On the Nature of Authority

His evening out with Maximilian and Eleanor did much to uplift Martel’s spirit, as intended. He had faced dangers before and come out stronger for it, and the company of his closest friends did much to chase away the gloom of recent events. Along with the knowledge that his attackers had been slain, Martel felt fine.

His only trouble came at night; his body no longer overwhelmed by the need for rest and recuperation apparently gave room for his mind to fill the nocturnal hours with unpleasant dreams. A golden blade stained by red appeared more than once, and Martel felt tired when the morning bell rang to wake him. His wounds and the large bandage around his torso served as reminders as well, aching at times and making his movements uncomfortable.

All minor inconveniences that he would have to set aside. Being released from the infirmary and having declared himself healthy enough to even venture outside the school, Martel received no further reprieve from his classes. Today was an ordinary school day for him. Fortunately, it was Manday, his preferred day. He had only missed combat training and fire practice; at least the assassin had timed his attack well. And since today offered the last lesson on Tyrian runes before the examination tomorrow, Martel would probably have dragged himself from the infirmary to class, even if still injured.

As their teacher entered and looked at his students sitting by the desks, Master Fenrick did pause to stare at Martel for a short while before moving on. "Tomorrow, you will all demonstrate your skill with the runes." Reactions seemed mixed, mostly uncomfortable or indifferent; only Martel and Eleanor appeared confident. "I hope you all followed my advice from last fiveday and spent time discovering which rune seems most attuned to your magical gift. Armed with that knowledge, and combined with our understanding of the Tyrian tradition, you should be able to activate the symbol. You see, you must stop thinking like an Asterian mage and think as the northerners do when it comes to magic."

Martel straightened up a bit in his seat, paying extra attention.

"You are used to thinking of magic as a force within you that you project outwards. But to Tyrians, magic rests as much in words, including one written down. Therefore, think of this spell as your magic meeting that of the rune. You are not enforcing your magic upon an inanimate object. Instead, the rune is as much part of your magical self as your finger or foot. So when you cast the spell, you are not imposing your magic on something else," Master Fenrick explained. "You are simply reconnecting what should already be connected."

Couched in other words, but more or less what Martel had figured out already. He exchanged looks with Eleanor. This would have saved a lot of trouble and time if Master Fenrick had explained this in the first lesson rather than the last. He wondered if this served any purpose, or the Master of Lore simply enjoyed making his students waste time.

"I want you all to start over, in a sense. Put aside your notes. Draw your preferred rune anew, bearing in mind what I just told you."

A little annoyed, but not enough to start an argument, Martel began making the rune of warmth.

***

As class ended, Martel glanced towards Maximilian. He felt a pang of guilt for not helping his friend with this particular class, especially since he and Eleanor had dedicated a bell every Solday towards learning it. Though Eleanor had not invited Maximilian either, so at least they could share the blame. And perhaps it was not too late.

"Max, would you like help with this? I think I figured it out, and I could probably help you with it."

"I fear that would be a waste of both your time and mine," the mageknight replied, unperturbed. "I doubt the praetorians have great need for barbarian scribbles. It would clash with the decor at the Imperial palace. See you at lunch, old boy." Maximilian trotted off, leaving Martel feeling assuaged of his guilt.

***

Entering the Hall of Elements and seeing the look on Master Alastair's face, Martel suspected another conversation about to happen, which probably would not be resolved as easily as the one with Maximilian.

"Martel, I heard you defied Mistress Juliana."

Using Martel's name – he was mad, the acolyte sensed. But he would not apologise or concede to any wrongdoing, even if it meant an argument. "I did."

"That was some manner of criminal gang that assaulted you. And you have been in trouble before. The berserker, catching a disease from spending time in the copper lanes… We allow our students some leeway, but when taken too far, we also expect those students to obey our authority."

No doubt they did, but besides magic, the Lyceum had taught Martel a lesson concerning that. Authority required either leverage or consent, and the Lyceum had neither with him. "I have also saved a hedge mage from being murdered and brought cures for that same disease to street children, who otherwise would have no hope of finding any."

"It is also for your own protection," Master Alastair stressed.

"Keeping me alive until I am no longer the Lyceum's responsibility, only for a Khivan bullet to find me."

His teacher looked hurt, and Martel regretted his words; perhaps they had sounded harsher than intended. "I tried to avoid that fate for you. I told you to hide your particular gift."

Martel nodded a little, wanting to smooth things over again. "I know. I don't blame you, Master Alastair. Everything has been my choice. Including leaving the castle despite these roaming assassins, coming all the way from the Western Isles just for me."

His jest made a sad smile appear on his teacher's face for a moment. "I don't know. Master Ogion sent you to me because he thought another fire-touched would understand you best, but maybe he sealed your fate in doing so."

"Speculating about it won't change anything. If I'm going to war, I might as well be prepared. How about we stop chattering and begin practising spellwork?" Martel suggested, curling his mouth upwards.

"Well, you've learned to sound like me." Master Alastair took a deep breath. "Let's practise that counterspell."

***

As the only one of his teachers, Mistress Rana did not show any sign that she even knew about what had happened to Martel. It could be because her attention lay on the clock in his hands, and a scowl threatened to break out on her face. "You have brought it back."

Placing it on the table to free up his arms, Martel afterwards waived his notes around. "I know how long it takes between each step of the fortitude recipe, but I still need the watch to tell me how much time has actually passed."

She gave a sigh. "Very well. Get to it."

Three hours later, in part thanks to his clock, Martel correctly brewed an elixir of fortitude for the first time.