Firebrand 4: The Spellslinger, page 7
"Yes. It seemed to lend its power to the particular bearer, who otherwise did not seem different from the other rising skeletons. Furthermore, I felt the distinct presence of magic from it, necromantic in nature. Perhaps it likewise noticed our presence, awakening its otherwise dormant power that it might in turn awaken the dead to attack us," Martel speculated.
The Friar nodded to himself. "If so, that is valuable to have learned."
"Is it really? If there is no will to enter and cleanse the catacombs, does such knowledge matter?"
"Perhaps not yet, perhaps not in this regard. But who knows? Future inquisitors will be taught of this, and they might carry on, continuing deeper than we ever made it." The old monk gave a smile. "At my age, you come to accept that some destinations must be reached by future generations. All you can do at this point is prepare the way."
SIXTEEN
A FATHER'S FEAR
Training in the Circle of Fire had returned to the regular duelling, meant to hone their spellcasting and reflexes. Martel had his doubts this accomplished anything for him; any further improvement might come about if he was put under real pressure, fighting for his life. This, despite the stinging sensation from the other acolytes' spells, would not be enough. Martel felt he had reached the limits of what repetition under relatively safe conditions could achieve.
Yet he knew that any word of this to Moira would risk him detention, a further waste of time, so he kept quiet and flung another fire bolt at William.
In between classes, he picked up a letter waiting for him; a proper one, inside an envelope bearing Father Julius' handwriting. A message from home. While tempted to immediately read it, Martel decided to postpone that he might enjoy it properly. Given that it took months for correspondence back and forth to Nordmark, he could not expect another anytime soon. Best to savour it. He left the letter in his room as a treat for himself tonight, after he had taught Sparrow.
Unlike with Julia, who used the dark hours to move about, Sparrow and the rest of Weasel's gang mostly used the daytime to conduct their affairs. After all, most traffic and trade took place during the day, providing them with their opportunities. Martel still felt uncomfortable knowing that they stole, but since the city was content to let them starve, he could not blame them either.
And he would only teach Sparrow defensive spells to let her protect herself or get away from danger – no earth bolts or the like. Of course, if she really wanted to, she could probably find a way to use magic for harm; but the same aim could be accomplished with a knife. At least this way, she gained control over her gift, making it less likely she would accidentally hurt others.
"Martel, look! I have gotten much better!" Sparrow held out her hand; several yards in front of her, a pile of dirt pushed up from the ground. It lasted for several moments, Sparrow's face twisted in concentration, before it fell to the ground. "I could do much longer earlier today," she complained.
"Have you been practising a lot today?"
She nodded eagerly.
"You've probably tired yourself out. That's why you can't do it as well now as you could earlier. You should probably rest before you do any more magic," he cautioned her.
"Does that mean you won't show me anything new?" Sparrow asked, disappointed.
"I guess I can explain a little to you, so you'll know what to practice. Tomorrow," he added, sternly.
"I will!"
"Very well. I think I mentioned before the spell I have in mind. It's a way to make the earth protect you, should someone attack you. I'm sure you can make it work even better than I imagine. But it'll take you a long time to learn, going through different steps. You understand?"
She gave an almost exaggerated nod.
"Good. The first step is for you to practice raising the earth up as a wall in front of yourself." Martel demonstrated, pulling up dirt in front of his feet until it reached the height of his ankles. "Unlike me, you'll be able to cover your entire body – not that it would take much at present," he continued, which made her giggle. "But you'll also be able to do it much faster. Perhaps even so swiftly, you can do it as a reaction or on instinct. But one step at a time."
She held out her hand, and earth rose up towards it, though it felt back after a few moments.
"Not tonight," Martel admonished her. "Remember, rest now, practice tomorrow. And another thing, try not to use your hands. That'll just cost you valuable time. Practice by casting magic while holding your hands behind your back or something." That was probably enough instructions for one small girl to handle. "Everything clear?"
"Yes!"
He smiled. "Good. I'll be back maybe next fiveday or so, and you can show me your progress."
"Will do!"
On his way back to the Lyceum, Martel spent a few pennies to buy sweet cakes for himself. Once he had returned to his room, he made himself comfortable in his bed and opened the letter from home while indulging in pastry.
Dear boy,
I write on your mother's behalf, as she has been distraught ever since your last letter arrived. She bursts into tears every time I broach the subject, hence why I am writing instead of her. I have been able to piece together enough of the story to inform you. I could have waited until your mother was of a better disposition, but given how long it takes for letters to go back and forth, I did not wish for you to wait longer than necessary before you heard from us here in Engby.
As it turns out, though your mother never shared these fears with me, she apparently knew of the danger that you might be conscripted as a battlemage. Your father, before he settled in Engby, was a smith in an army camp. Thanks to his knowledge of the legions, he knew straight away what your gift with fire would mean. Hence his strict command that you hide your talent, and his reluctance to have you working in the forge or learning any skill associated with flames and heat.
