Sir Reginault had only run them through some basic drills, and even though he'd increased the difficulty level some for Osric—increased weight to carry, increased repetitions, that kind of thing—it had still been far easier than any day of training Osric had been through before. In fact it was too easy. He wondered if the problem was how few people in the kingdom had formed a motte. Thinking back on it, it made sense to train people who had just formed their Motte alongside people who hadn't yet, if your goal was to create as many warriors as possible with Mottes. It would spur the slower learners to action faster, if they had to compete with people one stage above.

After training, sitting at a desk, the question became what he was going to do now. He was confident there would be no more assassination attempts, not for a little while. It was much too soon after the first two attacks. The first could be pinned on the nameless bandits, the second was laid at the feet of a dead man people knew to be violent and mentally unstable. A third could only be the result of a conspiracy, and people would take notice.

This was very bad luck.

Osric needed to whittle through his attackers as fast as possible. Saying it was too inconvenient for his attackers to try anything now was the same thing as saying they got to choose the pace of the conflict. He needed to take control, and put his enemies off balance again, while they were still reeling from the fact of his survival.

He put his hand to the patch over his eye, and looked over to the mirror hanging on the wall.

The squires without Motte or Bailey lived in barracks downstairs, but since he had formed a Motte he was entitled to his own room in the castle. He had requested the room in which he had convalesced. He had also requested ownership of the mirror, which he had been granted. After all it was just a mirror.

If anyone in the castle had known of the mirror's powers, someone would have intervened to stop it. Even if his doings weren't important enough for someone powerful to keep track of, the mirror would be if anyone knew about it's powers. Which made it very possible that the last person in the palace to know about the mirror's abilities was his mother. She had tried to make use of the mirror's power somehow, and failed.

Something to keep in mind as he pressed forwards. The mirror still hadn't spoken to him again, but he hadn't forgotten a single one of his words. Whatever his mother had attempted, his cultivation was still too low to do the same. But that didn't mean the powers of the mirror he had access too weren't dangerous enough on their own. He shouldn't trust them...unfortunately, as his search for revenge got more dangerous, he would need to rely on them.

“Hey!” Polly said, coming up behind him with a tray of steaming food and placing it on the desk. “Your first official meal after gaining your Motte!”

“I ate twice today,” Osric said.

“But this is your first official meal,” Polly said. “They put medicinal herbs and cultivation powders in it for you now. A lot changes once you have your Motte.”

He took a sniff. Now that she mentioned it, it did smell better than what he was being fed before. And there was a certain sense of ether to it he associated with cultivation resources.

“Well thank you,” he said.

“What are you working on?” She asked, gesturing to the empty piece of paper.

“Oh just a little something to pay back the people who helped me get where I am,” Osric said.

“So it's for me?” Polly grinned.

“I'll do something a little more special for you,” he smiled back. He really did owe Polly, and for a lot more than just helping him out when he was injured. “The only problem is, it's a lot of writing to do all at once, and it's mostly copying...”

“Well there's a technique,” Polly said. “It's a scholar's technique, not a warriors, but I've seen some of the higher ranking knight's use it for battle reports and things. Something about infusing your mana into the ink as you write, so it's essence passes through the paper. You can write a whole stack of reports at once that way. Maybe you could get one of them to teach you.”

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Osric nodded. He hadn't tried much more than the most basic use of his Mana yet. Mana was the power he could actually use. If Ether was the soil of the soul from which he built his Motte, then the crop was mana. Smoother, more fluid power he could actually use. He'd used it to empower his muscles when he battled Volgin, but other than that...

He focused on the soft cool power flowing from his Motte, dipped his quill in ink, and lowered it to the paper. At the time, he felt his mirrored eye respond, tingling in response to the intent he meant to put his energy.

This technique resonated with his mirror.

He didn't write a word yet, just drew a small swirling shape. But when he finished, and thumbed through the paper, the design was replicated perfectly. And wasn't that a property of mirrors? To duplicate things? This simple scholar's technique was in line with his new abilities. Interesting. He would need to think about that more.

“You picked that up quick!” Polly said, looking at the papers.

“It does seem to suit me,” Osric said thoughtfully. He warned himself to be careful. Any power that came from the mirror, however minor, was potentially dangerous.

“And now you say....?”

“What?”

She slapped him on the back of the head.

“Oh! I mean thanks Polly, this is a big help.”

“Good! You may have a Motte now but I've still known you since before we could walk. Good luck with your writing, I have other duties to attend to.”

Polly walked off, and Osric went back to work on his papers.

Later that night, Osric waited in the forest just outside the city. He stood in plain view on the upright portion of a fallen tree's trunk, elevated above the clearing below and silhouetted in the moonlight. A sword he'd claimed from the palace armor hung at his back. His eyes were closed, but his mystical senses were spread out across the forest around him. He opened his eyes as a figure stepped into the clearing.

Squire Telithel. An elf, tall and slender, with flowing blonde hair and his own sword on his back.

“Squire Osric!” Telithel declared. “Motte or no Motte, the insult you have delivered cannot go unanswerd. I will kill you this day, and I will...”

“Squire Osric!” Someone began shouting from the other side of the clearing. “Motte or no motte, the insult you have delivered cannot go unanswered. I will kil you this day, and...”

“Hey, wait, what's up?”

“Telithel, what are you doing here?”

“Tenric? I'm here to kill this arrogant cur! He sent me the most insulting letter of challenge I've ever read in my entire life!”

“The same here! He sent me a letter!”

“He sent us both letters? What's going on?”

“Squire Osric! Motte or no Motte, the insult you have delivered...”

“Give it up Kemrin, we did that part already.”

“Telithel? Tenric? What are you...”

“We got letters of challenge.”

“Me too!”

“This has to be some kind of trick.”

“I mean obviously, but what could he possibly...”

“Squire Osric! Motte or no Motte, the insult hey there certainly are a lot of people here...”

“You too Pelwort?”

“Wait, did you all get letters of challenge too?”

“We did! This little prick is--”

“Squire Osric!”

“Oh no not again!”

“What are you all doing here!?”

“We got letters of challenge to.”

“Just what the hell is going on?”

“If I knew that I'd tell you!”

“So how about we...”

“Squire Osric! Motte or wait what are you doing here!?”

“Squire Osric! Motte or wait what are you doing here!?”

“Both of you shut up! We all got challenge letters, nobody knows what's going on!”

Osric finally allowed himself a chance to laugh. His laughter cut through the bickering, and the seven other squires assembled in the clearing turned angry glares in his direction.

“You did this,” One of them accused.

“Of course I did,” Osric chuckled. “I'm sure even you morons can figure out what's going on.”

“Of course we can!” Telithel snarled. “You've called out all the squires who don't have a Motte yet to kill us all at the same time.”

“Do you really think you can take all of us at once?” Squire Peltworth demanded.

“I was almost ready to take all of you at once before,” Osric said. “You all only beat me because you took me by surprise, and had five people with Mottes backing you up. And that was before I had a Motte of my own.”

“You arrogant little...”

“So while I do intend to kill you,” he continued, “first I'm going to ask you some questions. I think the most obvious one is why? Why was I worth all the trouble? I may not have liked any of you very much, but what was the point in killing me?”

“No one's going to answer your questions!”

“Someone will,” Osric shrugged. “When I've whittled your numbers down some I bet whoever's left will become more talkative.”

“A Motte doesn't make you an immortal!” Squire Tenric said. “One of us will bring you down.”

“Every single one of you gentlemen is welcome to try and prove it,” Osric said.

The squires ran and leaped in his direction, and Osric drew his sword to meet them.