The point of a castle is to live, and defend the things you need to live. The two most basic parts of a castle are:

The Motte. The Motte is your market, your animals, your merchant houses. It is usually a large space enclosed within the castle wall. It is where your business is done, where your livelihood is made. Ultimately, it is the most important part of your castle. It is the reason FOR the castle. It is what you have built your castle to defend.

The Bailey. The Bailey is a fortress, usually build directly into the wall that surrounds your Motte. When the enemy comes, when you are under threat, you gather yourself and all you can from your Motte and retreat to the Bailey, to mount your defense.

The Motte to create, the Bailey to defend, and together a castle in its most basic form. Since he was three years old, Osric had applied those lessons to his soul.

He sat cross legged on the bed in his sick room, eyes closed, meditating on his power. There was no real landscape inside his soul, no physical place, not at least at his stage of cultivation. What there was was a space that was called an Ether Kingdom. A formless mass, where one day power could be formed. He had formed his Ether Kingdom one month after he had begun his training.

The next step had been to lay a Foundation Stone. The ground upon which his Motte and Bailey would be built. He had laid his foundation stone at the age of five, not so very long after he had started cultivating his soul. When he cast his sight inwards, the foundation stone had been a perfect circle of dark gray stone.

Now it was a mirror. A disk of solid, perfectly reflective material. A lot like the mirror that hung on the wall across from him. He opened his eyes and looked at his own reflection in the hungry mirror. It hadn't spoken to him since last night, but his mirrored eye had been enough proof that he hadn't been dreaming. It was hidden under his bandages now. He'd taken the time to replace all his bandages, and now he was working on creating an excuse for why he was suddenly healed.

The easiest way would be to form a Motte. Then, he wouldn't even have to lie very much. Advancing cultivation did a body good, so healing upon forming his Motte would explain his healing. Then he could say that squire Volgin had come into his room to attack him, and he had defended himself. Which would explain the headless corpse lying next to his bed. And the corpse under his bed, for that matter.

Inward, inward. Future plans for later. Now, he must build his Motte. He had been close to begin with, and with the extra power granted by his union with the mirror it should be easier. Instead, he was finding it hard to keep hold of the progress he'd already made. He had pictured his Motte as a small cluster of thatch roofed houses, their sides painted many colors, with green grass between them. Before he was attacked, that image had seemed ready to form inside his soul. Now when he tried to picture it, he lost it. It slipped away like smoke, sparkling in the corners of his mind. He frowned in frustration and sat down.

On the mirror.

Of course, it was so simple. That had been a shape that fit his soul before. But his soul was different now. Whatever bargain he had made had changed it, changed it to the point that when he drew himself inside his soul he now stood upon a giant mirror.

His Motte must now be one that emulated the properties of a mirror.

Begin with the simplest. His Motte would be completely symmetrical. The same buildings on each side, formed of the same colors. The buildings themselves completely symmetrical. Still painted many colors, but the colors now had a glistening sheen to them. No sooner had he adjusted his image than the buildings appeared.

Grass between them. Simple green would not do. Now the grass he envisioned was like crystal, and it sparkled reflectively as if each blade were a mirror itself. Once again, once he envisioned it it appeared. His soul, already almost to the point of forming his Motte, was eager and ready to comply when he found a shape that fit it. And just like that, his Motte was complete.

He jerked on the bed as power surged through his body. It flowed through his chest and limbs, swirling through every line of power that wound out from his soul and into his muscle. In essence, the Motte was a machine to allow the power of his own soul to flow more efficiently, the way a farmer drew life from the land by growing crops from it.

He had officially reached the Landowner stage. But beyond that he must reach the Guardmaster stage, and form a Bailey in his soul. Until he had done that his Motte would be vulnerable to anyone of a greater stage, his power undefended. But against anyone without a Motte, his power would be so much greater the weakness would be irrelevant.

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He looked down at the headless body on the ground. At least it should be, usually. The mirror had apparently allowed him to cheat a little bit. He looked up again and examined himself in the mirror. He looked taller, stronger. His bandages were tight. He lifted the bandages and checked out his mirrored eye. It hadn't occurred to him to worry about it before, but there was a chance his eye would have tried to regrow when he advanced...but apparently the mirror had taken care of that as well.

