cold, savage world of the low-men.

Yes, that would have been a grand and wonderful thing, she thought as she wandered the halls, yet again, picking up after the horrid little animal. Instead of being admired for her nobility for bringing beauty and culture to humanity, she was being pitied across the world of fairy for her many sacrifices in caring for the brute.

Galahad of Ban had quickly become the scourge of Lyonesse.

She would never, in her extremely long life, have imagined that one small human, only a few years old, would be capable of such wanton destruction and malice. Within a month of the boy’s arrival, she had begged the Queen to let another care for the boy. By the end of the first year, they had entered into a limited detente: the boy wouldn't destroy anything of value and Nimay would continue to feed him.

Despite being surrounded by boundless beauty, the boy looked only for opportunities for destruction and ruin. Flowerbeds were converted into mud pits, with the follow on insult of muddy footprints on her shiny glass floors. Colored paints used not to paint sunsets, but to smear his brutish scrawl across her walls. Oh, he would take his punishment and clean his markings, but, it seemed to Nimay, that only provided him some quiet time to plan his next stunt.

But, through it all Nimay bore her burden and earned her honors. She was the talk of Lyonesse, and had soon become legendary for her patience and kindness. Underneath the calm exterior, however, lived a women of the fae who had had quite enough of humanity. If they were all like this,she concluded, then they weren't worth saving. Let them destroy themselves and rot in their unending barbarism.

When the little terror was seven years of age, Nimay was summoned to meet with the Queen. She was instructed to bring the brat with her.

It will never be said that cleaning a six year old terror of a human is ever easy, and doing so taxed Nimay to her limits. Eventually, she was able to corral the boy, get him in a tub, scrubbed down, and turned out into clothes fit for an audience with the Queen. Oddly, once he learned it was the Queen who would be receiving him, Galahad had quieted, his further protests more out of habit than intent. Nimay mistakenly thought it was reverence for the Queen that had calmed the beast. She had rescued him, protected him, and provided for him had she not?

But the truth was just the opposite. For Galahad had been on a three year rampage for the exact reason of being brought back to see the Queen. He was surprised it had taken three years, but then took into consideration that the faire, being immortal, would judge time differently. It had been an effort to find new ways to cause trouble each day for so long. He felt sorry for Nimay, she had always been kind and patient with him, but he needed to get back at the Queen for his parents. He had not listened to Nimay, he had, in fact, done everything in the opposite – but it had not brought the Queen's wrath. She had said, when he had met her, that she would check on him. But she had not. And every day she failed to live up to that promise was another day of protest.

Finally, she had called for him. Finally, after three years, his time to confront her for her wickedness had come. He let Nimay bathe and dress him as he gathered his thoughts on how to make the pale, wicked Queen pay for taking his family away.

At six years old, Galahd was a very fair child, with long, straight black hair, a tall frame, and broad shoulders. He was a good looking boy as well, by human standards, with a strong jaw, firm mouth, and bright eyes. Despite this, his face was usually covered with a scowl and his bright eyes were hidden by a heavy lidded squint. His hair was usually slicked back, his face covered in dirt. As he roamed the streets of Lyonesse in his tattered clothes and muddy boots, he was often described as having an evil look and a wicked cackle of a laugh.

And so, when he strode down the center of the great hall, perfectly washed, wearing stylish clothes and boasting a smiling face, the members of the court barely recognized him. They regarded Nimay in a new light, imagining that she had finally tamed the human beast. In truth, she was a shocked as they, and hoped that Galahad's good behavior would last just a few moments longer.

Nimay and her young charge stood before the dais, knelt to the Queen, and stood again for her inspection. As before, Galahad looked the Queen squarely in the eyes, though this time he was filled with fire instead of fearful uncertainty.

“I understand you have now reached you sixth year, young Galahad of Ban. Is this true?” asked the Queen, resplendent in an a gown of green griffin scales and purple feathers.

“Aye, milady,” replied the boy, his sullen tone evident to all.

“And have you been listening to Nimay, young one?” she continued, ignoring the child's insolence.

“No, milady,” said the boy, fiercely meeting her bright purple eyes. “I most certainly have not.”

The court hissed with surprise. The Queen's supporters appalled at the wretched human's words, her detractors giving a demure smile at the public insult. Nimay was appalled, and could only stand there, a prisoner of protocol and embarrassment. The Queen, however, gave no response to the boy's outburst. The court quickly quieted to hear her response.

“I see,” said the Queen, her purple eyes beginning to turn from the purple of flowers to the dark swirls of a winter storm. “When you last stood before me, you promised to listen to her and do as she said. Am I to believe that you did not keep your word to me?”

“Yes,” said the boy, now almost quivering with the broil of emotions his little body was struggling to contain. His anger was like a wave smashing itself on the hard rock that was the Queen. “I have refused to do anything Nimay has said – and I will continue to defy her, and you!” blurted out the boy, tears now flowing down his face.

“And what have we done to deserve this treatment, little manchild? Have we not fed and clothed you? Brought you to a land of eternal sunshine and warmth? Provided you with a beautiful home, surrounded by all of the beauty nature has to offer?” replied the Queen. “So tell me, little mud boy, why have you so vexed and defied Nimay, who has sought only to enlighten you and ease your young heart?”

“I am cruel to Nimay because I can't be cruel to you,” stammered the boy, his eyes and nose running.

“To me?” asked the Queen. “And what have I done to deserve such hatred?”

“You took away my family, you evil creature!” cried the boy, his emotions finally breaking down what remained of the child's restraint. “You didn't save them!” he screamed. “Why didn't you save them!?” that last escaping his lips like the cry of a wounded animal. Sinking to the floor now, wracked with sobs, he could only whisper “How could you save me and let them die?”

The court was in silence. Never had they seen the like. Nimay looked down on the child, seeing him now anew, the acts of the last three years no longer the brutality of an animal, but the desperate sadness of a wounded child. She knelt down to him, her hand gentle on the crying boy;s shoulders. Feeling the boy's anguish, Nimay turned her eyes towards the dais, hoping for mercy. The Queen looked down at the pair, her eyes as cold as winter.

“Stand up, boy.” she said.

Nimay helped Galahad to his feet, standing next to him with her arm across his shoulders as they faced the Queen. The boy was still nearly doubled over with emotion, his eyes read with tears and his lungs raw from the wracking sobs. He had to lean on Nimay, as her strength was the only thing preventing him from collapsing again.

The court was still ans silent, from the smallest Flower Sprite to the great Sharra, enraptured by the spectacle made in the Great Hall. Even in their eternal lifespans, they had never seen such a proceeding as what was happening that day.

