The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(30)

‘Council meeting?’ Fletcher asked, but Sylva simply smiled at him and gave him a squeeze on the shoulder as she got up to leave.

Then she was gone, leaving Fletcher alone with the king.





14


‘So, Fletcher. You’re still with us,’ Harold said. They were sitting, watching the deer herds below. The sun was near set, casting dappled shadows over the busy ground, and Fletcher heard the mournful howl of a wolf in the distance.

‘It appears so,’ Fletcher replied, avoiding the king’s eyes.

‘It was touch and go for a while there. I didn’t think you’d make it. You were writhing in pain for most of the night.’

‘I owe the elves a great deal. And you, it seems. I can’t imagine how you convinced everyone to send me to the elves for healing, once you found out I wasn’t immune,’ Fletcher said dully.

‘Oh, no. You’re immune all right. But pump enough toxic, acidic liquid into someone’s body and he’ll not walk away easily, immune or otherwise. You should have died within minutes with that dose, but after the first hour of twitching on the floor, we knew. All the elves did was flush the venom from your system.’

Fletcher was stunned. He was immune. He was a Raleigh. It seemed unreal. Impossible.

‘I have pardoned you, but you should also know that your guilt is still being debated by the other nobles, and you may experience some animosity in the future,’ Harold continued. ‘Most agree that you were only defending your dwarven friend. You can be sure which side your cousins are on, of course.’

‘Cousins?’ Fletcher asked, still dazed.

‘The Forsyths. Your late mother and Tarquin and Isadora’s mother were identical twins, Alice and Josephine Queensouth – twins run in the family, it seems. Your father, Edmund, married Alice, while Zacharias married Josephine. We were all childhood friends, back in the day; everyone knew they would end up marrying … But that’s not what I have come here to talk about. I want to talk about your inheritance, or rather, the lack thereof.’

Fletcher remained silent, both elated and saddened by the news. His parents had wanted him. He had not been abandoned to die … but to live. Yet, he would never meet them, never hear their voices.

‘I don’t care about my inheritance,’ Fletcher mumbled. ‘I was just fine before.’

‘Be that as it may, you deserve to know what happened to your family’s estate. As their closest relatives, the Forsyths inherited all of your parents’ money, lands and properties.’ Harold paused awkwardly, clearing his throat. ‘Given your supposed crime, they have said you shouldn’t be alive and therefore don’t deserve any of it back. I disagreed. So we came to an agreement. They will keep all the money and the fertile lands in the centre of Hominum. In exchange, they have given you back your homeland. Raleighshire.’

Fletcher’s eyes widened.

‘What does that mean?’ He knew so little of Hominum’s lands, and barely anything about the Raleighs.

‘After your parents and their people died, the buildings fell into disrepair and the outlying villages were abandoned,’ Harold said, shaking his head with sorrow. ‘Other than the troops protecting the mountain pass and the not-so-secret entrance, there’s nary a soul for hundreds of miles all around. It’s a wasteland, really. But it’s yours, to do with as you wish. It is the least I could do, after the sacrifice you made for me. I will not soon forget it.’

Fletcher nodded. It didn’t seem real to him. It was land – which had been there before and would be there long after he was dead. What difference did it make who owned it? Nobody even lived there.

‘I have something else for you. How can I explain this?’ Harold said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Have you ever wondered how demons are passed down from generation to generation in noble families, even when the parent dies far from home? The demon should fade back into the ether upon their master’s death, correct?’

Fletcher nodded.

‘We summoners know the risk we run, always fighting one war or another. So, a summoner will always leave the summoning scrolls for their demons with a trusted friend, so that in the untimely event of their death, their child can be given the scroll and summon the demon back from the ether. In your father’s case, I was that trusted friend.’

Harold got to his feet and Fletcher joined him, unsure of himself. The king reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of parchment, tightly bound with a red ribbon. From his other pocket, he withdrew a summoning leather, complete with a keyed pentacle embossed in the centre. He laid it down carefully a few feet away from them, in the middle of the branch.

‘Edmund’s Canid died in the attack, as did your mother’s Vulpid. But the Gryphowl that carried you to Pelt; that one may be alive, somewhere in the ether. Here is its scroll. The summoning leather has a keyed pentacle; as you know, you need one when summoning a demon from the ether.’

Fletcher’s hands trembled as he untied the ribbon, careful to not tear the dusty material as he unravelled it. The ink was faded, almost to a dark brown, but the words were clearly legible.

‘I would infuse your Salamander first,’ Harold suggested, before Fletcher could begin to read. ‘It’s not unknown for a newly summoned demon to attack an unfamiliar demon, before it is fully under its master’s control.’