“I wish I knew what you were,” he said out loud to the mirror. It didn't choose to answer him. But whatever it was, he was strong now. He could feel it. It had made him powerful enough to beat someone in the Landowner stage when all he had was a foundation stone. Now that he had reached that stage himself....

He flexed his muscles. He still couldn't handle all the other squires at once. But he could start settling accounts, and soon.

The door opened up and he whirled, hands raised to fight. He wished he had a sword. He'd always preferred fighting with a sword. But it wasn't a new assassin coming in through the door, it was Polly.

“Are you awake, Osric? I'm here to.....oh!”

She stopped and took the scene in the room into account, eyes wide.

“Morning Polly,” Osric said. “I think maybe you should go and get Sir Reginault.”

Osric was a Squire of the Kingdom an Perlan. Perlan was a small kingdom, a single massive city built into a small mountain that towered over the acres and acres of rolling farmland it controlled. The houses and buildings of the city spiraled up the mountain, and some were even beneath it in the district where most of the dwarves and goblins lived. At the very top of the mountain was the royal palace, five spires rising from the squat square building with flags flowing from the top of them.

Within those walls, Sir Reginault had called the squires to assemble. He was a tall, thin man with graying hair and a long beard. He always wore a dull red tunic with the symbol of the kingdom upon it, the head of a lion and a unicorn snarling at each other within a shield. As he strode out in front of the squires, Baldrin couldn't help but grin. He was pretty sure he knew what this would be about. Obviously, Osric was dead. He hadn't seen Volgin today, but the crazy bastard must have done it.

Where was Volgin anyway? Maybe he had been caught. Well that was fine, Baldrin knew Volgin wouldn't rat him out. The important part was that Osric was gone.

“Squires!” Sir Reginault said, striding out in front of them. “I have brought you today to give you two pieces of news. One somber, the other joyous.”

I don't know what you think the joyous news is old man,Baldrin thought with a sneer. But I bet they're both joyous for me.

“The somber news is that Squire Volgin is dead,” the old knight continued. “And worse. We have all known Volgin's nature was violent and erratic, and it seems last night his impulses got the best of him. He chose to attack another squire, with full intent to kill. But no matter his crimes, it is always sad when a squire falls. But in this case, we find reason to celebrate amidst this tragedy.”

Sir Reginault reached out a hand, and Osric walked out to join him at the front of the group. He wore a patch over one eye, but otherwise he seemed completely uninjured. Baldrin almost choked on his own tongue, and had to fight to keep from screaming a panicked denial. How? How could he possibly? What in the name of all the hells had happened?

“When Squire Volgin came to kill him,” Sir. Reginault said, “Squire Osric found within himself the power to resist. Though his opponent was a full stage above him, and Squire Osric was injured, in that moment of crisis he was able to form his own Motte, and counter his attacker blow for blow, emerging triumphant.

“This, young squires, is the spirit worthy of a knight. The spirit to rise to the occasion. To face a foe who outmatches you completely and refuse to give or bend. That in itself is the spirit of a knight. But Squire Osric went beyond that, and in his moment of danger found a road to victory! This is the path you must walk if you wish to become a true warrior. To seek true power. To become an asset that will defend the kingdom. When you are next faced with great difficulty or threat, cast your minds to Squire Osric.

“And now, we begin our daily drills. Do so with that warrior spirit in mind, young squires! Because starting today, I will be evaluating all of you. And the best performer from each training squire will be considered to receive special training. Keep this in mind as you train. Now go!”

Osric stood with Sir Reginault at the head of the group and let his uncovered eye wander over to his training cadre, and Baldrin. Baldrin looked ready to choke on his tongue, which brought a smile to Osric's lips. And he let himself smile, because why not? That was one of the wonderful things about plotting revenge against a wrong someone committed against you in secret. The only people who knew you were plotting revenge were the ones who deserved it. Of course when he was released to his training cadre, he was immediately surrounded by enemies.

Which was fine with him. By his estimation, there were only four of the eleven of them who still posed any kind of threat. The others still hadn't formed their Mottes, and he could have beaten them before he had his own. And since they were neither sparring, nor leaving the training grounds, he wasn't going to be fighting them today anyway. He ran around the field, attacked a couple of training dummies, and returned to his room.

Behind his back, he could feel Baldrin's glare trying to bore a hole into his neck. Osric just smiled. Baldrin wasn't a problem he could deal with. Not yet.

But it was time to clear up the problems he could deal with....