The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(32)
‘Can you tell me more … about my parents?’ Fletcher asked timidly.
Harold gave a deep sigh, leading Fletcher on to a bridge to another branch.
‘Edmund was my closest friend and Alice … well … if things had gone another way, she might have been my wife. But, I could never get in the way of their happiness. You’re all that’s left of the two people I loved the most.’
Fletcher looked into Harold’s face and saw sorrow there. Perhaps a sadness that he had kept hidden for a long time, even from the nobles he considered friends. It would not do for a king to show his emotions.
Fletcher had always imagined the king to be a calculating, indomitable figure. Instead, he found a kindhearted man with a deep sense of morality, but who was utterly alone and powerless to make the changes he dreamed of.
‘I wish I could help you,’ Fletcher said. ‘I can fight them in the open, while you work against them in the shadows. But I am just one boy. There’s not much I can do.’
‘You’re a Raleigh now – there’s plenty you can do,’ Harold disagreed, as the branch they walked upon ended at a large hollow in the centre of a particularly thick tree trunk. ‘The first of which is casting your vote as a member of the council, a right you earned when you won the Tournament. The elven clan chiefs and the dwarven elders will be in attendance too. It’s the first time this has happened in the history of our peoples. It’s time to solidify the alliance of men, dwarves and elves, once and for all.’
Fletcher gulped as they walked into the shadowed entrance of the trunk.
‘When will that be?’ he asked.
‘Right now.’
15
Just inside the entrance, two elves stood against the walls, barring the way with their swords, each as long as a spear.
Fletcher recognised them from his blacksmithing days as falx swords, made up of an unusually long handle that could be gripped with two hands and an even longer meandering blade, shaped like the end of a bow.
The curved edge gave them an axe-like quality, with the long handle giving the sword extra leverage for swinging and parrying. They were fearsome blades, and if he remembered correctly, they were the chosen weapons of the elven people.
‘It’s OK, let them through.’ Sylva’s voice came from the darkness beyond.
She stepped out of the shadows. Fletcher was surprised to see that she had her own falx strapped to her back, as well as a supple bow and loaded quiver. Her hair, usually loose and flowing, was now knotted into an oiled, single braid that fell over her shoulder and down to her navel, with a jade stone set on the end to weigh it down.
But what drew Fletcher’s eye most was not her weapons, but the lamellar armour she wore. It was made up of hundreds of rectangular pieces of leather, each one pierced in four corners and laced to those around it. It hugged her body closely, flexing and loosening with each step she took towards them. Her limbs were protected by thigh, shin, shoulder and wrist guards, and the entire ensemble had been lacquered to shine dark green.
‘Well, we are here for a war council.’ She blushed with a rueful smile, seeing Fletcher’s admiration.
Harold gave her a respectful nod and walked on, through the darkness of the passageway and into a room lit by flickering torches. Sylva followed behind without a backwards glance.
The room was as large as the dining hall at Vocans, with a domelike ceiling and walls completely bare but for the entrance they had walked through, and a few dozen torches. In the middle of the room was a large, round table of polished wood, with a strange, cloth-covered object as tall as a man in its centre. The table was surrounded by high-backed seats, each with a standard affixed above it. Most were occupied – some by men and women, others by elves and, closest to Fletcher, dwarves. They had all turned to look at the newcomers. Fletcher shrank under their gaze.
‘Fletcher, your seat is here,’ whispered a familiar voice. Othello’s face peeked out from behind one of the chairs, his clipped beard strange compared to the row of grizzled dwarves to his right. He grinned as Fletcher broke into a smile, but held a finger to his lips.
Fletcher looked at the seat beside Othello, to find the blue and silver insignia of the Raleighs on the standard above it. It was so strange to suddenly have a history, even a family crest. He knew he would never grow accustomed to it – not least because it had a Manticore emblazoned across the centre. He took a tentative seat as both Sylva and King Harold walked around to find their places.
Harold sat down to Fletcher’s left, in between Alfric, Zacharias and Lady Faversham, who were carefully avoiding Fletcher’s eyes. There were four generals with lamb-chop sideburns and thick moustaches sitting closest to the elves. They sat with ramrod backs and stared straight ahead.
A hawkish noblewoman Fletcher did not recognise nodded to him. She was thickset and sported red hair shot with silver. Beside her a dark-skinned nobleman completed the human contingent, though he only stared at Fletcher beneath hooded eyes. Fletcher found it hard to believe that he was now as highborn as these nobles were, and was considered their equal.
To think, just a few hours ago he had been thought a common murderer, condemned to a brutal death. He felt a shudder of horror pass through him, and within him, Ignatius’s consciousness squirmed at his discomfort.
Athena did not react at all. Perhaps his father had trained her not to allow her emotions to cloud his own.