Firebrand 3 the acolyte, p.37
Firebrand 3: The Acolyte, page 37
Martel's next step would be to discuss the enchanted chest and lock; if he could figure out how it worked, or how to overcome it, it might prove a clue to the identity of the thief. Presumably, few in Morcaster would have the ability or knowledge to fool Archean magic. Tomorrow, he would have his duty for Master Jerome, giving him the opportunity to inquire. For now, he had alchemy.
As the usual prelude to learning a new recipe, Mistress Rana quizzed Martel on every ingredient. One after the other, he gave a full answer until she picked up the last item. "This is?"
"Chamomile." He easily recognised it from the illustration in the herbal tome.
"Used for?"
"Flowers can make an infusion that has a calming effect." As Martel replied, the scent reached him. A memory, only recalled now that he could smell the herb instead of simply seeing its illustration, flooded through his mind. The pit of The Broken Crown, Leatherfist hitting him, the crowd roaring for his blood. The scent of chamomile upon his opponent's glove, used to weaken him.
"And?"
Her voice cut through. This was not the time to let ill memories shake him. "The herb is used for ointment to lessen ache in certain places," Martel replied.
"Care to guess the potion all of this can make?"
One answer would be a tincture to make someone dazed and easy to defeat in a pit fight, but probably not what Mistress Rana meant. "A potion to help someone relax or rest?"
She gave half a nod. "The potion of blissful sleep, we call it. Six hours of deep slumber. I gave you one the other fiveday if I recall. Have you tried it?"
Sort of; Julia had done so on his behalf. "Yes, mistress, it worked great."
"Time for you to learn how to make it."
This was among the slower potions to make, at least judging by Martel's experience of having made two other kinds. The heat had to be low, leaving the water simmering at most, which seemed to be compensated by more time spent stirring and dragging the magic from the ingredients out into the liquid. Martel estimated that three hours had passed before Mistress Rana finally removed the cauldron, tipping the contents into a flacon while Martel distilled the magic along with it.
The end result was a murky, brown liquid sloshing inside the glass container. The alchemist placed her hand around it tightly for a moment. "This is a rather weak result. I am not sure this will actually put anyone to sleep. Certainly not for a whole night. Can you think of why the result is poor?"
Martel frowned. "Too much heat?" She had specified several times during the process to avoid that.
"One possibility. Another is that you didn't awaken the ingredients well enough. Have you practised that since last time?"
To be honest, he could not remember. "A little."
"Not enough, clearly. You have only worked with herbs, which is the easiest kind of ingredient. Practise this every day until our next brew, so I can be sure you have made progress." She poured out the content of the bottle into the sink. "Clean up."
After watching the last drops of his work drain away, Martel did as ordered.
ONE HUNDRED TWO
THE USUAL SUSPECT
Labouring to make ink in the workshops gave Martel the chance to question Master Jerome as the latter stopped by the small laboratory to check on his progress. As the artificer was about to leave, satisfied with Martel's performance, the acolyte quickly spoke up. "Master Jerome, I've a question about enchantment."
"Again? I seem to recall that's happened before. You know, you'll get lessons soon enough." His eyes twinkled.
"This might fall outside the lessons," Martel explained. "I was at a temple containing a relic, and it lay inside a chest. What's curious is that the chest was locked by enchanted Archean letters."
"And this awoke your curiosity?"
"I just wondered what's different from how we do enchantment. You don't use letters, do you?"
The artificer shook his head. "We cast the spell with the intended effect on the object, weaving magic and material together, in a sense. I've never really studied how the Archeans did it, but it sounds similar to how those northerners do it with their runes. Using a symbol to hold the spell in place."
The thought had occurred to Martel, though there had to be a difference. After all, he was being taught how to use Tyrian runes, but nobody used Archean letters for enchantment. Or did they? "Anybody who enchants how the Archeans did?" If someone had that knowledge, they might also know how to overcome such an enchanted lock.
Master Jerome scratched the back of his neck. "Never heard of that. No wizards of Archen left, after all."
"Could anyone have figured out how they did it?"
"I can't imagine so. Anyone with an interest in enchantment would have learned it here at the Lyceum, from me." The artificer gave Martel a scrutinising look. "Something you'd hope to accomplish, perhaps?"
"Oh, no, master, I am happy to learn from you." That part was true; enchantment seemed complicated to learn. Martel would definitely prefer to have an experienced teacher guide him.
"Alright, well, get back to it. This place swallows ink faster than sailors on shore leave can empty a tavern of ale."
His morning chores done, Martel left the Lyceum briefly to buy an oatcake from the girl selling them on the square. He had learned what he could from his teachers; it was time to meet his contact and discuss their next move.
Three bells later, Martel sat in a tavern opposite the enigmatic Keeper of the Pact. It struck him that he had no idea what the guy was called; presumably, the Keeper preferred it that way.
"You wanted to meet?"
"Yeah. I've tried to find out what I could about the relic, the enchanted lock and so on," Martel began to explain. "Not that there's a lot to say. Neither relics nor Archean enchantment are studied at the Lyceum."
