The Last Starlit Eve
The feast was held under the Dome of Stars. Besides being the most beautiful hall in the Imperial palace, one of the few that distinguished itself from the others, it also suited the theme of winter solstice, complementing the celebration of the Great Charter being signed.
Walking toward the hall, Martel placed his hand inside his pocket and felt the letter he had written to his mother. He had imagined that once his decision had irrevocably been made, he might second-guess himself or feel regret for the path not chosen. But he felt only calm; the storm that had raged in his mind had finally subsided with the arrival of certainty. He would not need the letter, as he would travel with all speed home as soon as he could leave Morcaster.
He pulled out the letter and grasped it in his fist before igniting flames around his hand. He shocked a few people walking nearby, who immediately pulled away, but he paid them no heed. He kept the spell going until nothing remained but fine ash. Diverting from his path to step outside into the gardens, he blew on his palm and dispersed the remains into the ground. He drew some stares as he returned to the hallway, but it did not matter. The opinions of others could no longer affect him or his works.
Night arrived early this late in the year, and the dome had begun to darken with the faint twinkling of the earliest stars already to be seen. Martel’s hand brushed over the red velvet of his doublet, feeling the threads that formed a green tree. He was not sure why Eleanor had chosen this insignia for him, but he did not object. As beautiful as the palace gardens were, he looked forward to seeing real forests, wild and lush, like those of Nordmark. Without Khivan sharpshooters hiding behind every trunk.
The floor remained clear to allow space for music and dancing. Servants moved about deftly, providing food and drink to the guests, and Martel helped himself to either. As he stood, satisfying thirst and hunger, people came up to him in a continuous stream. They greeted him in various ways, using one title or another, though he had resigned from all of them. Some added words of praise for his actions, which he accepted with a muttered reply. While he appreciated the sentiment, he grew tired of exchanging words that often seemed idle in nature, especially with people he did not know. And still they came.
***
Eventually, all those who sought his attention had been granted it, for a few moments at least, and Martel was allowed to be alone, albeit in a crowd of people. He looked around, catching the eyes of others, at times accompanied by a nod or gesture. The duchess of Trior had a host of people around her. One girl had to be the daughter that she was bartering for favours; Martel felt sorry for her, though perhaps she was like her mother and took no issue with this.
Legate Miles raised his glass from across the room, and Martel did the same. Caritas, the magistrate of Aquila, jested with those around him and bowed his head as he saw Martel glance at him. The high priest of Sol emptied his cups of wine at an impressive speed. As Martel looked further, his eyes fell on the duke of Cheval, who seemed to be pointedly avoiding him, keeping his back turned to the former captain.
Bereft of his power as imperator, Martel might have feared that the duke would seek revenge, but he judged it rather to be the reverse. Martel no longer needed Cheval’s influence or support; he was free of all political considerations. He could at any time carry out his threat to burn everything the duke owned. Making an attempt on Martel’s life might gain Cheval satisfaction, but he would risk everything to do so, and given Martel’s ability to survive assassinations and ambushes, it seemed a terrible bet to make.
“Congratulations, captain,” Honorius greeted him. She had been among those who had not approached him earlier.
“Thank you, captain.” It struck him that she was old enough to be his mother, yet for a time, they had been equals, commanding armies that might have annihilated the Empire. Now they would both retire that rank and command.
“I remain uncertain if I truly feel this was the right outcome. I certainly had never imagined it when I first came to Morcaster,” she admitted. “But you held true to your word. A lesser man might have become enthralled to power and clung to your title.”
“Perish the thought.”
“I cannot ever praise what you have done, as I still consider it rebellion and oath-breaking. It is not something I wish to encourage.” She turned her eyes from Martel to sweep over the crowd. “But I confess my relief at how it has all turned out. They say an honourable war is preferable to dishonourable peace, but I rarely hear it spoken by those who have to do the fighting.”
“Captain, you may praise or damn me as you see fit. It shall make no difference to me. My labours are done.” As he said the words, Martel felt a sense of relief, as if he had not fully realised this before, or perhaps by speaking it, he had finally made it true. He was not imperator, prefect, battlemage, or anything else. He was simply Martel.
“In that case, when I speak of the Firebrand, perhaps I shall damn his actions and praise his name.” Honorius inclined her head and left him on his own.
***
The legate and the prefects of the Tenth Legion had also been invited as the now permanent garrison of Morcaster. They arrived after everyone else, as they had not been present for the meeting of the Senate, and they all went up to pay their respects to the former captain as well. Martel tolerated this better; they had been with him from the beginning when it was a single legion standing up to the rest of the Empire. He would always consider them the bravest men and women he knew.
