The Summoner's Handbook

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  To my grandmothers,

  Ketty and Balbir

  Foreword written by Dame Fairhaven

  When Lord Scipio asked me to transcribe this journal, I agreed that the text contained within these pages was of immense value to prospective summoners across our great land. However, as I began to copy down James Baker’s words, I realized that I could also supplement his findings with the new information we have gathered over the past few years, thanks in no small part to Fletcher Raleigh, Sylva Arkenia, Cress Freyja and Othello Thorsager.

  It is my hope that this book will help summoners, both young and old, to learn more about our craft. And perhaps, should their consciences permit, understand more of the rigors and tribulations that commoner students face when coming to Vocans.

  THE JOURNAL OF JAMES BAKER

  Day 1

  I am a summoner. My fingers tremble as I write these words, though whether it is the cobbled streets shaking my carriage or the excitement of that knowledge, I cannot be sure. I’ve said it aloud over and over, but it still doesn’t feel real. So, I write this entry in my new journal, to see if I can convince myself.

  It was a day like any other when the Inquisitors came. My father had just finished baking. I remember the bell ringing as our store door opened and thinking how strange it was that the customers had not seen the CLOSED sign hung on its front.

  And the fear in my mother’s voice as she called me down the stairs. I remember that. They wore black cassocks, as all Inquisitors do. I had seen them walking the streets, their demons often by their sides. Strange creatures to be sure, but today there were none present. I was thankful for that.

  The first man introduced himself as Inquisitor Rook, the other, Inquisitor Faversham. They spoke in bored voices, as if their job here was a chore. I supposed it was—but who else could do it? Only a summoner could test for another summoner.

  Still, they had come to see me. That was unusual. Normally the boys and girls who had come of age would be lined up to be tested, their names checked against a list by a guard outside. But I had been sick when it was my turn, and no Inquisitor would want to touch a contagious child. So they had come to my little town.

  “Come here, boy,” Rook had said, snapping his fingers. It seemed they were annoyed to have had to make a personal visit.

  I stepped forward and took the hand he was holding out. And that was it. One moment, I was set to follow the vocation that was my namesake, like my father before me. The next, my blood was boiling in my veins, and the surface of my hand glowed blue as the winter sky. Then, I was a summoner. My life was changed forever.

  They gave me but an hour to say good-bye to my family, and only then because my father offered them warm pastries for their return, saying it would be one more hour for them to finish baking.

  My mother cried the whole time, and I must admit, at first I did as well. But when Faversham muttered the words, “sniveling wretch,” I soon stopped.

  She gave me this journal. It was a gift for next year, my sixteenth birthday. She said I would make better use of it now. I sit on the floor of the carriage, while the two Inquisitors sprawl asleep on the bunks on either side of me. My only comfort are the pastries, half-eaten and discarded by the Inquisitors. They are cold, but they taste like home. I shall miss it.

  Day 2

  Vocans. I did not know that was our destination until I heard the carriage driver shout its name, a muffled cry filtering through the velvet curtains of the carriage windows. It woke the Inquisitors, who cursed at him. But they did not stop me from pressing my face against the glass, to see the ancient castle in all its glory.

  The building was made up of four rounded turrets above a square building, surrounded by a moat of dark water. I caught no more than a glimpse before we were trundling across its drawbridge. Moments later, the Inquisitors dragged me up the stairs within a dim, walled courtyard at the castle’s front and into the hallowed halls of the castle proper.

  Inside was a great atrium, held up by oak beams and lit by crack- ling torches in the walls as well as a round skylight in its ceiling. Five stories of balconies lay on either side of me, with winding staircases between them, and doors and corridors in the walls of each floor.

  Opposite me, another set of double doors lay open, with benches and tables within. I could see students sitting and eating, but that was not what drew my eye. Above the doors were beautiful carvings of demons, their eyes set with jewels. The display was breathtaking, though I had barely a few seconds to look at it. Soon an impatient servant was leading me up the stairs.

  I could hardly keep up, for the servant was in a hurry, ignoring my breathless questions. Even so, I could not help but stop and marvel at the great tapestries and paintings hung along the walls, as well as the armor that ancient warriors once wore.

  One painting even depicted the famous Battle of Watford Bridge, and I found it very hard not to pause at the sight of an orcs’ rhino charge being blasted aside by a heroic summoner in the midst of battle.

  More fascinating still were the orcish weapons on display, great clubs studded with stones, as well as bone armor and feathered jewelry. Perhaps most interesting of all were the myriad demons floating in jars, the containers stacked in rows within glass cabinets.

  The servant tutted and fretted the whole way, cursing me for taking so long. Soon, I was led to a small room in the west tower, at its very top.

  There were plenty of rooms to choose from.

  “Not many of you commoners this year,” the servant said. “You’re to stay here until after breakfast. The others will be up soon.”