“No power above or below the Earth could have prevented the deaths of your family. From the time the thread of your life was cut, you were destined to feel this pain. Destiny's purpose for you demands sacrifice and determination, and such things are not forged by happiness and plenty. It is only through the fire of pain and loss that the spirit is hardened. If you have had the strength to defy me every day for three years, then perhaps you have the stamina to withstand the path Fate has made for you.”

The Court looked on, enraptured, as Galahad tried to stand on his own feet and meet the Queen's gaze.

“Even now you struggle, and that is good,” continued the Queen. “Perhaps you are indeed ready to begin.”

“Today I bring you the first of your four teachers,” she said, motioning to a man at the side of the dais. “He will be the forge that prepares you for your life's purpose. Follow his teachings, youngling, for he will make you strong. Strong enough, we hope, to survive the path you have been chosen to travel.”

Galahad broke away from the Queen's face to turn his eyes onto his new teacher. He was tall and powerful, with black, short cropped hair and a bushy beard. His face was tanned from the sun, and scarred and cut from battle, some of the wounds still fresh and red. He wore light, flowing white cloth, wrapped around him and draped from his shoulders, sandals on his feet. His physical presence exuded power, and when he spoke it was with the boom of thunder.

“Boy, do I understand you have been defiant of your mother?”

“My mother is dead,” said Galahad, trying to summon his small strength into his voice.”

“Does this woman not care for you? Provide for you? Feed and clothe you? Does she not comfort you now in your weakness?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, his voice beginning again to falter.

“And she has done so for these three years – half of your young life?”

“Yes,” whispered the boy.

“Then I declare her your mother, if not in blood than in spirit. As I am the only human king in this room, you will accept my judgment in this,” he said, as he walked across the dais to stand before the young boy and his guardian. “I will not tolerate a student who disrespects his mother, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, cowed by the powerful presence of the bearded man.

“Then tonight you will clean her home. You will wash her feet, and you will thank her for caring for you these last three years. And each day forth you will show her the love and honor that she has shown you. This is proper for a human boy, and this is my judgement.”

Galahad looked up at Nimay, the woman who had cared for him depsite all of his villainy, and he knew that he had done wrong. “I will, sir.”

“Very well,” said the man as he spun away to stand beside the Queen. “I will teach this one, Lady,” he said as he focused again on the boy standing below. “Tomorrow, his training will begin.”

That he had his sword gave me pause. I had not seen him with it since his bout with the three younglings and it was a bit of a surprise to see him so. While I never lost track of the Man-at-Arms as a fighting man, it was odd to be so bluntly reminded of the fact after seeing him for so long in his simple dress. The difference his wearing travel guard from his training clothes made in his appearance was staggering. True, there was no mistaking that he was a physically impressive man, but the simple addition of a leather jerkin, boots and that sword transformed him from just a large man to a hardened warrior.

And it wasn't just in his dress, it was in everything he did. Even how he held the reigns of the two horses told the observer that this was an experienced traveler. Speaking of the horses, one was a simple horse from the stables, an average chestnut horse of about 16 hands, which I presume was meant for me. The other was a massive gray Percheron, easily 19 hands, that was every bit as impressive as the Man-at-Arms. I had seen many war horses in my life up to that point, and the one chosen by the man-at-Arms was a very impressive beast. The knight certainly knew his horses. While my modest mount had simply a saddle and bridle, the knight's carried a bow, quiver, saddle bags, a small shield, a mace, and a rolled blanket. All perfectly strapped and packed. I don't know if the man-at-Arms at arms was expecting trouble on this journey, but he was certainly prepared for it.

“Are we taking a long journey, sir knight?” I asked.

“No, sire,” he replied. “Not long, but one never knows the troubles that may arise.”

Handing me the reigns to my intended mount, he asked “Are you ready, my prince?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, smiling. “I've been waiting for this moment for weeks!”

He smiled, and turned to mount his giant war horse. “Very well, then. Let's be off, much to do today and time waits for no man, neither peasant nor prince.”

“Indeed,” I agreed, swinging myself onto my own mount. The knight turned his horse towards the bailey and I followed behind. Much as on our morning runs, we didn't talk. He led and I followed, and we stayed that way for a while. A mile or so outside of the gate, my impatience for his story got the better of me.

“So, did the South Wind teach you to fight?”

“No,” he replied. “The South Wind prepared me to learn to fight. Like you, I thought I could simply pick up a weapon and begin. He showed me the error of my ways.”

“How?”

“Oh, in a much more direct way than I showed you. The South Wind was a powerful man, direct in his action and strong in his purpose. He was a leader among his own people, you could feel the command in his very presence. He and his training taught me much about myself, unlocking my mind and body to their full potential.”

“How did he do that?”

“Well,” he said with a smile as he turned to look over at me, “That's what today's tale is all about, young prince. Be patient, you'll get your reward as promised. After we stop and make camp, I will tell you that part of my story.”

We traveled for another league, until finally we left the farms behind and came to the edge of the forest. The knight entered the woods along a small trail and I followed him in. Shortly the trail widened into a cleared grotto, invisible from the road.

“Here,” said the knight. You tie the horses and I'll make camp. I've got feed for them in my saddle bags.”

As I tied their reigns to a couple of small trees, and positioned their bags of oats, the knight readied an area, spread out his blanket, and removed from his saddlebags some bread, meat and cheese for us. Seeing me eying the food, he added “You'll need to be thanking Adele in the kitchens for today's meal. I understand she may have even packed some special cakes for the occasion.” The very mention of cakes made me remember that I had eaten only a very light breakfast. The knight smiled as my rumbling stomach betrayed my lack of preparation.

Once the horses were seen to and our small camp completed, did he knight relax and sit upon a log he had pulled up to the edge of the blanket. I was eager with anticipation and prayed that the knight's tale lived up to all of this preparation. As the first of his four secrets, I hoped it was a good one, else I would have a very hard time mustering the determination to see this task of learning his other three secrets through to the end.

Once we were both comfortable and I had taken a little food and water to calm my stomach, he began his tale.

“When I was very young, barely more than a babe, my father and mother were killed by traitorous vassals who coveted his keep and lands. They were killed by these raiders, and I surely would have been as well, but I was rescued by those who had learned of the ursurper's plans but were unable to stop him. They gathered me up and spirited me away to their Lady, a Queen who had a very special purpose in mind for me...”

