38
Fletcher had stormed out of Arcturus’s office. He was full of anger; but who with, he did not know. Ignatius spent much of the night hissing, small rings of smoke puffing from his nostrils as the others laughed and joked at dinner.
‘I may not be sure who I’m angry at but you definitely haven’t a clue, have you?’ Fletcher murmured under his breath, scratching Ignatius’s chin. It was quite funny to see the little demon’s confused agitation, which cheered Fletcher up somewhat.
Fletcher had managed to laugh off his meeting with Arcturus to the others, claiming that he had just been scolded like a naughty schoolboy. Of all his new friends, only Othello noticed his despondency, knocking on his door after they had all gone to bed. Fletcher decided to tell him everything – after all, he needed to return the level of trust Othello and his family had placed in him. But Othello was unimpressed with Arcturus’s story.
‘It sounds like Arcturus is reading too much into it if you want my opinion,’ Othello said, scratching at his beard. ‘He must be desperate to find more of his family and is ignoring several things to make your story fit with his own. I have heard of Lady Faversham, for entirely different reasons. She is the old King’s cousin and was famous for her great beauty, back in the day. I sincerely doubt that after Lord Faversham’s behaviour came to light that old King Alfric would have allowed the lord to continue shaming his royal cousin in this manner. Nor would his son, King Harold.’
‘But what if he did? What if he had a moment of weakness, years after it all came out?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Even assuming that he would be so foolish, why were you abandoned just outside of Pelt? Surely the desperate woman in question would leave you in an orphanage or doorstep in Boreas, not somewhere as obscure and far from the city as Pelt. I mean, it’s almost on the elven border!’ Othello exclaimed.
‘Maybe she didn’t want me to end up in a workhouse like Arcturus did,’ Fletcher replied, equally as stubborn, although he was not quite sure why he was supporting Arcturus’s side of the argument.
‘If she cared enough to do that, then why did she leave you to freeze in the snow, with not a stitch of clothing or a blanket? No, Fletcher, there is more to it than that. Don’t be disheartened by Arcturus’s theory. Just be glad you have him on your side and that you had the good fortune to run into him in Corcillum.’
With those words, Othello went to bed and left Fletcher feeling considerably better but a lot more confused.
‘Who the hell am I?’ Fletcher whispered in the darkness. Ignatius mewled in sympathy and burrowed his head into Fletcher’s chest.
Despite the events of the day, Fletcher’s sleep that night was the undisturbed and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.
The noviciates waited in the summoning room for their next lesson in etherwork. Fletcher was hoping to see Lovett, but knew that it was far more likely that Arcturus would be taking the lesson. His attempts to visit the infirmary had been in vain – Dame Fairhaven had seen to that. She informed Fletcher that she was sure Captain Lovett would not like to be pestered by her students whilst in her paralysed state, and that her reading to Lovett was enough to keep the captain entertained. The discovery that Lovett was completely paralysed but conscious of her surroundings only increased Fletcher’s desire to see her, but the door was closed firmly in his face.
‘Nice togs,’ Genevieve said, giving him a thumbs-up. Fletcher smiled and fingered the collar of his new jacket.
Uhtred had been as good as his word, sending Fletcher a beautiful dark blue uniform as well as his sword with the morning deliveries. The gold buttons on his jacket and pants had even been embossed with the curling silhouette of a Salamander, much to Fletcher’s delight. The scabbard was of the finest quality, made from firm black leather and burnished steel. Fletcher saw that the sword had also been whetted and was accompanied by an oiled cloth and a reminder for Fletcher to look after his weapon, as it was a tool of the finest workmanship.
He was glad to have it, as he had been forced to use a wooden stick whilst Sir Caulder took him and the other commoners through the basics of swordplay. The noble children had all been tutored from an early age and had not accompanied them, though Malik and Penelope had briefly watched from the sidelines before becoming bored and leaving. When Fletcher asked why they were being taught to battle each other after what Sir Caulder had told him about fighting orcs, Sir Caulder had snapped, ‘The tournament, boy. They’ll be having you fencing and God knows what else. No use having all you commoners lose in the first round because you’ve only been taught how to fight a seven-foot savage instead of a noble with a rapier.’
