12
Fletcher could barely think with the noise that erupted around him, the shouts of angry men and women drowning his thoughts. He fell to his knees and covered his ears, trying to understand Sir Caulder’s story. With a racing heart, he turned over each fact, ignoring the clatter of the gavel and Zacharias’s roaring.
He knew it was nothing more than a last ditch attempt to save him, but he couldn’t help entertaining the idea for a moment. If he was Raleigh’s son, it would explain his ability to summon – found so rarely in commoners who were unrelated to the nobility. The timelines added up, more or less. But that was all. Just like Arcturus’s theory that he was his half-brother, there were huge holes that needed to be explained … as Rook was eager to point out.
‘This is laughable,’ Rook said, as the noise died down under the steely gaze of King Harold, who had stood once again to silence the crowd. ‘Even if we were to believe you – and we have reasons to suspect you would lie to protect Fletcher – why would that baby have ended up on the northern border, when Raleighshire is the most southern point of Hominum? What possible reason could Edmund Raleigh have to send his child there?’
‘Because he didn’t know who to trust!’ Sir Caulder growled, slamming his fist against the pulpit. ‘Somebody wanted his family dead, some ally of theirs had led the orcs right to their door. Lord Raleigh knew his son wouldn’t be safe anywhere in Hominum, so he sent him to the only place he knew that even the king himself couldn’t touch. To the elves.’
‘And then? The demon left him in Pelt because it got lost?’ Charles scoffed.
‘Lord Raleigh had died. The gryphowl was fading back into the ether, as all demons with dead masters do, no longer tethered to our world. It wasn’t going to make it to the elven border; I bet it was lucky to get as far as the Beartooth Mountains,’ Sir Caulder stated plainly, and Fletcher could see several nobles nodding in agreement. ‘So it left the boy as close to the border as it could, in a place where he would be discovered – just outside the gates of Pelt. Naked and alone, but crying loudly enough for a local blacksmith to find him.’
It made sense, Fletcher realised, if you took a leap of faith. But the boy could have been sent anywhere – an orphanage, a friend’s house. Would Lord Raleigh truly have sent his son to the elves? And that was if Sir Caulder was telling the truth in the first place. Fletcher shook his head. It was not enough, even if he hoped in his heart of hearts it was true.
‘Why?’ Charles blurted. ‘Why would you not tell anyone about it? About the baby, the secret entrance, all of it!’
Sir Caulder sighed and lowered his shoulders, avoiding Fletcher’s eyes. He hung his head, the courage gone out of him.
‘I was afraid. Afraid that if I tried to tell anyone, the betrayer would kill me to avoid suspicion. Afraid that if they found out the boy had escaped, they would go looking for him. That was why I took the post at Vocans, in the hope that he would somehow find his way to the Academy. And he did.’
There were cries of alarm as Zacharias stood suddenly, shrugging off King Harold’s hand as he advanced upon Sir Caulder.
‘I don’t believe a word of it. You’ve concocted this story to save your friend’s skin, at the expense of my dead friend’s memory!’ He bellowed the last words into Sir Caulder’s face, slamming his hands on either side of the podium. Sir Caulder did not even blink, instead calmly wiping a fleck of spittle from his face.
‘That is up to the king to decide. He can believe Fletcher is a noble and pardon him from this trumped up charge for the sake of his parents. Or he can do nothing and let him die,’ Sir Caulder said. He met Zacharias’s gaze, until the noble turned away in disgust.
‘Do you believe this, Harold?’ Zacharias asked in disbelief. ‘The man is clearly mad. Do not besmirch Edmund and Alice’s memory so this old crackpot can save the life of a murderer.’
Fletcher could see hope in King Harold’s eyes as he stood and, with a deep sigh, joined Zacharias in front of the high table. Fletcher felt that hope reflected in his own heart.
Before Harold could speak, Sir Caulder made one last plea, his voice trembling with emotion.
‘My king. I loved the Raleighs as if they were my own flesh and blood. I owe them my life and more, for my failure as their protector. I do this for them, so their child may live, not out of loyalty to a student.’
Harold held up a hand, silencing the old man.
‘It is a tall tale, one that I wish I had heard many years ago,’ King Harold remonstrated. ‘We started a war over the events of that night. To tell an incomplete version of that story verges on treason.’
