Firebrand

Against the cold morning wind, Martel and Eleanor left the town to make a short journey north. Along a trail that in summertime might be overgrown with grass, they made their way until they reached the graveyard that held the dead of Engby. Unlike most of Aster, whose current practice was cremation, the people of Nordmark made burials in the style of the Tyrian tribes.

The townspeople in Engby did not go to quite the same length as the northerners; instead of a burial mound that would house the dead forever, together with their most prized items, they dug a hole in the ground, deep enough that wild animals would not dig the corpse back up, and erected a small cairn to mark the location.

Martel had only been once in recent years when they buried his father; not long after, he was sent to Morcaster. But with his mother’s instructions, they found the place and could gaze upon the simple burial site for the former smith of Engby. In front of the cairn – a small tower of stones precariously balanced on top of each other – a piece of wood had been carved with the name ‘Connor’, slowly rotting away.

“Hullo, father,” Martel mumbled, Eleanor by his side. “Your worst fears came to be. I was made into a wizard, and a battlemage to boot. I don’t know if you’d be happy with who I’ve become, or proud. But you don’t have to worry about me, at least. And I’m not alone.” He reached out to grab Eleanor’s hand. “I’ve got the best companion by my side.”

She smiled with closed lips, watching him. “I am sorry I never got to meet him. It was sickness, you said?”

He nodded. “It was. He always seemed so strong when I was a child. Big smith. I would try to sneak up on him, and he’d spin around and hoist me into the air with one hand. But a small wound got infected and felled him. All it took.”

“Strange that he was so reluctant you should learn magic.”

“He knew what fire meant. Didn’t want me to become a battlemage.” Martel shrugged. “But it happened all the same.”

“He probably didn’t expect his son to someday become imperator of all Asterian lands.”

“I might have outdone his expectations in that regard,” Martel conceded with a half-hearted smile. “What about you? You must miss your parents.” “I suppose, but in a more abstract manner than you, I suspect.” She frowned. “I do not have the same memories you do. My father was always tending to matters in the legion, and when my sister fell sick, my mother scarcely left her own bedroom. Maybe I grieve what never was rather than what I lost.”

Martel reached out a hand to touch the small stone that rested at the top of the cairn. He unleashed his magic to imbue it with a glow that shone strong against the pale winter sun. “It won’t last long,” he admitted. An enchantment made this quickly held little longevity. “It’ll fade soon. But maybe that’s how grief should be as well.”

She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and they regarded the frail splendour of the magical glow, radiating like a lighthouse far from any shore.

Returning to town, they separated; Eleanor had promised to spend time with Martel’s sisters, explaining everything about life in Morcaster, while he had business with his mother. He found the woman alone in her home, knitting a cap for her youngest grandchild. Official source ıs N0v3l.Fiɾe.net

“Hullo, mum.” Martel walked in, sitting down to enjoy the warmth from his heating stone. He noticed with satisfaction that Hilda sat close by as well. He took out a small bag and placed it next to her, and the jangle of metal revealed its contents. “This is for you.”

“Boy, I’m not taking your silver.”

“Then it’s good that’s not silver,” Martel replied dryly. Seeing his mother’s incredulous look, he tipped the bag over to let golden coins fall out.

“Martel!” She sounded almost offended at witnessing this display of wealth; perhaps the first time she had ever seen crowns.

“Just in case you need any.”

“Son, you’re the one travelling. You’ll probably need it more than us. Just keep it.”

“Mum, I got pockets full of gems, each of which are worth more than that bag.” He pointed at the heating stone. “And if I ever need more, I’ll make one of those and sell it.”

“This is too much,” she mumbled.

“You needed plenty when John got sick. I might not be able to send money next time something like that happens,” Martel warned her as he picked up the few pieces that had fallen out of the bag and placed them back within.

“How long are you staying, my boy?”

“Probably not much longer,” he admitted. “I promised Eleanor we’d see the world. I don’t think just Engby satisfies.”

“You’re grown too big,” she mumbled. “I suppose that was bound to happen, you becoming a wizard and all. And that girl you’re travelling with – is she good to you? Are you good to her?”

“Yes, mum, to both questions. At least, I try to be.”

“Well, keep trying.” Hilda sighed. “Sol knows life is hard enough without us making it harder for each other.”

Martel smiled at this little bit of provincial wisdom. “True enough, mum.”

Going back to his own room at Ogion’s house, Martel was met by his host in the kitchen. “We must talk.” The sombre weathermage placed two cups of tea on the table where they ate breakfast.