The South Wind

After the harrowing events of the previous nights, the throne room was a magnificent and inspiring sight to the toddler. He walked slowly while holding the nurse’s hand, trying to take in as much as his little mind could hold. The clustered people in their otherworldly finery and their strange skin and hair – it was certainly different from his Pa’s hold. So many bright colors, odd sounds, and such strange creatures! Like nothing he had ever seen. He tried to stop once and get a closer look at the peculiar blue sprite perched on the brown skinned man’s orange jacket – the sprite’s wings were a strange, sparkly translucence and he wanted to get a better look -- but the nurse gave him a gentle but insistent tug and he decided he could just come back later. Today promised to be full of wonders even better than the sparkly sprite. This was, after all, his first day in a real faerie city.

And today he was to meet the Queen.

The Lady of the Lake, also known as the Queen of Lyonness, sat on her throne in her fine white gown of irridescent scales and feathers and watched as the little human walked slowly down the carpet towards her. Such a funny little thing, she thought, so small and so perfect. The perfect little man-child. Will he be the one, she wondered?

She smiled as she saw him stop to look at the Sharan’s sprite and nearly laughed as she saw the look on his face when the nurse finally tugged him along. He’s a fighter, that’s for sure, she thought, but will this young prince of Ban be fighter enough for the role fate has planned for him?

Finally the boy reached the foot of the dais and stood silently next to the nurse as she kneeled. Unsure of himself, he looked over at the nurse, out and around the room at all the strange faces, back at the nurse and then finally at the queen on her throne. He had never seen a real Queen before, except his mother, and he suddenly didn’t know what he should do. She was very beautiful, he had never seen a woman like her. He instantly took in her tawny skin and raven hair, the pointed ears and the brilliant white dress. She even had purple eyes, something the boy had certainly never seen before. As he stood there thinking what he ought to do, he remembered something his Pa had told him: When you meet someone for the first time, always look them in the eye and introduce yourself. And so he looked the queen straight in the eye, and as his young brown eyes met her ageless purple ones he felt a shiver run through his body, then he squared his shoulders and straightened his back and introduced himself.

“Good Morning, your Highness, my name is Galahad of Ban.”

The Queen smiled a wide, beautiful smile, as she looked down upon the little man-child before her. “Such a polite young man you are, Galahad of Ban. Welcome to Lyonness, the fair city. I understand you have had a very difficult few days.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“And I believe a place has been found for you, yes? And Nimay is taking care of you?”

“Yes, your Highness. I’ve been given a new room and these fine clothes,” said the young boy, quickly adding in a “Thank You” as his manners suddenly rushed back to his young mind, temporarily pushing aside the wondrous visions of the throne room.

“Good. I want you to understand that you are our special guest, and that you are very important to me. If you need anything, Nimay will get it for you and I will send for you from time to time to see how you are progressing.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

And at this, the Queen leaned slightly forward, a stern expression on her ageless face. “However, I feel that I must inform you that Nimay is not your servant. She will be responsible for you and your welfare – she is not beholden to you. You will listen to her and do as she says. When you are old enough I will have a new teacher assigned to you. Do we understand each other young Galahad of Ban?”

Galahad, recoiling slightly from the intensity of the Queen’s gaze, could only murmur “Yes, your Highness.”

Satisfied, the queen smiled and resumed her earlier posture, becoming once again the beautiful lady in white, and replied, “Very good. We have an understanding. Now, as you can see I am very, very busy running Lyonness, so Nimay will take you back to your new home. Before you go, young Galahad, I would like to know if you have any questions about your new life here. I realize that you have had very few explanations as to why you are here. Now is your time to ask.”

Surprised, Galahad at first didn’t know what to ask. After a few agonizing moments of silence he finally summoned to courage to ask the one question that no one has answered. “Please, ma’am, when will my Ma and Pa get here?”

The queen’s smile flashed to a scowl and back faster than you could blink. So quickly that Galahad almost convinced himself that he hadn’t seen it and he was afraid that this faerie queen would do something terrible to him, something most surely to do with frogs. But the smile was back, though her eyes didn’t look quite the same. The bright purple of mountain flowers was now the purple of thunderclouds in summer. “Little man, I thought it was made plain to you by now. Your parents are dead in a fire and so they will not be joining you. Do you have any other questions?”

Galahad was frozen with shock. Dead? But how could that be? Ma and Pa dead? And suddenly he felt very, very alone and very, very frightened. His mind seemed like it was spinning and the noise and brilliance of the throne room and its wondrous inhabitants only added to his confusion, magnifying his feeling of instability. He didn’t know if he was spinning or falling or flying. All of a sudden the queen in front of him was getting smaller and darker and the room was closing in on him.

He heard someone talking to him, maybe the Queen moved, he wasn’t sure. Then he felt something tugging on his hand and he was walking, following the pressure on his palm as it guided him back down the aisle towards the entrance of the room. More people talked to him outside of the throne room and he saw faces and colors and strange animals. Then more tugging and more color and scenery and plants. He was moving, he felt the strange faerie sunlight and felt cool grass under his feet. And then, before he knew it, he was back in his room and on his bed and the world went dark.

Galahad woke up to find himself in his new bed, undressed, and underneath thin, warm blankets. The shades had been drawn and his room was dark. Was it night? Did night come to the land of faerie? He wasn’t sure. He looked around his room, the light just dim enough that he could make out the shapes of exotic furniture and strange sculptures. And there, sitting alone in the dark, the enormity of what had happened today rushed back at him: Ma and Pa are dead and he is trapped in the Land of Faerie. Not knowing what else to do, he sat up in his soft bed, with his knees pulled close, and wept. He cried for his parents, his friends, his dog, his room, and his life. His sorrow, his fear, and his loss poured out of his little body in a wild torrent of sobs and tears. When he thought he was all cried out, the thought of his mother coming in to soothe him, or his father’s gentle hands tousling his hair caused the tears to resume their flow as the grief poured out of him anew.

After some time, long or short he couldn’t tell in the darkness, he finally had cried himself out. His cheeks were slick, his throat raw, and his nose wet. His heart was hard and broken, and his body felt a chill that the blankets couldn’t warm. His young soul had finally had enough of grief, but with no family or friends or humanity near him he didn’t know what to use to fill the void. The realization that he had lost everything – his family, his friends, his home was crashing down around his young mind, and he had nothing to fill the vacuum. He had heard the Queen – whatever her beauty, she was not a human being, not like him or anyone he had known before, she had no kindness and she would not help him.

He hated her.

Yes, he hated her! And that hate burned like fire, crashing through the walls of his grief and empowering his young spirit. How could she! Why couldn’t she have left him there to die with his family? Why did she have to take him away to this crazy place where the sun has disappeared but its light remains? Who is she to just hand him off to some strange lady and then think she can just tell him what to do? “I have family!” He thought to himself. “My uncle in Occitane, why can’t I stay with him?” Or anyone? Why am I here in this terrible place with this horrible Queen? How could she be so cruel? Why didn’t she save my family when she saved me? How could she leave them to die? Why did she say those horrible things?

