She watched Cirroc and Hoban carry Alt-Frieda out the door, then gathered her thoughts. “I went into the wrong universe,” she said. She hoped that was true. If Caleb had been stuck in the dead universe, she’d closed the door in his face. “I found an alternate version of Dua Kepala.”
“...Shit,” Master Highland said. It took him a moment to compose himself. “What did you do?”
Emily explained, briefly. “I think he won’t be able to follow me home,” she said, when she’d finished. She hoped that was true. The Manavore should have killed Dua Kepala by now. “But I don’t think we found the right universe. Caleb went somewhere else.”
“It looks that way,” Master Highland said. He eyed the mirror warily, as if he expected a necromancer to appear at any moment. Or a Manavore. “But how do we find the right one?”
“I don’t know,” Emily said. She seemed to be saying that a lot. There were just too many unknowns. Things they knew they didn’t know... and things they didn’t know they didn’t know. “It might be impossible if the nexus link isn’t strong enough...”
“Blood might do,” Jayson said. “The books talked about using blood to link two mirrors together, remember? If we use Caleb’s blood to forge a link...”
“Except Caleb is... in an alternate timeline.” Master Highland’s tone suggested he was talking to a particularly stupid idiot. “If we had him here, we wouldn’t need to open the link, would we? Where do we get his blood?”
Jayson winced, then reddened. “Frieda... might have left some of her blood lying around... if it was the right time of the month...”
“She knew how to dispose of her blood,” Emily said, disgusted. It wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. “I don’t think she’ll have left any lying around.”
“We can use Alt-Caleb’s blood,” Jayson said. He sounded as if he were trying to forget his own comment about Frieda’s blood. “It would be linked to his timeline, wouldn’t it?”
“I hope so.” Emily wondered what, if anything, the Gorgon had found. There had to be some differences between Caleb and Alt-Caleb, if only at the quantum level. She’d read books that talked about quantum signatures, a piece of technobabble that was about as useful as telling someone that she was reversing the polarity of the neutron flow. “We might have no choice, but to try.”
And send both alternates back to their home dimension, if they come from the same dimension, Emily thought. We might not be able to keep them here.
She sighed. “I’m going to get a drink,” she said. She wanted Kava. She’d settle for water, if that was all there was. “And then I’m going to interrogate Alt-Frieda.”
“Be careful what you say,” Master Highland warned. “She was scared of you. Not us, you.”
“She didn’t know Hoban,” Jayson commented. “She didn’t react to me or Master Highland or... She didn’t go nuts until she saw Cirroc.”
Emily frowned. “My Frieda met Cirroc at Whitehall,” she said, although she wasn’t sure if that was true. Cirroc was two years older than Frieda, an insurmountable gap unless they were already friends or relatives. She might never have met him informally if she hadn’t been so close to Emily. “And... she had no reason to be scared of him.”
“Your Frieda has no reason to be scared,” Master Highland pointed out. He didn’t sound too pleased. Frieda had been more than a little cheeky to him. “What about this Frieda?”
“We’ll find out,” Emily said. Alt-Frieda seemed to be more coherent than Alt-Caleb. “And then we’ll decide how to proceed.”
“I’ll continue searching for mirrors,” Master Highland said. He let out a heavy sigh. “The searchers found five more while you were gone. There might be more in the unexplored sections of the school.”
“And each of them might be a Manavore,” Jayson said. “Am I the only one who feels a little exposed?”
“No,” Emily said. They walked past a large mirror, surrounded by capture runes. One or two Manavores that got out before they could be banished would do a lot of damage before they were stopped. If they could be stopped. “You’re not.”
They went to the dining hall, where they drank Kava and discussed what Emily had seen in the alternate timeline, then headed back to the bedrooms. The Gorgon was on guard, Cirroc and Hoban standing next to her. Emily peered into the second bedroom—Alt-Frieda was lying on a blanket, fast asleep—and frowned. Asleep, it was hard to tell that Alt-Frieda was different from their own Frieda. There was no goatee...