Lara was a good choice for legate; besides her experience, she was dependable with no ambition that would lead her to abuse her position, and she would defend the new Senate against those who might seek to overthrow it.
As the only prefect, Valerius hung about. “How does it feel, captain, to no longer be captain?”
“I won’t miss it, to be honest.”
“No chance you’ll remain in the legion then? With the new recruitment, we could use good prefects.”
“I’m leaving Morcaster.”
“That is a pity to hear.” The mageknight’s voice became serious. “I owe you my life, Martel. I would not have survived the war in the east without you. If you ever return to the city, the House of Valerius shall always open its doors to you.”
He held out his hand, and Martel grasped it tightly. “I suspect that may happen one day or another.”
Commotion grabbed their attention, as it did for everyone else. A troupe of musicians and performers appeared. They strummed their instruments and began to sing, and the celebrants joined together in dance.
***
As more and more entered the dance, they annexed an increasing amount of space, pushing others toward the edges of the hall. Martel was among them, happy to just enjoy the music. They played the simple tunes of the common folk that could be heard in taverns across Morcaster, and the singer had a powerful voice that managed to be heard even through the noise of the crowd. None of this was a surprise to Martel, who had ensured the majordomo of the palace hired this particular troupe as entertainment.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
As the next song began, he recognised it, though the title eluded him. Something about a woman in the field. Out of nowhere, Eleanor appeared and grabbed his hands. She pulled him from the wall to join in the only dance he had ever learned.
“Excellent step, Master Martel!”
“I had a good teacher,” he laughed, and they did not speak further while the dance lasted. Martel could not tell whether it was the swift rhythm of the song, the physical exertion of the dance, or the look of his partner in her dress, but his heart carried on a beat that would put any drum to shame.
When it was done, they sought refuge at the edge of the hall, and Eleanor almost gasped for breath. “I need a little break before the next one.”
“That was you,” he said in accusation, leaning up against the wall to look at the new dance taking place. “You had them play that song.”
A servant appeared with a tray, and they both grabbed a goblet of wine. “Well, it is the only way to get you on the floor.”
He laughed for a moment while she caught her breath, and they took a deep sip of their wine. In the ensuing silence, he suddenly felt a need to ask her a question in case he would not get another opportunity. “Eleanor, have I done right by you?”
She turned her head toward him. “What makes you ask?”
“You always carry my burdens, like you do for anyone who needs it. And I get so wrapped up in my own troubles, I forget to do the same for you. I feel guilty, I suppose, that I haven’t been a better friend to you.”
She reached out to squeeze his hand. “You have been the friend I needed when necessary. My sister does not languish in a bed in part thanks to you.”
“A sister you’re not able to see, thanks to me.”
“That is another burden to bear, I admit. But if I need your help to do so, I shall let you know.” She gave him a reassuring smile as she let go of his hand. “What is next for the captain? Will you be going to Nordmark?”
“Yes, it’s time I see my family. And you? Have you chosen your destination?”
“I will begin with Aquila, I think. Not a long journey, and I can find passage from there to the Western Isles.”
An idea came to Martel. “If you’re not sick of me yet… I doubt I’ll stay in Nordmark. Once I’ve seen my family, I could go to Aquila.” As he spoke, he glanced at the crowd, suddenly feeling afraid.
“I have a better idea.” He heard the smile in her voice, which gave him the courage to look at her. “I have never been to Nordmark. We can travel together and continue to Aquila afterwards.”
Relief flooded him. “That would be wonderful. I should like that very much.”
She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “It is agreed. Well, if we have months of travelling ahead of us, I will make the most of this evening.” She winked, placed her empty goblet on a passing tray, and departed for the dance floor.
***
Martel paid no further attention to the music of the revellers. His mind turned to practical matters. Eleanor would wish to ride, and since they would bring all their belongings, however few, they would need a pack animal as well. Martel needed to collect all his pay from the Imperial treasury; given he was owed a legate’s salary and had barely spent a coin in months, it had to be substantial. The same would be the case for Eleanor. It might make sense to change the money into gems, smaller and easier to travel with.
An old man with an unkempt beard, looking so entirely out of place under the Dome of Stars, materialised next to Martel. “Hail, Firebrand!”
He almost flinched. “Regnar,” he exhaled, “a little less exuberance next time, please.”
“My apologises, great wizard,” he grinned.
“How did they allow a scoundrel like you inside the palace anyway?”
“Well, the majordomo summoned us straight from the yellow bird. He gave the impression that he had practically been forced to hire us for the evening’s entertainment,” the hedge mage explained.
