Firebrand

Chapter 398: A Father's Fear

Chapter 398: A Father's Fear

A Father's Fear

Training in the Circle of Fire had returned to the regular duelling, meant to hone their spellcasting and reflexes. Martel had his doubts this accomplished anything for him; any further improvement might come about if he was put under real pressure, fighting for his life. This, despite the stinging sensation from the other acolytes' spells, would not be enough. Martel felt he had reached the limits of what repetition under relatively safe conditions could achieve.

Yet he knew that any word of this to Moira would risk him detention, a further waste of time, so he kept quiet and flung another fire bolt at William.

***

In between classes, he picked up a letter waiting for him; a proper one, inside an envelope bearing Father Julius' handwriting. A message from home. While tempted to immediately read it, Martel decided to postpone that he might enjoy it properly. Given that it took months for correspondence back and forth to Nordmark, he could not expect another anytime soon. Best to savour it. He left the letter in his room as a treat for himself tonight, after he had taught Sparrow.

***

Unlike with Julia, who used the dark hours to move about, Sparrow and the rest of Weasel's gang mostly used the daytime to conduct their affairs. After all, most traffic and trade took place during the day, providing them with their opportunities. Martel still felt uncomfortable knowing that they stole, but since the city was content to let them starve, he could not blame them either.

And he would only teach Sparrow defensive spells to let her protect herself or get away from danger – no earth bolts or the like. Of course, if she really wanted to, she could probably find a way to use magic for harm; but the same aim could be accomplished with a knife. At least this way, she gained control over her gift, making it less likely she would accidentally hurt others.

***

"Martel, look! I have gotten much better!" Sparrow held out her hand; several yards in front of her, a pile of dirt pushed up from the ground. It lasted for several moments, Sparrow's face twisted in concentration, before it fell to the ground. "I could do much longer earlier today," she complained.

"Have you been practising a lot today?"

She nodded eagerly.

"You've probably tired yourself out. That's why you can't do it as well now as you could earlier. You should probably rest before you do any more magic," he cautioned her.

"Does that mean you won't show me anything new?" Sparrow asked, disappointed.

"I guess I can explain a little to you, so you'll know what to practice. Tomorrow," he added, sternly.

"I will!"

"Very well. I think I mentioned before the spell I have in mind. It's a way to make the earth protect you, should someone attack you. I'm sure you can make it work even better than I imagine. But it'll take you a long time to learn, going through different steps. You understand?"

She gave an almost exaggerated nod.

"Good. The first step is for you to practice raising the earth up as a wall in front of yourself." Martel demonstrated, pulling up dirt in front of his feet until it reached the height of his ankles. "Unlike me, you'll be able to cover your entire body – not that it would take much at present," he continued, which made her giggle. "But you'll also be able to do it much faster. Perhaps even so swiftly, you can do it as a reaction or on instinct. But one step at a time."

She held out her hand, and earth rose up towards it, though it felt back after a few moments.

"Not tonight," Martel admonished her. "Remember, rest now, practice tomorrow. And another thing, try not to use your hands. That'll just cost you valuable time. Practice by casting magic while holding your hands behind your back or something." That was probably enough instructions for one small girl to handle. "Everything clear?"

"Yes!"

He smiled. "Good. I'll be back maybe next fiveday or so, and you can show me your progress."

"Will do!"

***

On his way back to the Lyceum, Martel spent a few pennies to buy sweet cakes for himself. Once he had returned to his room, he made himself comfortable in his bed and opened the letter from home while indulging in pastry.

Dear boy,

I write on your mother's behalf, as she has been distraught ever since your last letter arrived. She bursts into tears every time I broach the subject, hence why I am writing instead of her. I have been able to piece together enough of the story to inform you. I could have waited until your mother was of a better disposition, but given how long it takes for letters to go back and forth, I did not wish for you to wait longer than necessary before you heard from us here in Engby.

As it turns out, though your mother never shared these fears with me, she apparently knew of the danger that you might be conscripted as a battlemage. Your father, before he settled in Engby, was a smith in an army camp. Thanks to his knowledge of the legions, he knew straight away what your gift with fire would mean. Hence his strict command that you hide your talent, and his reluctance to have you working in the forge or learning any skill associated with flames and heat.

Alas, that his death left your family struggling, and that your parents never took me in their confidence. I would have done my best to find some arrangement, but your mother sought the advice of Master Ogion, and given his knowledge of these matters, perhaps she was right to do so. I asked the wizard about his role in all this, and he confirmed and added to my knowledge of these events.

He recognised you as being what he called fire-touched; you know better than me what that means, I am sure. However, he disagreed with your father's decision that you ought to suppress your gift and avoid magic as much as possible. He compared it to holding back the tide. I raised the question of why he did not choose to train you himself and gained a rare glimpse into our resident wizard's past.

Before becoming a weathermage, Master Ogion was a frostmage, assigned to the northern legions dealing with Tyrian incursions. After serving his time, he wanted a peaceful, quiet life, thus taking up the post in Engby. His primary element being water, he did not feel able to teach you as you needed, and thus he advised your mother that you should be sent to the Lyceum, where you could be trained by another fire-touched wizard, who was also an old friend of Master Ogion's.

Whether this was the best course of action, given that your father's fears have come true, I shall not say. It does not appear so, but lacking any knowledge of magic, I cannot judge whether our local wizard was right or not. I hope that you yourself may be able to determine this, and find some peace in the decisions that others made on your behalf.

You shall be in my prayers every day.

Father Julius

Martel lay the letter aside. He had always assumed that his father disliked magic just on principle; it had never occurred to him that there could be a deeper cause. Until arriving at the Lyceum, Martel had never even heard of fire-touched or known about the possibility that he could be made a battlemage. Nor had his father ever spoken of his past working as a smith for the legions.

In a way, the news made him feel better. His father did not hate magic as such, and thereby Martel for possessing it; it had only been concern that made him tell his son to hide it.

As an opposite reaction, the thought that he could have stayed in Engby under Master Ogion's tutelage made him frustrated. Another thing he had never really considered, knowing so little about the affairs of wizards; the old weathermage had simply declared that Martel needed to attend the Lyceum, and he had not questioned it.

Martel could perhaps have been spared all of this – most of all, been spared a future in the legions, short as it might be. It seemed the worst possible outcome, just as his father had feared; at the same time, it was a bitter herb to chew that he would never have met Eleanor, Maximilian, or Shadi. When John fell ill, Master Ogion was away, once more acting as frostmage to the legions; would Martel have accompanied him north and only returned when it was too late, and his brother dead from a preventable disease?

Unable to find a satisfactory answer, Martel put the letter and half-eaten cake away, seeking sleep instead.