Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (11 page)

Zacharias leaped to his feet, his finger outstretched at Sir Caulder like a loaded pistol.

‘You dare stain the memory of Edmund and his family with your lies?’ he hissed, the fingertip glowing blue. ‘I should kill you where you stand!’

King Harold laid a hand on the angry lord’s shoulder and gently pressed him down into his seat.

‘Please, Zacharias. Let the man finish – he was the only witness to our best friend’s death.’ He turned to the audience. ‘It is true what Sir Caulder says. Many noble children played in that secret tunnel. I remember, we would dare each other to see who could go deepest into the jungle before running back to the safety of the hidden entrance. Edmund always got the furthest.’

He smiled at the memory, and Fletcher could see nods of agreement from some of the other nobles. It didn’t seem much of a secret to them.

‘It was my fault that we did not leave enough men to protect the passageway,’ Sir Caulder lamented, rubbing his eyes as if he were holding back tears. ‘Hell, it should have been blocked up years ago. It was my fault. That is why I never denied the accusations levelled at me, that I had been derelict in my duty.’

There was a murmur of sympathy for the old man, and Fletcher could not help but feel pity for him. It was an easy mistake to have made.

‘I’m glad you were able to get your failings off your chest – I really do hope it makes your miserable life more bearable,’ Rook said, spreading his hands wide. ‘But this has nothing to do with this trial. Leave, before I have my Minotaur drag you out by the hair.’

‘Oh, but it has
everything
to do with Fletcher. This trial has been a farce from the beginning,’ Sir Caulder said, stomping up to the witness pulpit. ‘The Inquisition have no authority over the boy. A jury cannot charge a noble-born with a crime; only the king can judge them.’

He took his place and looked expectantly at Charles, who was advancing on the wiry old man and beginning to speak.

‘You are, if I am not mistaken, referring to Fletcher’s claims that he is the illegitimate son of my father, and my—’

‘I claimed no such thing!’ Fletcher yelled.

‘My half-brother. A preposterous assertion that, even if it were true, would not make Fletcher a noble-born. Just a bastard.’

Sir Caulder shook his head and laughed, then swatted at Charles with the flat of his blade, sending the Inquisitor stumbling out of reach.

‘As much as I would love to expose your father’s indiscretions, Fletcher is
not
one of Lord Faversham’s bastards – if you’ll forgive the term, Captain Arcturus.’

Arcturus, who had finally managed to extricate himself from Jakov’s clutches, simply shook his head, ashen-faced.

‘No. I will admit that, for a while, I believed Fletcher might very well have been your half-brother, Inquisitor. But it was only after I spoke with his adopted father, Berdon, that I discovered his true heritage,’ Sir Caulder said, raising his voice so the entire crowd could hear.

‘I was told last night that Fletcher was found naked in the snow, just outside of this very village. There was no note, no blanket or basket. What parent could leave their child like that, to die of exposure? Why outside a village as remote as the village of Pelt, so far removed that it lies on the elven border? What I am about to tell you will explain all of these things, and more.’

For the first time, Sir Caulder looked at Fletcher. There was sorrow in his eyes, even a hint of regret.

‘As I lay with my limbs shattered in the mud beside the Raleighs’ home, a demon flew from their bedroom window. Lord Raleigh’s Gryphowl, clutching something in its claws.’

He looked at Fletcher expectantly, but all Fletcher could return was a confused shake of his head.

‘What was it? A letter? Money? A Gryphowl is barely larger than the bird it is named after, it couldn’t be carrying much else,’ Charles scoffed.

Sir Caulder gave Fletcher a rueful smile.

‘A baby boy. No more than a week old and naked as the day he was born.’

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.