The Scent of Jasmine

Martel woke, feeling all sorts of uncomfortable. His body was too hot from sleeping in his clothes. His face felt weird and stiff with a sharp pain as a reminder when he touched his wound. Lastly, his head pounded like a blacksmith's hammer against the anvil. Changing out of his robe, he tried his best to clean the blood from his temple without causing himself too much hurt. Washing the rest of his body, he put on something clean and made his way to the dining hall in the hopes that food would relieve some of his discomfort.

~

Sustenance proved no aid. Squinting and flinching, Martel went to the apothecary. Nora was absent, so he locked himself in and set to work according to the instructions laid out for him. He worked for a miserable half hour before Mistress Rana appeared from her laboratory. She cast one look on his injured face and sighed. "Not again, boy."

"I swear, it wasn't my fault. I was delivering a letter for Master Jerome in town, and I got caught by the crowds. Someone knocked me to the ground." Martel tried to look at her straight, eyes open despite the bright light in the room. It took all his effort not to wince or otherwise admit to his unpleasant state.

She stared at him for a moment until she went and opened a cupboard. She took out a small flacon and a jar of blood salve. She handed both to him. "Get a nurse to stitch you up. Drink that for the pain, and use the balm on your wound."

"Thank you, mistress."

~

Martel had to field awkward questions from Master Alastair as well during his next lesson; predictably, he did not make any progress with his attempts on advanced elemental magic. At least the small vial from Mistress Rana went a long way to alleviate his pain. He would have to learn the recipe for that next; if not too complicated, Martel could see a lot of use for it.

Noticing the occasional stare from others accompanied by jests at his expense, Martel did not mind sitting at an empty table for the midday meal. While his feelings of grievance towards Maximilian had lessened, and in part been superseded by yesterday's events, Martel did not feel up for dealing with the mageknight's sanguine outbursts.

Yet sitting on his own, Eleanor noticed him on her way out and approached. "Are you alright? That looks unpleasant."

"Yeah, it's fine." Seeing the unspoken question on her face he continued, "I got caught in the riots yesterday."

"Same happened to Maximilian. He was in the copper lanes, doing Stars know what."

Martel was not in the mood to hear about that, but he did have one conversational topic that might distract him from his current state. He pulled out the scrap of paper, on which he had written the title of the tome in Master Fenrick's chamber. "Can you read this? It's a book."

Eleanor accepted the strip and frowned. "I should be able to. This is Archean, but that middle word… The rest says something about markings, but I've never seen that word before."

"Could it be a name?"

"That might be. If so, it means 'Markings of Phoenik' or something like that." She offered him the paper back.

"Thanks." As he accepted it, a scent reached him. "You've changed your perfume."

"What?"

"You normally smell like lilies, but today it's jasmine." Until he said it, Martel had not even been conscious that he knew this; he wondered when he had first taken notice, and if working in the apothecary had made him more sensitive. Although they did not make perfume there, scents played a part in knowing which plants were healthy enough to be used as reagents.

"Perceptive even when injured. I will see you later." She gave a little wave of her fingers and left.

~

Passing through the entrance hall on the way back to his room for further recuperation, Martel stopped as someone called out his name. It was Henry the airmage, who handled the letters going to and from the Lyceum.

"What is it? Anything for me?" Martel asked.

Henry shook his head. "Master Jerome was looking for you yesterday. Both afternoon and evening. It seemed important. He asked us to keep an eye out for you. You better go see him."

Right. In all the confusion, Martel had forgotten about his task. Might as well explain his failure and get it over with. Making a turn, Martel went to the workshop.

He found the artificer in the outer chamber, directing underlings along the strands of his great web that supplied the Lyceum with everything needed. Martel cleared his throat. "Master Jerome, I'm sorry. I didn't deliver your letter as promised." From his inner pocket, he withdrew the missive and the copper coins given to him as payment.

"Lad, there you are!" The big man, always physically imposing, looked almost childlike in his relief. "When I heard what was happening on the streets, I searched the market district for hours trying to find you. I feel awful that I sent you out there."

"But you couldn't have known," Martel pointed out, a little confused.

"Still, as a student, you are my responsibility. Especially when doing an errand for me. Oh, keep those measly coins!" He waved at the pennies in Martel's hand. "You needed them to mail a letter, right? Your mother will be glad to hear from you, no doubt. Ow, and you hit your head!"

"It's nothing. Mistress Rana gave me something."

Martel must have struck a pitiful figure, because Jerome put his arms around him in a bear hug. "You know those thugs weren't after you, right? And you are safe here."

The novice stood, feeling limp like a dead fish. Perhaps that was true, but he could not stay inside the castle forever. And between rioters on the streets and bandits kidnapping him, not to mention berserkers, Martel knew it was folly to rely on the people at the Lyceum to keep him safe. Whenever he stepped beyond these walls, only his own power might. He would have to grow that power as he could.