‘Rubens, give him a little taste of your sting.’
Fletcher caught a flutter from the depths of the man’s hood, then a bright red Mite buzzed out and alighted on his neck. He felt a sharp pain, then a cold sensation spreading through his body.
‘Now I know you won’t be playing any tricks,’ the figure croaked, standing up so he was silhouetted against the torchlight from the open doorway. ‘Speaking of which, where is that Salamander of yours?’
Fletcher tried to twist his head, but it seemed locked in place. At the mention of the word Salamander, Ignatius stirred from beneath him, and Fletcher knew that the demon was preparing to attack. He quelled Ignatius’s intentions with a stern pulse through their mental link. Even if they managed to overpower the man, Fletcher wouldn’t be able to crawl out of the cell door, let alone pull off an escape.
‘Ah, he’s in the straw there. Well, keep him quiet, if you want to keep your brains inside your skull. It would be such a shame to kill you, after all the preparations we have made.’
‘Pr-pr-preparations?’ Fletcher managed to stutter, his tongue clumsy and numb from the Mite’s venom.
‘For your trial,’ the figure replied, holding out a hand for Rubens to perch on. ‘We delayed it as long as we could, but it seems your friends have been very persistent in their petitions to the king. A shame.’
The figure stowed the Mite within the confines of his hood once more, as if he could not bear to be apart from him. The skin of his hand was smooth, almost feminine, with carefully manicured fingernails. The man’s boots were made from hand-stitched calfskin, with fashionable, figure-hugging trousers above them. Even the hooded jacket was made from black leather of the finest quality. Fletcher could tell the stranger was a wealthy young man, most likely the firstborn son of a noble.
‘I will allow you one more question, then I must take you to the courtroom. Take your time, so the paralysis can wear off. I don’t want to have to carry you there.’
Fletcher’s mind flashed to his friends, to Berdon, and to the state of the war. But he had no way of knowing if the stranger would have the answers he sought. Did they know each other? He pictured the other summoners that he had met at Vocans, but none of them had a hoarse voice. Could it be Tarquin, playing a cruel trick on him? One thing was for sure: his opponent would keep the upper hand as long as he remained anonymous.
‘Who. Are. You?’ Fletcher asked, forcing each word out through numbed lips.
The fact that he could speak at all meant that Rubens had pricked him with only a low dose of venom. He still had a fighting chance.
‘Haven’t you worked it out yet?’ the stranger rasped. ‘That is disappointing. I thought you would have guessed by now. Still, I do look quite different than when we last spoke, so you are hardly to blame.’
The figure crouched again, leaning forward until Fletcher’s vision was filled with the dark confines of his hood. Slowly, the man pulled it back, revealing his face.
‘Recognise me now, Fletcher?’ Didric hissed.
2
Didric leered with a lopsided smile, leaning back so his face would catch the light. The right side was waxy and mottled red, with the edge of his lip burned away to reveal a flash of white teeth. His eyebrows and lashes were gone, leaving him with a wide-eyed appearance, as if he were constantly alarmed. Patches of his scalp were almost bald, covered only by a sparse scattering of hair that pushed through the melted flesh beneath.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Didric said, stroking the ruined skin with a long, tapered finger. ‘The night you did this to me, my father paid through the nose for a summoner to be brought in to perform the healing spell. Lord Faversham, as a matter of fact. Funny that he was unknowingly cleaning up his own son’s mess, wouldn’t you agree?’
Fletcher was dumbstruck, though whether it was the paralysis, or shock, he didn’t know. How had Didric heard about Fletcher’s supposed relationship to the Favershams? A lot had changed in a year.
‘In truth, I should probably thank you,’ Didric said, brushing the long hair on the unburned side of his head to cover the melted scalp. ‘You are the reason for both the best and the worst things that have happened to me this past year.’