‘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 includ
es 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.
39
Fletcher hissed in frustration as the symbol he had etched flickered in the air, then died.
‘Again, Fletcher. Concentrate!’ Arcturus barked. ‘Remember the steps!’
Fletcher lifted his glowing finger and drew the shield spell glyph again. It hung in the air in front of his hand as he fed it a slow stream of mana.
‘Good. Now fix it!’ Arcturus growled.
Fletcher focussed on the symbol, holding his finger in its exact centre. He held it there until the symbol’s light pulsed briefly and Fletcher felt it lock into place. He moved his hand and watched the symbol follow his finger, as if held in front of it by an invisible frame. Sweat trickled down his back like a creeping insect, but Fletcher ignored it. It was taking everything he had to hold his concentration.
‘Push the mana through, steady now! You need to feed the glyph at the same time.’
This was the hardest part. Fletcher felt as if his mind would split in two as he tried to juggle a simultaneous flow of mana both to and through the glyph.
It wavered once again, but Fletcher gritted his teeth and forced a thin stream of opaque substance through it and out of the other side.
‘Yes! You’ve done it. Now, while we are ahead, try shaping it,’ Arcturus urged.
There was not much shield energy to work with, but Fletcher didn’t want to risk pushing more through, in case he destabilised the connection. Just as he had done with the wyrdlight in his first lesson, he rolled it into a ball.
‘Well done! But this isn’t wyrdlight. For shields, you need to stretch them out. Go on, you might not get another chance to try this lesson.’
But Fletcher could not hold the glyph steady any longer. It flared briefly, then dissolved into nothingness. Moments later, the shield ball did the same.
‘All right. We will try again next lesson. Take a break, Fletcher,’ Arcturus murmured, his voice laced with disappointment.
Fletcher clenched his hands into fists, furious with himself. All around the atrium, the other students were having much greater success. The nobles were the best, of course, practising by varying the thickness and shape of their shields, having already been versed in spellcraft at home. Malik was particularly gifted, producing a curved shield so thick that it was hard to see through it.
Most of his friends were already able to create a shield with every attempt, except for Rory and Atlas, who managed on every other try. Fletcher, on the other hand, had only succeeded once in the past three hours.
He se
ttled on a bench on the far side of the atrium and watched despondently. Ever since Rook’s lesson all those weeks ago, things had been going steadily downhill.
First there had been the scrying stones. Rook had gone down the line of commoners, allowing them to pick stones from a box of spares. Fletcher had been purposely left for last, leaving him with only a purple fragment the size and shape of a silver shilling. To see anything at all, he had to hold it up to his eye and peer through it like a peeping tom at a keyhole. On top of this, the commoners were forced to practise scrying in the summoning room while the nobles sent their demons to explore the safer parts of the ether.
Of course, there had been the next lesson with Arcturus. The captain had not been angry with Fletcher, but he had given Fletcher much to worry about.
‘I’ve never liked Inquisitors, and Rook is the worst of them. There were three institutions set up by old King Alfric: the Inquisition, the Pinkertons and the Magistrate Judges, all of them rotten to the core. King Harold inherited them when his father abdicated the throne, but rumour has it that he does not like the way they do things. If Rook tries to stir up trouble, King Harold won’t take notice. I’m more worried about old Alfric getting involved, but he rarely leaves the palace, so hopefully he won’t get to hear anything. Don’t worry, Fletcher. You haven’t done anything wrong. I just hope that Rook doesn’t send Inquisitors to your old home and start tearing the place apart.’
Those words had haunted Fletcher for several weeks and had changed his mind about sending Berdon any letters, in case they were traced back to him, or vice versa. If Rook found out about his crime . . . he didn’t want to think about what might happen.
Of course that hadn’t been the only thing that had dampened Fletcher’s spirits. Goodwin had loaded them down with work, demanding endless essays on demonology and giving them scathing criticism if they ever got even the slightest thing wrong.
The silver lining was that Fletcher had earned Goodwin’s grudging praise in their second demonology lesson; his study of Canid breeds and their cousins had paid off. He had correctly identified and waxed eloquently about both Penelope and Malik’s demons. Penelope’s was a Vulpid, a three-tailed fox demon that was a little smaller than a common Canid but far more agile. Its snout was elegant and pointed, with a soft red coat that shone like burnished copper.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 22
