Fletcher nodded and wandered away, trudging up the stairs of the west wing. He was eager for the solitude of his room and the company of Ignatius, who was only allowed to be summoned during the occasional lesson.
With Captain Lovett unconscious he felt more alone than ever. Although his friends were supportive and good company, they all had their own problems to deal with. Even Arcturus had been withdrawn lately, although whether it was because of Rook’s presence, disappointment in Fletcher or Lovett’s condition, was yet to be seen. Lovett had been fair and fearless, completely ambivalent to the differences in race and class of her students. Fletcher knew that he could have confided in her if he ever had any problems. Now . . . it was as if she were gone.
His mind dulled by exhaustion, Fletcher turned on to the wrong floor, where the nobles had private rooms. As he groaned and turned back to the stairs, something caught his eye. It was a tapestry, depicting armoured figures in the midst of battle. He walked over to it and admired the intricate stitching that had brought it to life.
The orcs were charging across a bridge, riding their war rhinos full tilt at a small group of men armed with pikes. At the very front of them stood a dominating figure, his arm outstretched with the spiral symbol etched in front of him. Beside him, a leonine Felid bared its fangs and seemed to roar at the oncoming horde.
Fletcher leaned forward and read the plaque below it. The Hero of Watford Bridge.
‘Incredible. Scipio blasted aside an orc rhino charge,’ Fletcher murmured.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps. Realising he was on a noble floor, Fletcher darted into a doorway and hid in the shadows. He did not want to have another encounter with Tarquin; not in the mood he was in.
‘. . . Did you see that buffoon’s face when his spell failed? I could have wept with laughter. The bastard thought he was so special. Now look at him,’ Tarquin drawled. The resultant titter revealed that he was with Isadora.
‘You are funny, Tarquin darling.’ Isadora giggled. ‘But we have not had time to talk today, not with those useless lessons. Tell me, what did Father’s letter say?’
‘You know he cannot tell us much, not in something as incriminating as a letter. But I could read between the lines. It is happening tonight. By tomorrow morning we will be the largest weapons manufacturer in Hominum. Then all we need to do is get rid of Seraph’s father and take over the Pasha munitions business. After that we will have the whole damned pie!’
‘Good. Our inheritance will be secure once again. But did he tell . . .’ Isadora’s voice faded as they entered one of the rooms and the door shut behind them. Fletcher realised he was holding his breath and let it out in a deep sigh. Whatever he had heard tonight, it was not good news at all.
Fletcher was about to move out of his hiding place when he heard more footsteps. The steps came gradually closer until they stopped just outside the room Tarquin and Isadora had entered, then there was a deep breath.
‘Come on, Sylva. You can do this,’ Sylva’s lilting voice said.
Fletcher gaped in surprise. Why was Sylva going to see the Forsyths at such a late hour?
‘Do what?’ Fletcher said, stepping out of the shadows.
Sylva gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth.
‘Fletcher! What are you doing here?’
‘Do what?’ Fletcher repeated, furrowing his brow.
‘I’m here to . . . make peace with the Forsyths,’ she muttered, avoiding Fletcher’s eyes.
‘Why? What on earth could have possessed you to do that? They abandoned you when you needed them most!’ Fletcher exclaimed.
‘I have forgotten why I am here, Fletcher. I am an elf, the first summoner of my kind in hundreds of years. Not only that, but I am an ambassador. You and Othello have been good to me, and I bear you no ill will. But I cannot alienate the nobility, not with the relations between our countries at stake. Zacharias Forsyth is one of King Harold’s closest and oldest advisors and it is the King who will broker an alliance between our nations. Being friends with Zacharias’s children will sway him to our cause.’ Sylva spoke firmly, as if she had rehearsed the speech before.
‘But, Sylva, they don’t even like you. They only want your friendship for their own ends!’ Fletcher insisted.
‘As I do theirs. I’m sorry, Fletcher, but I have made up my mind. This doesn’t change anything between us, but it is how things must be,’ she stated.
‘Oh yes it does! You think I’ll trust you when you’re friends with those two vipers?’ Fletcher blurted, pushing past her.
‘Fletcher, please!’ Sylva begged him.
But it was too late. Fletcher stormed away, his misery replaced with fury that boiled inside him.
Damn the elf and her politics. Damn the nobles too! Everything was falling apart; his friendships, his studies. He couldn’t even contact Berdon with Rook looking over his shoulder.