  Then he left me.

  Day 3

  I met the other commoners today. In truth, I had hoped that we would become fast friends, but there seemed to be a petty rivalry that kept us apart, though rivalry over what, I could not tell. The others had been together for a week already, two boys named Valentine and Tobias, common fellows such as myself, and a girl called Juno. Yet the trio seemed more acquaintances than companions, even after all that time together, and the three seemed sullen at my presence.

  It gave me little hope of becoming close to them, and it hurt me more than I thought it would. Already I yearned for friends, after one day! I never got to say good-bye to my friends back home, few though they were.

  We spoke a little about home, eating servings of sandwiches at lunch, but soon they excused themselves to their rooms and left me on my own. Dinner was placed at my door: cold meats and potatoes. I had nothing but my thoughts for company, and I must admit I shed a few tears as the lonely hours wore on.

  With time to think, I imagine it is my education that sets me apart from the other commoners. They speak in a rough manner, and they told me they were from the poorer parts of Corcillum and Boreas—not surprising, given their accents. My parents had spared no expense to make me literate and well-spoken, hoping that someday I might become a law
yer.

  Those hopes are now dashed, but the sacrifices my parents made to prepare me as a scholar will serve me well in the days to come. I just hope that these commoners will accept me in time.

  Day 4

  I have a demon! Sable is my pride and joy, a large beetle of sorts that I am told is called a Mite. She has a black carapace, with a stinger on her tail and mandibles at her mouth. I have not tired of playing with her, for she flits to and fro around my head, as if she cannot tire of looking at me.

  Would it be strange to say I already love her? Perhaps it is our connected consciousness that makes me care for her so.

  She was gifted to me by the provost, the head of Vocans himself! I was taken, along with the others common students, to Lord Scipio’s office, where we were each handed a scroll to read from. Juno, Valentine and Tobias struggled to read the strange letters inscribed on the parchment, but I spoke them aloud clearly, as instructed, and I confess with not a hint of pride.

  It is hard to describe what followed. A drunken sensation, like after I drank the mulled wine my mother allowed me in the dead of last winter. And a glowing orb, forming as if from nothingness in front of me, accompanied by a roar louder than a waterfall’s bottom. The orb went on spinning and growing, then disappeared in a flash. In its place, my darling Sable hovered, accompanied by a feeling of such joy as I have never experienced before.

  Perhaps I should not have been so eager to show off my schooling, for the others glared at me with a vehemence. Yet in that moment, I did not care. I was too happy.

  The others also received Mites, smaller ones, but brighter in color— Juno’s yellow, Valentine’s a deep red and Tobias’s a deep blue. They made snide comments about my demon’s appearance as Scipio led us back to our rooms, muttered loud enough to hear but too quiet to comment on.

  But comment Scipio did. He said drab-colored Mites were the most desired, for they could go unseen at night and were less conspicuous even in the day. The commoners’ hatred for me seemed to deepen even further then; I could feel it like the charge in the air before a storm.

  It didn’t matter. I had a new friend now. Sable.

  Day 5

  Spells. I cannot say I had pictured spells as something taught before I became a summoner, yet there I was, standing in the center of Vocans’s atrium, attempting to “etch” a “glyph” in the air with my fingers. It is not easy—I cannot say I succeeded on the first try, nor indeed after many hours of concentration. The others fared no better. It was only toward the end of the day that I even succeeded in scratching a simple, glowing blue line in the air, before it fizzled out of existence.

  Again, the other commoners stared at me jealously when I succeeded before them. I had wished there were nobles there to give them someone else to hate, but we were told that morning that the noble summoners were holidaying in nearby Corcillum—they were too far ahead of us in learning to bother to join our lessons.

  As our attention spans dwindled at the lack of success, our teacher, a tousle-haired brunette named Lady Sinclair, took a break to tell us more about demons. It was strange, the four of us sitting on the floor in the great empty space, while she strode back and forth, lecturing.

  There are two forms of energy within demons: mana and demonic energy. When we summon a demon and bond it to our essence, their demonic energy fills us. The amount we can absorb varies from summoner to summoner and determines the number of demons that can bond with us. This is known as the fulfilment level.

  Generally, more powerful demons have higher levels of demonic energy, so it will be an important determinant of my future prospects. I eagerly await to discover what mine is. Another demon like Sable would be a dream come true!

  As the light from the skylight faded, Lady Sinclair informed us that mana was the “fuel” we used for spellcraft. It slowly replenished over time, varying from demon to demon in recovery speed and the amount within them. She told us to picture it as if every demon contained a jar of glowing blue liquid, with a dripping faucet above. Every jar was a different size, and every faucet flowed at a different speed. When we used a spell, the jar would slowly empty. Then it would need the faucet to refill it, until it was full once again.

