A Parent's Protection

Although he only had one fiveday to base his opinion on, Malday had already become Martel's least favourite day. Two lessons with a teacher who treated him with contempt, and the opportunity to add fresh bruises to his sizeable collection. They had barely healed from the last round.

After helping with breakfast, Martel walked into the gymnasium. It was a cold morning to be outside, even for a northerner like him, and his hands felt stiff. He looked at the benches hewn in stone that surrounded the arena, wondering what events might take place to necessitate an audience.

The other novices streamed in, and Master Reynard soon followed. He gave a few brusque commands for them to resume their practices, which the children did with various degrees of delight.

Martel, who had yet to manifest a shield of any kind, did not. No matter how uncomfortable the thought of approaching his teacher, he needed help. Taking a step towards Master Reynard, he cleared his throat.

The teacher turned his head at the sound. "What is it?"

"Is there another method for learning this?" Martel asked. "I don't think trying to focus works so well for me."

Master Reynard stood for a moment, observing him while stroking his moustache. "There are some who learn to conjure the shield on instinct, protecting themselves. I suppose it can be helpful for those weaker students who cannot discipline their minds." Some of the nearby novices laughed.

"I'd like to try," Martel said, doing his best to ignore the others.

His teacher gave an ominous smile. "Very well. Fury and fear seem the best emotions to release magic on instinct. In your case, I think we shall have to contend with fear." Without further warning, Master Reynard gave Martel a powerful shove that sent him flat on his back.

As he towered over his student, the teacher raised one foot to stomp on him. Martel pushed himself away, awkwardly crawling on his back. Reynard pursued, his great boots smashing into the dirt again and again.

Finally, he caught up to Martel and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him up with one hand. Martel squirmed and wriggled to no avail. As all the novices watched, Master Reynard raised his fist and swung. Barely an inch before hitting his face, the teacher stopped.

"You certainly seemed afraid. I guess it did not prove the motivation as needed," he remarked, dropping Martel to the ground. "Focus your mind if you wish to learn. Assuming you are capable."

Getting to his feet, Martel noticed the stares and smiles that surrounded him, full of ridicule. He was tempted to march away, but he did not know if he was even allowed to leave. Regardless, he did not wish to give Master Reynard the satisfaction. As the teacher growled for his students to resume their practice, Martel retreated a few steps. He picked up a pebble and began the monotonous task of throwing it up as he focused his magic to shield himself, hoping the stone would strike a barrier and fall away. Yet every time, it landed in his hand.

~

Passing through the entrance hall, Martel decided to make his routinely check for post, and he waved at Henry behind the desk. "Any messages?"

"Let me see." The acolyte walked over to the cabinets to open one up and flick through its content. "Got something for you." He returned with a letter flapping about in his hand.

"Thanks." Martel accepted it and let his eyes run over the envelope. At the top stood his name, and below, that of his mother. He wondered who had written it for her; growing up on a lone farm, she had never learned her letters. Probably his brother, or else the priest in Engby.

He felt moved, not so much by the letter itself, but rather by the reminder of home. The house where he grew up with his father's forge. The sound of a hammer striking anvil rhythmically, audible from a distance to call him home when he had been out in the forest gathering fruits and nuts. His younger siblings playing on the floor or running through the street, screaming and laughing due to some mad scheme they had concocted.

Swallowing, Martel took the letter and went to his room. Once in solitude, he opened the message to find long rows of neat script – the priest then, not his brother.

My dearest boy,

It has only been a few fivedays since you left, but by the time this letter reaches you, you should have been at your school for some days already. Master Ogion assured me that you would be accepted, after all. You must be busy learning your trade, but write your mother back when you get the chance and tell me about it. Does it have floating beds and broomsticks that sweep themselves? Are your lessons going well? Have you made friends with the other students? You must have. You were always a sweet boy who got along well with others.

Everything is fine back home. They are repairing the old bridge, you know the one, so Keith has lots of work making tools and nails. The baker's boy has been making eyes at Mira, and she claims she does not like him, but a mother knows better. Juliet has begun working for the brewster, who says she is doing very well. William is causing trouble like always. I had hoped to get him an apprenticeship with the tailor, but we all knew that getting William to sit still long enough to sew a single button was a fool's errand. For the first fiveday you were gone, John asked every day where you were. He has started to learn his letters, and our good priest says he understands them as quickly as you did.

