Kirt Morgana, the privileged son of a knight, has failed every test and squandered every chance. To his surprise, however, heâs given a missionâretrieve a box, locked and guarded in a fortified tower. But everything goes wrongâŚand heâs the one to blame. Reeling from his failure, he begins a desperate quest to find the Time Warden.
Lucia âLukeâ Durand spends her lonely days guarding a tower. Whateverâs inside doesnât seem worth protectingâŚuntil now. Without warning, her castle is attacked, rekindling embers of a war long over. She succeeds in protecting the tower, but the invaders kill her brother, the only person sheâs ever cared about. Even more broken than before, she runs away on a quest for revenge.
When their paths cross, Kirt and Luke realize they can both get what they want if they work together. Not knowing that each was the catalyst of the otherâs problems, they begin their journey across the kingdom. As the two form a bond of friendship, the truth of their entwined pasts bubbles closer to the surfaceâbut if they can find the Time Warden, maybe they can fix more than their own broken lives. Maybe they donât have to be enemies after all.
Kirt Morgana, the privileged son of a knight, has failed every test and squandered every chance. To his surprise, however, heâs given a missionâretrieve a box, locked and guarded in a fortified tower. But everything goes wrongâŚand heâs the one to blame. Reeling from his failure, he begins a desperate quest to find the Time Warden.
Lucia âLukeâ Durand spends her lonely days guarding a tower. Whateverâs inside doesnât seem worth protectingâŚuntil now. Without warning, her castle is attacked, rekindling embers of a war long over. She succeeds in protecting the tower, but the invaders kill her brother, the only person sheâs ever cared about. Even more broken than before, she runs away on a quest for revenge.
When their paths cross, Kirt and Luke realize they can both get what they want if they work together. Not knowing that each was the catalyst of the otherâs problems, they begin their journey across the kingdom. As the two form a bond of friendship, the truth of their entwined pasts bubbles closer to the surfaceâbut if they can find the Time Warden, maybe they can fix more than their own broken lives. Maybe they donât have to be enemies after all.
Since the day he disgraced his family, Kirt Morgana wanted to be more than what he was.
But the night that opportunity showed its face, all he really wanted to do was take a nice, long nap.
Of course, at the moment, it was not a good time for sleeping.
Rain spattered down from the heavens, accomplishing nothing but soaking him through and chilling him to the bone. Gasping for breath, he shuffled backward on the wet stones and tried to keep up with his opponentâs sword. His arm began to give out. âPlease,â he sputtered, swiping the rain out of his eyes.
Kirt had never been a good fencer. He knew the man in front of him was just toying, and he could do nothing about it. Any moment, his opponent would get bored and break through his meager defenses.
The man lunged, and Kirtâs feet slipped as he tried to retreat. The blade rammed into his chest.
He gave a soft oof and fell backward, squelching in the pools of mud oozing from tufts of grass thatâd grown in the cracks.
âThat was terrible,â said Gilbert Prellis, straightening up and lowering the tip of his sword to the wet cobblestones.
Kirt scowled at his instructor, rubbing his chest. Even through the heavy chain mail, he could only get hit so many times without bruising. âWell, Master Prellis, perhaps if we werenât fencing in the rain during the middle of the night, for the sunsâ sakeââ
âWatch your language,â Prellis snapped. Kirt swallowed and glanced at the manâs wrist, where his sunmark glistened in the moonlit rain. Along with the purple warriorâs shield on his left arm, he had earned his second line on his right, marking him as a master of craft.
âJust because you have no respect for the sunsâ ancient rituals does not mean you can go flouncing about with such arrogance.â
Kirt shrank back, biting down any angry outburst. I should be used to this by now, he thought, and his left wrist seemed to prickle. But why must everyone remind him?
âEn garde,â Master Prellis ordered, taking his position.
The rain poured down harder, echoing off the castle walls around them. Theyâd been at this for hoursâKirt had missed supper, he was covered in mud, and his whole body was exhausted.
âPlease, Master Prellis,â he begged, his cheeks flushing despite the cold. He simply couldnât take it anymore. One more bout and his arm would fall off.
The solid, mustached man straightened. He stood stoically for a moment, then gestured to the left with his sword. âWell, go on then.â
He shook his head in disgust as Kirt scrambled to his feet. âIf Aidas had shown that kind of indecent excuse for swordsmanship, why, Iâd have thrown him out of my classroom. Youâre lucky your father wasnât here to see that.â
Kirt gritted his teeth as he reentered the shelter of the tower, pulling off his chain mail and surcoat. Theyâd been practicing in the wide courtyard of the upper bailey, away from the warmth of the central keep. The swordmaster had claimed part of the adjoining tower as his own, and over the years it had become its own small armory.
