A Challenger Appears

Glunday morning passed quietly, Martel tending to his chores and classes as usual. Tonight was the feast at Eleanor's home, but he did not feel nervous the way he had before Maximillian's; nothing would be required of him, after all. He would show up, eat as much of their expensive food as he could, and maybe even enjoy himself in Eleanor's company, assuming she had time for him. He gathered there would be other students and mages, which on one hand made him feel less out of place; on the other, they would be mageknights and battlemages, and he did not expect much courtesy from them towards a novice aiming for the elemental arts.

Martel got dressed in his new clothing when the time came before meeting up with Maximilian. He noticed that the young nobleman wore new garments of different colours, though still with his house insignia and made from expensive fabric. "There you are," Maximilian remarked casually. "Glad you are joining us. At least tonight we can drink!"

"I was too busy eating at your family's feast to think about ale much," Martel admitted. "Probably will be tonight again."

Maximilian looked at him aghast. "Ale? Mate, we served wine from as far away as Cathai and beyond. Are you telling me that you did not taste a single drop?"

"I'm not really fond of wine," the novice mumbled.

"We will have to do something about that tonight. Lord Fontaine may not have the best wine cellar, being a legate rather than a gentleman of leisure, but I am sure we can find a decent vintage." Maximilian placed his hand over his heart. "I pledge to you that I shall sample them all to find the best for you."

Martel laughed a little, and if any annoyance from the other night still lingered, it was now gone. Soon, they entered the carriage and drove towards the celebration.

~

The estate belonging to House Fontaine appeared differently from the others in the noble district in a few ways. For one, it was smaller. More noticeably, while others had exquisitely wrought metal fences, the home of House Fontaine was surrounded by a wall, and its gate looked sturdy enough to withstand anything bar a battering ram. The home of a legate.

For now, the gate stood open, and numerous carriages entered the courtyard beyond. Martel felt out of place as they ascended the stairs to the grand main doors, but any hesitation on his part was strangled by the need to keep up with Maximilian's determined pace. Servants in fine livery on either side of the entrance inclined their heads as they walked inside.

"Maximilian of Marche and Martel of the Lyceum," the young nobleman said in response to an unspoken question from the majordomo who greeted them with bow.

"Lord Fontaine and his family are honoured by your presence," the servant replied and gestured for them to proceed.

Probably more honoured by Maximilian's presence, Martel thought. He looked around from the marble floor to the columns as they reached the painted ceiling. Impressive, though less grandiose as compared to the estate belonging to the House of Marche.

They moved from the entrance to the main hall. Hundreds of guests had already arrived, dressed as expensively as could be expected. Similarly, all manner of dishes had been brought out and dispersed. A multitude of scents tickled Martel's nose, chief among them roasted and seasoned meat.

"Come along," Maximilian told him, moving towards the wine casks. "I will find a cup of squeezed grapes to suit that dainty palate of yours."

~

The evening progressed with entertainment in between servings of food and refreshment. Martel kept to the fringe of the gathering; the nobles congregated around their host and hostess, and being of humble origin, none expected Martel to join in. At some point, Maximilian deserted him, either lured by some delicacy elsewhere or simply seeking other company.

Martel recognised a handful of students from the Lyceum like himself; every mageknight from his class was present, and Cheval sent him a glare as their eyes met. He also spotted some mages in red robes, though he did not know their names. They looked out of place with everyone else wearing festive garments, and they kept to themselves.

Feeling a little awkward on his own, Martel focused on eating. He tasted half a dozen different kinds of fruit floating in some kind of cream, somehow kept cool despite the warm evening. He wondered if magic was involved but could not see any sign of it.

"Enjoying dessert?" Eleanor's voice took him by surprise, as he was engrossed in his deliberations.

"Uh, yes, it's great. Really enjoying how cool it is, very pleasant. I was wondering how that's done," he admitted.

"The house has a cold room. Enchantments laid into the timberwork keeps it cold," she explained. "Really the only way to get through a hot summer's day."

"I bet."

"I am sorry I have not come sooner. I had to greet my father's guests."

"I understand. Plenty here to keep me occupied." He noticed that both her dress, jewellery, and hair looked different from the celebration at Maximilian's home. He wondered if she had made the opposite observation about him, and how he wore the same clothes.

"There will be some entertainment soon. Similar to at Maximilian's house. My father wastes no opportunity to let anyone know of his ties to the legions." A slight strain could be heard in her voice.

"Will you perform?" He tried to imagine Eleanor fighting in her dress.