"You learned nothing?"
"I wouldn't go that far," the acolyte protested. "As we talked about, the relic seems to leave some magical trace of its presence behind. Considering how powerful that felt even in its absence, I think I can sense it if I just get close. And it's not like I can mistake it for anything else. So if we have an idea where to look, even if I can't see the relic, I should be able to know if it's there or not."
"Very well. I do have some ideas on where we should look."
"Good, because I don't," Martel admitted.
The Keeper gave his half-earnest smile. "We already know of one thief capable of acquiring the means to suppress magical measures and with no qualms about stealing from a sacred place."
"You mean Ruby." It took Martel a moment to realise he had just confirmed what the Friar had perhaps only suspected, and his mouth became a thin line.
"I do. No need to look consternated. None had interest in the stolen will other than Lady Pearl. It was not hard to guess her involvement." The Keeper cleared his throat. "As for the relic, its absence serves only the one purpose of destabilising the Pact. Given her feud with the Comtesse, that would suggest our bald purveyor of flesh intends to strike at her rival."
"I suppose." Martel preferred not to speculate too much about the Nine Lords. He had made a deal with the Friar to help find the relic; otherwise, he had no desire to get caught in between these criminals. "These two thefts aren't the same, though. At the convent, the magical protection was Tyrian runes. At the shrine, it was Archean enchantment."
"Well, you're the expert, so you tell me. If this Ruby could get her hands on something to suppress a Tyrian rune, could she not obtain something similar for the Archean lock?"
Martel was about to answer in the negative when a thought made him pause. On the surface, these were two completely different schools of magic. He would not expect one to have any influence on the other. Yet he remembered their one similarity, which he had considered earlier. Both used symbols to create an effect. If a Tyrian rune could suppress other Tyrian symbols, might it also do the same for Archean letters? While he initially would have doubted this, Martel knew too little to dismiss it. "It's possible."
The Keeper regarded the acolyte with a satisfied expression. "In that case, I suggest we begin our search. If Lady Pearl has taken the relic – and given its value and importance, it is reasonable to assume she would keep it close – we know where to look for it."
Martel licked his lips. His throat felt dry, and not from lack of sustenance; a half-empty mug of ale stood on the table in front of him. "I am not exactly welcome at The River Pearl."
His strange companion arched an eyebrow. "Curious. But no matter. I did not intend for us to appear as ourselves." The Keeper leaned forward with one of his sly smiles. "Tell me, have you ever attended a masquerade?"
ONE HUNDRED THREE
BLIND WINDFALL
The next day, Martel was still unsure whether to agree to the Keeper's plan. Masked or not, it seemed foolhardy for him to enter The River Pearl, given how he had fallen out with Lady Pearl over the wandering troupe. If discovered, it would surely cause a disturbance, to put it mildly. He might have to fight for his life to escape, and he doubted the Keeper would be much use in a brawl.
On the other hand, Martel was a battlemage. He did not fear this tavern lady or her thugs. And if Lady Pearl had stolen the relic, taking it back would allow Martel to get even after how she and Ruby had used him as a distraction to break into the convent belonging to the Sisters of the Sun.
Unable to reach a decision, Martel pushed the thought away. Lady Pearl held masquerades somewhat regularly at her establishment; the next would be this coming Solday. That left him with a couple of days before he had to decide. For now, he would focus on his spellwork.
In the Circle of Fire, the acolytes stood as last time, all of them blindfolded. Any hint of silliness or nervous energy, like the first lesson doing this exercise, was gone. All four remained entirely still, focusing their magical senses. Martel could almost feel the anticipation build up inside of him, ready to be released.
"Begin!"
At Moira's command, the acolytes unleashed their spells. Fire bolts flew across the space in every direction, each of them using their ability to sense heat to find targets. No rules other than land your spells and avoid being hit. Martel's emotions constantly switched between elation at the former or frustration at failing the latter, only to immediately push such feelings away, resuming his concentration.
At the end, he felt he had done well, though he could not know for sure. Moira did not announce how many spells each acolyte had struck true; they only knew who had done worst, as that student got to spend the evening in detention. Hanging his head, Edward accepted his fate.
Leaving the Circle of Fire, Martel considered what he had learned. While he would never forgive Moira for what she had put him through, he had to admit the usefulness of this particular exercise. By honing his ability to sense heat, Martel felt he could land every spell now. His magical marksmanship, so to say, had greatly increased. He did not even need sight to find his target; as long as he had a straight line, his spells would hit. Which gave him an idea.
He only had to wait a little while until lunch and the opportunity to carry it out. "Max, do you still arrange fights in the Chamber of Earth?" Today was Pelday when the sparring club met.
The mageknight coughed. "Arrange is overstating it. I just make sure interested parties have a chance to square off against each other. Why?"
"Last time, I beat two opponents. I figured we could add a little more flair."
"Those actors have rubbed off on you. Dangerous, Nordmark, when you consort with such people. Still, I am all ears. What do you have in mind?"
"I need you to find me some odds and an opponent. And I got an idea that should draw interest and make those odds go up."
