Firebrand

The two wizards stared at each other. They were of even height, both dark-haired, but they had no other similarities. One thin of frame, even under his mail, the other broad-shouldered. A staff and full armour compared to silk and linen with only a knife. Haggard as opposed to well-composed. Scraggly beard against clean-shaven. Different expressions filled with a host of emotions, though neither easy to read. And all around them, the common room flowed with customers, ignorant of the silent exchange happening between the two former comrades.

“It’s really you.”

“When I heard that you had returned, alone no less, I thought your expedition had foundered. But I am told you set sail at all speed.”

“I do. The settlement is thriving. We’re eager to begin mining iron for that reason.” Martel raised his voice loudly, should anybody else be listening.

“You have truly done it, then. Restored a city from ruin, drawing it out of legend’s shadow.”

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“I was angry at you for years, Martel.” The mageknight glanced around before he looked back at the battlemage.

“Was?”

“Even after you left Morcaster. See, each time I thought I could forget, I heard a new tale about you. You and Eleanor, of course.”

“She is well, in case you wondered.” Maximilian did not seem to listen. “Meanwhile, I sat in my father’s house, doing nothing. All his plans for me ruined. All that effort wasted. He has his seat in the Senate, of course, but it does him little good. And each time he saw me, it reminded him of failure.”

Martel blinked, wondering if this was worth foregoing sleep.

“I tried. The Tenth would not let me join them. No trust in a former praetorian. The northern legions have no need for me either. The Tyrians are remarkably docile, it seems, after someone put them in their place. I finally thought about going somewhere far away. Sindhu, the Western Isles, Cathai… but of course, you have been all those places. Would I simply follow in your footsteps?”

“Max, what is this? I’m tired. Do you want an apology? An explanation? A promise I won’t go some particular place, so you may have it?”

“Do you recall my secret?” The mageknight stepped close as he spoke, whispering the final word.

Martel did. Maximilian was blessed with the gift of healing, the rarest talent among mages. He had never been as envious in his life as when he discovered that. “Yes. What of it?”

“It is all I have left. The only way I can distinguish myself. Make a mark free of my father, even free of your shadow. But if I reveal this in Aster, people will know I lied all my life, training as a mageknight instead.” Max’s eyes stared into Martel. “Or they will think I am lying now. Either way, it would not be auspicious.”

“So what do you want?”

“This city of yours. This school you intend to make, as I understand. Will there be an infirmary?”

“Of course. People get injured or sick anywhere.”

Maximilian smiled, though nothing like the boy that Martel had once known. This was a cunning smile. “I would like to apply for the position as Master of Healing.”

It was Martel’s turn to stare, except in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I not be? My talent is singular, and your city is carved into legends of old. It would be an accomplishment like none other.”

Try as he might, Martel could not make sense of it. Was this some elaborate scheme for revenge? He could think of no other reason why Maximilian would do this. At the same time, Maximilian had never been the type. He spoke every thought and showed his friendship and hostility openly.

Still, some magical confirmation would be better. In his weariness, Martel had forgotten about his ability, but now, he reached out to sense Max’s emotions. They were difficult to make sense of. Resentment, pride, hurt, but also self-restraint that kept these thoughts in check. And through them all, genuine ambition. Most importantly at all, no impression of deception or desire to do harm. Martel was so surprised, he wondered if his tired state made him misread the mageknight entirely. “You want to sail with me into a newly settled city and work to build an infirmary from the ground up?”

“What better proving grounds for my talent? And should I fail, I have still provided a better chance for aid than anything those without magical healing could offer. Your talents developed at war, did they not?”

Martel blinked, not from weariness but surprise at the question. “Yes. So?”

“This will be my war, against injury and death. My skills have stagnated since school. I will not be a throw-away sentence in the annals of my house or the history books, Martel. When they write the story of Archen, risen from the ashes, my name will be there.”

As perplexed as he had ever been, Martel stared again at Maximilian. He had never heard the mageknight speak so decisively at such length about anything. Then again, Maximilian had never had a deepfelt ambition of his own before. Perhaps the Stars had not chosen wrong when they gave such a rare gift to him.

Assuming Maximilian spoke true, Martel knew this would be a boon. They could not hope to find another healer anywhere on the continent to join them. Yet before any offer was made or accepted, Martel decided to be honest. He could not imagine the emotional turmoil Maximilian had gone through to end up in this place, and any dishonesty might wreck the course. “And if you are asked to fight rather than heal? If Archen is threatened by enemies in this very moment, will that change your mind?”

Maximilian smiled. “I already packed my armour. You think your purchases of weapons have gone unnoticed?”

Still confused, and not sure whether to truly believe any of the conversation or dismiss it as the illusions of a sleep-deprived mind, Martel finally gave a shrug. “We set sail tomorrow, as soon as everyone’s aboard. Don’t be late,” he stressed. “We can’t afford to lose any time.”

“Nordmark, I shall see you tomorrow.” The mageknight gave a salute, which his smile suggested was made either in jest or as simple mockery; in either case, he left.

Martel watched him disappear through the crowd, reappearing at the door before vanishing out onto the street. Yawning, the battlemage returned to his bed.