She laughed, inwardly. Humorlessly. Of course there was no goatee.
“I did a brief scan,” the Gorgon said. “She’s been badly hurt, time and time again, but... she’s not as badly off as Alt-Caleb.”
Emily nodded. “Did you search her?”
“She was carrying a pair of wands, both rather odd.” The Gorgon nodded to the table. “They weren’t charged, but... the spellwork was firmly emplaced. They remind me of ancient runes.”
“Quite so,” Hoban said. “The design is actually quite effective, if you don’t mind the danger of accidentally blowing your hand off.”
“And losing control of your magic,” Emily guessed.
“No, actually.” Hoban picked up one of the wands and examined it. “The runes aren’t designed to shape raw magic into spellware. They’re designed to take a piece of spellware and amplify it. I think... it’s a curious design. I’m not sure where they were drawing power from...”
Cirroc peered over his shoulder. “The caster?”
“No.” Hoban shook his head. “The wand seems designed to amplify the spell, but not draw additional power from the caster. There’s no other power source. They might be one-shot devices, I suppose...”
“You don’t sound very confident,” Emily said.
“I’m not.” Hoban frowned. “Whoever made these things knows more about wands than I do.”
“And is willing to take the risk of messing around with wands, even though the dangers appear minimized,” Emily added. Did this someone know how to make a battery? It was possible. The wand bore an alarming resemblance to one of her valves. “Is there anyone who experimented with wands like these?”
“Not as far as I know,” Hoban said. “But I don’t keep up with the latest research. Jayson might know more... you should ask him.”
“I will,” Emily said.
“And we might start experimenting ourselves,” Cirroc said. “That’s what this place is for, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Emily looked at the Gorgon. “What can you tell us about our guest...?”
“Very little.” The Gorgon grimaced. “Like I said, she’s been badly hurt. Plenty of signs of abuse, both physical and magical. And... whoever did it knew what they were doing. They pushed her to the brink, time and time again, but they didn’t actually kill her.”
“Like whoever tortured Alt-Caleb,” Emily mused. “They wanted him to suffer, but they didn’t want to inflict permanent damage. It was an exercise in pure sadism.”
“Quite,” the Gorgon agreed. “I could heal most of the physical trauma, if you give me a few days, but it would do nothing for her mind. I think she’s a little unstable, but... it hasn’t dampened her powers. She’s dangerous, with or without magic. There are... hints... that she might have used dark rituals to boost her powers.”
“But not necromancy,” Emily mused. She’d been warned, in no uncertain terms, that any and all rituals to boost a person’s magic came with a very high price tag. Madness was often the least of it. Better to learn slowly and patiently than risk madness. “What did she do?”
“I don’t know,” the Gorgon said. “And I’m afraid to ask.”
“Be careful,” Hoban said. Emily could hear the edge in his voice. She wanted to reassure him, even though she knew such reassurances wouldn’t be welcome. “That isn’t our Frieda.”
Emily nodded, slowly. “Keep an eye on us,” she said. “And be ready to intervene if I run into trouble.”
She stepped into the room, reaching ou
t with her magic. Alt-Frieda was surrounded by a haze of spells blocking her from using her powers. Her hands were still bound, her ankles tied together. And yet... Emily could sense her magic, pulsing under the haze. Alt-Frieda’s magic felt... wrong, as if it had come from somewhere else altogether. Wrong context magic? Or merely something she didn’t recognize? It wasn’t impossible. The more she learnt, the more she realized just how much more there was to learn.
Alt-Frieda shifted, uncomfortably. Emily’s heart went out to her. She wanted to undo her bonds, remove the spells and... and what? It wasn’t her Frieda. Alt-Frieda hated her. She’d tried to attack Emily as soon as she’d seen her, just like Alt-Caleb. And Emily was starting to have a very nasty suspicion about why.
“I’m not your Emily,” she said. She had the feeling Alt-Frieda was faking, pretending to be asleep. “This isn’t your world.”
There was no answer. Emily sighed, inwardly. “I know you’re awake.”
