Chapter 410: A Performance to Remember
A Performance to Remember
Martel dug out his expensive clothes, given to him last year by Maximilian. He felt a little odd putting them on; he was used to wearing a robe rather than a doublet, and not just in terms of comfort. His red, embroidered garments marked him as a wizard; people recognised his power and afforded him respect accordingly. In comparison, his luxurious garb only signalled wealth, which he did not have nor did he particularly wish to be associated with. But at least he would eat and drink well tonight, and he was happy to do Maximilian a favour in exchange.
As fifth bell rang, Martel joined his friend outside the Lyceum, where a carriage with the emblem of Marche already stood. "There you are, Martel. Let us get moving."
They both stepped inside, and the driver set the carriage into motion. Like Martel, Maximilian was dressed as exquisitely as money could buy.
"Are you ready for tonight?" asked the young viscount. "Tonight is important to my father, more so than usual."
"Of course. It's very simple magic. Just do as we agreed, and it'll be fine," Martel reassured him.
Maximilian grunted, but gave no other reply. His fingers drummed against his own knee. His usual exuberant mood seemed restrained by nerves, which Martel found a little amusing. It appeared that the mageknight felt more at ease walking into combat than attending a celebration hosted by his own family.
Martel assumed it was pressure exerted by his father that weighed Maximilian down. Another reason the fire acolyte was happy to be a commoner. The schemes and entanglements of the nobility seemed exhausting, and both of his friends were under such demands by their fathers. Maximilian to join the praetorians, and Eleanor to become an officer, both that they might rise in the ranks and gain influence for their houses.
It made Martel appreciate his own father all the more, who had never placed such burdens on Martel. The only times he had acted harshly were when Martel, either accidentally or through childish emotions, had used magic. A hefty slap across the face had taught Martel he should not do so again, though it had happened a few more times, as he had lacked control of his gift and could not always suppress it. It had always seemed unfair to Martel, being punished for something beyond his control, which only made him angry, exacerbating the problem.
It occurred to Martel that despite his other virtues, perhaps his father had also been flawed; in different ways than the fathers of Maximilian and Eleanor, but possibly with a similar outcome.
The carriage came to a halt. Lost in his own thoughts, Martel had not realised that they had arrived until he looked out and saw the estate of Marche, along with a multitude of other guests.
***
Once inside, they had to separate as Maximilian went to his father's side, greeting guests and exchanging pleasantries. Martel did not mind; he had little interest in talking to strangers, and he felt comfortable enough on his own. He hunted down something to eat and drink, retreating with his bounty to a niche between pillars in the grand hall. He admired the ornamental architecture and art on display, though having seen it before, it did not overwhelm him as it once had. He also kept an eye out for Eleanor, the only other person he would be inclined to speak with, but it was difficult to spot her in the sea of guests, all of them dressed extravagantly with countless glittering jewels.
A herald entered the centre of the hall, requesting attention and silence before announcing that tonight's entertainment was about to begin. Realising that was his cue, Martel quickly finished his cup, placed it on the floor, and made his way through the crowd. Warned by the herald of dangerous magic, the guests pushed back to create an empty space, where Martel and Maximilian entered. The former had picked up a sword and also carried a shield with the axe of Marche upon it.
Standing still, nothing betraying his efforts, Martel created a circle of fire to surround Maximilian. The flames were cold and harmless, but as all guests stood a good distance away, none of them could tell.
Inside the fire, Maximilian demonstrated a number of flourishes with great speed, proving his skill as a swordsman. The crowd responded with polite mumbles as endorsement, but as the mageknight suddenly stepped through the flames to leave the circle, their whispers grew excited.
Dismissing his first spell, Martel instead summoned bright flames to surround each of his hands, making them large and visible. He followed up by slapping his hands together and releasing a ray of flames straight at Maximilian, who held his physical shield up in defence. The spectators gasped seeing the bridge of fire from the battlemage to the mageknight, as the latter stepped forward, still shielding his face from the ray. contemporary romance
Sweating, not from heat but exertion, Martel increased the intensity of his spell until it set the wooden shield on fire. This accomplished, he released the spell entirely, and the bridge of flames disappeared, leaving only those devouring Maximilian's protection. The mageknight began sprinting forward, throwing his shield aside. Martel raised a wall of flames in front of him, though like his first magic, he kept them cold. With a mighty leap, Maximilian jumped through the fire and struck an imposing blow with his blunted blade.
Using the last of his spellpower, Martel summoned his shield, and it stopped Maximilian's weapon an inch from his neck; to outsiders unfamiliar with magic, it looked as if the mageknight had halted the entire momentum of his powerful swing, sparing the battlemage rather than slicing his neck open.
Martel dismissed any remaining magic. Maximilian pulled back his sword and turned around to bow at the audience, who responded with cheers and applause.
"Absolutely brilliant," the mageknight whispered. "I wager that is the best they have ever seen in my father's house."
"I got some advice from our friends at The Golden Goose," Martel admitted with a satisfied smile. Seeing their host approach them in the centre of the otherwise empty circle, he stepped away, uninterested in any further attention.
As for Count Marche, he slapped one hand on his son's shoulder. "As always, the House of Marche are delighted to have you as guests! Tonight is even more auspicious than usual, as I have an announcement to make." He paused, allowing people to stick their heads together with curious murmurs to follow. "I am proud to announce the engagement of my son, Maximilian of Marche, to the daughter of the honourable Legate Fontaine, Lady Eleanor Fontaine!"
From the crowd, the legate appeared with his daughter by his arm, joining the count and his son. All of them smiled, bowing their heads as the guests clapped and shouted in approval.
As perhaps the only one, Martel remained quiet. He felt bothered, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was the reminder that their lives were moving along different trails. Maximilian would stay in Morcaster, Eleanor would join a legion to advance as an officer, and he would be sent wherever the Empire wanted him to bleed. Seeing her with a shy smile and a blush in her cheeks, either from emotions or cosmetics, Martel looked away, wondering when he might be able to leave the celebration.
