Firebrand

When the two guests emerged from their room the next morning, the smell of breakfast met them in the kitchen. Quietly, Ogion served them each a bowl of porridge, which they ate with delight; the old weathermage was a better cook than his young visitors. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ⓝovelFire.net

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, thank you,” Martel hurried to join in. Their host nodded in silence.

“We shall not inconvenience you for long.” She looked at Martel next to her. “I think?”

He hesitated; he felt uncomfortable leaving so soon after they had arrived, given what had happened in his absence. But this had always been the plan, to travel onward. “Just a few more days.”

Ogion nodded again.

While Eleanor went off to hunt, Martel returned to the brook and scoured it for suitable stones. Once happy with his harvest, he retired to his room at Ogion’s house and set to work enchanting.

The temple in Engby did not have a bell to measure the passage of time; to the townspeople, the day began at sunrise and ended at sunset, and they required no further timekeeping beyond that. By his own estimate, Martel had spent a few hours making all the enchantments. Longer than he normally would, but he wanted these to last as long as his skill would allow, and he had to make up for the material being less suitable for his purpose, which slowed down his efforts.

Once complete, he carried a large rock and one small over to the smithy. Inside, he found his mother at work kneading dough while his sister-in-law nursed her baby. The latter gave him a cautious smile, still appearing apprehensive in his presence. His mother, on the other hand, did not. “There he is. Four years gone, he comes back home, yet it’s been half a day before he shows his face again,” she complained.

“I was busy making these.” Martel placed the heating stone in the middle of the room and the smaller lightstone on the table next to his mother. Clara stared at the latter object with reverence bordering on fear, tightening her grip on her child, which Martel studiously ignored. “Where is everyone?”

“At work, of course.” The rhythmic clanging of a hammer against the anvil reached them from the adjacent room. Ceasing her work on the dough, Hilda picked up the lightstone. “My, this is a trick! Clara, have you seen?” The young woman nodded mutely. “Is this what they taught you to do at that school?”

“Among other things.”

“Well, sit down, boy. Your siblings will be back soon enough, and Juliet’s promised to bring some of her brew. You won’t find it better in Morcaster,” Hilda declared.

“Alright.” Martel took a seat on the nearest bench, enjoying the warmth from his heating stone that began to permeate the room. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Yet his magical senses remained alert, and his hand shot out to grab a small wrist and prevent four chubby, yet tiny fingers from touching his heating stone. He opened his eyes to look at Tora. “Don’t touch. You’ll burn yourself.” He nodded at the lightstone. “You can play with that if you want. It can’t hurt you.” He released his grip, and the girl ran away with a frightened expression. “Sorry if I scared her,” he added, looking at the child’s mother.

“She’ll have to learn eventually,” Clara mumbled. “Magic’s not to be toyed with.”

Martel recalled little about his brother’s wife from the letters he had received, all of which had been lost, but his mother had described the woman as cheerful and talkative. Perhaps she shared her husband’s opinion of Martel, or maybe she felt uncomfortable around mages in general.

“Well, don’t just sit and be quiet,” Hilda scolded him. “Tell us about Morcaster. Is it as big as they say?”

Martel took a deep breath. “Mum, you have no idea.”

“The spire is so tall, you’d think it would reach the sun. And when the sun strikes it, it shines like a pillar of light.” Around him, Martel’s family sat while listening to his every word. “And inside the emperor’s palace, there’s a hall with a vaulted ceiling. During the day, it looks normal. But after sunset, it turns dark to show all the stars as they travel across the night sky.”

The door opened to admit Eleanor, who had a rabbit and a squirrel in her hands. She handed the animals over to Hilda. “I thought the pelts might be good as gloves or sewn to a cloak.”

“Well, dear, aren’t you a marvel.” The matron looked the animals over while Eleanor took a seat next to her companion. “Why, these little things have been shot through the eye!”

“I thought it best not to ruin the pelts,” the mageknight declared modestly.

“A little Tyrian magic doesn’t hurt either with aiming,” Martel remarked with a sly smile, knowing she used rune-enchanted arrows.

“How is it fighting in a war?”

The question that silenced everyone came from John, Martel’s quiet younger brother; he had been practising his letters with Father Julius earlier, and now he sat, staring at the battlemage.

“John!” his mother finally exclaimed. “That’s not a nice question to ask.”

“It’s terrible,” Martel admitted. “Blood and bodies everywhere. If you’re not under attack, you’re worried about when you’ll be, always watching.” Realising there might be another reason why the fourteen-year-old boy had asked, Martel cleared his throat. “If you’re thinking of William, there’s peace up north. He won’t be doing any fighting.”

“Thank Sol,” his mother mumbled.

“They say you killed a hundred men in a battle,” the boy continued, staring with a blank expression at his older brother. “Is that true?”

“John!”

Ignoring his mother’s outburst, Martel nodded. “I probably did. We didn’t count them.”

“With a single spell,” Eleanor added. “Your brother is the most powerful mage in the Empire.”

“And you’re the best mageknight,” Martel continued, grasping her hand. “I’d bet on you against anybody else.”

“Why are you so good?” asked Juliet. “I mean, you’re so young.”

Martel grabbed his horn of ale, brewed and brought by that same sister. “They sent us out to fight. Every day. Me and Eleanor. In one year, we killed more Khivans than a whole legion. When you’re constantly being pushed to your limits, you either die or grow your skills.” He took a deep sip, using the moment to compose himself. He noticed that by the door to the smithy, Keith had appeared, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Is that why you rebelled?” This time, nobody hushed John.

“Yes,” Martel breathed. “We couldn’t go on.”

“It was more than that,” Eleanor interjected with a bitter tone of voice. “They gave Martel a task deep in Khiva, sure to kill him. If he had refused, they would see him executed and me sent to my death as well. They gave us a simple choice – us or them. We chose ourselves.” She looked at her beloved, and the anger in her features softened.

“We never heard that.” Hilda sat down next to her children, covering her mouth with one hand. “Is this true?” She stared at her second son.

“It is.” Martel did not know why, but he found it hard to stay calm; this betrayal was over a year ago, yet it suddenly felt raw, maybe reinforced by other memories resurfacing. “Never trust the Empire or those who lead it. Trust each other, but never them.” He took a deep breath. “It’s getting late, and dark outside. I’ll go to bed.”

“Of course.” Eleanor got up alongside him, and together, as Martel’s family bid them goodnight, they left the smithy to retire to their room at Ogion’s house.