Alt-Frieda shifted, her eyes opening as she tested her bonds. “You know everything.”
“I wish that were true,” Emily said. “I’m not your Emily.”
She felt her heart twist as she met Alt-Frieda’s eyes. Her voice was wrong, strangely accented. No... she’d kept her original accent, from the Cairngorms. This Frieda had never been to Whitehall, she guessed. Or... she’d never tried to copy Emily’s accent. What had happened to her? Frieda had wanted to forget where she came from as quickly as possible. Alt-Frieda, on the other hand, was an entirely different person.
Alt-Frieda’s eyes bored into hers. “Prove it. Untie me.”
Emily hesitated. “I need your word you won’t attack me,” she said. If Alt-Frieda was anything like her Frieda, she’d keep her word. Even if she didn’t... Emily had her magic, and help was just outside the door. She could take a chance. “Please.”
“Very well,” Alt-Frieda said. She looked down at the floor. “I won’t attack you as long as you don’t attack me.”
“Good.” Emily pulled the bonds free. Alt-Frieda sat upright, rubbing her bruised wrists before starting to free her ankles. Her fingers seemed uncoordinated, as if they’d been damaged and never properly reset. “This really isn’t your world.”
“You could be faking,” Alt-Frieda said. Fear hovered on the air, as if she expected to be beaten or killed at any moment... as if she was too beaten down to contemplate further resistance. “You were always good at masking yourself.”
Emily wanted to reach out and hug her. But she was sure it would be the worst thing to do. Alt-Frieda didn’t want to be touched by anyone, even her. Perhaps especially her. “How can I prove it to you?”
“I don’t know,” Alt-Frieda said. “I just don’t know.”
“I can touch your mind,” Emily said. It was the simplest solution. “And...”
Alt-Frieda flinched. “No.”
“It would let you touch me,” Emily pointed out. Her Frieda had made mental contact with her, but this one... this one didn’t trust her. “You’d be able to see me too.”
“You’d let me take a peek into your mind?” Alt-Frieda sounded suspicious. “And you won’t try to hurt me?”
“You have my word,” Emily said. She wondered how much that meant to Frieda. Emily had never given her word lightly either, but... “I won’t try to hurt you.”
Alt-Frieda lowered her eyes. “As you wish.”
Emily shuddered. It sounded as if Alt-Frieda was granting permission for something she fully expected to happen anyway, permission or no. She might expect Emily to rape her mind, if she resisted... she might just be surrendering to the inevitable, rather than trying to fight...
“I mean it,” Emily said. She kept her voice as calm as possible. She didn’t want to spook the younger girl. “Without your permission, I won’t go ahead.”
Alt-Frieda’s eyes went wide, then narrowed. “Fine. Do it.”
Emily braced herself as she reached out and touched Alt-Frieda’s forehead. It felt hot and sweaty, like a fever, though the room was cool. She focused her mind, then reached forward, slipping into Alt-Frieda’s mind. The girl was nowhere near as disciplined as her counterpart, Emily noted. Emily had opened the link, allowing Alt-Frieda to look at her, but... she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Emily wasn’t sure which.
Memories surged, some achingly familiar from when she’d touched her Frieda’s mind. The two girls had shared the same early life. Others...
... She is kneeling beside her bed when the older girl appears, wearing a long dark dress and glamour eyes. She is the only one who sees the glamour. The girl is introduced to her as her new mistress, she who must be obeyed...
... The older girl is strict, giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed. Failure means pain, but... she always fails and she is always in pain. She wants to learn more, yet... pain, pain, PAIN...
... She is lying on her bed, her entire body in agony. The beating was savage, almost beyond bearing. Her back and buttocks and legs hurt so much she can barely move...
... She is kneeling again, pledging herself to her mistress. She offers everything in exchange for lessons. And, as her mistress accepts, she sees a glint of brilliant red light in the older girl’s eyes...