The reminder of the tournament had filled Fletcher with dread and sent him running to the library, where he had buried himself in books. He had not been alone – most of the other commoners accompanied him. Growing up with fully-qualified battlemages for parents had put the noble noviciates far ahead of their common counterparts, breezing through most of the teachers’ questions with little difficulty.
There were thousands of demons to learn the names, measurements, strengths and weaknesses of, even if most of them could not be found in the part of the ether that Hominum’s summoners had access to. The eighteen Canid breeds alone had taken Fletcher most of the weekend.
The sound of the door slamming behind him broke into his thoughts. A tall, slender man had entered the summoning room. At first Fletcher thought that it was Arcturus, but when the man stepped into the wyrdlight, he saw that his uniform was different, cut from black cloth with silver trimming. His face was sallow and bearded, with small black eyes that glittered as they surveyed the students.
‘My full title is Inquisitor Damian Rook, but you may call me sir. I will be instructing you in the art of etherwork until Captain Lovett has recovered from her . . . accident. Fortunately for you, Scipio has decided to hire a more competent teacher this time around.’
His words earned a smirk from Tarquin and a discreet titter from Isadora, much to Fletcher’s disgust. Rook ignored this and turned to the commoners, studying them through hooded eyes.
‘My my, it feels as if it was only yesterday that I tested you,’ Rook said, in a low voice that commanded absolute obedience. ‘Genevieve, Rory, Seraph, Atlas, as well as the dwarf and the elf, will stand in a line over there.’
Fletcher’s friends moved with alacrity, lining up against the far wall. Rook ignored them and instead scrutinised Fletcher and the nobles, walking around them as if they were horses on sale.
‘A good turnout this year. Tarquin, Isadora, it is good to see you here. I hope your father is well?’ he inquired.
‘Aye, sir, though it has been several months since last I saw him,’ Tarquin replied, with unusual politeness. Fletcher wondered what kind of man would command the respect of a noble like Tarquin. How did they know each other?
‘You are clearly a Saladin, if I am not mistaken,’ Rook continued, stopping in front of the olive-skinned boy.
‘I am Malik Saladin, son of Baybars Saladin, hailing from the lands of Antioch,’ Malik replied, jutting his chin out proudly.
‘Of course. Your father’s Anubid fought right alongside my Minotaur at Watford Bridge. Were you fortunate enough to be gifted it?’
‘No, sir, Father has more use for it than I. But I have been given a juvenile Anubid, that was captured before I came here.’
‘Good. You will have need of it soon.’ Rook turned to the next noble, Penelope.
‘And you are?’
‘Penelope Colt . . . from Coltshire.’ She curtsied nervously. This earned her a noncommittal grunt from Rook, who moved on to the last noble, the small, mousy haired boy who Fletcher had seen following Tarquin around like a lapdog.
‘I’m . . . My name is Rufus Cavendish, from the Cavendish Downs,’ the boy stuttered.
‘Cavendish Downs. I have not heard of it. Who are your parents?’ Rook asked, his black eyes boring into Rufus’s face like a hawk’s.
‘My mother died when I was young. She was Captain Cavendish. My father is not of noble blood.’
‘I see,’ Rook said disinterestedly, then turned away. Clearly the Cavendishes were not a noble family of significant standing or importance.
He turned his baleful gaze upon Fletcher, his small eyes flicking from his sword to the golden buttons of his uniform.
‘And you? Where are you from?’
Fletcher hesitated, then ventured. ‘I am from the north, sir, near Boreas. My name is Fletcher.’
‘A Faversham, then? I did not know that they had a child who was of age. How have you escaped my notice?’
Tarquin’s voice cut in before Fletcher could respond.
