The Consumption of Desires

Manday saw the resumption of Martel's efforts in learning how to enchant fire pots. He made little progress, if any, but it did not trouble him; learning Sindhian alchemy and Tyrian runes had been slow as well, and this time, he was practising the kind of magic that came most naturally to him. Sometimes too naturally; quite often, the liquid caught on fire before he could seal it away. Had his robes not been fire-proof, Martel would have left the workshops in his shirt and trousers.

***

The obvious place to ask for help was with Master Alastair, but as Martel entered the Hall of Elements, his mind was not on enchantment, but on lessons from previous days. Specifically, fighting with golden weapons. Not that he had any intention of going up against other spellcasters, but the return of the maleficar made Martel consider that perhaps owning such a weapon would be best. And since one had been in his possession recently, he knew where to find one; furthermore, he felt it only right that the blade be restored to him.

"Master Alastair, before we begin, there's something on my mind."

"What is it?"

"The day I was attacked, I took a gold-edged dagger from the assailant. Last I remember, I believe I saw it in your hand, though the events of the day are blurry in my mind."

His teacher nodded. "Correct. I took possession of the blade. The Lyceum has a small armoury of these weapons, to which it has been added. We use them for training acolytes against such blades."

Martel was aware; since he had not seen that particular dagger during training, it seemed that the school had enough for its purpose. "Could it be returned to me? I would say I won that on fair terms. I could even argue that it cost me quite some pain and difficulty."

Master Alistair narrowed his eyes. "And why exactly do you feel the need to have it returned?"

Martel tried to give his most casual shrug. "No particular reason other than what I said. I took that weapon from my attacker. It's mine, as spoils of war."

"You may be joining the legions, but that doesn't make you a mercenary," the Master of Elements said sternly. "And considering the danger such a weapon poses, the Lyceum has no interest in seeing golden blades disseminated among the students. Furthermore, knowing your propensity for getting into trouble, along with, might I add, your reckless behaviour, I cannot in good conscience hand it over to you."

Martel opened his mouth to argue further, but a gesture from his teacher silenced him.

"No more. This bell is to train you in elemental spells, not bicker back and forth. Get ready!" Without further warning, a bolt of water flew straight at Martel, traversing the handful of yards between master and student.

Reacting on instinct, a shield of fire appeared in front of the acolyte, absorbing the attack.

Master Alistair nodded in approval. "Again!"

Martel deflected another attack. By the bell's end, he felt his spellpower drained, along with his mind; he only remembered to ask about help with enchantment long after he had left the Hall of Elements. Well, he could do so next Manday; no harm in trying a few more lessons on his own. For now, alchemy awaited him.

***

Martel walked to his next appointment with a spring in his step, despite his weariness; thanks to using the Khivan clock, he had cracked the obstacle posed by the elixir of fortitude, and a new recipe ought to be his soon. Given how useful other potions had proven to be, such as the sleeping draught, he was curious to know what came next. Mistress Rana had not given him any list of ingredients to memorise as usual.

Appearing in the laboratory, he saw the reagents laid out on the table as on previous occasions. His teacher looked up at him. "You recognise them all?"

Martel did, indicating this with a nod. Different herbs and what looked to be the claws of a cat; as they had not been ground into powder, he guessed that they would simply be boiled along with the liquid, much like bones for soup.

"This is for a simple potion that you might remember, even if you did not help in the final process. You helped prepare it for me one tiresome afternoon."

Martel frowned, not recognising what she referred to, and he felt a little bewildered, as Mistress Rana rarely acted coy in this manner.

"This potion will cure consumption."

His eyes widened a little. He finally recalled what she meant. That dreadful disease, which he himself had contracted, as had several of the children in Weasel's gang; only Mistress Rana's intervention and donation of cures had seen them all healed.

"This malady is among the most contagious. Fortunately, from what we can tell, it is not always lethal. Many may suffer from this disease without necessarily dying. On the other hand, this allows it to spread easily, claiming victims where it can. Thus, while this potion has a very specific and limited use, you will be glad to have learned it, should the need ever arise."

Martel agreed, and he gladly set to work.

***

After a day of learning, Martel felt spent; furthermore, there was nothing obvious for him to practise his magic on. Until Master Alistair gave new instructions, he had no elemental spells that needed honing; he could attempt learning more Tyrian runes, but few remained possible for an Asterian to learn, and he might as well delay until tomorrow when he would delve into the topic with Eleanor.

Allowing himself to relax, his thoughts returned to the matter of the mage killer blade. The Lyceum had no right to confiscate it. In Martel's eyes, the weapon belonged to him. Of course, the school clearly had the opposite view, and if Martel took it back, he might be accused of theft. While he seemed safe from expulsion for pretty much any reason other than perhaps outright assault upon his teachers or fellow students, he had already pushed Mistress Juliana by refusing her command to stay on school grounds.

The question was, if he simply took the dagger and this was discovered, would she begin to look for creative ways to punish him? It might be foolish to inflame the dormant conflict between him and the overseer, considering he had no urgent need of the weapon.

Still, Martel had bled for that blade. It had been forged with the explicit purpose of killing him and those like him; no better way to defy such intentions than by taking possession of the weapon, especially after winning it in combat. Everyone always took things from Martel, demanding his magic, skill, or coin; he had earned the right to take back what was his and keep it. He was not necessarily going to push this matter too far, but nor would he be deterred so easily from regaining what was rightfully his. He would have to think of a way to get it back.