“Looks like you have a better patron than you deserve.” Martel emptied his goblet of wine with an innocent look. “I see what their purpose is here,” he continued, nodding toward the rest of the troupe playing and singing, “but did you just sneak in to get drunk off my wine?”
“From what I hear, it’s no longer yours. But no, we’ll be doing a play as well. Your lad, the majordomo, got us a stage in the next hall. Amazing how fast these fellows can slap something together. We’ll continue with that soon, it’s just prudent to get the audience exhausted first. Makes them all quiet and attentive, glad to be sitting down.” Regnar laughed.
“I shall look forward to it.” He gave the hedge mage a suspicious look. “This is not like that comedy that got you locked up, right? If you make my Senate turn on each other, I will roast you all alive.”
“We would never bite the hand that feeds us. It is a suitable piece, worthy of our patron,” he claimed. Martel wished he felt reassured. “I saw you and the lass dancing together. What are your plans?”
“We’ll travel to Nordmark. After that, probably Aquila.”
“Still together. That warms my heart. Good companions for the road are hard to find.”
“Aye, I’m lucky. She’s the best friend I could ask for,” Martel declared. He felt Regnar stare at him. “What?”
“Lad, I’ve travelled everywhere on this continent, and I’ve seen that dance many times, but rarely anybody as clumsy as you.”
Before Martel could protest, the boy Ian appeared. “Regnar! We’re getting ready, you’re needed! Hullo, Martel!”
They both disappeared, leaving the young mage on his own.
***
Once the stage was set and all the guests had refreshed themselves with plenty to drink, they moved to an adjoining hall for the performance. While most sat on chairs directly on the floor, balconies were reserved for the most important guests, including the former imperator and his second-in-command.
The lamps became dim or extinguished, casting the hall into darkness while other sources of light illuminated the stage. The storyteller of the troupe began, his powerful voice and oratory reaching all to introduce the tale. Sounds of unseen thunder added further effect to his words.
Martel did not know the play or the story it told, but he understood why it had been chosen. On the stage, a gruesome war took place, causing sorrow and misery. None knew the cause of the strife anymore, yet still they fought as people prayed for peace. He should not have doubted Regnar; the troupe knew their audience and how to please them.
Sitting on the balcony in the dark with just Eleanor next to him, Martel felt restless. He did not wish to speak while the play continued below them, but he found it hard to sit still. Finally, he reached out to take Eleanor’s hand, and she reciprocated his grip.
***
The night had to end, just as the play did. Whether the applause came because the audience enjoyed the subject or simply because so many were drunk, Martel could not say. The guests began to disperse, leaving the hall and the palace altogether.
Martel had a shorter journey home, stretching only from the balcony to his quarters. He could have made an appearance below to bid people farewell, but one reason he had resigned was that he no longer had to care about appearances. Together, he and Eleanor went to their wing and separated, each to their own chambers.
Martel had only crossed the threshold before he stopped. In some ways, he had obtained exactly what he wanted. He was free, and he would travel together with her as he had hoped. Was it sensible to risk any disruption to that simply because he still felt her touch upon his cheek?
Martel had initiated battles with less hesitation than this. Caution told him to go to sleep. He would see her tomorrow, and the day after, and so on. He could always choose another time. And in this manner, he could postpone until his deathbed.
He was a firemage. He favoured risk and swift action, and he preferred disappointment over uncertainty. Quickly, he left his chambers to knock on her door.
She opened it, still wearing her dress, though she had removed her jewellery. “Martel. Is something wrong?”
“There is something I should tell you.” She looked at him expectantly, and he summoned his courage. “I love you. I have for a long time. If this troubles you, I won’t mention it again.” She simply stared at him, and he continued. “I’ll gladly travel anywhere in the world as your friend if that’s what you want. I owe you that and more. But I didn’t want to pretend either. You should know the truth.” He almost tripped over the words, wishing he had rehearsed them beforehand.
She gave no response other than placing her hand on his neck and pulling his head in to kiss him. Dragging him further back into her room, she closed the door once he had crossed the threshold.
***
Following the celebration, a whirlwind of activity erupted throughout the marbled halls of the Imperial palace, as the new Senate began assuming powers of government while also summoning the remaining representatives from across the Empire. As neither his opinion nor his signature was required anymore, nobody troubled the erstwhile imperator, and it took days for any of the delegates to realise he had left the palace entirely.
While the captain’s presence was not necessary any longer, the prefect of the sixth cohort conducted a brief investigation to ensure nothing awry. Questioning the garrison guarding the entry points to the city led to answers. They had witnessed the fire-touched mage leaving the northern gate together with the former legate of the Tenth Legion; the pair had no company other than each other, their steeds, and a pack animal as they left Morcaster behind.