‘Preposterous. Do you know anything about demons at all? When a summoner dies, his demon will remain in our world for just a few hours, before it is reabsorbed back into the ether. To remain in our world alive, a demon must be harnessed. It is that bond that keeps them here. Otherwise, they will simply fade away. Or did you think there were wild demons running about out there?’ Goodwin spoke loudly for the benefit of the others, and in response, the scratch of their quills increased in intensity. Goodwin turned away from him in disgust and stalked to the wall behind him. There were several long scrolls stacked against it, one of which he picked up, unrolled and pinned to the wall. On the front of it was a detailed diagram of a Mite in black and white, with various statistics and numbers below it.
‘Today we are going to learn about Mites, the very lowest level of demon, other than their various cousins at the bottom of the food chain, which are not worth capturing. I know we have two Mites here today, specifically Scarabs, the most powerful of the Mite family. Low in mana, size and strength, but useful as scouts. Very good at distracting the enemy during a fight, especially if they go for the eyes. Genevieve and Rory own juvenile Scarabs, but in a few months they will develop stingers, which can cause low-level paralysis and not an insignificant amount of pain. A swarm of ten stings can take down a bull orc, so do not underestimate the power of their poison.’
‘Terrific!’ Rory said aloud, then covered his mouth with his hands. The others laughed, except for Goodwin, who sniffed irritably.
The lesson continued in this vein for another hour, noting down various statistics and discussing the feeding and breeding habits of the Scarab. Fletcher watched despondently as page after page of notes piled up on the others’ desks, until Othello nudged him with his foot and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, you can copy mine later.’
During lunch, Fletcher managed to borrow a spare quill from Rory and a swathe of parchment from Genevieve, so he was better prepared for the second half of the lesson. But when they returned, Fletcher was surprised to find Scipio waiting in the room for them, with an impatient look on his face.
‘Fletcher, you are to report to the library. You are yet to hand in James Baker’s book, despite being told to bring it to the librarian several days ago,’ he said irritably. ‘Major Goodwin, do you mind at all?’
‘Not with this cadet,’ Goodwin harrumphed. ‘He has been a disappointment.’
Scipio raised his eyebrows at Fletcher but said nothing. Fletcher gathered up his things, feeling himself flush with humiliation. Had he really made such a bad impression?
‘Bloody hell, they take late books very seriously at the library here, huh?’ Rory muttered in his ear.
‘I will meet you there. Be sure to bring the book,’ Scipio said to Fletcher, then strode from the room without a backwards glance.
Fletcher hurried up the stairs, cursing his forgetfulness. He had forgotten to write to Berdon, forgotten to hand the book in and, more importantly, he had forgotten to examine the book itself.
He reminded himself that the sheep wagon had been too dark to read in, a fact that had annoyed him greatly. It had been a torrid and fetid journey with nothing to distract himself with, other than his own thoughts. Even so, Fletcher had definitely had time to read it last night.
By the time he had rushed to the top of the tower, collected his book and made his way back to the library, Fletcher was panting. He steadied himself against the wall and tried to compose himself. He didn’t want to lower Scipio’s opinion of him any more than he already had by walking in all hot and flustered.
‘What are you waiting for, Fletcher, in with you!’ Scipio barked from behind him, making him jump. The Provost laid his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and propelled him forward.
They walked into the library together, the musty smell of old books bringing memories of Pelt’s crypt back to Fletcher’s mind. Had all that only happened a few weeks ago?
‘Ah, here you are. I must say I have been looking forward to this. Thank you for bringing him, Provost Scipio,’ came a voice from behind the shelves. A middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair and gold-rimmed spectacles emerged. She had a matronly appearance and an open, honest face.
‘This is Dame Rose Fairhaven, the librarian and nurse at Vocans. She has been with us a long time,’ Scipio murmured.
‘Come now, Provost, you make me sound like an old lady. It hasn’t been that long! Well, bring it over here. Let’s have a look.’
She beckoned them both over to a low table illuminated by a plethora of bright candles.
‘Set it down here where we can all see. Arcturus has explained the book’s origin to me. I remember James Baker. Quiet boy, always drawing. He had the heart of an artist, not a warrior. He was never cut out to be a soldier. I’m sorry to hear what happened to him.’ She sighed and sat down beside the table.
Fletcher set the book down and they joined her, leaning over as she flipped through the book with a practised air.