Firebrand

Martel woke first, as usual. He sat up against the wall, letting the silence surround him. Only a few embers remained in the hearth, barely visible, but Martel could feel them with his magic. With just a little push or pull, he could make them flare up or extinguish them. He summoned a flame at the tip of his finger and let it jump from one digit to another, much like how he had seen jugglers manoeuvre a coin across their knuckles.

“Good morning,” came a drowsy voice.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Martel let his flame die out.

“No, no.” She sat up and stretched her arms. “We never got around to discussing it last night – would you like to stay for the celebration?”

Martel gave her a scrutinising look. “Would you like to stay?”

She shrugged. “I would not mind some good fare and a break from the road. But we are journeying to see your family. If delaying makes you anxious, I am ready to continue.”

Martel mostly wanted to continue because he felt uneasy being around other people again, and it seemed a pity to deprive Eleanor a pleasant evening just for the sake of vague discomfort. “A day won’t make much difference. Nordmark can wait.” He gave a smile with a closed mouth. “After inviting me to feast with your peers, now you get to see how we live.”

She slapped him on the shin, the only body part within reach. “At this point, I would argue we are not peasant or patrician. Just mages.”

In Martel’s eyes, just the only people in the world. He looked at the hearth with its pot. “Well, after a whole night of smelling that, at least we get to taste it.”

The alderman entered the village hall along with an old woman – his wife, presumably. They carried hot bowls of porridge. “Some warm breakfast for our guests,” he declared, and they placed it on the table.

“We are grateful,” Eleanor told them as the two mages took a seat and began eating.

“As are we,” the alderman replied while the old woman went to check on the great pot in the hearth. “While you could not know this, your silver solves a pressing issue for us.”

“What’s the issue?” Martel asked even as he figured they should not get involved. But what was difficult for villagers to handle might be trivial for wizards, and they were staying for another day anyway.

“Ah, one of the yeomen who lives nearby. He owns the meadow between us and the nearest brook, uses it for grazing his cattle,” the alderman explained. “He’s forbidden us gathering from it for years now, forcing us to search much farther for our simple needs.”

“You intend to pay him for use of the meadow?” Eleanor contemplated. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel✦fire.net

The old man nodded. “By Sol’s fortune, we already invited him to join us tonight, hoping to resolve matters. Now we can add some silver to the barter.”

“What else are you offering?” Martel asked against his own will. This strife called for negotiations, like the villagers intended, rather than a battlemage; there was no need for him to do anything, and he did not want to get involved. But he could not help but ask.

Surprisingly, the alderman looked uncomfortable at the question. “The yeoman, Master Harold is his name, his wife is staying in the village. We thought it only reasonable to get – compensation.”

Odd that she would stay here rather than at her home if it lay close by, but perhaps she had been ill and under treatment from the local wise folk. “Does this village have a herbalist?”

“Oh yes, master mage, most assuredly.” In contrast to Martel’s earlier line of questioning, this made the alderman smile. “We are blessed with a small shrine to Luna and a Maiden of the Moon. Her home looks similar from the outside, but you will recognise it by the carved crescent moon on the doorframe.”

“Hieronymus, a little help if you are done chattering!” From across the room, the old woman called to her husband, glaring at him. With an amused expression, the alderman left his visitors to join his wife.

Meanwhile, Martel leaned forward and spoke quietly to Eleanor, “What exactly is a Maiden of the Moon?”

“Order of priestesses, mostly in Aquila. They are herbalists, and some might do physician’s work,” she explained, finishing her porridge.

“Could be worth a visit.” They had left Morcaster rather suddenly, and Martel had little in his own stores. “We got a day to kill before the celebration anyway.”

“You do that, my darling battlemage, and I shall hunt.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “We got enough silver to buy all the food we could ever eat for a lifetime.”

“You pass the time talking about herbs, I do it my way.” She smiled at him and got up to fish out her hunting equipment. Martel did the same, clasping his cloak around him. Grabbing a purse of silver, he exchanged a look in farewell with Eleanor, stringing her Tyrian shortbow, before he walked out the door.