Kirt knew where everything was, even in the dark. Unfortunately, this wasnât his first fencing lesson that had dragged on into the night.
He yanked off his leather gauntlets with a little more force than necessary. Of course, Aidas Juska would have done it better. His replacement was marvelous at everything, according to every one of Kirtâs teachers. Even the villagers and castle staff agreed.
Aidas, such a nice boy. Brilliant at weapons, too.
Aidas, raised on the streetsânow fit to be a proper heir, can you believe it?
Aidas, so much more cunning and reliable than that other boy. An utter disgrace, your son. Donât know why you keep him on, Sir Kay.
Why his father continued Kirtâs lessons was as much a mystery to him as anyone else. Kirt wished he didnât. It only served as a reminder of how short he fell, how much he could have hadâŚhow much heâd lost the night of his sunmark ceremony.
Kirt walked briskly through one of the many passages connecting the castleâs rooms and towers. It was dim, the lamps flickering cozily as the rain outside sloshed down. Ornate portraits and tapestries laced the stone walls as he entered the keep, located at the center of the castle complex.
Right now, the goal was to get to bed. And maybe snag a bit of food in the meantime.
âYoung Master,â a brisk voice called. âA word.â
Kirt forced a smile as Ephram, the castle steward, strode into view, consulting a bit of paper. âSir Kay and Lord Humphrey wish to have you at a private meeting tonight.â
âTonight?â Kirt managed. If he stayed up much longer, it would be morning. âWhat did I do this time?â
Ephramâs old eyes looked weary. âThis is a good meeting, I believe. You are to be in his lordshipâs study as soon as you can. I suggest you get cleaned up beforehand.â
âThank you, Ephram.â
âJust donât be late.â
As he sprinted off toward his rooms, Kirtâs mind whirled.
What could they possibly want him for, at this hour? Honestly, what could they possibly want him for at all?
As he closed the door to his rooms, he grimaced. What if they were going to discuss relations with Issanet Fief? The arranged marriage between him and Lady Ahsa was still a bit of a sore spot between Kirt and his father.
But surely any discussion of his imminent betrothal could wait until the morning.
Kirt groaned as he sat on the bed to peel off his sweaty, muddy stockings, wishing he could sleep. However, he dutifully headed to the wardrobe to change, grabbing a fresh shirt and clean trousers, putting on his jerkin, and re-lacing his leather boots. His fingers ran through his mop of dark hair, still wet from the rain outside. He hoped it would at least look presentable.
Kirt couldnât think of anything heâd done recently to get into serious trouble, or anything heâd done at all to earn praise from Sir Kay. More often than not, he was being scolded for not doing things instead of doing them wrong.
Half the time he spent âdawdlingâ or âdodging responsibility,â he had shut himself in the library and was copying illustrations from old books. To his fatherâs dismay, drawing seemed to be the only thing he was good at. No matter how many times he got in trouble, Kirt knew heâd always go back and get out his inks again.
He hated himself for thinking that the stupid hobby would ever be of any use, especially when Sir Kay had spent so much of Kirtâs life preparing him for something else. Something more.
Whether he wanted to or not, Kirt had always assumed he would become a knight. For years, heâd prepared to serve his country and King Aloyzas, eventually taking his fatherâs place at Lord Humphreyâs side as his vassalâthe commander of the castle guard and protector of Piddiran Fief.
Now, though, it would take a miracle for him to be knighted.
Kirt looked down at his arm. For everyone else over the ages of twelve or thirteen, the left wrist held a sunmarkâlike a purple warriorsâ shield or a green craftsmanâs coin.
But his skin had been marred with burns that sprawled up his inner wrist like tendrils of smoke. The scars were too elegant and calculated to be from a normal fire.
He rubbed his right thumb over the bit of scarring poking out from his sleeve. It was a bit bumpy, like a normal burn, but otherwise it had none of the regular symptoms one might expect from an injury like it. Apart from the day heâd gotten them, the burns had caused him no pain and no limited use of his arm. It was like they were there to be seen, and nothing else.
A reminder. A permanent one.
He shook his head, pulling his sleeve over his wrist and heading out the door. Sir Kay and Lord Humphrey were probably running out of patience by now.
He traveled up the large staircase that led to the keepâs upper floors, counting each step as he went. By the time he reached Humphreyâs office, Kirt was out of breath. His legsâalready sore from fencingâached in protest, but he straightened and knocked on the large door.