Oh, he hated her. And that hate quickly spread to encompass everything else that was going wrong in his small life. Thin blankets, Nimay, weird furniture, strange faces – but most of all was the Queen. If there was a figurehead for all that was going wrong in his life right now, it was her!

And this burning emotion, this fire in his belly, flowed through him and fueled his body like an emotional engine. Now he had something that could sustain him! He could feel the power of it replacing the grief and the sadness and the emptiness, filling him up to the brim with a hot fire.

These angry thoughts and more burned through his young brain, throwing out the last remains of reason and gratitude in a desperate attempt to fill the awful void left in the wake of the loss of his parents and all he had known before.

The Queen sat patiently as her handmaidens readied her for bed. As one was brushing her long, white hair, others were turning down her bed, adjusting her lights, and bringing out the appropriate night gown. As she went through the motions, absentmindedly following the whispered directions and subtle tuggings of her servants, her mind continued to work on the problem that had plagued her for most of the day. She was thinking about the human boy.

He didn’t look right when he had left the throne room.

She had never seen an expression like that before, and it puzzled her. She thought of calling the boy to her and making him explain himself, but something in the back of her mind told her that probably wouldn’t work out the way she wanted it to. He looked…upset? Yes, upset is the word. A human concept. She remembered seeing it before. What had happened to that lad? The pretty one with the golden hair and the strong arm…? Well, regardless, she didn’t know what he could possible be upset (is that really the word, it just sounds so awkward…?) about. He was rescued from a violent death, brought to live in a noble fairy home, and was being given a new life and purpose.

He should be grateful, not upset!

Humans, she sniffed in contempt (loud enough that the sprite moving the combs through her hair flinched, worried she had given some kind of offense). As long as she was alive she wouldn’t understand them. She had dealt with them a few times in the past. Usually they wanted something. Save my land, make me great, restore my love – that type of thing. She usually complied with the requests. And why not, they were generally relatively easy types of things. But now that she needed something – all she gets is an upset boy.

But why was he upset? She thought back on the day’s events. He seemed happy enough when he came into the throne room, yet he was unsettled when he left. What had they talked about? Did he not like Nimay? No, he seemed fine with her before. That bit about his parents? Couldn’t be – she had simply told the boy the truth. That he would have to follow the rules? Possibly. He was a human after all, probably used to running around that hovel of a place half naked all the time. Yes, that must be it – he was angry about having rules! Well, he had better get used to rules, she thought. I have plans for that boy and I won’t tolerate him running around like some wild animal!

And the more she thought on it, the more she convinced herself that was the reason for his odd behavior.

I don't know what it is to be sibling in a normal family, but I do know what it is to be the youngest son in a royal family. Sure, it's nice to have the privilege of living as the King's son in the castle – I know many would kill for such an opportunity. I have every need met except one: a purpose.

William, my oldest brother, will be the King of England. He is the first son of William the Conqueror and as such he gets the lion's share of the crown, which is England. Robert, my older brother, is second in line and he gets the next great jewel in the crown, which is Normandy. As I was living in Normandy, I can tell you it's a valuable jewel indeed.

Me? I was promised a large bag of gold and a position in the Church. Not bad, but not really something an 11 year old could wrap his head around. To be honest, it felt like one of those “your life won't be what you want, but you need to make the most of it” scenarios. Most men have a hard time dealing with that realization in their adulthood, for an 11 year old that was a very hard reality to deal with. I think life in the dungeons would have been preferable – at least there's a chance you can escape from the dungeon.

So the very idea that my destiny could be something else, something of my own choosing, was an extremely powerful thought. The fact that the man-at-Arms believed in the possibility gave it a validity that my own personal daydreams never could.

Every boy I knew dreamed of being a knight. Wearing the armor, wielding a magical sword or lance or mace, defeating the enemies of the realm. These were powerful ideas, and they ruled our every thought growing up. We played at it, wearing pots for helms and swinging sticks for swords eventually grew into being a page or a runner at tourney's, watching the knights and squires train on the yard. It was our culture – everything we did, everything we were, culminated in these steel clad warriors.

I was angry and confused when Robert told me I would never be a knight, and devastated when my father confirmed my place was in the Church. It turned me bitter, churlish, sarcastic, and, most of all, desperately sad. My life's dream, at the time, taken from me not because of personal failures but because of my date of birth. No matter who you are, high born or low, it is very hard for your spirit to survive having your dreams taken away.

Despite my young age, or perhaps because of it, I was a realist. I knew I had a very small chance of being anything other than a creature of the Church – but at least I now had a chance. Even a small opportunity is better than none at all, and just as a breeze flows through a cracked door, so did a small amount of hope float into my young heart. And the only way for me to fuel that hope was to triumph.

And so, my desire to beat the knight and learn his story was more than just idle curiosity. It was the salvation of my young spirit. Finally, a goal that could not be achieved by what I was, but one that could only be achieved through my own determination and application.

I was going to learn about each of his four teachers or die in the attempt. And, I knew, if I did learn those secrets, I could accept my fate, no matter what it was, for I had already proven myself in the depths of my own spirit that I was equal to any task.

And, so, after 7 more weeks of training, I challenged the knight to a foot race. With a smile, he accepted.

The next day we met on the practice field, as we had every morning except Sundays, but unlike those other days this morning we had a small audience. Marcus, Brother Francis, Adele the Baker, my father, Uncle Odo, and my brother Robert, who was recently returned.

The Man-at-Arms was in his usual place, wearing his normal light clothing and boots. I approached him and we meet in the middle of the Practice Yard. The morning was cool, clear and dry. One could not have asked for a better setting for a race.

My Father and Uncle Odo each had a mug of mulled wine, steaming in the morning chill. I was surprised to see my father there, in truth. I had told him of the race, but never invited him to come. I wasn't sure I wanted him there, as I wasn't sure of the outcome. No son wants to look like a failure in front of his father. Uncle Odo, my father's half brother, had been at my father's side for as long as I can remember. They conquered England together and have held it against the rebels these last few years. Where the King goes, Odo goes.

Robert was another story altogether. I'm not sure why he was there, or even how he knew of the race at all, as I know I didn't tell him. While William was a good man, destined to be a good king, Robert was a bully. Always fighting, always pushing and arguing and, worst of all, taking. Robert was a powerful boy who had grown into a powerful man. As the second, he was the back-up. If anything happened to William, he had to be ready to take his place. But, also being the second, he knew that he did not have the same pressures or expectations as William was. Personal power combined with a lack of responsibility and oversight culminated in a very troublesome brother.

