‘The first lesson is very important; you will find that you all have different capacities for spellcraft. Your demons are the source of all your mana, and the species, experience and age of your demon will determine how much they have and how quickly it recharges.’
Mana. That was the word that Seraph had used yesterday. Fletcher guessed that it meant some kind of energy, used to power spells. Now Arcturus was walking towards them, the wyrdlight above him moving in unison. Under the ethereal glow, his scar looked grislier than ever.
‘Excuse me, where are Seraph and Atlas?’ Fletcher asked, pushing his way in front of Rory and Genevieve so that Arcturus would finally notice him.
‘Sir,’ Arcturus prompted.
‘Sir,’ Fletcher parroted with exasperation.
‘I suspect they have gone to collect their demons. Since I chose to sponsor you but did not give you one of my demons, as is usually our way, the Provost decided it would be only fair if I provide an imp for one of the other commoners. I captured it yesterday, at great risk to Sacharissa. I hope you are worth it,’ he said with a hint of regret in his voice, much to Fletcher’s discouragement.
‘Does that mean it was a powerful demon, sir?’ Rory asked.
‘Not necessarily. It will be in time, but it was too rare for me to pass up. One of your friends is very lucky to have received it. I had never come across one before. Now, enough questions. Sit down on the floor and close your eyes.’
They did so, and Arcturus’s steps echoed as he walked behind them. ‘Let your mind go blank. Listen only to the sound of my voice.’
Fletcher tried to still the excited beating of his heart, listening to Arcturus’s words. The captain’s voice was mellifluous, washing over him like a warm breeze.
‘Reach out to your demon, feel the connection between you. Be gentle. This will likely be the first time you have touched it. Don’t worry if you struggle to find it at first, the more you practise the easier it will be.’
Fletcher did as he asked, searching for the other consciousness that seemed to float on the edge of his mind. He felt the demon’s psyche and, as he touched it, Ignatius twitched in discomfort from around his neck. This was not the pulse of emotion that Fletcher had sent him before, but something else entirely.
‘As you grasp it, you will feel the demon’s mana flow through you. You must take it and focus it all through the index finger of your dominant hand. For now, that is all you must do.’
Fletcher felt that feeling of clarity suffuse his body once again, even stronger than when he had summoned the demon in the graveyard. It raged through him like a hurricane, and he could feel his body shaking.
‘Through your finger, Fletcher! You are taking too much! Control yourself!’ Arcturus shouted. His voice sounded a long way away.
Fletcher took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, raising his finger and channelling the current to it. As he did so, his finger tingled and felt both burning hot and freezing cold, all at once. The black behind his eyelids turned to a dim blue.
‘Open your eyes, Fletcher,’ Arcturus said, putting a steadying hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. He realised he was breathing heavily and calmed himself, then opened his eyes with trepidation.
The tip of his finger was a blue that shone so bright, it verged on white. As he moved his finger, it left a trace of light in the air, like the afterimage of a burning cinder being waved in the dark.
‘I said through your finger, Fletcher, not to it,’ Arcturus said, but there was a hint of pride in his voice.
‘Will I be OK?’ Fletcher asked, horrified as he traced a figure eight in the air. The others had by now opened their eyes, obviously having taken far longer than Fletcher to harness their demon’s mana. Before he became big headed, Fletcher reminded himself that he had been with his demon for over a week longer than they had.
‘You have managed something that we are several lessons away from; the art of etching. Watch closely.’
Arcturus lifted his own finger and the tip glowed blue. He drew a strange triangular symbol, made up of jagged lines. He moved his finger around in front of them and the symbol followed it, as if it were attached by an invisible frame. Just as it began to fade, he fired threads of wyrdlight through the gap between his finger and the symbol. Yet when it passed through, a stream of ghostly, opaque tendrils emerged, forming a circular shield in front of him that Fletcher recognised as the very same that had saved his life just two days ago on the streets of Corcillum.
‘When we use our mana without a symbol, it becomes nothing but wyrdlight, otherwise known as raw mana. But when you etch a symbol and channel your mana through it, the more useful aspects of a battlemage’s tool chest become available. It is not easy; it takes time and practice to create a shield like mine, rather than a misshapen mass. Even forming a ball of wyrdlight will take a while for you to master.’