Chosen (9781742844657)

by Morgansen, Shayla

  A couple more people arrived as the minutes ticked by, and when Qasim turned up to let us inside, I counted only eight people in my class.

  The room Qasim had chosen as his classroom was darker than most of the other rooms in the massive house. It looked like an old parlour of some description, and hadn’t been much changed for lessons. A number of cushy couches were arranged so that people sitting in them could easily converse with people sitting around them without having to turn a lot. The middle of the room was devoted to an ornate rug and a spindly coffee table. Candlesticks lay in the centre of the table.

  I was not the only student who hesitated in the tall, thin doorway, somewhat put-off by something I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t anything visual, or a funny smell or anything else so obvious. It was something else. Something…blank.

  ‘How did you get the room like this?’ the little blonde asked, her accent similar to mine. ‘Did it take long to wipe down?’

  The rest of us looked to Qasim, confused for a second before we clicked, one by one. The room had no feelings. No atmosphere. Usually, when you walk into a room, it feels like the energy that has been left behind in it. If people argue, the tension is tangible in that space for some time following. A warm, loving home will feel warm and loving. The rest of this house felt like various things, although you didn’t think so until it was mentioned. The entrance hall felt busy, the library felt sombre, the hallways felt a little creepy and abandoned. Every room has its own feeling, whether you notice it or not. This room felt blank, which was slightly disconcerting for reasons I couldn’t understand yet.

  ‘It was already like this,’ Qasim answered. ‘It’s why I chose it. No distractions. Take a seat and try to clear your minds,’ he directed as we stood around awkwardly. ‘This class varies more than either of my others in skill, but your abilities in my subject are all roughly equal. I think. I want to get a clearer idea of where to start with this group.’

  Well, that answered my question as to why I was in this class if I’d never scried before. I had natural ability. With a thrill of excitement, I grinned at Xanthe. She forced a smile and sat down. She was nowhere near as excited about this as I was, obviously.

  When everyone was seated, Qasim moved to the centre of the room.

  ‘To begin today’s lesson I would like for everyone to close their eyes and allow for me to analyse your current level of skill in my subject,’ he said. ‘If anyone has any objections, please voice them now.’ When nobody spoke, he continued. ‘Good. After I have gauged your skills, we will begin some simple exercises. Everyone in this class has been put here because of advanced abilities, so I’d like to move you all along at as quick a pace as you can manage. The ability to scry is one that the White Elm highly prizes, and one that you will find most beneficial in life.’

  He turned to one of the older males in the group.

  ‘I will start with you, and make my way around the room. Everyone, please close your eyes and try to quiet your minds.’

  I did as I was told, and closed my eyes. Calming my thoughts was much more difficult. My excitement over what I could be about to learn, and my concern over whether I would be as good as everyone else, bubbled away in my head, setting off dozens of other thoughts before I had the chance to catch them all and stow them away.

  By the time I felt Qasim’s mind reaching into mine, I had barely started with quietening my thoughts. I felt his annoyance, but he probed through them anyway, ignoring them and searching for a part of my mind I’d never used. I focussed hard on letting him in, and did my best to avoid clamping down on the silky tendrils of probing presence the way you clamp down on thoughts you don’t want to have. Qasim seemed to find what he was looking for and seized it. I heard his voice inside my head.

  This is very deeply concealed, Aristea. You have great ability but even with regular exercises it will take some time before you can progress to the level I need you at. This far back in your mind, you might never reach your potential. I can draw it forward, but it may be painful.

  I didn’t know how to speak with my mind, so I tried to send him enquiring thoughts. I wanted to know a little more. He seemed to understand.

  Your abilities are blocked, probably by doubt and grief. Both can be powerful in prohibiting progression. You’re being held back by your own mind. Naturally it would take many years, much reflection and a lot of painful personal growth to move past the issues in question. In this class we don’t have time for that. I can pull your talent through all of that if you like. It will probably still take a few sessions and will probably hurt but will be much quicker than the years of couch therapy you’d need otherwise.

  I tried not to be offended by his offhanded and less-than-sensitive comments about my need for therapy and tried to just consider what he was offering for a moment. I’d gone to counselling after my parents and brother died but had never spoken a word to the funny little man except to say hello at the start of every hour-long appointment and goodbye at the end. He was nice and had never pushed me to talk, but perhaps I should have. I decided that a little pain would be worth it if it meant I’d be able to scry. It made sense that my deepest abilities would be blocked by my grief over the loss of my family – I hadn’t done much magic since their deaths and it had affected me very deeply. I wanted to learn to scry, more than anything, so I did my best to think affirming thoughts. Yes, yes, I want to learn to scry.

  Without answering, Qasim’s mind took a stronger hold of my scrying abilities. Again, I felt excited. I felt a slight pull and a small twinge as Qasim tugged at my abilities. It hardly hurt at all. I was just starting to wonder what else I’d start to be good at when Qasim yanked, hard, on that part of my mind. I cried out loud. The sensation of a sudden, splintering headache was enough to leave me dizzy. It felt as though a delicate little part of me had just been dragged through a solid brick wall and out the other side.

