Firebrand

Chapter 587: In the Eyes of the World

In the Eyes of the World

The sounds of the world faded away. Martel did not hear whatever the legate said afterwards, nor the responses from any of the other family members. He ended up getting a summary from Eleanor afterwards.

Making use of the unusually harsh winter, the Khivans had crossed the river to enter the frozen wetlands north of Esmouth, lightly watched at present by the legions. At the same time, their ships had struck to chase away any Imperial vessels guarding the delta, made easy by most warships being in port in Morcaster for refitting. As a result, the Tenth Legion was isolated, and the mages could not return oversea.

Reinforcements were being prepared in Morcaster, which would march overland to join the Thirteenth Legion, currently positioned north of Esmouth to shadow the Khivan army. Most likely, he and Eleanor would march with the reinforcements, which were due to leave in a few days. Martel had one full day left in Morcaster.

***

Martel slept even less that night, and when he did, his dreams were full of forests and frantic running. He woke up feeling hot, and for a moment, he feared that he might have ignited a magical fire in his sleep. Fortunately, his bed and everything else seemed unburnt.

He left before breakfast, hoping fresh air or just a change in scenery would clear his mind. He drifted down the streets for a long time until he realised that he had unconsciously approached the Lyceum. He did not have the stomach for conversation saying farewell and explaining to people why he was already leaving but the familiar sight of the walls made him feel a little better, and so he continued in that direction.

He entered the castle, looking at the great clock in the entrance hall. Memories of happier times, if bittersweet, lifted his mood a little. He crossed the hall to enter the western courtyard, figuring it would be empty on a cold winter's morning, which proved to be true.

He walked over to sit by the foot of the statue, leaning up against the pedestal. He remembered his first days at the Lyceum, being here while practising water magic. As he looked up to see the chin of the statue, he recalled his last days, fighting alongside the legendary Atreus. It all seemed a fever dream, buried underneath the memories of scores of battles since. Feeling cold from sitting on the ground, he got back up.

***

Although Martel felt unsure whether it had ever helped him, he decided to visit a temple. Since he was in Morcaster, he decided to go to the greatest one, the temple of Sol. He followed the main road as it wound its way north towards the district of the clergy. As he approached, more and more people on the street were dressed similar to him, though the robes usually had a single colour. The flaming embroidery on his set him apart, and it made people shy away, avoiding him as possible.

Eventually, the great towers of the Basilica came into view. While beautiful as ever, the sight did not improve Martel's mood, but that was not his purpose either. He entered the great temple and made his way through the crowd, who quickly stepped out of his way. Reaching one of the altars, Martel struggled to find the words for a suitable prayer. He took what money he had in his pockets and placed it on the pedestal. "Please, protect Eleanor and me. And if a choice must be made, look to her first," he mumbled, hoping that would suffice.

His offering done, he could leave, but every footstep felt so heavy, all of a sudden. He had no purpose, no destination beckoning him other than back to his current lodgings and wait for the morrow. Delaying that, he stepped out of the way and found a more secluded spot in the temple, where he sank down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall.

Closing his eyes, he tried to let go of the passage of time. Yet the constant sounds of people nearby, their footsteps and mutterings, intruded on him. It made him feel vulnerable, being unable to scout around him, especially as he knew others were close by.

"May I join you?"

Martel opened his eyes to find that the voice belonged to a priest, maybe forty years of age. "I suppose."

He sat down next to Martel, though keeping a few paces of distance between them. "I'm not the best with this, but you strike me as a wizard. More than that, a battlemage."

"That's right. You can tell?"

"We have many veterans who come to the temple grounds. Some seek amelioration for their old injuries, others simply have nowhere else they may hope for a meal. Sometimes, I come across them in a situation similar to yours, trying to keep the world a little at bay. I'm Father Mark, by the way."

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"Martel of Engby."

"If it would ease your burdens to share them, I am happy to listen."

Martel doubted that, but he realised that he would most likely never see this priest again. There was no harm in trying. "Tomorrow, I return to war. I'm tired of it. I'm sick of the killing, all done while achieving nothing. They say magic is a gift, but the way everything has turned out, it feels like a curse." Now that he had begun, Martel found it difficult to stop. "I didn't even realise I felt this way until I returned to Morcaster. Out there, I never had time to feel anything. Every moment spent in safety was used for sleep. And now I don't know what's worse," he admitted. "Returning to war, or feeling like I never left the war in the first place."

