New environments have always been… challenging. There is always so much to absorb. So much to figure out. How does one move in this new space without attracting attention? Are there rules about holding one’s head relative to others to indicate social status? Does a smile mean “I am here to kill you” or “I am a potential friend?” I’ve stepped off boats and found myself in dangerous, deadly encounters because I chose the wrong greeting. I must understand if I am to tend to my… business without interference…

  Targrin did not take Lesy's advice about prioritising bathing. He had more pressing matters to attend to: recon.

  He began wandering the manor home, opening doors and peeking into rooms. A few servants called out to him as he did this, but he did not respond to them. He tried to find a washroom first, and he managed that within a few minutes. He moved over to the sink to peer into the mirror… and found he was too short. A small stool was tucked under the sink, clearly for this exact purpose, and he only cursed and grumbled for a few seconds before dragging it out and climbing up.

  This was precisely what he had anticipated. He was a boy, young, likely no older than ten. Pudgy but not fat, in the way well-fed children tended to be. Blond hair, which was getting a bit long. It was thin and fair, settling across his forehead and the tops of his ears. Most of this he’d already known, but the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks was a surprise. His eyes were bloodshot and hazel-coloured, matching Wulfric’s. He poked and prodded at his face, brows furrowed. No wonder Wulfric and Lesy had thought him somewhat odd. This expression, his usual resting dour face, a default stare that tended to intimidate those with lesser wills than his, looked positively ridiculous softened by baby fat.

  He tried to snarl, growling out a command at no one in particular, and he sounded like a boy playing pretend. There was a bit of a lisp in his words, the muscles and shape of his throat unaccustomed to such noise and tones. His lips were soft and a little too pouty for a grim sneer, and the tiny poke of an adult tooth growing in among his baby teeth ruined the full baring of his teeth that had sent armies running.

  “This is… challenging.” He said, forcing his muscles to relax and settle into a more natural rhythm. Whatever tones Eadrin had originally rolled out, he found the boy’s voice… that of a child. Of course it was. “Why… why would this happen?” He leaned over the sink, gripping its edge, white-knuckled, and pushed his face close to the mirror, staring into his own eyes, nose almost touching the glass. He focused on the dark points of his pupils—black on black—a void surrounded by swirls of brown, green, and red.

  A shell cracking open, a wet mass of albumen, the colour of twilight dripping from him. No, not dripping. It was him. Every drip was a little of himself falling away, splatting onto a gleaming, boiling white surface—marble, maybe? He screamed, pain causing the slime that he was to ripple… but it also focused him, and a drop that had begun to fall from his chin reversed direction and flew back up, rejoining the mass of himself.

  “Good…” The voice came from every direction. It vibrated up from the floor and rattled bones he wasn’t sure he still had. It made his slimy flesh ripple. “Pull yourself together, Targrin. You will need iron in your spine and blood to-”

  Targrin fell from the stool. Years upon years of training had him instinctively throwing his arms up and around his head, cradling the back of his skull just in time for him to hit the side of a claw-footed tub. His hands hit first, absorbing the impact, but still rattling him and laying curled up on the bathroom floor for a moment. These visions… they came every time he thought about before. It had happened once before, and with this second attempt, the guess was now a fact.

  He got up, kicked the stool back under the sink, and massaged his hands, thumbs digging into the sore, tender backs. At least his impact against the tub did not break anything.

  “Fine. I won’t ask questions… yet. I won't enquire further about that matter. Whoever or whatever did this to me, though? I will find you.” He pushed down his instinct to force his throat into a shape that would create deeper tones, letting Eadrin’s natural voice creep out, coloured only slightly by his own accent. “And you’ll regret doing this to me.” He stepped out of the bathroom and continued his exploration.

  ~

  A few more bedrooms. Up the stairs, and he found a study, empty but not dusty. He took stock of the faces of servants and guards. He did not know names, but he was forming a count at least. Then he found a large library on the second floor with a single occupant: a girl about Wulfric’s age, with dark, straight hair falling in sheets around her face. She didn’t notice his peeking; she seemed to be busy alternating between reading some large book and taking notes in a journal with a sharp-pointed quill. A sister or cousin, perhaps? He slipped back, shut the door silently, and moved on.

  Back downstairs, he passed through a large foyer with large double-wide windows blazing with light from the midday sun, and a giant door set between them. However, the chatter from a half-open door to the left of the exit caught Targrin’s attention. He crept up to the edge and heard two voices speaking.

