Book 8: Chapter 70: Golden inspiration
It was an odd sensation to be left behind in Archen while Atreus set out to investigate; suddenly, a threat loomed over their heads, but Martel knew nothing of its nature, and whether he had cause to worry in the first place. There was little he could do about it either. As a battlemage, his instinct was to seek out danger and deal with it, but that was not his task, and he could only make preparations without knowing what to prepare for.
While this bothered Martel, he did his best to arm himself with patience, and he considered how to best spend the time until Atreus returned. Setting aside his projects, he focused his enchantment on simply making fire pots, building up a stockpile. As for his remaining hours, he turned to the last letter he had received from Fenrick at the Lyceum.
Sunlight had a repressive effect on magic, most strongly focused through gold, the product of solar rays. For this reason, creatures created purely of magic such as the undead would shun daylight, as it weakened them. Weapons made to kill mages, such as arrows tipped with gold, could have the same effect on a lich, but Martel left weaponry to the smiths and mageknights of the city.
Uniquely, he knew that sun and gold were not the opposite of magic, causing it to wither and die; instead, they possessed their own brand of power that interfered and might supersede his. Martel had already taken an important step with this understanding, allowing him to disregard the suppressive trait that gold possessed. Through his correspondence with Fenrick, Martel had considered what would naturally come next: being able to wield this power.
Running his eyes over the letter and Fenrick’s suggestions, Martel went out at noon the next day, ascending a ruined tower to have unobstructed sunlight on him. In addition, he wore golden jewellery; plundered items once taken from dead inquisitors that he now put to use.
Martel had spent a busy morning enchanting fire pots, expending all of his spellpower. In fact, he felt magically exhausted; an unpleasant sensation as always, not just physically, but also feeling vulnerable. But it was necessary; he needed his own magic wrenched out of him or his mind and willpower would naturally turn to that.
Instead, with the taste of blood in his mouth thanks to the exhaustion, Martel could not conjure up a single flame. Perhaps if someone attacked him, he might find his deepest reserves and respond with a spell, but it would take a situation like that to force his instincts to take action. Now, as Martel raised a finger and tried to summon a flame at the tip, nothing happened.
As could be expected. His own source of magic ran dry until it could be replenished. But Martel knew he was surrounded by another source. The sun shone on his face, and the gold worn on his body glistened in response.
Martel drew upon all his experiences. Casting Tyrian runes by creating a bridge between himself and the symbol. Reaching into a Sindhian ingredient to draw out its magic. Even his brief encounter with the magic of the Western Isles, mages entangling not just their power but their very essence into the object they controlled. He remembered touching another force, second only to the sun in might; the fiery heart of a mountain, the primordial flames of a volcano.
Sweat burst forth on his brow, not from heat, but concentration. Martel let the sunlight sink into him, as if he were the object to be enchanted. He reached out with his magic and felt the cold touch of the gold, always repelling him, never bending to his will. But he did not seek to dominate this time. Instead, he sought to embrace. To unlock the power within and let it wash over him, just as the rays of the sun did. Light, flesh, metal, all was energy. All came together within him. With a tremendous exertion of will that left him breathing ragged, Martel summoned a flame at the tip of his finger. It flickered for a moment before becoming extinguished; little more than a spark.
But the smallest spark could ignite a mighty fire. Martel composed himself, took a deep drink of water, and prepared to go again.
“The burdens of the city do not hang heavy around your neck, I notice,” a voice spoke.
Martel woke up, blinking. He had fallen asleep on the sheepskin that lay in front of their hearth. Returning to the waking world, he realised it was Eleanor who had spoken to him. “What hour is it?” he asked with a drowsy voice.
“Sunset approaches, though the sun has yet to touch the horizon. What has lain the Sage of Archen low that he sleeps before the day is done?”
“I was tired,” Martel mumbled, getting on his feet. “Exhausted myself.”
“Your secret plans that you have not yet deigned to share?” Eleanor dropped a bag of provisions on the table. Ingredients for supper.
“I wanted to know if it was feasible at all before I told you about it.”
“And?”
He gave half a smile. “Guess it’s time to tell you about it. I’ll get a pot going, boil some water.”
“Capital idea. I hope you are in the mood for a vegetable soup – it is too early to slaughter the lambs, so there will be no meat yet.”
“It was good enough for me as a child, good enough for me as an adult.” After further simmering of idle conversation, conducted while they prepared the meal, Martel began explaining his experiment.
Being possibly under threat was a strange state of affairs. It had to be taken seriously, and the leaders of the city prepared, training the militia, forging and enchanting weapons, and whatever else they could think of. Yet absent any credible reason to be afraid, absent clear knowledge of what they might face, little more could be done, and for the vast majority of Archen, life continued without any signs that something might be amiss. And after fifteen days gone, Atreus returned.