Desecration

"Don't lose focus. Keep it going."

In the Hall of Elements, Martel held his hand over a small whirlwind, whipping up dirt from the ground. While keeping the air flowing in circles, he tried to extract the grains of earth, forcing him to use two different kinds of magic at the same type. Master Alastair watched him intently, giving small encouragements or corrections.

Finally, Martel's control over the spell ended, and he felt himself out of breath despite standing still.

"Good. You're making progress," his teacher told him. "Take a few moments to compose yourself, and we'll go again."

The novice nodded, relaxing his shoulders and jaw. "Master Alastair, how was it to be a legionary?"

"Well, mages are not legionaries as such – we use that term for the common soldiery," the wizard explained. "As a battlemage, you have the same rank as cohort prefects. That's not what you asked, but it does mean privileges not afforded to an ordinary legionary."

"Like what?"

"You had your own tent," Master Alastair said with a wry smile. "Shared with my protector, in my case. No hard labour, watch duty, or patrols except in unusual circumstances. I may be the wrong man to ask – battlemages have few duties even compared to mageknight prefects."

"Oh, I see."

"In my cases, most of my years were spent eating food with little taste, drinking diluted wine, and occasionally doing a few demonstrations of power to keep the Tyrians on their side of the river."

"Sounds like some long years."

He nodded. "Yes. A waste of the gift that is magic, if you ask me. Speaking of, let us not waste yours. Ready to try that spell again?"

"Yes, master." Extending his hand, Martel imagined the air flowing in circles underneath until he felt the whirlwind begin to take form.

~

Since his evening was spoken for, thanks to Maximilian, Martel used his spare time in the afternoon to leave the school. He did not have a specific errand, but rather, he was curious about the upcoming harvest games. Nordmark being the other end of the Empire, he had never heard about these before, and if he was attending them with Shadi, he wanted to have a better understanding of how it would all happen. So, he walked north along the main streets towards the temple district.

As on previous visits, the stark difference to places like the copper lanes or the Khivan enclave struck him. Wide and open streets, generally clean, nestled around impressive houses. Scarcely had one guard patrol left his sight before another passed him by. He had to walk along the edges of the road, avoiding carriages and people on horseback taking up the middle. Although he felt out of place, none afforded him a second glance; his clothes, although simple, gave the impression of a cloak or scribe, and plenty of servants likewise dressed in ordinary fashion filled the street as well. As Martel approached the temple to the Sun, he also began encountering many members of the clergy.

Once again, Martel was struck by the splendour of the great sanctum devoted to worship of Sol. The countless pillars flanking the approach and the façade of the building, the elegant spires stretching towards the sky, the numerous statues carved to adorn every niche, all of it overwhelmed him. Yet he turned his attention away, towards the empty square before the temple. Already, stands were being raised, allowing for spectators to watch the games. Most of them consisted of benches, though platforms with chairs were also under construction, no doubt reserved for the highest nobility or perhaps even the Imperial family. Elsewhere, fences stood to keep ordinary people from straying onto the grounds once the games would begin.

Martel drifted around the square, taking care to avoid the workers preparing for Solday when the archery competition would begin. Just two more days. He considered entering the temple, just to see how it looked inside, but as he had no real purpose other than that, it felt disrespectful. He suddenly remembered with guilt that he had told his mother he would leave a small offering in memory of his father, yet he had never done so. He would have to correct this oversight at the next opportunity, for the games anyway. That would also give him a reason to see the temple from the inside.

As he turned around to walk home, he noticed people gathering in one corner of the square. Curious, he approached until he saw the reason for the attraction. A man stood, using a crate to rise above the heads of others. He wore ragged clothes, looking out of place. His hair and beard were long and unkempt, and he spoke with a hoarse voice. "How long will you ignore the truth because lies make your lives convenient?"

Wondering what he meant, Martel moved closer.

"You worship Sol with your lips, yet even his temple has been defiled! How can this be holy ground when marked by profane power? Even now, they prepare the grounds for further desecration!"

The novice looked around. Most of those who listen seemed to be servants, though a few nobles could be seen, and a handful of priests and nuns as well.

"The stones of this sanctum were hewn and raised by sorcery! If Man wanted to build a monument to the glory of Sol, he would do so with the sweat on his brow rather than using perverse, unnatural means!"

Martel widened his eyes as he finally understood. He glanced at the other people while trying to remain inconspicuous, just to gauge their reactions. Most people seemed to listen attentively, though he could not determine if that meant they agreed or not. Those who appeared most affected were the priests and nuns; some seemed swayed, nodding along, while others appeared angry at the preacher's words. A few from the latter category stalked away.

"The day of punishment is nigh! And when you turn to Sol for deliverance, how can you hope for salvation when your punishment is by his decree?"

Some of the priests returned, guards in tow. They pointed at the preacher with furious gestures, and the armed men pushed their way through the crowd.

Smelling trouble, Martel backed away. Nothing good would come of getting caught up in this, especially not as a spellcaster. He hurried southwards, not lingering to find out what happened next.