Firebrand

The two Asterians packed their bags, made some final purchases at the market, and departed the magister’s palace. Rather than explain themselves, they left two letters behind; one for their host, and one for Marcus. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ NoveIＦire.net

Once at the docks, they had no trouble finding the right ship; it was the lone Asterian vessel. Furthermore, it was a galley, built for speed rather than cargo; the Imperial eagle flew as its banner, and a lone legionary stood guard. He must have known what to expect, for he made no effort to hinder the two mages making their way aboard; on the contrary, he disappeared below deck, returning shortly after with Wulfstan.

“I’m glad to see the decision you made, though I had little doubt, knowing your sense of duty,” he declared. “There’s a cabin that’s yours for the journey. I’ll alert the captain – we have a seamage with us, so we’ll be back before you know it.”

As Martel made his way below deck with his belongings, Eleanor fell behind, and she reached out to grab Wulfstan by the collar and pull him close. “I want this message to be shared to anyone involved,” she spoke quietly. “If anything happens to Martel, you will be the first I kill. After that, I shall slaughter every Khivan that I find. Lastly, I will eviscerate every member of the Senate who I deem guilty.” She stared into the eyes of the spy, no taller than herself. “Am I understood?”

“Completely, milady.”

She released her grip on him. “Let us be underway, then.”

They did not sail to Aquila, the nearest Asterian port. Instead, they set a course directly for Morcaster. The galley had a seamage, shortening the journey considerably; not only by keeping a constant wind regardless of what nature commanded, but also because their increased speed meant they could reach Morcaster before needing to seek other harbours for supplies.

The seamage was a chipper young fellow, but his hours were consumed by his work, raising a constant wind; whenever he did not, he immediately slept, replenishing his spellpower. The only times when Martel could speak to him were during his few breaks eating. He explained how the process was akin to enchantment, though rather than seeping magic into an object, he entangled it with the wind to subtly control it.

It made Martel think of the brief naval battle he had once seen, where Imperial warships with a stormmage had engaged Khivan galleys, unleashing lightning to sink one of their vessels. The opposite of what the seamage currently did; a short but intensive burst of spellpower. All of it fascinating, but beyond Martel’s grasp, he suspected. His road had taken him deep down the path of fire, excluding him from mastery of the other elements; or if he tried to now change directions, he would be unable to delve deeper into the flame. His experience with the exploding mountain, or the inferno spell that he had unwittingly unleashed for the first time thinking Eleanor had died, all this told him that further progress had to be possible. And if anyone could accomplish that, it was him. Other fire-touched mages existed, such as Master Alastair, but they had not been through the crucible like Martel; at less than half the age, he knew he had surpassed his old teacher. Trying to tame the volcano had felt like an attempt to seize the sun in his palm; inconceivable in the moment, a contradiction and impossibility. Yet Martel had now conceived of it, and if possible for any wizard, it would be for him.

Two days before Morcaster, Martel ran out of the remedy that kept his seasickness at bay. He had hoped that after so many days at sea, his stomach would have acclimatised, except of course taking the medicine kept postponing this outcome. Looking north at the coast of Aster, praying to see the signs of their destination while knowing that would not happen, Martel kept near the railing.

“Just hang on a little while longer,” Eleanor said, rubbing his back in circles.

Head between his knees, Martel took deep breaths. “Say something to distract me. Or ask me something.”

“Very well.” She spent a moment thinking. “Back in Port Verde, our last conversation before leaving the city. Our last argument, I should say. Do you remember it?”

“I guess, though not exactly a happy thought to chase away how I’m feeling.”

“I am getting to it. You said something… that you had loved me since our days at the Lyceum. Is that true?”

“Oh. Right, yes, I said that, and yes, that’s true.”

“When? Tell me when you first knew. When it began.”

“Well, I think those are two different answers.” Martel frowned in thought. “I can’t say exactly when it began. It developed over time. But I remember vividly one evening, you stood at my door, offering me salve for my bruises. I think it was the first moment of genuine, simple kindness someone showed me at the Lyceum. I think you planted the seed all the way back, and it just grew from there. Though I only knew that much later.”

“When was that?”

“That I know clearly. When we separated – I was at the Khivan camp,” Martel muttered while staring down at the planks of the deck, trying not to dwell on that moment given their current destination and Eleanor’s apprehensions. “I came back to the camp at Esmouth to find you. I’d spent days fretting about you, constantly worried. But when I saw you, all the ills of the world faded away, and I knew how I felt.”

“Not that you let me know.”

He straightened up his head to look at her. “We’d just started a mutiny! It didn’t seem the right time.”

She laughed a little.

“What about you, then? Your turn.”

“Very well. Let me think back… I suppose, like you I cannot say when it began. You were so stubborn!” She shook her head. “You annoyed me so much. Even worse because you always did so for good reason, and you sometimes made me feel guilty.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course not. Anyway, I cannot point to a particular moment. You somehow just took root in my thoughts, and I understood far too late why you were always on my mind.”

“When was that, then? I gave you two answers.”

“Such a merchant you are! Very well, I shall give you equal exchange. I also know exactly when, and it was earlier than you, Master Martel.”

“Not that you let me know.”

She pushed her elbow against his side. “Do not be cheeky if you wish for me to tell you now.”

“Quiet as a mouse that’s mute.”

Eleanor let her breath flow out. “It was that fight at the river. After our flight through the woods. The Khivans snapping at our heels.”

Martel did not say anything, but he remembered it all too well. Eleanor being wounded and his own explosive spell as a reaction. He shuddered at the memory, thinking about how much of their lives were entwined with the Khivans and that war, despite only lasting a year.

“When the bullet hit me, I knew it was fatal. I felt the blood spray from my throat. And as I sank to the ground, my only thought was, ‘I never told Martel that I loved him’.” She turned to look at him with a smile approaching mournful in nature. “I did not even know before that moment how I felt, and yet it made everything clear.”

Martel reached and grabbed her hand, entwining her fingers with his own. “We came through all those moments, and we’re stronger for it.”

She did not reply, other than to lean against his shoulder.