Alas, that his death left your family struggling, and that your parents never took me in their confidence. I would have done my best to find some arrangement, but your mother sought the advice of Master Ogion, and given his knowledge of these matters, perhaps she was right to do so. I asked the wizard about his role in all this, and he confirmed and added to my knowledge of these events.
He recognised you as being what he called fire-touched; you know better than me what that means, I am sure. However, he disagreed with your father's decision that you ought to suppress your gift and avoid magic as much as possible. He compared it to holding back the tide. I raised the question of why he did not choose to train you himself and gained a rare glimpse into our resident wizard's past.
Before becoming a weathermage, Master Ogion was a frostmage, assigned to the northern legions dealing with Tyrian incursions. After serving his time, he wanted a peaceful, quiet life, thus taking up the post in Engby. His primary element being water, he did not feel able to teach you as you needed, and thus he advised your mother that you should be sent to the Lyceum, where you could be trained by another fire-touched wizard, who was also an old friend of Master Ogion's.
Whether this was the best course of action, given that your father's fears have come true, I shall not say. It does not appear so, but lacking any knowledge of magic, I cannot judge whether our local wizard was right or not. I hope that you yourself may be able to determine this, and find some peace in the decisions that others made on your behalf.
You shall be in my prayers every day.
Father Julius
Martel lay the letter aside. He had always assumed that his father disliked magic just on principle; it had never occurred to him that there could be a deeper cause. Until arriving at the Lyceum, Martel had never even heard of fire-touched or known about the possibility that he could be made a battlemage. Nor had his father ever spoken of his past working as a smith for the legions.
In a way, the news made him feel better. His father did not hate magic as such, and thereby Martel for possessing it; it had only been concern that made him tell his son to hide it.
As an opposite reaction, the thought that he could have stayed in Engby under Master Ogion's tutelage made him frustrated. Another thing he had never really considered, knowing so little about the affairs of wizards; the old weathermage had simply declared that Martel needed to attend the Lyceum, and he had not questioned it.
Martel could perhaps have been spared all of this – most of all, been spared a future in the legions, short as it might be. It seemed the worst possible outcome, just as his father had feared; at the same time, it was a bitter herb to chew that he would never have met Eleanor, Maximilian, or Shadi. When John fell ill, Master Ogion was away, once more acting as frostmage to the legions; would Martel have accompanied him north and only returned when it was too late, and his brother dead from a preventable disease?
Unable to find a satisfactory answer, Martel put the letter and half-eaten cake away, seeking sleep instead.
SEVENTEEN
BLOODY REACTIONS
Martel stared at the little clay jar in his hand, which continued to frustrate his efforts. He knew it would be difficult to learn but he thought that his experiences with Sindhian and Tyrian magic had taught him patience. Perhaps they had, but it did not lessen his frustrations. Every time he thought that he had managed to trap the spell inside the oil, nothing happened when he removed the lid to allow airflow back.
Martel had not really seen Master Jerome during these bells, and although a master craftsman and enchanter, presumably, it did not seem useful to ask him for advice. By his own admission, enchanting with fire lay beyond his skills. It was time to get some help from Master Alastair, who fortunately had a lesson with him later that day; this time, Martel would not allow anything to distract him. Inquisitors, maleficars, nothing.
"Master Alastair, I have a question!"
The Master of Elements stared at his pupil as they stood within the hall of his domain. "Yes?" he asked, seeing Martel take a look over his shoulder rather than continue. "What is it?"
"Sorry. I half expected someone to burst through the doors. Anyway, Master Jerome is trying to teach me enchanting, but I use the term loosely, as he doesn't really have much expertise with fire. I'm supposed to enchant these little fire pots, but I can't get it right, and I could really use some advice."
His teacher laughed. "Is that what's twisting your socks?" He adopted a more solemn expression. "Sorry. Creating fire pots is one of the more demanding tasks that enchanting with fire can present. I'm a little surprised that Master Jerome started you with that rather than something simple, to teach you the basic skills first."
"As mentioned, not his area of expertise."
"True enough. How long have you been trying? You could have come to me straightaway."
He could have, but Martel had somehow convinced himself to try sailing by his own wind first. "I'll remember that next time. You mentioned I should learn the basics first. How?"
"You know the heated stones that we use for the warm pools in the baths?"
Martel not only knew them; he thanked Sol for them every day in winter.
"My work, I am proud to say. I enchant one of those stones from time to time, as Master Jerome needs. Now, my skill is not at a level to create a permanent artefact, but they certainly last for a winter or longer. Master Jerome should have some old stones in need of being enchanted again. Ask him to give you one to practice on first."
"But a stone is earth," Martel pointed out. "Won't that be much harder to enchant with fire? At least the oil is easy to connect with fire."
"Yes, but that's not necessarily a disadvantage. While connecting your magic to the stone will be challenging, once you master it, you should have no trouble with other materials. Furthermore, a stone will not burst into flames. You can push your magic as hard as you want without any risk of it suddenly combusting, ruining your efforts. In some ways, although it sounds counter-intuitive, you may find it easier to learn enchanting when you work with something unsuitable for fire."
