‘Well done, Fletcher, you managed a spell,’ Isadora taunted. ‘Why, you actually performed one of the most basic of abilities required of a battlemage. Your parents must be so proud. Oh . . . wait.’
Fletcher turned, his elation immediately replaced with outrage. Isadora gave him a dainty wave, skipping down the arena steps. Fletcher was surprised to see the seven other first years, trailing behind her into the arena.
‘So as you can see, we were right.’ Tarquin pointed an accusatory finger at Sylva, Othello, Fletcher and Seraph. ‘They are training here, in secret!’
‘That’s why you’re never in the common room,’ Genevieve exclaimed, tossing her hair with surprise. ‘You always say you’re in the library.’
‘We are,’ Fletcher tried to placate her. ‘We just come here afterwards, to practise our swordplay with Sir Caulder. Remember, he offered private tuition to all of us in our first lesson.’
‘That didn’t look like sword practice to me,’ Atlas said, pointing at the empty space above the arena where Fletcher’s fireball had snuffed out Sylva’s wyrdlight. ‘Sir Caulder isn’t even here.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Rory stammered. ‘You never give me a straight answer when I ask what you’ve been up to.’
Fletcher had no answer for that. It had felt wrong to not include the others. But it would have been too hard to explain, too high a risk of Tarquin and Isadora finding out about what they were doing. Not that it had helped in the end.
‘Why would they hide it from you?’ Tarquin pondered aloud with a theatrical air. ‘Perhaps because . . . no, they wouldn’t. Would they?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Genevieve, her bottom lip trembling.
‘Well, I’m sorry to say, but it looks as if the other commoners are training in secret to beat you,’ Tarquin theorised, shaking his head with mock disgust. ‘I mean, they haven’t a hope of beating us nobles, let’s be reasonable here. But, if they can embarrass you three in the arena, it might just snag them a commission.’
‘That’s a goddamn lie!’ Fletcher yelled, leaping to his feet and rounding on Tarquin. ‘And if you think we can’t beat you, you’re more arrogant than I thought.’
‘Why don’t we do it right now?’ Tarquin brought his face an inch from Fletcher’s. ‘We’re in the arena. Plenty of spectators. What do you say?’
Fletcher seethed, his hands itching with violent intent.
‘Plenty of witnesses, more like,’ Sylva interrupted, pulling Fletcher back from the brink. ‘So that everyone can say they saw Fletcher duel and he can get expelled. Don’t you care about your own career?’
‘Scipio would never expel me,’ Tarquin snapped at her, venom dripping from his words. ‘It’s an empty threat. My father is the King’s best friend; it would never get that far. As for a common bastard like Fletcher . . .’
But Fletcher was on to his game now. He wouldn’t give Tarquin the satisfaction.
‘You’ll get your duel, in good time. When I can beat you with everyone watching. We’ll see who’s the better summoner then.’
Tarquin smiled and leaned in, until Fletcher could feel the noble’s breath in his ear.
‘I look forward to it.’
Tarquin swept out of the room, followed by the rest of the nobility. For a moment Rory hesitated, his face filled with indecision. Atlas lay a hand on his shoulder.
‘They were caught in the act, Rory. We should have known not to trust the likes of them. A wannabe noble, a bastard, an elf and a half-man. You don’t need friends like them.’
Fletcher bristled at the jibe, then realised that by calling Seraph a ‘wannabe noble’, Atlas must have overheard Seraph and him talking in the common room.
‘You’ve been eavesdropping, Atlas,’ Fletcher said. ‘That was a private conversation.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot of things these past few weeks. Who do you think told Tarquin and Isadora about your extracurricular activities?’
‘Sneak,’ Seraph spat, kicking the sand in anger. ‘What did he promise you?’
‘A commission in the Forsyth Furies, if I play my cards right. You two should do the same,’ he said, turning to Rory and Genevieve.
‘You would trust those two snakes?’ Fletcher cried. ‘They’re lying to you and they’ll do the same to Rory and Genevieve. Don’t do this, please!’
But it was too late, their minds were made up. One by one, they turned their backs on him and walked away. Until the four were alone once again.
47
Sweat dripped from Fletcher’s brow as he etched the shield symbol in the air in front of him. He fixed it in place, twirling his finger and watching as it followed his every movement.
‘Good. Now the hard part,’ Sylva instructed, her voice echoing in the empty space of the arena. Seraph watched him from the sidelines, having finished his training for the day.
His mind felt like it would split in two as he tried to regulate a flow of mana both to and through the symbol at once. He was rewarded by a thin stream of white light that hung in the air before him.