23
The nobles arrived late for breakfast, sitting on the other side of the room and completely ignoring the group of commoners. Tarquin and Isadora led the way, clearly having established themselves as the ringleaders, although the casual backslapping and guffawing made Fletcher think that most of the nobles already knew one another.
‘Why are they ignoring us?’ Atlas asked, looking over his shoulder as the nobles began to make loud comments about the poor quality of the food.
‘This is normal,’ Seraph said matter of factly. ‘The nobles always stay separate from the commoners. I snuck past one of their rooms the other day. They’re the size of our entire quarters and then some!’
‘I don’t think it should be this way,’ Rory said. ‘Are we not going to be living together for the next two years? There are only five of them. Surely they will get bored of each other’s company?’
‘I doubt it,’ Fletcher ventured. ‘One of the servants told me that the nobles often spend their free time in Corcillum. It is us who will be stuck in this castle with little to do. Our best bet will be to befriend some of the older commoners.’
Even as he spoke, a dozen second years began to stream into the hall, talking loudly. They split into two groups and sat on separate tables, but unlike the first years, the two cliques seemed to be talking to each other with no clear animosity. Yet judging by the quality of their uniforms, Fletcher suspected the table divide was between nobles and commoners once again.
‘They’re down for breakfast early,’ Seraph commented as both tables of second years looked them up and down, with special attention placed on Othello. One of them nudged another and pointed at Ignatius and the Golem, who Othello had named Solomon. The dwarf shifted and lowered his head over his meal, uncomfortable under their gaze.
‘I wish we could have breakfast at the same time as they do every day. There’s enough room for hundreds of us to eat in here.’ Genevieve yawned, resting her head in her hands. Fletcher eyed her red hair with suspicion. Was she the figure he had seen leaving Vocans last night?
As the servants finished laying out breakfast for the new arrivals, the room suddenly hushed. Looking up from his meal, Fletcher saw the Provost stride into the room, followed by two men and a woman who were dressed in officers’ uniforms. With a start, he recognised one of them to be Arcturus, his milky eye staring resolutely ahead. The man showed no sign of recognition. The elf girl strode in behind them, causing a stir. She walked with her head high to a seat further down from the commoners’ table. Her Canid curled beneath her, its bushy tail stiffening as it glared around the room protectively.
The four officers stood with their arms crossed and stared at the room until absolute silence had fallen.
‘Welcome to Vocans! I trust you have all settled in,’ Provost Scipio announced gruffly through his bristling moustache. ‘You are privileged to be the latest generation of students to grace the hallowed halls of Vocans Academy.’ Fletcher looked around, counting the other novices. The second years numbered twelve students, the same as them.
‘Our traditions date back to the first King of Hominum, over two thousand years ago,’ Scipio continued. ‘And though we are few in number, the battlemages that graduate from this institution go on to serve as the finest officers in the military, whether it be at the King’s pleasure or under the banner of one of our great noble houses.’
Fletcher saw Tarquin lean in and whisper to Isadora, whose tinkling laugh rang out across the room. He was not the only one to notice. Scipio’s face reddened with anger, and he pointed at the young noble.
‘You, stand up! I will not abide rudeness, not from anyone, noble or otherwise! Stand up, I say, and give account of yourself.’
Tarquin stood up, yet he seemed unshaken by the Provost’s anger. He dug his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and spoke in a clear voice.
‘My name is Tarquin, the first in line for the Dukedom of Pollentia. My father, Duke Zacharias Forsyth, is the general of the Forsyth Furies.’ He grinned as the second years began to murmur when they recognised his family name. Clearly his father was one of the oldest and most powerful nobles in Hominum. Fletcher recognised the name Pollentia, a large, fertile tract of land that ran from the Vesanian Sea to the centre of Hominum.
Scipio remained silent, looking at Tarquin expectantly under two bushy white eyebrows. Tarquin waited for a few moments until the silence weighed heavily on the room. Finally, he spoke.
‘I apologise for my rudeness. I was only saying to my sister that I am . . . proud to be part of this fine institution.’
‘It is only out of respect for your father that I don’t send you up to your room like a child,’ Scipio harrumphed. ‘Sit back down and keep your mouth shut until I have finished speaking.’
Tarquin inclined his head with a smile and sat down, unfazed by the exchange. Fletcher was not sure whether it was confidence or arrogance that gave the boy his dauntless attitude, but he suspected the latter. Scipio stared at Tarquin for a while longer, then turned to the three officers behind him.
‘These are your three teachers; Major Goodwin and Captains Arcturus and Lovett. You will treat them with the respect they deserve and remember that whilst they are here educating you, good soldiers on the front lines suffer without their leadership or protection.’
