The Outcast (Summoner #4)(4)
Perhaps it would be better to roll the dice, see what the truth would bring. A commoner being able to summon a demon was unheard of—it could turn his life upside down. But when you’re at the bottom of the pile, it always makes sense to reshuffle the deck.
“It was me,” he announced, his voice as confident as he could make it. “I summoned the demon. I can feel it now.”
There was a pause, then a cackle as the king and Lord Faversham burst into laughter. Even Charles snorted, though the malice never left his eyes. Arcturus sat in silence, setting his jaw.
The king held up his hand, cutting the laughter short. His smile narrowed to a pursed slit.
“Charles, come here.” He beckoned the young noble over, then leaned in and whispered in his ear. Charles hesitated, then strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
The king steepled his fingers, leveling his gaze at Arcturus. His gray eyes revealed nothing, but Lord Faversham drummed his fingers on the armrest, betraying a sudden nervousness. Despite the heat, Arcturus shuddered under the king’s scrutiny.
“You’re playing a dangerous game here,” Lord Faversham said, narrowing his eyes at Arcturus. “Did they pay you to feed us this cock-and-bull story? Because if you think for one moment that you’ll be able to lie and leave this castle alive, you are much mistaken.”
“It’s true,” Arcturus replied, cursing the quaver in his voice. “I read the scroll aloud and the demon appeared.”
“Commoners cannot summon demons,” the king snapped, impatience getting the better of him. “The gift is passed down in the blood, always for the firstborn and sometimes for the siblings. The noble houses have been the only summoners in Hominum for two thousand years. Now, I will give you one more chance. If you tell me the truth and identify the thief, I will give you four hundred shillings and transport to Corcillum. You can’t say fairer than that.”
But Arcturus could feel something new, screeching through him like nails on a chalkboard. It was pain, distant but fierce, emanating from the psychic thread that held him to the demon. A fresh throb made him fall to his knees, clutching at his skull. The dual sensation of this new pain and his earlier injuries was almost too much to bear.
“You’re hurting it!” he cried, burying his head in the fur of the bearskin rug.
“When will you end this farce?” Lord Faversham growled, kicking at Arcturus. But the king held up a bony finger, before pointing it at the entrance to the library.
“As we speak, your son is whipping the demon downstairs as I instructed him. I was hoping to merely cause the thief some discomfort. Instead, it seems we have revealed him.” The king smiled as Arcturus whimpered in agony.
He was barely able to comprehend the king’s words, fresh waves of pain robbing him of all sense.
“Who are you, boy?” Lord Faversham growled, lifting Arcturus from the floor by the collar and holding him up in the air. “Your stable boy disguise has been found out; tell us which house you belong to now and perhaps your punishment will be less severe. Are you a Sinclair? A Fitzroy?”
“No … house…,” Arcturus choked.
“Put him down, Royce,” the king ordered, tearing Arcturus from Lord Faversham’s grasp before his command could be obeyed. “This boy is no impostor. Can you not tell by his accent, his demeanor? His body odor alone reeks of a common upbringing.”
“What are you saying?” Lord Faversham asked, breathing heavily. “That this boy is telling the truth?”
“I am saying,” the king murmured, tapping his chin with a long finger, “that this boy is … something new.”
CHAPTER
3
ARCTURUS WAS THROWN BACK into his dark cell, but this time with a bucket of water and some fresh bread. Arcturus devoured it, reveling in the warm chewy texture. On the other hand, the demon was given no such sustenance, and its thirst and hunger plagued Arcturus for hours on end. He banged on the door and demanded it be fed and watered, but received nothing but curses from the Pinkerton, then silence.
Finally, when the water bucket was empty and hunger began to gnaw at his stomach once again, Arcturus was dragged from his cell, then marched through a side door and into the courtyard.
Lord Faversham and his son were waiting for him, their faces dark and broody with ill humor. A large box lay on the ground beside them, with a strange leather harness wrapped around it.
As Arcturus trudged toward them, he took in his surroundings, scanning for an escape route. The courtyard was surrounded by a cobbled stone wall, thick with ivy. An elaborate archway curved over the entrance, and it was blocked by a heavy iron gate.
“Still alive, are you?” Charles said, kicking at the gravel on the ground moodily. “I had hoped you would have died in—”
“No, Charles,” Lord Faversham cut him off. “The king has made … arrangements for the boy, as you well know. No harm will befall him whilst he is in our care, is that understood?”
“Yes, Father.” Charles sighed.
Arcturus remained silent, his eyes on his feet. Where were they taking him? Somehow, he didn’t feel afraid. Anything was better than going back to the inn.
He could sense the demon now, so close he could almost smell it. The box beside him trembled. Arcturus turned his eyes toward it and gasped.
The demon—it was trapped inside. He kneeled and laid his hand against the wood, sending it feelings of calmness and safety, despite his own misgivings about the future. Slowly, the trembling stopped. The sound of lapping inside gave him some relief, as he realized they had finally given it some water. It seemed, for now, the Favershams wanted both of them alive.