Author: ClarineterX

In the shed again, Kascho picked up the lid he had been working on and handed it to Aton. “Maybe you can help me with this. I am making a little wooden chest for Uillia to put her trinkets and jewelry in, but this lid has had me stuck for over a week now. I cannot get the design right. I’ve redone it, but every time I draw it on paper it looks a little off. The few times I get it right on paper, it fails to transfer when I carve the wood.”

Aton turned the lid around in his hands. “Sounds like my life. I’m the different one. I never feel sure of what my life is supposed to me. Every time I think I get it figured out, I talk to my siblings again and it’s clear I am still just a misfit.”

“Don’t be so hard on youself, Aton,” Kascho begain.

“Oh, I know. I’ve heard it before. It was not my fault that I was born with no weapon. I accept that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was. That I am fundamentally different from my brothers and sisters. From my father. From the whole line, back to Gren Farella’s children. And the whole kingdom knows it. Many off-worlders know it. And somehow, even though everybody acknowledges that it’s not my fault, they worry.

“They worry that Aguneg’s gift has stopped following the Farella line. They worry that this means the end of Grendhill as a nation. I’m not fit to lead or protect. Even if I don’t take the throne—and how could I with no weapon of my own—what happens with my nieces and nephews, the children of whichever of my brothers and sisters does take the throne? Will they have these weapons? Will they lead with the wisdom of our ancestors? And somehow—even though everybody knows it’s not my fault—somehow I have to assure them that it will all be well. Somehow, despite all this being outside my control, it lies inside my realm of responsibility. I didn’t break it, and I cannot fix it, but somehow I have to.”

Kascho sighed, finding that he had unwittingly hit a sore spot.

“You know what, though?” said Aton, tracing the design on the woodwork in this hands. “I change my mind. This lid is not like my life. This lid actually looks great. I think it looks fantastic, and Mistress Uillia will love it.” He handed it back to Kascho.

“Wh-what? You don’t see the flaws?” Kascho inspected it again, confused.

“Sure, I see some flaws,” said Aton, “but they are so minor that they will surely come out with sanding. See, here—” Aton pointed, “—and here, it is a little misshapen. But you will need to sand it anyway to get it smooth like you’ll want it, so just sand a little bit—just a little bit—extra in these spots. It will come out even with the other side, flawless. She will love it.”

Kascho looked at the lid, inspected the points Aton had indicated, and looked at Aton again, smiling. “You’re right! I can’t believe it, you’re right. I have been banging my head against this workbench for days, and the problem will be solved with a bit of sanding! Thank you!”

Aton blushed shyly. “Well, sure. No problem, it’s just, I don’t know…”

Kascho looked at Aton cheerfully. “I was being too critical with my work. I needed a fresh perspective, and then I could see what you saw. You know? Maybe you just need a little bit of sanding yourself. A fresh perspective, and you’ll see yourself and your imperfections for what they truly are.”

Aton shrugged, caught off guard. Kascho spoke again. “Take a moment and look at your situation as if it were new, right now. What is good? What needs to be emphasized? What is not so important, and can be left for others to worry about?”

Aton paused, thinking. He was rather skilled, but that would not assuage public concerns for the health of the crown in Grendhill. He could not grow a weapon out of thin air, nor could he do anything to ensure that whichever of his siblings who took the crown conveyed Aguneg’s gift to his nephews and nieces. He could show solidarity with his family. He could prepare to serve his country however it needed his unique skill set. He had no weapon to train with in isolation, and he truly saw no point in waiting for his turn for the cave.

“Perhaps I should return home. I am not being productive here, loafing about. Back home, at least I could continue my regular studies. It would be something. More importantly…it wouldn’t be here.” Aton’s eyes widened as he feared he may have just offended his host. He spoke quickly to repair the damage. “Nothing wrong with this place. But it’s where my siblings are. Not that I hate my siblings, of course. I’m just not like them. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, I mean. I mean I don’t ha—”

“That’s fine,” Kascho reassured him. “I understood what you meant. I am not offended, and I’ll try not to tattle on you to your siblings.” He smiled. “If you wish to return home because this place is not helping you, then I think that is a good idea. Can you wait until this evening when Uillia gets home, though? She would hate to miss saying good-bye.”

“Alright,” Aton said. “I’ll wait until then.”

Kascho looked closely at the wooden lid on the workbench in front of him. He had been trying to get it right for more than a week now. He had told the Farella youths he was “slowly easing” into retirement, but it did not feel very restive this afternoon.

It was different. He would normally spend his days hunched over actuarial tables in an office overlooking the shipwrights’ yards. His two sons had been learning his business well and Kascho did his bookkeeping by contract. Nobody needed to approve his sons taking over his business, and they would need somebody to keep their books when Kascho was fully retired. So more and more he had his sons do the work and he inspected it afterwards.

His woodworking hobby was different, though today it did not feel different enough. His hands had been more active, but today all he noticed was how similar it was to his bookkeeping – he was hunched over a workstation all day, searching for everything to look just right.

Kascho set down his tools and tidied up the workbench. If it felt too much like work, he would go find something else to occupy his time. The Farellas had been here three days, now. Perhaps they could use some diversion as well. He locked up the shed and turned to the house.

He found Misolfa in the yard, running through fighting forms. She gave him a smile as he passed by but continued with her practice. If she wanted to keep practicing, he would not disturb her.

He found all three boys in the main hall. Domire and Tido were engrossed in a chess match, with Aton looking on.

“What have we here?” Kascho asked.

“Chess, Master Kascho,” Domire stated the obvious. “Still trying to get used to the time shift from home to here.” They had been up awfully late that first night.

“This I can see for myself. Nothing better to do? Books to read? Forms to practice?”

