Book 7: Chapter 57: Absolution
They returned the next day for the signing ceremony. While the camp was a less distinguished location for such an event, practical concerns after yesterday prevailed. Thus, dressed in his finest clothes, the last set he had available, Martel appeared in the encampment once again, accompanied by Eleanor and the other Asterians. A table stood outside the king’s tent, and all the Khivans had assembled, including the king and his personal retinue.
The herald made loud proclamations of peace and brotherhood, the priest burned wooden tiles carved with letters, and the king finally stepped forward to sign the parchment. Martel did the same afterward. The ceremony continued with more rituals, but it was done; Aster and Khiva were at peace after more than a decade of war. Staring at the ink slowly drying, suddenly overcome with emotions, the battlemage thought he might cry.
Martel had not expected to react so strongly; if not officially, the two realms had been at peace for over a year, and the treaty simply formalised the current state of affairs. He managed to keep any tears back, in part by making sure to look away from Eleanor until he had composed himself.
The celebration that followed left him less enthused; it felt like any of the parties he had attended in Morcaster held by the nobility. While he would not complain about the food and drink on offer, he could not think of less desirable company than a host of courtiers. He mostly stayed in the background, hovering a few steps behind Eleanor, who knew the art of polite yet empty conversation.
“Sir Martel,” a voice called out.
Looking in that direction, the battlemage recognised the only Khivan he would conceivably know in this gathering. “Commander Azar.”
“A less meaningful title here with so many members of my house, but indeed, it is I.” The Khivan captain of the Third Army closed the short distance between them. “A pleasure to see you again, especially under these circumstances we both hoped for.”
“I feel the same.” For once, Martel was being sincere. This was the only Khivan in the gathering who he knew understood what they had accomplished; the risk he and Eleanor had undertaken, the trials they had suffered. Azar had shown his enemies trust; Martel had not given the man much thought ever since leaving his camp, but thinking back, it raised the commander highly in his esteem.
“And I hear that you had time to save our city. Impressive, though I would think no less of the man who made himself imperator of Aster entire.” “Well, that wasn’t my intention,” Martel replied. “Becoming imperator, I mean. Saving the city was. No, it just sort of – became inevitable.”
“You need not explain yourself, Sir Martel. I have read the dispatches detailing your march west, your conquest of Morcaster, and your renewal of the Senate.” Azar glanced in the direction of his cousin, who sat on his gilded chair, brought out from his tent. “I might disagree with the notion of the latter, but I cannot argue against your results. You are the most remarkable man I have met, and I am glad we are no longer enemies.”
“Same here,” the wizard mumbled, feeling awkward at the praise. “I never wanted to kill your soldiers. You understand that, right?” Martel had not intended to keep talking, but he found himself unable to stop. “It wasn’t my choice. They made me become a battlemage. I never wanted to fight.”
A confused expression flittered across Azar’s face. “Of course, Sir Martel. You are not blamed for your actions if that is your concern. We were at war.”
“Yes. That’s true.” Martel wanted to press the matter; deep down, he wanted someone to absolve him, to make him feel forgiven for all the lives he had taken, and Azar seemed the most likely option. But he knew he would only embarrass himself by speaking further on the matter. He also knew that nobody could grant him the absolution he sought. And only yesterday, he had killed three more. It had been the right thing to do, he had saved thousands, and their lives were forfeit regardless, if not by his powers then by slow torture in a Khivan prison; nonetheless, it troubled Martel that the solution always seemed to be the same. “If you will excuse me,” he told Azar and left to find Eleanor. The sooner they left Khiva, the better.
Together with the Asterian delegation, they boarded their ship the next morning, faithfully waiting for them in the harbour. As soon as they were aboard, they set sail, using oars and natural wind; their seamage had been left behind in Morcaster rather than risk offending Khivan sensibilities more than necessary.
With closed eyes, trying not to feel the constant sway, Martel did his best to survive the by now familiar journey along Aster’s southern coast. “Distract me, please,” he mumbled as he sensed Eleanor’s approach.
“We have yet to determine where to go next. Once we arrive in Morcaster, any direction is available to us. Except east, of course.”
“Right, we should think about that. What’s your preferred choice?”
“We have been north. We have seen all of the continent except what lies beyond Khiva, which I will not entertain. We have gone west, to the Isles,” Eleanor recounted. “That leaves one main direction left.”
Another sea journey, but at least Martel would have time to buy remedies in Morcaster before they boarded the next ship. “Agreed. South it is.” Despite the turmoil in his stomach, Martel did feel excitement. Going to Morcaster first would give him the opportunity to confer with Mistress Rana, ask her advice, and gain letters of introduction; and once they arrived at their next destination, the wonders of Sindhian alchemy could be his. Cures for every known disease, even those as dreadful and otherwise incurable as leprosy, and who knew what else the masters of the Five Towers could conjure up and pour into a vial? Martel was eager to find out.