‘That’s enough for now, Fletcher. Shape it.’
It was easy to pull the fluid into an opaque disk, countless hours of wyrdlight practice finally paying off. It was thinly spread and would shatter after a few sword blows, but it was enough for now.
Fletcher sucked the shield back through his finger and felt his body suffuse with mana once again. With the tournament just hours away, it would not do to waste any of his mana reserves.
‘Well done, Fletcher! You can do it on almost every try. You’ll be better than some of the second years by now,’ Sylva encouraged.
‘I don’t care about where I come in the tournament,’ Fletcher moaned. ‘I only care about beating Isadora and Tarquin. They can flash up a shield in a few seconds and theirs are twice as thick as mine. It’s the same with all the attack spells as well. Consistency, speed and power, that’s what Arcturus said matters. They beat me at all three.’
Sylva gave him a sympathetic smile and squeezed his shoulder.
‘If you come up against them, they will need to use more mana to beat you, which gives us a better chance. Seraph, Othello and I have caught up with them after all this training. We would never have been able to do that without your help, especially the sword practice. Even Malik says that you’re a good swordsman, and the Saladins are reputed to be the best fencers in the land!’
Fletcher gave her a weak smile and went to sit beside Seraph. It was almost midnight, but Othello had asked them to wait for him in the arena. He had disappeared just a few hours before, on mysterious business in Corcillum.
The past few months had been gruelling, filled with constant practice and study. Their demonology exam had come and gone, which all of them had passed with flying colours. Fletcher wasn’t sure what had hurt his wrist more, the incessant sword training or the endless hours of scribbling essays during their daylong exams.
He could have borne the past few months with relative ease, were it not for the coldness that he, Sylva, Seraph and Othello had received from their former friends. Despite their attempts to make peace with them, Rory, Genevieve and Atlas were still upset, eating separately at breakfast and avoiding them wherever possible.
‘Ah, they’re still here,’ Othello’s voice came from behind them. ‘We have company, everyone. Step lively now and welcome some old friends.’
Fletcher turned to see Othello, Athol and Atilla standing behind them. He leaped to his feet and was immediately wrapped in a bear hug, Athol’s strong arms picking him up as if he were no heavier than a child.
‘I thought Othello said he was going to pick up my order tomorrow!’ Fletcher laughed. Atilla smiled awkwardly from a few feet away and gave him a respectful nod.
‘True friends of the dwarves get personal delivery,’ Athol boomed, releasing him. ‘Atilla has been working day and night on your request. Now that his leg has healed, he thought he would come along as well.’
‘Aye, it was delicate work, but a joy to make,’ Atilla said, holding his handiwork up to the light.
Fletcher had first thought of it after his talk with Arcturus. The scrying stone he’d been given was only useful when Fletcher held it close to his eye. Arcturus’s eye patch had given him the idea of fixing it in place there, leaving his hands free.
‘I realised your idea for a monocle wouldn’t work as soon as I started, Fletcher. It would become dislodged if you ever had to fight whilst wearing it. But you said your idea came from a teacher’s eye patch. So I filed your crystal down until it was transparent, mounted it in silver and attached a strap to it instead. Try it for yourself.’
The leather strap of the eyeglass fitted snugly around Fletcher’s head, with the scrying stone sitting just in front of his left eye. He could see through it almost perfectly, although the left side of his vision now had a slight purple tinge.
‘It’s perfect! Thank you so much!’ Fletcher cried, marvelling at the clarity. If he were to scry, he would literally be able to see things from Ignatius’s point of view, at the same time being free to act as he chose.
‘Can I get one of those?’ Seraph asked with a hint of jealousy. ‘I would never have thought of that.’
‘Too late now,’ Atilla replied, pulling his beard at the compliment. ‘But if you have the coin and the crystal, I would be happy to start right away.’
‘Hmmm, I need my stone for tomorrow. But I may take you up on that soon.’ Seraph pulled out his own shard of crystal and looked at it with disappointment.
‘Very impressive,’ Sylva said, yawning as she walked up the stairs. ‘But the tournament is in the morning and I need a good night’s sleep. Are you coming, Seraph?’
‘Yeah, I need my beauty sleep if I’m going to win Isadora’s heart tomorrow,’ Seraph joked, giving Fletcher a parting wink as he followed her. ‘Goodnight all!’