âEnter,â came the noblemanâs voice.
Kirt fumbled with the brass handle and stepped into the room.
A few candles and a hearth burned with a cozy orange light. The pattering rain hissed against the ceiling, and a cold draft from outside seeped in through the tall glass window. As he walked up to the table planted in the middle of the room, Kirt tried not to pinch and fiddle with his thumbs. Sir Kay strongly disliked the nervous habit, and now was not the time to upset him.
Lord Humphrey sat at one end, with Sir Kay at the other, hunched over several sketches and documents.
The nobleman had sharp facial features, with a thin nose and an angular jawline that gave him a strikingly youthful look. Wiry auburn hair adorned his head and chin, thinning but combed over elegantly. He was probably around Fatherâs age, but Kirt had never asked.
Humphrey was one of the six lords of Kalniva. He had been appointed after his father died in the war to oversee Piddiran Fief. Unlike rulers of the more agriculturally-centered fiefs, he mostly worked with merchants and craftsmen. He was one of the kingâs official ambassadors and had been a general in the warâbut he was also Sir Kayâs best friend. The two men had long since abandoned formal titles and procedures when in serious conversation.
Kirtâs manners, however, werenât excused from the proper requirements.
âYouâre late,â said Sir Kay, not looking up from the map he was studying.
âApologies, Father,â Kirt mumbled. âMilord.â He gave a quick bow to Lord Humphrey.
âAh, our young artist.â Humphreyâs tone was amicable, but Kirtâs ears burned at the words. âWe were needing your help here, lad.â
âOf course, sir. What do you want me to do?â
Sir Kay shoved a large piece of paper over to his son, handing him a pen. âA castleâwide and along a river.â
Lord Humphrey leaned forward, his sharp eyes scanning the map in his hands. âPinpoint a tower in the upper bailey.â
Glancing at the other sketches lining the table, Kirt dipped the pen into the inkwell Humphrey offered him. All the maps had been drawn from a birdâs-eye view, looking over a long castle bordering a river flowing northeast to southwest, labeled the Grie. A large town clustered just south of the castle.
Kirt paused, his pen hovering above the paper. The Grie River was a tributary of the larger Bynus River, which flowed across the entirety of Kalniva. Only one fief had a castle anywhere near it. Or, at least, a castle as large as this oneâCalarian Fiefâs capital, Kelding.
Still, he didnât ask. Perhaps they would have answered Aidas, but Kirt didnât trust himself enough to toe the line.
Whatever they were up to, it would be better if he wasnât involved.
Kirt sketched out an enlarged version of the small tower in the upper bailey, scribbling over the lines as the nobleman demanded adjustments.
âA bit bigger than that. No, extend it more to the north. Itâs three stories. Can you work that in from this angle?â
Kirt did a sort of half-nod, half-shrug. Of course, he could change the angle a bit, but he wasnât here to show off.
A strange feeling tugged at him. The castle staff had its own professional mapmakers and artists. Why would these two high-ranking men ask him to play cartographer?
Maybe this was being kept secret. Perhaps they didnât want prying eyes pouring over their plans.
Someone else might have felt honored to be trusted with Lord Humphreyâs secrets, but Kirt knew it was because no one would listenâlet alone believe himâif he divulged any information.
He dipped the pen again and added some shading. When he was finished, he double-checked to make sure it matched the other blueprints. The drawing had been hastily done, so it was sketchy, but it looked rather good next to Humphreyâs maps.
Kirt smothered a small smile.
At least heâd done something well.
âVery nice, lad. Splendid.â The nobleman nodded as he put the drawing in the pile.
Sir Kay merely pulled out a new diagram, an interior map that looked suspiciously like dungeons. Kirt swallowed, preparing to leave.
His fatherâs impenetrable black eyes met his for the first time. âThis is very important, so listen carefully.â
Kirtâs mouth went dry.
Sir Kay was, in a word, intimidating. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he had always excelled in weaponry and military strategy. Gray lines were beginning to appear amid the black in his neat, trimmed beard, but his iron character had never wavered.
Kirtâs father was the perfect candidate for a warriorsâ sunmark. He was trusted. Admired. Respected. His enemies feared him, and his allies prized him.
The same could not be said for his wayward son.
Kirt, in his own way, was a spitting image of his father. But he was thinner, his ears stuck out more, and his eyes were wide and brownâjust like his motherâs, as everyone said.
