Chapter 530: Eight Breaths
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Chapter 530: Eight Breaths
Eight Breaths
Martel sat on a tree stump he had salvaged a while back, serving as his seat whenever he cooked meals outside his tent. The pot boiled merrily, turning oats and water into porridge. On the other side, sitting on her own stump, Eleanor unpacked the honey and raisins they usually added. "Not much left," she remarked. "And the trader in Esmouth will probably not have any to sell until the next ship arrives from Morcaster."Updated from novelb(i)n.c(o)m
"I'll ask around. Maybe others have enough left they are willing to part with." Martel had plenty of coin to spend, after all, even after his various purchases ordered from the quartermaster the other day.
She handed him a plate. "Make sure you eat plenty. Between our sparring and your little fight at noon, you want to be sated."
Pouring oatmeal for himself, Martel wondered if he had made a mistake challenging the decurion. Perhaps he should have asked Eleanor for her opinion before doing so, but she had been in the other room, and it had happened rather fast. "Do you think I made a mistake, picking a fight with the decurion?"
Filling her plate, she looked up at him. "No. I want you to put him in his place."
She returned her attention to her meal, but in the silence, Martel understood something he had hitherto been blind towards.
He had expected condescension from the mageknights, being an elemental mage; he had not realised that Eleanor would be treated the same way, despite being a mageknight herself. But he saw it now; while the others were officers, leading soldiers into battle, she was the protector of an elemental mage, subject to the same bias that he met. That would end today.
"I will. You don't think I should save my strength? You still want to do our morning training?"
"I have seen Sir Dominic train. He fights like a mageknight, thinking only about steel. Against you, I doubt he will last ten breaths."
***
As the noon bell distantly rang, Martel left his tent. He wore his red robes rather than the attire of a prefect; he wanted them to see him as an elemental mage. In his hand, he carried his staff, though he suspected he would not have much need of it.
Deciding to hammer his message home, Martel raised a hand and allowed sparks to jump from one fingertip to another. "Do you know what happens to a man struck by a lightning bolt, especially when wearing so much metal? He boils like a shrimp in its shell." Dismissing the effect, he smiled. "No need to worry. When we face the enemy, they'll know that they face a battlemage."
As he turned away, Eleanor joined him. "Eight breaths. I was right."
***
Walking back to their tents, the pair was joined by Henry, the stonemage. "What a spectacle! Better than the performance last night, though granted, I've seen that show about ten times before."
"I didn't notice you in the crowd," Martel said. "Actually, have you two met?" He glanced at Eleanor by his side. While he had spent a handful of afternoons at Henry's house, he had always been alone when visiting. "Eleanor, my protector. Henry, our resident stonemage."
"Sir Fontaine, yes. We spoke briefly after the performance last night."
"Eleanor will do among friends," she told him.
"Appreciated. Now, where is this magnificent residence you always speak of?" Henry asked, aimed at Martel.
The battlemage pointed at the tent ahead. "I believe I made no exaggerations when describing its opulence. All I have to offer is ale or river water, though."
"Ale will be splendid."
"I will fetch my chair," Eleanor suggested. "Weather is nice enough to sit outside."
They spent the next hours in pleasant conversation, sharing ale and the last raisins.
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Chapter 530: Eight Breaths
Eight Breaths
Martel sat on a tree stump he had salvaged a while back, serving as his seat whenever he cooked meals outside his tent. The pot boiled merrily, turning oats and water into porridge. On the other side, sitting on her own stump, Eleanor unpacked the honey and raisins they usually added. "Not much left," she remarked. "And the trader in Esmouth will probably not have any to sell until the next ship arrives from Morcaster."Updated from novelb(i)n.c(o)m
"I'll ask around. Maybe others have enough left they are willing to part with." Martel had plenty of coin to spend, after all, even after his various purchases ordered from the quartermaster the other day.
She handed him a plate. "Make sure you eat plenty. Between our sparring and your little fight at noon, you want to be sated."
Pouring oatmeal for himself, Martel wondered if he had made a mistake challenging the decurion. Perhaps he should have asked Eleanor for her opinion before doing so, but she had been in the other room, and it had happened rather fast. "Do you think I made a mistake, picking a fight with the decurion?"
Filling her plate, she looked up at him. "No. I want you to put him in his place."
She returned her attention to her meal, but in the silence, Martel understood something he had hitherto been blind towards.
He had expected condescension from the mageknights, being an elemental mage; he had not realised that Eleanor would be treated the same way, despite being a mageknight herself. But he saw it now; while the others were officers, leading soldiers into battle, she was the protector of an elemental mage, subject to the same bias that he met. That would end today.
"I will. You don't think I should save my strength? You still want to do our morning training?"