A moment passed before the priest spoke. "Having seen so many of its victims, having heard the stories, I won't pretend that war is some great and noble purpose. If it were up to me, the fighting would end today. While I don't have your gift of magic, I sympathise with how you feel. How it has been twisted."

"Yeah." Feeling embarrassed about his diatribe, Martel elected for a short response.

"But I'm trying to find the good in everything where possible. Sometimes, our sacrifice, whether willing or not, can help others, despite our own pain."

"I'm pretty sure me fighting on the front won't help anyone, one way or the other."

"I said that I would not make such an argument. But for instance, do you know why this great temple was built on this exact spot?"

"I don't."

"Many centuries ago, it is said that people lived in dark and terrible times. Famine and war plagued the land. From his seat in the heavens, Sol tore out his own eye and hurled it through the spheres like a flaming star to strike the ground right where we are. It burned with a fire of its own, day and night, and still burns to this day, they say. Although painful to himself, he gave this as the gift to his people a reminder of light even in the darkest times."

"Are you saying that thing is still here? Like a relic?"

Father Mark nodded. "The Eye of Sol, it is called. I have never seen it such a precious item is kept locked and guarded at all times. But it exists."

While that it invoked Martel's curiosity, he failed to see the relevance of the story. "I don't think that's got anything to do with me, though."

"Well, it reminds me of a contemporary tale. Perhaps you are familiar with it, as it involves another battlemage. You may know him, given there are few of you. His name escapes me, but I heard about him from the veterans."

"Heard what?"

"Some days ago, he fought a public duel against three praetorian knights."

Martel had to struggle to keep his face blank.

"Now, I don't know why this fight happened, nor whether this battlemage feels the same way you do. But I can tell you that the news did much to raise the spirits of those poor veterans I see every day, always so dejected and downtrodden."

For the first time, Martel turned his head to look at the priest. "Really? Why?"

"Because they have returned to a city that rejects them, after spilling their blood to defend it. To them, that battlemage is one of theirs, just as the praetorians represent the city. To know that one of their own bested three of the emperor's finest to them, that is a light in the dark."

Good for them, though it did little to raise Martel's spirits. "I should get going."

"Of course, my son. Sol's blessings upon you."

***

The legate of Legio I Urbis sat behind his desk in his study, studying columns of numbers that detailed soldiers and equipment. The door opened to grant his daughter admittance. "You asked for me, father?"

He nodded. "Four centuriae have been gathered and are ready to depart with you tomorrow. By chance, the legion prefect of the Thirteenth was also in Morcaster, and he will travel with you. I advocated that soldiers from the First Legion should be released to go with you, but between Khivans and veterans in the city, the military magistrate is nervous about riots."

Eleanor bowed her head. "I understand."

"Together, the Thirteenth and the Tenth should outnumber the Khivan invaders, though how you will be able to link up or coordinate an assault Well, I am not the commander in the field. But be mindful of Legate Aurelius."

"The legate of the Thirteenth?"

"Yes. While she is generally capable, she never struck me as someone to think quickly on her feet. This situation will have rattled her."

"I will keep that in mind."

"Very well." The legate paused for a moment. "Eleanor I'm getting you transferred to another legion. It is slow work as I have no grounds for a formal request, but at least your future union with the House of Marche helps to give me the necessary sway."

"I see. To which legion are we being transferred?"

He shook his head. "Only you. Your time with the northerner will come to an end soon. You must have known this was inevitable."

"But he has proven himself," Eleanor impressed upon her father. "Just the other night in this very house! If you disagree with that, why would you orchestrate that situation?"

"I was simply salvaging what I could from your short-sighted decisions," the legate growled. "It repaired some of the damage done to your reputation, hopefully allowing me to push through your transfer to a more suitable posting."

"Martel is the strongest battlemage this Empire has. He is not only fire-touched, he is experienced far beyond his years. I belong by his side," she claimed.

"Do not be ridiculous. I do not question his skills or contribution, but he is a Tyrian pleb, and you are the daughter of a patrician house. He is not suitable company for you, least of all in Morcaster. I will not debate this further, as there was never anything to discuss in the first place. Go, make your preparations. You have a long march ahead tomorrow."

"Yes, father," Eleanor responded, turning on her heel to leave the study.

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