Chapter 529: The Feast of Saint Agnes
The Feast of Saint Agnes
After a bath, Martel looked at the clothes in his chest. He should have asked what kind of clothing would be appropriate. A celebration suggested that he wore his finest, but this was an outpost, not a palace in Morcaster, and something resembling a uniform might be preferable.
In the end, he chose his silken shirt and doublet, along with his best trousers and nice shoes rather than boots. He had no mirror, so he could not be sure how his hair looked, but probably a mess. He had also begun to grow stubbles, and he had neither tools nor knowledge for how to shave. It was too late for such considerations; he had spent the day frivolously, enjoying the sun being a little warmer than usual, rather than think about his appearance.
Once dressed, he went outside to wait for Eleanor, who emerged from her tent moments later. "Shall we?"
Martel glanced at her attire, which was the typical black tunic. "Nothing formal?"
"If I ever wear a dress in this place, I will lose any authority I might have over these soldiers. No, it is twenty years of men's clothing for me."
"Now I feel overly dressed."
She shrugged. "It is nice to see you as something other than a prefect or firemage. Come on, let us be on our way." Martel nodded and reached out his hand, dispatching his magic to sweep ahead of them. "What was that?"
"Just freezing the ground. I don't want mud on these shoes."
"You have your uses."
***
From the outside, the legate's house looked as it had on their first visit, except for cracks of light from within shining through the shutters. As they entered, Martel noticed attempts at decorating the atrium with whatever flowers could be gathered this early in the year; he wondered if magic had been involved to make them bloom.
The master and mistress of the house met them, both dressed as if attending a celebration at the Imperial palace. "Welcome," the legate said gruffly, "to the feast of Saint Agnes."
"Thank you for the invitation," Eleanor replied with a bow. contemporary romance
"Yeah, thanks," Martel added. He already felt uncomfortable.
"You are the last woman to arrive, so my task here is done," the legate's wife declared, and she took Eleanor by the arm. "So glad to have another to add to our number. Come, the others await us in the dining hall."
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As the two women left, the legate looked at his battlemage. "Others are on the terrace. Go on." He made a throw with his head, and Martel went in that direction.
Entering the terrace, he saw most of the male mageknights had arrived as well. The older one, Lucius, made a throat sound presumably in greeting, and Martel nodded at him. Another, Valerius, moved over to place a cup in Martel's hand. "To your health!" he declared.
"And yours," Martel answered, taking a sip. A servant came in carrying a tray of vegetables wrapped in thin slices of meat, and each of the mageknights helped themselves. "So, how often does celebrations like this happen?"
"Couple of times a year," Valerius told him. "I think it depends on whether the legate can attract anyone to provide entertainment."
"What about tonight?"
"Oh, the saint's feast always happens, so he has an arrangement with a group of musicians. They always come," the mageknight explained. "I imagine they get paid well to make the miserable journey here."
"Our battlemage joins us." The decurion whose name, Martel had learned, was Dominic Char stepped towards them. "Since yesterday was salary day, you may want to invest in a razing knife. Even if only a few blades of grass grow on your lawn."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Ah, let the young man be," Lucius declared. "Tonight's a feast!"
"It seems to be every night for you," Valerius interjected.
"Drink tonight, for tomorrow you may be dead," the old mageknight responded, emptying his cup.
"I noticed a curious sight. Our good camp prefect, he has enchanted light in his tent," the decurion continued, staring straight at Martel.
"If you ask nicely, you can have one as well," the battlemage retorted.
"Strange, though. I thought they sent us a battlemage, not an enchanter. If we enter a fight, will you throw glowing rocks at them?"
Martel understood; he would never become friends with this particular mageknight. But if he could not gain friendship, he would use the decurion to gain respect. "If you worry about my abilities, I would be happy to demonstrate them. We could go outside right now." He looked demonstratively at the dagger in Dominic's belt.
The other mageknights all took notice; even Lucius ceased drinking, and their heads turned towards the decurion, who smiled. "A saint's feast is not the occasion. But tomorrow, at the noon bell? I am sure the camp would be thrilled to see what a battlemage can do."
"They won't be disappointed."
Dominic's smile widened. "Excellent."
Henry the stonemage entered at this point; some of the mageknights greeted him while others began a quiet discussion about what promised to be an entertaining morrow. "Did I miss something?" he asked, approaching Martel.
"Come to the camp tomorrow at noon, and you'll see."
The legate entered as well. "Since we are all here, let us not delay. If you will proceed to the wintergarden, the musicians should be ready, and we may begin the celebration."
The mageknights filed inside towards the designated area, where chairs had been placed in a semicircle. At the centre of the room and thus the attention, a trio wearing masks and costumes stood, each holding a different instrument. A flute, a harp, and a lute.
The women arrived as well; as far as Martel could tell, they were all mageknights. Eleanor sat down next to him. "How are you enjoying yourself?"
"I'll tell you after the performance."
Arriving as the last, the master and mistress of the domicile took the central seats. Receiving the signal to begin, the musicians began playing the elegy of Saint Agnes.