  She also told us that generally, low-level demons such as Sable had smaller jars but faster faucets. High-level demons had larger jars but slower faucets. But this was just a rough rule of thumb.

  At this point, servants scurried around us, lighting torches. Frustrated by our failures, or perhaps simply the confused faces of the other commoners, Lady Sinclair gave up on teaching us how to “etch.” So, instead we were told to produce the easiest of spells—the wyrdlight. A ball of raw mana that floated aimlessly if not controlled with the summoner’s mind, disappearing on contact with anything but air.

  This seemed a far easier task, but this time I held back, pretending to struggle until Valentine succeeded in producing his own, a small ball of glowing blue light that drifted around the room, as if a firefly had entered through a keyhole in the wooden doors behind us.

  I had hoped that my feigned incompetence would endear me to the others, but they only smirked at me as each succeeded with their own wyrdlights. I don’t know why it made me so angry. As I write, I feel only regret.

  Because, sick of their scorn, I closed my eyes. Grasping the cord that connected my consciousness to Sable, I channeled the mana into my body until it burned like icy fire through my veins. I pushed it out of my finger, as Lady Sinclair had instructed. The anger helped, I think, because when I opened my eyes a great ball of wyrdlight had formed in the air in front of me, growing larger with each pulse of mana, like a child blowing bubbles through a small hoop.

  Then, as it detached from my finger and spun across the room, I instinctively knew how to guide it, nudging it with my mind until it ricocheted into Valentine. Of course, it winked out of existence as soon as it touched him, but his screech of fear as it approached him was satisfying, at least at the time.

  Juno tittered at his outburst, and the glare of anger I received from Valentine was almost worth it. Almost.

  We walked in silence to our rooms, and Valentine slammed the door behind him, much to the amusement of Juno and Tobias.

  Tonight I will not cry. Instead I will practice with wyrdlights, and exercise Sable by having her chase them.

  Day 6

  I could not produce any more wyrdlights last night. I realize now I had used all my mana in that single, giant wyrdlight, so instead I cuddled Sable to my chest. She is not fluffy or cozy like the house cat we bought last year to keep mice from our bakery. But she is mine, and the love she feels for me burns hotter than the warmest hearth.

  But I digress. Today was a day of crushing disappointment.

  This morning we were taken to a room in one of the towers. Inside, we were confronted by a giant, segmented pillar made up of multicolored jewels. A “fulfilmeter,” one that would determine our fulfilment level and thus, how many demons we could summon. One by one, we were each told to press our hands to it. I was first, and to begin I felt what little mana I had recovered the night before pulled out of me. Then I could feel a new sensation pulsed into me, hot and caustic. A sensation of fullness assailed my senses, and in front, I saw the first segment light up, as if a torch had been lit within. Then another. Finally, a third flickered on and off, until the teacher who had taken us there, a recent graduate called Connor Cavendish, pulled me from the pillar.

  “Level three,” he told me, and the look of pity in his eyes made my stomach twist. “Just barely.”

  Was that good? I thought.

  Of course, now I know it is not.

  Valentine was level six, while Tobias and Juno were level five.

  They laughed at me openly, and to his credit, Connor shut them up with a barked order. He told them that with regular practice of spellcraft and demonic control, a summoner might increase their summoning level over time. Also that summoners often grew in fulfilment level naturally as the years went by, thou
gh it was different for each summoner. Only time would tell, but hope was not lost.

  Then we were done for the day, and I was left to seethe.

  As I write this, I try to tell myself that being level three means I can summon two more Mites. That, in itself, is amazing.

  But I cannot help but fear for my future. A weak summoner such as myself would have no hope of becoming anything more than a second lieutenant in the army. Worse still, I fear for my own safety, and that of Sable.

  You see, in two years’ time, I will fight in a grand tournament, the result of which will determine my rank in the army. Noble houses will have the right to offer me a place in their private forces, while the generals of Hominum’s military would observe our performance and offer us commissions.

  The low-ranked officers fought on the front lines, led men into battle, while the higher ranks sat in warm tents and moved wooden figures around maps, sending soldiers to their deaths. I knew which I would prefer.

  It is cold, and the candle runs low. I have no mana for a wyrdlight; the fulfilmeter has taken all of it. And my hopes with it.

  Day 7

  No. I shall not despair. I am better than the other commoners. I can work harder than them, fight smarter than them. I may never beat the noble summoners, whoever they are. But if these three brats shall be my rivals, then so be it. I need only beat them in the tournament. I write this as I wake. More later tonight.

  •••

  Today was a day of rest. So while the others slept and relaxed, I got to work. There is a library here—I learned this from Lord Cavendish, the same teacher who had told the other commoners off for laughing at me and had given me some semblance of hope that I might become a more powerful summoner someday.