That made a lot of sense. Rather frustrating that the last fivedays had been in vain where enchantment was concerned, but at least it sounded like he would be on the right track. Tomorrow, he would try out Master Alastair's advice for his Solday bell in the workshops.
"With that out of the way, let us test your counterspell."
"I think I learned it as well as I can," Martel argued. "Last lesson, I reacted to all of your attacks." He really wanted to move on to the next spell that Master Alastair had promised to teach him.
"Yes, last lesson when we both stood still and with nothing else happening. Get ready for a duel, lad, and let's see how well Mistress Moira has taught you!"
Up in Mistress Rana's laboratory, Martel stared at the ingredients laid out on the worktable. One of these was not like the other. He had received the list yesterday as usual, so he already knew what it was, but he still found it difficult to believe. On a small plate, pieces of a chicken heart lay in a puddle of its own blood.
At least it was not a human heart, though Martel wondered what potion required this. So far, he had only used things like claws or fur when it came to reagents made from living creatures; he had once opened a jar on the shelves that turned out to contain eyeballs, and even if he could not see them – or the reverse – lying inside their clay container, he made an effort to never look in the direction of that shelf.
"Another elixir for another disease. Note that the heart may come from any living creature, though chicken will be the easiest and cheapest to obtain. You may find this recipe particularly useful, as it is a cure for the bloody flux, which is a common disease in army camps."
Martel was unfamiliar with the malady, but the name sounded unnerving. He did find himself curious why it would spread through camps in particular, as compared to a city or such. "Why is that?"
"A question I cannot answer, unfortunately. My guess would be that the high concentration of people so closely together somehow causes it, but there must be a deeper reason, as all diseases spread more easily, the closer people live together, yet somehow, bloody flux is the most prevalent."
Intriguing, even if it also sounded unpleasant. Martel wondered if Mistress Rana ever made studies into what caused diseases; being able to prevent them in the first place had to be far more efficient than afterwards scrambling to cure them, once they had taken hold.
"In any case, the heart is a reagent like any other, to be awakened and used along with others. Only difference is, you will want to wash your hands both before and after you have handled it. All right, get to it. You know what to do."
So he did. Martel gathered up the ingredients, carefully balancing the heart on its plate, as he moved to the hearth with its awaiting cauldron.
EIGHTEEN
CIRCUMSTANTIAL STUDIES
Next day was Solday, where Master Jerome had kindly allowed Martel to practice his enchantments rather than do his regular chore for the Lyceum. However, instead of proceeding directly to the laboratory, Martel sought out the artificer. "Master, I spoke to Master Alastair, who suggested I begin by practising on the large stones that he regularly enchants for you. The heated stones you use in the baths and such."
"Are you sure? That seems only more difficult to enchant with fire. Well, if Master Alastair says so. I'll bring you one, you go sit at your usual place."
Martel went to the laboratory and waited. Soon after, Master Jerome appeared holding a large rock with both hands. It was slightly elongated, but generally round and smooth, suggesting a stonemage had shaped it. It probably weighed fifty pounds or more, and the artificer placed it on the floor rather than the wooden tables. "Enjoy yourself, lad. I must get back to my own work."
Martel dragged a stool over to sit in front of the stone. He reached out with his magic; it was cold, but otherwise completely ordinary. It also felt massive, unlike when Martel poured his magic into the earth or water, which felt more intangible with the risk of his spell dissolving in every direction. This was more like striking his fist against a brick wall. He sensed that it would not be easy for his magic to affect the stone, but he saw what Master Alastair had meant; there was not really any risk of Martel damaging the rock. He could pour as much magic into it as he wanted. Placing his hands on the smooth stone, Martel exerted his will to make the material heat up.
When the bell rang, Martel was unsure whether he had made any progress. Any heat he attempted to instil seemed to dissipate as soon as he ended his spell. The stone did feel warm to the touch, but only where Martel's hands had pressed against it. He did not get the sense that the warmth had taken up residence in the rock, able to create its own heat.
Well, first attempt. Next fiveday, he would have two more bells to practice, and if it did not suffice, he would have to continue practising on other days. He did not know when, as his classes on the remaining days exhausted most of his spellpower, but perhaps he could take it light such as during combat lessons on Maldays. As long as Moira was not in attendance, of course.
As always, Eleanor was present in the library, already reading before Martel arrived. Initially, he had been impressed by her punctuality; having a Khivan clock meant he arrived on time, and yet she always appeared first. Eventually, he realised that she probably started much earlier than him, driven by her motivation to do what it took to help her sister; it was just Martel who only spent the one bell.
She greeted him with a quick smile, and he grabbed one of the books to begin reading. He had his doubt they would ever find something to help her sister, given it was such a specific need; it did not seem reasonable that even if the Tyrians possessed the necessary magic to heal her, the pair would happen to come across it in one of these books.
