The Illusion of Choice

The offer made by the Silver Serpent left a disquietude in Martel. On the surface of it, the proposition seemed ludicrous. He had no knowledge of these people nor the Western Isles. He could not place his life and future in their hands. Setting aside the question of whether he could trust them – which he was disinclined towards – Martel had no way of imagining what his life might be. Furthermore, it seemed a terribly drastic step to abandon everything he had ever known and journey to a place so foreign to him.

Though at the same time, a voice whispered to him, had he not done the same when he left Engby and set out for Morcaster? For better or worse, that choice had made him who he was now. Try as he might, Martel could not dismiss the decision placed before him by this Charles fellow.

An otherwise good night's sleep did nothing to dispel his indecision, and it followed him to class. Fortunately, his first lesson on Maldays was always simple, given that none of the other acolytes could threaten him in staff fighting; especially not while getting used to the weight of chain armour, so Martel passed the two hours parrying their feeble attacks while being distracted.

***

For his second lesson, he could not afford to be absent-minded in the same manner; the same difference in weapon skill between Martel and the other fire acolytes also applied between him and the mageknights, except in reverse. Unlike him, who trained one day out of five, they practised every single day and had done so before he even arrived at the Lyceum. One black-clad acolyte in particular seemed eager to take advantage of the opportunities in a sparring match without magic. Martel had avoided him last Malday, but now, Cheval eagerly pushed forward to take position in front of the fire acolyte. "Face me, unless you are a coward," he sneered.

Martel stared at the arrogant noble, unaffected by the infantile attempt to make him lose his composure. Martel knew he was no coward; he had faced danger plenty of times and kept a cool head. Nor did he feel the need to prove himself, least of all to Cheval. Avoiding a fight on unfavourable terms was not cowardice, but simply good strategy.

Before he could express any of these thoughts, Maximilian appeared and cast his shadow over the shorter mageknight. "No." The brief utterance carried such weight, it made Cheval immediately retreat. With the corner of his mouth curled upwards, the son of Marche turned towards Martel. "You escaped me last fiveday, Nordmark, but no more. Now show me what mettle you are made of!"

***

Between every bout, Martel retreated to the stone seats of the arena to catch his breath; after a little while, he would get up to slake his thirst in the rainwater barrel before sitting down again. Moira was not present, and Reynard did not seem to care much about what the fire acolytes did, which Martel took advantage of by resting longer than he strictly needed. He spent the time observing his friends. Maximilian fought with strength, using his hammer to force an opponent on the defensive; Eleanor favoured speed, her blade finding an opening wherever possible.

The thought of leaving them made Martel's heart suddenly ache. If he fled, he could not expect to ever see them again. The same went for his family in Nordmark; while he did not know the details of how the Silver Serpents would get him out, he doubted that it involved a return trip. If nothing else, for his own safety. He could not even be sure they would let him write a letter to his mother, explaining that he was well.

At the same time, was it much different from what he already faced? Maximilian would stay in Morcaster, becoming a praetorian. Martel would undoubtedly be sent to the Khivan front, but Eleanor might be sent to any legion in need of a mageknight. Ironically, she might even be posted in Nordmark. And while he was not bound to the legions forever, twenty years was still a long time; longer than he had been alive in this world. After such absence, would any of them recognise each other again, or still be friends? Assuming Martel even survived the war.

It seemed that no matter what, Martel stood before a journey into the unknown. Whether in service to the legions or this mercenary company, his fate would be in the hands of strangers, living in faraway lands. At least one of them promised better pay and, presumably, less risk of dying, though Martel could not be certain of the latter.

As the bell rang and the lesson ended, Martel found himself no closer to a decision.

***

Returning to his room in the evening, he noticed his notes from class lying scattered on his small writing desk. Picking them up, he sorted through the parchments to put them in order. One pile for the recipes he wrote down after his stints in the laboratory, along with remarks on the process and ingredients. Seeing what he had written for the sleep potion, Martel was reminded of others affected by his potential departure from Morcaster. Without him, Julia would be homeless, and Sparrow would be denied the prosperous life that her gift could offer, if only someone taught her how to use it.

But even if Martel rejected the offer made to him, he would still have to leave. When winter came, he would graduate from the Lyceum and leave Morcaster. Whether it happened soon or in eight months made little difference.

Putting the pile aside, Martel made another for his notes on Tyrian runes. The symbols stared back at him, reminding him of a Solday afternoon spent at the library. Another thing that would come to an end sooner or later, though he preferred it to be later. Whether it ought to influence his decision, Martel could not say, and he went to sleep as disquiet as when he woke up.