  It hurt. My head was aching immediately. What he had found was talent, something insubstantial, but the pain was as real as anything physical. When Qasim pulled a third time, I covered my mouth with my hands to avoid shouting again. The poor little segment of me that had just slammed through a wall was now being dragged through a thicket of thorns. Qasim withdrew, and I opened my eyes, which were slightly watery. My head was throbbing; memories of the storm that had destroyed my family swirled about the forefront of my mind, almost as painful as the day it had happened.

  The others in the class were watching me closely, startled. No doubt I’d disturbed them with my shouts of pain. Qasim stood in front of me.

  ‘I apologise for the pain caused,’ he said, though he didn’t sound particularly sorry. ‘The wall you felt is your self-doubt and the second pull took your attention through your most painful and grief-stricken memories. It may take a few more lessons to pull your abilities clear of its blockages and to ensure you don’t regress. We’ll leave it there today. I still need you able to concentrate for the remainder of the lesson.’

  The rest of the lesson? It felt like someone was pounding the inside of my head with a brick. The abilities that had remained dormant and unnoticed for so long were extremely obvious to me now – it was hard to ignore what felt like a very sore physical body part.

  Apparently I’d been the last person to be analysed, because Qasim went straight into the next part of the lesson. I tried to tune in.

  ‘…art of scrying has very distinct levels of skill,’ he was saying. ‘The first level is the type of scrying performed by most sorcerers around the world, and that is tool scrying – the use of a tool such as a crystal, flame, bowl of water or a mirror in order to view images sent to the quiet and concentrated mind. Most who practise sorcery do not have the discipline or talent to scry without a tool. In this class, we will touch only very briefly on this type of scrying, because each of you have the ability to perform much greater feats.’

  Qasim collected the candles on the table and began to hand them out.

&n
bsp; ‘In the next lesson, which I have scheduled for Monday, we will move onto the second level of scrying, which is the level I expect each of you to be able to master by the end of this semester,’ he continued as he handed me my candlestick. ‘That is scrying without a tool and using your own mind to consciously receive and view images. I have complete faith in each of you,’ he added when one of the boys looked doubtful. ‘Scrying without a tool is a much more precise and focussed art form. You will receive much clearer impressions and will yield better results overall.’

  The throbbing in my head had begun to lessen, and my thoughts, which had been so jostled and upset when Qasim had been messing around with my head, had begun to reorganise themselves.

  ‘Passive scrying, the ability to scry without conscious thought, is a level we will work towards but not one I expect anyone to achieve for probably a number of years. A great deal of discipline and focus is required for this skill to develop. Very few of you here possess the quietness of mind necessary.’ Qasim glanced momentarily at me before continuing. ‘It is this skill that allows the White Elm to effectively police the magical world. While teaching this class, a part of my mind is focussed elsewhere, indiscriminately accepting visions of events around the world. Right now, a sorceress in Arizona is helping her young son to take his first steps. Such events are irrelevant to the White Elm, however, and so I can change my focus and accept visions only of sorcery being performed. This is how we can immediately know when someone is misusing their powers.’

  I had often wondered this, and again, my question was answered.

  ‘There are variations of each of these forms,’ Qasim continued. ‘Tool scrying can lead to future-seeing, if the scrier has that ability. Conscious scrying can be developed to a point that the scrier can mass-scry, as I did to find you all. There are other forms of scrying, but these involve the detachment of the consciousness from the body and are illegal. The use of these methods carries very harsh penalties, including imprisonment.’

  My seven classmates and I sat in tense silence as Qasim dusted his hands on his robe.

  ‘Stand, all of you, and bring your candles to me so that I can light them,’ he said. We all stood and waited in a short line, each grasping our candlesticks in one hand. The powerful blonde girl stood at the front. Now that she was standing, I realised that she was actually very short – probably only up to my shoulder – and proportionately tiny. The white fingers wrapped around the candlestick she held were small and skinny, with neat fingernails.

  Qasim made a fist momentarily, and when he opened his fingers, a flame ignited in his open palm. A few of us leaned around those in front to see better. Qasim offered his hand to the little blonde student, who held her candle’s tip into the flame. One by one we did the same, lighting our candles before sitting back down in our places. Qasim closed his hand, and the flame disappeared.

  ‘Perhaps Jadon will be able to teach you that one,’ he said, when someone asked how he’d created the flame. ‘This now is a simple exercise to open your minds to the art of scrying. You’ll need a partner, which shouldn’t be hard, as there’s an even number of you. One partner, stand behind the other.’

  I glanced at Xanthe. She shrugged and stood, rounded the couch and stood behind me.