  “—the cows. The damned things haven’t been producing milk, so we’re having to rely on our own, and Lesy has a stranglehold on it for dinner and for the boy’s breakfast.” This voice was a touch high, reedy, and partway through paused to take a sip from some drink.

  “If Eadrin is going to grow into anything even close to a proper man, he’ll need it.” This voice was gruff and heavy, and there was a slight… edge to it. This man had once had his throat slit, and it recovered… mostly. Scar tissue in the throat made one rasp unique.

  “He’ll make a fine man one day, I’m sure.”

  “Hmm.”

  The two voices fell silent, and Eadrin decided to be bold. He stepped around the door frame and into sight. At the same time, he spoke:

  “What’s wrong with the cows?”

  As he suspected, this was some sort of drawing room. Seated on either side of a small, round table were two men.

  One was a gangly man in his mid-forties. Soft and slightly round, he had a pair of thick lenses in metal frames perched on his nose. His hair was shorn close to his scalp, and some dark colour that Targrin couldn’t pick out with it this short. His eyes were dark brown. He was dressed in neat robes, lined with embroidered symbols and swirling patterns. They were tied around his waist with a thick sash.

  The other was around the same age, perhaps a bit older. Or he was younger but had lived a much harder life. His hair was mid-length and tied back into a short ponytail down his neck. His eyes were an intense, focused blue, and they snapped to Targrin with an instant focus. He had scars on his face and on his massive hands. He had well-made clothing, like the other man, but his were less ornamented. Thicker fabrics, sturdier lines. He had on large boots, and there was a sword leaning against the side of the comfortable armchair he was sitting in.

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  “Master Eadrin!” The first man said. That was the reedy one, of course. “Good to see you, boy. What was it you asked?”

  Targrin’s eyes narrowed, hands clasped behind his back as he stepped into the room. He did a circuit, looking over the furniture: the sofa, the bookshelf, and the serving table along the back where food and water and whatever else could be placed out of the way. The table between their chairs had a teapot, two cups and matching saucers, and a small service tray for the accoutrements necessary for tea.

  “You mentioned the cows. What is wrong with them?”

  “You heard that?” The other man grumbled and leaned forward slightly. “Were you eavesdropping, Eadrin?”

  “When two of my household’s servants talk loudly among themselves, right next to the main doors, and when a member of that household walks past and overhears, is that eavesdropping?”

  This long-winded, elegant rebuttal bounced in the space, and both men stared, silent and startled. After a few moments of silence, the first man laughed, clapping his hands sharply together.

  “Oh, Master Eadrin! You certainly have us there! Though I don’t think Master Cenric appreciates you calling him one of your servants!”

  The other man, Cenric it seemed, had sat up straight and was glaring at Eadrin, but Targrin schooled the boy’s features into a neutral, placid expression. He stared straight back into Cenric’s eyes. This… staring contest lasted for a few seconds before the other interrupted.

  “Careful! You two keep staring daggers at each other; someone will get hurt. It's most likely going to be me. Angry stares make me break out in hives.”

  This caught both of their attention, eyes snapping to the man.

  “What?” They said this in unison, then briefly glanced back at each other. The first man snickered.

  “There now. Master Eadrin, I’ll be happy to answer your question at our lessons. In fact, we could head up to the library right now if you wanted to get started early. I think Elva is still working on her assignment.”

  “That’s alright, Lucian.” Targrin said, interrupting the man. Lesy had mentioned his lessons, and now he had a face to match the name. The same for Cenric, the man who was, apparently, training him in swordsmanship. “I was going outside for a walk, first.”

  “Excellent, excellent! Have fun, Master Eadrin.”

  Targrin stepped back, out of the room, and then made a point of pulling the door shut with a snap. He then pressed his ear to the crease and heard, faintly:

  “How hard did you smack that boy around, Cen?”

  Targrin sneered, stepped back, and headed out the double doors.

  ~

  Targrin stepped out into the mid-afternoon sunlight, onto a lovely covered porch, staring south. He started far out, focusing on what he could see in the distance first. There were trees, mostly, surrounding him on almost all sides and blocking further view. However, the manor's location atop a slight hill allowed him to discern that the tree line was not particularly dense. There was something sculpted about these lands within the ring of trees, and he assumed that they’d hollowed out a modest wood and left the trees for lumber, firewood, and protection.

