Firebrand

More and more people joined them on the square, staring at the two mages. Some of them dared to approach, once Martel could extricate himself from his mother. Two young women, still in their late teens, hugged him as well. A boy, a few years younger than them, stood awkwardly until Martel pulled him into the embrace.

“Father Julius,” he spoke in greeting, freeing himself once more from his relatives.

The priest bowed his head, standing outside his temple. “Welcome home, Martel.”

“Keith.” The mage nodded to his older brother, who gave no response. “You must be Clara,” he added to the woman by his side, holding an infant in her arms.

She gave a nervous look from her husband to her mother-in-law before making half a bow, made all the more difficult by the squirming baby. “Welcome home,” she stammered.

“Well, I’ll be blessed, you’ve made Clara all but speechless,” his mother declared. “Now let’s all get inside, away from this dreadful cold! You must both be hungry and tired from such a long journey.” She gave Eleanor a curious glance.

“Well, we didn’t take the whole trip in one stretch,” Martel mumbled with half a smile, though he did look forward to food and rest. “But yes, let’s get our horses somewhere, and Eleanor and I will join you in a moment.”

“You can place them in the temple’s lean-to,” Father Julius suggested. “It’s well-sheltered.”

“See you in a bit,” the firemage told his mother before he and his companion dragged their horses away.

Soon after, with their steeds taken care of, the two travelling mages sat on benches along the walls inside the home of Engby’s smith. Everyone from Martel’s family had gathered inside, including those who now lived elsewhere. His mother, his older brother along with his wife and offspring, and Martel’s two sisters and younger brother. Together, they filled every seat, and the small children sat on the ground with a sheep skin sheltering them from the cold floor.

Martel looked around. The house being new, he recognised none of it. He had grown up in a building that had one simple room, nothing else, providing beds, cooking fire, and living space in one.

This house had a second floor with stairs in the back leading up to it. The cooking fire was placed inside a hearth, allowing smoke to be led away rather than fill the air inside. Instead of seating and sleeping areas being alcoves in the wall, the place was furnished with benches and beds built from wood.

It was a lovely home with more comforts than Martel had known growing up. He would be delighted, except he feared to ask what had happened to the previous building.

By the hearth, his mother hummed a tune while stirring a ladle around a big pot of soup. As for everyone else, they stared at the visitors. Martel’s brothers kept their eyes on him, while his sisters looked at Eleanor.

“You’re the woman he’s talked about in his letters?” Juliet asked.

The mageknight glanced at her companion next to her, a sly smile appearing on her lips. “That depends. Who is this woman he has talked about in his letters?”

“Of course I’ve mentioned you,” Martel scoffed. “We were fighting together for two years.”

“Oh, he started long before that,” his mother interjected, her back turned toward them. “It’s the sort of thing you notice, as a mum, when your boy suddenly starts mentioning a girl.” ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ NoveI-Fire.ɴet

“Thanks for that clarification, mum.”

“Oh yes, he went on and on about how clever you are, how good at everything,” she continued.

“I made a passing remark where appropriate,” Martel muttered.

“He didn’t say you were so pretty,” Juliet inserted.

“How remiss of him. But thank you,” Eleanor replied. She glanced at Martel. “Your lightstone.”

“Oh, right.” Martel dug into his bag and pulled out the object in question, which filled the room with its luminosity. “We might as well use this.” He placed it on the small table that filled the centre of the room.

“We don’t need your magic,” Keith declared, speaking for the first time. The smith scowled at the lightstone. “We’ve done fine without you, and we will be fine once you leave again.”

“Keith!” exclaimed their mother. “I’ll not have such hostility in my house.”

He got on his feet. “This is my house, built by me. And those townspeople who’d still help us.” He turned his eyes on Martel. “Do you know why we had to rebuild it?”

Martel felt a prick of anger at the accusatory tone, which he did his best to suppress. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll tell you gladly. Soldiers came, looking for the family of the Firebrand. That’s who you are now, right? A rebel and a deserter, who threw the whole place into war! They torched our home, Martel, with my children still inside!”

The battlemage took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That’s atrocious. I wish I could have been here.”

“You weren’t. We had to deal with the consequences. If Master Ogion hadn’t stopped the soldiers, they’d have killed us, or worse!” The terse smith stared with fury at his younger brother. “What good would all your magic have been?”

“Not a lot,” Martel admitted. He understood Keith’s anger, which was the only reason he could contain his own. Next to him, Eleanor placed her hand on his arm, which helped.

“And now you come home as if nothing ever happened. But I bet you’ll leave us to fend for ourselves the moment we need you.” Keith cast a final, furious look at the mage before he stomped off, going up the stairs.

Uncomfortable silence followed in his wake. While Martel could not see his mother, her back still turned, he saw her hands raised to cover her face and hide the sound of her tears.

“I think it looks neat.” John gazed at the lightstone on the table.

“We should eat,” their mother said, her composure regained. “Soup’s done.”

“This house is pretty full,” Martel remarked. “Eleanor and I will find somewhere else to sleep. We won’t disturb anyone in the temple.” His companion nodded in agreement.

Martel’s mother turned on her heel to face them. “The temple? Sleeping on cold stone floors? You’ll both catch your deaths!”

“Mum, I’m a firemage. Heat is the least of my abilities. Don’t worry about us,” Martel said in his best attempt of sounding reassuring.

“We have travelled here through the dead of winter, good mistress,” Eleanor chimed in. “Martel is right. Any place with a roof is comfortable to us.”

“Alright, if you’re both sure,” she mumbled. “Haven’t been called ‘mistress’ by anyone since I first got married. My name’s Hilda, dear.” She brought the pot of soup over and placed it on the table.

Night had fallen, and the travellers unfurled their bedrolls to seek rest inside the small temple of Engby. It was much the same as the shrine in the village they had passed by; a single room dominated by an altar in the middle, with living quarters for the priest further back. The main difference was the building material being stone.

The doors opened, creaking on their hinges to reveal a man in his sixties with a white beard. Besides his heavy cloak for winter, he wore dark-blue robes embroidered with icicles upon them in a similar pattern to Martel’s red robes with their flames.

“Master Ogion.” Martel bowed his head in respect to the resident weathermage.

“My house has a guest room with a bath waiting. I trust you can heat the water yourself.”

The firemage gave a weary smile. “No trouble at all.”

“You are a godsend, Master Ogion,” his companion added. “I am Eleanor Fontaine,” she introduced herself.

The weathermage nodded slightly. “Ogion will do. Come.” He turned around and walked away, the other mages following him to his house; except for the smithy, it was the newest residence in the town, built about a decade ago as a home for the wizard. It had several rooms on two floors, including a guestroom with a filled tub. Soon after, the travellers could end their day by sinking into a hot bath.