Firebrand

Chapter 451: One Man's Gift

Chapter 451: One Man's Gift

One Man's Gift

After a decent night's sleep, though not as long as he could have wanted, Martel followed Regnar's advice. He stayed at the Lyceum, attending classes and improving his skills. In particular, he felt motivated to work on enchantment, being something he did for himself rather than because a teacher told him to. When he returned to the workshops on Solday, he found the heating stone still practically glowing with warmth. A good sign, though also a reminder that he had to improve increasing heat without likewise increasing the emittance of light.

This was another step in learning control over his magic. By now, Martel felt that he had attained great precision when it came to his fire spells, generally speaking. He could decide exactly how much power to pour into an effect; he could make water freeze, boil, or feel neither hot nor cold to the touch.

But separating heat from light meant controlling the individual properties of his fire magic. He had never really needed to do so before, and it felt weird; like trying to grasp light with his fingers to pry it away. He could not tell if he actually accomplished any change until he was done enchanting, when he might measure the result; of course, by then it was too late, and he had another burning hot lightstone in his hand.

To speed his progress along by having more materials available, Martel went to the workshops with ten silvers in hand. "Master Jerome, you mentioned I could buy lightstones from you? Not yet enchanted, of course."

"Certainly. I have a few waiting for Master Alastair, you can get one of those." The artificer disappeared and swiftly returned. "There we go, lad. Enchanting going well for you?"

Martel accepted the stone, handing over the coins. "Well enough."

***

At third bell, he met up with William in the Circle of Fire. It felt a little strange to change role from student to teacher, and he had been apprehensive about how it would go with another fire acolyte, given how strained things tended to be between them. But William greeted him with a nod and relaxed expression. "I've been practising most days," he declared. "Just up here or in my room though, not against someone. Which makes it hard to tell if I'm strong enough to make it work."

"Well, given that air is not so different from fire, I'm sure you'll get there eventually. You've got the basic idea – just need to keep honing your skill," Martel considered.

"I guess if you can learn it, anyone can. Just joking," William quickly added.

"I didn't take offence," Martel replied with a chuckle; he could handle a good-natured jest.

"You're different than I thought you'd be."

"How so?"

"Well, we all heard about fire-touched. How easily you can wield flames and all that. But I never really thought much about it. Didn't think there'd be one at school, in class."

Martel remained silent, unsure where he was going.

"Then you show up, and you get placed with us, who's already been acolytes for a year. And still, you're better. Faster at learning. Not only that, you're better with a staff too, and empowerment."

By necessity, Martel thought; he remembered back to fighting in Tibert's public house, or running with the Night Knives.

"I saw when you fought that arrogant prick, Cheval. You didn't even use fire against him, just water magic." William looked away, as if suddenly bashful. "Just feels like you've been given all the gifts. I'm surprised you'd bother with helping me. It's not like I can do anything in return."

Martel stood a little dumbstruck. He could see how it might look this way to William. He did not know the gruelling hours that Martel had spent learning how to manipulate water, or how to summon a shield worth anything. All the fights he had been through, sometimes risking life or limb.

Creating a flame came easy to Martel; that was a gift, certainly. Anything else, he would argue that he had earned. But he did not know how to explain all of this succinctly, nor did he really feel the need. While they might have reached some kind of cordial understanding, William was not his friend as such; he could have whatever opinion he wanted of Martel.

"Well, I don't expect anything in return from you either. But we're all going to war. If I can make you a little more prepared, I should." Just like others did for Martel.

***

After letting William blast him with air, and eating dinner, Martel went for his bell in Mistress Rana's laboratory. "This cure is for the last of the great plagues that at times may trouble us," she explained. "It is called typhus in your language, from Archean, I believe."

Martel mumbled the word for himself, trying to guess how it was spelled.

"It can be hard to distinguish this illness from the others. Victims suffer from strong fever, but that is usually the case. It's easier to tell by the rash they develop, starting around the stomach or torso and eventually spreading to the limbs. It does not turn into boils like other diseases."

Martel dutifully added this to his notes. "Mistress, what happens if you administer the wrong cure? If you get the disease wrong."

"That depends on the potion and the victim. A Sindhian elixir is not just a dose of magic," she said, and he raised his eyes to give her his full attention. "More than that, it reacts with the dormant magic in the person drinking it. If they are sick and drink the right cure, it will give them the strength to fight off the disease, in simple terms. But if the cure is not what they need, it causes a reaction without any positive effect, leaving the patient weaker than before."

"Enough that they might die?"

"In the direst of situations, yes. And if they survive, they might not have the strength to take another potion. Thus, inadvertently, the wrong cure might still kill them." She gave him a stern look. "Which is why you must not rush to judgement. Ideally, someone more experienced than you will determine the illness. Even if they don't know alchemy, the advice of regular physicians may be worthwhile in this regard."

Martel nodded to himself; he could not imagine how guilty he would feel, should he try to cure someone and end up killing them.

"That's all. Get to it."

Putting his notes away, Martel began preparing the ingredients.