Chapter 494: A Stone in Hand
A Stone in Hand
After a few more days, Martel's isolation was at an end, and he could return to the warehouse. The content of his hours did not change greatly, only his surroundings; he continued the endlessly repetitive task of brewing potions, one at a time. By now, he knew the recipe by heart and could complete the process with closed eyes. In the first days of the pestilence, the work had invaded his dreams as well; visions of bubbling cauldrons and never ending stacks of ingredients to be prepared haunted his nights, but now that a month had passed, Martel slept without dreams.
Still, he appreciated just the possibility of leaving his workspace and walking on the street. While the air could hardly be called fresh, he enjoyed its many odours, even those of unpleasant nature, compared to the stale smell of smoke from the fireplace and his hours of labour that suffused his previous residence. In addition, being suddenly surrounded by people felt eerie when for five days, he had not been within touching distance of another person.
It was likewise odd to return to the Lyceum. His period of isolation had made him aware of something otherwise buried in his mind by weariness from constant labour. Since he first arrived in Morcaster, he had spent almost every day and night at the castle, and it had always felt like a safe haven from whatever difficulties he encountered in the city itself. Now, he had spent the better part of a month away, including several days in a row. It felt like a foreshadowing of what would happen soon; his graduation and enrolment in the legions, which would see him bid farewell to the place he had considered home for the last two years.
But until then, he had class and a challenge to overcome. The banners assigned to each fire acolyte still hung from the windows on an upper floor, taunting the students. Martel noticed that in his absence, none of the others seemed to have made much progress in refining their magical skills to destroy their banner across the long range as demanded by Moira.
As they stood in the western courtyard by the statue of Atreus the Spellbreaker, waiting for their teacher to arrive and class to begin, the acolytes all constantly glanced at Martel while keeping even more distance to him than usual.
As soon as Moira appeared, Harriet addressed her. "Mistress, is it really safe to be around him?" She gave Martel a withering look. "We all heard how he was in the copper lanes."
"If there is any risk of him being infectious, they wouldn't have let him out," Mara said dismissively, making Martel feel weird about being defended by her. "You have your examination in a month's time, so I suggest you focus on the task at hand. You all know what happens if you fail to graduate."
A ruinous debt that he and his family would be saddled with; Martel remembered all too well. Around him, the other acolytes began practising, still keeping more distance to him than usual. Streaks of fire passed through the air as they all attempted to hit their targets hanging from the windows on an upper floor.
Martel had stuck to his own strategy, training to improve the range with which his magic could interact with an object. So far, his fellow students had barely concealed their disdain for his efforts, but Moira had not said a word to disparage him, and he felt certain she would have chewed him out if he was wasting his time.
And he had made progress during his previous lessons. Last time, he had ignited a twig more than thirty paces away, and he felt confident he could do better. In fact, with the added motivation of vindicating himself in front of the other acolytes, especially Harriet, Martel felt ready to accomplish what they had failed to do; he turned his eyes on the banner marked with his letter as it gently moved about in the breeze.
He extended his magical sense directly ahead of him, trying to connect with anything it could. Touches of frost on the ground, surrounding leaves of grass. The stonework of the castle walls with faint whispers of their own magic. Finally, he felt something that swayed back and forth, like the leaves on a tree in the wind. He sent a spark of spellpower through the connection, and to his immense satisfaction, he saw the fabric of his banner begin to burn.
The flame immediately disappeared. Confused, Martel looked around until he realised that Moira had extinguished the fire. "Take ten steps back and try again," she commanded him.
With a satisfied smile, Martel left the line of acolytes to count out ten paces of extra distance, trying for the second time to finish the task that the other students had yet to complete once.
***
Given his absence from the castle, Martel was not surprised to find a message had arrived for him, though the contents made him frown.
Master Martel,
I have found
an item worth
your interest.
Please visit me
at your convenience.
Your friend,
the merchant
At first, Martel had no idea who this could be. The lack of a name suggested someone part of Morcaster's underworld, as they were always keen on hiding their identity and obscuring their dealings with others. Following that trail of thought, Martel finally realised that this had to be the artefact trader, who Martel had tasked with finding something to cure Eleanor's sister of her permanent slumber.
Martel did not wish to get his hopes up – and certainly not Eleanor's – but if the merchant had found something that would work, Martel was ready to pay anything. He would go on his own, though; no need to mention anything to Eleanor until he knew more. Since he was returning to the warehouse by the copper lanes today anyway, he could find out soon enough.
***
Martel gave a heavy knock on the merchant's door. A heavy purse hung by his belt, filled with every coin he owned. It should have been a lot heavier, since Mistress Rana had not paid him wages for a long time, but it would have to do.
"Master wizard, please, enter my home," the trader said after opening the door, allowing Martel entry.
"What have you found?" he asked once inside.
"I shall hasten to show you." His host found a key from his belt and used it to open a small box on a drawer. From it, he withdrew a small, round object that looked like a nearly smooth pebble. Yet even before the trader placed it in his hand, Martel knew it was magical.
It was a Tyrian runestone, covered in symbols. Some of them, Martel did not know, but he did recognise what seemed to be the biggest one. The rune of unbinding. He felt a pang of disappointment. Of everything he and Eleanor had investigated looking for a cure, this had to be the least likely. Its purpose was to undo harm or evil, but from what Martel understood, this had to be of a magical nature. Eleanor's sister had hurt her head in an entirely mundane accident.
At the same time, Martel did not regret coming here. The stone possessed powerful magic. It reminded Martel of the small token that Regnar had given him once as thanks for saving his life, which had held the smoke creature serving the maleficar at bay, breaking in the process.
But even if Martel had been far less attuned to magic back then, he knew that Regnar's small pebble could not compare with this. The runes glowed with such strength, this had to be inscribed by a powerful skáld, or perhaps even a seier-wife. He already knew that Tyrian magic affected the infernal creature, regardless of its origin. And Martel's theory was that it was a jinni, enslaved by the maleficar. That seemed exactly like the kind of magic that a rune of unbinding might affect.
Martel had no expectations he would ever face that creature again or its master. He had no plans to seek them out. But to literally be given such magic into his hands and let it go... "I'll take it." Martel emptied his purse onto the table in the room.
"I am overjoyed to hear this, master, and I praise your generosity. But I must confess, it cost me great difficulty and much gold to acquire such a rare item as this –"
"I'll return with another payment to double the amount," Martel declared. "That should be the end of your haggling."
"Most reasonable, good master. When?"
"When I have it." With swift steps, Martel left the trader's house.
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