“Are you ready, my prince?” the man-at-Arms asked me.

“Yes,” I answered, trying to sound as confident as I could.

“Then let's begin,” he said and we both put our legs into motion.

The course was our usual route, no changes no shortcuts. This distance had grown to two leagues. A lengthy run and it would take about an hour's time. I didn't know if our spectators would stay to see us cross the finish line, but it hardly mattered. The knight and I would know who had won, and who was due the prize.

We didn't talk during the race. I know that I put every ounce of my energy into the race, sparing none for anything as unnecessary as conversation. My strategy was a simple one, get out in front and stay there. I knew that if the old knight ever got ahead of me, he would take the entire race. He was not the type who would surrender ground once he had taken it. The trick was not to burn out too early. Two leagues was a long distance and an hour was a lengthy amount of time. If I went too strong to soon, there was a danger I wouldn't have enough energy to fend off any attacks the knight would make.

And make no mistake, the knight would attack. He was not one to lose easily.

It was halfway through the first league that the knight made his first attempt to take the lead. Until then I had led the entire race, though I was never sure by how much. So afraid of my competitor was I that I never risked a glance back to see where he was. I simply poured everything I had into maintaining my pace. I only knew I was being challenged when I heard the knight's breath just over my shoulder.

As with everything the man-at-Arms did, his pace was perfect and his breathing seemingly unhurried. If the tides could be captured, boiled down and poured into the shape of a man, I imagine the result would look very much like the old knight. He was more like a force of nature than a man, and his progress was as certain as the sun across the sky. I, on the other hand, was like a fire, waxing and waning with the wind. I poured on the speed and picked up my pace, praying that the knight would stay at a constant speed rather than change his stride. I began to push away from him, the buffer of distance regained.

Form then on he continuously pushed my pace. I couldn't be sure if he remained constant and I fluctuated, or if his pace was steadily increasing as mine was erratically fluctuating. Each time I felt him close, I pushed myself harder and harder to break our distance. Midway into the second league, I was running faster than I ever had before, fueled by fear and desire.

The last quarter league was an all out sprint. The knight had closed the gap between us and was nearly at my shoulder, his breathing more rapid than I recall, but even. His every movement a study in perfection. I, on the other hand, was a mess at that point. I was gasping for air, my side felt like fire from the stitch in my lung, the legs ached and my mouth was dry – but my spirit was strong. I was too close to ever give up now. I had finally learned true determination, as despite the immense pain, I would never relent. I would rather die than lose, at that point. Bouyed by this new found strength, I pushed harder and harder, tried to gain control over my breathing, and poured every last bit of my will into my legs for this final push to the finish.

As we entered the gate of the lower bailey, I finally heard the knight's breathing change. I was actually pushing him! That fueled my spirit more, and spurred me on to even greater speed. As we turned to the finish, I would see that every spectator had stayed – the crowd had even grown! – and I could sense the knight was no longer at my shoulder but now fully at my back. I nearly stumbled as I reached the center of the practice yard, throwing my hands up to God in my victory.

I had asked all throughout the castle for any word of a warrior called “The South Wind.” No one had ever heard of a soldier, sellsword, general, mercenary, or king who ever went by that name. Even my father, who seemed to have learned something about every fighting man who had ever lived, know nothing. It was infuriating, to say the least, as well as incredibly distracting. I even enlisted Marcus and Brother Francis in my search, and together we searched every record we could find. True, I had to put up with lectures from both of them about cataloging and organization and the like, but they were extremely helpful to the search. Unfortunately, the effort was ultimately fruitless. The reality was very simple: no one had ever heard of “The South Wind.” I would have to get it out of the Man-at-Arms somehow.

When I arrived Monday morning at the practice yard, he was waiting for me in his simple running garb. As we began the run, and while I was still fresh, I knew that was my moment to solve the mystery.

“Who was the South Wind?” I asked.

He, of course, only gave a grunt in response.

“Did you hear me, sir Knight?” I pushed.

“My ears are old, but they still function, my prince,” he replied. “But now is not the time for such things. Now is the time to apply yourself to your exercises. If you are able to talk then my training must be more successful than I had imagined and you are ready to go faster.”

He quickened his pace and I struggled to keep up. This time, though I did inevitably fall back, I was never so poorly off that he had to double back to retrieve me. While this was a small victory, nevertheless I savored it while I was gasping for air on our return to the practice yard.

But I would not be deterred. Between each gasp, I continued to question him on his mysterious teacher.

“Who....was....the...South...Wind?” I stammered.

“He was my teacher,” the old knight finally replied, and I swear he had a sly smirk on his face when he did.

“Yes...But...who...was...he?” I persisted.

“My first teacher,” he answered, as he turned to walk back to the armory.

I stood there on the practice yard, doubled over with exhaustion, my arms on my knees supporting me dumbfounded. With that single, simple sentence the knight had doubled the mystery.

A mystery I was determined to solve.

Over the next few weeks, I was single minded in my pursuit of the Knight's origins. I spoke to everyone he had ever come in contact with since he entered my father's service, including the guards on duty the night he had arrived at the castle four years ago. Marcus and Brother Francis were now fully in the game, turning my pursuit into a learning experience to teach my about records, research, analysis, and more. We drew diagrams and kept ledges of who we had interviewed, their relation to the knight, and whatever information that had provided.

And, of course, each morning I would try and gain another piece of insight from the knight's grunts, movements, and occasional words. He was aware of my efforts, of course. I don't think anything could possibly escape his notice for long. At first I thought he was shy, then cruel, but soon I realized he viewed this as a motivational tool. He would pass me another nugget of information every now and then, usually with the same smug humor he had displayed earlier.

Depsite all of our efforts, however, I was able to determine very little about him.

I knew that he was old – at least as old as my father, but most likely even older. We knew he was a master at every weapon in the armory. We knew he had experience on the battlefield. We knew what foods he most requested from the kitchen, that he drank little wine or beer, and that he spent his Sundays in the forest in prayer. We knew that he had four teachers; The South, North, East and West Winds. We knew he had no friends or colleagues, that he was rarely seen outside of the Armory, and that he was unmarried and without children.

But what was more interesting was what we didn't know about him. We didn't know where he was from, and not just the village name – we didn't even know what country he called home. We knew he had spent time on the battlefield, but we had no intelligence on which battle, who he served under, or who he served with. We had no insight into his records at tournaments. We didn't know why he had come here and why had had asked to see my father in the middle of the night on his arrival. We didn't know why my father had met with him (and I asked about that at each opportunity), nor did we know why he took him on.

Most importantly, however, we didn't know his name.

