Firebrand

Sacrifice or Sacrilege

A new dawn did little to change the mood that hung like a dark cloud over Morcaster. All goodwill and cheer from the Golden Harvest had been dispelled by this one despicable act from the unknown maleficar. Already at breakfast, Martel could hear the other students still discussing the topic. Yet he had no desire to join in, knowing that none of them would offer anything of use. Master Fenrick would be the best person to ask, but Martel did not have class with him for several days, and he seemed occupied with his investigation, whether perpetrated on his own or in liaison with the inquisitors.

He did have class that day with Master Alastair. "Have you ever encountered a maleficar?" Martel asked his teacher.

Scratching his balding head, the Master of Elements frowned. "I am fortunate enough to say I never have. You have been listening to the rumours, then."

"It's not just rumours. Maybe they are exaggerated, but some dark mage haunts Morcaster." And Martel did not expect the inquisitors would be able to do much about it. "Magic is a wonderful gift. I don't understand why someone would use it for such terrible means."

"Perhaps they had no choice. There are those who suffer under curses," Master Alastair considered. "While I have not met any such unfortunate soul in Aster, I did once encounter a war party of Tyrians on the hunt."

"On the hunt for what? Someone cursed?"

"A shape changer. A werewolf."

Martel shivered. He had heard a tale or two about such creatures, but he never enjoyed them and always preferred other stories. "Are there shape changers in Aster?"

"No. It involves sinister magic by the witches of Tyria, enchanting the hide of a wolf or bear that a man might put them on and transform. There are legends that during the war, the Tyrians used such shape shifters to ambush our soldiers, but the Tyrians I met held no regard for anyone using such cursed magic." Master Alastair took a deep breath. "Let us put such tales aside for now. You have your own magic you must attend to."

~

In the afternoon, Martel had an errand to run. While he was not keen on going anywhere related to inquisitors, he looked like an ordinary clerk in his brown robe, and nobody had reason to trouble him. He had already delayed paying homage to his father's spirit for months, forgetting about it; he did not wish to postpone it again. Who knew how long it would be before he remembered it next time? Besides, he still had a lot of silver left, but he would probably have it all spent soon. Better to get this done while he had proper coin to leave in offering.

His journey to the Basilica was uneventful, as could be expected; the legionaries of the city guard kept watch with full patrol in the northern districts. He approached the great temple, and the sheer beauty of its towers and ornaments made him forget his concerns. As he walked inside, finally having a valid reason, his sense of awe only grew. Above him, arches rose so high, he became lost staring at them. To every side, beautifully carved statues stared at him, looking as real as the supplicants making their way towards the great altar.

Gathering his wits, Martel joined them walking down the centre of the temple. Light streamed from every direction through intricate windows of stained glass, showing images from the history of Aster.

The altar itself showed Sol in all his majesty and wisdom, carved from marble until it looked softer than skin. The sinews of his arm ran across his hand as his fingers clutched a staff. By his side, though lesser in stature, stood Luna as his companion, draped in flowing garments with a rod in her hand. Behind the pair, Martel saw statues of Malac, Perel, and Glund, the Triumvirate of the Heavens. Adorned with gold, silver, and gems, the entire tableau glittered in the light, giving him the urge to kneel, which he did. He mumbled a few prayers as taught him by Father Julius, asking for blessings over his family and that his father's spirit might rest in the grace of Sol.

After leaving five silver pieces, hoping that the deity did not reject gifts earned from fighting, Martel got back on his feet and walked out.

~

Feeling cleansed and blessed, his concerns temporarily forgotten, Martel walked carefree across the temple square. Already, all signs of the harvest games had been removed, and nothing hindered his path. The sun shone down upon him as if a physical manifestation of the spiritual blessing placed upon him.

As he walked, he noticed a small crowd gathering in one corner. It looked familiar, though he could not readily remember why. But on his approach, as a rusty voice cried out and reached him, Martel recalled the event. The ragged preacher, who had railed against magic. Last time, members of the clergy had fetched the guards to remove him. It had clearly not prevented him from returning, and the crowd looked bigger this time than last. Furthermore, as Martel looked around, nobody seemed in disagreement. His words fell on more welcoming ears this time around.

Martel hurried past, looking the other way to avoid eye contact with anyone. He had no interest in hearing anything the preacher might say. And if this crowd began looking for mages to blame, given what had happened in the copper lanes, he definitely saw no reason to stick around and give them a target for their frustrations.

Yet even as he quickly trod his steps, the preacher's words followed him to linger in the open air.

"How long will you suffer magic to defile our home, our people? Yesterday, they murdered in the copper lanes. Today, they find their victims in the harbour or the market. Tomorrow, they will commit their sacrilege upon the very steps of our temple! And as we cry out to Sol for salvation, he will look down from the heavens and watch us suffer our just punishment!"