Firebrand

Point

Martel spent his evening as previously, helping Maximilian practise archery, which distracted him from the affair with the preacher. Yet the next day, as he chopped roots in the apothecary, the ragged man's words returned to haunt him.

"You're quiet this morning," Nora remarked.

"I was at the temple square yesterday," he began to explain.

"Which temple?"

"The big one, you know, up north by all the palaces."

"You mean the Basilica."

"Right," Martel assented. "That one. Anyway, I heard this preacher rail against how magic had been used to build the temple."

Nora rolled her eyes. "There's always people bitter they don't have magic, and so they don't want anyone to have it. Don't pay it any heed."

"I was just surprised to hear it."

"They don't have people afraid of magic up in Nordmark?"

"Sure, nobody in Engby liked me except my own family and the smarter people like Father Julius. But I've seen how magic is used in Morcaster, transporting water all around the city," Martel considered. "I thought people here knew how useful magic is."

"They know, but they don't care. They'd rather be thirsty or starving if it means others must thirst and starve alongside them," Nora remarked darkly.

"That doesn't make sense."

"People usually don't." The apprentice shrugged and resumed her work. Moments later, Martel did the same, though the preacher's words and fury continued to rummage around in his mind.

~

For lunch, Martel sat alone. This was not strictly necessary; the acolytes usually allowed him a seat at their table, and he could always sit with the other novices. But belonging to neither group grew tiresome; the acolytes were ahead of him in years, speaking of matters he did not know, and the novices were younger than him in age, speaking of matters that did not interest him. Accustomed to being alone, Martel simply found it easier to eat in the far corner of the hall.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. "Eat up! I need your assistance for a journey to the market."

He looked up at Maximilian. "You need to borrow money?"

"Do not insult me," the mageknight scoffed. "No, believe it or not, I seek you for your knowledge. Come on, eat up!"

Martel stuffed his food into his face. "I have class at sixth bell."

"We shall return long before that. Come, snap to it!"

Still chewing, the novice got on his feet and followed Maximilian out of the hall.

~

"What exactly do you need me for?"

"So, I spoke to some of the other mageknights, and one of them confided in me a method for winning the archery contest," Maximilian explained, his voice swinging between excited and hushed tones.

"What method is that?"

Maximilian looked around as they walked down the street, as if someone might overhear. "A northern fellow has a stall with something interesting for the festival. He sells enchanted arrows."

"Enchanted?"

Maximilian nodded eagerly. "Yes, with runes. He is Tyrian, you see, which is why I asked you along."

"But I don't know anything about runes," Martel said confused, even as he hurried along to keep up.

"I know that," the mageknight replied annoyed. "I need you to tell me if this fellow is legitimate. Is he actually Tyrian or just a man who paints his face?"

"I've not actually met a lot of Tyrians," the novice admitted. "They usually stay north of the river."

"Well, you are the best I have, so do what you can. Ah, this must be the man up ahead." Maximilian steered along the edge of an open square towards a small stall. A scrawny-looking man with dirty blond hair in travel-worn clothes attended the booth. Behind him, a temporary shelf had been pulled up against the house wall, filled with various knickknacks.

The peddler noticed them arrive and gave them a scrutinising glance. "You come to buy arrows from me." He spoke Asterian with an accent.

Maximilian stared at the man with astonishment. "Do you have the gift of foresight?"

"No, you are mageknight. You all dress the same. You are fourth today."

The acolyte looked down at his black tunic. "Oh." Sounding a little disappointed, he continued, "Yes, I heard you sell enchanted arrows that never miss."

The peddler reached down under in his booth and pulled up three arrows, placing them on the desk. "Not enchanted as you know. Rune symbols. True, they will not miss what you aim at, but the power only lasts for one shot. Then runes must be made active again."

The mageknight leaned forward to see the small symbols painted onto the shaft of each arrow. "So how does it work?"

"Simple. For me. I speak word, and runes work. Word lasts until this hour tomorrow or until used once."

"Just once?"

The man nodded. "Yes. Only with knowledge of Tyrian rune can they be active again."

"How much do they cost?"

"Three golden coins for each, and I activate them before you leave."

Maximilian scratched his cheek. He looked at Martel, who could only shrug in ignorance. The seller seemed genuine, but the novice did not have much in way of comparison to make that judgement.

"Fine." The mageknight took out his purse to find the money.

The northerner turned his blue eyes on Martel's, who had the same hue. "You are from Normark, yes? I have something special for you." From a shelf behind him, he took a knife with runes on the hilt and presented it. "Strong blade. Never dull, never need to sharpen. I give you good price since we share blood."

Martel touched the knife in his belt, given to him by Master Jerome. "No thanks."

Maximilian finally counted out the coins and handed them over. The seller carefully placed them underneath the desk and held his hand over the arrows. "Very well. I activate runes now." He cleared his throat before he whispered a single word. "Visir." As he spoke, the runes glowed. He handed them over. "Keep away from gold in your purse, yes? Rune is small, weak. Power that fades can be stolen by gold."

"Sure." Maximilian picked up the arrows, careful to keep them on the opposite side of his purse hanging by his belt, and they left.

~

"Well, that was a disappointment." Maximilian pushed his way through the crowd at the market.

"But you got the arrows you wanted?"

"Yes, but if the man is a fraud, the arrows will not help. If he is genuine, at least three other mageknights have the same advantage." Maximilian sighed. "Did he seem legitimate to you?"

"I suppose. He looked the part, and he called it Normark, which only Tyrians do." Martel glanced at the arrows in his friend's hand. "Are you going to test them?"

Maximilian shook his head. "If they work, they work. If not, I am no worse off than before, and it is too late to think of something else."

"Well, good luck tomorrow." Martel had a feeling that his friend would need all the luck he could get.

They returned to the castle, and next bell, the novice exhausted himself training his spellpower under Master Fenrick's watchful eyes. He felt drained of magic as he went to sleep that night, dreaming of runes.