‘He’s not a noble, sir. He’s just a pleb.’
‘Preposterous. I am an Inquisitor, I know the name of every common adept. Who are you, boy?’
‘I . . . was sponsored, sir. I read a summoning scroll that I . . . found . . . and summoned a demon. Arcturus discovered me and brought me here.’
‘Did your parents not think to send you to the Inquisitors as soon as they discovered you were an adept? And Arcturus found you? He is not allowed north of Corcillum, how did he come by you?’
‘I’m an orphan, si—’
‘An ORPHAN!’ Rook hissed, interrupting him.
‘Yes, but it’s not what you think!’ Fletcher cried, realising what Rook must be imagining.
‘He’s broken the rules! The arrogant bastard thinks he can cheat the agreement he made with the old King, sending summoning scrolls to Boreas’s orphans in secret! Oh, I’ve got him now!’ Rook spat with glee.
‘He didn’t!’ Fletcher shouted.
‘Quiet! We thought we had seen the last of your ilk long ago. Lady Faversham shall hear of this,’ he hissed, prodding Fletcher hard in the chest.
‘You’re wrong! Ask the Provost!’ Fletcher yelled.
‘Oh, I will, don’t you worry. But it can wait. We have to measure everyone’s fulfilment levels first. Follow me, all of you!’
They trooped behind Rook as he led them out of the summoning room and up the stairs of the west wing, all the way to the top and then down the corridor to the southwestern tower. Only Othello understood what had just transpired, laying a comforting hand on Fletcher’s shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, it will all get straightened out,’ he whispered in Fletcher’s ear.
The others eyed him with a mix of suspicion and confusion, but the silence that hung in the corridors prevented them from asking him any questions. Tarquin and Isadora were positively skipping, though whether it was because of Fletcher’s public humiliation or the coming lesson, he was not sure.
This tower contained no spiral staircase. Instead, it was a huge tube of empty space, with the floors knocked through on every level. An enormous pillar stood in the centre of the room, made up of many segments that were embedded with multicoloured Corundum crystals. It stretched all the way to the top of the tower, glittering as beams of light cut across it from arrow slits in the old tower walls.
‘This is a fulfilmeter, the largest of its kind. Each segment represents one fulfilment level. By touching the base, a summoner or demon can discover what level they are. Now, who shall go first?’ he mused, looking only at the nobles. ‘Malik, if you are anything like your father, you will impress. Lay your hand on the base stone. Let us see what calibre of summoners we have here today.’
Malik strode forward without hesitation, kneeling at the first segment and pressing his hand into the base of it. For a moment nothing happened, then suddenly the crystals on the first segment glowed with fierce intensity, lighting the room with kaleidoscopic beams of light. A dull pulse of sound echoed in the room, followed by another as the next segment flared into light. More followed, until fourteen segments had been lit. Malik held his hand there for a further minute before Rook pulled him to his feet, flickering out the lights as the hand was removed.
‘Well done, boy. The average for a noble-born is eight when they first start, so you are above the curve. Soon you will be a level twenty like your father. Next!’
Isadora flicked her mane of ringlets and stepped forward, pressing her hand to the fulfilmeter. Again the dull sound echoed, followed by the scattered lights. Twelve this time.
‘The Forsyth blood is strong. Zacharias will be proud,’ Rook said, helping Isadora to her feet.
Tarquin followed suit, lighting up twelve again.
‘Twins usually have the same fulfilment level, but it is worth checking,’ Rook muttered, half to himself, as he shook Tarquin’s hand. Fletcher’s heart felt like a stone in his chest as Tarquin pushed past him roughly to stand at the back. They were all so powerful – Lovett was only level eleven!
Penelope was a level seven, but she seemed happy, smiling and nodding as she stood up. Rufus was a level nine, a result that earned him a backslap from Tarquin and a grunt of approval from Rook.
‘Now for the commoners. You first, dwarf. A level eight, at least, from what I hear, given that you were able to summon a Golem. The average for commoners is five of course, but then you are a special case.’