âHere, lad,â said Lord Humphrey. âBring up a chair. This particular bit of news may be a littleâŚstartling to you.â
Kirt swallowed again, sitting in the chair Humphrey offered him. âWith all due respect, milordâŚâ He hesitated. âThere must be some mistake. Donât you want Aidas instead?â
Sir Kay made a small noise in the back of his throat. âDo as you are told, Kirt,â he snapped. âHis lordship does not make mistakes easily.â
Kirtâs ears burned and he looked down at the table. âOf course. Iâm sâI mean, my apologies.â
âNot to worry,â said the nobleman. âAnd no, lad. This concerns you, not young Mr. Juska.â He studied him carefully. âItâs aboutâŚyour mother, actually.â
Kirt's eyes widened, and he looked up. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, âBy the suns, have you found her?â
Lord Humphrey winced. Sir Kay closed his eyes in a grimace.
He snapped his mouth shut. âSorry,â he muttered. âPardon theâŚlanguage.â
Still, excitement thrummed through him.
No one knew what battle of the civil war Jone Morgana had perished in. Battlefields had records, of course, but dozens were scattered across the country, and none that theyâd visited had carried her name in their list of casualties.
And besides, the whole thing was all a bitâŚcontroversial.
Kirtâs mother had died fighting for the wrong sideâif there had even been right and wrong sides.
The civil war had been over for eight years, but the heavy losses were still widely felt in this small country. The king had done his best to put the army and economy back together, but nothing had ever been the same.
Especially without Kirtâs mother.
Sir Kay had never really recovered, and Kirtâs sunmark ceremony hadnât exactly helped things. But maybe Humphrey finally found her name on the casualty lists. Maybe this could end his fatherâs grieving.
âWe did not find Dame Joneâs name on any battlefield records,â Humphrey said.
Kirtâs heart sank.
The nobleman leaned closer. âWe found her on a list of survivors.â
The floor seemed to drop from under his feet. âWhat?â he stammered, gripping the table. He looked at his father, his heartbeat sounding loud in his ears.
âCalarian,â was all Sir Kay said. He sat rigid, looking tenser than Kirt had ever seen him. The broken shadow that haunted Kirtâs fatherâs eyes had ebbed away. It had been replaced by something that looked dangerously close to hope.
Humphreyâs sharp face twisted into a smile. âTell me, lad. How do you feel about sieging a castle?â
Kirt Morgana was destined to be a knight, following in his father's footsteps. But the day he should have received his mark, something went wrong; and so did his life. Meanwhile, Luke Durand had dreams of being a warrior, but when her parents perished in the war, she and her brother, Sid, were left with their debts. With no other options, she was drafted to guard a strange box for twelve hours a day in a lonely tower. She hates her job and wants nothing more than to be allowed some form of freedom. When Kirt is secretly tasked with retrieving this mysterious box, he fails dramatically, and in his shame, he remembers stories told to him when he was a youngster. Somewhere in the north, is a Time Warden; someone who can turn back time, giving him the chance to prove his worth. When Luke discovers her brother is missing in the fire resulting from Kirt's fief's attack, she heads north with revenge in her heart.
The Time Warden seems to take aspects from British folk lore - particularly Arthurian myths and legends. There are regular curses to Myrddin - which is typically the Welsh form of Merlin - as well as dialect such as aye, lad and lass. That Kirt's father is Sir Kay, and that he lives in (and Luke protects) a castle with a motte and bailey just compounds that Medieval mythology has clearly been an inspiration for Barth.
What makes The Time Warden so compelling isn't just the well written prose and easy dialogue between the teenaged characters. It's not just the humour that's woven into the lines along with the characterisation and their genuine emotions, either. Although they're certainly enough to keep the reader fully engaged and entertained throughout. The story line, sub plots and tropes are clearly the creation of a unique mind; not to mention the detailed and extensive research of Arthurian Legends. All of the former points add up to what is honestly a brilliant Young Adult Fantasy story but when you add the fact that Barth is the same age as her lead characters into the equation, you're in for a surprisingly mature read.
There is one criticism, however. At times, Barth seems to slip away from the world she's painstakingly crafted by using slang and slightly sloppy language within the main prose. The reader is transported away from the fantasy with a bump, remembering that this isn't a far-away-land in the Middle Ages, but is simply a work of fiction, from a young (albeit talented) writer. If she could avoid using words such as 'gotten' and 'screwed up' in the prose, one could fully believe that The Time Warden was written by a much older author. In dialogue, those kind of words are fine - they express characterisation and dialect. Admittedly, I'm being picky, but it allows Barth some room to grow. And I, for one, cannot wait to see what she's got in store next.
S. A.