The Outcast (Summoner #4)(9)
“Up you come, Sacharissa. There’s room for both of us,” Arcturus laughed, patting the space beside him. Sacharissa yapped with excitement, bounding onto the bed in one fluid leap. Her feet caught in the uniform at the foot of the bed, and Arcturus untangled it and held it up for them to inspect.
“Fancy,” Arcturus said. The jacket was double-breasted, made from a deep blue velvet and held in place by shining gold buttons. It looked too showy to be a military uniform, but then, Arcturus was no expert and Elizabeth’s clothing had been just as ornate. He let his feet dangle off the side of the bed and undressed, before shrugging on the uniform. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it fit him well and the material was as soft as the bedsheets he sat on.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, rubbing Sacharissa under the chin. Life wasn’t so bad after all.
The echo of footsteps from outside disturbed his thoughts; then the door slammed open. This time, it wasn’t a dwarf.
A man stood in the doorway, so tall and brawny that he had to stoop to enter. He was resplendent in the red uniform of a general, with tasseled epaulets on his shoulders and rows of medals pinned to his chest. His hair was made up of blond curls, which tumbled across his shoulders in an aureate mane. The man was smiling when he stepped into the room, but as soon as he laid eyes on Arcturus he froze. His face was handsome, with chiseled features and a square jaw, but it turned ugly as it twisted into a furious scowl.
“Ulfr!” the man bellowed, balling his hands into fists. “Come here, immediately.”
“What is it, Lord Forsyth?” Ulfr asked, scurrying in behind him. He kept his eyes low and gave a half bow as Forsyth turned on him.
“Why is this peasant in Charles Faversham’s room?” Forsyth’s voice was deep and threatening.
“Is he … but he…,” Ulfr stuttered, his eyes flicking nervously from Arcturus to Forsyth.
“But nothing!” Forsyth growled, grasping the dwarf by his beard and lifting him so he had to stand on tiptoes.
“Hang on a minute,” Arcturus interjected, standing up. “I didn’t tell him who I was—”
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Forsyth snarled, his gray eyes flashing with anger. Arcturus fell silent, lost for words. The venom in the man’s voice had turned his insides cold.
“My lord, it was an accident. You told me Charles would be arriving tonight, so I assumed…” Ulfr trailed off.
“You assumed this filthy urchin was the son and heir to Lord and Lady Faversham, did you?” Lord Forsyth said, lifting the dwarf still higher.
Suddenly, he hit the dwarf across the head, grunting with effort. There was a sickening crack of knuckles against skull and Ulfr sprawled across the carpet.
“Hey!” Arcturus yelled, rushing to Ulfr’s side. The blow would have knocked the senses from any human, but the dwarf was only stunned for a moment before cradling his head in pain.
“A half-wit and a half man. Though the two often go hand in hand.” Forsyth laughed, rubbing his hand. Arcturus recognized the racist term “half man” and felt disgusted. Sacharissa gave a low growl as she felt his anger and padded toward Forsyth, but Arcturus calmed her with a thought. He did not want to make the situation any worse.
“When you’ve recovered your wits—if you had any to begin with—take the peasant to the empty room at the top of the northeastern tower,” Forsyth commanded. He swept out of the room without a backward glance.
“Are you okay?” Arcturus asked, trying to lift Ulfr to his feet.
“Get off me, human,” the dwarf barked. Arcturus released him as if he had been stung.
“And you wonder why the dwarves rebel against you so often,” Ulfr muttered bitterly, rubbing his temple. Already, a large lump was forming on the side of his head.
Arcturus understood the hatred that dwarves felt toward humans, for even he knew of how the humans had overthrown the dwarves millennia ago, reducing them to second-class citizens in their own homeland.
“I’m not like him,” Arcturus whispered.
“There’s nobody like Obadiah Forsyth,” Ulfr replied, hauling himself to his feet. “But he is the black to your gray. In the end, you are all stained with the evil that is the human condition.”
Arcturus bit back a retort and started gathering his things together. Ulfr was already walking out of the room when he had finished.
“I hope there’s a bed where we’re going,” Arcturus said, tugging a reluctant Sacharissa behind him. She clearly didn’t want to leave the plush carpet in Charles’s room.
“It has all the essentials. It’s where the provost sends students as a punishment if they break the rules. Solitary confinement and all that,” Ulfr replied, turning into another stairwell at the end of the corridor.
“What’s a provost?” Arcturus’s voice echoed in the tight confines of the staircase.
“A headmaster of sorts. He runs the academy, decides who graduates and sets the curriculum. You might say he’s the highest authority at Vocans.”
“When do I get to meet him?” Arcturus asked. Ulfr ignored him and turned into an empty chamber with two doors. He took him down the left one and they entered a narrow corridor.
“Storage rooms,” Ulfr grunted, pointing at the identical doors on either side. He pushed open a door at the very end and showed Arcturus a bare room with a thin pallet bed in the corner, with a simple desk and cabinet crammed against the far wall. An arrow slit allowed a cold gust of wind into the room and Arcturus felt the hair on his arms stiffen with gooseflesh.