Firebrand

Rest did not yield any recovery to Martel. When he woke the following morning, he felt worse than yesterday. Everything ached, the sunlight hurt his eyes, no amount of water could slake his thirst, and though he hungered, all food had the taste of ash in his mouth. But he got dressed and steeled himself. While his remaining hours were counted, he would not spend them all in self-pity. Today deserved his presence and attention; today, they honoured the fallen.

They would be burned in accordance with Archean and Asterian traditions; the ashes would be collected and placed inside a monument to be erected on the central square. Furthermore, a stone would be raised above the western gate bearing Henry’s name as inscription; Sparrow had insisted on this, and none saw reason to deny the apprentice this show of respect towards her master.

The people had returned from the forest, relieved that their home was safe, horrified by the losses suffered. Many fathers and mothers stood without a son or daughter, and most children stood without one parent or both. As Eleanor held a speech in front of the great pyre built that held hundreds of dead, all wept in a chorus of tears. Martel included, though he could not focus on her words; the sight of their losses sufficed to bring his sorrows to the surface.

Henry, naturally, but also Padmani, the brave Khivan, and many others that Martel knew. A glassblower, a farmer and his sons, several veterans of the sixth cohort, a tanner, a cooper, and so on. Martel grasped his black staff tightly, not because he required its magical powers, but because he would not be able to stand otherwise.

“Martel? We can find the fire elsewhere,” Eleanor spoke gently, having returned to his side.

“It’s not my magic that’s weak,” he mumbled, and he tentatively stepped forward to reach the pyre, his protector walking alongside him with watchful eyes.

Martel extended his hand and let a ray of flames shoot out to ignite the pyre. The fire blossomed like fields in harvest, turning the dead to ash. Emotionally exhausted, Martel felt nothing anymore, not even the warmth from the blazing fire as it grew before his eyes.

Back in their house, Martel sat in a comfortable chair with furs covering his legs in front of the hearth’s fire. None of it helped him; he was cold to the bone. But it helped Eleanor, he figured, and so he acquiesced.

Given his appearance at the pyre, the truth of Martel’s condition was obvious, and a line of people stood out on the street. Acting as gatekeeper, Eleanor selected who might enter.

“Nordmark! What a dark cave I must find you in when the day outside is sunny and bright.” Crossing the threshold, Maximilian nodded to Eleanor before taking a seat opposite Martel. He raised a waterskin. “The last of my wine, saved for the celebration after the battle.” After taking a sip, he handed it over. Martel did the same. “Max, this is mead. We have plenty of this.”

The mageknight waved his hand around. “I know, but this sounded better. More appropriate for the occasion.”

The battlemage managed a weak smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Max. In Archen, I mean. I didn’t expect you would be.”

“Truth be told, I joined partly because I thought of what I could accomplish, partly because I assumed you would fail, and I wanted to be present.” Maximilian shrugged. “I did not imagine I would consider this place home.”

“Whatever the reason, you belong here now. I must ask you a promise, though.”

“I suppose given the circumstances, that is reasonable. What is it?”

Martel coughed. “The city needs a proper, formal structure for leadership. One that represents everyone, not just mages.”

“Sol’s Eye, this is your concern in this hour?”

“Now’s really the time, isn’t it,” the Sage pointed out.

“Stars, you mean to recreate your damn Senate.”

“Something like it.” Martel tried to shrug, but his shoulders felt too heavy with the furs draped over them. “As the healer, your voice will carry weight. Your support of this structure will be important.”

“You want me to respect the opinions of peasants.” ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ noⅴelfire.net

“Yes. And ideally use less condescension when you refer to them in that manner.”

Maximilian sighed. “You ask much of me. But so be it.”

Martel smiled again and took another sip of the mead. “Good vintage, this.”

“Oh yes. From Aquila. Cost me a fortune.”

Squinting his eyes, Martel eventually recognised the man who had taken place opposite him. “Atreus. The one man who might know how I feel.”

“Indeed. Though my ordeal seemed to have no end.”

“Unlike mine that rapidly approaches,” Martel spoke with a scratchy voice.

“I and others have agreed that a statue besides the monument would be fitting.”

“Another? You already have one in Morcaster.”

“A statue of you, Martel.”

The Sage’s mouth curled upwards. “I figured as much. But if my opinion matters, it should be of us all.” He looked in the direction where he assumed Eleanor stood in the room.

Atreus bowed his head. “If you say so.”

“Someone must take my place. I think Valerius. He has the right star, doesn’t he?”

The spellbreaker shrugged and looked over his shoulder at Eleanor. “Possibly.”

“He has a good heart. Let him undertake the trials,” Martel breathed.

“We shall discuss it with him,” Atreus promised.

“You were right. A triumvirate is needed. The burdens of leadership are too heavy for a single person to shoulder.”

“Don’t worry about any of that now.”

“Good. Eleanor knows my thoughts otherwise on the political future of our city.”

“I do,” came her voice from elsewhere in the room.

“I have no doubts. Martel,” Atreus spoke, “thank you for all you’ve done. I knew you were remarkable from the day we met. Archen is restored and saved from its ancient threat thanks to you.”

Martel struggled to hear, but he managed to weave the meaning together. “Never could I have expected how my life would change,” he spoke quietly, lacking breath. “For the better. Meeting you.” He coughed before he could continue. “Be nice to Leander.”

“Always your thoughts are of others. Don’t worry. I’m told he protected our little band of runners during the battle. You saw true when you trusted him,” Atreus admitted. “I’ll remember your wisdom.”

Martel tried to reply, but a coughing fit took over, and when it was done, he could not remember of what they spoke, and wordlessly, Atreus took his leave with a final touch on the shoulder.

“I believe Valerius would like to see you as well,” Eleanor told Martel once he felt better.

“Maybe in a bit. I think I need to sleep,” he admitted. “I find it hard to… gather my thoughts.”

“Of course.” Eleanor helped him to stand and dodder over to their bed.

“But tomorrow,” Martel mumbled, “can we go to the forest?”

“Anything you wish.”

“I grow tired of stone. I grew up amidst green. I’d like to see some trees.”

“We shall, Martel.”

“You’ll be there too?”

“I am your protector, always by your side.”

Martel tried to smile, tried to reply, but neither happened. He closed his eyes. Eleanor spoke further words, but he did not hear; he was already fast asleep.