Accepting the invitation, Martel sat down, as did Ogion. “What is it?”

“Everything that’s happened to you – becoming a battlemage, fighting your war – is because I sent you to the Lyceum. If you’re angry or disappointed with that decision, now’s your chance to tell me.” The grizzled wizard stared at his young counterpart, less than half his age.

“I thought my mother made that decision.”

“No. When your father died, she wondered what to do with you, and Father Julius came to me. He knew about you – I suspect the whole town did, but kept quiet out of respect for your father.” Ogion exhaled. “I examined you and knew the truth straight away. That you had to be trained.”

Martel knew why; nobody wanted to risk that he would lose control and burn down the town. He recalled the fateful conversation years ago, being questioned by the curt, tight-lipped weathermage. Martel had summoned a flame to prove he had magic, and that had sealed his fate. “I remember.”

“I thought about taking you on as my apprentice, but I decided against it.”

That awoke Martel’s curiosity. He knew this was an unusual arrangement; the Empire preferred all mages to be trained at the Lyceum, kept under their control. But in the furthest reaches of Aster, not all rules were enforced. “Why?”

“I’m a frostmage,” Ogion simply replied.

Martel widened his eyes in surprise; he had assumed the other wizard had always been a weathermage. Frostmages were much like battlemages, except posted up north, where their particular skills were better suited to surviving winter and combatting Tyrians. “You didn’t want to train someone of the opposite element.”

“Especially not someone fire-touched. But I knew a mage like you, and I thought he’d be the right person to teach you.”

“Master Alastair.”

“Aye. We fought together, and I knew he’d not betray your secret.”

“He didn’t. I did,” Martel conceded.

“We all had a hand in that. That’s the danger of making decisions on behalf of others. They suffer the consequences, and you’re just left with the guilt.”

Martel thought back on the riddle of three, as posed to him by the Friar years ago. When to use magic? Whenever he chose to do so, he also had to accept the responsibility for the consequences.

“Along that vein, I have a confession to make.”

Pulled from his thoughts, Martel looked at the weathermage. “What is it?”

“Years ago, a famine struck this area. Early frost ruined the harvest.”

Martel knew immediately what Ogion spoke of. His own sister, named Tora like his niece, had died the following winter. “What about it?”

“It was towards the end of my service in the legions. I tracked a war party of Tyrians. To keep them from escaping, I summoned a blizzard. When we attacked, I rained hail upon them.” Ogion turned his dark eyes on Martel. “I unleashed all my power. Too much.”

Thoughts churned in Martel’s head until he realised. “You caused it. Your spells destroyed the harvest.”

“Yes. And so every life lost is on my conscience.” Ogion breathed slowly, deeply. “I took this posting as my penance. To prevent it from happening here again.”

Image after image assailed Martel. His sister, cold in the morning, having died during the night. His father, wasting away in bed, too poor to afford the alchemy that might save his life. He was glad the house had burned down, he realised, as if the flames could cleanse the painful memories away.

“I know everyone who died. I have their names on a list, though I recall them with clarity,” Ogion continued.

“Does the town know?”

“No. They already distrust magic. Often, they refuse to seek my help. I can’t redeem myself if they won’t let me.” For once, Ogion’s blank expression cracked and became a bitter smile.

“When do you think you’ll have redeemed yourself? How many years?”

“Redemption’s not a destination, but a journey.” The weathermage exhaled. “I reach the end when my labours are at an end.”

Martel thought about his own guilt. Countless soldiers screaming as they burned alive. The smell of their charred flesh. The emperor’s sister, drowning because he had sunk her vessel. Her son, seeking revenge in a crypt, scarcely older than Martel when the battlemage incinerated him.

He looked at the weathermage, and for the first time, Martel saw him. Not the unapproachable, stern wizard he had seemed when he first came to Engby, but just a man who fought the same struggle against himself as Martel did. Whether fire or frost, the blood of innocents lay on their hands.

And reversely, when soldiers had come to burn down the house with Martel’s family inside because of his actions, Ogion had saved them in his absence.

“If it makes a difference, you have my forgiveness.” In truth, Martel did not feel he had the right to grant absolution; either because he owed Ogion a debt for saving his family or because Martel had his own penance to make. But he said it in case it eased the man’s burdens.

Whether the intended effect had taken place, Martel could not say; the old weathermage’s expression had rebuilt the wall it presented to the outer world, once more beyond scrutiny. “That’s all I wanted to talk about.” Between them, their cups of tea had turned cold.