Friendly Secrets

By now, Martel was no stranger to waking up with anxious excitement, or perhaps excited anxiety. He had felt it on every morning of a fight night in The Broken Crown, and on the days of going to the Imperial palace. He wondered if today would also be memorable. If so, hopefully for a benign reason; considering what had happened a month ago at the last full moon, a malign reason was certainly possible.

He looked over at his drawer, where the Khivan clock happily ticked away. He had never noticed that these mechanical contraptions made a constant noise. Usually, the sounds of people moving and talking around the entrance hall masked the sounds of the astronomical watch. Luckily, growing up in a house with a single room and lots of siblings had taught Martel how to sleep even when surrounded by sounds.

The sticks on the clockface, which Shadi had told him were called hands, pointed at twenty minutes past six. She had taught him that as well, that an hour could be divided into sixty parts, each called a minute. He had never known timekeeping was so complicated. But it had its uses; it told him that it was too soon to get up and go to the dining hall for breakfast, so he might as well enjoy lying in bed a little while longer.

~

An acolyte and a novice walked to a familiar route to The Copper Drum. "What is the plan?" asked Maximilian. "Are we to spend every hour of the night scouring the streets of the dispossessed?"

"No, don't worry. You and me, we have to be easy to find in case we're needed," Martel explained. "We'll set up a post at The Drum. Kerra's people will look for signs of the maleficar. If they find any, they'll know where to fetch us."

"As good a plan as any, I suppose. At least we are posted where the ale is."

"You can't get drunk," the novice warned his friend. "We need you in condition to fight."

"Well I cannot sit dry for hours either. Besides, emptying a cask will probably be our only accomplishment tonight."

Shaking his head, Martel let the conversation slide, and they continued with few words until the tavern came in sight. Soon after, they sat by a table near the door, waiting in case anyone had need of them.

~

An hour passed. The mood at The Copper Drum was the same as always; Martel wondered if anything might ever convince people to cease carousing and gambling for one night. It felt odd, sitting at a small table, nipping at his mug, a small knot of tension in his stomach, always glancing towards the doors should one of the guards come storming in, all the while people laughed and shouted throughout the common room.

Maximilian seemed his usual self, making jests and remarking on the people in the room. Martel paid him little heed, giving distracted answers.

"Something has been on my mind," the mageknight said.

"Yeah?" From his pocket, Martel withdrew his small rune token and let it play between his fingers.

"At the Imperial celebration, you brought that lightning down. That is advanced magic," Maximilian considered. "Probably no other novice could have done that."

"Master Alastair was mad at me for doing it," Martel remarked, laughing a little.

"When the fight broke out at The Broken Crown, you made that wall of fire. That is complicated spellcraft too, I would say."

"I guess." Martel's eyes turned back on the entrance, wondering when someone might come rushing through in need of aid from a mage.

"Stars, last time we were here, you set fire to Tibert."

"Right." The novice added a bit of laughter to his reply, still looking at the doors.

"Martel, are you gifted with fire?"

As the implications of the question cut through Martel's distractions, he turned his head to find Maximilian staring at him. "Master Alastair's just been teaching me," he replied haltingly.

"I have noticed that when things are most pressed, or when you act on instinct, you always turn to fire. Which is the last skill that a weathermage would need."

Martel felt the mageknight's eyes spearing him. What could he say to deflect the truth?

"It is alright. I understand why you keep it secret," Maximilian continued. "We all hide something."

Unable to think of anything to say that would help, Martel remained silent.

"Here. I will show you." The mageknight drew his dagger and casually stabbed his fingertip.

Eyes wide, the novice stared at the bloody steel, really unsure where this was headed.

Quickly putting his finger into his mouth to remove the blood, Maximilian showed it to Martel afterwards. Where it should be nicked, where skin had been pierced to produce blood, nothing could be seen. The fingertip looked whole.

"You have done Master Kelsos' little examination? I had to exhaust myself of magic in order to fail it. It is not on purpose that I heal myself of these little scratches," Maximilian explained. "It just happens. In fact, that is how my gift of magic was discovered. I always healed rapidly from cuts and bruises, and finally, one of my tutors guessed the truth."

Martel could not hide his shock. "Max, you're a healer. You have the rarest gift of all." A bolt of jealousy struck him.

"I guess. I can do a little, anyway. It is certainly nice to know if I get wounded, I will need less bedrest," the mageknight remarked with half a smile.

Anger began to stir in Martel. His own particular talent was useless; it did nothing but endanger his ambitions by making him an enticing prey for the legions. Meanwhile, Maximilian had the most powerful gift of all, and he squandered it entirely. If Martel could heal, all his problems would be solved. "How can you just throw it away?"

Maximilian raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same of you. Why are you going to be a weathermage and not a battlemage?"

"The Empire has enough people who knows how to kill. It barely has anyone with your gift! You could accomplish so much that few others can do!"

"I have my reasons. I do not need to explain myself to you." The mageknight crossed his arms. "I would have thought someone with his own secret would understand."

"But why in Nether's name don't you want to heal?"

Maximilian exhaled. "My father, alright? He has plans for me."

"What better plans could there possibly be?"

"Look, I am the only mage in the House of Marche. My father was overjoyed when he found out. But he needs a mageknight, not anything else."

Martel emptied his mug, mostly to keep himself from shouting.

"Never mind. Your life is simple. You would not understand." Maximilian emptied his as well.

"Let's give it a try. Tell me, why would your father rather have a mageknight, so common there must be hundreds of them, instead of a healer, the rarest kind of mage that is?"

The young viscount took a deep breath. "Only a mageknight can become captain of the Praetorian Guard. And the captain of the Praetorian Guard has a seat on the High Council."

"But a healer must have lots of influence too! Doesn't the emperor have his own physician?"

"The High Council are the true masters of the land. My father lacks the influence to gain a seat by himself, but if I can become captain, I will gain one, and it will pave the way for him as well. He has spent ten years preparing for me to eventually take that position." Maximilian drummed his fingers against the table. "Nothing can get in the way."

"I guess you're right, I don't really understand. But I suppose if you keep my secret, I'll keep yours."

"Alright. Another round?" Maximilian held up his tankard.

"Yeah. We have a long night ahead of us."