Chapter 482: The Second Starlit Eve
The Second Starlit Eve
Martel spent second bell the next morning working in the apothecary as usual, though alone. As before, he had to lock himself in, and he found a short note detailing his work. It was the usual chores, mostly creating salves and other supplies for the infirmary rather than anything to do particularly with elixirs for pestilence.
He saw no sign of Nora or Mistress Rana; either they were busy in the laboratory, or like yesterday, finding sleep when and where they could. When the bell rang, he cleared away his tools, locked the apothecary again, and left for his first lesson in fire magic.
As Martel went to the western courtyard, he received a surprise. The first sign of something unusual came when only three banners hung from the windows of an upper floor; the one marked as Martel's was conspicuously absent. The other acolytes mumbled to themselves, but neither they nor he knew what it meant.
The answer arrived along with Moira. "Martel, Mistress Rana has asked for your help. You're excused. Get going."
A little confused, Martel went back exactly where he had come from. Odd that she had not simply written this in the notes for him, but perhaps things had been decided at different times. It did seem like strange behaviour regardless from the otherwise methodical alchemist, who prided herself on thorough and thought-through practices.
That said, he was more surprised that Moira had agreed to let him miss a class just to help out with alchemy; the Lyceum apparently took this seriously.
Arriving at the laboratory, Martel saw that the number of prepared vials had more than doubled. Probably closer to thirty rather than twenty, even. No sign of Nora, and he heard Mistress Rana before he saw her; asleep on the cot with a slight snore. Well, he did not need instructions. Filling a cauldron with water, Martel began brewing.
***
Martel did not attend his second lesson either, as today began the celebration of the emperor's reign at his palace; consequently, a carriage picked up both Martel and Maximilian, courtesy of his father. They had done this a few times now, driving together to a feast or the like hosted by the nobility, and Martel always found it impossible to predict his friend's mood. At times, he acted like himself, relaxed and swift to making jokes; other times, he could be quiet and distant, or the entirely reverse, constantly talking without actually saying much.
This time, Maximilian seemed closest to his usual self. He remarked on his hopes for the vintages that would be served, his doubts that his sister would behave despite his mother's watchful gaze, and other comments of similar nature.
Martel remembered his previous visits to the Imperial Palace well – given both its impressive stature and some of the events he had experienced, how could he not – but he was still struck by the sheer scale of its impressive construction. Pillars upon pillars, statues, and carvings; endless hours of labour carried out by countless hands had to be responsible. It would leave any visitor in awe, as was undoubtedly the intention.
The praetorians quickly ascertained their identity before they were allowed onto the grounds. Once they could enter the palace, they found Maximilian's family and joined them. His mother quickly fell upon her second son to ask him a variety of questions, and Martel was satisfied to be left out of the conversation, though the count himself did give Martel an acknowledging nod.
Standing among the nobility of the Empire, Martel felt out of place, but he was not necessarily intimidated as he might have been on previous occasions. He would have preferred to be wearing his acolyte's robe, however plain it would make him seem; it suited him, it felt true to his nature, and he was more comfortable in it than any other clothing.
But Martel knew that regardless of garments, he was a wizard. These people had power, certainly, but it was bound into their wealth, lands, castles, and the assumption that their soldiers would follow their orders. Martel's power was his own; it did not depend on wearing silk or jewellery, the size of his purse, or the loyalty of others. And it let him do things that only magic allowed.
***
The guests gathered in the Dome of Stars as last year. It was still a beautiful sight, to witness the night sky reflected in the ceiling, and while Martel felt that his time tonight could have been spent better than aimlessly milling about this place, he enjoyed being able to witness this feat of magic again.
Trumpets sounded, praetorians cleared the way, and the emperor arrived. He marched through the crowd to take his seat upon the throne, and the nobility began the yearly ritual of showing their fealty.
Not of noble blood, Martel was spared the exercise; he could stand against the wall and observe. For some reason, his mind went to the laboratory back at the Lyceum, where he had laboured earlier today. He thought of Mistress Rana, perhaps after chasing a few hours of precious sleep already returned to work, hunched over a cauldron while performing her alchemy. She was not a native of this land, yet she laboured all waking hours to protect the city from a terrible outbreak of disease.
Glancing over the crowd, Martel knew that nobody in this room would have the knowledge nor the skill she did to do the same. It was a power that probably few of these people ever thought about; and if they did, they probably did not rank it highly. But to those sailors, lying on the sickbed in a ship, the power of alchemy could decide between life or death for them.
Looking at the emperor during this moment, the pinnacle of his power where all the mightiest people of the Empire bowed to him, Martel knew what appealed to him most; it could not be found in this hall.
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