Firebrand

Dormant

Martel's first fiveday at the Lyceum did not feel like a success. He had hardly shown any talent in his classes; after four lessons in elemental magic, he did not feel any improvement. As he finished breakfast on Pelday, waiting to have his fifth, he steeled himself for a conversation with Master Alastair.

"Martel! Come in, boy." The Master of Elements greeted him with his usual fervour and a smile behind the greying beard.

"Yes, master." Martel cleared his throat, stepping inside the Hall of Elements. "Master, I've been reading in the library."

"Oh ho, is that so? Reading is a dangerous affair, but I'll keep your secret." He winked at the novice.

"I read about the methods of learning magic. If I understand, you're teaching me through focus? The tranquil method, the book called it."

"Yes, that's right."

Martel hesitated, not eager to criticise the one person meant to help him accomplish his dreams of magic. "I just don't feel like it's working for me," he finally admitted. "The book mentioned other paths to sorcery. More about emotions than the mind."

"No," Master Alastair said quickly. "Boy, I'm teaching you the way I think is best. You'll have to trust me."

"Of course," Martel hurried to reply.

"If I feel the need, we'll change our approach. But for now, sit down, close your eyes, and focus."

~

When the lesson ended, Martel made his way straight to the kitchens to help make lunch. He did not mind this chore; it gave him an excuse to eat in the kitchen rather than brave the dining hall. While a few of the acolytes did not seem to mind his presence, most of them cared little to include him in conversation. The alternative, sitting with novices several years younger than him, did not entice Martel either.

The kitchen staff kept their distance, much like when he had worked in the washery yesterday. Here as well, the difference between servant and student was clear, even if invisible to the outsider. Martel's only friend in Morcaster remained a Khivan girl who had much higher expectations of his magical abilities than he could meet.

He remembered the astronomy lesson and the rumour mentioned by the acolytes. How he was so inept that even with private tutoring from Master Alastair, he showed no progress. With a heavy feeling, Martel finished his chores and went to his room. He rested for a while, staring out of the window at the sky. When the bell rang, he walked with slow steps towards his next lesson in elemental magic.

~

Master Alastair exhibited his typical enthusiasm at Martel's arrival, even if they had seen each other only hours prior. The novice felt a tingle of suspicion that the Master of Elements placed some effort into displaying good cheer, and perhaps he was less assured of Martel's success than he let on.

"Master Alastair, may I ask you something?"

"I'd be a poor teacher to say no. What's on your mind?"

Martel bit his lip before he spoke. "I heard some of the other students. They said you're teaching me in private because I'm so untalented. I'm worried they're right."

Master Alastair frowned. "Boy, if you did not have the skill for magic, you wouldn't stand before me right now."

"I can create a small flame that can't even light a candle." Martel exhaled, trying to keep his frustrations under control. "I'm the furthest thing from a weathermage."

"All beginnings are hard," his teacher claimed. "You'll get there, trust me."

"I've seen the other novices around the school. Younger than me, but none of them seem as slow to learn as me."

The Master of Elements took a deep breath. "I didn't plan to tell you this yet, but I suppose you should know if it will restore your faith in yourself."

"Know what?"

"The gift of magic takes many shapes. Some excel in shaping earth or commanding wind, others can empower their bodies to incredible feats of strength and endurance. Many have a touch of everything rather than a singular talent. But in every generation, there’s a few with an innate mastery of fire. Someone so naturally gifted, even without instruction, the flame will heed their call."

Martel summoned the flame in his hand. He did not think about it or clear his mind; he simply did. It shone brightly, though it felt cold.

Master Alastair smiled. "Like that. They call us fire-touched."

"Us?" Martel's eyes widened a little.

The master nodded. "You and I were born the same, Martel." The mage extended his hand. He let a flame erupt, floating over his palm, much like Martel could do; yet even from a few feet away, the boy could sense the heat emanate. It felt like standing in front of his father's forge on a swelting summer's day, and he wondered at how it did not burn the mage's hand.

"What does this mean?"

"Many things. Most importantly, your gift is not in doubt, and the overseer was right to grant you entry. It is important you learn to control your gift, boy."

"Well, yes, otherwise I won't be able to do anything."

