Firebrand

Chapter 700: Right Teacher, Right Hour

Right Teacher, Right Hour

Having his measurements taken did not take long, and Martel intended to use the remainder of the day. Still uncertain of how long he would retain rule over the city, he had an important errand to run and a place to visit while he could.

For once, he would go alone; Eleanor had her own preparations to make, and Martel did not feel like dragging another mageknight with him for protection. While he was going to the one place that might conceivably offer a genuine threat to him, Martel would simply have to exhibit caution. A new cloak also helped to make him less easy to recognise. Pulling up the hood as he left the palace, Martel went to the Lyceum.

He had passed the building on occasion ever since returning to Morcaster, but usually in hurried fashion. Presumably, compared to his previous visit a year ago when he and Eleanor had been granted leave, little had changed. With regards to the Lyceum, anyway; to Martel, nothing was the same.

He thought about it as he stared at the doors, remembering his visit the previous winter. Between leaving as an acolyte and returning as a battlemage, Martel had felt like he had grown up in that year. He had fought a hundred battles, killed more people than he cared to think about, but also become confident in his magic and himself.

Now, another year had passed; he had left a battlemage and returned a captain. Last, he was received with open arms as a graduate of the school and a defender of the Empire, just as they had trained him to be. Now, he came as a rebel, no matter what the Senate might say tomorrow, having killed one teacher and grievously injured another.

Perhaps it was a mistake to enter its hallways once more, but sometimes, mistakes had to be made; Martel preferred disappointment over uncertainty. He stepped over the threshold.

The Archean wards did not activate to repel him. The acolytes working as clerks in the entrance hall gave him curious glances, but did not call out in alarm or approach him. They did not recognise him at all, he figured.

While he knew the way, he let the sound of a hammer striking anvil lead him. He almost teared up thinking about his memories of this smithy, but he quickly composed himself before entering the workshops.

A few students moved about, but nobody questioned him. Martel looked at them, and they seemed like children to him. Three or four years separated them from him, but at a crucial age, and he had a wealth of experience that marked his face and bearing, for better or worse. Rather than any of them daring to ask the reason for his presence, they shied away and avoided him.

Martel continued until he saw the big man who ruled the workshops of the Lyceum. He cleared his throat, suddenly afraid. “Master Jerome?”

The artificer turned his head. He dropped his hammer and spread out his arms. Martel allowed the bearlike embrace to envelop him. “Good to see you safe and sound, lad.”

***

Martel had several more people to visit, and he worried that some might hold Jerome’s affection toward the battlemage against the smith. After a brief conversation, thanking the artificer for the magnificent belt that had kept potions and jars safe throughout countless incidents, Martel continued through the castle.

He entered the infirmary briefly. Once, the sight, sound, and smell of the injured and sick had made him nauseated. Now, it did not faze him in the slightest, not after assisting physicians with scores of amputations in a single day.

Martel walked into the apothecary to see a familiar face at work. “Hullo, Nora.”

She froze and looked at him. “Oh. Martel. Captain? I didn’t expect to see you.”

Unlike last year, she recognised him, but that might not be for the best. She looked clearly uncomfortable, and Martel saw no reason to prolong that. “Is Mistress Rana upstairs? I should like to speak with her briefly.”

“Uh, sure. She might be busy.”

“I’ll try my luck.” Martel walked past her to enter the backroom and the stairs that led up to her laboratory. He knocked quickly on the door.

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“What is it?”

“Mistress Rana? It’s Martel.”

Brief hesitation. “Enter.”

He stepped inside to find the laboratory as usual, and its owner looked the same as well. “I won’t take much of your time. I simply came by to give you my thanks.”

The Sindhian woman looked him over. “You seem thin. Worn. I can give you a fortifying potion and something to help your appetite.”

“That’s alright, no need. As said, I just wanted to thank you for the healing elixir you once gave me.” Martel took a deep breath. Just thinking briefly about the incident made him a little emotional. “It saved a life when the need was greatest. I’m deeply grateful you gave it to me.”

“You earned it, as I recall.” She gave him a closer look. “Do you know why I gave it to you?”

“I guess you foresaw I’d need something like that.”

“Beyond that. You laboured day and night for months. If I had not given you a reward, nobody would have.”

“Well, no worse treatment than what they showed you or Nora.” Martel shrugged.

“You ran into the copper lanes, risking your health, to stop a fire. I don’t imagine you received much praise for that either,” she continued.

