Firebrand

Chapter 13: Defenceless

Chapter 13: Defenceless

Defenceless

For the day's first lesson with the other novices, Martel seemed to be ignored by his teacher, which suited him fine. Unlike with Master Alastair, he felt no need to share his breakthroughs, even if his experiment with the feather pen had proven his ability to conjure the shield. He could not imagine Master Reynard would care or offer any help. Instead, Martel retreated to a corner of the arena that served as the outdoor gymnasium and resumed his small exercises to improve his magical shield.

He knew that he attracted stares and laughs from the novices, but he was finally past caring. In a year, he would be an acolyte, and they would still be novices. As long as he passed his courses, of course. Which included empowerment magic. He would never have much need for this afterwards; so Martel accepted that his teacher did not care, and in turn, did not care either. He just needed to pass, and he would never have to set foot in this arena again.

~

Once released from the tedium of the lesson, Martel decided to handle a quick errand. He returned to his room, collecting the jar of balm given him by Eleanor. While most of the ointment remained, he wanted to know what debt he owed her for its purchase, which required a visit to the apothecary.

This workshop of tinctures and potions lay in a part of the Lyceum near the Hall of Elements, yet hitherto unseen by him. Each time Martel had walked past the doors to this wing, he had hurried onwards. Even the muted sounds or faint smell brought unpleasant memories. Unable to avoid it any longer, he braced himself before stepping into the infirmary.

It was a large hall, filled with beds. Most of them held patients, whose complaints, moans, or winces resounded through the space. The air lay heavy with blood and sickness. Besides making Martel gag, it summoned undesirable images to his mind.

His father lying in bed at home, pale and sweating. Growing weaker every day. A small wound, yet infected and thus able to fell a large and strong man. Watching him waste away until death claimed him... A particularly loud outburst born of agony tore Martel from his thoughts. He hurried through the room, past the nurses who assisted the Master of Healing.

It took him a moment before his eyes found the door with the word apothecary written upon it. He knocked; when no response came, he dared to open the door and enter regardless.

Inside, he found it as he expected. Every wall held shelves bursting with ingredients, whether powders, liquids, or strange pieces of animals. Herbs hung drying from the rafters, and the tables held various tools. Mortar and pestle, a handful of knives, countless glassware in all shapes and sizes, and more. One large shelf held scores of flacons and vials, each containing liquids in different colours.

Enamoured by all he saw, Martel only noticed the short woman at work as the last. She wore the green robe of an earthmage acolyte, though it had extra markings; while he could not interpret them exactly, he knew it meant she had already progressed beyond simple elemental magic. Guessing by her location, he assumed her specialty lay in potions.

"Sorry," he spoke, clearing his throat.

The woman whipped her head to look over her shoulder before she relaxed. "Oh. I didn't hear the door open." She placed a mortar and pestle on the nearby table and turned around. "What do you need?"

"You're the apothecary?"

"I'm the apprentice for Mistress Rana. Whatever you need, I can handle it."

"I just have a simple question, really." Martel dug out the jar. "This balm is used for bruises and such. I wondered what such a jar cost?"

"Let me see." She reached out her hand to take it from him and put it up to her nose. "Right, skin salve. It's seventeen silver pieces, and you get one piece back if you return the jar." She handed it back to him. "Do you need one?"

"Oh, no, thanks. Not at present." Martel had never owned more than a few silver coins at a time, usually given by his father to be spent at market faire and the like. Given he had used all he had earned from Master Jerome as swiftly as he earned it, he needed to find more work to stand a chance of repaying Eleanor.

Just as Martel was about to leave, a nurse poked her head in. "Where's Mistress Rana?"

"She’s away gathering herbs. I'm handling the apothecary today."

"If you see her, tell her that Master Kelsos is looking for her." The nurse lowered her voice. "The inquisitors found another."

"Again?" The apprentice frowned, looking troubled. "But they just brought one in?"

The nurse nodded. "Aye, it happened again." She glanced at Martel in his novice robe. "Well, I better get back to work."

As she disappeared, Martel nodded at the apprentice and left the apothecary as well. Back in the infirmary, he easily saw the object of the conversation. Several people stood gathered to the side around a bed. A tall, gaunt man wearing a dark blue robe with countless patterns, who Martel assumed to be the Master of Healing. Next to him stood two inquisitors, wearing the uniform of their order along with golden chains for incapacitating mages. As they moved about, Martel caught a glance of the patient in the bed.

He felt a twitch go through his body upon recognising the unfortunate soul. Though Martel did not know his name, he recognised him to be the third boy that followed Cheval and Maximilian of Marche around. He lay immobile with his eyes staring into empty air, as if dead.

~

Although a haunting sight, Martel knew better than to let it spoil his appetite. He ate as usual for lunch and did his typical check for letters at the desk in the entrance hall.

"One moment," said Henry, the airmage acolyte. "Think I saw something." He opened the cabinet by the wall and dug through until he could pull out a note. "Yep, thought so."

"Thanks." Martel accepted the piece of parchment, unfolding it to read.

Your armour is ready.

Master Jerome

Martel had forgotten all about it. With an eager step, he hurried to the workshop.

He found it bustling with activity as usual, though the artificer was not present in the outer rooms. Braving the inner parts of the workshop, Martel passed by acolytes busy preparing ink, quills, parchment, and other such resources, until he came upon Master Jerome.

"Ah, the tallest of novices! Mind your head."

"I received your message." Martel waved the slip of parchment around.

The craftsman snapped it from his hand. "You brought it back. Good, no need to waste good parchment. But you're here for your new garments. Follow me."

He led Martel to another room, holding all sorts of leather pieces in different stages of preparation. From a pole, he took down a large leather tunic meant to be laced in the front.

