Book 8: Chapter 20: Out of many
Martel was from Nordmark. He knew very well that the length of the days changed with the seasons. Winters were dark and cloudy, summers bright and sunny. He was also aware that it varied. After living several years in Morcaster, he knew that the difference seemed less pronounced. While he had not spent as much time in Sindhu, he had noticed the same might be the case there.
Even so, it had never occurred to him that if one continued north, the days would eventually get so long, they just never ended. It baffled him, yet thinking it over, he began to understand some of Atreus’s instructions. This had to be why it was important he made it here before summer solstice, that he might observe this phenomenon. It also explained why he had to be in a place that let him observe both sunrise and sunset, to notice that neither took place. Lastly, it explained the puzzling remark of ‘night is day’. In this place of never-ending day, that was literally the case.
But what was he supposed to learn from this? Besides his body being confused, Martel did not feel enlightened; there was plenty of physical sunlight, but that did not help him in the metaphorical sense. But perhaps it would make itself apparent, if only he stayed on the peak long enough. With nothing better to hope for, Martel made himself comfortable and extended his sense of magic in every direction, taking in everything it told him.
Martel eventually gave up. How long he had sat in the same place, he could not say. But he had run out of water, and his food would not last much longer; a few days, except that was not a useful way of measuring time anymore. The result was the same regardless. His body might be confused about when it was time to sleep, but it had no trouble feeling hunger.
As a result, he had to make his way down the mountain. Not all the way to the lowlands, but still a considerable distance until he reached a stream of water. In addition, he struck a goat with a fire bolt. He felt guilty doing it; the poor beast was lazily chewing on brown grass, completely unaware of the danger that a hungry wizard posed. But Martel needed to eat, and there was nothing to forage.
On their travels, Eleanor had taught him the basics of cutting up an animal for the meat. While not as skilled as her, Martel cut out some good pieces for himself. He enchanted a stone with heat and cooked the meat on that. It was chewy with little flavour, but it would sustain him. As for the remainder of the carcass, he burned it to a crisp rather than attract predators and carrion eaters.
Being near the cave he had found on his first journey up, Martel returned there to sleep. The reprieve from the constant sunlight was a balm to his eyes, and the darkness made his rest easier.
When he woke, the outside was as before. The sun shone, and the mountain was bereft of life; determined to continue, though not sure how, Martel returned to his peak.
The sun completed circle after circle. Martel stayed on the peak, feeling the magic of the land, or the absence of same; his surroundings seemed no different than if he was in Morcaster, magically speaking. The lack of people and any living things meant that he did not pick up on heat, other than what the sun provided.
He took to counting time not in days, as that had no meaning without night, but rather in trips down the mountain to eat. And so he first noticed a change after three roasted goats. As the sun travelled towards the horizon, it came so close that, for a short while, it dipped below. It could hardly be called night. Twilight at best. But for the first time, Martel saw his surroundings in faded light with lengthy shadows. He released a pulse of magic to feel any difference, and it came to him. Minutely, barely noticeable, but a change.
His teachers at the Lyceum would have predicted this; they would have told him that magic was weaker during the day, when the sun reigned, and stronger in its absence, especially if the moon was in the sky.
Yet while the change was real, Martel disagreed with the nature of it and the established explanation. It did not feel to him like there was less magic present; only that it was less tangible. To some, that might seem a difference without distinction, and perhaps it was. Still, having nothing else to think about, Martel hung on to this. And when the next night came, lasting two brief moments rather than one, he noticed it again. He could not put it into words, he could not argue why he thought it mattered or explain what exactly it was, but he felt it.
His best attempt compared it to cold fire, the magelight that he could summon. It did not have the heating property of real flames, and it would be useless to a man who only needed warmth; yet it existed, it resembled fire, and it shared some characteristics. Martel was used to thinking of magic as being the same; while different places used it in different ways, they all drew on the same power. Could there be two kinds of magic? Or, just as different traditions existed that resulted in different expressions of spells and power, could magic in itself have different facets with all humans only accessing one while still being ultimately the same energy?
Martel had no answers. He was not even sure he understood the question, or whether it was the right question to ask to begin with. But he began to see why meditating in this place of all places mattered. And so he continued, day after day, brief night after night, until the latter grew longer and longer, summer ended, and winter began.