Firebrand

The Rooster and the Egg

Glunday passed with little excitement; as Manday came around, it promised to be eventful. It was the end of the spring faire. Besides the final revelry, the travelling players would perform their last play. But first, Martel had two lessons in theory of magic. The second of these could be a drag to get through, consisting of practical exercises to improve their magical endurance, but Martel looked forward to the first class of the day; every time, he learned about things he could never have imagined, and while the world seemed a little more frightening afterwards, it also felt more wondrous.

~

As soon as Master Fenrick entered the classroom, Martel raised his hand. "Master, I have a question."

"Ask away."

"Why is our magic different from what Tyrians do? Why isn't it the same?"

"A sensible question," Master Fenrick assented. "What could be the reason, do you think?"

"Well, a berserker uses the same magic here as he would in Tyria, so it's not about the place," Martel considered.

"Because they're different from us, barbarians," a novice declared. "Different blood."

"Yet children with Tyrian blood have no difficulty mastering magic the Asterian way," Master Fenrick countered, looking at Martel's blue eyes. "And our ways are simply what is remembered of the Archean ways."

"It's how we learn?" Martel suggested. "Our traditions are different."

The teacher nodded. "I believe so. You recall my lesson on humans having soul, mind, and body? To the Tyrians, there is no division. To them, it is like a man claiming he can walk across the river, as long as all water has been drained first. The river is the water, and the water is the river."

Several of the novices frowned or looked dismissive. Martel did not, digesting the words. He had the feeling that perhaps they contained a grain of wisdom; it was a different understanding of magic compared to the Asterian approach, intellectual and analytical. Martel recalled Regnar's words of using magic by instinct rather than will.

"But we know it's true," another novice argued. "You told us about the undead, and how they lack one of the three parts."

"Undead created by Asterian magic," Master Fenrick countered. "Recall that we cannot use the magic of the mind or the soul, like the Archeans did, who knew powerful curses or splendid illusions. No mage born in Aster has succeeded in using magic born of the mind to affect the mind. Yet the Tyrian bards, or skalds, have songs that will make friends turn on each other, seeing an enemy where their brother should be."

"Really?" Martel exclaimed. "By singing?"

Master Fenrick nodded. "Galdr, they call it. Why do you think the Asterian legions stay south of the Frosten River? Imagine a regiment on patrol in the great forests of Tyria. A song reaches their ears from somewhere unseen, and they slaughter each other."

"My father says that the barbarians have nothing we want except mud hovels and dirty hides," a novice declared with an overbearing voice.

"It is true that little would be gained from conquest," Master Fenrick conceded. "Yet we tried, ninety years ago, seeking to punish them for their raids and subdue them. Three legions crossed the Frosten River. Only a few hundreds returned from the deep woods of Tyria." The teacher smiled ominously. "Close your ears if a Tyrian skáld begins to sing."

~

Seats on the front bench awaited Martel and his friends as they arrived at the theatre. Fortunate as well, as the square had filled up. As the last play of the faire, and rumoured to be a special one, the audience had come in droves.

"Where is your Khivan touch?" asked Maximilian.

"Her father wouldn't let her attend," Martel explained.

"Hah, he does not trust your intentions, I wager," the mageknight laughed.

"Or he is worried about the groups of drunkards that go looking for trouble in the Khivan quarter," Eleanor remarked.

"Right, fair point."

Martel listened to their exchange with rising concern. He remembered the other night, being accosted verbally by a few drunks as he walked through the Khivan enclave. He had given it no further thought, considering how intoxicated people acted; then again, they had shown him little interest, and he did not look Khivan.

His thoughts were interrupted by the storyteller appearing on stage. "Tonight, good folk of Morcaster, we have a particular delight for you, sure to tickle your theatrical palate. Never shown before, I have no doubt you will enjoy The Dinner of King Rooster!"

An actor strode onto the stage, dressed as a rooster with a crown. People laughed, as did Martel; yet next to him, he heard Eleanor softly say, "Oh dear."

~

The play continued for an hour, parading a number of animals dressed in pompous clothes and jewellery. They strutted around on the stage half the time; the other half, they ate a lavish feast. One actor, dressed as a pig, pretended to eat another pig wearing poor men's clothes. All the while, they had a lengthy conversation, which Martel did not really grasp, but it had to be funny because people laughed.

At one point, the rooster king lay an egg, which Martel did find hilarious, considering only hens did that. The egg was swaddled and taken off-stage, only to return, in a manner of speaking; an actress dressed as a giant chicken, still with eggshells around her body, leapt onto the stage.

When it finally ended, the audience was in tears of laughter, and many threw pennies onto the stage. Martel preferred the play about Roland, but since admission had been free, he was not about to complain. He looked at his two companions. "That was pretty fun, I suppose. I never could have imagined a story about animals having a dinner," he chuckled.

Eleanor stared at him. "Martel, it was a satire."

"A – a satyr? I thought they were just dressed as animals."

"No, they were making fun of people. The rooster with the crown is the emperor. The egg that came out of him is the Khivan war. That is why the chicken made a mess of everything and refused to leave," Eleanor explained patiently.

"Really?" Maximilian interjected. "I thought the egg was about the rumour of the emperor's constipation. Well, the sheep was definitely the war minister." He snorted. "Bit funny, I admit."

"Are they going to be in trouble?" Martel asked concerned. He did not feel confident he could do much if Regnar was hauled to the dungeons.

Eleanor looked around. "I doubt the praetorians will care much about a single performance for less than a hundred people, but it is probably for the best that the spring faire is over tonight."

"Hah, the sheep had so much wool because its shears were dull!" Maximilian exclaimed. "Just like how the war minister has a dull mind!" The others glanced at him. "I just got the joke," he added.

"That reminds me, I have a few things to buy," Eleanor remarked. "I need perfume and weapon oil."

"I'm getting something to drink. Martel?"

The novice threw his head towards the stage. "I'll say farewell to Regnar."

~

Moving beyond the stage, Martel quickly found the hedge mage. "What did you think of our little play?" the old man asked, digging out his pipe.

"It was fun. Well, the parts I understood."

"I guess it did require certain knowledge of Morcaster's elite," Regnar admitted. "Still, we made almost double tonight compared to last night."

"Are you going to be in trouble?"

"We leave tonight, going north for a few months. Give them time to forget us." The old man ignited his pipe and winked as he placed it in his mouth.

"Well, if you are ever back in Morcaster, I'll catch your next play."

"Count on it." The hedge mage dug one hand into his pocket and withdrew a small object. "This has protected me for quite some years." He let it drop into Martel's hand. "Now I hope it can do the same for you."

The novice examined Regnar's gift. It looked like a small stone, hewn and polished to have several flat sides. On each, a rune was inscribed. "What does it do?"

Regnar smiled. "Protects you. Farewell, Martel, until our next meeting."

The spring faire had come to an end.