The Gifts of Friendship

Summer might have arrived with the promise of celebrations throughout the city, but Martel still had his ordinary schedule to get through. That meant two hours working for Master Jerome on Soldays. His tasks had started to become more interesting, though.

Because of his work for Mistress Rana, Martel had been entrusted to help making ink. The process resembled what he had learned to do in the apothecary, preparing ingredients and adding them step by step. Gallnuts, sap, vitriol, and water mixed together and boiled at intervals to eventually become ink. He even enjoyed it more than his work in the apothecary, where he mostly just prepared the raw ingredients. Here, he was part of the whole process, watching the finished product slowly take form.

When Martel had finished his two hours, the artificer approached him. He stood with his hands behind his back, observing the fruit of Martel's labours. "Looks good. I will finish this up, and we will have some new ink. By the way, I have something for you."

Martel got up from his workstation in the small laboratory attached to the workshop. "What is it?"

Jerome revealed one hand, extending it towards Martel. "I know you are far from home, and it could be a very long time before you see your family. So I thought you should have a solstice gift."

With wide eyes, the novice accepted Jerome's offering. It was a small knife, completely new. It had a little pommel with a lightning symbol engraved, and it rested in a brown leather sheath. Grabbing the hilt, Martel drew the knife to reveal a shiny blade. "It looks beautiful!"

"There is no magic in it, mind you, other than good craftsmanship," the artificer laughed. Martel did not doubt the skill of the work; a magnificent piece like this would cost at least thirty silvers at market, he reckoned. "You helped tan the leather for the sheath and hilt, so some of that craftsmanship is yours. But, you need a proper belt you can tie it to."

Returning the dagger to the sheath, Martel noticed it had a leather strap for that purpose. But before he could use it, Jerome revealed the gift in his other hand. A belt in black leather filled the boy's vision. The buckle had a prong shaped like a lightning bolt.

"I know being a weathermage is more about rain and wind, but this was easier to make a symbol from," Jerome admitted with a wry smile, tapping his finger against the buckle.

Martel could not recall receiving gifts so beautiful or well-made before. He felt an inclination to embrace Master Jerome, but that might be awkward, so he put the knife aside and squeezed the artificer's hand with both of his own. "Thank you. Those are the best gifts I ever received."

Jerome laughed. "My pleasure! Now put it on and get going. You don't want to be late for next bell."

~

With his new belt around his waist, knife hanging by the side, Martel felt a foot taller. He did not even mind if people stared at him. Not that many did anymore; the site of the tall, lanky adolescent in a novice's brown robe had long since ceased to be a novelty. But if any did, Martel was not troubled by it one whit.

"Nice belt." Nora glanced at him quickly before she resumed her work grinding seeds to a powder. "Bought it at the festival?"

"Thanks!" Martel beamed. "No, it was a gift."

"Well, someone has rich friends."

"No, just someone good with his hands."

"That's all well and good, but we have lots to do. Whenever there's a faire or festival in town, people get drunk. And that means more brawls and more accidents. The infirmary will be busy," Nora told him, "and they'll need skin and blood salves. You have a lot of strangleroot to prepare." She pointed towards a worktable with a large pile of herbs.

Martel went to work. "It's good of the school to have the infirmary, helping people who can't afford a healer."

"Going to the infirmary will still cost you a pretty penny," Nora explained. "I think the Lyceum makes quite a decent income from running the hospital. Still cheaper than magical healing, of course." She glanced at his brown robe. "You haven't done your month in the infirmary yet?"

"My month? No, what is that?"

"Every novice spends a month working as different things, to check their aptitude before they are given a specialisation. How long have you been here at the school?"

Martel quickly considered her question. He had arrived deep in winter, and now summer solstice was at hand. "About half a year."

She nodded. "You should soon be starting your tour then. And novices always start at the infirmary, because if someone has the skill to be a healer, they won't let you train as anything else." Nora grinned. "Healers are far too rare to waste on anything else."

Lining up the strangleroot before its impending massacre, Martel's imagination began to wander. He had never witnessed magical healing or even seen a healer before coming to the Lyceum. Even then, he had only watched Master Kelsos from afar, and Martel knew nothing of his capabilities.

But he could not imagine a greater power than the ability to heal the sick and wounded. He thought about his father, dying from a small but infected wound. Being constantly reminded of that for a full month, working in the infirmary, was going to be an ordeal; but if at the end of it, Martel was revealed to have the gift for healing, it would be more than worth it.

~

"Martel, my good friend, I am pleased to see you." Maximilian sat down with his own lunch.

Martel frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"I am glad you asked. I am having trouble finding a battlemage for my father's feast tomorrow."

The novice regarded the acolyte with eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Did you ask any?"

"I considered it, but I did not wish to deal with any of those prickly bastards. And I realised there was no need when my dear friend Martel is such an apt hand with fire."

Martel felt like a snare had been set for him. "I'm really not. I'm practising water, earth, air. Everything but fire. And I'm positively lousy with empowerment."

"Nonsense! I have seen you summon flames brighter than Master Fenrick's balding forehead in the moonlight. I just need you to bring a bit of that. Really, what any decent novice can conjure up. Make it look sparkly and put on a good show. In particular, make me look good."

"But I know nothing about being a battlemage! And my fire's not really hot enough to properly injure someone." Martel started to feel anxious; revealing his skills with fire in front of a crowd of nobility was exactly what Master Alastair had warned him against.

"All the better," Maximilian argued. "I do not want you to actually try to hurt me. Just shoot some harmless flames at me that I can look brave defying. The brighter, the better. These people know nothing about magic anyway."

"I really don't feel comfortable," Martel mumbled.

"Come on, mate. We have barely spent time together this past month. You are always studying. You cannot spend one evening helping out your friend Maximilian?"

"I just think you should find an actual battlemage. Like your father wanted."

The mageknight leaned back a bit, crossing his arms. "You leave me no choice. Martel, I have twice risked my life on your behalf, and now I ask for one small favour. Three to four hours of your time, with a lot better food than what is on offer here." He uncrossed his arms again to prod a boiled carrot on his plate with his fork.

Martel felt the snare close in around his throat. "Fine. I'll do it."