The Glow of an Idea

Malday meant another encounter with the mageknights, though not until his second combat lesson. Before noon, Martel practised staff fighting as usual with the other battlemages. He had long since abandoned the notion that this would be anything other than a waste of time. Despite how staff fighting had helped them win their brawl against the mageknights last time, the other acolytes seemed to still consider training with weapons to be beneath them. As probably the only one with experience in actual combat, Martel knew better, just as he had shown during the fight with the mageknights; but his attempts to explain this fell on deaf ears.

So he showed them instead. Their half-hearted approach to practising empowerment also left them slow at raising their shields, which more than once left them at Martel's mercy whenever he outmanoeuvred them to attack twice in succession, landing a blow somewhere painful.

Martel knew that complaining to Reynard would lead nowhere. Not because like Moira, the teacher believed he knew best, but simply because he did not care. He could ask Reynard to spar with him instead of fighting the other students, which would certainly provide the challenge he lacked. Unfortunately, Martel suspected that Reynard would take umbrage at this, perceive it to be a slight or challenge of some sort, and use the sparring to thrash Martel. Despite his success against the acolytes, Martel knew he stood no chance against the Master of War in a contest of arms.

So Martel continued, defeating the other three again and again, earning spiteful looks and mumbled insults in return. After a full bell, each of them had bruises and aching spots. They should be grateful for the opportunity to learn from a better fighter, but instead, they only seemed to be resentful towards him. Whatever understanding had been found on a previous Malday, uniting the fire acolytes against the mageknights, it seemed to have been short-lived.

***

The second lesson fared much the same. They performed practices and duels with the mageknights left unsupervised; as long as they took their positions as Reynard dictated, he did not care about their performance.

The only change Martel noticed came from some of the black-clad acolytes rather than those in red robes. Julian glared at him from time to time when their eyes met; his humiliation last night did not sit well with him, obviously. Others among the warriors likewise glanced in his direction, exchanging words. Martel imagined most were insults; they had plenty to choose from between his Tyrian blood, village upbringing, and elemental magic, all of which these noble-blooded mageknights seemed to find inferior.

Martel cared little, though he was surprised to see Maximilian stray into their conversation. But he gave his friend the benefit of the doubt; if nothing else, Maximilian was earnest in his dealings and would not act like a friend to his face while slandering him behind his back. Maybe he was telling the other mageknights they were wrong in their assessment of Martel, or at the very least that they underestimated him at their own peril.

Too concerned with his own affairs to worry about theirs, Martel went to the baths after training and enjoyed the warm water. After supper, where he scavenged some of the food to take with him, he went to the harbour district.

***

Julia let him in and accepted the food. While she chewed her way through the boiled vegetables, Martel stood by the small window that allowed light into the room. A shutter kept the cold at bay, though it did not close perfectly, leaving little gaps where wind crept through. "I brought something different. In case it gets really cold one night." Martel withdrew a small potion of warmth from his robe and placed it on the floor next to her water jar. "This is an elixir with a bit of magic to it. It will keep you warm if you really need it, though it only lasts one night and one day. Sorry I don't have more. I'd bring you one for every night if I could."

Julia picked up the vial, examining its contents.

To Martel, the liquid inside glowed orange, much like a flame inside a lantern. Yet remembering his conversation with Lady Pearl and Ruby, he realised others would not see it that way. "What colour is that to you?"

"Not much colour at all. Brown? Hard to see without more light."

Julia's mother might have been an alchemist, but it did not seem to have been inherited. Which fit with what Master Fenrick had told him; none could predict who was gifted with magic. Certainly blood did not seem to matter at all.

"You made this?" Her big eyes turned from the vial towards him.

"I did. Well, with help from my teacher. That's why I can't make more. I'm still learning," Martel admitted. He dearly wished he had his own little workshop where he might practice. It was already taking him ages to learn how to suffuse the magic in the ingredients; if he could only practice the distillation process once a fiveday, he would be dead on a Khivan battlefield long before he made his first potion by himself.

"My mother did alchemy."

"I remember you told me."

"I helped her. Prepared the herbs and such. Cleaned her tools."

"If I had a workshop of my own, I'd be glad to employ you as my apprentice." Martel smiled at the thought.

While she finished eating, the idea slowly crept into his mind. He already paid for this chamber; presumably, Julia would not mind if he used it for the purpose of practising his alchemy. It would not involve other people, after all, nor should it draw much attention. It lacked a fireplace, of course, but he was a fire acolyte; he could heat up the cauldron directly if need be. The only hindrance, besides his lacking skills, would be the tools and supplies. Spending half his income just on the rent left him with little money. But as he had learned, for a mage, you could always find ways to earn coin. Only, given his troubles with Duke Cheval and the inquisitors, he just had to do it legally, for once.