“I guess not, but I didn’t do it for that reason. I was the only one who could.”

She nodded slowly. “You and I have abilities that allow us to do much for others. And compared to the cost and labour it demands from us, we’ll never be rewarded in equal measure.”

He frowned. Martel had not expected the conversation to go down this road. “What do you mean, mistress?”

“If you do good for others, you shouldn’t expect others or life in general to be grateful. So that’s not why we do it. But I gave you that elixir as an exception to the rule,” she explained. “I wanted you to experience one occasion where life showed you a little gratitude. If it served the purpose you describe, I’m glad. You deserved that.”

A resigned smile appeared on his face as he took her meaning. “Thank you. Again.”

“I don’t have another to spare, mind you. So I suggest you stay out of such trouble in the future.”

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“I’ll heed that advice, mistress.”

***

The Hall of Elements lay near the infirmary, and Martel went there just to check; seventh bell had already rung, and there would typically be no classes held this late, but maybe the Master of Elements had a new student that required individual lessons.

If so, not on this particular day. The hall lay empty. Martel crossed most of the school to reach the faculty wing and knock on Alastair’s door.

The firemage opened and broke into a smile. After a quick hug, he ushered his former student inside. “Come, sit, sit! I got a bottle of something good stashed away somewhere.” He began rummaging through drawers.

“There’s no need, Master Alastair. I’ll take water, or you don’t have to offer me anything.”

“Nonsense. My favourite student visiting me, and I even have news to share. Ah!” He pulled out a bottle and began a new search for clean cups.

“What news would that be?”

“Well, rumour all around the city is that your negotiations will be met with success. Once the last details are in place, peace will be declared.” The balding wizard suddenly stopped and turned to look at Martel. “That’s not wrong, is it?”

“No, no. In fact, we are done. Everyone has agreed. You can rest easy.”

“Good, good.” His efforts crowned with success, Alastair placed a cup in front of Martel and poured. “An Aquilan vintage. My father gave me five of these when I left home. I have one more left besides this.”

“It’s really good.” Martel took a second sip. “You said you had news?”

“Yes. Mistress Moira has declared her intentions to retire as Mistress of Fire. I suspect she only held on for so long to spare another mage the burden of training children to be sent directly to war,” Alastair speculated as he sat down opposite his former student.

Martel had never considered that. He had found Moira to be cruel and capricious; while he knew she had taught him much, he had not a single fond memory of the woman or any time spent under her tutelage. Yet compared to what he had experienced at the front, he realised his days in the Circle of Fire had been laughably easy in comparison.

“I expect to take over the position,” Alastair continued. “There’s not really anybody more qualified when it comes to fire. Well, unless you’re tired of soldiering?” He gave Martel a wry look. “I imagine you can simply let yourself out of your contract.”

“I wouldn’t dream of stealing it from you.”

“It does mean there’s a position as Master of Elements available.”

“I’m not sure I’m suitable for that,” Martel admitted.

“Of course you are! You handle each element more than adequately. Anything else, you’ll learn as you teach.”

Martel imagined himself getting frustrated with a novice and setting them on fire. His time at the negotiation table had taught him that he simply lacked the patience. He was a battlemage; he dealt with problems using force. “Still, I think I’ll pass.”

“I suppose you have loftier goals.” Alastair raised his own cup. “You were a remarkable student, surpassing others, making greater strides in two years than others did in four. Still, you have exceeded my high expectations.”

“You’re too kind.”

“And I’m glad you won’t be taking that spot as Master of Fire,” he laughed. “I already have plans. With no wars, I can argue that the need for battlemages is greatly lessened. I intend to teach the students enchantment, first and foremost. We will have enough light and heat to make all of Morcaster bright and warm through winter. Maybe working with Master Jerome, some of them can learn the techniques of a metalmage and become artificers as well, despite not being inclined towards earth.”

The more his teacher talked, the more Martel became silent. As far as he knew, they were the only fire-touched wizards in the realm. Since magic worked differently for other cultures, they were probably the only ones in the world. And their paths had been similar. Both trained as battlemages, both sent to the furthest reaches of the Empire to fight an enemy who used skirmishes, ambushes, and swift manoeuvres to always keep the Asterians on their toes.

Yet they seemed opposites. Alastair was cheerful and full of plans. He barely had time to drink his wine as he explained all he longed to do.

