The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(39)

Silence descended, broken only by the clinking of metal from the guards’ uniforms.

‘There are abandoned villages there. Land for hunting, rivers for fishing. It’s warm, on the jungle border. You can rebuild. Start anew.’ Fletcher spoke rapidly, for there was another bark of warning from Ignatius as the guards moved forward once again.

‘You think we’d be safer, near the jungles? With orc raiders coming over the border every day, slaughtering us? I’d rather take my chances right here, right now,’ Janet hissed.

‘You know me, all of you,’ Fletcher said, addressing the crowd. ‘I will be the liege lord of the lands you live on. I swear I will do my utmost to keep you safe and secure, when I return there.’

Ignatius scampered up his leg and on to his shoulders, and Fletcher took Berdon and Sir Caulder by their arms.

It was time to change tactics. ‘You can die here, like stubborn fools,’ Fletcher said, walking towards the crowd. ‘Or you can follow us, to a new life. It’s up to you.’

Fletcher pushed through the mob, walking away from the soldiers. He felt their eyes on him as he brushed past, and he hoped they couldn’t see the red blush of fear burning the back of his neck. Had it worked?

Berdon spoke loudly in his deep baritone voice as they broke out of the gathered people.

‘Those who would come with us, gather your things and meet me at the edge of the encampment. Take only what you can carry, for the road will be long. The rest of you, I shall see in the afterlife.’

Fletcher, Berdon and Sir Caulder walked on, not looking back. They heard the squelch of footsteps behind them, but if it was more than a few, Fletcher couldn’t tell.

‘How many are following us?’ Sir Caulder whispered out of the side of his mouth, grunting with effort as he wrenched his peg leg through the mud.

‘No idea,’ Berdon murmured back. ‘Don’t look. Give them a few minutes.’

They walked on, through the last of the hovels, until they stood alongside the mountain path that led down from the village. There were no gunshots, but they kept their heads facing forward, looking out into the valleys below. The sun was still rising in the distance, bathing the treetops in golden light.

‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go with Berdon here, back to Raleighshire,’ Sir Caulder said, his voice tentative, barely louder than a whisper. ‘It’s where I belong, and I don’t think I’ll be safe at Vocans after what I said at the trial.’

‘You’re welcome to, of course. You know, I didn’t get a chance to thank you. You took a great risk, telling that story,’ Fletcher said to Sir Caulder.

‘Think nothing of it, my dear boy. It was my duty. I am glad that I was able to save you, even if I was unable to save your parents all those years ago. Can you forgive me?’ His voice quavered, and Fletcher remembered that, though a capable warrior, Sir Caulder was an old man, nearing the end of his years. He could imagine how terrible his guilt had been, kept hidden for so long.

‘There is nothing to forgive. The past is the past,’ Fletcher said. ‘I will focus on the family and friends I have left, you included.’

He paused and turned to Berdon, who was staring out at the sunrise, avoiding his eyes.

‘You know you’re still my dad, right?’

Berdon closed his eyes and smiled, the tension dropping from his shoulders.

‘There are some things I have to do soon,’ Fletcher went on, putting his arm around Berdon’s broad back. ‘Things that will take me away from you. But I promise I’ll come home. We can found the new village together, far away from the hellhole this place has become.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, son,’ Berdon said, wrapping Fletcher in a bear hug that made his ribs creak.

There was an awkward cough from behind them, and Fletcher peered over Berdon’s shoulder to see a crowd of people standing there, their belongings piled high on handcarts and a lone, rickety wagon. Janet stepped out from the crowd, her face briefly shaded as Lysander’s shadow glided by.

‘Well, you’ve convinced us. Now stop this soppy rubbish and tell us how to get there.’





18


Fletcher’s demons ignored each other on the flight to Vocans, despite being inches apart – with Athena on his shoulder and Ignatius around his neck. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other. Fletcher could tell it was a strange sense of uncertainty, compounded by competitiveness.

The journey was quiet, with little conversation between him and Lovett, though it would have been hard to speak anyway, with the wind snatching away the few words they did attempt. He tried not to dwell on the events of the past few days, for it deeply unsettled him and left him plagued by self-doubt. Even thoughts of Berdon were bittersweet, for their reunion had been short-lived and their parting as painful as the first time he had left him.

Instead, Fletcher busied himself with watching the land below, sweeping into the horizon like a slow-moving patchwork quilt of yellows, browns and greens, broken by threads of blue and grey as roads and rivers wended their way across the plains.

It was almost nightfall when he saw the dark facade of Vocans in the distance, and as they circled down to land in the courtyard, he realised how much he had missed the crumbling old castle.

‘You’d better hurry if you’re going to catch the end of the Tournament,’ Lovett said as they landed, propelling him towards the doors. ‘I’ll unsaddle Lysander, you go on ahead.’