18
Fletcher pushed the door open to find a short corridor with a row of doors on either side. The door slammed shut behind him as a draught came gusting in from a loophole at the very end of the passageway. He frowned at the sight of it; it was going to be a long, cold winter if this kept up.
He heard movement from the nearest room and knocked, hoping he was not waking them. The door opened at his touch; perhaps the wind had blown it ajar.
‘Hello?’ he asked, pushing it open.
Suddenly he was on his back, slavering teeth snapping at him as a heavy weight held him down. He managed to grip the creature by its throat, but it took all his strength to keep the fangs from closing on his neck. As saliva dripped on to his face, Fletcher’s imp clawed across the monster’s muzzle with a screech, but all that did was cause the creature to yawp in pain with each gnash of its teeth.
‘Down, Sariel! He has learned his lesson,’ came a lilting voice from above. Immediately the creature stopped its attack and sat back on Fletcher’s chest. Still helpless, Fletcher gazed up at it, seeing a Canid almost as large as Sacharissa; the size of a small pony. Yet where Sacharissa had wiry, black fur, this demon’s hair was as blond and curling as a Corcillum lady’s ringlets. Its snout was longer and more refined, with a wet black nose that sniffed at him.
‘Get it off me!’ Fletcher managed to gasp through gritted teeth. It felt like a tree had fallen on him and was crushing his chest.
The creature stepped off and sat panting behind the door, its four malevolent eyes still fixed on Fletcher’s face.
‘I shall be writing to the clan chieftains about this! Put with the commoners in a room smaller and less comfortable than a jail cell, which of course is broken into by a young ruffian on the first morning. I had thought when they gave me Sariel that they were taking our peace talks seriously. Now I know I was mistaken,’ the voice railed, full of bitterness and anger.
Fletcher sat up and looked at the speaker, dazed as the blood rushed back to his head. His eyes widened as he saw long diamond shaped ears that cut through silvery hair. A delicate face looked at him through large eyes that were the colour of a clear blue sky. They were filled with distrust and almost looked on the verge of tears. Fletcher was talking to a pale elfish girl, dressed in a lacy nightgown.
He averted his eyes and turned away, speaking up in his defence. ‘Steady on. I was only trying to say hello. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Frighten me? I’m not frightened; I’m angry! Didn’t anyone tell you that these are the girls’ quarters? You’re not allowed in here!’ the elf screeched like a banshee, and slammed the door in Fletcher’s face. He cursed at his stupidity.
‘You moron,’ he muttered to himself.
‘That didn’t sound like it went very well,’ Rory said from behind him, a sympathetic look on his face as he poked his head through the common-room door. Fletcher felt a fool.
‘Why didn’t you tell me these were the girls’ quarters?’ Fletcher snapped, his face reddening as he stormed back into the main chamber.
‘I didn’t know, honest! I guess it makes sense though, now that I think about it, with Genevieve in this bit and there being a spare room next door . . .’ Rory trailed behind him.
‘It’s fine. Just make sure you smarten up before teaching starts, or you’ll embarrass us in front of the nobles,’ Fletcher said, then regretted it. Rory’s cheerful expression faded, and Fletcher took a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry. You’re not to blame. It’s not every day you get a Canid trying to tear your throat out.’ He forced a smile and patted Rory on the back. ‘You were saying something about a spare room?’
‘Sure! Since you’re the last here, all the best rooms have gone. I had a look when I moved in; it’s not great.’
They walked into an almost identical corridor, except for an extra door that had been built at the very end. It looked like an afterthought, more a glorified broom cupboard than anything else.
But the inside was more spacious than Fletcher had hoped for, with a comfortable-looking bed, a large wardrobe and a small writing desk. He grimaced at the open loophole in the wall; he was going to have to stuff it later. There was a uniform folded up on the end of the bed; a navy coloured double-breasted jacket with matching trousers. Fletcher shook it out and groaned. It was threadbare and torn, the brass buttons hanging so loosely that one dangled an inch beneath where it was supposed to be.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll take a look at it for you after breakfast. My mother was a seamstress,’ Genevieve said from the doorway.
‘Thanks,’ Fletcher said, though he wasn’t sure how salvageable it was.
‘So what was she like?’ Genevieve asked, her eyes flashing with curiosity. ‘Is she a southerner like me?’
‘She’s . . . I’m not sure exactly,’ Fletcher said, avoiding the question. Now that he had ruined the girl’s morning, he didn’t want to start gossiping about her as well. Best to let her present herself to the others in her own way. His mind was still reeling from the presence of an elf at the academy. Weren’t they the enemy?
His thoughts were interrupted by the emergence of the imp, who tumbled from his hood to inspect their new abode. The little demon brushed the uniform on to the floor with a flick of its tail, then hummed with content as it rolled on to its back and scratched itself against the rough fabric of the bed covers. Rory’s eyes widened at the sight and Fletcher smiled to himself.
‘What’s a Canid?’ Rory pondered aloud as they walked back into the main chamber. They were soon followed by the imp, who clambered on to Fletcher’s shoulder and surveyed their surroundings with a protective glare.