And not just Marcus, Brother Francis and I. No one knew his name. I realize how easy it is to call people by their station in a large castle – Cook, Guard, etc – but I was stunned to learn that even after living among us for four years no one in the castle knew the name of the Man-at-Arms. Even my father said he didn't know, though I didn't really believe him. My father was a king and they are accustomed to knowing more than they let on.

At the next morning's training, I asked the man-at-Arms his name. After so many inquiries that solicited only grunts, I was a bit shocked to receive an answer for the older man.

“My name is not important, Prince Henry,” he replied calmly, barely breathing despite our vigorous running pace. I had grown much stronger during the weeks of training, and our runs were becoming faster and farther each day.

“Of course it's important,” I said. “I can't just call you 'Man-at-Arms' all the time!”

“I have been called that for four years now, it will not bother me if you continue to do so.”

“But that just makes no sense. Why not tell people your name?”

“Ha, ha,” he laughed. “Names have power, my young prince. Many forget this, but I have not. No, my name is not something you need to know now, possibly ever. It is not important to your destiny.”

“Destiny? What destiny is that, sir knight?” I asked with my usual sarcasm. “Destiny of nothing? I'm a third son, not a first. My Destiny is to go quietly to the church as a bargaining chip. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You think so little of yourself, then?” the old knight challenged. “Am I wasting my time, then? No,” he continued, “I think a man's destiny reveals itself in time, it's best not to assume such things.”

We didn't speak again until we returned to the practice yard.

“Why are you so mysterious all the time?” I asked.

“Me?” he replied with his smug smile. “I'm just an old knight whittling away in his dotage.”

“We both know that's not true.” I said.

“Do we?” he asked. “I think your imagination is running away with you, my prince.”

“Is it?” I challenged. “The more I inquire about you, sir knight, the more we uncover more riddles.”

“'We' now, eh?” said the old knight. “And who is helping you in your questioning?”

And here is where I realized I had made a mistake. Up till then, this had all been a joke to him, a private jest to hold over a young student. Upon learning I had help, his guard was up instantly. Oh, he smiled well enough, but after so many weeks together I was beginning to learn his moods and he ahd just gone from mildly entertained to dangerously wary.

“Oh, no one,” I covered, “ just a slip of the tongue.”

“You?” he said. “Doubtful.” He started to walk around me in a circle. “Marcus and Brother Francis, for certain,” he mused, “but are there any others you have enlisted in this little … hunt of yours?”

It was at this point when the reality of my position began to sink in. This was a man with no name, no past, no family, and little prospects who happened to be the most dangerous warrior I had ever seen who I had inadvertently painted into a corner. There was a reason he had his secrets. There was a reason he would not swear fealty to my father. There was a reason he had no friends, no family. And I was chasing after that which he most protected – his secrets. And it seems I was getting closer.

As the knight continued to circle me, I felt much less like a Prince and much more like a boy alone in the woods facing a pack of wolves. I began to look for a way to escape, but the knight was too close. I was caught in his trap.

“No one, I swear, sir knight,” I said, trying desperately to keep my voice from cracking.

“Hmmm...” he said. “But even now, nervous as you are, you won't stop searching will you? Can't stand not knowing, eh?” While he smiled, the smile on his face was not one of laughter.

“If it bothers you, sir knight, I would certainly stop,” I replied. “It was only ever a little game.”

“A game played by a prince is never a little game,” he said, continuing his circling. “I knew a prince once who liked to play little games. Many people were hurt as a result of his pranks and pestering.”

He stopped then, right in front of me. I hadn't realized he had gotten so close. “You should learn to respect the privacy of others, Prince Henry. Some secrets aren't for everyone's ears.”

“Yes, sir knight.” I stammered, genuinely unnerved. “If course, I would never tell your secrets.”

“No,” he said, his face lowered to look directly into my eyes. “I don't think you will.”

“But,” he continued, straightening his stance and changing the pitch of his voice to a more humored tone, “nor do I think you will stop trying to get the answers you seek. Unfortunately, I have very good at keeping my secrets, good prince, and ask all you like, you will never find the answers. However, all of that questioning will cause attention that I do not seek at this time. Your father knows enough and he is satisfied, but keeping my secrets gives me the freedom to do what I came here to do and I would prefer to remain unencumbered.”

“Therefore,” he said as he turned his direct attention back to me, “ I will make a bargain with you. I will set a series of challenges for you, each one you best will gain you another answer. The first challenge will be the Quest for the North Wind. To get your answer, you must best me in a morning run. Are we agreed?”

“Yes,” I said. “I accept your challenge.”

“Excellent,” said the knight as he turned away to return to the armory.

I would love to say that I had performed so much better the second morning than the first, but the truth of it is I barely made it back. The knight, despite being older than my father, was barely winded. I was nearly dead. The only improvement I can honestly claim was that I stayed on my feet at the end. As sad is it is to admit it, I was actually quite proud of that. My teacher gave me little encouragement, telling me again to eat a hearty breakfast and lunch, be mindful of my other studies, and to be back in the morning.

Marcus continued his improvement and that day's instruction was even more animated than the previous. He was thrilled that I had uncovered the answers to his questions, and after the last night's conversation with my father, I was able to surprise him with a few points I raised. It was a vast improvement over the last few months of lessons and not only was I awake the entire time, when I left I was looking forward to completing his assignment (a week's steel consumption for the castle), but I was looking forward to what he would come up with next.

Brother Francis was also improving. Satisfied that I understood how to copy the words of others, I started learning proper composition and instead of letter writing we moved to poetry. I can't say I will ever make it as a bard of any kind, but the change of pace was certainly welcome. My first creative work was an ode to a tree.

This same routine continued for the remainder of that week and I was given Sunday off to pray and rest. Monday, the old knight had a new challenge waiting for me when I reported to the Practice Yard.

After a day's rest, I was ready for our morning run.

When I arrived at the field, my instructor was there in the same light clothes and boots, but this time he did not turn and run at my approach. Instead, he laid on the ground and started pushing himself up and down, his back and legs straight and his feet together. He looked up at me still standing, and gave an angry grunt and a jerk of his head. So, I got down next to him in the same position and mimicked him, pushing myself up and down while trying to keep my back straight.

In ten iterations, my arms and shoulders were more sore than they had ever been. In twenty my chest was burning as well and I laid down flat on the ground. The knight only grunted, and I tried to lift myself anew. By thirty, I could no longer move. I have no recollection of how many pushes the old man had down, but, just like the running, he completed far more than I.

He moved to another exercise, then another, then another. We did many variations of the pushing exercise, others that worked the legs, my lower back, my stomach – even my hands and feet. Through it all, he barely spoke except to instruct me on improving my body's position when completing an exercise.

