Fire-touched

Martel stared at the battlements that for centuries had surrounded the seat of magic in the Empire. Every mage of worth had learned their skills in this hallowed place. To enter the Lyceum meant tutelage, recognition, and power; rejection meant ignorance, ignobility, and the end of dreams. The gate to the castle stood open, always; any hostile power would be repelled by a far greater force than weaponry or masonry. With an ounce of trepidation, Martel crossed the threshold.

Beyond the gate, he found himself in a large hall bustling with activity. People dressed in robes of various colours hurried across the space. Numerous metal tubes ran up the stonework, disappearing into the ceiling. Large cabinets lined another wall, and several writing desks stood in the corner. Behind them sat more people in robes, close to Martel's own age. He had no clue what the colours of their clothes meant, so he simply approached the nearest person, clad in white.

Clearing his throat, Martel waited until the clerk looked up. "I have a letter," he said. While the clerk tapped his fingers impatiently against the desk, Martel fumbled inside his tunic to fish out an envelope. He extended his hand, and the letter slumped down, mirroring Martel's confidence.

The clerk grabbed the envelope. "Alright, who's it for?"

"The overseer, I was told." Martel renewed the grip on his bag, holding his spare clothes and last provisions.

"Great." The young man took a piece of charcoal and drew a strange symbol outside the envelope. Standing up, he walked over to one of the metal tubes on the wall and opened a hatch. Placing his hand over the symbol, it glowed with a light of its own. The envelope took off like a galloping horse, disappearing up the tube.

Martel watched it disappear with alarm. The letter had been his armour, protecting him by giving him a reason to enter the Lyceum. As the clerk returned to his desk, he looked up. "Anything else?" he asked with a clear indication he expected a negative answer and Martel's immediate departure.

"I'm here to take the test," he muttered, belatedly.

"What test? For entrance to the school?" The young man in white stared at Martel with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"Yes."

"Mate, how old are you?"

"I'm sixteen."

He gave Martel a look full of pity. "You're about six years too late."

"Maybe he's been apprenticed until now," inserted another clerk in a green robe, sitting at the next desk. "He's just here for the final years."

"Still too late for that." The clerk in white gave Martel a scrutinising look. "I don't know what any hedge wizard told you, but the Lyceum doesn't take students older than fourteen."

"He's not a hedge wizard," Martel replied, finding his voice. "Master Ogion trained at the Lyceum. He wrote the letter." He gazed with longing at the metal tube that had swallowed said parchment. "He said I had the gift."

"You better hope he trained you well if the overseer is going to make an exception for your sake."

As it stood, Master Ogion had not provided any training at all. He had simply written a recommendation for the Lyceum. Anxiety clenched together like a fist in Martel's stomach.

One of the tubes rustled. The clerks exchanged looks. The one in white opened the little hatch and took out a small strip of paper. He looked at Martel. "You're up."

~

Martel walked down the corridor, only getting more anxious. Third door to the right and down the stairs. Easy to find, impossible to miss. Yet he felt like an intruder; he expected every moment someone would grab his arm and pull him back, telling him he did not belong here. Reaching the third door on the right, nobody stopped him. Trying to ignore the pit in his stomach, he continued to the examination room.

It had a table in the middle, and shelves filled most of the walls, holding all manner of strange contraptions, ingredients, flasks, and more. What looked like bits of dissected creatures floated in jars. Eerie light glowed briefly inside a flacon before it subsided. Martel guessed these all served the purpose of the hundred examinations placed on candidates, as Master Ogion had told him. Each of them could, in one way or another, reveal magical talents, should these prove elusive.

A door opposite Martel opened. In strode a tall woman, dressed in a purple robe. His eyes widened; he had never seen any in Engby wear that colour, not even Master Ogion. It exuded a wealth that exceeded what any could afford in his hometown.

The woman appeared no less formidable than her clothing. Her grey eyes stared with determination at Martel, and everything from her mannerisms to her tightly bound hair implied control.

She raised her hand, which held his letter. "You are the boy, Martel."

"Yes, milady." He dropped the bag with his few belongings onto the floor.

"Mistress Juliana," she corrected him. "This letter states you have had no formal training."

There was nothing gained by denying it. "No."

"Do you know the full contents of the letter?"

"Master Ogion said he'd write it to get me tested. So I can be a weathermage like him."

"Well then. Let us see what you can do." With careful movements, she bent down to collect four objects from beneath the table, placing them on top. First, an empty glass bottle. Second, a wooden bowl containing water. Third, a candle in a holder. Last, a metal jar filled to the brim with dirt. The overseer touched the wick of the candle briefly, and a flame sprung from her fingertip to ignite it. She turned her stern eyes towards Martel and pointed at the empty glass bottle. "Move it. Using magic."