Fletcher examined the two teachers he did not recognise. Captain Lovett was a raven-haired woman with cold eyes and a strict appearance, yet when she smiled at the noviciates as her name was announced, her face lost all of its harshness. Major Goodwin looked almost as old as Scipio, with a large, portly figure and a thick white goatee. He sported a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that rested on a red nose that hinted at a penchant for hard liquor.
‘Now, you second years must be wondering why you have been called down early,’ Scipio announced, causing the bored-looking second years to sit up in their seats. ‘I have an announcement that concerns you all. It may not be a particularly popular decision that we have made, but it is one made out of necessity. In the final exams and tournaments this year, both first years and second years will take part. Should any first year acquit themselves to a high standard, then they too shall be offered a commission and sent to the front lines a year early, where they are sorely needed.’
Immediate uproar ensued, but it was quelled with a bellow from Scipio. He held up a hand as the muttering continued.
‘I understand that this increases the competition for the few high-level commissions on offer for you second years. I remind you that you have had a year’s head start. Should one of the first years beat you, you don’t deserve the commission at all.’
Fletcher frowned at the announcement. So much for befriending the older commoners.
‘As for the first years, you may be worrying that you will be given poor commissions this year, when you might have been given better if you’d stayed on next year. To counteract this, you will only be given good commissions of a First Lieutenancy or higher, with the optional choice of a less prestigious Second Lieutenancy should you decide to take it. The winner of the tournament shall be given a Captaincy, the highest an untested battlemage can achieve.’
This received more muttering from the second years. Fletcher suspected that they would have been happy for the first years to take part if they would be filling all the second lieutenancies, the lowest and most common of ranks.
‘The King has offered an added incentive to this year’s tournament. The winner will also receive a place on the King’s council and be given the right to vote on matters of state. He wishes to have a representative that comes from the next generation of battlemages. If a commission as a high-ranking officer doesn’t motivate you, I know this will,’ Scipio announced, giving the room a solemn look.
Fletcher saw Othello clench his fists as Scipio spoke, though whether it was the council seat, the commission or bot
h that had affected him, Fletcher couldn’t tell. Tarquin and Isadora were especially incensed by Scipio’s revelation, whispering excitedly despite a warning glare from Arcturus.
‘Which divisions will the commissions be in? Will the first years be at equal risk of being put in the dwarven and criminal battalions?’ asked a tall, second-year commoner, standing up from his table.
Othello bristled at the implication, but Scipio beat him to the punch.
‘You’ll go in whatever division you’re damned well put in! And don’t speak out of turn!’ the Provost roared. The boy sat down hurriedly, despite dissatisfied murmurs at the answer. Scipio seemed to relent at the grim faces that stared at him from around the room.
‘They’ll have just as much chance as you do. That’s all I will say on the matter,’ he said.
A dainty hand was thrust into the air and the fingers fluttered for attention. Scipio rolled his eyes and gave an irritated nod. Isadora stood and curtsied prettily.
‘Excuse me for interrupting, Provost Scipio sir, but what is she doing here?’ she said, pointing an accusatory finger at the elf.
‘That was the next announcement I was going to make,’ Scipio said, walking over to the silver haired girl. ‘The peace talks between Hominum’s envoys and the elves’ various clan chieftains have been a long struggle, but recently we have had a breakthrough. Instead of paying the tax, the elves plan to join the fight themselves, sending their own warriors to be trained as soldiers, just as the dwarves have done.’
As he mentioned the dwarves, Scipio gave a respectful nod to Othello, who gave him a level nod back.
‘But there is still a lot of distrust, as is to be expected,’ Scipio continued, walking back to the entrance to stand by the other teachers. ‘So, in an act of good faith, a chieftain’s daughter has been sent to train as a battlemage, the first of many elves that we hope will be incorporated into our military over the next few years.’
He gave the elf a forced smile.
‘Her name is Sylva Arkenia, and you should all make her feel as welcome as possible. We were never really enemies with the elves, though it may have felt that way. Let us hope this is the first step in a long and fruitful alliance.’
Sylva’s face remained expressionless, but Fletcher noticed Sariel’s tail wagging under the table. He wondered at the courage of this young girl, to leave her country and home to fight in a war that was not her own, amongst people who distrusted her ilk. As he planned his apology to her, Scipio’s voice cut in once again.
‘Now, be off with you. Lessons start in a few minutes. Oh, and Fletcher,’ Scipio said, turning his eyes towards him. ‘Come and see me in my office. Immediately.’
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.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 12