Firebrand
Chapter 441: An Ache

An Ache

Despite his weariness, Martel slept uneasily, and pain woke him early. Glancing to his left, he examined his wound. The blood salve had done its work to prevent further bleeding, and at least it was better than his right shoulder being injured, giving him trouble with his dominant hand.

Today was Malday, meaning combat practice. Those would not be pleasant hours to get through, wielding a staff with every movement causing a pang of agony; perhaps he could rely more on spells or otherwise take it easy. Combat class did give him an excuse for when he went to the infirmary; just in case the inquisitors came looking for anyone with an injured shoulder.

This meant he would have to wait until late afternoon, but that seemed wisest anyway; no point getting his wound sewn if he immediately ruined the stitches by moving around excessively in the gymnasium.

***

His first lesson proved a pain, literally. It was only Martel and the other fire acolytes, purely practising staff fighting; no magic was involved besides empowerment. This meant Martel had to use the weapon, even if he swallowed his pride and allowed the others to land blows against him. Harriet noticed his sudden vulnerability and diminished ability to fight, taunting him more than once; Martel chose to ignore it, favouring the wound on his shoulder over any wounds to his pride. When the bell finally rang, it was sweet music to his ears.

***

After dinner, Martel examined his cloak and shirt, which had been ripped by the spear last night. The rift in his leather armour was beyond his skills to repair; the jerkin already had damage from last year in the Undercroft when Tibert had stabbed him in the stomach. Both tears were small in size, however, and the armour would continue to serve him well; not that Martel hoped he would have need of it again.

As for his items made of fabric, Martel dug out a needle and thread to sew the holes shut. Easily and swiftly done; if only human flesh could be so easily mended. Martel had never done this during his month helping out in the infirmary, though, nor did he have the right kind of thread for it. The infirmary did; he just had to get through his second combat lesson first.

***

Alain swung his sword, and Martel summoned his shield rather than parry with his staff that would require awkward movement. The fire acolyte retaliated with a blast of wind, but the mageknight had grown wise to his tricks, planting his feet firmly in the ground to remain standing. Another sword blow came, striking Martel's injured shoulder, and he grimaced; thankfully, the chain shirt took the worst of it.

"Enough," he admitted, taking a step back. It was silly to force himself to fight when unnecessary; his shoulder needed rest and healing, not further damage. "Sorry. You'll have to take an easy victory today."

Alain grinned before a furrow came across his brow. "It's been a long time since I could beat you. Are you holding back on me?"

"Just some trouble with my shoulder. Had an accident yesterday," Martel explained, trying to provide sufficient information to deter questions rather than invite them. "Nothing too bad, but trying not to exert it too much."

"You should have said so," the mageknight chastised him. "That happens to everyone. We all understand the need to take it easy."

"I guess it's commonplace for you guys, practising every day."

Alain nodded. "Even with all our defensive magic, people get hurt. You have to let your body heal when it happens."

Martel thought about his month in the infirmary and all the mageknights he had seen, appearing with bruises or cuts that needed attention. "You're right. I'll excuse myself for once."

He walked over and sat down on the stands, watching Maximilian and Eleanor spar against each other. Martel realised that one day, he would miss this. When lying sleepless in a tent, or marching through rain, he would think back on the simple pleasure of watching his friends with no problem worse than an ache in his shoulder.

Eleanor looked in his direction and caught his eyes, sending a smile his way. Martel returned the expression, and the ache in his heart seemed worse than any hurt in his shoulder. Maximilian seemed entirely unaware, swinging his hammer with exaggerated movements that made her laugh. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Martel left the arena even before the bell had rung; nobody would mind his early departure from class.

***

"What happened?"

"Trouble at practice." Martel sat on a stool in the infirmary, his robe and shirt removed.

The nurse gave him a chastising look. "Aren't you supposed to use blunt weapons? And wear armour."

Martel shrugged; a movement he immediately regretted. "You know how mageknights are. They get too eager sometimes."

She sighed, preparing a needle with silk thread. "This will hurt," she warned him.

He nodded, steeling himself, and looked away. It was easier when he did not have to watch the needle pierce his skin. It hurt all the same, but he gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists.

Painful, but quickly done; the wound was small, after all. "There you are. Keep it rested and avoid big movements," the sister cautioned him. "I won't sew it again if you rip the stitches."

"Understood." Martel stood up and looked at his robe and shirt. Exhaling, he began a slow, cautious dance of getting dressed without actually moving his left arm.

***

"Message for you." The clerk – an airmage unknown to Martel – stuck a scrap of parchment into his hand. The fire acolyte looked around the entrance hall to see if anyone watched him. He had spent the day occasionally looking over his shoulder, but so far, no inquisitors had come for him.

We have to meet tonight.

Same place as last.

From Ruby, he guessed. It did not matter. Someone had told the inquisitors about last night and helped them set a trap; Martel was not going to attend a meeting with those same people, allowing anybody watching to confirm his involvement.

Besides, he had fulfilled his obligation. He had done his part as the Friar wanted; Martel could not be blamed at the failed outcome. Nor did he care about the betrayal. This reeked of the usual conflicts common between the Nine Lords, never-ending. One of them had betrayed the others; let them fight it out. With a quick burst of magic, Martel burned the parchment between his fingers and raised a brief gust of wind to blow the smoke away.