Firebrand

The Roads to Friendship

The next morning, Martel had a headache. Perhaps he had not slept enough; it had been after last bell when he and Maximilian returned to the Lyceum. Another time, he would be sure to get home earlier.

It took him a while to remember the existence of hangovers and how it pertained to his situation. He concluded that he disliked the experience, and drinking was not worth it.

Fortunately, he did not have to help in the kitchens for breakfast, allowing him to sleep another hour before he stumbled out of bed, did his rudimentary washing, and finally descended to the dining hall.

He caught the tail end of breakfast, forced to eat the crusty ends of the bread and scrape the last porridge into his bowl. It made little difference to Martel, who ate any kind of food with relish.

Afterwards, he returned to his room and dozed for another bell.

~

The extra rest helped, and he arrived at his lesson in reasonably good spirits with only a dull ache. Still, Martel found the magic harder to control, making it seem like he had made no progress since the last fiveday.

"Are you feeling ill?" Master Alastair asked as Martel lost control of a column of water. "You have improved well these last days. I would not expect that to slow down."

"I didn't sleep so well last night," Martel explained. Partly true, at least.

"Up late?" his teacher asked with a knowing look.

"Maybe a bit."

"Well, I can't fault you for making friends. But your time is scarce compared to theirs, Martel. You have less than a year before you must pass the novice exam."

"Of course, master. I'll be more careful with my time."

"Good. Speaking of care... I have seen you with the mageknights in the dining hall?"

"Just one, really. Maximilian, we have astronomy and combat lessons together."

Master Alastair nodded. "A friendly fellow, from what I recall. But remember, Martel, all mageknights are destined for the legions or the palace. Often, their parents are already involved with those Imperial institutions."

Martel frowned until he caught on. "You're worried he'll find out my secret."

"He may be a trustworthy sort," his teacher began to say.

"He's been nothing but a friend to me," Martel interjected, feeling the need to defend his compatriot.

The Master of Elements raised his hands. "I am sure. But you cannot know if he'll protect you until you do trust him with your secret, and if he does not... well, it will be rather too late. Best not to chance it."

"I don't plan to," Martel declared.

"Good. As an elemental mage, there's nothing strange in you knowing a bit of fire magic. But don't let anyone see you do anything complex. A good rule would be to avoid anything more advanced than what you can do with water magic."

"I understand, master."

"Alright. Let's try that pillar of water again."

~

Still feeling a little worn, Martel made his way to lunch. Searching the crowd, he did not spot Maximilian, but a table full of colourful robes caught his attention instead; a single spot remained empty.

Walking over to the elemental acolytes, one of them in green clothing looked up at him. "Oh, now we're good enough for you?" Jasper sneered.

"What?" Martel asked stammering.

"Did the sword snobs get tired of you, and now you come crawling back?"

"I'm not crawling," the novice said, confused; he could not understand what offence he had caused.

"Then you better sit with them, since you prefer their company to ours," Jasper told him and demonstratively looked away.

Crestfallen, Martel quickly walked away just to escape the situation. He found a seat in the back by an empty table, eating alone as had been his fate before.

~

The Master of Elements crossed his arms. "Martel, I understand you may not be feeling well. But you really must do better."

His second elemental lesson had begun to scarcely better effect than his first. Watching the water refuse to obey him, Martel chewed on his lips. "I'm sorry, master. I'm feeling fine. Just got distracted by something at lunch."

"Well, there'll be plenty of distractions out in the fields when your magic is all that prevents crop failure and starvation," Master Alastair chastised him. "That is why we practise focus. To keep our minds on the task at hand."

"Yes, master." Martel pushed other thoughts away and stared at the water, lying in its channel around the Hall of Elements. Unconsciously clenching his hands together, he let his magic flow into the blue liquid. Raising his fists, he practically pulled the water into the air, raising a column upwards. It strained against his will, protesting against this double violation of its nature; it neither wanted to move up nor be pressed together.

Finally, his will faltered, and the water splashed down. The drops stopped just before Master Alastair, hitting an invisible shield. Martel got soaked.

"Sorry. It's really difficult."

"That is the point," the Master of Elements explained. "You must exercise full control of water, even against its own nature. Only then will you have mastered it."

"I'll keep practising. Outside of class too, of course."

"See that you do." The teacher cast a look at him and patted his shoulder. "Do not be discouraged. This will take time. Some of the novices only learn this towards the end right before their exam."

"I understand." Martel nodded a little, his thoughts still thinking about earlier. He had reached the point of feeling annoyed rather than hurt.

"So, what's got you in a knot?"

The novice turned his head to look at his teacher. "Just some of the other students. They're hard to be friends with."

"At your age, I bet." Master Alastair allowed himself a faint smile. "Though you did choose an unusual way to garner them."

Martel gave him a questioning look.

"I refer, of course, to your fight against the Cheval boy."

"Oh. You know about that?"

"I watched it. From a window."

Martel cleared his throat. "Am I in trouble?"

"You broke no rules," Master Alastair replied. "Since I saw no sign you used magic to deliberately harm another student. Though I caution you against ever doing that again."

"Oh, I don't intend to!"

"Training matches like that should be overseen and sanctioned by a teacher. You don't want to give them any excuse for expelling you from the school."

"Of course not. Them?"

"Ahem." Now it was Master Alastair's turn to clear his throat. "Anyway, you did well. Used the terrain rather than brute force. A valuable lesson."

"I did enjoy it," Martel admitted.

"The legions don't employ any weathermages – too few of them, I suppose. Ensuring food is grown is more important, after all."

"Yeah, certainly."

"But I've known a weathermage or two in my time who would be a great help for any soldier," Master Alastair told him. "Once, my regiment was trapped during a harsh winter in our camp by the Tyrian border."

"What happened?" asked Martel, his interest growing.

"The Tyrians, never as troubled by snow as us, decided we would make good trophies. Or perhaps they wanted to send a warning. Those were different days when the Empire wasn't busy fighting with Khiva."

"They attacked you?"

"A war party did. Young men, I suppose, out to prove themselves. They besieged us, testing our defences. We had a temporary camp only with palisades, and we found ourselves under constant threat."

"What did you do?"

"By chance, a weathermage had been passing the same way and, avoiding the Tyrians, taken shelter with us. He and I concocted a plan."

"What?" Martel asked eagerly.

"He created the most terrible blizzard to cover the area. Meanwhile, I surrounded us with heat. Under the cover of the snowstorm, with my fire blazing a trail and keeping us warm, we snuck out under their noses. Thirty miles we walked without rest! Right past the Tyrian sentinels."

Martel thought about the magic involved. Not only the power to summon such a blizzard, but also the strength and skill to keep the snow at bay and protect a whole group of people from the cold, all while avoiding detection. "That sounds incredible."

"Aye, it may not sound glorious, but it's one of the more difficult feats of magic I ever pulled off. I can tell you, that weathermage earned some respect too, from all the legionaries."

"I wish I could meet him! And hear how he did it."

Master Alastair smiled. "You did. His name is Ogion."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. He would be a man of a certain age when he arrived at your town, but in his youth, he was well-travelled and full of energy. One of the best wizards I've ever met, and I've met quite a lot. Not to mention, a good friend." The old mage's smile lasted for another moment. "Enough chittering. Back to the exercise."