Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

  ‘That night, a stable boy decided to rob the noble for all he was worth. He had nothing to his name. He was an orphan who had been raised in a workhouse, then sold to the stable master for twenty shillings. He didn’t even own the clothes on his back. The theft was a last, desperate bid to get enough money together to escape and make a new life for himself. But fate had a different plan for him.’

  Fletcher furrowed his brow. This story sounded familiar, but he could not place where he had heard it before.

  ‘The boy could read somewhat. He had taught himself so that he could learn about the world, devouring every book left abandoned by passing travellers in the tavern that owned the stables. So when he found the scroll and summoning leather that came with it, he laid them out and read them, more out of curiosity than anything else. Fortunately for the boy, he still struggled with his reading, so he said each word under his breath as he read them. Nobody was more surprised than him when he summoned a Canid pup, with black fur and shining eyes. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.’

  Fletcher looked from Sacharissa to Arcturus, then realisation dawned on him.

  ‘You were the first commoner to own a demon since . . . well, since forever!’ Fletcher gasped. ‘If it wasn’t for you, none of us would be here! Your discovery tripled the number of battlemages!’

  Arcturus nodded gravely.

  ‘But hang on,’ Fletcher said with confusion. ‘What does this have to do with me? Or you being a half-noble?’

  ‘That is the story you already know, with a little more detail. But there is a second half to it, one that is only known by the nobility and a few select others. You see, some years after I was discovered, there was a great meeting between the noble houses, the generals of Hominum and King Harold. The war was going poorly in its first year, the orc shamans were uniting under the albino orc’s banner and they outnumbered our own battlemages many times over. The nobles were loathe to put their firstborn sons and daughters in harm’s way, for with each heir’s death their bloodlines would come under threat. They were being forced to have several children, so that if the firstborn died, there might be a sibling with the ability to summon. After the firstborn, there is only a one in three chance of a noble child being an adept. Many noble houses will have three or four children in case of a death, so that the next adept can become the heir. On top of this, many young nobles are forced to marry and have children as soon as they graduate from the Vocans, so that if they die fighting they leave an heir to take their place.’

  Fletcher had never given much thought to the idea of succession and noble bloodlines. He could imagine the noble families, desperately aware that with a single death, their entire house could disappear in one generation. For a moment he pitied Tarquin and Isadora, with all the pressures that their noble blood brought with it. But only for a moment.

  ‘Believe it or not, it was Obediah Forsyth – Tarquin’s grandfather – who was the noble who led the charge on introducing commoners into the ranks of battlemages, using his own money to fund the great Inquisition, bringing children in from across the land and looking for hints of mana in them. He was the most powerful and wealthiest noble at the time, and still is today. His son, Zacharias, married another firstborn from another great house, Josephine Queensouth, uniting their neighbouring lands under the Forsyth banner. This effectively dissolved the Queensouth house. Usually heirs will marry a second- or third-born from another noble house so as to keep their legacy, but the Queensouths were near bankruptcy and were close to selling off their land. It was the only solution for them at the time. I explain this to you, Fletcher, because nobility, marriage and succession are key to understanding who you are.’

  Fletcher nodded sagely, trying to keep track of it all. The political machinations of the nobility were interesting, but he still did not understand what it had to do with him, or Arcturus for that matter.

  ‘In any case, Obediah’s search bore fruit and commoners were introduced to Vocans, myself included. The old King’s Inquisitors took over the search, but they noticed a curious trend, one that Obediah had missed. There were strange clusters of adepts, most noticeably in the orphanages in the northern cities. Now why do you think that is, Fletcher?’ Arcturus asked him, the milky orb of his eye staring unseeingly through Fletcher’s head.

  But Fletcher’s mind was blank. What was so special about orphans?

  ‘What differentiates the orphans from everyone else?’ Arcturus asked, parroting Fletcher’s thoughts.

  ‘Nobody wants them?’ Fletcher suggested.

