Fletcher hung his head, feeling foolish. If he had simply told the truth, perhaps he would be in a lesson with Arcturus right now, learning how to produce a wyrdlight. Instead, he was now at risk of being expelled from Vocans on the very first day, for lying to a superior officer. Scipio harrumphed in what Fletcher hoped was approval and then beckoned him over to his desk.
‘I am at fault as well. I should have pried a bit closer. After all, researching how to capture new species of demons is something that every battlemage has been tasked with. I assumed that you would not know the magnitude of the implications that your Salamander signified . . . I have been doing far too much assuming of late,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Arcturus has explained how you came by your demon . . . an orc shaman’s summoning scroll, of all things. I suspect my frustration has stemmed from my disappointment that we have not made some great breakthrough, only got lucky. However, I must ask that you leave the book Arcturus told me about with the librarian, in case she can glean some knowledge from it. James Baker was obviously a secretive man.’
Fletcher stood in hopeful silence as the old warrior considered him. Eventually, Scipio pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it on the desk in front of him.
‘This is the pledge that all officer cadets must sign before they join Hominum’s military. Once you have signed, you will officially be a student soldier at this academy and working at His Majesty’s pleasure. Your annual income will be that of one thousand shillings, minus room, board and tuition. It’s all there in writing. Make your mark and be off with you.’ He held a large quill out to Fletcher, who scrawled his name on the dotted line at the bottom, his heart filled with joy.
‘No surname?’ Scipio asked, peering at the writing.
‘I was never given one,’ Fletcher muttered with some embarrassment.
‘Well, put something. Officers are usually known by their surname, not their first,’ Scipio said, tapping at the empty space beside Fletcher’s name. Berdon’s surname had been Wulf, so he scribbled that down.
‘Get to the atrium, Cadet Wulf. Your sponsor is teaching your first lesson, and you are five minutes late,’ Scipio said, giving him a rare smile.
When Fletcher got to the atrium the room was already dotted with the wandering wyrdlights, blue orbs that drifted around the room like fireflies. In the bright teal light, he saw the nobles laughing and floating one after the other from their fingers, competing to see who could create the largest. Othello, Genevieve and Rory were the only commoners there, but they stood away from the nobles in miserable silence.
‘That was quick. Is it as easy as all that?’ Fletcher asked, watching as Tarquin released a ball of light the size of a fist, much to the amazement of the other nobles.
‘No, we haven’t even been shown yet. Having summoners as parents has taught the nobles a thing or two,’ Rory whispered, his face a picture of disappointment and jealousy.
Arcturus was standing in the middle of the room, watching the nobles with impassive eyes. He clicked his fingers and the balls were snuffed out, sending the room into pitch-blackness. The atrium slowly glowed again as a small wyrdlight appeared at the end of Arcturus’s finger. Thin strands of blue blossomed from his fingertips and pulsed into the light, expanding it to a sphere the size of a man’s head. He released it above him, where it floated, motionless, as if suspended from the ceiling. The room was immediately filled with a warm blue light.
‘I did not ask you to demonstrate; I asked if any of you were versed in the technique already. Clearly your noble parents have already taught you this. As such, you may leave if you wish. Your timetables will have been left on your beds. I suggest you memorise them. Tardiness is unacceptable.’ Arcturus gave Fletcher a telling look at those last words.
‘I knew this lesson would be a joke. Come on, Penelope, let the amateurs play catch up,’ Isadora snickered. There was another noble girl, a brunette with large hazel eyes who nodded after a moment of hesitation. Isadora flounced off, followed by the girl, who cast an apologetic look over her shoulder at Arcturus.
Tarquin sauntered behind with the two other nobles, a large sable-haired boy with skin as dark as Seraph’s and another, slighter boy with mousy brown hair and a cherubic face. As Tarquin passed by, he looked at Fletcher’s ragged, ill-fitting uniform and the bruises on his face. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and walked on. Fletcher was in too good a mood to let himself care at that moment.
‘Let them leave,’ Arcturus said once the nobles were out of earshot. ‘They have not learned to control the movement of their wyrdlights. Next lesson, it is they who will be playing catch up. The principles of wyrdlights follow the same principles as all spell casting.’
He turned to the commoners and gave them an appraising look.