Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (13 page)

24

Scipio’s office was as hot as it had been the last time, but today the shutters on the window had been opened, leaving a bright beam of light that cut between Fletcher and the Provost’s desk. He had been staring at Fletcher through steepled fingers for the past minute, and Fletcher was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

‘Why did you lie to me, boy?’ Scipio asked, his eyes flicking between Ignatius and Fletcher’s face.

‘I did not mean to,’ Fletcher said, then, after a moment, adding, ‘Provost Scipio, sir.’

‘I asked you where you got that demon, and you replied that Arcturus had sent you. Do you think that answered my question? Do you think that the answer you gave did not have certain implications? Didn’t you think that after I spoke to Arcturus I would know the truth?’ Scipio’s voice was calm and composed, a deep contrast to the bellowing man he had seen in the canteen just a few minutes before. Fletcher wasn’t sure which he preferred.

‘I . . . don’t know why I said it. It was true that Arcturus had sent me, but I knew what you meant. It was wrong of me to lie to you. I just wanted to be allowed to study here so badly. I am sorry, sir.’

Fletcher hung his head, feeling foolish. If he had simply told the truth, perhaps he would be in a lesson with Arcturus right now, learning how to produce a wyrdlight. Instead, he was now at risk of being expelled from Vocans on the very first day, for lying to a superior officer. Scipio harrumphed in what Fletcher hoped was approval and then beckoned him over to his desk.

‘I am at fault as well. I should have pried a bit closer. After all, researching how to capture new species of demons is something that every battlemage has been tasked with. I assumed that you would not know the magnitude of the implications that your Salamander signified . . . I have been doing far too much assuming of late,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Arcturus has explained how you came by your demon . . . an orc shaman’s summoning scroll, of all things. I suspect my frustration has stemmed from my disappointment that we have not made some great breakthrough, only got lucky. However, I must ask that you leave the book Arcturus told me about with the librarian, in case she can glean some knowledge from it. James Baker was obviously a secretive man.’

Fletcher stood in hopeful silence as the old warrior considered him. Eventually, Scipio pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it on the desk in front of him.

‘This is the pledge that all officer cadets must sign before they join Hominum’s military. Once you have signed, you will officially be a student soldier at this academy and working at His Majesty’s pleasure. Your annual income will be that of one thousand shillings, minus room, board and tuition. It’s all there in writing. Make your mark and be off with you.’ He held a large quill out to Fletcher, who scrawled his name on the dotted line at the bottom, his heart filled with joy.

‘No surname?’ Scipio asked, peering at the writing.

‘I was never given one,’ Fletcher muttered with some embarrassment.

‘Well, put something. Officers are usually known by their surname, not their first,’ Scipio said, tapping at the empty space beside Fletcher’s name. Berdon’s surname had been Wulf, so he scribbled that down.

‘Get to the atrium, Cadet Wulf. Your sponsor is teaching your first lesson, and you are five minutes late,’ Scipio said, giving him a rare smile.

When Fletcher got to the atrium the room was already dotted with the wandering wyrdlights, blue orbs that drifted around the room like fireflies. In the bright teal light, he saw the nobles laughing and floating one after the other from their fingers, competing to see who could create the largest. Othello, Genevieve and Rory were the only commoners there, but they stood away from the nobles in miserable silence.

‘That was quick. Is it as easy as all that?’ Fletcher asked, watching as Tarquin released a ball of light the size of a fist, much to the amazement of the other nobles.

‘No, we haven’t even been shown yet. Having summoners as parents has taught the nobles a thing or two,’ Rory whispered, his face a picture of disappointment and jealousy.

Arcturus was standing in the middle of the room, watching the nobles with impassive eyes. He clicked his fingers and the balls were snuffed out, sending the room into pitch-blackness. The atrium slowly glowed again as a small wyrdlight appeared at the end of Arcturus’s finger. Thin strands of blue blossomed from his fingertips and pulsed into the light, expanding it to a sphere the size of a man’s head. He released it above him, where it floated, motionless, as if suspended from the ceiling. The room was immediately filled with a warm blue light.

