Firebrand

Strung Along

Arriving at the apothecary for his morning work, Martel once again met only Nora. "It's starting to feel like you're here more than Mistress Rana," he jested.

"Oh, she's here on occasion, except if she's out of the city to gather herbs and such," the apprentice remarked. "But I think she's waiting to see if you stick to it before investing more time in you. Not a lot who'd work one bell every day for free."

"I guess I'm not like a lot of people." Martel smiled.

"I suppose not. But anyway, once you seem committed, I imagine she'll begin instructing you personally. She has a bit low opinion of Asterians," Nora explained. "Doesn't think we have the patience for slow work like alchemy."

"I feel like patience is the one thing we learn above all here at the Lyceum." Martel scratched his neck. "She's from Sindhu, right? I never met anyone from there before."

"I can't imagine they like to travel up north. Too cold for them," Nora considered with a wry expression. "But their alchemy is unrivalled. That book of hers, it has recipes for things I could never imagine before. Potions to turn your skin to stone, for instance."

"That sounds unpleasant." Martel could not imagine why anyone would want skin made from stone. "Have you seen her use some of all these strange potions?"

Nora shook her head. "She says most of them require ingredients that are near impossible to get, especially here in Aster."

Ingredients like those harvested from a living mage, Martel thought, thinking back on how that berserker wanted to sell Regnar for parts. "Oh, before I forget." From his pockets, he drew out small bundles of herbs and dried plants. "That's everything on your list, right?"

Nora looked it over. "Yes, looks fine." She bent down to open a cabinet and pulled out a small jar. "Here, you can have this. It's already done. So you don't have to wait." They exchanged items and Martel carefully placed the little jar in a pocket.

"Thanks! I'll put this to use as soon I can."

"You're welcome. Now we better get to work before Mistress Rana catches us doing anything but work."

~

When he went to his class for theory of magic, Martel already knew the question he wanted to ask. As soon as Master Fenrick entered the room, he raised his hand.

"At least one of my students asks questions," he mumbled. He regarded Martel from behind his spectacles. "What is it?"

"Master Fenrick, what can you tell us of Sindhian alchemy?"

"Not much. Mistress Rana is the expert on that. She will introduce you all to elixirs and the like when you are acolytes. Some of the faculty are fortunate enough to be spared the burden of teaching novices," he muttered.

"But their magic is based on an entirely different tradition than ours, right? Like the way they think all living things have magic, and therefore they can use it in their alchemy."

Master Fenrick narrowed his eyes. "Someone has been learning outside of class. Yes, that is true, but I have never made a study of the Sindhian traditions. You will have to ask Mistress Rana."

"But if it is based on a different tradition than ours, how come we can use it? If we learn magic the Asterian way, but Mistress Rana teaches potions the Sindhian way, won't there be an issue?" Martel stared at his teacher. He had been thinking of this question for a while now.

"An insightful question for once. I would wager the answer is the same if you asked why we can use Tyrian runes when we have no knowledge of their galdr?"

"Why can we?" Out of the corner of his eye, Martel noticed that the other novices did not seem to pay attention. He could not fathom why; understanding the nature of magic seemed to him the most fascinating of subjects.

"You will understand better when you actually have to learn the runes, which I'll teach you when you are acolytes. At least for that class I won't have to deal with children," he grumbled. "The answer is that we are only able to in a limited fashion. All the runes we master have to do with the elements and the physical world, same as our own magic. But I have seen bards cause insanity and cure it again. Magic of the mind far beyond our understanding."

"And you think it is the same with potions? That the Sindhians can create concoctions we never could hope to do?"

"I think you should ask Mistress Rana. When you get the chance as her student."

Martel figured that Master Fenrick meant when he was an acolyte and had to learn elixirs; fortunately for him, he would not have to wait that long.

~

With a fresh jar of skin salve and the bits of food he could scavenge from supper, Martel left the Lyceum. He whistled as he walked the streets of Morcaster. It was a pleasant evening, warmer than it had been in a long time as spring prepared for summer's coming.

"Hullo," he called out as he reached the alleyway that served as home for Weasel and his people. As usual, he could not see any sign of them unless and until they chose to reveal themselves. But unlike the other night, the children did not appear. Not even to partake of his gifts. Instead, only Weasel appeared. "Hey," Martel greeted him. "Where are the rest?"

"Sorry," the boy mumbled. "They threatened us."

Behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows. He looked rough both in appearance and demeanour, though Martel especially took note of the large club in his hand. "Get him!"

Martel threw out his hands, and a stream of fire erupted to strike the club-wielding brigand in his chest. Since his outburst had alerted Martel to the fact that other attackers came, he kept the flames burning around his hands as he turned on his heel to face them.

Three men waited, armed with daggers and clubs. They stood slightly apart, blocking the exit from the alley while approaching him from different sides. Martel sent bursts of fire against all of them as swiftly as he could, ignoring how quickly he felt exhausted.

The thugs closed in, two of them; the third was busy trying to extinguish the flames in his clothes. They struck out with their weapons, while trying to stay beyond Martel's reach with his long arms and burning hands.

From behind, the first of the brigands struck Martel against his back. He fell to his knees groaning. Quickly, they rushed him to grab his arms in a tight lock. "The collar!" One of them shouted.

The last bandit, his garments no longer burning, hurried over and placed a leather string around Martel's neck. He tightened it until it almost choked the boy. Worse than that, Martel felt an icy chill against his skin, and the fire in his hands disappeared.

"I told you!" the bandit crowed, still fiddling with the string. "Just as they said, gold kills their magic. Turns a lion into a lamb."

"Still felt like a bloody stupid gamble," muttered one of the others as they struggled to tie Martel up.

"No, I saw it at the marketplace," argued the first man. "As soon he felt the gold on his hand, he ran like he had seen a ghost."

"Quit yapping about and finish up!"

A gag went into Martel's mouth and a bag over his head.

~

When the sun set, Morcaster became a quiet city in the northern districts. Few walked the wide streets except for the city guard or nobles in the carriages, as entertainment, drinking, brawls, and general activity moved further south beyond the market district to the harbour and surrounding areas. Despite this, a small shape made its way north, taking care not to be seen by anyone, until he could reach the Lyceum.