Summoner: Origins - Book 0

Chapter 2

Arcturus awoke in darkness. For agonizing seconds, he thought that the attack had blinded him. It was only the thin sliver of light at the end of the room that told him otherwise.

The air was stale and heavy, as if it had not been disturbed for some time. The stone underneath him was chilled, devoid of any warmth of comfort. Pain twinged through his skull with every turn of his head, and a tentative feel of his temple revealed a lump the size of a goose egg.

He lay in the gloom, bracing himself to stand and explore his confines. Perhaps if he crawled to the light, he could call for help. He tried to speak, but all that left his throat was a raw croak. A thirst he had never known was raging inside of him, leaving his swollen tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth like a slab of salt pork.

Footsteps, loud and purposeful, echoed from the source of light. The door—

for that is what it was— swung open, blinding him with the glow of a torch. He blinked in the new light, shading his eyes with a hand.

"Awake already are you?" a cold voice snapped, lifting the flame higher.

Arcturus squinted, revealing brass buttons on black cloth; the uniform of a Pinkerton. The man had a handsome face, but his eyes were cruel and empty of empathy. He approached Arcturus and crouched down to examine him.

Arcturus spied a tankard of water in the man's hand and snatched it, all sense of decorum forgotten. He took deep, pulsing gulps, filling his belly until the liquid sloshed inside of him like a half empty gourd. The man chuckled and lifted him to his feet, his grip like a vice on Arcturus's shoulder

"Thank you for the water," Arcturus gasped, dizzied from standing so suddenly.

"It wasn't for drinking. It was for throwing over you to rouse your lazy carcass. Two days you've been in and out of consciousness. That noble must have hit you something fierce." The Pinkerton laughed again, then pulled Arcturus out of the cell and down a narrow corridor.

"Where are we going?" Arcturus slurred, his gorge rising as a dizzy nausea overcame him.

Forks of pain spread through his brain with every jolt as if his skull was full of lightning. He felt the demon on the very edge of his consciousness, awash with confusion and terror. Arcturus preferred it in his own mind. Pain he was used to, for his master would knock him about when the mood took him. It was fear he could not abide, though he was getting flashes of his own as the Pinkerton ignored his question, dragging him up some stairs.

The stairs opened up into a small hallway with a set of double doors at the end carved from dark oak and stamped with the insignia of a noble house. They spoke of wealth and power, the old kind that was passed from generation to generation. Paintings lined the walls: portraits of old men with beady eyes that seemed to follow him as they passed.

"You're to go in alone. Be quick about it. It doesn't do to keep a king waiting," the Pinkerton snapped, then grinned at the shock on Arcturus's face. "That's right, boy. You're in that much trouble."

He shoved Arcturus through the doors, then slammed them shut behind him.

Arcturus stumbled and collapsed to the floor, meeting the soft down of a bearskin rug. Bookshelves lined the walls, broken only by the door behind him and a crackling hearth in front. It was uncomfortably hot in the room, as if a sick man was being purged in a sweat lodge.

There were two armchairs and a stool by the fireplace. The young noble was in the smaller seat, eyeing Arcturus with trepidation. Behind him sat two middle-aged men, both with silver dusting their black hair at the temples. One appeared as the portraits did, his eyes beady with a hooked nose. He bore some resemblance to the young noble, and Arcturus realized that he was his father.