"Your robe should be loose enough to fit this underneath. Give it a try."

Martel disrobed and put the tunic on top of his undergarments. The leather was surprisingly hard, feeling more like metal. It fit him well, covering even his arms and down to his thighs. He moved about a bit, trying to get accustomed to the sensation of being wrapped up, before he put his robe back on.

"That should help." Master Jerome punched him on the shoulder.

Martel flinched and pulled away on instinct; only afterwards did he realise that he had hardly felt anything. A sudden grin appeared on his face.

"Feels good, eh?" The artificer responded with the same expression while flexing his fingers after the punch.

"Thank you, Master Jerome. This is such a relief."

"Don't mention it. Any student with combat training is meant to get one of these. I'm just sorry I didn't know earlier."

"Well, this will make the rest of the year much better." Martel smiled again, though as he spoke, his voice became hesitant. "Do – do I get to keep it? Do I owe the school for it?"

"We'd be a poor school if we didn't supply you with the materials you need. You get to keep it, boy, and may it serve you well."

~

Arriving at his combat lesson with the mageknights, Martel felt calm for once. Although hidden under his robe, the hardened leather instilled him with confidence. No more being the whipping boy. He came as one of the last; the acolytes had already begun practising with various weapons. Maximilian had a hammer, Eleanor had a sword; Martel could not see Cheval anywhere, which suited him fine.

"Boy," Master Reynard called out. Unlike when Master Jerome used the term, it smacked of condescension rather than affection. "I assume you have picked up some basic defensive skills with all your fivedays using the staff." He barely looked at Martel nor seemed to care much whether his assumption had any basis in truth. "We will move on to actually using empowering magic. That is, I shall attempt, probably in vain, to teach you how to use magic for strength."

"There he is," a voice called out. Everyone turned to see Cheval arriving with a pair of inquisitors. Martel instantly felt uneasy at the sight, which proved to be for good reason as the mageknight pointed at him. "The gangly scarecrow in the brown robe. That is the one you want."

Master Reynard approached. "What is this? Why do you disturb my lesson?"

"We are investigating the possibility of a maleficar. You would be wise not to hinder us." The inquisitor spoke with a menacing edge to his voice.

"We need to question the boy. The novice," added the other.

Master Reynard looked over his shoulder at Martel and shrugged. "Take him."

Martel began to protest. Though he might have expected as much from the man, he still felt betrayed by his teacher. The inquisitors did not care either way; they grabbed him, one by each arm, and dragged him away.

~

They took him to an empty classroom where Martel had not been before. Strange paintings hung on the walls, though he did not have an opportunity to inspect them, as the inquisitors planted him in a chair. "What's your name, boy?" asked the taller of them.

Martel frowned. Had they grabbed him and pulled him here without even knowing that? "You don't know?"

"Don't act clever! Say your name."

"I'm Martel of Engby."

"You're a novice at the Lyceum?"

Martel glanced down at his brown robe. "Well, yes. You just saw me in class."

"Watch it," growled the shorter inquisitor, bringing his face closer to Martel's. His breath reeked of onions.

"And you have a dislike for Gerard of Islemont?"

Bewilderment took hold of Martel's expression. "I don't even know who that is."

The onion breath barked with laughter. "You have class with the boy twice a fiveday, and you claim ignorance?" His voice turned to a sneer. "Suspicious."

"I barely know the names of anyone," Martel stammered.

The door burst open. A short man in purple robe strode into the room with a furious expression, and for a moment, Martel understood how Master Alastair would have inspired dread on the battlefield in his days as a war wizard.

"You will let my student leave," he spoke with cold anger.

"We have the authority to investigate and question any we deem necessary," replied the taller inquisitor.

"And if you had spent a moment doing that, you would have learned that Martel arrived only three fivedays ago. He cannot possibly be responsible," Master Alastair shot back.

"Arrived in Morcaster or at the Lyceum?" asked the onion breath. "He may have been hiding in the city before he came under your tutelage, mage." He spoke the final word with disdain.

"Master Ogion can confirm," Martel hurried to say. "He's the weathermage in Engby. Or Father Julius," he suggested. Presumably these inquisitors would trust the word of a priest.

The taller of the pair gave Martel a questioning look. "We shall make inquiries. You may leave, for now." He took a step back, and the novice hurried out of the chair to flee the room.

~

"Thank you," Martel quickly spoke once he and Master Alastair were outside.

"Of course. They shouldn't have harassed you when you clearly aren't the culprit."

"Master Alastair, what's going on? Why are the inquisitors here?"

The mage took a deep breath. "One of your classmates has been found. Alive, but he does not wake or respond. Since he shows no signs of injuries, foul magic is suspected."

Martel finally put hammer and nail together; the acolyte in the infirmary, the companion to Cheval, whom he had seen just earlier today lying lifeless in his bed. And Cheval had pointed the inquisitors in his direction. "You said it couldn't be me because I only arrived three fivedays ago?"

Master Alastair sighed. "This has happened before. Months ago. Only to a few students, mind you, found elsewhere in the city. The school is safe, I can promise you that."

"That's comforting." But not by much if he wanted to ever venture into the city again. "Any idea how this happens? Or what to look out for?"

"None, to be honest," the teacher admitted. "Do not stay in the city after dark."

"I won't," Martel promised. "How did you know the inquisitors had me, by the way?"

"One of your classmates," came the answer, "she fetched me. Another time, tell them you won't talk unless I or the overseer is present. The inquisitors may have broad powers, but the Lyceum protects its students."

Only on school grounds, it seemed. While Master Alastair left to resume his class, Martel had no desire to do the same. He went to his room and locked the door behind him, only feeling safe once his solitude was assured.