"My mother is against it – it does not seem ladylike to her," the young noblewoman explained. "Not sure what she thinks I will be doing once I join the legions and go to the front."

"Out of sight, out of mind."

"Maybe." A hush fell over the crowd as Lord Fontaine entered the middle of the hall, raising his arms. "Ah, it begins," Eleanor whispered. "Battlemages first, I suspect."

~

Four young wizards in red robes stepped into the centre. Most of the guests retreated to the upper floor, where balconies allowed them to watch the spectacle; the rest, like Martel and Eleanor, pressed backwards to the end of the hall.

The battlemages began. One sent pillars of fire from his hands into the air. Another made a circular motion, and a flaming ring appeared in the air, slowly moving until it merged with the pillar to create the holy symbol of the Sun.

The third and fourth traded magical blows, sending fiery bolts against each other. Neither did anything to evade, and the bursts exploded into countless sparks upon contact with their target.

It looked highly dangerous, and even some of the mageknights looked suitably impressed at the display of skill and control over fire. Martel knew better, thanks to his own abilities. He could sense the heat, or rather lack thereof. The fire bolts were little more than magelight, creating bright flashes but hardly posing a threat to anyone.

"I have never seen the battlemages train," Eleanor revealed. "At the school. It is hard to imagine they are only acolytes with how well they control fire."

"They're pretty good," Martel remarked. In truth, he suspected that he might have the same level of control as they did, simply by virtue of his innate gift. The main difference lay in their endurance. Summoning flames to such an extent as they did would have left Martel exhausted immediately, yet they continued to perform.

"I am glad I never have to face this on the field," she admitted as her father returned to the centre, signalling the end. While others prepared to perform, the battlemages bowed and moved away.

"You would be fine," Martel told her. "Not like any of these flames could have done anything to you if you wore armour."

"What did you say?" An incredulous voice interrupted their conversation. One of the battlemages stared at him. "Are you insulting me?"

"No," Martel replied confused. "Just pointing out you took it easy on each other."

The acolyte's face turned as red as her robe. "How dare a fop like you judge my magic!"

"Peace," Eleanor interjected. "He meant no slight."

The battlemage ran her eyes over Martel. "He caused it nonetheless. I'll not have some prancing peacock cast aspersions on my skills!"

"Look, I'm sure you're very good," Martel said. "It only makes sense that you'd restrain yourself when merely providing entertainment."

As her eyes narrowed, Martel understood his words had only dug the hole deeper. "Who the blazes are you to judge that?" The battlemage's hands began to glow red.

"Is there an issue here?" A deep voice broke through their squabbling. Marching with precise steps, their host appeared. At the legate's arrival, Eleanor immediately lowered her head a little, and even the battlemage seemed to hesitate.

"This hexed fool claims my magic is inferior," the battlemage sneered.

"I didn't!" Martel objected.

"Eleanor, this is your friend, the mage you study with?"

"Yes, father."

The legate studied Martel, who felt uncomfortable under his gaze. "A bold claim. I have seen and heard of your prowess from my daughter, even if you are but a novice. I should like to see your claim tested."

"Father!" Eleanor protested.

"A novice?" spluttered the battlemage.

"A sparring match to provide a spectacle for my guests. That seems only fair now that you have caused a disturbance at my celebration," Lord Richard continued. He spoke with a commanding voice, clearly accustomed to being obeyed. Even Eleanor simply looked away.

The red-robed wizard, on the other hand, seemed only too eager to match herself against a novice. "With pleasure."

"But we have already seen fire against fire. We can provide better," the legate mused. "After all, every battlemage fights with a protector by their side. Do we have any willing mageknights to join this demonstration of skill?"

"I would be happy to," Cheval declared with a broad grin.

Of course. Martel groaned.

"Then I will stand with our challenger," Maximilian proclaimed, stepping forth. Martel breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he was safe. Or so he thought.

"Not so fast. This boy is my daughter's guest and her responsibility," Richard considered. "Let her stand as his protector. Using only your weapons and magic at hand. This will be a proper test of skill, requiring swift and decisive thinking."

Martel looked at Eleanor in her dress, unarmed; in comparison, Cheval had a long dagger by his side. It seemed like Lord Fontaine had stacked the odds against his own daughter, which Martel could not understand. Regardless, he did not see any way to get out of this without suffering humiliation. Everyone at the feast stared at him. And as the legate had pointed out, or certainly ensured that this would be the view, Martel's actions would reflect on Eleanor. He took a deep breath. "I'm ready."