The Master’s Illness

1587-11-20
Fechtschule, Maraisbourg

For days Master Merryen grew pale. At first we blamed the weight of pupils and printwork, then the cough began to ring between the pillars. His hand shook when he lifted the waster. He laughed and asked for more wine. The laugh did not steady the blade.

He would set a drill, then lean against the wall as if listening for a cue that did not come. Sweat stood on his brow during a simple bind. We traded worried looks and fixed our stances harder than usual, as if good structure could prop a failing body.

I had never thought a man who moved like that could be touched by anything but steel. No rival cut him. No thrust marked him. It was an illness without edge, an attack you could not parry.

In the evenings I sat by the Fechtschule window and played quiet winter tunes. The ashfast brazier glowed with a thin, clean flame. Someone murmured a prayer that did not belong to any guild. We could only watch and wait. The hall felt larger when he left it to rest. Even masters are mortal.