  There was a gap in this ring of trees, though. To the southwest, a wide cleared space revealed what was beyond the woods: farmland and rolling hills of green, clusters of trees, and then a larger stretch of woodland moving further into the distance. He could see a flash of blue, probably a river or lake. A road coming from the west led up through this gap, and it split in two right between the two ends of the horseshoe-like ring of wilderness. One road ran north, right along the inside of the ring of trees, while the other continued, curving slightly up and towards the manor. He could see a fence, made from thick logs banded together in iron, with a modest gatehouse covering the road.

  To the south of the manor, inside the ring of fence, was another modest thicket of trees, and another directly west of the manor. Surrounding the fence, were two small farms, gardens, and a green field, presumably for letting horses or cows graze.

  Targrin walked down the porch steps, onto the road, and set off towards the gatehouse. It didn’t take long for him to approach, and when he did he saw one guard sitting at their post, bouncing some small ball between their hands and a wall, keeping an eye on the road. They noticed Targrin, and called out, but he waved a hand, turned left, and followed the fence south, then east.

  There was a cleared patch in this southern wood, with a stable and a large dirt patch in front of it. Likely for breaking in horses, though this did not seem the kind of place that broke in their own. Tucked in the protection of the stable was a barrel with wooden weapons jutting from it: staves and swords. Another barrel held blunted weapons. He received his training here. The practice weapons, the wooden dummy tucked in a corner, the archery targets kept here so they were out of the rain, made sense. A two-wheeled cart sat next to the stable, with leather bridles and a hitch hanging inside out of the elements. Two horses were within the stable, and a young man, older than Wulfric but not by much, was tending to the animals. Another greeting was called, but Targrin continued on.

  He continued further, heading north up the fence line, and now, between the fence and the manor, he saw gardens of flowers, shrubs, berry bushes, and herbs. It was all artfully arranged more than functional. There were benches, an awning-protected table, and a small glass structure, barely ten feet on each side. A greenhouse.

  Around the fence, following it around to the north side, he saw that the second section of wood stretched right up to the fence. A second gatehouse, a second guard, protected the road as it curved around the manor and went north. He passed this gatehouse, the guard dozing comfortably at his post. The ornamental positions made it unlikely that anyone would come from this direction.

  On the outside of the fence, within the ring of trees, he could see a barn, farmland with various crops, and several more appropriately designed gardens. A modest cottage stood not far from the barn, likely for those whose charge it was to tend to the animals. It was a dawn-to-dusk, everyday kind of job, after all. This job encompassed not only the farm, but also the gardens and the woods. Likely the only servants who lived on the grounds were those in that farmhouse. He hadn’t seen any rooms in the manor that implied a servant…

  Targrin was not a farmer. He’d never sought to be one. He was a warrior, a commander, and a killer of men. His hands could tease a song from steel and flesh, not plants from soil and fertile ground. Still, he could see the signs of a lovingly, well-tended land. He stood, peering through the gaps between the fence’s logs, and then marched back into the woods to the west of the manor. He’d come out of these woods, slightly disoriented from his first ‘attack,’ with Wulfric steering him by the shoulder. He could see the door that led into the kitchens on the north side of the manor. Smaller gardens were clustered around it, presumably to make gathering herbs easier.

  The trees were clustered together a little haphazardly, either naturally left behind when they’d cleared the wood for these grounds, the farms, and the pasture, or allowed to regrow after the space was cleared. They were tall, twisting, and gnarled. Moss and lichen grew on exposed roots that churned the ground, and bushes filled the span between trees. There was a narrow walking path through the wood, but it was not a game trail. He heard the occasional flutter of motion in the bushes and the trilling of birds above him, but he saw no sign of anything like a deer or other animal. Could it be rabbits, foxes, or even wild cats? He didn’t particularly care, but if these people could stock game here, it meant they were far wealthier than the small number of servants he’d seen implied.

  He entered the clearing he’d been napping in, or that Eadrin had been napping in, before Wulfric had found him… But it wasn't empty. That girl, Elva, the tutor Lucian had said, was standing in the space, staring down at where Targrin had awoken some two hours ago.

  She looked over her shoulder, hair sweeping about in a sharp wave, and fixed him with an intense, unblinking stare.