‘Hear hear,’ Zacharias said, nodding in agreement.
‘But … I cannot in good conscience kill the lad, even if there is no way of proving his heritage. You, Zacharias, of all people, will understand that. I deem the boy a noble, and give him a full pardon, for the sake of the memory of Edmund and Alice Raleigh.’
It was over. Sir Caulder’s ruse had worked. Fletcher felt a flood of relief and Othello’s hand thumping him on the back. His first thought was of Berdon. There was so much he needed to tell him. He felt faint with happiness. Somehow, he had won.
But then, a cold, wavering voice cut through the air.
‘There is a way of proving it.’
It was the old king. Fletcher turned to see him being helped up by Lady Faversham. Now that he saw her in full view, Fletcher could tell she had been very attractive in her younger days, with delicate cheekbones and a cascade of silver hair falling to her waist. Her eyes, however, showed that her beauty was only skin deep, for they were filled with hatred.
‘The Raleighs had a unique demon, handed down over generations, before it was killed a few hundred years ago. That is why the crest on Sir Caulder’s uniform bears the image of a Manticore, is it not, my son?’ old King Alfric continued, taking a long cane from beside his seat and hobbling over to stand beside the others. Was this the man King Harold was so afraid of ? The wizened elder before him did not seem so formidable an opponent.
‘Do you remember the old tale of a second son who was stung by his older brother’s Manticore and inherited the gift through its venom? Not unlike our friend Lord Cavell, who became a summoner when he was burned by the flames of the criminal’s Salamander,’ old King Alfric said, nodding at Didric.
‘King Alfric, I beg—’ Arcturus began, but was silenced by a kick to the ribs from Jakov.
‘Eventually, that older brother died in the first dwarven rebellion, leaving the second son as heir,’ Alfric continued, ignoring Arcturus. ‘From then on, all of the firstborn children of his descendants, the Raleighs, were immune to Manticore venom.’
‘That is a fable, a story,’ Harold said, smiling at his father good-naturedly. ‘Even Edmund did not believe it. A thimbleful of Manticore venom is enough to kill ten men. Only a Manticore’s master could survive such a sting, and even then, only if it was administered by their own particular Manticore, in the same way that a Mite or an Arach’s owner is immune to their demon’s venom.’
Fletcher could tell Harold was speaking for the crowd’s benefit, though he already knew it from his demonology lessons. At the time he had thought it a useless piece of information. How wrong he had been.
‘Do not presume to lecture me like an incompetent child,’ Alfric snapped, limping up to Fletcher and examining his face. His eyes were cold and calculating, and they flashed with sadistic intent.
‘This boy should by all rights be executed – a punishment well befitting his heinous crime. I should not indulge your fantasy. It is preposterous to believe that this common guttersnipe is the son of the great Edmund and Alice Raleigh. The stink on him alone is proof enough for me.’ Alfric chuckled to himself and turned back to his son.
King Harold’s smile faded slightly, and he gave Fletcher a worried glance.
Despair gripped Fletcher’s heart once again, tightening with every second, like a vice. He swayed on his knees, and only Othello’s steadying hand kept him from falling.
‘I have a proposal,’ Alfric said, tapping his chin and gazing up at the rafters. ‘Let us administer the sting. If the boy dies, well, he was never Raleigh’s son and deserved the death that the jury prescribed. If he survives … you have my permission to pardon him.’
Harold reddened at being spoken to in such a manner. After all, he was king, and a full-grown man. He did not need his father’s permission to do anything. For a moment Fletcher saw him struggle with a decision, then he slumped his shoulders and gave his father a curt nod. He could not openly defy his father, not in such a public setting. Not yet.
‘I must object,’ Captain Lovett said, still seated on her bench. ‘A Manticore’s sting is a terrible death. It could take hours, all the time in terrible agony.’
‘Then we shall give him a full dose!’ Alfric snarled. ‘That should kill him quickly enough.’
‘That is not what I meant …’ Lovett started, but was cut short by Alfric’s raised hand.
‘Fortunately, there is a summoner in this room who owns a Manticore. Is that not so, Charles?’ Alfric said, pointing at the dark-haired Inquisitor.