  ‘That’s right, Fletcher. Now who usually don’t want their children?’ Arcturus murmured, talking him through it.

  ‘People who can’t afford to keep them.’ Fletcher’s memory flitted to the long, lonely nights where he had wondered about that very thing.

  ‘True, Fletcher, there are some who abandon their children for that reason. There are also orphans whose parents have died. But there is another group who abandon their children regularly. The Inquisition found this was the one commonality between almost all the orphaned adepts.’

  Arcturus took a deep breath. ‘Almost all of their mothers were courtesans. Including mine.’

  Sacharissa whined, and Arcturus hushed her gently. Fletcher could see that he was touching upon something that caused him great pain.

  ‘You see, Lord Faversham was . . . shall we say . . . an insatiable man. His wife could not bear him children for a long time. Lady Faversham eventually grew cold and distant, turning him away from her bed. So he sought the beds of those who would not.’

  Fletcher sunk into his chair, finally understanding.

  ‘So the firstborn children of the courtesans he slept with became adepts? Is that how it works?’ Fletcher asked, trying not to think about what it might mean about his own heritage.

  ‘Yes, although he had mistresses as well. A man can have adept children with several different women, as long as it is the woman’s first child too. So too can a woman have several adept children with different fathers, if the men are yet to father a child. It was pure coincidence that a small number of commoners were also being born with the gift. I set the search in motion, but I was not born with the gift independently, like other commoners are. I was an adept because I was one of Lord Faversham’s firstborn sons.’

  Fletcher’s mind raced, thinking of the circumstances of his abandonment. Not even a blanket to protect him from the cold. It seemed a fitting explanation. Arcturus interrupted his moody thoughts.

  ‘Of course the discovery caused a scandal. Proof of infidelity cast shame over various noble houses, especially the Favershams. Noblewomen went on strike and refused to go to war unless a law was passed that orphans could not be tested by the Inquisition. They could not bear the shame, to see their husbands’ other children fighting alongside them and their true-born sons and daughters.’ He whispered now, his voice layered with complicated emotion.

  ‘I hear Lady Faversham was aggrieved when she learned that the demon meant for her son was actually passed on to me. Her hatred for me is even greater than that of the other noblewomen. She has only given birth to one child, meaning that should her son die, I will be next in line as Lord Faversham by Hominum law. She was forced to request special permission from the old King to take her son from the front lines, in case I should try to murder him and take his place as the next heir. You won’t be surprised to hear that she was the one who organised the strike.’

  Fletcher was shocked by the cool way Arcturus spoke about the suspicion he was under. He wondered whether Arcturus would be capable of such a crime. Lord Faversham owned most of the lands around Beartooth and was a rich and powerful man.

  ‘Of course, most orphans had been identified and trained up by the time they found out about all this, so as a compromise those that had already been discovered were allowed to stay,’ Arcturus continued. ‘The onl
y condition was that we would not be referred to by our noble surname, hence why I am known as Captain Arcturus, my first name. I have three half-brothers of about my age, also fighting in the army. There are probably more out there, completely unaware of who they are. I am not allowed to test children in the orphanages, much as I would wish to. Yet somehow, fate has brought you to me.’

  Fletcher barely comprehended these last words. He was too deep in thought. Could his father be Lord Faversham? Did that mean his mother had been alive in Boreas his whole life?

  ‘Fletcher, I may be wrong,’ Arcturus’s voice floated by. ‘You may be just another orphan, you are many years younger than me after all. I don’t even know if Faversham continued his infidelity after he had his first child with Lady Faversham. But what are the chances of an adept orphan that was abandoned near Boreas being one of the few not descended from the nobility?’

  ‘So you are saying I am the bastard love-child of Lord Faversham, and my mother is either a mistress at best or a courtesan at worst?’ Fletcher said bitterly, coming out of his reverie.

  ‘And my half-brother . . .’ Arcturus Faversham said.