Happy to escape her heavy gaze, Martel looked at the object instead. He had no idea how to move it. He stretched out his hand, fingertips aimed at the glass, and tried to focus. He imagined the bottle moving. He frowned his brow in concentration. Absolutely nothing happened.

"Moving on," the overseer declared, and Martel exhaled suddenly, having kept his breath in. "Make the water move." She pointed at the wooden bowl.

Martel let his arm hang limp at his side, stretching out the other instead. Maybe he was left-handed, magically speaking. He felt the pressure to perform intensify. Controlling water was the prime skill for a weathermage. If he could not demonstrate any talent for this, the Lyceum had little reason to train him.

Martel's entire body tensed up as he tried to do – anything. Push his magic out, wield it like a whip, just make it do something.

After what felt like an age, he thought he saw a ripple in the water.

"The candle. Move the flame."

Slightly encouraged, Martel turned his attention towards the object in question. Fire was familiar to him. He felt the warmth of the flame despite the distance. Extending his hand, he simply willed it to come, and it did. Abandoning the candle, the tiny flicker of fire flew across the room to land in his palm. It sat, hovering above his skin without hurting him, burning without fuel.

With a smile, Martel looked up; immediately as his attention faltered, the flame disappeared, as did his happy expression.

The overseer looked at him intently. "The jar. Move the earth inside."

Biting his lip, Martel focused. He imagined reaching out with his magic like a hand, grabbing the jar. It shook. With a triumphant smile, he increased his efforts, only to watch it fall over and spill its contents.

The overseer made a few tiny gestures. The jar jumped upright, and the dirt flew back inside. "We are done."

As she returned the items to their place under the table, Martel stood with open mouth. What about all the other options? What about that strange glass ball swirling with blue fog inside it? Or that odd plant with thorns on it? Maybe if he pricked himself on it, that would show him to be a mage.

Even as Martel considered all of this, he did not dare voice anything. The stern expression upon the overseer, even when not directed at him, kept him mute. She picked up a small stone, white and smooth. She briefly closed her hands around it; when she opened her fingers, it had changed colour to blue. "Go back where you came. Show this to the clerks." She rolled the stone across the table.

Breaking from his stupor, Martel barely caught it. Turning on her heel, the overseer left.

~

Once back in the corridor, Martel held the stone so tightly, his hand cramped. Feeling discarded, disappointment flooded him. It had taken him several fivedays to reach Morcaster, walking most of the way. How was he to return back home, where they had no room for his unskilled hands? He had told them he would return a weathermage, able to protect everyone's crops and prevent anyone from ever starving again.

Returning to the entrance hall, Martel approached the desks with the robed clerks. The one in white looked up. "Look mate, you need to wait for the overseer."

"I'm done," Martel simply said, extending his hand with the blue stone in it.

The clerk stared before he picked up the pebble. His eyes flickered from the stone between his fingertips and Martel's face. "She gave you this?"

"Yes."

"Already?"

"Yes." Martel's frustration began to boil inside him. "What does it mean?"

"That Mistress Juliana made a mistake, I'm guessing."

"Why?"

"Blue means the school will pay for your training. Even though you're too old." The young man turned towards his fellow at the other desk. "Jasper, this got to be a mistake, right?"

"Do you want to tell Mistress Juliana that?" replied the green-robed clerk.

"Point taken. Get the contract, will you?" He looked up at Martel. "Looks like you're in."

Relief flood Martel. "I'm in?"

The clerk in the white robe cracked a smile. "Yes, mate. Let's get you settled." He stood up and threw the blue stone to Jasper. "He has a contract for you to sign."

The clerk in green had dug out a piece of parchment filled with letters. Catching the blue stone, he pressed it against the parchment, leaving an imprint of the same colour at the top. As Martel approached, the scribe pushed a quill and inkwell towards him. "You know how to read?"

"Of course."

"Well, to save us both the time, this is a contract between you and the Lyceum. The school will pay for your training, provide food and lodgings, and so on," the clerk rattled off. "If you fail to graduate, you'll be required to pay back the expenses. If you do graduate, you'll be bound to twenty years of service for the Empire. Paid service, of course."

Just as Master Ogion had warned him. Martel let his eyes had run over the parchment before he grabbed the quill and signed his name.

Jasper looked at the parchment. "What else are you called besides Martel?"

The newly minted novice looked at him in confusion. "Nothing?"

"Well, where are you from?"

"Uh, my town's called Engby."

"Write down 'Martel of Engby' then."

He duly did so.