‘A gift from my mother, when I joined the Inquisition,’ Charles Faversham said, bowing his head. ‘I believe you, in turn, gave the demon to her.’
‘I did indeed give it to my cousin,’ old King Alfric said. ‘I cannot deny that I have missed Xerxes, he was a favourite of mine for a good few years. Why don’t you summon him? I bet he hasn’t had a chance to sting something for a while.’
‘Yes, my liege,’ Charles said, falling to one knee. He clicked his finger at one of the guards, who went behind the high table and brought him a long tube. With practised ease, Charles slid out a roll of leather from within and unravelled it on the floor.
He lay his hand on the pentacle embossed upon it and closed his eyes, brow creased with concentration. The pentacle hummed into life, glowing a dull blue that shone even in the well-lit interior of the courtroom. Threads of white light appeared, knitting and merging into a formless mass that slowly took shape. In moments, an enormous creature had materialised, and Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat.
Xerxes was as large as a thoroughbred horse, towering above Fletcher. His limbs and body had the musculature of a lion, covered in a thick pelt of dark, violet fur. His mane was black and shaggy, but interspersed between the hairs were vicious spines that rattled as the creature shook its leonine head. He had a short, wide-mouthed muzzle, but his eyes seemed almost human, the irises a soft blue that bore into Fletcher’s own with hungry curiosity.
But all this was nothing compared to the black, scorpion tail erupting from the base of its spine, waving hypnotically like a snake about to strike. A droplet beaded on the glistening sting, yellow as pus and twice as viscous.
‘Ahhh, there’s the little scamp,’ Alfric said, shuffling closer and caressing the Manticore’s tail. ‘A beautiful specimen. I am glad you have cared for him so well.’
‘Little scamp?’ Othello uttered. ‘It’s a monster!’
Alfric’s eyes snapped to Othello.
‘Guards, get the dwarf away and someone hold Master Wulf down. I want muskets on Captains Arcturus and Lovett. Their sentiments for the boy might make them do something they would regret.’
Fletcher heard the click of flints being pulled back as the guards raised their weapons. Othello swore as Jakov gripped him by the hair and dragged him away, the chains scraping along the floor. But Fletcher saw nothing but those strange, hypnotic eyes, as the Manticore took a step forward.
‘I suggest everyone watch closely,’ Charles said jovially. ‘It is not often you see Manticore venom in action, especially not a full dose. Although those of you with weaker stomachs might wish to leave the room.’
The sting swayed back, bending like a bow at full stretch. It froze, perfectly still, as Xerxes waited for instruction from his master. Charles held up his hand, ready to give the order.
The Manticore purred with excitement, then there was a grip on Fletcher’s arm and he heard Didric’s voice croak in his ear.
‘Hold still. We wouldn’t want him to miss now, would we?’
Another, larger hand reached over his shoulder and tore open his jerkin, ripping the threadbare fabric to leave his chest exposed.
‘Your sacrifice is in vain, Fletcher,’ Zacharias hissed, and Fletcher felt his hot breath on the back of his neck. ‘You have done nothing but delay the inevitable. The dwarves will be put in their proper place, one way or another. It is a shame that you will not be there to see it.’
The two nobles pulled Fletcher’s arms apart, until he thought his shoulders would pop out of their sockets. He kneeled there as the Manticore took a final, deliberate step forward.
‘The prisoner is ready, my liege!’ Charles cried, his voice high with excitement. ‘Shall we begin the test?’
‘Do it,’ Alfric said simply.
Charles’s arm swung down and the sting came with it, hissing through the air. There was a grisly pop as the point broke through the skin below Fletcher’s sternum, and he cried out, for it felt like he had been run through with a sword. Then the bulbous sting pulsated as it injected the venom.
He sagged to the floor, feeling the liquid seethe within him, like acid in the blood. The pain gripped Fletcher then, as if the flesh within him was being cooked from the inside. His nerves screamed with agony, and his muscles seized and spasmed, leaving him kicking and twitching on the cold floor of the courtroom.
He could feel a blackness approaching and welcomed it with open arms. Anything would be better than this suffering. Even death.
As the blessed relief of unconsciousness took hold, he heard Didric cackling, as if from a great distance away.
‘Goodbye, Fletcher Wulf!’