‘I did not ask you to demonstrate; I asked if any of you were versed in the technique already. Clearly your noble parents have already taught you this. As such, you may leave if you wish. Your timetables will have been left on your beds. I suggest you memorise them. Tardiness is unacceptable.’ Arcturus gave Fletcher a telling look at those last words.

‘I knew this lesson would be a joke. Come on, Penelope, let the amateurs play catch up,’ Isadora snickered. There was another noble girl, a brunette with large hazel eyes who nodded after a moment of hesitation. Isadora flounced off, followed by the girl, who cast an apologetic look over her shoulder at Arcturus.

Tarquin sauntered behind with the two other nobles, a large sable-haired boy with skin as dark as Seraph’s and another, slighter boy with mousy brown hair and a cherubic face. As Tarquin passed by, he looked at Fletcher’s ragged, ill-fitting uniform and the bruises on his face. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and walked on. Fletcher was in too good a mood to let himself care at that moment.

‘Let them leave,’ Arcturus said once the nobles were out of earshot. ‘They have not learned to control the movement of their wyrdlights. Next lesson, it is they who will be playing catch up. The principles of wyrdlights follow the same principles as all spell casting.’

He turned to the commoners and gave them an appraising look.

‘The first lesson is very important; you will find that you all have different capacities for spellcraft. Your demons are the source of all your mana, and the species, experience and age of your demon will determine how much they have and how quickly it recharges.’

Mana. That was the word that Seraph had used yesterday. Fletcher guessed that it meant some kind of energy, used to power spells. Now Arcturus was walking towards them, the wyrdlight above him moving in unison. Under the ethereal glow, his scar looked grislier than ever.

‘Excuse me, where are Seraph and Atlas?’ Fletcher asked, pushing his way in front of Rory and Genevieve so that Arcturus would finally notice him.

‘Sir,’ Arcturus prompted.

‘Sir,’ Fletcher parroted with exasperation.

‘I suspect they have gone to collect their demons. Since I chose to sponsor you but did not give you one of my demons, as is usually our way, the Provost decided it would be only fair if I provide an imp for one of the other commoners. I captured it yesterday, at great risk to Sacharissa. I hope you are worth it,’ he said with a hint of regret in his voice, much to Fletcher’s discouragement.

‘Does that mean it was a powerful demon, sir?’ Rory asked.

‘Not necessarily. It will be in time, but it was too rare for me to pass up. One of your friends is very lucky to have received it. I had never come across one before. Now, enough questions. Sit down on the floor and close your eyes.’

They did so, and Arcturus’s steps echoed as he walked behind them. ‘Let your mind go blank. Listen only to the sound of my voice.’

Fletcher tried to still the excited beating of his heart, listening to Arcturus’s words. The captain’s voice was mellifluous, washing over him like a warm breeze.

‘Reach out to your demon, feel the connection between you. Be gentle. This will likely be the first time you have touched it. Don’t worry if you struggle to find it at first, the more you practise the easier it will be.’

Fletcher did as he asked, searching for the other consciousness that seemed to float on the edge of his mind. He felt the demon’s psyche and, as he touched it, Ignatius twitched in discomfort from around his neck. This was not the pulse of emotion that Fletcher had sent him before, but something else entirely.

‘As you grasp it, you will feel the demon’s mana flow through you. You must take it and focus it all through the index finger of your dominant hand. For now, that is all you must do.’

Fletcher felt that feeling of clarity suffuse his body once again, even stronger than when he had summoned the demon in the graveyard. It raged through him like a hurricane, and he could feel his body shaking.

‘Through your finger, Fletcher! You are taking too much! Control yourself!’ Arcturus shouted. His voice sounded a long way away.

