His Own Choosing

Mandays had started to feel almost reassuring to Martel. Unlike the harsh training of the three previous days, or the often troublesome affairs he spent his Soldays on, Manday reminded him of when he had first started. A lesson with Master Fenrick, teaching him the lore of the continent, and a second with Master Alastair, learning elemental magic.

"Good," his teacher told him as Martel's bolt of earth struck the battlemage on the shoulder. "Still some ways to go before it really makes me quiver in my boots, but you're getting there."

"Thanks, master." Such a strange experience to train in magic with a teacher who gave him words of encouragement and treated him with respect. For a moment, his displeasure flickered across his face.

"You don't seem particularly thrilled?"

"I was just thinking about my Sindhian exercises," Martel quickly replied. "It's my next lesson with Mistress Rana. Alchemy, that is." He knew there was no point in proclaiming his woes about how the other teachers at the Lyceum conducted their lessons.

"I admire your willingness to learn beyond what you must, but perhaps you should consider letting alchemy rest," Master Alastair suggested gently. "Once in the legions, you'll rarely have time to gather supplies or spend half a day brewing potions."

Martel imagined stepping aside on the battlefield to stir his elixir. "I'm sure, but I'm not ready to give up. I really want to understand this." Abandoning his attempts at alchemy meant that Martel would only learn magic intended to fight and kill. He needed something else, practising magic with a purpose of his own choosing.

"You remind me of Master Fenrick. Which is a compliment. Always eager to learn and know more." The Master of Elements smiled. "But for now, let's focus on this lesson. When it comes to magic, distractions are dangerous."

"Yes, master." Martel took a deep breath and pulled up another lump of earth from the ground to send it flying against his teacher.

***

Mistress Rana placed the coltsfoot in Martel's hand. "Let me see."

As always, Martel closed his fingers around the herb. He did as he must have done a hundred times before, reaching out with his magic. Yet this time, something was different. He thought about Sparrow, how the grains of earth lit up and flew towards her, as if pulled the way an arrow inevitably is pulled towards the ground. He remembered as a child, how any flame would obey his will and float to him. He had done it so easily, so often, he thought of himself commanding the fire. Exerting his will, dragging it towards him. A response to force rather than sympathy or understanding.

Feeling the dormant kernel of magic inside the plant, Martel did not pull or push. He simply touched it and otherwise let it be. Taking his time, trying not to feel any pressure from Mistress Rana's presence, Martel waited. Slowly, like the tide gently moving waves up the beach only to retract them, Martel felt the magic within the herb respond. But he did not force it or let his impatience interfere. He let the power move to its own accord.

When he finally sensed no further change, he opened his hand. The herb glowed; if not as strongly as when Mistress Rana did it, then certainly a vast improvement to his previous attempts. He could not keep himself from grinning.

"Very good. Keep practising, and if you also do well during the distillation process, we'll consider a new recipe next Manday," his teacher told him.

"I'll practice every day," Martel promised. The thought of this repetitive, monotonous task no longer seemed so dreadful, now that signs of progress spurred him on. The idea of adding a new recipe to his repertoire also served as great motivation to improve. He would learn alchemy yet.

"Alright. Get to work. You know what to do."

Smiling, Martel gathered up all the ingredients for his elixir and moved to the fireplace. Once the water boiled in his pot, Martel took the reagents, one by one, and activated their magic before throwing them into the bubbling liquid.

***

Two and a half hours later, Martel finished stirring. He looked at the glowing power in the cauldron, diffused through the water. It cast an orange light onto his face. During the brewing process, he had tried to connect with it in preparation for the last step, but the boiling of the water and his own need to keep stirring made it difficult.

Practice was one thing; now came the crucial moment that would see his efforts rewarded or wasted. Mistress Rana took the pot and prepared to pour.

Martel tried once more to connect with the magic. As he nodded for her to tip the water into the awaiting bottle, he did his best to remember how it had felt before with the herbs. Instead of trying to grasp the magic, slipping like water through his fingers, he allowed it to gently rock back and forth, like a boat on the tide. Carefully and with closed eyes, he steered the boat closer and closer ashore with every wave.

He heard Mistress Rana stop pouring, putting the pot back in the fireplace. Opening his eyes, he saw her put a stopper into the bottle with its glowing contents. Not as impressive as her work, but from what he could tell, a functioning potion of warmth.

"Not bad. Not quite as effective as could be, and probably not with the same duration, but it'll still feel good on a cold day." She gave what almost looked like a smile as she handed it over to him. "Now clean up your worktable."

"Straightaway, mistress." As his fingers closed around the bottle, Martel sensed the power contained within the glass. Weaker than how its predecessors had felt, but still present.

A little while later, Martel left the laboratory with five silvers in his pocket, his wages for the fiveday, and his first elixir brewed entirely by his own hand.