  38

  Fletcher had stormed out of Arcturus’s office. He was full of anger; but who with, he did not know. Ignatius spent much of the night hissing, small rings of smoke puffing from his nostrils as the others laughed and joked at dinner.

  ‘I may not be sure who I’m angry at but you definitely haven’t a clue, have you?’ Fletcher murmured under his breath, scratching Ignatius’s chin. It was quite funny to see the little demon’s confused agitation, which cheered Fletcher up somewhat.

  Fletcher had managed to laugh off his meeting with Arcturus to the others, claiming that he had just been scolded like a naughty schoolboy. Of all his new friends, only Othello noticed his despondency, knocking on his door after they had all gone to bed. Fletcher decided to tell him everything – after all, he needed to return the level of trust Othello and his family had placed in him. But Othello was unimpressed with Arcturus’s story.

  ‘It sounds like Arcturus is reading too much into it if you want my opinion,’ Othello said, scratching at his beard. ‘He must be desperate to find more of his family and is ignoring several things to make your story fit with his own. I have heard of Lady Faversham, for entirely different reasons. She is the old King’s cousin and was famous for her great beauty, back in the day. I sincerely doubt that after Lord Faversham’s behaviour came to light that old King Alfric would have allowed the lord to continue shaming his royal cousin in this manner. Nor would his son, King Harold.’

  ‘But what if he did? What if he had a moment of weakness, years after it all came out?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Even assuming that he would be so foolish, why were you abandoned just outside of Pelt? Surely the desperate woman in question would leave you in an orphanage or doorstep in Boreas, not somewhere as obscure and far from the city as Pelt. I mean, it’s almost on the elven border!’ Othello exclaimed.

  ‘Maybe she didn’t want me to end up in a workhouse like Arcturus did,’ Fletcher replied, equally as stubborn, although he was not quite sure why he was supporting Arcturus’s side of the argument.

  ‘If she cared enough to do that, then why did she leave you to freeze in the snow, with not a stitch of clothing or a blanket? No, Fletcher, there is more to it than that. Don’t be disheartened by Arcturus’s theory. Just be glad you have him on your side and that you had the good fortune to run into him in Corcillum.’

  With those words, Othello went to bed and left Fletcher feeling considerably better but a lot more confused.

  ‘Who the hell am I?’ Fletcher whispered in the darkness. Ignatius mewled in sympathy and burrowed his head into Fletcher’s chest.

  Despite the events of the day, Fletcher’s sleep that night was the undisturbed and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

  The noviciates waited in the summoning room for their next lesson in etherwork. Fletcher was hoping to see Lovett, but knew that it was far more likely that Arcturus would be taking the lesson. His attempts to visit the infirmary had been in vain – Dame Fairhaven had seen to that. She informed Fletcher that she was sure Captain Lovett would not like to be pestered by her students whilst in her paralysed state, and that her reading to Lovett was enough to keep the captain entertained. The discovery that Lovett was completely paralysed but conscious of her surroundings only increased Fletcher’s desire to see her, but the door was closed firmly in his face.

  ‘Nice togs,’ Genevieve said, giving him a thumbs-up. Fletcher smiled and fingered the collar of his new jacket.

  Uhtred had been as good as his word, sending Fletcher a beautiful dark blue uniform as well as his sword with the morning deliveries. The gold buttons on his jacket and pants had even been embossed with the curling silhouette of a Salamander, much to Fletcher’s delight. The scabbard was of the finest quality, made from firm black leather and burnished steel. Fletcher saw that the sword had also been whetted and was accompanied by an oiled cloth and a reminder for Fletcher to look after his weapon, as it was a tool of the finest workmanship.

  He was glad to have it, as he had been forced to use a wooden stick whilst Sir Caulder took him and the other commoners through the basics of swordplay. The noble children had all been tutored from an early age and had not accompanied them, though Malik and Penelope had briefly watched from the sidelines before becoming bored and leaving. When Fletcher asked why they were being taught to battle each other after what Sir Caulder had told him about fighting orcs, Sir Caulder had snapped, ‘The tournament, boy. They’ll be having you fencing and God knows what else. No use having all you commoners lose in the first round because you’ve only been taught how to fight a seven-foot savage instead of a noble with a rapier.’

