Chapter 496: A Potion in Hand
A Potion in Hand
The following day, Martel was back at the Lyceum, attending class. As before, the other students kept their distance to him, but since he had no interest in talking to them, Martel did not care. Before too long, he would never have to see these people again.
Moira arrived, but uncharacteristically, she did not immediately yell for them to begin practising. Instead, she spoke almost at a normal volume. "On Manday, you will have your acolyte's examination. You must all appear in the entrance hall at second bell."
"Mistress, what should we expect?" asked William. The others nodded and looked in anticipation at their teacher, all of them clearly wondering the same.
"I'm not going to tell you. Everything you will be asked to do should be well within your limits. If not, you'll be an absolute failure as a battlemage, and it's better we know now than when the lives of others depend on you. But if you are worried, I suggest you start practising," she barked, her voice resuming its usual temper.
Martel took his position on the grounds, gazing up at the banner that served as his target for the lesson. Three days left.
***
The mageknights' schedule had changed, since they practised more frequently now, and Martel went a few times to knock on Eleanor's door in vain; on his third attempt, in the evening, she finally answered. "Martel? What is it?"
He glanced in either direction of the hallway. "Can we talk inside? I don't want anyone to see." She gave him an inquisitive look but stepped back, letting him cross the threshold. As he did so, he pushed the door behind him to be ajar, preventing anyone passing by from seeing him. That done, he pulled out the elixir from his belt. "This is for you." He placed it in her hand.
She held it up, inspecting the bright, green liquid inside the glass. "What exactly is this?"
Martel cleared his throat. "It's the elixir that cures pestilence. I want you to keep it for yourself."
She gave him another look. "Why? I would not assume the quarantine has failed, has it?"
He quickly shook his head. "No, but you never know. Just in case the worst should happen, I want to be sure you're not in danger from this disease."
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"Martel, there must be plenty of people in the copper lanes that actually need this." She held out her hand for him to take the vial back.
"That's the thing. We are running out. Even faster than I thought. I don't think we'll be able to make many more." If they did not receive more amaranth, they could reach the end of it in a matter of days. And if Mistress Rana dismissed him even sooner because there was not enough work for three alchemists, this could be Martel's last chance to secure an elixir for Eleanor.
"All the more reason this must go to someone who has need of it. Martel, I know you. Of all the mages in the city, you care about the people of the copper lanes. You would not let them suffer just to bring me a gift I do not need."
Martel was unsure about her claim; he had wreaked havoc on the city, burning down several buildings in anger over Ruby's death, who had after all not meant that much to him. If something happened to Eleanor, Martel could not imagine how he would react. But he knew she spoke the truth, and he could not deny her. As she once more pressed the flacon into his hands, he accepted it. "Alright. I'll bring this back."
She gave a little nod along with a smile. "Good. By the way, did you find out when you have your examination?"
"Manday. Same as you if I recall."
"Indeed. Let us meet up in the evening? We can celebrate together."
"I'd like that very much."
***
After his conversation with Eleanor, Martel returned to the warehouse. With his examination looming, he could have defended remaining at the Lyceum to spend the last days training; given that Mistress Rana had mentioned her diminishing need for his help, Martel figured that she would not mind.
But he was not particularly concerned about the examination; Martel knew he was the best battlemage among the acolytes. Besides his strong talent, he had more spells at his disposal than most, not to mention a few surprises in the pockets of his belt. He also had experience fighting in a variety of situations against different kinds of enemies; something the Lyceum could not teach its students, but which he had learned on his own. If Martel could not pass the examination, none of the acolytes could.
So to Martel, any need for training was superseded by his need to return the potion, and if his time at the warehouse was coming to an end, he might not get another chance. Best to get the vial to the others expediently and ready for the next transport of supplies into the district.
As he walked on the streets of Morcaster, Martel also felt increasingly guilty, unable to forget Eleanor's gentle reproach of his motivations for taking the potion. He remembered the household guards sent by some selfish noble with the intent to do basically what Martel had done, even if the acolyte had only taken one, not a whole case.
Still, it bothered Martel. Eleanor was right; how would he feel knowing someone probably died in the copper lanes because they had no more elixirs to give, just because Martel had an irrational fear that Eleanor might catch the disease?
The best cure for his guilt would be an evening's work, whatever hours remained, brewing one or two potions before he would have to sleep.
Approaching the warehouse with all these thoughts of responsibility and choices, feeling chastised, Martel could nonetheless not avoid a selfish thought disturbing him; with the ingredients for the cure running out, he hoped the quarantine of the copper lanes held, no matter how the city guard would have to enforce it.
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