‘No, boy. That’s Vocans Academy. The King lives with his father in a fancy palace in the centre of Corcillum,’ the driver replied, giving him a curious look. But Fletcher wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed open mouthed, as the fog was dissipated by a heavy gust of wind.
The castle was as large as one of Beartooth’s peaks. The main building itself was a giant cube, made up of blocks of marbled granite, with terraces and balconies layered into the sides, like decorations on a wedding cake. There were four round turrets on each corner, each one with a flat, crenulated top, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky above the main structure. A deep moat of black, murky water surrounded the castle, twenty feet wide with a steep bank on each side. The drawbridge was down, but all the wagons passed it by, moving towards the cannon fire that still boomed in the distance.
As they moved closer to the academy, Fletcher could see that the walls were thickly latticed with creeping ivy and tinged with lichen and moss; it must have been built centuries ago. The boards of the drawbridge emitted a dangerous creak as the driver clucked his skittish horses over the top of it, but they made it to the other side in one piece.
The courtyard was shadowed by the four walls around it, with only a small square of sky illuminating it, from several storeys up. It was dominated by a semicircle of steps that led up to a heavy set of wooden double doors; the entrance to the castle.
As soon as the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobbles, a fat man in an apron, with a puffy, red face, emerged from the shadows. He was flanked by two nervous looking kitchen boys who sprang to work unloading the wagon.
‘Late, as usual. I shall have a word with the quartermaster about getting a new supplier if this happens again. We’ve only half an hour to prepare and serve breakfast now,’ the fat man said, plucking at his apron strings with his pudgy fingers.
‘It’s not my fault, Mr Mayweather, sir. An officer forced me to bring this noviciate up, which took me half an hour out of my way. Here, boy, tell him,’ the driver spluttered, prodding Fletcher in the small of his back. Fletcher nodded dumbly, the reality of where he was beginning to hit home.
‘All right then. We’ll let this one slide, but you’re on my list,’ Mayweather said with an appraising glance at Fletcher and an even longer look at his demon. Fletcher dismounted as the last of the fruit and vegetables were removed from the back of the wagon and stood, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The driver left without a second glance, eager to be away and on to his next pick up.
‘Do you know where you’re going, lad?’ Mayweather asked gruffly, but not unkindly. ‘You’re not a noble-born, that’s obvious. The commoners have already been here a week and I know all the second years by now. You must be new. Did you turn down the offer to come here, then change your mind?’
‘Arcturus sent me . . .’ Fletcher said, unsure how to answer.
‘Ahh, I see. You must be a special case then. We’ve already got two more of those upstairs,’ Mayweather said, his voice low and mysterious. ‘Though they’re a little stranger than you, I’ll grant you.
‘We don’t get many noviciates brought in personally by a battlemage,’ he continued, stepping closer to peer at Fletcher’s imp. ‘It’s usually the Inquisitors who find the gifted and bring them in. Battlemages rarely enlist any adepts themselves, because it means they have to give away one of their demons to them. They need every demon they can get their hands on at the front lines. Seems strange for Arcturus to give you a rare demon like this one, though. I’ve never seen the like!’
‘Is there someone I need to present myself to?’ Fletcher asked, eager to get away before Mayweather pried further. The more people who knew how Fletcher had become a summoner, the more likely that his whereabouts would get back to Pelt.
‘You’re lucky. The first day starts tomorrow, so you haven’t missed much,’ Mayweather said. ‘The noble-born candidates will arrive tonight; they tend to spend the week before in Corcillum, it’s more comfortable for them there. As for the teachers, they’ll be arriving from the front lines tomorrow morning, so you’re best off speaking to the Provost. He’s the only battlemage that doesn’t spend half the year on the front lines. Go straight ahead through the front doors and one of the supporting staff will let you know where to find him. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have breakfast to prepare.’ Mayweather spun on his heel and waddled away.
Despite the demon nestled around his throat, Fletcher did not feel like he belonged here. The ancient stone spoke of opulence and history. It was not for the likes of him.