Chapter 207: Present Help
Present Help
"Have you given any thought to what Quintus told you?" Master Alastair asked as his lesson with Martel was coming to an end.
Not really, given how Martel had spent his time since, not to mention being concerned about his brother, but that felt rude to say. "Yes, a lot. I was a little troubled to hear that as a weathermage or seamage, I might still end up in battles."
"It is unfortunate regarding being a weathermage, since any other province besides Nordmark would probably be safe. Though you should not let fears of war discourage you from becoming a seamage if that is your wish."
"I shouldn't?"
Master Alastair shook his head. "I have trained hundreds of novices over the years. I dare say that I have a good grasp of the talents and skills each possess. While you would make a fine seamage, more than capable of those duties, only a few possess the gift to become a stormmage. Nearly as rare as being fire-touched," he said with a smile.
"So you don't think they'll stick me on a warship?" That was a relief, Martel supposed, even if it did not seem like it in the moment.
"I do not. No conjuring of storms for you, my boy, just a strong wind to fill the sails of a merchant vessel." Master Alastair winked. In the distance, the bell rang. "Enough for now. See you at sixth bell."
***
Leaving the Hall of Elements, Martel felt the smallest tinge of disappointment at the thought that he could not be a stormmage. He knew it was weird to entertain such an emotion concerning this; a year ago, he had never heard of this profession, and until today, he had never even considered the idea of becoming one. Yet being denied this had the effect of making him want it. He contemplated the magic that he could perform with air, and how it would feel to possess ten times that power. Summoning powerful storms to engulf fleets and devastate entire armadas, according to what Master Gilbert had claimed. Truly wielding the full force of nature's fury with the elements at your disposal.
Putting such thoughts aside, Martel let it go. The idea was enticing, but only a dream. He did not actually want to create tempests and cause death and destruction on such a scale. War sounded awful, and Martel wanted to use his magic to help others. For instance, by being a weathermage. Though the thought of boarding a vessel, with peaceful intentions, and sailing to distant lands still had a hold over him.
That was in the future. In the present, Martel's family needed him. While being fire-touched did not help him with his future plans, it did make him versatile unlike his peers, giving him opportunities such as with the Night Knives. But still things moved too slowly; it could be several fivedays before anything came along. Martel had to swallow his pride and seek help, again.
***
Martel waited until fifth bell, when he believed she did not have class. As he walked up the stairs of the girls' dormitory tower, catching some inquisitive looks as he did, Martel made his way to Eleanor's room and knocked on the door.
He heard rummaging sounds from within until she opened up; her expression revealed that she had not expected to see him. "Martel, what brings you here?"
Martel decided to just say it plainly. "My little brother is sick. He needs medicine from an alchemist, and my mum can't afford it. I'm trying to collect enough money for it. If you can lend me some, I'll pay you back as soon as I can." He said it all with barely a pause to breathe in between, feeling embarrassed. Things were hardly good between him and Eleanor, but he still held her in high regard, and he trusted her judgement in matters such as this.
Wordlessly, Eleanor turned around and walked back into her room. Martel stood confused; she had not closed the door in his face, so he assumed this was not a rejection.
She quickly returned holding a velvet pouch in her hand. Opening the string, she emptied the contents into his hands, which he hurried to form into a cup. "That is all I have right now. How much do you need? I can go home tomorrow and asked my father for an advance on my stipend."
"Oh no, I don't want you to have more trouble. I'm sure I'll have enough." This was more generous than Martel had expected, and it felt almost shameful to take further advantage of her. "Thank you, truly."
"You are welcome. Let me know when your brother is in improvement. I shall mention him next time I am at prayers."
"I will let you know. Thanks." He turned to walk away, but stopped as Eleanor spoke again.
"I am sorry that I kept you from the sparring matches." She glanced away before her eyes found him again. "I just thought you did not need any further encouragement for fighting."
Martel looked at her with half a smile, containing no mirth. "I probably don't. Thank you, again." He left, trying to awkwardly fit a bunch of coins into his pockets without dropping any as he walked down the corridor.
***
Back in his own room, Martel collected all his riches and stacked them on his desk. Eleanor had lent him eleven eagles and four pennies, giving him a total of nineteen silver coins and four of the copper kind. With his personal finances growing complicated, he took a scrap of parchment and made two columns. On one side, he wrote the names of Eleanor, Maximilian, and Weasel. On the other, he wrote down the sums that he owed each of them. He was still ten silvers and six coppers short; too much that he could hope to earn from Master Jerome in the near future. But he was more than halfway there, and tomorrow was another day.
This 𝓬ontent is taken from f(r)eeweb(n)ovel.𝒄𝒐𝙢