Firebrand

Chapter 53: Early Days of Summer

Early Days of Summer

For more than a month, Martel barely left the school except to spend an hour or two with Shadi on Soldays. He practised his magic diligently, chasing the elusive mastery of air. He worked every day in the apothecary, learning about the properties of the different reagents he prepared. He found time to help Master Jerome on occasion with different chores, earning a few pieces of silver for himself. And the days lengthened until summer solstice was upon the city of Morcaster.

~

"What is the Nether?" Master Fenrick's eyes, guarded by spectacles and bushy brows, stared over the class.

Martel looked away, not sure about the answer. He knew a few stories, about fiends that dwelt in the Nether and sought to torment people if they got loose. But it had always sounded like just that, stories. Usually about wizards that lived centuries ago or longer.

"I am not surprised by your silence, as our knowledge is scarce. It seems to be another realm, only accessible by magic. We know the stories, of course, of fiends that prey on the unwary mage, but not the circumstances under which such would happen. And perhaps that magic is lost to us forever."

"But isn't that a good thing?" Martel thought about the statue in the western courtyard. He did not know what exactly Nether-fiends were, but if saving Morcaster from them had earned Atreus a statue, they had to be nasty.

"Some would certainly argue that. Although it is only speculation, some believe the Nether caused the destruction of Archen, in which case, the Khivans' ban on magic could be seen as a prevention of the Nether ever affecting them again." Fenrick waited a moment. "Yet the question remains, if the Nether is so dangerous, what rewards enticed the Archeans to reach for it nonetheless?"

~

Maximilian gave a disgruntled sigh as he sat down to eat, making Martel look up. "What's troubling you?" asked the novice.

The acolyte tore his bread into smaller pieces. "I was just reminded of Pelday. My father's solstice feast."

Martel frowned. "What's wrong with that? Who doesn't love solstice?" He imagined the kind of lavish celebrations taking place in the palaces of the nobility, complete with food, drinks, and entertainment.

"I am the only mage in the family," Maximilian said; no surprise, given how rare magic was. As far as Martel knew, none of the students at the Lyceum had any close relatives with magical gifts. "So every year, my father trots me out to make me perform in front of his guests. And of course, every year has to be more impressive than the last."

"That sounds annoying," Martel said, though he did not quite understand the issue. Displaying his magic for one night a year, impressing people and receiving their accolades, it did not sound like much of a chore. In fact, it could even be fun. Though he had been nervous at the time, doing the magical effects during the play at the spring faire had almost tempted Martel to join the travelling troupe.

"It is demeaning," Maximilian complained. "Performing like some market faire juggler. I cannot drink beforehand, because I need my head clear to fight, and I cannot drink after, because my father wants me to speak with his guests."

"And there we have the root of your grievance," Martel grinned. "Poor Max. A party where he cannot drink."

"Do not call me 'Max' while mocking me," the acolyte grumbled. "You are not my sister."

"I'll drink a cup in your name out in a tavern while you're sweating on the marbled floors of your papa's palace," Martel continued.

"Some friend you are," Maximilian complained. "Even worse, my father wants me to find a battlemage for the performance. To show something new."

"Plenty of them at this school, aren't there?" The novice glanced around the dining hall, spotting a few red robes. He had not really spoken to any of them; they seemed to dislike company.

"Yeah, but they all got terrible tempers. I guess setting things on fire all day makes them angry. Working with them is the worst. It is every mageknight's nightmare to be assigned protector duty for a battlemage, I tell you." The acolyte stuffed another large piece of bread into his mouth.

"I'll send you a kind thought when I have my second cup."

~

Martel arrived at the gymnasium for his second lesson in theory of magic, a bit poorly named considering this part focused on practical learning. Namely, unlocking his spellpower so casting the simplest magic did not make him break into a sweat. Master Fenrick had made him practise using water and earth, using the two elements he had so far trained in Master Alastair's class, with little result.

Still, he practised as he had been told rather than draw attention to how another element might help him learn faster. At least he was spared the humiliation of the younger novices in class surpassing him; they struggled as much as he did, trying to maintain their magical efforts.

Looking at the pebble in his hand, Martel sighed inwardly and raised the stone into the air with his magic. He stared at it intently, feeling the strain build up in his head, like holding your breath for too long. Finally, after what seemed like an age but only lasted a few moments, the stone fell back into his hand. Martel looked at it and thought about how often he had done an exercise like this, including those in combat magic. He was starting to hate that pebble.

Still, he understood the importance of the lesson; unlocking his spellpower was necessary for any mage. Especially if he ever wanted to have the power to defend himself or those he cared about, the way Maximilian had defended him. Water or earth just did not seem the right elements for this.

Thus, after the lesson, he went to his room for privacy. Mindful of Master Alastair's warning, he did not want others to see him working with fire. Before, he had practised growing the flame, making it burn brighter and stronger. Now he changed strategy. Calling the flame to his hand, he did not feed it much of his energy. Letting it remain weak, he instead focused solely on keeping it burning. Meanwhile, he counted his breaths. Last time, he had reached thirty-seven before his concentration faltered.

Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Martel kept counting.