... Another girl is screaming. She is casting spells, making the girl scream. The scene blurs... a dozen girls, a hundred, all screaming... she laughs in delight, watching them scream and beg for a mercy that will never come. She wants to watch them crawl... she delights in watching them crawl. Their world is hers now. They will never laugh at her again...
... A blonde girl, shouting and screaming. An army, formed around her; an army, wiped out in fire and light. A man, so muscular that it was hard to believe he was real, being ripped apart by magic; the blonde girl—woman, now—crying and begging as the slave collar was fitted around her neck...
... A boy underneath her, begging for... something she no longer knew how to give...
... A moment of pure horror. What had she become? Realization, horrified realization. She was no better, now, than the ones who had tormented her, the ones who had died. She was a monster. She didn’t deserve to live...
... Red eyes. Red eyes, take warning. Red eyes... a necromancer...
Emily jerked back, feeling her gorge rise. She turned away, a moment before her stomach heaved and she expelled her lunch on the floor. The memories hurt, each tainted with the darkest of magics... Alt-Frieda had been a slave, then a willing servant, then... she retched, again. Alt-Frieda had tried to betray her mistress, only to be caught and punished and...
The memory danced in front of her mind’s eye. The girl—the older girl, Frieda’s mistress—was Emily herself. And she’d had bright red eyes. And...
Emily swallowed hard. Her counterpart was a necromancer.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“YOU’RE NOT MY EMILY,” ALT-FRIEDA SAID. “She would never have been sick.”
Emily felt tainted. The memories mocked her. She couldn’t be... she wasn’t just a necromancer, was she? All the things she’d learnt over the years, all the things she’d never dared share for fear of the consequences... she retched, helplessly. If her counterpart had used them, freely and often, she could have set the entire world on fire and burnt it to ashes. She didn’t want to think about what she could have done... about what her counterpart had done. It was impossible to believe they had been, at one point, the same person.
For want of a nail, a shoe is lost, she thought. The rest of the rhyme ran through her head. Mocking her. And all for the want of a nail.
“I’m not her,” Emily said. She knew it wasn’t true. Her counterpart and herself were the same person who’d made different decisions... her head hurt, just thinking about it. “What happened to her?”
Alt-Frieda played with her dark hair. The action was so much like her Frieda that Emily’s heart nearly broke.
“She came to Mountaintop for a year,” Alt-Frieda said. “I was her Shadow. She didn’t take much notice of me until she saw I could be useful. Sh
e taught me and... she showed me power. She just didn’t tell me the price until it was far too late.”
Emily felt her gorge rise, again. “I’m sorry.”
Alt-Frieda didn’t seem to hear. “I went back to Whitehall with her, at the end of the year. She’d already built a network of friends and supporters. Some sided with her willingly, like King Randor. Others had to be... changed. She’d found a way to twist their minds. She taught me”—her face twisted—“she taught me how to do it. She was powerful, she was popular... by the end of the year, she’d launched a campaign that killed three necromancers and practically threw the world into her hands.”
“So quickly?” Emily couldn’t believe it. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Alt-Frieda said. “She didn’t tell me everything. Alassa was the only one who stood up to her and... she’s on the run. Somewhere... I don’t know where. But... I tried to talk to her, I tried to tell her... she lashed out at me. I don’t know why she didn’t kill me. The entire world is hers now. All those kings and sorcerers who pledged themselves to her...”
Impossible, Emily thought. No, it wasn’t impossible. She just didn’t want to believe it. How could she have taken the entire world?
She swallowed, hard. She could see how it might be done. The nuke-spell, to obliterate necromancers. Other spells, nastier ones, for kings and sorcerers who refused to fall in line. God knew King Randor had been ambitious... if that Emily—her counterpart—had been backing him from the start, he might have taken the entire continent. The White Council would have tried to stop him... an image floated to the top of her mind, a giant mushroom cloud rising over the White City. Frieda’s memories? Or her imagination? If Alt-Emily had decided she didn’t give a damn about civilian casualties, she could have wiped out the White Council in a single terrible moment. She could have smashed the Allied Lands flat and started to rebuild...
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