‘Why do commoners have lower fulfilment levels, sir?’ Rory asked, shuffling his feet.
‘I say bad breeding,’ Rook sneered. ‘But the official answer is that nobles grow up amongst demons and are gifted their own well in advance of arriving at the academy, allowing them to increase their fulfilment level over the years by practising basic spellcraft and infusion. You will be starting with the level you were born with, since you have had no time to build yours. That is another reason why commoners usually start with Scarab Mites. No use capturing a demon you might not even be capable of controlling – not that you deserve anything better. It seems as if some of you have been particularly lucky this year.’
Othello had pressed his hand to the fulfilmeter by then, interrupting Rory’s response as it began to glow again. The segments lit up one by one, vibrating the room with ten dull throbs.
‘Ten! It looks as if dwarves may have a knack for summoning! I shall let the King know at once. Very interesting indeed . . .’ Rook said, motioning for Sylva to take Othello’s place. Fletcher caught Othello’s worried expression. Why tell the King? Would Othello’s result mean the dwarves were better allies than the King had thought . . . or an even greater threat?
‘Elves usually start at seven, or at least they used to. Go ahead anyway. You’ve had your Canid for a few months now.’ Sylva was indeed seven, though the eighth segment flickered for a brief second.
‘Good, you’re close to moving up a level. Work hard and you will be able to capture a Mite in addition to your Canid.’
Genevieve was exactly five. Seraph surprised everyone with a seven and Atlas managed a four, much to his chagrin.
‘I hope you’re better off than me,’ Atlas groaned as an ashen-faced Rory hurried past.
This time the fulfilmeter stuttered, then two segments glowed into life. After a full thirty seconds, a third segment flickered on. Rook grabbed his arm and began to pull him away.
‘No!’ Rory yelled. ‘Give me a little more time, there’s more!’
‘There’s no more, boy. That’s all the demonic energy you can absorb. You are a level-three summoner. Be happy it’s not less.’ He wrenched Rory up and pushed him back into the crowd of commoners.
‘Now for the bastard. Let’s see what we have here,’ Rook said, pushing Fletcher to his knees.
Fletcher closed his eyes and pressed his hand on to the fulfilmeter. The gems were cool against his palm, like polished ice. He felt the draw of mana as it was sucked away, pulsing through his veins and out through his fingers. Then something else was pushed back into him. It was not mana, for it was like fire that boiled his blood and tingled his skin.
He didn’t want to look up, but the dull vibration let him know exactly how many segments were lighting up. Five so far. Then six. On the seventh he felt the flow ebb, but still it pushed into him. Eight . . . the gush slowed to a treacle. Finally, just as he thought there was nothing left, a ninth buzz echoed through the room. Relief flooded through him, but he felt pity for Rory at the same time. James Baker had been a level-three summoner.
‘Well, well, colour me surprised. Who would have thought it? No matter. Fletcher will be here as long as it takes for me to discover evidence that Arcturus sent him a summoning scroll. Bastard children have not been allowed to attend Vocans since old King Alfric decreed it, on the bequest of Lady Faversham. Nor are any of the old bastards allowed to search new bastards out. That includes Arcturus.’ Rook’s words drew a gasp from the commoners. Arcturus’s secret was out.
‘No doubt you will have a new teacher soon, once I have got rid of him,’ Rook said with a grin.
‘For the last time, he did not send me a summoning scroll. If you must know, it was an orc shaman’s scroll that I was given by a passing tradesman,’ Fletcher said through gritted teeth.
Rook stared at him for a moment, then unclipped a leather cylinder from his belt. He removed a brown roll from inside and unravelled it on the stone floor. It was a summoning leather.
‘Show me,’ he said, pointing at it.
Ignatius materialised as soon as Fletcher released him, as if he was eager to come out. He snapped at Rook’s hand, causing the man to jerk back with a scowl.
