Firebrand 4: The Spellslinger, page 2
Martel placed the hand on the table. "I did promise we'd do it no harm."
Master Fenrick laughed a little. "I'd be surprised if we could. You feel its presence, I assume? This is magic beyond us."
"You mean, magic of the soul? Or mind?" The acolyte thought back on his lessons about Archean mages and their mastery of those arts.
"Not even that. I've dealt with Archean artefacts, and even their magic pales in comparison to this. No, my boy, somehow, this hand is infused with power we cannot even begin to understand." He pointed at a feather pen. "Write down what I tell you."
Martel smiled and took hold of the writing instrument, finding some parchment as well. "Yes, master."
Meanwhile, his teacher stretched out his own hand towards the artefact, and a pulse of magic could be felt. "Write this down. Immune to Asterian magic, much like if the hand was still part of a living creature." As Martel did so, Master Fenrick rummaged around until he found a piece of parchment with a rune upon it, which he placed by the hand. "Her." The symbol activated, but nothing else happened. The hand remained motionless. "Immunity to Tyrian runes as well. At least, those containing physical magic."
Dutifully, Martel scribbled down every word spoken.
"I wonder what effect gold might have…" Master Fenrick searched through his drawers. Finally, he dug out the golden chain that Martel recalled he once brought to class. The Master of Lore wrapped the chain around the hand and fingers; the acolyte shuddered a little at seeing him pick up and handle the severed limb. "Do you feel any difference in the artefact's presence?"
Martel reached out with his magic. "Maybe? Hard for me to tell."
"I thought I did, but aye, not easy to know. If that were the case, though, if gold has less of a suppressing effect on this kind of power, that would be a great discovery." Master Fenrick scratched his beard. "Most interesting. Are you writing this down?"
"Yes, master." He hurried to comply.
TWO
HANDING IT OVER
Solday morning, Martel made his way to the workshops for his recurring chore. At this point, as he and the other students arrived, they did not wait for Master Jerome to appear and assign them work. Everyone simply moved to the same station they had commanded last, which for Martel meant the laboratory.
As he entered, he noticed that the tools and ingredients for the fire pots still lay on one of the worktables; Master Jerome had told him not to bother removing them when he finished his lesson yesterday. He had not made much progress; either he failed to infuse the mixture with magic, meaning nothing happened, or he did it too fast, making it catch on fire before he could close the jar and interrupt the ignition process.
He was just about to start his work when Master Jerome entered. "Not so fast, my young spark. No ink-making for you."
"Alright." Martel stood up again. "Where should I go?"
"Here." The artificer grinned seeing the acolyte's confusion, but his expression quickly became serious again. "Until you've learned how to enchant those little fire spitters, I want you to use this bell on Soldays to practice." He gestured towards the table with the pitch and oil.
"Really?" It did not sound like the Lyceum to grant Martel deliverance from his chores; or rather, it did not sound like the headmaster, and given their last conversation, he did not imagine the overseer was inclined to grant him favours either.
"Yes. Once you're on the field, there might come a moment where you've exhausted your magic and you need a last spell. Having one in a jar will be handy. So a little more time for you to practise this craft won't hurt." He gave a wry smile. "I've got other workers who can make ink."
Martel felt a little touched. As with Master Alastair teaching him extra lessons, it was good to know that people cared about him. "Thank you."
The artificer inclined his head in reply. "Now, get to it. Enchantment won't learn itself."
In the afternoon, Martel met with Eleanor as they had agreed to continue their studies into Tyrian runes, searching for something to help her sister. For now, it was slow and laborious work pouring through tomes, noting mentions and descriptions of any magic that seemed to affect the mind.
Looking up from his current book, Martel glanced over at Eleanor. "I am happy to keep investigating, but wouldn't it be easier if we found a bard first, who could tell us about the magic? Rather than us searching in the dark."
"I thought of that."
Of course she had.
"Of those I could find in Morcaster, none had such an ability. They both claimed it was beyond them. Skálds with such power rarely leave Tyria, they claimed, and I would have to send for them specifically. Which would require quite a sum of gold that my father must pay."
"And he won't pay unless you can convince him it's worth it."
She nodded a little. "I asked Master Fenrick as well, but he didn't know for certain if skálds can heal the mind the way they can confuse it. Which is not sufficient for my father. Hence our continued reading."
Accepting this, Martel returned his attention to his book, turning the next leaf.
Morning and afternoon duties complete, a final obligation awaited Martel in the evening. With a familiar bundle under his arm, walking swiftly to escape the strange looks that the presence of the artefact seemed to draw, Martel left the Lyceum.
The Keeper awaited him at their usual spot, and Martel handed over the relic. He felt odd for a moment that nobody in the tavern seemed interested at all until he remembered that to these people, it was just some dirty rags. And if they knew what lay inside, he doubted they would be interested in a severed hand. So strange to feel its presence so powerfully while those around him were clueless.
"Thanks. Just to avoid the trouble that revealing a disembodied limb might cause, I won't unpack it here, but I trust our five-fingered friend has not been damaged?"