When he finally called a halt, I was too weak to move. My every muscle and sinew was in pain and utterly exhausted. Finally, I asked him why we didn't run.

“No running until next Monday,” was his reply. “Your body needs to heal and adapt to running, it needs this time to do so. We will work on improving your strength while your legs recover.”

“Recover?” I interjected, “My legs are in more pain now than they ever were running!”

“It's a different pain and a different recovery. To keep running now will cause an ache in your bones that will take a very long time to go away,” he explained. We will resume running next Monday. Tomorrow will be more of today. It is very important you eat hearty at each meal – including the evening meal.”

“Yes, sir knight.”

“Very well,” he said when he turned and headed towards the armory.

The next day, he had me lifting stones. Sometimes with one arm, sometimes with both. Sometimes pushing them up over my head, sometimes up to the shoulder, sometimes only to my waist. Over and over, up and down, side to side, jumping, leaning. I didn't think I could be in more pain than I had been the day before, but that day was worse. Again, the instruction to eat, rest and return.

The third day a series of logs, each about a little more than a span in length, were waiting for me, ranging in thickness from the size of my head to my wrist. By the end of the morning I felt like he had beat me with them instead only making me lift and drag them.

The fourth day he started all over again with the pushing exercises. Always with simple grunts and curt explanations with instructions to eat, rest and return. However, on that fourth day he added that I take a soaking bath with salts before going to bed each night.

Finally, on Saturday, after the log based exercises were finished, he actually spoke to me.

“You are doing well, Prince Henry,” he said quietly while he was stacking up the logs we had used. “Doing better than your middle brother, at least. He was all complaints by the first day of stones.” I saw him smile as he remembered something. “Prince Robert actually challenged me to a duel by the second round of stones. Last time he ever did that,” he added as he placed another piece of wood on the pile.

“Why are we doing all of this?” I panted, still feeling woozy from the morning's training.

“Prince Henry, I would have thought that would be obvious by now.” the knight retorted.

“No,” I said, “I mean why this way? Why not just swing swords and hammers and such until I get stronger at it?

He turned to face me then, standing at his full height. “That, young Prince, is a very good question. What do you think that answer is?”

“You don't think it would hurt enough?”

“Now you're being childish, sire.”

And he was right, of course, the old knight had never tried to actually hurt me. Had even given remedies to lessen the pain so I could sleep each night. No, he was trying to strengthen me, not hurt me. But why this way, I wondered. Why using stones and sticks, why the jumping and pushing? A sword can be plenty heavy, why not just swing that around in armor? Unless that's what he was trying to avoid.

“Because I'm not ready to fight with a sword.”

“Correct!” agreed the knight. “But why aren't you ready?”

“Because I don't know how...?” I guessed.

“Also correct!” smiled the knight. “There is hope for you, yet, my Prince.”

He bent down and grabbed one of the logs, a thinner one, about the width of my wrist. It seemed very small in his massive hands. “A sword is not a stick,” he said, “ though many pretend that it is.”

He took a few one-handed swings with the log, swishing it easily from side to side. “After all, you can swing a stick, eh?” He then held the stick overtop his head in high parry. “You can parry with a stick,” he explained. He then drive the point of the stick forward. “You can even stab with a stick.”

“But a stick is not a sword. Do you know why?” he asked.

“Because...” I said slowly, “its doesn't have a blade?”

“Also correct!” said the knight.

“As a result of having a blade, a sword must be handled in a certain way, with a certain technique,” explained the knight. “Not only for your safety, but in order for the sword to protect and champion you properly. Your hands, arms, shoulders, neck, back, legs and feet must all be up to the task to provide the proper foundation and direction for the sword to be effective.”

He put the log back on the pile with the others. “If I just let you swing a sword to build up yrou strength, how many swings of that sword do you think it will take for you to be strong enough to use it effectively? A sword is but a pound or two in weight, the stones you've been lifting are just that – a stone. Nearly 20 times the weight of the weapon you will eventually carry. So how many swings, my lord?”

Quickly I ran the sums in my head. “Three hundred?” I answered.

“Perhaps,” said the man-at-Arms, “ though I reason it would be even more than that. And given those three hundred swings,” he continued, “what technique would you be practicing?”

At this question of reason instead of figures, I was much quicker. “Not much of one, I suppose, as I would just be learning how to handle such a weapon.”

“I agree,” said the knight. “Now do you see why we use stones and logs to build your strength instead of actual weapons?”

And with that, I did see why. To use a sword now would tarnish my instruction, as my body and mind would learn how to handle the weapon with insufficient strength, causing me to not do perform the exercises as they should be. If my body was too weak to use the weapon, I would develop easier ways to get through the movements – and these easier ways may not be the correct way. By building my strength without weapons, my body was being improved without instilling imperfect movements.

“Yes,” I answered. “I am beginning to see the reasoning behind your instruction.”

As he started to walk back to the armory, the signal of the end of our training for the morning, I quickly asked “How did you learn all of this, good knight? None of the other defense instructors have ever tought their students this way in this castle. How did you learn these techniques and ideas?”

He stopped but did not fully turn around. “From my own instructor, of course.”

“And who was that? Another hedge knight like yourself?”

Then he turned. “My teacher was no knight,” he answered. “He as the South Wind.”

And with that, he continued on his path to the armory, leaving me to wonder just who this man really was.

Marcus was not his usual self that morning. Marcus the Clerk was a thin, petty man who walked with a bit of a stoop. While I wouldn't say he was obsequious, I would say he failed to make much of an impression. In a realm of conquering kings, his was a necessary position but not an inspiring one. He would meet me for lessons with stacks of papers in his hands, pens jumbled, fingers stained with ink, and a hundred things on his mind. Despite that, his instruction was rigidly followed, each step building on the last – but never room for intuitive leaps or advanced pace. Marcus had been taught a certain way and he would teach in the same manner.

Except today.

At first I thought he had grown, but I quickly realized that he was simply standing at his full height. I had to admit, I was a bit surprised to see him so. Furthermore, his hands were clean, his papers organized, and his pens properly cared for. For a second, I didn't recognize him. He motioned me inside to take a place at the desk where he had clean paper, pen and ink laid out.

“Come in, Prince Henry,” he said in greeting. “Be seated and we'll get started with today's lesson.”

Taking the seat offered, I felt the need to comment. “Are you feeling OK, Marcus? You don't seem your usual self today. I'm not complaining, mind, just noticing that you seem a bit different.”

Marcus handed me a sheet of paper with numbers already inscribed in columns. “Different? Perhaps. I had a very interesting visitor last night. The Man-at-Arms came to see me.”