"More than that." Master Alastair shook his head a little. "Those of us with fire in our blood have a tendency to let our passions take sway. Without discipline, magic may end up ruling us rather than reverse. Two centuries ago, one such undisciplined fire-touched lost control, and half of Morcaster was torched."

Panic spread across Martel. He had been excited for a moment to have confirmation of his gift, but this did not seem like a gift after all. He thought about the wooden buildings of the Khivan enclave, built closely together, and how easily a fire would devastate the entire district. "So that's why you want me to learn via focused methods."

Master Alastair nodded. "This is also why I teach you away from prying eyes. None must know of your nature, Martel."

"Because they'd fear me?" He already felt like an outcast; he could not imagine being ostracised even further.

"Not as such." The master swallowed. "Martel, all mages with an aptitude for fire are trained as battlemages. Someone like you, a fire-touched? The Imperial legions would relish getting their hands on you."

"But I don't want to learn magic that kills people!"

"Of course not. But you are part of the Empire, Martel, as is this school. If anyone finds out about you, nobody can prevent the legions from laying claim to you." Master Alastair licked his lips. "Trust me. I spent my twenty years of service as a battlemage. They will force you as they did me."

"You were a battlemage?"

He nodded. "Before I came here to teach. And this school is filled with the sons and daughters of nobility or soldiers from the legions, Martel, who would gladly betray your secret."

Martel looked at his teacher with different eyes. He knew nothing of what being a battlemage entailed, but he could not imagine the short, jovial man before him killing others on the fields of war. It also occurred to him that his master, in whose authority he trusted, had concealed truths for him, even if such deceit was born of benign reasons.

"I was fortunate," Master Alastair continued. "My years were spent in relative quiet, protecting borderlands. But you will be sent to the Khivan front, boy, to the siege of Nahavand or worse, the Savena delta."

"I don't want to go to war!"

"For good reason. The Khivans have a bounty on all battlemages, and their sharpshooters rarely miss. Most war wizards last a year or two before a Khivan bullet finds them." Master Alastair placed his hand on Martel's shoulder. "Whatever you do, boy, never let any suspect that you are fire-touched."

~

Once the lesson had ended, Martel went straight to the library. After washing and drying his hands thoroughly, he approached the librarian. The latter sat at work copying manuscripts as usual; sensing Martel's presence, he exhaled a little sigh, placed the quill in its inkwell, and turned his head to give the novice an expectant look.

Martel realised that asking for books about fire-touched would do the very thing Master Alastair had told him not to do. "I was looking for books about how mages have different talents," he began to say, his mouth feeling dry. "Such as if someone is very good at water magic or the like."

The librarian raised an eyebrow but gave no objections. "We should have a tome on that. Let's see." He rose to stalk down the shelves, his sharp eyes surveying the books like a hawk searching for prey. Quickly, his fingers snapped a victim and gave it to Martel. "The more advanced topics are not available to you, obviously, but this should do."

Mumbling his gratitude, Martel took a seat away from the librarian's line of sight. He flicked through the pages until he saw a title related to his inquiry. Unfortunately, the information was sparse and mostly echoed what Master Alastair had said. There was no strict scale for how to categorise children with magical gifts, but the term fire-touched was usually applied to those so talented with fire, they could conjure a flame innately.

The remaining reading did not prove encouraging. Fire-touched mages, unskilled or in the clutches of their passions, had on more than one occasion been the cause of terrible fires and great destruction. They were viewed with distrust, not only by the common populace, but often by their fellow wizards. The fact that their unique talent was primarily utilised for war only served to further these fears.

Closing the book, Martel returned it to the shelf and left the library. He walked the corridors of the Lyceum, which seemed different to him. For the past fiveday, failing to learn magic, he had felt a fraud; as if he had only been admitted by mistake, and sooner or later, he would be found out. Now he knew beyond doubt he had earned his right to be here, but it did not comfort him; if his secret was discovered, rather than be expelled, he would be forced to stay and do the Empire's bidding on the battlefield. He wondered if it were better to feel a prisoner than an unwanted guest.

Yet as Martel reached his room, a sanctuary in a hostile world, he could not shake the sensation of the power emanating from his master, who had used but a thought to summon a flame hot enough to melt metal. The same power lay dormant within himself. He knew he was expected to follow Master Alastair's instructions and practise his ability to affect water. Instead, raising his hand, Martel watched as the cold fire awakened to dance in the air.