When evening came, Martel appeared in the Chamber of Earth. Rather than a staff, he was only armed with a blindfold. A circle of people gathered around, though still keeping some distance in anticipation of the fight; Maximilian had done well in drumming up interest.
Tying the fabric around his head, it took Martel a moment to adjust from the loss of sight. Soon, he saw before his inner eye a ring of heat surrounding him; every student in the space. Their murmurs also reached his ears, but he ignored those. He only needed to know their movements.
"He has his back turned to me," Julian pointed out. "Is this some kind of jest?"
Maximilian shook his head. "Not at all. You are free to attack him when you want, from any angle. Fight starts only when you do so."
Carrying an axe as on previous fights, Julian frowned. He had previously fought and lost to Martel when fighting on even terms. Now, he looked at the blindfolded acolyte, standing with his back turned towards the mageknight. "If I hit him in the head, blunted or not, that could crack his skull open." He hefted the axe in his hands.
Maximilian shrugged. "He had better be quick with his shield in that case."
"Just so we are clear, if he ends up in the infirmary, I am not to blame."
"You are not to blame."
Julian stretched his neck. "Very well." Raising his axe, he lunged forward with a battle cry, aiming his fearsome weapon at the back of Martel's head.
Immediately sensing the approaching heat source, Martel turned on his heel and unleashed a ray of fire. His eyes blind, he sensed the stream of red heat leaving his hand to reach its target straight ahead. Although keeping his focus on his magical sense, he still heard the anguished scream from Julian being struck by the spell. He saw the source of heat in front of him diminish, becoming half in size; the mageknight had fallen to his knees. Martel ended his spell.
Removing his blindfold, Martel saw this confirmed; the warrior's weapon lay on the ground next to him. The duel was over. Still whimpering, Julian got on his feet and pulled away. Meanwhile, Maximilian walked over to the fire acolyte. "Well done."
"I would have thought he'd be at least a little wary. Did he think I'd just stand here, blind, waiting for his attack?"
Maximilian shrugged. "Julian does not have much of a reputation for being a thinker."
"I guess that's why he's a mageknight," Martel considered.
With an offended look, his friend crossed his arms. "Such cheek! I would have you know, this mageknight got you odds three to one, earning you nine silver coins tonight."
"I would argue I did most of the work, but I'm grateful." The fire acolyte held out his hand, accepting a bounty of nine eagles. Discounting that three of them had been his own wager, that meant he had earned six silvers casting a single spell. Smiling, Martel pocketed the money.
ONE HUNDRED FOUR
SPELLS AND OFFERS TO COUNTER
In the Hall of Elements, Martel stood with his eyes closed, reminiscent of the Circle of Fire. However, the exercise served the opposite purpose; he had to focus hard to avoid using his ability to sense heat. Each time he reached out with his magic into the surrounding darkness, the temptation was there; he had done it so often, it came so naturally to him. Yet it would ruin what he tried to accomplish; focusing on heat would keep him from noticing anything else. Whatever magic that Master Alastair flung out, regardless of element, Martel needed to not only sense it, but also recognise it.
The acolyte felt the burst of magical energy as his teacher released a spell. It did not feel hot, not even with Martel consciously avoiding searching for heat, so nothing to do with fire. That still left three options, but Martel was stumped on which one. "I don't know," he finally admitted. Guessing blindly would get him nowhere; better to admit his failure.
"We'll try again. Clear your mind as best you can. As soon as you feel my spell, reach for it. Grasp any kind of sensation it conveys."
Martel cleared his throat, waiting. Another release of magic. A strange feeling or memory came to him; how the world smelled after rainfall. "Water?" he guessed.
"Correct. There you are, boy!"
Martel smiled, still keeping his eyes closed. Strange how the feeling of water magic had made him think of that particular sensation. He wondered if it were different for other mages; would they have other memories or impressions of the same spell? The thought of the relic came to him; radiating some kind of magic he did not know, nor could understand, yet he felt it so powerfully all the same.
"Once more. Don't let one success go to your head, lad, we got a long way yet. Ready?"
"Ready, master."
From the opposite side of the hall, Master Alastair released another spell.
Before class, Martel had crossed the square outside the Lyceum to buy an oatcake from the nearby stall. An odd way to give the signal for a clandestine meeting, but tasty, at least. Now, three bells later, Martel sat in the tavern waiting for the Keeper. He had spent most of the fiveday since Solday contemplating the task at hand; would he be willing to risk an altercation and aggrieving the Ninth Lord of the bridge district, just to help another of these underworld masters in their endless games for wealth and power?
"I'll help you on one condition," Martel said as the Keeper joined him.
"No ale for me?" The jester, dressed in ordinary clothes, glanced at the mug in front of Martel. "I thought you had already arranged your reward with the Friar? A favour for a favour, he mentioned."
"You're asking me to enter a place where I'm banned, the very headquarters of a Ninth Lord. To undertake a bigger risk than ever implied at first. Besides, this won't cost you anything." Martel took a deep breath. "Once we recover the relic, I want a chance to study it. I won't damage it or anything. I just want to understand its nature."
