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 realised 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 rigours 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 six- teenth 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 pas- tries, half-eaten and discarded by the Inquisitors. They are cold, but they taste like home. I shall miss it.