I almost fell out of my seat, such was my surprise. “He did?” I asked.

“Indeed he did, my lord. A surprising man, I must say. We had a lengthy discussion concerning your instruction. I must say, much of what he said made sense and between us we developed a new strategy for your lessons. And, yes,” he added, “before you ask, I do believe he had spoken to Brother Francis as well.”

“And what, pray tell, is this new direction?” I asked, my intrigue temporarily overcoming my concerns over exactly how thorough the Man-at-Arms was appearing to be.

“Well, he pointed out, and I concurred, that I have been teaching you how to be a clerk like myself. Given your likely posting upon first joining the church, it seemed the most appropriate tact. The knight has convinced me to try something else, and the idea of it was appealing enough for me to spend much of the night creating a new course of instruction. It is a first for me, and I find it quite exciting.” He was beaming with excitement, but, in typical Marcus fashion, still had not answered my question.

“And what is this new course?” I asked again.

“I will teach you to stop looking at these numbers as a clerk,” he said, his enthusiasm barely contained in his face, “and start looking at them like a king.”

He could have knocked me over with one of his pens.

The rest of the morning was, without a doubt, the most interesting, entertaining, and worthwhile of Marcus' classes to date. Our normal course was the copy numbers, conduct the sums, and recopy them neatly, promptly followed by Marcus' critique. Then we would do it all over again. While the sums had grown more complex over time, the routine was the same. The main criteria for judgment was accuracy, neatness, and speed – comprehension was not required. Indeed, it may even have been a bit discouraged.

That day, though, we did not copy, nor do sums, nor recopy. That day we examined the sheets in detail. More detail than I had ever seen done before. For Marcus' new tact was to teach me not how kings actually reviewed these figures, but how he, as a master clerk, wished they did. That day we didn't even look at an entire sheet, but only at a single line. I would never have thought, not in a thousand years, that so much information would be contained in a single line.

“So you see, my lord, when I – or any clerk, for that matter – reports to you the number of bushels of wheat consumed in a week, that number is the product of all of these other reports, compiled by 6 different clerks and often over 20 recorders. It takes into account not only that wheat used to feed the court, but also the castle staff, the guard, the many guests, the alms given to the poor, the feed, and, sadly, the waste. Every day several pounds of wheat are discarded due to rats, weevils, and rot. The granaries must be stocked in accordance with demand and weather – too little demand in too warm weather increases waste, you see.”

“All of this is very interesting, Marcus, but what does a king care with this knowledge? What is it's importance?”

“An excellent question, Henry! The Castle's grain consumption is important for a number of factors. First, is the budget of maintaining the keep. None of this grain is free, even to the crown, and so it provides a direct correlation between basic consumption and budget. Next, is the ability of the castle to sustain a siege. An army, and a people, live off their stomachs, so understanding the needs of said stomachs can be very important at times. Third, and most importantly, the king is the lord of his castle, just as a husband is the master of his household. You must understand how your castle is run, so you can extrapolate how the kingdom is run.”

“You see,” said Marcus, “it is all just a factor of scale. House, village, castle, country – they are all the same, only each is larger than the other. For you, I am starting with a single castle – this one – as that is what you are most familiar with. But remember, your father is lord over many castles, each with staff, kitchens, and granaries of their own. And that is simply the managing of castle grain consumption – there is also the construction, maintenance, armament... the list is endless.”

“But, that's too much!” I protested. “The king can't keep track of all of this each week!”

“Of course not, Henry, that's why I'm here. As a matter of fact, a veritable army of clerks tracks and maintains all of these sums. A vanguard of castellans, ministers, dukes, barons, and merchants are directed by the crown to manage their portion of the kingdom. No single man can do it alone, it is the combined work of thousands all under the rule of the king that keep the realm strong.”

“Well, I knew that,” I chided.

“Did you?” said Marcus, with his back up suddenly. “You knew it all, eh? Well, since we are on the subject of wheat, how many acres of farmland are needed to supply one week's supply of grain to this single castle? This number here,” he demanded while pointing a figure at the top of one of his sheets.

“Well, I...” I started, searching for a way to placate my recently energized instructor.

“You do not know, don't bother to hide it.” said Marcus. “That, then, will be your assignment for tonight. By tomorrow's instruction you will tell me how many acres of farmland are needed to supply one week's worth of grain to this castle. In addition,” he added, “you will derive from that number the amount of vassals, serfs, oxen needed to work those fields.”

“What?” I protested. “But, that's not fair!”

“Fair?” replied Marcus. “I believe that fairness depends on your point of view, young prince. Is it fair that I spend my time on an ungrateful pupil? Is it fair that you, who are without a skill, live in comfort while those who are skilled work tirelessly to support you? I believe this simple task is indeed unfair to you, as it is a much easier task than that asked of most boys your age – but don't worry, I'm sure life will catch it all up in the end.”

As he started to gather up his sheets and pens, he said, “I believe you have a short time to get some lunch before Brother Francis will be needing you. I'm not sure what he will have waiting for you, but I suspect that after his discussion with the Man-at-Arms, it won't be what you expect.”

As I walked out into the the hall, Marcus called after me, saying “Remember, Prince Henry, acreage and serfs by tomorrow!”

While leaving Marcus the Clerk, I was struck by two errant thoughts. One, the new Marcus was interesting and infuriating all at the same time. Second, if Marcus could be so transformed in a single conversation with the Man-at-Arms, what effect was he going to have on me?

While the ultimate impact of my new combat teacher was still to be discovered, during my lunch I was consumed by the idea of how much wheat I was consuming in that one meal. I asked the serving girl if she knew, and she nearly jumped out of her skin at the thought of providing an answer. As she went back to the kitchen to get the baker, it occurred to me that I had never spoken to that serving girl before, much less asked her a question. When she returned with the Baker, I asked them both their names, which seemed to both put them at ease and make them tense at the same time, if that even makes sense. While the Baker (Adele was her name, born just outside the castle walls), did know how much wheat she used, she did not know how much land was needed to provide it. But she was willing to call the steward to see if he knew. He did know, with the castle consuming the wheat harvested from one half acre each week. Unfortunately, he didn't know the number of vassals, serfs, and oxen needed to harvest that half acre. This caused more questioning, more names to learn, and more discussion until finally Brother Francis came down to the kitchens to look for me as I was quite late for my appointment. Amazingly, he knew exactly the effort required to harvest a half acre, as he was a laborer while serving at his first cloister.

We continued to talk about farming during our walk to his offices, and the subject became the basis of the letter has assigned me to write for that afternoon's class. And later that night, my father and I had a lengthy and meaningful discussion – about farming!