The Source of Silver

When Martel arrived in the apothecary, only Nora was present. She gave him mortar and pestle along with instructions, and he began to make powders.

"How are you enjoying the infirmary?" She gave him a wry look. "I noticed you the other day, making the rounds. I don't miss doing all that menial work."

"It's not so bad." He gave a shrug to seem casual and conceal the fact that being around sick people still made him uneasy. "Not too different from helping out in the kitchens or assisting Master Jerome."

"Right, you still have meal duty. Sometimes I forget you're still a novice."

"Wait, acolytes don't have to work in the kitchens?"

She laughed. "No, they don't. You'll still have to help Master Jerome. I don't, since I'm the apprentice to Mistress Rana."

One more thing to look forward to, besides exchanging his dull, brown robe for one with colour and deserving of respect.

Mistress Rana appeared from the inner door to her laboratory. Without acknowledging either of her helpers, she began rummaging through one of the cupboards holding ingredients. "Where is my thistleroot?" She straightened up, sending Martel and Nora a demanding look.

"Here, mistress." The apprentice held out a bowl filled with dried plants. "I just finished these."

The alchemist grabbed the offering. "Add them to the market list, and make sure you go today. I shall need more soon."

"Yes, mistress."

Suddenly remembering his conversation yesterday with Eleanor, Martel ceased his work and hurried to pull the recipe with the new potion from his pocket. Before his teacher could return to her laboratory, Martel called out for her attention. "Mistress Rana! I have something for you to look at." He held out the parchment for her to take. His other hand played with the rune token inside his pocket, helping him to stay calm; he suddenly felt apprehensive about the whole thing.

The Sindhian woman frowned as her eyes glanced over the writing. "This is an elixir? Crystal phial, red clover… Where did you find this?"

Martel kept one finger at the top of the parchment, indicating a title in Archean letters. "It's from this book," he explained. "My friend discovered it." In the end, he did not feel comfortable taking the credit for the discovery, especially if Mistress Rana asked more questions about it; it would quickly come to light that Martel did not speak Archean, after all. "Some of these ingredients I recognise as useful for awakening the mind. Perhaps it can help the patient in the infirmary? The one who won't wake from sleep. Gerard something."

"Yes, I know the one. So far, it's all my potions can do to keep him from wasting away." Squinting her eyes at the parchment, Mistress Rana left the apothecary with the recipe in one hand, thistleroot in the other.

"I guess that's the end of the conversation," Martel remarked, a little perplexed. Nora simply laughed.

~

Martel settled into a seat for what often proved to be his favourite class of the fiveday. Soon after, Master Fenrick strode into the room, and the novices became quiet. Each of his hands held an object. A golden chain in the right, a wand entwined with silver in the other. "What do you know of these metals? With regards to magic," he asked.

Martel had first-hand experience with the former. Besides the affair with the berserker, using gold to constrain him, Martel remembered when the thugs, the Broken Blades, had jumped him. It was all too easy to recall that dreadful sensation of being cut off from his abilities. "Gold kills magic," he said almost quietly.

"Yes, it does." Fenrick gave the chain to the nearest student. "Pass it around. You should all feel it. Like death." The novices did so, none of them holding the gold for long. "Reversely, silver amplifies our powers. This wand is typical for working the weather – notice the sapphire at the tip. Every weathermage working for the Empire will have one of these, helping them to control even tempests and the like. Seamages as well, though with a diamond instead."

Martel stared at the object. If he continued along his current path, he would one day hold such an item. Its value alone suggested more wealth than he had ever known, but more than that, it held a promise of power and the ability to do good.

"Now where do gold and silver come from?" asked their teacher.

"From the ground!" an enthusiastic novice exclaimed.

"Sure, but who placed it there? How did it end up in the ground?"

All the students looked at each other, ignorant to a man.

"The exact process is not known, of course, but it is commonly accepted that gold is caused by sunlight, just as silver is caused by moonlight," Fenrick explained. "Magic is stronger at night when the sun has set, and especially when the moon is up and full. Reversely, we may find our powers less strong in daytime."

His teacher continued down another avenue of thought, but Martel was reminded of inquisitors with the emblem of the Sun on their uniforms. Their dislike towards magic wielders did not come simply from their work hunting maleficars, he realised. It was more fundamental than that. The Sun, the recipient of their worship and his own as a faithful adherent of the Empire's religion, weakened magic; more than that, gold, the metal created by that object of reverence, killed magic altogether.

Martel had spent many a Solday in the temple at Engby, listening to Father Julius' sermons. He had never questioned the veracity of the Faith or failed to show obeisance. Now he wondered if all this time, that same Faith disdained him simply for being born with the ability to perform magic. Had this been why his father had told him to hide his abilities throughout his childhood?

Unable to find answers at present, Martel returned his attention to the lesson.

~

Between classes, Martel rested in his room as he often did. Especially on Mandays, where he had his practical lesson in magical theory, meant to exert him as much as possible to train his spellpower, and kitchen duty for supper right after. As he heard the bell, he began to make his way towards the arena for the class. Passing through the common room, he saw Maximilian engaged in a card game against some of the other mageknights. Nobody played dice in a room full of mages who might manipulate the throw. A small stack of silver lay between them, and Martel stopped to watch how the hand played out.

One of the boys showed his cards. Martel did not know the rules, but he gathered a hand with kings and sorcerers was strong. That also proved the case; Maximilian jumped to his feet and threw his cards across the table followed by a string of curses while his opponent pulled his winnings towards himself with glee. Across the room, the other students watched with amusement.

"It's just a game," Martel told his friend. "You shouldn't play if it makes you so angry."

"Oh, shut up," the mageknight replied with anger. "I had good coin at stake!"

"Not much for you. I have seen you spend more on most nights out."

"Yeah, buying drinks for you! But what would a poor peasant know of money?" Maximilian stomped away, his shoulder deliberately pushing into Martel as he passed the novice. Laughter could be heard from the corners. Feeling hurt, Martel watched his friend leave, but he did not have time to say or do anything; he was already late for class. But as he reached the arena to practise maintaining magical effects, training his magical power to strengthen it, he found it hard to concentrate.