Firebrand

Chapter 551: Fires of Solstice

Fires of Solstice

Unlike the last time he was invited to the legate's house, Martel kept his expensive clothes in his chest. Instead, he simply dressed in one of his red robes like he would on an ordinary day. Leaving his tent, he waited outside until Eleanor joined him, likewise clad in her usual black tunic.

"Sir Martel, not wearing your finest today?"

"Borrowed feathers. This is who I am."

"I find you look rather dashing in a doublet, but given my own choice of attire, I shall not chastise you. Shall we?"

Together, they left the camp.

***

Reaching Esmouth, they found the locals had begun their own celebration. A bonfire was built on the town square, though it would not be lit until nightfall. Judging by the singing, the townspeople had not exhibited the same patience with regards to drinking. Watching the pair of prefects cross the square, some of them even had the courage to raise their mugs and shout their well-wishes for a merry solstice.

Entering the legate's house, they discovered the mood inside to be of the same cheer as outside, perhaps aided by the same means. In the atrium, tables filled with drink and food stood prepared, and the other prefects had already begun sampling the delicacies.

"The last sheep of our herd arrived, joined at the hip as usual!" Lucius, the oldest prefect present, appeared a few steps ahead of everybody else in terms of imbibing.

They each received a goblet to help them catch up. Eleanor was quickly spotted by their hostess, the legate's wife, who grabbed her by the arm and led her over to the other women, all of them mageknights. As for Martel, a handful of the male prefects include him in their circle, which also included Henry.

"I thought you were at the outpost," the stonemage said to Lucius. "That's where I saw you last."

"Our month was up just before solstice," the mageknight grinned. "Did Theodore grumble about missing it?" he asked of Martel.

"I couldn't say. He only arrived a few days before we left for this little get-together, so I barely saw him."

"Too busy setting Khivans on fire!" Lucius roared, to which Martel gave a polite smile.

He was not keen on discussing their recent battles or dwelling on the war itself, and in his mind, he retreated from the conversation, letting the others talk and jest. He was not uncomfortable, though; the mageknights seemed to treat him as one of their own, and he appreciated being included. Even if not all shared the sentiment.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Looking across the room, Martel saw the legate, the legion prefect, and decurion in a conversation of their own. While the latter did not hold overall command of the legion like the other two, he was considered a leader in their absence and would be deferred to in an emergency. Fortunately, as he commanded the mounted cohort, Dominic Char would never be sent to man the outpost; that was for the infantry. Martel's exile to their place had that advantage, at least; he was unlikely to run into the decurion again until winter solstice.

Perhaps the mageknight thought the same, as he approached Martel's group, clearly intent on interacting with the battlemage. "Our firemage returns to civilised company. I notice you have yet to buy that shaving knife."

Martel resisted the urge to touch his face. It was true, stubble had been allowed to settle; Martel had not given it any thought, failing to see how a clean-shaven chin would affect his performance in combat. "Very true, decurion. Between all the actual fighting we do, I just never find the time." He met the mageknight's gaze without blinking.

"Strange. From what I hear, you have plenty of time to do other sorts of work. The Tenth must be the only legion blessed with its own apothecary among the prefects!"

Laughter from the others could be heard, though Martel took it as good-natured, and something he could turn to his side. "Such remedies are most useful for those injured in battle. If you ever went on patrol, as I do every day, you would learn such things."

Dominic gave a condescending smile. "I am the decurion. My soldiers are not wasted on such efforts."

"I suppose all the trees would get in the way of your little ponies," Martel considered, his expression showing the same emotion as the mageknight. "A pity. Fortunately, all our infantry is more than up for the task."

"Hear, hear!" yelled the other mageknights, raising their goblets in salute of Martel's words, drowning out any response that the decurion attempted.

The conversation quickly took a different turn, and Martel lost interest again. Instead, he looked over to find Eleanor in conversation with the legate. The noise prevented him from hearing any words spoken, but by her demeanour, she seemed unhappy. Just as he wondered whether he should walk over to support her, the legate moved away from her abruptly and addressed the small crowd. "Night has fallen! It is time for the ritual."

***

The entire gathering filed outside into the garden of the residence. It was a pleasant summer night. The wall of the mansion shielded them from the noise of the town, with its own celebration taking place. The guests spread out to surround the bonfire prepared, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

"I tried talking to the legate," Eleanor whispered as she appeared next to Martel.

"And?"

"He categorically refused changing our orders. In fact, we are to leave immediately tomorrow morning. By his estimate, we are inflicting thrice the casualties we are incurring," she practically hissed. "Can you believe it? A war of attrition, using us as the means!"

Martel could believe it. This legion would not be fighting battles on a large scale, not in this terrain against this enemy. The legate had no use for a battlemage other than this, wearing down the enemy as much as possible until a golden bullet inevitably put an end to him. Which would also be pleasing news to Duke Cheval, a friend of the legate.

He was spared coming up with a response by the arrival of the local priest, carrying a torch. It occurred to Martel he did not even know the name of Esmouth's clergyman. He knew the town possessed a temple, of course, as he heard the bell ringing. But he had never once gone to pay his respects or leave an offering. He knew Eleanor had been a few times, and he had meant to join her. Perhaps a prayer to Sol and a gift would be a wise investment for a soldier to make. He might try to do so tomorrow, though Martel's magic along with Eleanor had so far proven sufficient. Perhaps he should put his trust in that instead, he considered, watching the priest light the fire.