Heated Lessons

The latest fiveday of intense training with fire magic had begun to pay off for Martel. The spells invoking that element came more easily and swiftly to him now than before, even if he mainly used and practised the simple attack of a fire bolt. While hardly strong enough to kill a man – fortunately, since Martel would not wish that upon his classmates, however acrimonious their relationship – it now did far more than simply set someone's clothes on fire. He could see the hurt on the others' faces when hit by Martel's spell, or the flinch from fear of being struck, or even how they braced themselves when evasion was impossible.

Naturally, the reverse also held true. It stung bitterly whenever he got hit, which Martel used as additional motivation to become better at dodging. A pity that his magical shield did not protect against other magical effects.

"Stop," Mistress Moira commanded, interceding in the fight between Martel and William. "You flinched, boy," she barked at William. Martel stepped back, simply glad not to be the object of her ire. "Being afraid of pain will, at best, cost you valuable time in a battle. At worst, it will paralyse you. You know the remedy."

With the look of a beaten dog, the reproached acolyte hung his head and extended one hand. To Martel's surprise and subsequent alarm, he watched as his teacher filled her hand with fire and took a tight hold of William's. The boy cried out in pain before immediately clamping his mouth shut.

"Enough!" Martel called out, unable to stop himself. He did not particularly like William, but this seemed more like torment than training.

Moira released her grip and turned towards Martel. "You think the Khivans will stop if you ask them nicely? The Tyrians?" Her eyes narrowed. "You might as well learn. The others had to. Hold out your hand."

Martel hesitated. She did not have the authority to do this – did she? If he refused, how else could she punish him? It could not be worse than what she already planned to do.

"Every moment you delay, I'll keep going that much longer," she threatened.

Martel looked at the short woman with her wild, white hair. Nothing in her expression gave him reason to doubt her resolve. Finally, he held out his hand.

She grabbed it, and pain flowed through his arm. He remembered when Flora had hit him in the stomach with a ray of frost; this felt similar, like a knife tearing into his flesh, except the sensation did not quickly abate as it had back then. It continued for however long his teacher desired; Martel could not tell, his sense of time lost in the agony.

At some point, Moira released him, and he pulled his hand towards himself, cradling it. He had expected the skin to be charred black, but it looked as it always did. It felt absurd to have experienced such pain, only for it to leave no trace. He realised this also meant he had no evidence of what she had done to him, other than the testimony of others.

Martel looked around, finding no sympathy. In fact, the other students seemed to have almost enjoyed the spectacle, perhaps because they had all experienced it themselves. Or perhaps they were just all Nether-born bastards.

As for Moira, she appeared indifferent, as if she had done nothing more than swat a fly. "Back to training."

***

Even after the lesson had ended, Martel still felt shocked. He had at times been reprimanded physically, of course. Even mild-mannered Father Julius had once given him a light slap on the cheek when he had behaved impiously inside the temple back home at Engby. This felt different. Moira had not done this because Martel deserved punishment, or to make sure he paid attention or anything like that. She had inflicted pain on him, dragging it out.

He could not believe such was acceptable, but from what he had gathered, she had done this before. Probably on a regular basis towards all her students. The Lyceum not only accepted this behaviour; it might even be condoned.

Martel wanted to discuss the matter with Mistress Juliana; even if stern, she was not harsh or cruel. If Moira had crossed the line, the overseer would listen and take action. But what if she had not done anything beyond the limits of the school?

Tomorrow was Manday, which meant his one lesson with Master Alastair. He would ask him for counsel. If something could be done, no doubt his teacher would advise him to consult with the overseer. And if not, perhaps he had some advice on how to deal with a teacher who enjoyed hurting her students.

***

Still unnerved by what had happened, Martel almost forgot that he had been allowed to finish his work in the apothecary early in exchange for going to the market. Not wishing to upset Mistress Rana, especially considering she now paid him wages, Martel quickly grabbed his cloak and left for the old herbalist.

The vendor greeted him quietly. Unlike many others, this was not because of Martel's new wardrobe, he knew; the old herbalist had been apprehensive ever since Martel got attacked right down the street just for buying some herbs. It was telling that Martel had already forgotten about that encounter among all the other events he had suffered. He wondered if the peddler would even still be selling him anything if he did not come in the name of Mistress Rana.

His purchases done, Martel began the walk back to the Lyceum. It was bitterly cold; winter had truly dug its claws into Morcaster. Snow covered the rooftops and lay in dirty piles along the edges of the street. The lack of people and the partly white colour muting other hues made it easy for Martel to notice two blue-clad men following him at a distance. Inquisitors, he guessed. At least they did not interrogate or ambush him – yet. It made Martel wonder what might come next.