Firebrand

The residents gathered in the small square around the bonfire. Martel would guess there to be around fifty or so. From her shrine, the priestess appeared, carrying a torch. The yeoman’s wife followed her; when he himself emerged from having stabled his horse, she did not join his side but stayed near the entrance to the small temple.

Having disposed of her equipment, Eleanor found Martel in the small crowd, smiling at him before they turned their attention to Sister Catherine as she ignited the bonfire.

Martel felt the roar of flames better than anybody else present; he could tell every tongue of fire licking up the branches. Given the coldness increasing with the sun already set, Martel reached out with his magic and fed spellpower into the blaze, allowing it to grow swiftly in size and heat.

“Mighty Sol, we come before you as we face the longest night,” the priestess declared. “Send your life-giving light to us once more. Let it herald spring and the return of all things that grow.”

She continued along that vein, and Martel felt his attention slipping. Some of the words differed, but he had heard Father Julius back in Engby say much the same over the years. Strange that the event felt so familiar, yet he knew none of these people. He reached out to take hold of Eleanor’s hand, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Feeling her touch and the heat, the life itself of the fire entwined with his magic… Perhaps it was not so bad they had chosen to spend a day here.

Once the priestess had finished her ritual, throwing sage into the fire along with other little gestures and acts Martel did not notice, the alderman took a step forward from the crowd. “We have paid our respect to the one most high. I say it’s time we get out of this blasted cold and celebrate!”

The people cheered and quickly followed him inside the village hall. It shone with Martel’s light, and he had spent a while enchanting a decent heating stone as well, providing more comfort than any fire in the hearth could. The villagers mumbled to each other as they removed their winter clothing; some glanced at the wizard with gratitude, others looked at him askew, but nobody spoke praise or reproach.

Barrels of beer were opened, food distributed on the tables, and everyone descended upon the meal. Stew and fresh bread to soak it up with, strips of pork together with potatoes, buttered and seasoned with wild garlic. After their provisions on the road, it was the best meal Martel had eaten in several fivedays, and the beer, heavy with hops, made for a pleasant change from drinking ice-cold water from brooks and wells.

As for seating, Martel chose to be in the corner, near their possessions. It allowed him a general view of the room with the wall to his back, making him feel less uncomfortable being in the same small space as so many others. The meal continued, though while the adults helped themselves to a second and a third serving, the children began climbing under the tables or moving about the room, sometimes congregating to play knucklebones or the other such games. One of them tried to approach Martel and Eleanor’s belongings, urged by his peers to look into the bags of the travelling wizards. With his back turned, Martel could still sense the heat of someone small sneaking behind his chair. He summoned a flame right in front of the offending shape, hearing a shriek and a scramble, followed by the other kids laughing at their scout fleeing in terror from his mission.

Eleanor rejoined him, having filled their cups. “Careful now. Burning someone’s hair off might spoil the revelries.”

He took his drink from her with a shrug. “Play with fire, you get burned. The same rule applies to firemages.”

“Strange. I have yet to be burnt, despite all our play.” The sound of a fiddle filled the room, and her eyes lit up. “Music!” She got on her feet, and Martel knew it would be cruel to deny her, so he did the same. Quickly, the villagers moved the tables to the walls, clearing the middle to allow dancing.

Unlike the marbled halls of Morcaster, there was no strict routine or movement to be followed. People danced according to the rhythm as they pleased, reminding Martel of the nights spent with his friends at The Golden Goose. He had never really felt comfortable on those occasions to join in, only doing it under pressure, but that had also been a long time ago. And seeing Eleanor laugh and smile at him gave him the courage to do anything. Fresh chapters posted on novel fire.net

Still, he felt uncomfortable from the proximity of the other people. In the chaos of the dance, it could not be avoided that they sometimes came close, their elbows or shoulders touching him. They always immediately retreated, realising who he was, but it still made Martel itch in a way he could not scratch.

He noticed the yeoman dancing with his wife; by the look of his red cheeks, he had imbibed plenty. Apparently, their strife was over, or at least restrained by an armistice.

Feeling he had done his part, Martel retreated from the floor to grab a chair. Eleanor swayed for a moment longer but joined him as well, catching her breath. “You know, this has been my favourite solstice celebration to date.”

“Really? This is like just about any I’ve ever attended outside Morcaster.”

“Of course, for you, it is routine. But here, there is nobody I must speak or listen politely to, feeling the hours of my life slowly being wasted,” she said. “No bonds or obligations. Just food, dance, music, and the man I love.”

Martel knew her feelings, but hearing them spoken out loud still sent shivers through him. “The most fortunate man in Aster,” he whispered.

The yeoman stumbled past them, looking like the combination of drink and exertion had all but brought him to his knees. Martel recalled the herbalist remarking how his heart gave him trouble; it seemed he had done more than he should. Despite this, he did not fall to the floor but made his way to a corner of the room containing his own pack, which he opened up.

Martel looked away, his attention caught by the fiddler beginning a new melody; he only noticed the yeoman a few moments later as the big farmer walked past his field of vision again. This time, however, he only managed to reach the middle of the room before he collapsed onto the floor.

A variety of reactions arose from the revellers. Screams of panic, outbursts of shock; some stared in silence, especially the children. The priestess moved to the fallen body as the first, placing her hands upon the sides of his neck as he lay face down. She glanced up at the alderman. “He’s dead.”