  The reminder of the tournament had filled Fletcher with dread and sent him running to the library, where he had buried himself in books. He had not been alone – most of the other commoners accompanied him. Growing up with fully-qualified battlemages for parents had put the noble noviciates far ahead of their common counterparts, breezing through most of the teachers’ questions with little difficulty.

  There were thousands of demons to learn the names, measurements, strengths and weaknesses of, even if most of them could not be found in the part of the ether that Hominum’s summoners had access to. The eighteen Canid breeds alone had taken Fletcher most of the weekend.

  The sound of the door slamming behind him broke into his thoughts. A tall, slender man had entered the summoning room. At first Fletcher thought that it was Arcturus, but when the man stepped into the wyrdlight, he saw that his uniform was different, cut from black cloth with silver trimming. His face was sallow and bearded, with small black eyes that glittered as they surveyed the students.

  ‘My full title is Inquisitor Damian Rook, but you may call me sir. I will be instructing you in the art of etherwork until Captain Lovett has recovered from her . . . accident. Fortunately for you, Scipio has decided to hire a more competent teacher this time around.’

  His words earned a smirk from Tarquin and a discreet titter from Isadora, much to Fletcher’s disgust. Rook ignored this and turned to the commoners, studying them through hooded eyes.

  ‘My my, it feels as if it was only yesterday that I tested you,’ Rook said, in a low voice that commanded absolute obedience. ‘Genevieve, Rory, Seraph, Atlas, as well as the dwarf and the elf, will stand in a line over there.’

  Fletcher’s friends moved with alacrity, lining up against the far wall. Rook ignored them and instead scrutinised Fletcher and the nobles, walking around them as if they were horses on sale.

  ‘A good turnout this year. Tarquin, Isadora, it is good to see you here. I hope your father is well?’ he inquired.

  ‘Aye, sir, though it has been several months since last I saw him,’ Tarquin replied, with unusual politeness. Fletcher wondered what ki
nd of man would command the respect of a noble like Tarquin. How did they know each other?

  ‘You are clearly a Saladin, if I am not mistaken,’ Rook continued, stopping in front of the olive-skinned boy.

  ‘I am Malik Saladin, son of Baybars Saladin, hailing from the lands of Antioch,’ Malik replied, jutting his chin out proudly.

  ‘Of course. Your father’s Anubid fought right alongside my Minotaur at Watford Bridge. Were you fortunate enough to be gifted it?’

  ‘No, sir, Father has more use for it than I. But I have been given a juvenile Anubid, that was captured before I came here.’

  ‘Good. You will have need of it soon.’ Rook turned to the next noble, Penelope.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Penelope Colt . . . from Coltshire.’ She curtsied nervously. This earned her a noncommittal grunt from Rook, who moved on to the last noble, the small, mousy haired boy who Fletcher had seen following Tarquin around like a lapdog.

  ‘I’m . . . My name is Rufus Cavendish, from the Cavendish Downs,’ the boy stuttered.

  ‘Cavendish Downs. I have not heard of it. Who are your parents?’ Rook asked, his black eyes boring into Rufus’s face like a hawk’s.

  ‘My mother died when I was young. She was Captain Cavendish. My father is not of noble blood.’

  ‘I see,’ Rook said disinterestedly, then turned away. Clearly the Cavendishes were not a noble family of significant standing or importance.

  He turned his baleful gaze upon Fletcher, his small eyes flicking from his sword to the golden buttons of his uniform.

  ‘And you? Where are you from?’

  Fletcher hesitated, then ventured. ‘I am from the north, sir, near Boreas. My name is Fletcher.’

  ‘A Faversham, then? I did not know that they had a child who was of age. How have you escaped my notice?’

  Tarquin’s voice cut in before Fletcher could respond.