In comparison, Martel felt hollow. His own ideas for the future, what he might accomplish as imperator – he imagined how long the debates would be, the many bargains he would have to do, convincing people to make the right choice when all he wanted to do was threaten them with fire until they acquiesced.

Was there such a difference between fighting up north against the Tyrians and to the east against the Khivans? Had Alastair simply handled it better? He had gone through his entire twenty years of service, whereas Martel had only lasted a year. Perhaps being fire-touched was all they shared, and some manner of darkness resided in Martel that Alastair had been spared of.

If Eleanor heard Martel talk in this manner, she would shake her head and tell him to stop being ridiculous. As he could not expect her to be around, he would have to fulfil that duty himself. Reining himself in, he looked at Alastair with a smile. “It sounds wonderful. There’s no doubt that fire can be used to build as much as for destruction. Your students are fortunate to have you, as was I.”

“You’re kind to an old man,” Alastair smiled.

Martel wondered how his life would have turned out if he had been taught in the way that Alastair now described. He would not have minded relinquishing his ambitions to become a weathermage, knowing that his enchantments would keep people warm during the winter and provide light in the dark. Realising where his thoughts were once again headed, Martel told himself to stop being ridiculous. He had received the training he needed from the teacher available to do so. “It is time for me to get going.” Martel emptied his cup while ignoring Alastair’s protestations. “If you see Mistress Moira, tell her…” Martel did not wish to praise the woman for her lessons, but it seemed appropriate to acknowledge what they had done for him. “Tell her I survived.”

***

Martel had a final visit to make. In some respects, the most important, or at least the one that promised to have actual consequences. He knocked and waited until the overseer gave him entry. Of all the faculty wing, this was the room he knew best. He had received plenty of lectures and warnings surrounded by these shelves and books, few of them having any effect.

“Master Martel. I suspect I should congratulate you. Rumour is that your negotiations are all but guaranteed to succeed, especially with the weight of the Faith behind you.” She gestured for him to take a seat, though she made no offerings beyond that.

He sat down. “Thanks. Yes, it is done. Tomorrow, the Senate will convene for the first time in seven centuries. Peace is assured.” He said the final sentence mostly in defence of the stern gaze she inflicted upon him, which he assumed was an expression of her disapproval of his actions.

“Well, of all the students who have passed through the school, few have left such an impact on our realm. And all within two years of graduating. I dread to think of the students to come who dream of surpassing you.” She spoke in such a calm tone of voice, he could not tell whether she reproached him or meant it as a jest.

It did not matter; he had not come for idle conversation. From within his sleeve, he withdrew a scroll. “I have prepared this for you.”

She frowned, accepting the parchment. “What is this?”

“A legal document naming you headmistress of the Lyceum.”

She dropped it on the table between them, and he took satisfaction knowing he had managed to surprise her. “You do not have that authority. You may call yourself imperator, but you are not the ruler of these lands.”

“But I will be tomorrow when the Senate declares me as such, ratifying every policy I have made.” He pointed at the document. “Right now, this might just be scribbles on parchment, but tomorrow at this hour, it will be law.”

She grabbed the scroll to unfurl and read it. “And does this Senate know of your decision? Has it been made with their blessing?”

“As of this moment, not a soul outside this room is aware of this document.”

She rolled it back together and placed it on the table between them. “So what power does it truly hold? While we are entering unknown territory in terms of political machinations, I assume this Senate can simply vote to have me removed if they disagree with your decision.”

“That would be the idea, as they assume all the powers of the emperor. But to replace you, they would have to agree on a replacement first. Having spent more time than I care in their company, I sincerely doubt they can accomplish this with efficiency. You must have some political acumen to have become and remained overseer,” Martel pointed out, crossing his arms as he observed the stern woman with her reserved demeanour. “I’m sure you can manoeuvre matters and people to keep this post.”

“Assuming I want it.” Now it was her turn to cross her arms.

“Of course you do. I just spent who knows how long listening to Master Alastair explain all his ideas for how to train fire acolytes. He will need a headmaster inclined towards him. Not to mention all the other good you might do for the students at this school.”

“Why me?”

“I told you already. Because you are an idealist, and if there is one place where I think an idealist should be in charge, it would be a school.”

“You are a strange man, Master Martel.” She looked at him as if trying to solve an enigma. “Each time I think I have you figured out, you do something unexpected, and you are never what I imagine you would be.”

“Yeah,” he replied with a weary tone of voice. “I hear that a lot.”