Other than that, there is little to tell. A Tyrian bard came travelling through the area, and I paid him a few coins to sing the lamentation for your father. The whole town came, and everyone agreed it was very touching. Some made a fuss, of course, saying there's witchcraft in a Tyrian's song, and that was the only reason anyone cried. But we all know better. Your father was well-liked by all, and the lament was beautifully rendered. Father Julius assures me the song had no more witchcraft in it than his pig knows sorcery.

Do not forget to write me back. At least so I know you arrived safely, and that they are taking good care of you in the big city. Remember to eat well.

With love,

Your mother

As reading each name summoned countless memories, Martel blinked away his tears. He realised that he had felt homesick all this time without knowing it; all the new impressions and experiences had pushed it to the back of his mind. He imagined his dour brother by the anvil, taking his father's place. Mira and Juliet giggling together during their chores. William running around playing some imaginary game while John tried to keep up. His mother, always working. Making food, curing or pickling to preserve it for winter. Sewing or repairing clothes, or else washing them. Cleaning the house or burning some dried leaves of sage to help them fall asleep at night. Every act expressing her care for her children. And Martel was hundreds of miles away from all these little acts.

He would have to write back soon, maybe today. Thankfully, due to Master Jerome's kindness, he could afford to send his message with the Imperial post. Making himself more comfortable in his bed, he began reading the letter again.

~

Martel still felt in a strange mood when the time came for his next lesson in physical magic. Reading the letter had pushed away the thought of what awaited him; as the bell struck, the realisation hit him. Hopefully that would be the only thing hitting him, but his rising sense of dread told him otherwise.

Back in the outdoor gymnasium, Martel kept to himself while the mageknights chatted freely with each other. His earlier fear was confirmed as Master Reynard arrived, carrying a bunch of staves. "Last day with staff fighting," he said as he threw them on the ground. "Tomorrow, you will begin practising with different weapons to find those that best suit you. Marche," he added, aimed at the acolyte nearly as tall as Martel and much broader across the shoulders, "I think the war hammer for you."

While the mageknights picked up their staves and some of them discussed their choice of weapon with Master Reynard, Martel stood feeling indecisive. He could not imagine he would gain anything by this other than more bruises. But refusal would surely endanger his stay at the Lyceum, Martel feared, or other reprisals from his teacher. Having grown up with kind parents in a small town, Martel had never encountered malign authorities before; he did not know how to handle this.

"Pick it up, scarecrow," came the mocking voice from Cheval. "If you want a chance to defend yourself, however meagre it may be."

Despondent, Martel collected the staff. "Master Reynard," he called out, hoping a last appeal might work. "I'd like to be partnered with someone else."

"You will change opponents at a quarter bell," the teacher replied. "Enough talk! Get to training." He walked away demonstratively, tending to his other students.

With a smirk, Cheval raised his staff.

~

Half an hour later, Martel ached on both arms and his legs. Striking the head was forbidden, and he had been spared that, at least. Still, with his current pains, it did not feel like he had received mercy. As Cheval walked away, whistling, another mageknight took his place. The big fellow with the forearms to favour war hammers.

He cast a look at Martel. "Your grip is poor." He dropped his staff and stepped forward with such haste, a start went through Martel, who raised his staff. "Like this." The acolyte reached out and adjusted Martel's hands, moving them further apart. "You cannot keep them so close, afraid they will get hurt."

"Thanks," Martel mumbled.

"Here. I shall strike high, on your left. Prepare to block." The mageknight followed through, but with a lack of speed that allowed Martel to react. "There. Now strike back at me with your right."

Martel did so, his staff coming close until the other youth parried.

"Maximilian, what is this? Showing charity to a scarecrow?" Cheval shouted from his position.

"It is the duty of the nobility to lead their inferiors." The mageknight shrugged. "Even peasants serve their role in the Empire."