"I have seen Sir Dominic train. He fights like a mageknight, thinking only about steel. Against you, I doubt he will last ten breaths."
***
As the noon bell distantly rang, Martel left his tent. He wore his red robes rather than the attire of a prefect; he wanted them to see him as an elemental mage. In his hand, he carried his staff, though he suspected he would not have much need of it.
Deciding to hammer his message home, Martel raised a hand and allowed sparks to jump from one fingertip to another. "Do you know what happens to a man struck by a lightning bolt, especially when wearing so much metal? He boils like a shrimp in its shell." Dismissing the effect, he smiled. "No need to worry. When we face the enemy, they'll know that they face a battlemage."
As he turned away, Eleanor joined him. "Eight breaths. I was right."
***
Walking back to their tents, the pair was joined by Henry, the stonemage. "What a spectacle! Better than the performance last night, though granted, I've seen that show about ten times before."
"I didn't notice you in the crowd," Martel said. "Actually, have you two met?" He glanced at Eleanor by his side. While he had spent a handful of afternoons at Henry's house, he had always been alone when visiting. "Eleanor, my protector. Henry, our resident stonemage."
"Sir Fontaine, yes. We spoke briefly after the performance last night."
"Eleanor will do among friends," she told him.
"Appreciated. Now, where is this magnificent residence you always speak of?" Henry asked, aimed at Martel.
The battlemage pointed at the tent ahead. "I believe I made no exaggerations when describing its opulence. All I have to offer is ale or river water, though."
"Ale will be splendid."
"I will fetch my chair," Eleanor suggested. "Weather is nice enough to sit outside."
They spent the next hours in pleasant conversation, sharing ale and the last raisins.
Chapter 530: Eight BreathsEight BreathsMartel sat on a tree stump he had salvaged a while back, serving as his seat whenever he cooked meals outside his tent. The pot boiled merrily, turning oats and water into porridge. On the other side, sitting on her own stump, Eleanor unpacked the honey and raisins they usually added. "Not much left," she remarked. "And the trader in Esmouth will probably not have any to sell until the next ship arrives from Morcaster."Updated from novelbin.com"I'll ask around. Maybe others have enough left they are willing to part with." Martel had plenty of coin to spend, after all, even after his various purchases ordered from the quartermaster the other day.She handed him a plate. "Make sure you eat plenty. Between our sparring and your little fight at noon, you want to be sated."Pouring oatmeal for himself, Martel wondered if he had made a mistake challenging the decurion. Perhaps he should have asked Eleanor for her opinion before doing so, but she had been in the other room, and it had happened rather fast. "Do you think I made a mistake, picking a fight with the decurion?"Filling her plate, she looked up at him. "No. I want you to put him in his place."She returned her attention to her meal, but in the silence, Martel understood something he had hitherto been blind towards.He had expected condescension from the mageknights, being an elemental mage; he had not realised that Eleanor would be treated the same way, despite being a mageknight herself. But he saw it now; while the others were officers, leading soldiers into battle, she was the protector of an elemental mage, subject to the same bias that he met. That would end today."I will. You don't think I should save my strength? You still want to do our morning training?""I have seen Sir Dominic train. He fights like a mageknight, thinking only about steel. Against you, I doubt he will last ten breaths."***As the noon bell distantly rang, Martel left his tent. He wore his red robes rather than the attire of a prefect; he wanted them to see him as an elemental mage. In his hand, he carried his staff, though he suspected he would not have much need of it.Deciding to hammer his message home, Martel raised a hand and allowed sparks to jump from one fingertip to another. "Do you know what happens to a man struck by a lightning bolt, especially when wearing so much metal? He boils like a shrimp in its shell." Dismissing the effect, he smiled. "No need to worry. When we face the enemy, they'll know that they face a battlemage."As he turned away, Eleanor joined him. "Eight breaths. I was right."***Walking back to their tents, the pair was joined by Henry, the stonemage. "What a spectacle! Better than the performance last night, though granted, I've seen that show about ten times before.""I didn't notice you in the crowd," Martel said. "Actually, have you two met?" He glanced at Eleanor by his side. While he had spent a handful of afternoons at Henry's house, he had always been alone when visiting. "Eleanor, my protector. Henry, our resident stonemage.""Sir Fontaine, yes. We spoke briefly after the performance last night.""Eleanor will do among friends," she told him."Appreciated. Now, where is this magnificent residence you always speak of?" Henry asked, aimed at Martel.The battlemage pointed at the tent ahead. "I believe I made no exaggerations when describing its opulence. All I have to offer is ale or river water, though.""Ale will be splendid.""I will fetch my chair," Eleanor suggested. "Weather is nice enough to sit outside."They spent the next hours in pleasant conversation, sharing ale and the last raisins.