"I don't think we could if we wanted to. Not that we tried, obviously," Martel quickly added. "You'll find it as good as new – for a hand three centuries old, anyway."
The Keeper gave a satisfied smile. "Good. Whatever anybody was trying to accomplish, I believe they have been thwarted. The Pact remains in effect as ever, protecting my humble self and now also you. The Friar will spread the word immediately. Every Ninth Lord is responsible for protecting you on their territory. Any thug giving you trouble, they won't live to regret it."
Reassuring, though Martel could have used that last fiveday. At least now, between the Lyceum and the Pact, he ought to be safe. "But you still don't know who employed the Silver Serpents to steal it in the first place, right? What's to stop them from trying again? You don't even know for sure what they were trying to accomplish."
"Searching for that answer will keep me busy," the Keeper admitted. "But such plots are not easily instigated. The resources spent to acquire the wardstone, bringing the islanders here and supplying them, along with actually paying them, it all adds up. Perhaps not a huge cost for a Ninth Lord to bear, but with nothing to show for it, they might be a little more cautious about trying again."
"Ruby is probably going to find out," the mage considered. She had quite the advantage, given she had someone to question. "You may want to follow her trail rather than seek your own."
"Perhaps. But that's my headache. I won't trouble you further on this," the jester-like fellow said.
Martel got the sense this was not spoken out of concern for his time, but rather, as a manner of concluding their business. Which suited him fine. "I suppose we're done, in that case. Enjoy your hand."
"Pleasure working with you, Master Martel."
THREE
GOLDEN MEMORIES
In the Circle of Fire, the acolytes continued practising fighting with and against gold-edged blades. By now, the other students seemed to have gotten the grasp of it as well; Martel figured they would move on to something else soon, so he tried to enjoy the easy lessons while he could. Intercepting a fire bolt with his weapon, Martel smiled as he disabled the attack and lunged forward afterwards, though he did not connect. He could not quite see how he would ever need the skill to fight with a golden weapon; it was only useful against another mage, and even if Martel found himself in a situation where his own magic could not be used, he still needed to actually own such a mage killing blade to make use of it.
His line of thoughts stirred a memory. Perhaps because he had been so focused on first Flora and afterwards finding the relic, but now he recalled holding such a weapon before his lessons with Moira; the dead feeling of the knife in his hand, like holding a cold and limp fish. The events of his attack at the market lay hazy in his mind; he could not recall the timespan between the guards arriving and finding himself in a bed at the Lyceum. Yet the actual fight remained clear to him; getting stabbed and retaliating with a spell to grievously wound the islander. After that... he picked up the weapon, Martel finally remembered. What had happened to it?
Searching his memories, he recalled seeing it in Master Alastair's hand, but nothing more. He would have to ask his teacher. After all, that weapon belonged to him as spoils of war; and if he ever did find himself in a situation where such a blade would be useful, now was the time to get it back.
Someone gave him an elbow, a little more forcefully than necessary to gain his attention. "If you can pull your head out of the clouds, hand it over," Harriet told him with a mocking tone.
Looking around, Martel saw Moira waiting for him to return the blade in his hand; she wore a disdainful smirk, typical for her. Martel gave the weapon back and quickly left the Circle of Fire, counting down the days until he was done with this school.
Once done with lessons, Martel went out. It was already late, so he would have to be quick about his visits and get back. But the next days would be equally busy with classes, and he did not want to postpone seeing Sparrow any longer. He was responsible for her magical education, sparse as it was; he did not want her to feel neglected.
On the way, he could also do a quick stop at Julia's. Martel had originally wanted to do some potions with Julia – he imagined she could use more sleep elixirs – but he lacked the time for the lengthy brewing process, so it would have to wait. Just a brief visit to ensure she was fine, lacking nothing; he had a handful of coins he could spare her if need be.
His intentions were for naught, as nobody answered his knock. Probably, she was out getting water or food, taking advantage of the darkness to avoid people. He would have to come back later this fiveday, Martel reasoned, turning around to leave the insula again.
Sparrow bit her lower lip in concentration as she slowly raised a mound of earth towards her outstretched hand. It lasted five breaths before it finally crumbled.
"Well done." Martel smiled and nodded to her as she looked at him proudly.
"I kept it going longer than yesterday, I'm sure of it," she claimed.
"I have no doubt. And it's a good exercise, even if it seems like you're just doing the same. You need to train up your spellpower."
"What's that?"
"It's like energy, but for spells. You know how you get tired after running, or you don't have much energy when you haven't eaten in a long while?"
"I can go without eating for a very long time," Sparrow assured him. "I'll still be faster than any old dumb guard running around in armour."
"Alright, I'm sure. My point is, you need to be rested to run well. But also, the more you practise running, the faster and longer you can run."
"What's that got to do with magic?"
"Well, casting spells also makes you tired. So you need to rest, sleep, to regain your strength. But you can also train your magical muscles, so to say, letting you cast more and more spells before you need to rest," Martel explained.
"Magical muscles," she giggled.
