The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(65)
He had been loved, once. He had felt it in that dream, so strongly that it made his heart clench with joy. But it had all been brutally torn away from him.
Soon the world turned dim as the canopy grew thicker, filtering the sun through its leaves into a darker shade of green.
The path was clear, for the thicker plants had been torn asunder by the Wendigo and then trampled underfoot by Malik’s team. For now, the going was easy, and they fell into a comfortable pace that ate up the ground.
As they walked, Fletcher tried to commit his parents’ faces to his memory, but he cursed himself as they blurred in his mind. It had all happened so fast.
‘So … is this the first time you’ve seen a dwarven girl?’ Cress asked, filling the awkward silence. ‘Properly, I mean.’
‘I saw Othello’s mother once,’ Fletcher replied.
He paused, unsure of what else to say. His mind was still on Athena’s memory.
‘Are we pretty?’ she asked, grinning as Fletcher reddened. She was teasing him.
‘As much as any other girl,’ he replied, and as he looked into her smiling face he realised it was true. In fact, now that he had spent more time with her, Cress was beginning to grow on him. She reminded him a little of Seraph – blunt, even a little coarse, but charming in her own way.
‘The dwarven boys tend to agree with you,’ Cress laughed, after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s not unknown for a young dwarven lad to run away with a human. I bet Atilla is worried I might do the same.’
She winked at him, and Fletcher couldn’t help but laugh at her forwardness. Her eyes twinkled with merriment and he felt the weight on his shoulders lift.
‘Would that be so bad?’ Fletcher asked. He realised he knew very little about romance between the races.
‘Well, it’s taboo, on both sides,’ Cress said, shaking her head. ‘Unseemly, so they say. It happens though, and it’s the kids that have it the worst. Some get away with being short humans for a while, but they are always found out, especially if they follow the dwarven customs. Shunned by both races, the families travel to the lands across the Akhad desert, or sail the Vesanian sea to Swazulu.’
‘I’ve heard of half-elves, but never half-dwarves,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘It’s even worse for the half-elves, though it’s rarer to come across one of them. The elves are very against mixing, even between the castes of high elves and wood elves. Half-elves’ ears aren’t as long as Sylva’s, but they stay pointy.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing,’ Fletcher said. ‘I’ve never even thought about it before. I’m kind of ashamed of that, actually.’
‘Don’t be. I take a special interest in this stuff. My brother …’ she looked away for a moment. ‘He ran away from home to be with a human woman. I’m the only one in the community who will talk to him now.’
The pace ahead quickened as the morning turned to noon, and their conversation was cut short, replaced by heavy breathing as they jogged through the undergrowth. This time the silence was comfortable, even if the atmosphere wasn’t. At the swamp it had been hot, but bearable. Now, it was sweltering, despite the breathable fabric of their jackets.
Even the sounds had changed. Above the chorus of whining insects, the fluty mating calls of birds filtered down through the trees.
‘Shall we let our demons stretch their legs?’ Cress asked, slipping a satchel strap from her shoulder and clutching it to her chest. ‘It’ll give me a chance to test out the battle-gauntlet Athol made for me.’
‘Battle-gauntlet?’ Fletcher asked, intrigued.
She rummaged within the satchel as they walked and pulled out a leather glove. The back had been armoured with bands of steel, extending down to the wrist, but that was not what made it stand out. The palm and finger pads had been branded with the same marks that were tattooed on Fletcher’s hand.
‘I’m not a fan of needles, so no tattoo for me.’ She winked. ‘I’m surprised these haven’t come into fashion yet! Guess most summoners are stuck in their ways.’
Tugging on the glove, she pointed the pentacle at the ground ahead of her. To Fletcher’s amazement, there was a flash of violet and a demon tumbled into existence.
It appeared much like a cross between a raccoon and a squirrel, with dark blue fur speckled with jagged dashes of teal. The demon’s round, yellow eyes focused on Fletcher as soon as it materialised and the bushy tail whipped back and forth with excitement. Despite all of his studies, Fletcher had absolutely no idea what it was.
‘It’s a Raiju,’ Cress said, patting her shoulder. The demon had padded fingers and hooked nails for climbing, allowing it to scamper on to the proffered perch with two, languid leaps.
‘Almost as rare as your Salamander, or so I’m told,’ Cress said, laughing at Fletcher’s mesmerised expression. ‘Level five too. Tosk can blast lightning from his tail like a storm cloud, so mind you avoid touching it. It can give you quite a shock.’
‘That’s amazing! I don’t think I could have snuck that gauntlet into the Tournament though. How did you get such a rare demon?’ Fletcher asked, as the Raiju preened his whiskers at him, almost flirtatiously.
‘King Harold. He’s quite the collector, being such a high level and all. When he heard two more dwarves were heading to the academy, he offered his Caladrius and Raiju to us. He really is on our side.’