In the bleak sunlight that the shortest day of the year offered, Martel could not see any difference among the doorframes of the village. To him, they all looked old and worn. He grumbled and swore, conjuring a flame to get better light. At last he saw some scratches that could generously be described as having the shape of a crescent moon, and he gave a heavy knock.

A woman in an undyed robe opened the door, suggesting he was in the right place, at least. “You must be the visiting mage.” She stepped back to let him enter. “I am Sister Catherine, the priestess of this shrine.”

“Martel of Engby.” He summoned a flame again to illuminate the space. While from the outside the house looked like any other, it was clearly different inside, being divided into two rooms. Where Martel stood now was devoted to a simple altar – a wooden figurine atop a small pedestal. An empty doorframe gave way into the other part of the house, where Martel could glimpse the usual trappings of a home along with drying racks and shelves for herbs; the scent in the air told him the same. “I heard you’re a herbalist.”

“Indeed. Do you seek remedies?” She gestured for him to step into the other room.

“Just ingredients. I can make my own, but my supplies are low.” Entering the priestess’s personal chamber, Martel noticed the woman with the bruise from yesterday.

She was young with a look of fright about her, even though their voices must have alerted her to his presence. She bowed her head silently, sitting on a chair in the corner.

Martel returned the greeting in the same manner, noticing a bedroll furled up next to the proper bed; he surmised this was the yeoman’s wife, staying in the village rather than with her husband. He got a sense why, looking at her face, though the whole situation seemed odd to him, including the alderman’s words earlier. Regardless, not something magic could deal with, and without knowing the intricacies of the matter, he saw no reason to interfere.

Instead, he turned his attention to the herbalist and her drying rack. “Do you have strangleroot?”

“Of course. Plenty of it growing by the brook, thank Luna.” She began to untie some of the herbs drying on the rack.

“I thought you were not allowed to use the meadow?” Martel frowned.

“Ah, the alderman has involved you in our dispute.” Sister Catherine smiled sardonically. “I make medicine for Master Harold – his heart gives him trouble from time to time. He can’t very well deny me access to gathering herbs when he relies on them.”

“Indeed not.” Martel picked out a couple of silver pieces.

“Master mage, this is too generous.”

He shrugged. More than one pocket of his belt was filled with gems worth hundreds of crowns put together. “Put it towards the village’s settlement with the yeoman if you wish.”

“I shall say prayers to Luna for your health and wellbeing.”

Martel felt doubtful it would make a difference. “If you wish.”

Unlike Eleanor’s choice of activity, Martel’s was quickly done. Leaving the shrine, he stood in the village square, watching the people haul branches over to build a bonfire next to well. With nothing better to do, Martel joined them. The villagers gave him odd looks, seeing someone they knew to be a mage doing such simple manual labour, but nobody dared raise questions, and Martel found himself enjoying the task. His days lately had consisted of little but riding; when he had done work, it was of the magical kind, sitting still while focusing to enchant an object.

Martel continued in this manner here and there, lending a hand. He did not use his gift but simply did it in the same way as the villagers. For a brief while, he was not a wizard but just a young man, using his strength and endurance honed on campaign to help the locals prepare for the celebration.

In the afternoon, a rider appeared. That alone set him apart; the people in the small town might have a sheep to provide wool, a cow for milk, and oxen for ploughing, but none of them had horses. His cloak was fur-lined, and his boots looked new. Martel did not require an introduction to guess this was the yeoman who owned the nearby fields.

As he dismounted at the square, he gave Martel a suspicious look before dragging his horse around the village hall. In the distance, the sun approached the horizon. Looking toward the nearby forest, Martel saw a familiar shape returning, a bow slung over her shoulder.

The alderman appeared from within. “Did I hear a rider?”

“Aye, you did,” the smith replied.

“Very well. Our preparations are made. Let’s begin our celebration.”