Motivation

The only difference between Maximilian and Reynard as a teacher of empowerment magic was their motivation; the latter had taught him grudgingly, if at all, while the former seemed to enjoy himself. As for the results, they were depressingly similar. In the fighting ring, and on a few other occasions, Martel had been able to strengthen himself using magic, but only because he did so without thinking. He could not do it on command, which made that particular skill unreliable. He needed to know that tomorrow, if he had the chance to finish the fight, his magic would not fail him.

It could be the problem lay not with Martel, but the method. Maximilian trained him as a mageknight because that was how Maximilian had been taught himself. Perhaps someone else, similar to Martel and with more experience as a teacher, could prove to be better guidance. He knew who to ask.

"Master Alastair, as battlemages, did you also use empowering magic often?"

His teacher finished smoothing the floor in the Hall of Elements, cracked from their latest exercise, and looked at his student. "Certainly. When an arrow or a hand axe flung by a Tyrian comes hurtling towards your face, you learn to appreciate your magical shield." The wizard gave a wry smile at his own words. "Though most of the time, my mageknight protector kept me safe. Why do you ask?"

"Maximilian is trying to help me improve my own shield, but I can only produce a weak effect. As for my other attempts of empowering magic, it only happens when I'm not thinking about it. I can't actually command the effect myself." Frustration filled Martel's voice.

Master Alastair nodded a little. "Those who are strong in the elements rarely do well with empowerment and reverse. It seems as if our magic either is focused on ourselves or the world around us, never both. Perhaps a topic for Master Fenrick to explore."

"But you learned it," Martel pointed out. "How?"

"Those of us with our particular bent of magic often have this frustration. Spells come to us on instinct, not by command. The only way I know to remedy this is to practice control, day in and day out for months or longer." His teacher regarded him with a studious expression. "I had two years to become a battlemage. I spent them training my shield, among other spells. But you are not joining the legions, Martel. Even a minor shield effect, produced reliably, will be fine for your examination, if that is your concern."

It was not, and Martel did not have two years. He barely had two days. But he could not tell his master that. "Thank you. I appreciate the answer."

~

Already worn from his lessons, Martel did not relish another evening as Maximilian's punching bag. But the fight was tomorrow, and Martel had made no progress whether with empowering his body or producing a shield that did anything other than tickle the mageknight's knuckles. Dragging himself from the dining hall after supper, Martel went to the arena. Yesterday, a few other mageknights had appeared to conduct their own exercises, and they had sent numerous glances towards the novice being repeatedly punched until they finally had to give up on their training due to laughter.

Maximilian appeared soon after. "Ready?" He had not brought any of the blunted weapons from the school's armoury of training arms, suggesting he intended to follow the same strategy as their last so-called lesson.

Martel sighed. "Ready." He tried his hardest to imagine a barrier of pure magic in front of him. At best, it felt like wearing armour made from parchment.

"You are a pair of fools." Eleanor's voice reached them from the entrance to the sand-coloured ring. "I passed by the hallway yesterday more than once, and you were doing the same thing over and over. I suspect you have not made any progress?"

"And you know better?" Maximilian asked brusquely. He crossed his arms with a sour expression.

She stepped inside the arena, shaking her head. "Martel has no sense of self-preservation. This is not how you teach him. Maximilian, stand over here." She gestured for the other mageknight to join her ten paces away.

As Maximilian did so, albeit looking reluctant, she handed him a dagger and walked over to Martel. He watched her approach with a frown, wondering about her intention, though anything at this point would be better than Maximilian's constant pummelling.

She looked up at him with her hazel brown eyes. "Martel, I have practised magic all day. I am absolutely worn out. Not a single spell left in me. If that dagger hits me, I cannot protect myself. It will hurt me." She turned towards Maximilian. "Throw it. Now."

Still processing her words, Martel was overtaken by shock as Maximilian complied with the order, showing no hesitation to make an empowered throw. At impossible speed, the dagger flew through the air, aimed straight at his friend.

Just before it struck Eleanor's face, Martel's hand shot up and caught the blade. He gasped, more surprised than anybody else – he had never moved that fast in his life. He had no idea he could. His hands clutched the weapon tightly. Confused at the lack of blood and pain, he realised the edge was blunted. His eyes turned from the knife in his hand to Eleanor.

"How did you know?"

She gave half a smile that seemed almost sad. "The one thing that makes you act without thinking is your need to protect others." She turned to look past his hand at Maximilian. "The face? Really?" The other mageknight shrugged.

Martel also glanced in his direction. "Did you check this knife was blunt?"

"I can recognise a knife from the school's armoury," Maximilian replied offended.

Eleanor returned her attention to the novice. "Do not think about protecting yourself. Think about protecting others, those you care about. Do that while we try again."

"My method was more fun," Maximilian grumbled.