Book 8: Chapter 60: Good fences
“Is there any argument against besides fear of Khivan retaliation?” Atreus asked. “I assume we all agree that if we can restore someone’s gift to them, we should.”
Eleanor glanced at Martel. “That is agreed, yes. But we must not underestimate the danger. If a full Khivan army marches against us, we stand no hope of holding them back. We might hide in our city, but they will easily starve us out.”
“We separate this lieutenant from the other patients. We give him a new name and pretend he is one of our settlers from Morcaster,” Atreus considered. “Undoubtedly, the Khivans are spying on us. But there is no reason to make it easy for them.”
“Martel?” Eleanor looked at him again. “Your thoughts?”
“I agree that we should help him and train him, and we can take the precautions you suggest,” the sage replied, gesturing at Atreus. “As long as we make it clear to him beforehand what this means. He can’t return to Khiva. He can’t contact his family or see them again. He will be giving up everything.”
The spellbreaker in their company gave a half-smile. “Isn’t magic worth that?”
“Maybe it is to him in the moment, but in five years? Ten years?” Martel felt less certain; he knew how it felt to be separated from family with the thought that one might never see them again. “He needs to have absolute certainty in his purpose.”
“You can sense his thoughts.” Atreus shrugged. “Ask him and find out.”
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation, and as Martel read his mood, he found the same unwavering clarity.
“You are sure? Unless the situation changes in Khiva, you very well may never return.” Martel stared at Padmani intently. “Not even a letter may go to your parents. You’ll never see your home again.” “Then I shall become a citizen of your city and make it my home. I want to be more than I am,” the lieutenant impressed on the battlemage. “I want to be all that I can be.”
“Very well.” Martel gave a slow nod. “I shall speak with Maximilian.”
At day’s end, Martel went to the infirmary with a waterskin in hand, though he had filled it with different contents. He knew Maximilian was about to finish and waited patiently outside until the mageknight turned healer joined him.
“Wine?” Maximilian asked, his eyes lighting up at seeing the skin.
“Sadly not.” While the first ships had begun to arrive from Morcaster, taking back ore and other goods, they had only brought critical supplies and equipment to Archen so far; despite Maximilian’s protests, wine was not considered such. “Mead.”
The Master of Healing sighed. “Better than nothing, I suppose. Come, Nordmark. In lieu of a decent public house, we shall sit on the walls and consume this.”
“Lead the way.”
“I often do.” The corner of his mouth curled upwards, Maximilian went down a street that took them on the swiftest route to the walls.
They ascended in silence until they could sit, feet over the edge, looking down at the city below as it extended before them. Archen had no streetlights as Morcaster did. Their resources did not stretch that far, not while Martel remained their sole firemage able to enchant. But his lightstones filled the homes, and their shine escaped shutters and windows here and there, providing glimpses of illumination in the dark. Primarily in a ring along the walls, where the original houses had escaped destruction and were now in use again, leaving a centre of darkness in the middle. Less than a tenth lived in the city compared to its days of glory, and no more settlers arrived; perhaps they might do so once knowledge of the city’s success spread, but for now, it would take a long time to fill Archen with all the people it could contain.
“A lovely sight,” Maximilian remarked, no doubt deep in his own thoughts about the city. “I have never lived elsewhere besides Morcaster. I have barely ever left the city. Ten years ago, I could never have predicted this to be my fate.”
“None of us could, I’d wager.” Martel glanced at his companion as the latter handed over the mead, and he took a sip. “I’m still surprised you’re here. I never would have thought to see you again.”
The mageknight snorted. “Indeed. But you have changed greatly since our early days together, Nordmark. Is it strange that I have as well?”
“Honestly, a little.”
This time, Maximilian laughed. “Maybe. But you swept through Aster like a force of nature, and we were all changed because of it. I spent years cursing your name. Worst of all, I recalled something you once told me.”
“Which was?”
“That you envied me my talent. That you would trade our gifts in a heartbeat.”
“Ah, yes.”
Maximilian reached out to take the skin and drink before he continued. “Is that still true? If you could choose now, would you change what fate gave us?”
Martel considered it for a moment. He had seen it many times now, the power of Maximilian’s talent. How pain was instantly relieved and utter despair turned to pure joy on the faces of those healed. Desperate people with nowhere else to turn, healed at a touch. Part of Martel wished deeply he could experience how it felt to provide such relief.
But in some ways, he knew. More than once, he had quelled a blaze that threatened to consume a town or city, saving countless lives. He might not have witnessed the gratitude of those indebted to him, not the way Maximilian did; but Martel had learned to use his power to aid. His enchanted stones lay in every home in the city. Besides that, it provided protection. He knew he was the strongest battlemage that this continent had seen; it gave the Khivans pause and served as a shield deterring their attacks.
“No. I think I made the most out of my gift. I just had to accept the path that fate offered me.” Martel grabbed the skin and asked before he took a sip, “Would you?”
“Definitely.” The unexpected admission made Martel almost choke on the mead, and Maximilian laughed at seeing him struggle. “I would have made myself emperor in your position. Maybe that is what I was maddest about. You did all that, started a civil war, and you did not even take advantage of it. As if I taught you nothing.” The mageknight shook his head in mock indignation.
“You have certainly changed your ambitions.”
“Atreus came to see me. Did you know?”
“I didn’t. When?”
“Some years after the war ended. He sought me out. For a while, I suspected he used his witching magic on me, but I think he just told me some truths,” Maximilian admitted. “It simply took me a long time to accept.”
“I wonder why he did that?” Martel frowned in contemplation. “He never told me. What did he say to you?”
“Ah, that is between a viscount and his centuries-old acquaintance, Nordmark. Suffice to say he made me consider matters in a new light. When I heard about your expedition, I knew that old rascal was behind it.”
“I’m glad. That he spoke to you. That you came here.”
“Of course you are. Where else would you ever find a healer?” Maximilian grinned.
“I’m glad that matters between us could be mended.”
“Do not be so hasty. Maybe I brought you up here to throw you down the walls.” The mageknight shrugged and emptied the mead. “Before you do it to me for finishing your drink.”
“I’ll take my chances, I suppose. Oh, I plain forgot the reason I came to see you.”
“The Khivan hopeful, I take it.”
“Aye. We’re in agreement to proceed. But not at the infirmary. Too many Khivans of the Khivan kind.”
Maximilian snorted at the description. “Definitely more than once have I suspected a spy among my patients. Fine. Just let me know when you have it figured out.”
“Will do.” Martel grabbed the empty skin and got on his foot. “Goodnight, Max.”
“Farewell, wise sage, great conqueror, the mage known as Nordmark. Goodnight!”
“If you’re drunk, don’t fall down the wall.”
“If I did, I would simply heal myself.”
Shaking his head, Martel left as the first. On his way home, he realised why Maximilian was so happy to drink; he probably never had to suffer hangovers anymore.