Firebrand

Balancing Act

"Martel? Martel! Please, listen to me!" Despite Eleanor's frantic pleading as she knelt in front of him, the battlemage gave no inclination that he could hear her. He stared straight ahead with watery eyes, mumbling what sounded like confessions. She placed both of her hands on his wet cheeks to cup his face. "Please forgive me, I did not mean to sound angry! I am not angry at all, I was just a little upset. I spoke without thinking!"

Martel felt his blood pounding in his ear. His eyes shone as if sick with fever, and his face burned with heat. When his soul stood before Sol to receive judgement, he would surely be punished with a thousand years of fire.

"You must know how I care for you. You are not a murderer, you are a good and kind soul, I swear that you are," she mumbled.

Her words did not reach him, but he felt her touch and reacted to it, turning his head either way towards one hand and afterwards the other.

"Please, please, come back to me."

"I'm a monster."

She strengthened her grip on his face. "You are not!" Almost gasping for breath herself, she continued, "you must know what you mean to us all. To me."

The sound of his own heartbeat subsided, but Martel still felt like he was on fire. His hand shot up to grab both of her wrists, and flickering motes of fire appeared on his skin.

Her voice finally came through to him. Blinking through the haze of his own tears and terror, he realised that the fire he so feared threatened to burn her as well. His breathing slowed, and the flames sank back into his soul. Finally, he released his grip on her wrists. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"No harm done. We can sit for a while." She let go of his face and moved to be seated next to him, reaching out a hand to grasp his tightly.

***

Martel had no inkling of how long they sat in silence. Nothing but endless dark stretched out before them, making it seem like time itself did not exist, or anything else, for that matter. Only the frail magelight still glowing on his staff and the cold, hard sensation of the surrounding stone along with Eleanor's hand holding his own told him that he still lived rather than floated through the never-ending Nether as punishment for his sins.

Eventually, the demands of the body presented themselves. He felt thirst, and the uneven cave wall jutting into his back made him uncomfortable. "I am alright," he finally spoke, and he squeezed Eleanor's hand just to send the message with two different forms of communication. "I think we can continue." All the pressure of their current situation returned; they had a long journey ahead of them to be done before dawn. Assuming they could find their way.

"We have not come that far from the entrance," Eleanor considered. "We will soon be back above ground."

"I didn't mean go back. We should press on." The situation remained the same regardless of Martel's weakness; if they failed, a costly storm upon the city was the only other option. Furthermore, if they could not take Morcaster by surprise, it greatly increased the risk that the emperor would have time to flee. Martel would not allow this civil war to continue year after year.

He could feel her turn to look at him. "Martel, how are we to press on?" she asked cautiously.

"The first time I came here, I descended from an entrance in the copper lanes. That is not far from the merchants' gate. I just have to retrace my steps back to that entrance, and we can carry out our original intentions. Undercroft or catacombs, the result will be the same." He looked straight ahead, not sure if he wanted to meet her gaze.

He could hear how she took a deep breath, and he knew she would choose her words with caution. "Martel, given how this place affects you, we cannot continue. Who knows what sort of dangers lurk in this forgotten city? How far it stretches, and whether you can find the way?"

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"We must try. Countless lives are at stake."

"None of that matters if yours is lost."

It was a risk Martel was willing to take if it provided an opportunity for him to balance his columns of lives taken and saved. He finally released his hold on her hand, sticky with sweat, and he got back on his feet. "We must try," he repeated. "There is still the option of going back if I can't find the way." She stood up as well, and he saw only doubt on her expression. He picked up his staff and increased the brightness. Holding it in front of him, the light flickered between their faces. "Are you with me?"

He could not tell whether she sighed or simply exhaled. "Always."

***

The pair of mages finally continued, and soon, they reached the edge of the eerie city, forgotten by time. Martel saw the houses lined up on even rows along straight streets, by now familiar to him. Hewn from rock, he once again marvelled at the labour involved in creating this place, and the questions this raised. Who would live in a city underground, condemning themselves to perpetual darkness? How long had they dwelt in this place, and what had made them leave?

Martel marked the first house with his chalk, and they began walking down the street. Martel strengthened his magelight further that he might see the line of houses on either side. He knew it was impossible that an ambush awaited, that an earthmage would have filled the gaps on either side in preparation of raising a wall ahead to block off every escape route; all the same, Martel's eyes constantly flickered from one house to the other, looking for the slightest irregularity.

"What is it?" Eleanor asked with a subdued voice. "What are you searching for? I can help you look if it is a marker or sign of some sort."

"Just keeping my eyes open," he muttered. "We need to find our way to some kind of town square." Martel thought back on his first journey, even as it brought a host of unpleasant memories to his mind. "I went from the copper lanes to that place. If we can locate that, I can find my way back from there." That was his hope, at least. The uniformity of the city, its streets and houses, made it hard to distinguish anything.

"I shall be on the lookout for such a place," she promised. Martel knew she was simply indulging him, given they could hardly miss something obvious like an open square, but he would not complain; she had already put up with so much from him on this night.

Hoping to remedy some of that and also distract him from worst thoughts, Martel cleared his throat and said quietly, "I'm sorry I spoke so harshly to you about Max."

"Think no more of it. You only spoke out of concern for me. It is already forgotten," she declared with a light voice.

"You're too nice. And you're right, though there is more to it. More than just simple concern, I mean."

"How so?"

Martel had not intended to broach this subject, but perhaps she ought to know. "You remember the day by the river, when we fled from the Khivans? You were badly wounded, and I unleashed a spell that – that killed those around us."

"Not a day I could ever forget."

"It wasn't on purpose. The magic I released, I mean. I had no idea it was even possible."

She glanced at him as they walked side by side. "Your ability to cast magic on instinct is impressive."

He shook his head. "I wouldn't even call it instinct. I saw you fall. I thought you were dead." He swallowed, trying to control his emotions. "When I saw that, I didn't think or feel. The magic just took over. I wanted everyone to die."

"And it saved us. You slew the Khivans, allowing us to escape."

"Sheer luck. If any of our own had been around, I would have burned them as well. It seems a miracle I didn't do it to you."

"I assume even in such a state, you knew friend from foe."

"I don't think I did," Martel confessed, and he felt his voice trembling as he continued. "I finally understand all the warnings about the fire-touched. I thought I did before – when I got angry, I might cast a spell on instinct, and I know I have a temper. But this was different. I felt nothing but the purest fury, and if I could have, I would have incinerated the world in that moment."

"While I am glad you care, I do think the world is too big a mouthful even for a skilled mage like you." She had a weak attempt of a smile on her face.

He reached out and grabbed her by the arm. "You don't understand. The fire-touched who burned down half of Morcaster – that could be me tomorrow. If you die fighting in the Imperial palace, there won't be a palace anymore. And we both know how swiftly fires spread through the city once started." He felt himself choke. "All of it will be destroyed because of me."

She grabbed his free hand. "Martel, do not let yourself drown in these thoughts. Nothing will happen to me. I am a mageknight of great skill, and there are no Khivans with golden bullets waiting for us up there." Her voice grew firm. "Now you must push all of this from your mind, or we return right now. I will not take a step further unless I can trust that you will be alright."

He took a deep breath, regaining control of himself. "I'm fine. I will be fine. I don't know what's come over me, but I'm fine."

She gave him a scrutinising look. "Are you certain? Martel, if you have the slightest doubt, I implore you to tell me. There is no shame in going back, considering this was not at all what we planned for."

There might not be any shame in returning, but Martel doubted that he could forgive himself. "I have no doubts. I am calm. We continue." So they did, one mage constantly looking in every direction, the other constantly looking at her companion.