rebellion, leaving the second son as heir,’ Alfric continued, ignoring Arcturus. ‘From then on, all of the firstborn children of his descendants, the Raleighs, were immune to Manticore venom.’
‘That is a fable, a story,’ Harold said, smiling at his father good-naturedly. ‘Even Edmund did not believe it. A thimbleful of Manticore venom is enough to kill ten men. Only a Manticore’s master could survive such a sting, and even then, only if it was administered by their own particular Manticore, in the same way that a Mite or an Arach’s owner is immune to their demon’s venom.’
Fletcher could tell Harold was speaking for the crowd’s benefit, though he already knew it from his demonology lessons. At the time he had thought it a useless piece of information. How wrong he had been.
‘Do not presume to lecture me like an incompetent child,’ Alfric snapped, limping up to Fletcher and examining his face. His eyes were cold and calculating, and they flashed with sadistic intent.
‘This boy should by all rights be executed – a punishment well befitting his heinous crime. I should not indulge your fantasy. It is preposterous to believe that this common guttersnipe is the son of the great Edmund and Alice Raleigh. The stink on him alone is proof enough for me.’ Alfric chuckled to himself and turned back to his son.
King Harold’s smile faded slightly, and he gave Fletcher a worried glance.
Despair gripped Fletcher’s heart once again, tightening with every second, like a vice. He swayed on his knees, and only Othello’s steadying hand kept him from falling.
‘I have a proposal,’ Alfric said, tapping his chin and gazing up at the rafters. ‘Let us administer the sting. If the boy dies, well, he was never Raleigh’s son and deserved the death that the jury prescribed. If he survives … you have my permission to pardon him.’
Harold reddened at being spoken to in such a manner. After all, he was king, and a full-grown man. He did not need his father’s permission to do anything. For a moment Fletcher saw him struggle with a decision, then he slumped his shoulders and gave his father a curt nod. He could not openly defy his father, not in such a public setting. Not yet.
‘I must object,’ Captain Lovett said, still seated on her bench. ‘A Manticore’s sting is a terrible death. It could take hours, all the time in terrible agony.’
‘Then we shall give him a full dose!’ Alfric snarled. ‘That should kill him quickly enough.’
‘That is not what I meant …’ Lovett started, but was cut short by Alfric’s raised hand.
‘Fortunately, there is a summoner in this room who owns a Manticore. Is that not so, Charles?’ Alfric said, pointing at the dark-haired Inquisitor.
‘A gift from my mother, when I joined the Inquisition,’ Charles Faversham said, bowing his head. ‘I believe you, in turn, gave the demon to her.’
‘I did indeed give it to my cousin,’ old King Alfric said. ‘I cannot deny that I have missed Xerxes, he was a favourite of mine for a good few years. Why don’t you summon him? I bet he hasn’t had a chance to sting something for a while.’
‘Yes, my liege,’ Charles said, falling to one knee. He clicked his finger at one of the guards, who went behind the high table and brought him a long tube. With practised ease, Charles slid out a roll of leather from within and unravelled it on the floor.
He lay his hand on the pentacle embossed upon it and closed his eyes, brow creased with concentration. The pentacle hummed into life, glowing a dull blue that shone even in the well-lit interior of the courtroom. Threads of white light appeared, knitting and merging into a formless mass that slowly took shape. In moments, an enormous creature had materialised, and Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat.
Xerxes was as large as a thoroughbred horse, towering above Fletcher. His limbs and body had the musculature of a lion, covered in a thick pelt of dark, violet
‘That is a fable, a story,’ Harold said, smiling at his father good-naturedly. ‘Even Edmund did not believe it. A thimbleful of Manticore venom is enough to kill ten men. Only a Manticore’s master could survive such a sting, and even then, only if it was administered by their own particular Manticore, in the same way that a Mite or an Arach’s owner is immune to their demon’s venom.’
Fletcher could tell Harold was speaking for the crowd’s benefit, though he already knew it from his demonology lessons. At the time he had thought it a useless piece of information. How wrong he had been.
‘Do not presume to lecture me like an incompetent child,’ Alfric snapped, limping up to Fletcher and examining his face. His eyes were cold and calculating, and they flashed with sadistic intent.
‘This boy should by all rights be executed – a punishment well befitting his heinous crime. I should not indulge your fantasy. It is preposterous to believe that this common guttersnipe is the son of the great Edmund and Alice Raleigh. The stink on him alone is proof enough for me.’ Alfric chuckled to himself and turned back to his son.
King Harold’s smile faded slightly, and he gave Fletcher a worried glance.
Despair gripped Fletcher’s heart once again, tightening with every second, like a vice. He swayed on his knees, and only Othello’s steadying hand kept him from falling.
‘I have a proposal,’ Alfric said, tapping his chin and gazing up at the rafters. ‘Let us administer the sting. If the boy dies, well, he was never Raleigh’s son and deserved the death that the jury prescribed. If he survives … you have my permission to pardon him.’
Harold reddened at being spoken to in such a manner. After all, he was king, and a full-grown man. He did not need his father’s permission to do anything. For a moment Fletcher saw him struggle with a decision, then he slumped his shoulders and gave his father a curt nod. He could not openly defy his father, not in such a public setting. Not yet.
‘I must object,’ Captain Lovett said, still seated on her bench. ‘A Manticore’s sting is a terrible death. It could take hours, all the time in terrible agony.’
‘Then we shall give him a full dose!’ Alfric snarled. ‘That should kill him quickly enough.’
‘That is not what I meant …’ Lovett started, but was cut short by Alfric’s raised hand.
‘Fortunately, there is a summoner in this room who owns a Manticore. Is that not so, Charles?’ Alfric said, pointing at the dark-haired Inquisitor.
‘A gift from my mother, when I joined the Inquisition,’ Charles Faversham said, bowing his head. ‘I believe you, in turn, gave the demon to her.’
‘I did indeed give it to my cousin,’ old King Alfric said. ‘I cannot deny that I have missed Xerxes, he was a favourite of mine for a good few years. Why don’t you summon him? I bet he hasn’t had a chance to sting something for a while.’
‘Yes, my liege,’ Charles said, falling to one knee. He clicked his finger at one of the guards, who went behind the high table and brought him a long tube. With practised ease, Charles slid out a roll of leather from within and unravelled it on the floor.
He lay his hand on the pentacle embossed upon it and closed his eyes, brow creased with concentration. The pentacle hummed into life, glowing a dull blue that shone even in the well-lit interior of the courtroom. Threads of white light appeared, knitting and merging into a formless mass that slowly took shape. In moments, an enormous creature had materialised, and Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat.
Xerxes was as large as a thoroughbred horse, towering above Fletcher. His limbs and body had the musculature of a lion, covered in a thick pelt of dark, violet
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