Fletcher took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, raising his finger and channelling the current to it. As he did so, his finger tingled and felt both burning hot and freezing cold, all at once. The black behind his eyelids turned to a dim blue.

‘Open your eyes, Fletcher,’ Arcturus said, putting a steadying hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. He realised he was breathing heavily and calmed himself, then opened his eyes with trepidation.

The tip of his finger was a blue that shone so bright, it verged on white. As he moved his finger, it left a trace of light in the air, like the afterimage of a burning cinder being waved in the dark.

‘I said
through
your finger, Fletcher, not to it,’ Arcturus said, but there was a hint of pride in his voice.

‘Will I be OK?’ Fletcher asked, horrified as he traced a figure eight in the air. The others had by now opened their eyes, obviously having taken far longer than Fletcher to harness their demon’s mana. Before he became big headed, Fletcher reminded himself that he had been with his demon for over a week longer than they had.

‘You have managed something that we are several lessons away from; the art of etching. Watch closely.’

Arcturus lifted his own finger and the tip glowed blue. He drew a strange triangular symbol, made up of jagged lines. He moved his finger around in front of them and the symbol followed it, as if it were attached by an invisible frame. Just as it began to fade, he fired threads of wyrdlight through the gap between his finger and the symbol. Yet when it passed through, a stream of ghostly, opaque tendrils emerged, forming a circular shield in front of him that Fletcher recognised as the very same that had saved his life just two days ago on the streets of Corcillum.

‘When we use our mana without a symbol, it becomes nothing but wyrdlight, otherwise known as raw mana. But when you etch a symbol and channel your mana through it, the more useful aspects of a battlemage’s tool chest become available. It is not easy; it takes time and practice to create a shield like mine, rather than a misshapen mass. Even forming a ball of wyrdlight will take a while for you to master.’

Fletcher’s finger faded back to pink and he hugged it to his chest. Ignatius purred and leaped to the ground. The demon licked at Fletcher’s finger with a triangular tongue that was surprisingly soft, soothing the strange tingling he still felt on his fingertip.

‘So what did we miss?’ Seraph’s joyful voice rang out from behind them.

Fletcher turned to see Seraph, Atlas and Captain Lovett walking out of the summoning room. They had their demons with them.

Seraph was grinning like a madman, his happiness complete. His demon crawled along the ground beside him, its lumbering gait and stature putting Fletcher in mind of an overgrown badger. Yet that was where the similarity ended. The creature was covered in rough skin that appeared like bark, with a layer of mildew dusted over the top. A thick ridge of spines ran along its backbone, each one an inch long and as sharp as a surgeon’s knife. They reminded Fletcher of the thorns from a gorse bush, vicious green blades that easily punched through the skin.

‘What is it?’ Rory breathed in wonder as it ran ahead of them and sniffed at Arcturus’s boots in recognition. Its short pug snout opened to reveal a strange, ridge-filled mouth. Fletcher could see the pulped remains of leaves within, which were subsequently swallowed with the help of a leathery brown tongue.

‘It’s a Barkling,’ Arcturus replied. ‘They are masters of camouflage, hence why it is so rare to come across one. You will have trouble feeding it; they need to get through at least a pound of leaves a day. I’m sure Major Goodwin will teach you all of this in your demonology lessons.’

Arcturus looked at the demon with mixed emotions, then rubbed its head with some reluctance. Seraph caught up and gave Arcturus a grateful smile.

‘I would have dearly loved to keep this for myself and capture another demon for you, Seraph, but the wily creature shot Sacharissa full of splinters from its back when she got close to it. She was too injured to make a second trip into the ether. Poor girl almost couldn’t hold it down once she’d dragged it through the portal. I had barely enough time to perform the harnessing. It is too late to capture another now. I wish you well of it.’

‘Thank you so much, sir!’ Seraph exclaimed, scooping the demon up into his arms and wincing at the weight. ‘You have no idea how much this means to me. I will name him Sliver.’