‘You’ll find out soon enough. They aren’t easy to describe. If your Mites are beetle-demons then I would say a Canid is a dog-demon, if that makes sense,’ Fletcher replied proudly, glad to finally know more about summoning than someone else.
‘Our demons are called Mites?’ Genevieve asked, holding out a palm and letting her blue beetle settle on her hand.
‘I’m not sure; I heard the Provost use the word,’ Fletcher replied, sitting down at the table.
‘Oh well, I just call mine Malachi. Like malachite. You know, because of his colouring,’ Rory said, letting the green beetle scuttle up his arm.
‘Mine is called Azura,’ Genevieve declared, holding the demon to one of the torchlights so that Fletcher could see the cerulean blue of the creature’s carapace. Fletcher paused, feeling awkward as they looked at him expectantly.
‘What’s yours called?’ Rory prompted, as if Fletcher was slow.
‘I . . . I haven’t really had a chance to name him yet,’ Fletcher muttered with embarrassment. ‘I know he is a Salamander demon, though. Maybe you can help me think up a name over breakfast.’
‘Of course! He’s got a lovely colour to him; I’m sure we can think of something,’ Rory exclaimed.
‘Could we stay away from colours?’ Fletcher said, hoping to come up with something more original. ‘He’s a fire demon. Maybe we can use that.’
As Rory began to answer, a stern-looking matron walked into the room with a heavy basket of sheets and linens.
‘Be off with you! I need to clean. You can wait downstairs with the others instead of getting into mischief up here,’ she scolded, shooing them down the stairs.
‘Shouldn’t we tell the other two?’ Genevieve looked back up as they tramped down the winding staircase.
‘No,’ Fletcher blurted, hoping to avoid the elf for at least another few minutes. ‘The matron will let them know when she gets to their rooms.’
They shrugged and led him the long way down the corridor, making suggestions for names. Fletcher’s imp went back to sleep with a yawn, oblivious to the debate. Fletcher was starting to wonder whether he was allowing the demon to be lazy, as he watched Malachi and Azura zipping around their owners’ heads.
They eventually reached the ground floor and Fletcher was led through the atrium, mouthing an apology at Jeffrey, who was still polishing the floor they were treading on. The boy rolled his eyes with a sad smile and went back to his work.
They walked through the set of large double doors opposite the main entrance across the atrium. This room’s ceiling was substantially lower, yet it was still a huge space that echoed with their footsteps. Large, unlit chandeliers hung at intervals above three rows of long stone tables and benches. The centre of the room was dominated by a statue of a bearded man dressed in elaborate armour, carved with startling attention to detail.
Fletcher was surprised to find only two boys sitting there, spooning porridge into their mouths with gusto. One had black hair and olive skin; he must have been from a village on the border of the Akhad Desert in eastern Hominum. He was handsome, with a chiselled jaw and lively eyes that were hooded with long lashes.
The other boy was chubby, with closely cropped brown hair and a hearty red face. Both waved at him as a servant handed him a tray of porridge, jam and warm bread. When he sat they immediately introduced themselves; the fatter boy was called Atlas and the other Seraph.
‘Is it just you two? Where are the second years?’ Fletcher asked, confused.
‘We eat before they do, thank heavens!’ Atlas mumbled, abandoning his spoon to slurp the porridge up from the edge of the bowl.
‘They need their extra sleep, what with the stress of their more . . . practical lessons,’ Seraph explained, looking at Atlas with a bemused expression. ‘They even have field trips to the frontier once a week. I can’t wait to be in their shoes.’
‘Wait until you’ve been there,’ Genevieve muttered, a hint of sadness in her voice, Fletcher noticed. He knew enough about the front lines to sense that she might have lost someone close to her. Perhaps she was an orphan, like him.
‘Where are your demons?’ Fletcher changed the subject. ‘Have you got Mites like the others?’ He was desperate to see more demons.
‘No, none yet,’ Atlas said with a hint of jealousy. ‘We’re still waiting. They said the teachers would be giving us ours tomorrow. They only had two demons on the day we all arrived.’
‘It was the smart move,’ Seraph said, half to himself. ‘They asked me if I wanted to take one of the Mites or wait. I did my homework, asked some of the servants. Mites are the weakest. It’s better to wait for the chance of a bigger prize.’
Fletcher was intrigued by the mention of better demons. He tried to remember what he had glimpsed in the paintings and carvings around the castle. If only Jeffrey hadn’t been in such a hurry. Still, there would be plenty of time for that later.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Rory replied, defensive. ‘I wouldn’t trade Malachi for anything.’
Seraph held his hands up in surrender. ‘I meant no offence. I am sure I will feel the same way about my demon when I eventually receive it, Mite or no Mite.’
Rory grunted and went back to his meal.
‘What other kinds of demons do you know of? I’ve only heard of four,’ Fletcher asked Seraph, who seemed to know the most in the group. But before the handsome boy could answer there was a gasp from Atlas. The fat cadet was staring at the door. Fletcher turned and saw what had caused it. A dwarf had entered the room . . . and he had a demon with him.