Martel sensed that he had just been insulted. In a way, it felt worse than when Cheval did, for the offence had been spoken without malice.

~

Finally released from class, Martel returned to his room. However tiny and austere, the small space between the walls felt liberating to him. The only place where he could be free from the looks and perceptions of others. His eyes fell on the letter from his mother, and he decided to write her back. The sooner she received his reply, the sooner she would be freed of her worries.

Dear mum,

Life at the Lyceum is great. I have learned all sorts of things already. My teachers are kind, and the other kids are nice. I have my own room, all to myself, with a key so I can lock it. There are no brooms that can sweep on their own, but they have water that runs by itself. No pumping is needed. I don't know yet how it works, except that there is some kind of magical symbols that push the water through the pipes. Maybe once I have learned how that works, I can create the same back home. William will never have an excuse not to wash because we will have a constant flow of water.

I'm glad everyone is doing great. It's good they're finally repairing the old bridge before someone fell through. If it gives Keith lots of work, all the better. Tell Robert he better treat Mira right, since her brother is a mage who will turn him into a newt if he misbehaves. That ought to keep him straight.

I don't imagine I'll be able to travel home for the solstice. The journey is too long. You will have to drink Juliet's first brew without me, but I look forward to tasting it when I can. Tell John that there is a library here with more books than Engby has people, and that's just on the first floor. I haven't seen the other floors yet, so I don't even know how many books there are in total. Maybe if he keeps practising with Father Julius, he can become a librarian like they have here, and he'll have his own library to look after. I think that would suit him.

I'm sorry that I missed the lament for father. I'm sure it was beautiful. I'm earning a few pennies here doing some work at the school. I don't think any of the bards down here know the laments we have up north, but I'll leave an offering at the temple. It's so big, mum. The temple in Morcaster is like a mountain, and so beautiful. I'm sure a gift there will be a fitting honour to father's memory.

Martel

The novice placed the quill back in its inkwell, careful not to disturb the parchment. It would need some time to dry. He moved from his stool to his bed, leaning back. He had an hour or so before supper; his body, with all four limbs aching from bruises, suggested he slept until then.

But while his body craved rest, his mind remained restless. In his letter, he had given the pretence that one day, he would return to Engby as a mage. As it currently stood, that felt doubtful. He had seen the other novices this morning, some as young as ten, conjure the shield with ease. Why did it elude him so? Was he too old, as he knew the other students thought?

He reached into his pocket, extracting a pebble. He had picked it up at the gymnasium, intending to keep training later. By now, he almost despised the exercise. Throwing the stone into the air, watching it land on his hand without the slightest hint of being rebuffed.

Sitting up in his bed, Martel was still trying to convince himself to start practising when his eyes fell on his quill. He considered that perhaps the fault did not lie in him, but the exercise. He knew from yesterday's conversation with Master Alastair that he possessed magic; it just lay dormant in him. Maybe a stone fell too swiftly for him to influence yet, but a quill made from a goose feather was another matter.

He grabbed the feather pen and held it high in the air. Releasing it, the quill began floating downwards. He placed his hand underneath and did his best to imagine a physical shield protecting him, creating a barrier. The feather, ignoring his attempts, swayed down to land in his palm.

Another adjustment. Focusing did nothing for him, but nor did fear help him to protect himself during Master Reynard's assault. He needed a different emotion. Martel thought back to his father's workshop when he was a child. Helping out by manning the bellows while his father worked. To shield Martel from the terrible heat of the furnace, his father had carved a hole through a great stone and led the shaft of the bellow through it; in this manner, Martel could stand on one side of the stone, fanning the flames of the furnace on the other. Protected by not only the stone, but his father's ingenuity and care.

Releasing the feather, Martel closed his eyes and conjured up the memory. The sweat on his father's brow standing in front of the furnace while he himself was shielded behind the stone. Feeling safe.

As he looked, he saw the feather floating a few inches above his hand. Lightweight, it did not possess the force to push through the invisible barrier erected by his magic, however meagre. It lasted a few moments before finally, his powers faltered, and the feather was allowed to finish its descent. Smiling, Martel repeated the exercise.