‘Well . . . isn’t this a turn up,’ Rook murmured, rubbing his chin broodily with long, spindly fingers. ‘All right, let’s find out what fulfilment level it is. Major Goodwin will want to know. We have never tested a Salamander before.’
Fletcher gathered up Ignatius in his arms and touched the demon’s tail to the fulfilmeter. It hummed into life. The first four segments lit up in quick succession. But then, to Fletcher’s shock, the fifth segment flickered almost hesitantly. Tarquin burst out laughing.
‘Hah! Salamanders are barely level five. And you thought you could take on a level-eight Hydra and a level-seven Felid with only a Golem to help you! That’s a two-level difference, you foolish pleb bastard.’
‘I thought you said our demons were out in order to scare the Shrike away,’ Fletcher replied, fighting to keep his rage in check. Nobody, not even Didric, had ever spoken to him in that manner. ‘Would you like to change your story?’
Tarquin spluttered, but was interrupted by Rook.
‘Silence! We will return to the summoning room immediately! The lesson is not over yet.’
The journey back to the summoning room was even more tense than the last. Othello was lost in deep thought, whilst Rory’s face was the picture of abject misery as he trudged at the back of the group. Genevieve tried her best to console him, but he stared ahead blankly, as if he could not hear what she said. Gone was the boisterous boy with his playful banter.
When they arrived, Rook had already instructed some servants to carry in a heavy column, which they struggled to lift upright. It was similar to the fulfilmeter, only instead of several gemstones, each segment was made up of a single red gem the size of a man’s fist. Rook tapped it nonchalantly, lighting one of the stones with each touch of his finger.
‘Your teacher preferred to do things the old way, powering the portal herself. But I consider the risks of entering the ether differently. This is a charging stone. One can fill it with mana, to use at a later date. It is one of the tools we use for powering the great shields over the front lines, charging it in the day so that we do not need to power them all night. But we will be using it for a different purpose. Together we shall keep it on a constant full charge and attach it to the portals we use when entering the ether. That way, if someone’s concentration slips, their portal will not close prematurely. We can’t afford to lose a Hydra now can we? They no longer exist in our part of the ether.’
Tarquin smirked and nudged Isadora. Seraph raised his hand.
‘Why are they extinct in this part of the ether? Surely we haven’t captured them all?’
Rook sighed dramatically and then nodded his head, as if he had decided to humour a stupid question.
‘See these keys on the edge of the pentacles? Those are coordinates, rough ones to the same piece of land in the ether. Every summoner for the past two thousand years has hunted the same land, capturing multitudes of demons. Of course, during that time we went to war with the orcs, not to mention the dwarven rebellions after that. Many of our demons died in battle, and we needed more to replace them. Soon the wild demons learned to stay away from our part of the ether, or maybe we wiped out all the rarer ones. Whatever happened, only a few species remain. Every now and again, a rare demon, such as a Griffin, will wander into the land. Usually it will be a demon that has been injured or is sick. Other times demons migrate over our tract of land, like the Shrikes.’
‘So that’s why we need the orc keys,’ Genevieve sighed, as realisation dawned on her.
‘We don’t need the orc keys!’ Rook snapped. ‘The common, weak demons are for commoners. Nobles inherit the older and rarer demons from their parents. It keeps everyone in their natural place. The orcs send nothing but low-level demons at us anyway, which just goes to show that their coordinates are no better than ours. It is a waste of time and resources trying to find out what their keys are.’
Genevieve bit her lip and stepped back, cowed by his sharp tongue. Fletcher did not understand why Rook was so against finding the keys. Surely it could benefit Hominum? But all the man seemed to care about was the petty imbalance of power and rank between common adepts and nobles.
‘Now, the charging stone will only have enough power to work with five students a week. So, until the tournament is over, the nobles shall be the only ones allowed to enter the ether. After that we shall see about allowing you commoners to use it.’
As Rory let out a sob of despair and the others began to cry out in protest, Fletcher could only think one thing.
I wish Captain Lovett were here.