"Henry will show you to your room." He waved in the direction of the white-robed clerk, who stood holding a key.

"Come along, mate."

~

They left the entrance hall, walking down a corridor. Sounds of a hammer striking anvil reached his ears; as the son of a blacksmith, Martel would recognise that noise anywhere. Belatedly, he realised the other youth was talking to him.

"Dormitory for boys is just down here. If you go back to the entrance hall, the adjoining room is the dining hall. Food is served during first, fourth, and seventh bell."

Martel thought about how they had sent messages using magic through the metal tubes in the first hall. "How do they ring the bell?"

Henry shot him a look. "With the rope." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, do you know your specialty?" Keeping a brisk pace, the scribe glanced again at the new novice. "Your particular talents? Mageknight, airmage, stonemage or what?"

"Oh, weather."

Henry nodded. "Alright, elemental stuff like most of us." He tapped his own white robe on the chest, still walking. "I'm an airmage myself. At meals, in class, you'll want to stick to us. White, green, blue, those colours. Or brown for novices like yourself, until you specialise."

They reached the end of the corridor. A large room full of furniture loomed ahead with lots of boys occupying them, wearing a variety of coloured robes as those described by Henry.

"The black tunics are mageknights," he added. A few who fitted that description sat in a ring, playing cards. "Lots of them are nobility. They keep to themselves. And if you see any in red, better keep your distance. Battlemages, they got a temper on them." He chuckled and walked inside. Martel hurried after, still taking it all in.

They ascended up a winding staircase in one corner of the common room. "This tower is where all the boys sleep. The girls got their dormitory north of here. Don't be there after last bell, or the floor watchers will make you regret it."

Martel had no such intentions.

"Here we are. I put you on my floor, where I'm the watcher. You got questions, you see me." He pointed at a door. "You need water, the common tap is over there." Another gesture. "Here, your room." Henry advanced to unlock the door marked with seven.

Standing behind, Martel looked in on a sparse cell. A small bed, strewn with hay. A tiny writing desk with a small chair. A commode with an empty bowl on top. All of it stuffed together to barely leave room for anything more.

"Your kingdom," Henry grinned, placing the big key in Martel's hands. "Tomorrow after breakfast, go meet the overseer. She'll give you your schedule. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Alright, I got to get back to my desk. Go down to the ground floor and take the north corridor. Continue ahead, you'll reach the quartermaster," Henry instructed him.

"Who's that?"

"She's in charge of supplies. Bedlinen, paper, ink, all the stuff you need. Clothes too."

"She?" Martel asked.

"Yeah, so?"

"Shouldn't she be the quartermistress then?"

Henry gave him another look. "You ask weird questions. Anyway, I've got to get back. See you later, weather boy."

The acolyte left, and Martel stepped into his room, closing the door. If he stretched out his hands, he could easily reach both walls. The bed was barely long enough for a tall youth like himself. The chair, little more than a stool, was likewise built for someone shorter, it appeared. Martel smiled. He had never had a room to himself before.

~

As sunlight waned, the Master of Elements at the Lyceum made his way up the stairs in the western part of the castle, reaching the quarters reserved for the faculty. He knocked on a door until the overseer's voice from inside bade him enter.

"Juliana," he greeted her. Unlike the student accommodations, the room was spacious, even with all its furnishings. A large bookshelf filled one wall, holding many volumes of lore. A big writing desk stood against another; an alcove hid the sleeping spot behind a curtain.

"Alastair. I have a challenge for you."

"I am all ears." He took a seat on the other chair in the room, straightening his purple robe a bit.

"A new pupil. He wishes to be a weathermage. He has skill, though no particular aptitude for water or air."

The Master of Elements stroked his black, grey-sprinkled beard. "Should be possible."

"He is already sixteen, and he has no training hitherto," Juliana added.

"If he has the gift, I will coax it out of him."

"You only have two years."

Alastair frowned. "That'll be tight. Maybe with hard work... why?"

"The headmaster would not allow for more."

"But if the problem is the boy's age, surely allowing him the full four years is all the more prudent."

The overseer's expression changed from stern to briefly sardonic. "Yes, but the headmaster’s political ambitions are better served by disdain towards students from Nordmark."

Alastair sighed. "Very well. But now I wonder why you would push for this boy to be accepted."

Juliana picked up a letter from her desk and handed it to him. "Ogion sent him to us."

Alastair's eyes ran over the missive. "Has this been confirmed? Is Ogion right?"

She nodded. "I tested the boy. It was clear as day. Do we understand each other?"

"I see. Yes. I'll teach him in private." The Master of Elements took a deep breath. "Nobody will know he is fire-touched."