Book 8: Chapter 25: Returned
The crew aboard the Tyrian trading vessel treated their passenger with respect, though they grinned each time Martel found it necessary to hang over the railing. His supply of Sindhian elixirs helped the first days, but he soon ran out and had to tough it out for the remainder of the journey. When Aquila appeared on the horizon, he breathed a sigh of relief.
In the former capital, Martel had no trouble finding passage to its current counterpart; Morcaster was the most popular destination for ships leaving the city of the eagle. He did not even have to pay; the sight of his black staff served as introduction and payment. Any ship would be honoured to have a mage of such renown aboard, especially knowing it meant protection; save for a stormmage, there could be no better safeguard against pirates than a powerful battlemage, especially one fire-touched.
Armed with lots of remedies against nausea, Martel set sail for Morcaster.
Although travel by ship was much faster than on land, it somehow felt slower. The difference was, Martel surmised, that he was trapped and unable to move about. He could not speed up the journey in any way, he could not make decisions; he had no choice but to wait as the vessel ploughed the waves. When travelling on land, his legs and mind were occupied, but nothing could distract him from the tedium aboard the ship.
The crew were simple sailors with whom he had little in common. No doubt they would be awed to hear his tales, and if Martel desired attention and praise, he could have received it, but he did not.
To pass the time, instead, he considered his new powers. When he used his sixth sense, he felt more than just heat or magic around him. Martel received impressions from the sailors. Boredom, frustration, mirth, and other human emotions. He could not always tell them apart, and if several of the men stood close by, he only felt something jumbled that made no sense to him. But it was a clear difference to how limited his supernatural sensibility had once been.
Martel had seen Atreus know and do things that he could not explain through ordinary magic. The spellbreaker could tell the mood of a person just by looking at them, or so it seemed, and often, he had made gentle suggestions that turned unfriendly locals into helpers, or made them give answers where before they had sealed lips.
Martel wondered if he could or would be able to do the same. Perhaps with practice. It struck him as being a dangerous power not to be treated lightly. Everyone was entitled to the privacy of their thoughts, and Martel disliked the notion of using magic to force people to act against their will, treating them like puppets on a string.
At the same time, threatening someone to do as demanded or their hair would be set on fire was not much different. If obtaining the same result could be done through subtler and gentler means, perhaps that was the superior approach. Martel certainly preferred having such powers without needing them than the reverse. Still, the crew of the ship were decent men who did not deserve to be treated as experiments for Martel’s new powers, so he kept to himself, suffered the boredom of a sea journey, and waited for the day that they would reach Morcaster.
Fivedays later, it happened. About a year after he set out from the city with Eleanor and Atreus, Martel had returned. He always felt a little weird seeing the walls of the capital, knowing he approached the place that had been his home for some important years. It reminded him of his previous arrivals. The naïve youth from Nordmark. The worn battlemage home from campaign. The rebellious commander leading an army to seize the city. Now, as on the last few times, Martel arrived as an adventurer, a travelling wizard, no different than a hedge mage in the eyes of some. To others, Martel knew he had acquired a legend. Even without Rolf’s songs, Morcaster remembered him. First and foremost as the captain prefect who had assembled the Senate, but different people knew him for different reasons. The time had come for Martel to make the most of that, but all in due time. First, he needed to know about Eleanor.
The establishment formerly known as The Golden Goose stood in the same place as always; a wizard’s staff engulfed in fire served as a sign and reminder of its new name. Doing his best to ignore it, Martel entered The Firebrand.
Although it looked the same from the outside, the tavern had undergone changes. Martel noticed balconies had been added, allowing more spectators to watch the stage. A sign of prosperity, presumably, and a testament to the ability of the local troupe with regard to attracting an audience.
Currently, the stage stood empty, as it was early afternoon. Martel found a familiar face by the bar, smoking pipe in one hand, mug of ale in the other. “No different than when I left you.”
“Martel, my lad, you’re back!” Regnar put both his items aside to embrace his friend. “I wondered when you’d be.”
“You’re not surprised to see me alone. Does this mean Eleanor’s already here?” Martel asked, his voice full of hope.
“Always a sly one.” Regnar smiled. “The lass is visiting her family, but I imagine she’ll be back before nightfall. She’s been here a few months already.”
Tension that had slowly wound itself Martel over the last year became undone, and he breathed relief. “She’s well? Unhurt?”
“Same as ever.” The hedge mage grinned. “You had doubts?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“She’s told me a bit about your madcap plans, though no details. I’ll expect to hear more, now that you’re back.”
“Sure. Our room?”
“Same one as ever. All your things that you left behind are still there, and hers.”
“Great.” Martel hoisted his travel bag. “Looking forward to get rid of this. I’ll talk to you later.”
Martel went the familiar route to the room in the back of the tavern that he and Eleanor had taken over permanently, despite their long absences. Among other things, it held their travel chest containing tokens from their journeys, garments and fabric, and other items of value. Besides the chest, Martel saw Eleanor’s bag in a corner and her clothes scattered around the room. Seeing it made him smile, and it brought home that their reunion was near.
Returning to the common room, Regnar had a mug of ale waiting for him. “Alright, now tell me what’s…” he began to say as Martel joined him, though he interrupted himself. “Never mind. It’ll have to wait.”
“Why’s that?” Martel grabbed his mug and took a deep draught.
The hedge mage grinned. “Look who walked in.”
Martel turned his head, and he had to drop his tankard as a slender woman half a foot shorter than him leapt into his arms.