Chapter 578: Familiar Sensations
Familiar Sensations
Martel had forgotten about seasickness. The first few days, he spent all waking hours on the deck, strategically near the railing, should he need to make any deposits into the water. He could not determine whether he wanted or feared a Khivan galley might show up; he was unsure whether he would be able to fight, but on the other hand, it would give him a target to unleash his frustrations upon.
At least he had plenty of space, unlike the first journey to Esmouth. Rather than half a cohort, the ship only had a few scores of wounded or crippled legionaries, dismissed from the legion as they could no longer serve. Likewise, the hold barely contained goods. The soldiers of the Tenth consumed many different wares, but they produced none, and anything the people of Esmouth created, they could likewise sell in full to the legion.
Thus, the vessel only carried furs bought from the Tyrians along with a collection of Khivan uniforms and broken weaponry, curiously enough. In one of his better moments, Martel had asked the captain about this, who had explained that he sold such items as curiosities to the wealthy of Morcaster. Proof that plenty of people existed with more money than sense.
"How are you feeling?" Eleanor sat down beside him. Unlike their first journey, she did not train or spar with anyone. Instead, she spent time with the veterans, listening to their stories of how they were injured or their experiences in the legion. Some demurred, but others spoke freely, no longer bound by any reverence for their commanding officers as they had been dismissed from service.
"Please, ask me anything other than that," Martel told her. "Anything that'll distract me."
"Oh, sure." She frowned in thought, sitting down next to him. "How did you discover you had magic?"
"I was about three or four," Martel related, grateful to have something else to think about. "In the town, my father's forge was the most interesting place. I loved watching him shape metal on his anvil, turning a lump of iron into something useful. And the furnace intrigued me. My brother would use the bellows, making the coals flare up."
Eleanor adjusted herself, back against the railing, and watched him.
"I don't know how, but looking at the flames, it felt like they wanted me to join them, or something like that. I stretched out a hand, and my father immediately yelled at me." Martel chuckled at the memory. "He thought I was going to touch the scorching hot furnace. But I just wanted the flames to come to me. And they did, filling my palm."
"How did your father react to that?"
"More yelling. He told me to never do that again. I didn't understand what I had done wrong. It took me a long time to realise what magic even was, and that I possessed it." He looked at her. "What about you?"
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"Pretty simple story. I was six, and I had cut myself terribly. Stitches down my arm. As it healed, my mother realised that it left no scar behind."
Martel had never considered that. "You sure that you don't have the gift of healing?"
She laughed. "Sadly, I heal as slowly as you."
It would have been an unbelievable coincidence if both of Martel's friends from schools possessed that rarest of traits. "Have you heard from Max?"
If the change of topics seemed sudden to her, Eleanor did not let it show. "I wrote to him a while after our arrival to Esmouth, to which he replied. I rarely thought about writing letters after that, though, with everything we went through."
The same held true for Martel; given they had spent nearly every day wandering for hours, he rarely had the presence of mind to consider writing letters to anybody. As he recalled, he had only written the one letter to his family while at the outpost. It could not really blame Maximilian for never writing when Martel had not done so either.
"But we shall see him soon," Eleanor continued, giving him a smile. "I can only imagine how thrilled you will be. And we shall have the better stories to tell, compared to some praetorian."
"You're right. That's going to eat him up."
She laughed. "By the way, you are obviously welcome to stay at my family's home."
"Oh. I was just going to get a room somewhere, like The Golden Goose. I got more money than I need, after all." Considering that Eleanor had abandoned her career as an officer to become Martel's protector, he doubted that her father would be pleased to have him as a guest.
"Nonsense. How much sleep will you get in a place like that? Our home has extensive baths, and I dare say every meal served will be better than anything you will get in a tavern."
Martel find it hard to argue with any of that. "Alright, thanks." He smiled until a wave crashed against the ship, and combined with the mention of food, he felt his entire stomach churn.
***
The first nights, Martel barely got sleep. While the ship had plenty of room below deck, the smell of unwashed people stowed together kept him awake. Eleanor offered that he took the captain's cabin, which had been placed at her disposal, but he could not make himself do that. Eventually, he figured that resting directly on the deck could not be worse than on the forest floor, and with the fresh air, he managed to sleep. At least on the nights when it did not rain.
The days of the journey passed without events; no Khivan galleys tried their luck this time. At last, the walls of Morcaster came into sight. Martel stood at the railing, looking towards the shore as they sailed past Smallport. It brought up strange memories of the people in whose company he had visited that place; most of them were dead, one by his own hand, another by his failure. He was happy as the ship continued and began its approach into the main harbour. He looked up at the lighthouse, atop which a windmage would be directing traffic. On a winter's day like this with few vessels, that would be an easy task.
As soon as the ship was moored, Martel disembarked. Immediately, he felt eerie. Not just from having solid ground under his feet, or because the port seemed almost sleepy in comparison to the busy days of summer.
He finally realised what it was. Whenever he had gone to the harbour from the Lyceum, the smell of sea and salt in the air would tell him when he was getting close to the docks. But after a month breathing that air already, he did not notice it at all standing on the quay. Regardless, all the surrounding sights were familiar. Almost to his own surprise, Martel felt like he had come home.
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