“Well, right now I’m waiting my turn to move,” Tido said. “And I have been waiting long enough already—” he gave Domire a pointed look, “—but still, I have had enough reading today. And training…Well, I’d rather have my turn in the cave already, too. I feel like I’m close enough to this point. Training without my own axe now seems pointless.”

Domire only breathed deeply, weighing his options for his next move. A look at the board told Kascho the match was fairly even, but the positioning said Domire’s patience with himself might win it for him.

Aton spoke up. “Don’t worry, Tido. You’ll get your turn, on the board and in the cave. I get my turn in chess when I play, but I don’t get a turn in the cave.”

Domire spoke in response to this. “You can have a turn in the cave if you want. Master Kascho told you he—”

“It would be useless,” Aton said.

“No, it would be helpful. You would get two weeks of isolation, of complete focus.”

“I would have nothing new to focus on.”

“Sure, nothing new, but there’s Aguneg’s gift. Maybe…maybe with so many of us training in that cave over the years, the cave itself would help…” Domire trailed off, unconvinced of what he was saying and turning his focus back to the chess board.

“I don’t believe that,” Aton replied. “Sure, nobody knows what a Sage’s gift actually is, only that it is hereditary, and sure, Aguneg supposedly lost her gift that day. Sure, the Farella line has had these great weapons ever since, but that’s all well-known and documented. That is concrete. Until me, apparently. I’m not spending two weeks in isolation on the suggestion that the cave has some mystical gift rubbed off on it. If the gift that you received does not want me, no magical cave will change that.”

Tido spoke up again. “We get it, Aton, it’s unfair. Just do with it what you can. If you don’t want to train in the cave, you can always go back home.”

Kascho thought now was as good a time as any to steer the conversation to a more positive tone. “Aton, if you want something new, how about you come and take a look at my work in the shed? I promise no mystic skill with a weapon, but it may help you feel more relaxed.”

Aton stood. “Sounds fine. I’d rather not spend the next weeks just waiting for Domire to make his move.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Domire protested, “and if there were not so much complaining it would have been faster.” He slowly reached out to the board and moved a piece.

“It’s about time,” Tido muttered as Aton left the room with Kascho.

Mynda and Roama walked away from the Towers court together, having stripped off their hotter outer layer of padding.

“You pulled off yet another match, Mynda,” Roama said, “but you do not look too pleased about it.

“You’re right, Roama,” Mynda replied. “We won, and that should be good enough. But I know my father won’t be happy.”

Roama raised an eyebrow and glanced to the side as Tilido and Clallo trotted up beside them. “This again?” asked Roama. “I thought he already dropped this.”

Mynda took a deep breath and sighed before continuing. “He is always talking about destiny this and preparation that. Winning in overtime by one point will not make him happy. It’s as if he thinks we are going to face stiff competition from the foreigners. It doesn’t make sense. We’ve had foreigners around for a few years now. A few have learned to play Towers and joined in the matches, but nothing is changing the essence of the game itself.”

“You’re right, you know,” said Tilido. “It’s still the same game it has always been. We’re always high in the rankings. We lose a few matches; everybody does. But we always do well. So what’s your father’s issue? What is he really looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” Mynda said, still confused. “But he has been spending a lot of time meeting with foreigners, and he keeps saying the Council will listen to his ideas, but he needs to develop them further first. I don’t know what Towers matches have to do with all of that. Maybe nothing. Maybe he is just disconnected. Mother always said he cared too much for ambition and too little for people.

“So what are you worried about?” Roama asked. “It sounds like he is just being wrapped up in his own schemes. He expects too much, he says weird things, he has meetings behind closed doors. What does that matter? The Council hasn’t been pulled too far his way, has it?”

“No,” said Mynda, “but he maintains we will have a strong future despite that. Despite not having the Council’s ear, somehow we and all of Esclace will have a powerful future with no apparent reason for things to pick up. Trade with the foreigners has helped and has brightened some citizens’ outlook, but not in a huge way. There is never a huge amount of trade happening at any one time.” Mynda’s eyes focused on something in the distance. “He did recently say things would change soon. He wasn’t making much sense, but he always said ‘someday’ before. Now he says ‘very soon,’ and he has more frequent mood swings. Oh, and he’s been having more frequent meetings with his soldier friends. What do you make of that, Roama?”

“What can I make of that? Does he still insist that you act as if Tilido, Clallo, and I are your servants?”

“Yes. I will always disagree with him on that. He would also probably have a better time with the Council if he did not look down his nose at all of them. But he thinks that one must act the part of the job one wants.”

“He’s right about that part, princess,” interjected Clallo. “Why, just the other day—”

“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” Clallo did not have a chance of finishing the thought as Mynda cut him off. “I need friends, not servants, and I don’t care what my father wants to say about my future! Now, do you want to be a friend, or do you want to carry my sweaty Towers pads like a good servant?” She stared at him intensely, daring him to challenge her patience, then started to let the tension dissipate as he backed down. “I get enough frustration from my father! I need friends. My father has crazy plans. I don’t. I think the Council has mostly sensible heads in it, and if I ever sit on the Council, things will be different than they are now with my father. But I’m not trying to make grand schemes. I don’t need you mocking my father through me as proxy. I just need a regular life. Towers matches, schooling, friends. That’s it.”

Tilido joined in, always a voice of reason. “Clallo, that wasn’t very funny. You could hear she was already frustrated, right? And then you come and push her buttons—”

“Alright, alright, no need for everyone to come after me” Clallo said. “It’s alright, I’m sorry, Mynda. Can you put it behind you? I already feel like I never even said it, myself.”

“Fine.” Mynda rolled her eyes. “Just, later on, let’s all go to the market, and you can show me where you got that pen you had yesterday.”