Chapter 479: The Last Argument of Viscounts
The Last Argument of Viscounts
Everything seemed to settle back into the old routine in the fivedays after the harvest festival. Martel stayed at school for the most part, pursuing his education. On the occasion that he ventured into the city, doing purchases for Mistress Rana or going out with his friends, nobody gave him trouble or reason to feel suspicious.
As for his lessons with Moira, they eventually moved out of the Circle of Fire and into the western courtyard. The tenth month of the year had begun, and every acolyte kept their hands inside their sleeves; unfortunately, wearing gloves interfered with spellcasting, and they had to suffer the cold.
Carrying four staves in her arms, Moira gave a contemptuous look at her students trying to keep their hands warm. She distributed the magical implements, forcing them all to grab the cold wood with their bare fingers.
"See those banners?" Moira pointed at four pieces of cloth, each hanging out of its own window on an upper floor.
'Banner' seemed a fanciful description; they all had the same plain background colour, and only the letter on each piece of cloth differentiated them. Martel quickly realised that the letters were the initials for each of their names. He looked towards the flag with 'M' for Martel.
"Your task is to set fire to your particular banner. I don't care which spell you use, but you're not allowed to move closer. One foot past this fellow, and you failed." She patted the elbow on the statue of Atreus. The acolytes looked at each other, the banners, and Moira. "Get to it!" she barked at them, making Edward flinch.
Making sure he was further back than the statue, Martel looked at his flag. He estimated some fifty paces from his position to the building; the distance would be even greater, since the banner hung several floors up. He could think of two solutions. A fire bolt with enough spellpower to ignite its target. The regular spell that he could cast at will would not be enough; simple magical fire did not actually burn in the sense that it could set something ablaze.
The difficulty was whether his spell would last long enough to reach its target. He did not understand the laws behind it, but a spell flying through the air would eventually dissolve if it never hit anything. It seemed that the more spellpower spent, the longer the spell might last; for that reason, Martel's lightning bolts had easily crossed an alley to strike a building on the other side. But he was not certain he could hit the banner accurately, even if he used enough spellpower to ensure his spell would last the distance; and if he tried, the necessary effort would leave him so weary afterwards, he might only have one attempt.
The other option was to reach out with his magic and connect to the cloth, using this to increase the heat until the fabric combusted. But Martel had never done so across such a distance, and he was not certain that he could. He realised this was probably the exercise; training the range of the battlemages, one way or the other.
Weighing his options, Martel went for the latter. It might be harder, but it did not tire him out the way casting advanced spells would. It seemed the better choice; if it failed completely, he could always try a direct spell afterwards. Staring straight at the banner, Martel let his magic reach out and try to connect.
***
At supper, both Maximilian and Eleanor joined him. This had become more frequent of late, though Martel did not know of any specific reason. Usually, his friends spent their meals with the other mageknights, which was understandable, considering they had all their classes together. But he did not mind the change, even if he was also fine with eating alone. Eleanor only spoke when she had something worthwhile to say, and if Martel was not in the mood for Maximilian's conversation, he could just let him ramble on; the mageknight rarely needed encouragement to keep talking.
"That reminds me, Martel, you have no plans next Pelday, I assume?"
Hearing his name as a warning that he needed to pay attention, Martel caught the end of the sentence. "Pelday? Yeah, I mean, no, I don't have plans. Why?"
Maximilian beamed. "It is the annual celebration of the emperor's coronation!"
A weary look crossed Martel's face. "Max, no."
"How can you refuse me before I have proposed anything?" came the offended response.
"Because it's obvious. You want me to accompany you, which is a bad idea, as I don't belong with nobles."
"Present company excluded, I assume," Eleanor interjected with half a smile.
"Nordmark, no need to think less of yourself! You are a wizard, which is a mark of nobility in its own right," Maximilian argued, missing Martel's point.
"Nothing good will come of it. Remember last year, how it ended? Being forced to fight each other for the amusement of some –" Martel caught himself before he said something offensively about a member of the Imperial family.
"Exactly, it was splendid! But I hear your concern," Maximilian declared. "Which is why you only have to come on the first night."
"But what for? What difference does my presence make?"
"Look, on the first night, we all present ourselves to the emperor. I just want you in my father's retinue, so everyone can see. For your troubles, you'll get to drink the best wine and enjoy the finest celebration in the Empire. And if you insist, you can spend the remaining evenings back at the Lyceum."
"Again, I'm just one mage out of many. Why does your father or anyone else care?"
"Martel, listen. Politics is about popularity. The more people following you, the more power you have. And a battlemage counts as a lot of people."
Eleanor nodded before giving a shrug. "The support of military wizards is considered valuable, it is true."
"But I'm going to the legions, no matter what. Standing behind your father doesn't change where I'll be going, or what I'll be doing."
Maximilian waved a hand about dismissively. "That is irrelevant. Think of it like cards in your hand. They all have different ranks and strengths. A battlemage is a good card to have, no matter what."
Martel shot him a look. "All I'm getting is that our country is being run like a gambling den."
"Probably truer than you wish," Eleanor conceded with a smile.
"In any case, back to the question at hand. Can I inform my father that you have graciously accepted to attend the celebration in his retinue?"
Whatever Martel's misgivings, he could not turn down his friend without a better excuse than vague unease. "I guess the food will be good, at least."
"If that is the argument that convinces you, I will take it."
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