A Balm for the Mind

For the first time since his arrival, Martel went to his class in elemental magic with confidence. As novices streamed past him, their own lesson finished, he did not mind their glances or giggling remarks. Walking inside, he found Alastair returning the hall to its normal state. Earth became smooth, water filtered out from the dirt and stones and back to the channel, and the lamps on the walls were reignited.

"You're here on the bell," the master remarked.

"I did it," Martel told him excitedly.

Master Alastair's expression turned to a smile. "Show me."

One foot on either side of the circular channel, Martel stared down at the water. From it, drops began to rise into the air. One after the other until his focus broke and they fell back down.

The teacher slapped his hands together. "Well done, boy!"

"Thank you, master," Martel replied, feeling pride wash over him.

"The exercises worked."

Martel hesitated to explain, as it might sound like criticism of his teacher's methods, but his desire to be truthful won out. "I don't quite know how it worked, to be honest. It was the other night, I stood by my window and watched the stars. And somehow, I just felt like a door opening inside of me, and magic flowed through."

The Master of Elements watched him with a scrutinising gaze that Martel could not dissect. "If that's what was needed, I'm glad. Now the real work begins."

"I can't wait, master."

"But first, there's something I must explain to you."

"Yes?"

"Once you've unlocked your powers properly, you'll begin to use magic for much longer periods of time," Master Alastair began to explain. "You will find that doing so tires you out."

"Tires me? Like, if I have been running?"

The master smiled. "Something of the sort. Using magic drains strength from your body. You will eventually become exhausted and require rest."

"So using magic is like physical labour?"

"Similar to it, yes. Usually, Master Fenrick would inform you of this in your lessons on magical theory, but since you’re taking classes out of order, I thought it best to inform you now."

"So if I get tired from doing magic, I should rest?" That seemed simple enough.

"In a nutshell. Mages tend to push themselves beyond their limits, even to the point where they might lose consciousness," Master Alastair warned. "You should never risk that. Some of the cautionary tales even mention wizards that exerted themselves to such a degree, it killed them."

"I'll be careful," Martel promised. He could not imagine ever needing to push himself like that.

"Good." The master smiled. "Let us begin honing your skills."

~

Once Martel had finished helping with lunch, he had a free bell before his second lesson. He went to the western courtyard to take advantage of its cold solitude. The frost between the blades of grass gave him all the water he needed to practise his newfound skills; while Master Alastair's warning remained in memory, he did not feel tired at all, and he relished the opportunity to sharpen his abilities.

Seated by the statue of Atreus, fast becoming one of his favourite spots, Martel reached out to feel the moisture surrounding him. He imagined this was how the spider felt in the web, with countless strands stretching out. Martel called to the water, doing his best to gather it all. There was little response, but his efforts did not go unheeded; some drops, apparently more willing than their brethren, stumbled over grass and leaf to gather in a tiny pool before where Martel sat.

"Look at the half-blood! Thirsty?" Cheval's mocking voice rang out.

Raising his eyes, Martel saw his tormentor stalking across the yard. His two friends from class followed. Maximilian, the broad-shouldered one, and the other still unknown to Martel. While they set a course that led across the open space and back inside, Cheval moved towards the novice.

"Playing with water, scarecrow?"

Martel bit his lip to keep quiet. One against three, all of them years ahead of him, would not work out in his favour.

"You’re playing a good scarecrow, being mute," Cheval jeered, towering over him.

Clenching his fists, Martel felt a fire begin to burn inside of him.

"Come on, Guillaume," Maximilian said impatiently. "It is colder than the Nether out here. Leave the boy be."

"Yeah, you have a whole lesson tomorrow to put the peasant in his place," the third boy interjected.

"True enough," said the young nobleman. "You and I will have lots and lots of lessons together, is that not so, scarecrow?"

Martel's hands felt hot. Like the flame stood ready to burst out. As Cheval's laughter spread across the clearing, the novice took deep breaths. Finally, the mocking voice became lower as the mageknight walked away, following his companions inside.

~

After his second lesson, Martel had lost his appetite for practising in the courtyard. Instead, he went to the astronomy tower, though not to work on his chart; he had no stomach either for another encounter with Eleanor. Rather, he went all the way to the top. Up here, above the noise and smells of the city, he finally felt free to breathe again. Only the lonely cry of a seagull disturbed him.

He looked up as dusk arrived, slowly pulling the curtain of stars over the sky. Martel still did not know what had happened; how their light had helped him with his magic. He had so much to learn. He understood that in the grand scheme of things, the other students did not matter. Only attaining his silver wand as a weather mage. Far above him, the star Glund blinked.

~

After supper, Martel retired to his room. He would practise in the safety of his own chamber, avoiding any disturbance. Already, he felt that he had improved. He could do more than simply affect the water; it moved as he wanted, albeit unsteadily and only in small amounts. His range was also far too limited for someone meant to call rain down from the sky in times of drought.

A knock interrupted him. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Martel got up and pulled his door open. His mouth fell down a little in surprise, seeing Eleanor outside.

"Oh good, I found you." She stood, shifting her weight from leg to leg as if nervous. "We mageknights use this for bruises and such." She extended her hand, which held a jar. "If you empty it, the apothecary would like the jar back. In the infirmary."

Martel accepted the proffered item, looking from Eleanor down to his hand. "Thanks," he mumbled, still taken aback.

"My pleasure." Still looking uneasy, she turned away. "Goodnight."

It took Martel a moment to remember his manners. "Goodnight," he muttered, barely possible for her to hear as she was already at the stairs.

Stepping back to close and lock his door, Martel smelled the contents of the jar. It had a strange odour, unfamiliar to him. He considered briefly if this was some kind of trickery, but dismissed the thought. While he found it strange that Eleanor would show him any courtesy, she seemed the sort to speak her mind rather than resort to underhanded ways if she meant to harm him.

Cautiously, Martel dug out some of the ointment and spread it across his miscoloured arm. It took a few moments before a cooling sensation set in and the ache lessened. Satisfied, Martel proceeded to apply the balm elsewhere on his limbs where needed. Sitting down on his bed, he placed the jar on his commode before leaning back to enjoy the relief. It only occurred to him later that such medicine would have to be costly, and quite possibly, Eleanor had paid for it with her own coin.