The Outcast (Summoner #4)(35)
This time, he stood and began to walk away. Crawley snatched his wrist as he hurried past, holding him in place for another moment.
Crawley glared up at him, and this time Arcturus saw a fanatical, mad look in the servant’s eyes.
“You’re going to have to pick a side one day, Arcturus,” Crawley snapped. “And you may not have a choice when that day comes. Think on it.”
Sacharissa barked, flecking the man’s face with saliva. He didn’t even blink. It was all Arcturus could do to stop her from latching onto Crawley’s forearm, his mind twisting to hold her in place.
“I … I will,” Arcturus managed to say.
Crawley let his arm go, and Arcturus rushed away without a backward glance. He felt sick to his stomach, the world spinning as he sprinted down the stairs.
It was only much later, reading his new demonology book beneath a glowing wyrdlight, that Arcturus realized what Crawley had smelled like. The fires in Corcillum sprang unbidden to his mind.
He had smelled like lamp oil. Flammable, raw lamp oil.
CHAPTER
19
WHEN ARCTURUS WOKE TO the first rays of morning light streaming through the open arrow slit, the previous morning’s events felt like a bad dream.
He had hidden there for the rest of that day, only opening his door to accept cold sandwiches of salt pork and cheese from an impatient servant boy, feeding half to a hungry Sacharissa.
Now he pushed the memories from his mind, packed up his meager possessions and headed down for breakfast, wondering if Edmund’s offer had been genuine … or even directed at him at all. He kept Sacharissa infused once again—she had come so close to attacking Crawley, Arcturus was worried he might not be able to stop her from attacking the next time he was being threatened. And that was happening far too often these days.
His heart dropped when he stumbled into the dining hall. It was empty, but for a single, bored-looking servant hunched beside a platter of bread and bowls of jam and butter.
Arcturus felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. In some ways he had been scared of joining these rich, confident nobles on a weekend jaunt. But still … he had been looking forward to making some friends—or at least, friends his age. If the day before had taught him anything, it was how alone he really was.
“There you are,” a voice called out from behind him. “Honestly, where are your chambers? We’ve been banging on every door in the west wing looking for you.”
Arcturus spun, only to find a grinning Edmund, standing with his hands on his hips.
“I’m in the tower,” Arcturus replied, smiling himself. The young noble’s grin was infectious.
“The carriages are waiting outside. I say, is that all you’re bringing?” Edmund looked pointedly at the small bundle of possessions on Arcturus’s back.
“Uhh … yes,” Arcturus said.
“Jolly good, no need to call the soldiers in to help move your stuff,” Edmund said, heading for the double doors in the atrium. “I swear, Zacharias brought his entire damned wardrobe.”
“Soldiers?” Arcturus asked, hurrying behind him.
“Ah … yes, well, what with the riots last night and Prince Harold coming with us, King Alfric has sent some of Hominum’s finest to escort us,” Edmund replied.
A chill ran through Arcturus at the reminder of the riots. He didn’t want to think about it … things would sort themselves out.
Edmund heaved the heavy double doors open, and Arcturus followed him into the brisk morning air. To his surprise, the courtyard was a hive of activity. Servants ran back and forth, lifting and tying an assortment of trunks and bags onto the tops of two carriages. In front of each vehicle stood a pair of sleek black horses, snorting gouts of steam into the chill morning air.
“Zacharias has taken up most of the room in one of the carriages with all his damned bags—and you’re the last one here. You’ll have to ride with the soldiers,” Edmund said, grimacing apologetically.
He pointed beyond the carriages, where a squat, canvas-covered wagon sat beside the drawbridge. A dozen soldiers stood outside, stomping their feet to stay warm.
“We’ll have plenty of time to catch up when we get there,” Edmund said, giving Arcturus a gentle push. “Go ahead, I told them to make room for you.”
Arcturus turned to thank Edmund, but the boy had already disappeared into one of the carriages. Through the darkened glass, Arcturus could see Zacharias and Harold there too, the spare seat piled high with cases and furs. As he looked, Zacharias turned toward him and gave him an icy glare before tugging the curtain closed.
“Great,” Arcturus mumbled, trudging toward the wagon.
As he came closer, he was surprised to see the military’s horses were of a far poorer quality than those on the nobles’ carriages. The two specimens before him were swaybacked nags, the fur around their muzzles dusted with the gray of old age, though his experience as a stable boy told him they were well fed and groomed.
Now that he thought about it, the soldiers were not in the best shape either. All wore a hauberk of chain mail, but the metal links were stained with the telltale red-brown of rust. Their boots were cracked and worn, and most of their clothing looked as if it had not been washed in weeks.
And yet … there was an air of cool professionalism about them. They held themselves with confidence, and their eyes roamed the surroundings in a habit clearly born of long practice, even as they puffed tobacco from pipes and cheroots.