A Cold Touch

Martel woke refreshed after a solid night's sleep, feeling good about himself. He had witnessed an injustice and used his power to correct it. Even his weak skills in magic had been enough to handle that thug and scare him off. He could only dream of what he might accomplish once his powers grew further.

In the apothecary, only Nora was present like yesterday. She greeted him and gave him some quick instructions on his work for the bell.

"Hey, I have a question for you," Martel said as he picked and dried the seeds from bellthorns.

"Yes?"

"You make that salve for bruises, which the mageknights use. Is that a complicated bit of alchemy?"

Nora laughed. "Not at all, it's an apothecary remedy. Just a few simple ingredients. Think you can probably get them all cheap at the market. Mash them together, add a bit of time, and you got yourself a nice, thick paste. We wouldn't sell it for seventeen pieces a jar if it required more."

"Right, that makes sense." Martel hesitated. "Could you show me how to make it?"

"I'm not sure Mistress Rana wants me teaching you anything other than what she says. Plus, we are not allowed to use any of the ingredients here for our own purpose."

"There can't be any harm in me learning something so simple, right? What if I buy all the ingredients? You said I could get them from the market." Martel felt a little uncomfortable pressing her, but the thought of learning something so useful ignited him. Besides helping people, if he could make and sell this ointment for seventeen silvers a jar to mageknights and others with money, he would not have need of other work.

"I'm not sure. Mistress Rana doesn't just let us make these things. She doesn't want us running our own little apothecary, making our own stuff and selling it around. Someone might get hurt, and it's against the rules of the Apothecary Guild." Nora chewed on her lip.

Martel's dream of becoming a rich apothecary at school died as quickly as it had been born. But he could still use more of the salve; he had emptied the small jar yesterday, and he knew not all of the children had been present. "What if I bring you the ingredients? Could you make it for me? I can't afford seventeen silver pieces, but I have some friends that have need of it."

Nora stood, wavering. "I suppose this one time wouldn't hurt. But I can't promise it will be as good as Mistress Rana's. I have only made it a handful of times."

"My friends aren't picky. You should see them eat." Martel smiled.

"I'll make you a list of the ingredients then."

~

Martel arrived for his lesson in elemental magic in high spirits. Besides his success in helping Weasel and his friends, he had something to show Master Alastair.

"Martel, come in." His teacher stood waiting for him in the Hall of Elements. "How is your progress?"

"I think I have made some. Let me try." Martel thought back on last night, how he felt, and how the need to act had spurred his magic. He stomped his foot against the dirt floor. One yard ahead, a small mound of earth shot up. It was smaller than yesterday, but it held. Even as Martel stopped focusing on it, it remained stable.

"Very good!" Master Alastair slapped his hand onto Martel's shoulder, and the novice glowed with pride. "We will practice for a while longer with earth, but you may soon be ready to take on air. Though I'm curious about one thing."

Martel looked at him questioningly.

"This does not resemble any of the exercises I showed you," Master Alastair pointed out with a wry smile. "How did you learn this?"

"I'm sorry, master, I have been doing all of them, I swear."

His teacher raised his hand in a calming gesture. "All that matters is that you learn. I am only curious how you did learn."

Martel hesitated a little. "I saw Master Fenrick do something like this at the ruins of Archen, only much better, of course. And out in the city, when someone came running at me, I just reacted as Master Fenrick did."

Master Alastair's scowled briefly at the mention of the name before his expression cleared. "Well, at least you gained something from that ill-fated trip. And given your nature, our shared nature, I can see why emotions might help to release your magic in certain situations."

"So wouldn't it be easier for me to learn in that way?"

"If no other method seemed to work, it might be required. But it cannot teach you how to reliably summon and control your magic every time you need it. And especially for mages like us, control is everything."

Martel thought back on the fight in the basement against the Tyrian berserker and his henchmen. He had been able to summon a stream of fire against the first bandit, but not the second. Master Alastair's words held some wisdom, he had to admit.

"This does remind me, I forgot to ask. Did you ever learn your star sign?"

"Oh, I did. I was born under Glund."

"Ah, I see. I'm a man of Malac myself." Alastair smiled.

"Does it make a big difference for our magic? How the stars shine and all."

His teacher shrugged. "Perhaps it does to those who are new to magic, or whose power is volatile and susceptible to influence and fluctuations. But that is why we learn control. To set ourselves above."

~

Once his tasks and lessons were done, Martel went to market. He had Nora's list of ingredients for the salve and his few remaining coins in his pocket. Normalcy had returned to Morcaster for now, and he saw no signs of unrest. Trade had resumed, and the vendors were eager to make up for lost days of sale.

Making his way through his list, Martel noticed something new. Here and there, he caught glimpses of children observing him. Of course, there had always been lots of children at the marketplace, but he had never paid them much attention before. Now he was much more aware. And he saw them watching or even following him around, from a distance. He wondered if they were part of Weasel's crew, or if word had spread. After all, Morcaster had lots of children in need.

He had nearly finished his purchases when a beggar approached. "Pennies for the poor," cried the man, wearing rags and with one eye covered. "Spare a copper for an old and broken soldier, unable to serve his emperor anymore."

"Sorry," Martel mumbled, "I got no money left." It was even true; he needed his last few pennies to finish his list.

"No harm, good master, no harm. Sol bless you." The beggar extended his hands and took hold of Martel's.

A shock ran through the novice. It felt like death itself had grabbed his hand as an icy chill pressed against his skin. He staggered backwards and quickly walked away.

Left behind, the beggar looked down at the gold coin hidden in the palm of his hand.