Book 8: Chapter 93: Acorn
Travelling into and through the Nether, Martel had thought he was drowning. Now, returning to his own world, a similar sensation struck him, like air being ripped from his chest. He gasped for breath, struck by the physical imperatives of his body. Everything felt so strangely solid, immutable, like he was made of stone. The fragile brightness of a lamp seemed insufficient to him, a pale mockery of true light and so dull in its singular colour.
Squinting, he realised that he emitted a glow himself. With some effort, he remembered how he looked; or at least, how he believed that he looked. A black staff lay on the ground, Martel noticed belatedly, and picking up the smooth, black wood, he recalled more details. It struck him as he moved the weapon from one hand to another that his mind had plenty of time to imagine and understand the motion taking place, the staff falling from one grip to the other.
His mind, his thoughts were much faster than how swiftly anything else could take place; he was once again a prisoner of time. He felt as if something precious had been taken to him; yet as another moment passed, he began to forget the feeling of freedom that he had lost. Before long, it felt natural again.
Looking around, Martel recognised Atreus; the spellbreaker appeared as how Martel remembered him. With a fast-beating heart, Martel turned to the third in their company. He recognised the face that met him, but by the worn look in her eyes, he could not be sure the reverse was also the case. “Eleanor?”
“I do not remember this place,” she spoke tonelessly.
Martel glanced around. The underground chamber, once the prison of a lich and now abandoned, looked as gloomy as could be expected with no features except a glowing portal and a lamp in Nebo’s hand, though the latter bent down and extinguished the symbols.
“We’ve not been here often,” he mumbled. “Let’s get up, out of here.”
“You mentioned trees. Or was that only a dream?” Eleanor asked.
As his memories of the Nether faded, they were replaced by those of the living world, and Martel recalled what she meant. “Yes. Our last evening together. I wanted to go to the forest.”
“Can we go? I want to see things that are alive.” He did his best to smile. “Yes, we can.”
They lay under an oak tree. Martel had an acorn in his back, but he dared not move to disturb Eleanor, whose head lay against his chest. He could have incinerated it with magic without causing damage to a single surrounding blade of grass, but he stayed his hand. The magic of the Nether infused him, both of them, but Martel saw no reason to draw on it.
His mind went far back to a memory of a monk telling him about the riddle of three and the different answers of when to use power. Martel had held with the last possibility, that it should only be done when absolutely necessary. In this moment, feeling uncomfortable yet at peace, he believed that he finally understood. Magic bled from the Nether into their world; he felt it so keenly thanks to his own sojourn into that realm, giving him a lingering connection that was only slowly fading.
Magic was not just a tool or some force of nature. It was everywhere. If Martel began rearranging the world according to his whims, without limits, he would never stop. Magic was endless possibility, and nothing was ultimately beyond its reach. There were no limits except for those self-imposed; a lack of this had led the mages of Phoenik to their current situation, all-powerful in the Nether and yet trapped in a world that could never change, never grow, living in dead halls.
And so Martel rested, Eleanor in his arms, while an acorn prodded his back, and he felt grateful for the discomfort.
Eventually, they got up and wordlessly made the walk back to Archen. The city still looked haggard after its recent ordeal. The ruined gate had been removed, leaving an open entrance in front of a half-broken bridge across the moat; Sparrow had done some minor attempts to repair it, restoring some functionality.
The impregnable walls still remained, but Martel was not sure if he felt comforted inside their embrace. In the end, they provided no protection without defenders, and many of those had been lost. Although the civilians had returned, their numbers seemed few. The settlers had never been able to fill more than a tenth of the city in the best of times; with so many dead, the streets appeared desolate at a glance.
And yet there was life. Children, either ignorant of recent sorrows or simply resilient, already ran around, laughing and playing. Widows opened the workshops to carry on their husbands’ trade. Space on the square in front of the infirmary was cleared, ready for a monument that would contain the ashes of the honoured dead. A cat lay in the sun, briefly on break from its duties protecting the grain stores from vermin.
Valerius marched past, directing the removal of corpses from where the undead had fallen, once their master had been defeated. From inside the infirmary, Maximilian’s brusque voice came. Martel did not see Atreus, but he knew the spellbreaker was out somewhere, searching for signs of danger and patrolling to keep Archen safe.
Turning down an alley, Martel led Eleanor to their home. He lit a fire in the hearth, allowing himself the use of magic as he lacked flint and tinder, and warmth radiated from beneath where the tooth of a lindworm was mounted next to a carved piece of whale ivory.
“We’re home,” he said quietly.
Eleanor sat down in a chair and looked up at him with a fatigued smile. “Home.”
What more can be said of Martel the Firebrand? He who ascended from hapless novice to unrivalled archmage, becoming the greatest wizard of his time. Undoubtedly, his adventures continued after his sojourn into the Nether, and undoubtedly, with his protector at his side and other friends gathered over the years. And under their stewardship, Archen regained and surpassed its former splendour, known as a city upon a shining hill, where the hungry received food, the sick found cure, and the weak were given shelter.
But let this suffice for now regarding the tale of the Firebrand. It should be known that besides his accomplishments, hardships suffered and crooked paths taken, he learned the rarest of spells, the strongest of magic: he planted his dreams and saw them grow true.
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