"Yes, 'spellpower' does sound better. Anyway, it's important that you practise how long you can keep a spell going. It'll train up your endurance. So, keep doing simple things like this, count your breaths, and measure your improvement."
"Yes, master wizard," Sparrow said, making a mocking salute like she might have seen a guardsman do to his princeps.
"Alright, you're having fun, but this next bit is important. So pay good attention."
She grew quiet and sat down on some debris in the alley behind the gang's house.
Martel frowned a bit; how to best explain this so she understood? "So, horses are obedient animals. If you ride them hard enough, they'll run themselves to death. Magic can do the same to us."
"What, magic rides us like a horse?"
Maybe not the best imagery to use. "Sort of. If we keep using magic, we'll get tired. Exhausted. Need to rest. But you might be tempted to keep going, cast more spells. Doing this can leave you unconscious, or even worse." Martel recalled his own experience atop the belltower of the Khivan temple, overextending his spellwork to tame the blaze. "So if you get really tired, stop with the magic and rest. Especially if you throw up or something like that." Like Martel after summoning the lightning bolt at the Imperial palace.
"Fine. I don't want to throw up anyway. Waste of food."
Well, if it got the girl to take his warning seriously, Martel would not argue. "Exactly. So always stop when you feel tired."
"What about new spells though? Can you teach me something else?"
"There's one I got my eye on, but I think we'll save that for next time." Martel looked up at the night sky; the sun had long since set, leaving the full moon as its replacement. "I need to get home now. But I'll be back when I can."
"Thanks." Sparrow smiled at him before she got up and ran back inside.
FOUR
BETWEEN GOLDEN AND SILVERY LIGHT
As with his visits to the Circle of Fire, Martel likewise looked forward to the end of his hours spent in the gymnasium. Not that Reynard harassed him the way Moira did, at least not anymore, but Martel remembered how the Master of War had treated him initially and also tried to prevent him from becoming an acolyte.
The other three fire acolytes stood gathered in an uneven circle, and Martel joined them. Even if hardly on friendly terms, they were all in the same boat during these lessons, and they sometimes needed to work together. Best to put up at least a façade of camaraderie, or failing that, avoid antagonising them.
"Mistress Moira is here." William gave a barely perceptible nod towards the stands, where the old woman had taken a seat. Always a foreboding sight.
"Wonder what she's plotting now?" Harriet asked.
"You think we can stop training in these?" Edward shook his arms, jangling the chain links of his armour.
"Keep dreaming," she snorted.
Reynard entered, carrying a bundle of swords in his arms. Taking a guess from recent lessons in the Circle of Fire, Martel extended his magic towards the weapons and felt a chill. While hard to tell by sight, Martel's other sense revealed that the blades were edged with gold.
The Master of War distributed the weapons to some of the mageknights while directing the rest of them to spar against each other. "As for you four, pick one of the fire runts and train against them," he told the acolytes armed with gold.
Alain stepped towards Martel, who inclined his head in recognition of the challenge and raised his staff. The warrior's sword struck out, forcing Martel to parry before he quickly released a fire bolt in retaliation. It struck his opponent's physical shield, accomplishing nothing.
Further blows, whether metal or magic, were exchanged back and forth in quick succession. Unable to use his magical shield, and clearly inferior when it came to weaponry, Martel was steadily pushed back, always retreating while trying to release a spell. But Alain's sword and shield both protected him, and even landing a fire bolt on his legs did limited damage thanks to his armour.
Martel's defences finally failed, and he received a slap across the face with the flat of the blade. Had Alain used the edge, and assuming it was not blunted, it would have sliced Martel's cheek open. Even now, it still stung, and the pain made his anger flare up. But rather than let it take over, Martel used the burst of emotion to spur his spellpower. As he continued to retreat, he sent his magic through the earth to spike the ground up in front of Alain. The mageknight, advancing to press his advantage, almost stumbled and had to correct his footing. Quickly following up, Martel sent a blast of air against his opponent's feet. It worked better than another fire bolt; his balance already precarious, Alain fell to the ground.
A moment passed before the mageknight relaxed rather than raise his weapons or seek to get back on his feet. "Nicely done."
Martel extended a hand to help the other student stand up. "You got me first."
Alain smiled. "Now I know where to watch out. Or rather, because I remember you doing such tricks before in the Chamber of Earth, you reminded me what to be careful of. Again?"
Martel nodded and took a defensive stance.
Lessons done, Martel went to his room before supper and surveyed his wealth. Thanks to his regular payment for work done in the apothecary, he had a tidy sum of more than thirty silver pieces, even after paying Julia's rent the other day. He could send another silver letter to his mother; she had not asked for money nor indicated any need for it, but Martel assumed that they could use it. It might buy a few luxuries for his siblings, such as finer fabric for clothes; or should one of them fall ill again, they would have the coin to buy a remedy immediately.
Martel would delay for now, though, just in case he found himself suddenly needing the money himself. He also wanted to get more alchemical supplies to keep practising his few recipes. Once he had forty or fifty eagles, he could consider sending half. It had been a while since he received a letter from home; he might as well wait for that and read their news before posting a letter back along with the coin.