  ‘Good,’ Qasim said, pacing slowly around the group. ‘Since there is truth to the saying that nobody knows you quite like yourself, you will find that it is quite simple to scry yourself. Those of you sitting, you need to close your eyes and envision yourselves exactly as you are. Those of you standing, choose a number between one and ten and hold up that number of fingers behind the head of your partner.’

  I closed my eyes tightly against the dull pain in my head and focussed on myself. I was sitting on the left seat of the plush two-seater couch. I was wearing skinny jeans and a neat little jacket that would have looked more appropriate on Angela. I had black shoes. The top half of my dark hair was tied back; the rest hung loose over my shoulders. My eyes were closed. The studs in my ears were peridot. The candlestick in my hands was thin and tapered, and the flame was very still.

  ‘Hold that image in your mind, very tightly,’ Qasim said into the silence, ‘and open your eyes. Focus on that image as you stare into the flame.’

  I did as I was told. The flame flickered only a little with each exhalation I made. I concentrated on the image I had of myself and tried to see it within the flame. A few times I thought I’d done it, but then I’d lose focus in my excitement. After several minutes, Qasim called for us to stop.

  ‘When you scry yourself, you also see your surroundings, which would enable you to see and count the number of fingers your partner is holding up,’ he explained now. ‘Did anybody succeed?’

  The tiny blonde raised her hand.

  ‘What number did you count?’ Qasim asked.

  ‘Eight,’ she answered. Qasim glanced at the dark-haired boy behind her, who nodded, faintly surprised.

  ‘Excellent. Now swap places with your partners and see if the rest of you can do it.’

  I swapped places with Xanthe and picked the number three. She sat very still for several minutes, staring intently into the flame. Opposite us, an Asian teenager exclaimed, ‘Two!’ The other three attempting to scry themselves were distracted long enough to give him nasty looks before they went back to what they were doing.

  Holding three fingers up behind Xanthe’s head felt extremely unproductive. My head was still aching a little, although nowhere near as badly as it had at first. The candle in my hand was dripping hot wax onto my fingers, burning momentarily before quickly cooling and solidifying. I was quite relieved when Qasim called for an end to Xanthe and the others’ turn at scrying.

  ‘Did anyone other than Isao manage to count their partner’s fingers?’ Qasim asked. The Asian teen looked abashed. Another lad raised his hand tentatively, and Qasim nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Good. We will continue this exercise until the end of the lesson, by which time everyone here should have made some progress. Tiredness is not,’ he added, and though he didn’t look at me, I felt the pointedness of his words, ‘a reason to slack off. It is in exhaustion that we can reach the furthest, so I should see you working harder as the lesson goes on.’

  For the next hour, Xanthe and I continually swapped places, taking turns at staring pointlessly into the flame. As the class’s end approached, Xanthe managed to scry herself, and by extension, her surroundings, including the four fingers I held up behind her. Qasim was impressed; by this point nearly everyone had begun to yield results. I determinedly took her place on the couch. There was no way I was going to be the only failure in the class. Absolutely no way.

  I closed my eyes, shoving away thoughts of my aunt telling me this school was not for little girls like me. She loved me but she didn’t know what I was really capable of. She didn’t understand. With that thought I breathed deeply and opened my eyes to behold the little flame for what had to be the tenth time. The candle had lost a lot of length as it burnt away the time, but the fire still burned brightly.

  Though it still twinged, I tried to stretch the part of my mind that Qasim had uncovered. In exhaustion we reach our furthest. Sounds like the crap Angela’s gym instructor had spouted that time I’d gone with her – you know, that crap that makes you want to kick them. The latent gift was sluggish and largely unresponsive, but the more I tried to use it, the more obvious it became. Very slowly, something clicked. As I strained, something moved; something happened.

  In the flame, I could see me.

  It was like trying for the first time to lift a limb that has been bandaged to your side your entire life. It was difficult and felt alien, but it responded if you tried hard enough.

  The tiny, fuzzy-outlined Aristea sitting on the little couch in the fire was staring intently at the dripping candle in her hands. I realised I was scrying, and in the excitement that suddenly rose from me I nearly lost my focus. The image I had finally managed to procur
e faded and became obscured, and I had to fight down my feelings in order to regain concentration.

  Slowly, the image refocussed. I could see a tiny Xanthe standing behind me. I was unmoving; she was fidgeting and looking about in utter boredom. One hand held her candle. The other was by her side. She wasn’t bothering to hold up any number of fingers for me to count.

  My annoyance snapped my concentration, and my first scried image dissolved. I became aware of the rest of the room once again. Qasim was just passing by me; I felt a slight movement behind me.

  ‘Did you succeed this time?’ the councillor asked me. I nodded, but my talent had started to hurt again, making my head swim with dizziness. I put it down to exertion. ‘What did you count?’

  ‘She wasn’t holding up any fingers,’ I said, putting my free hand to my head as the pain continued to increase. Both Qasim and I turned to Xanthe, who, to my surprise and then anger, was displaying one index finger – one index finger that I knew had not been there before.

  ‘Your mind is very disorganised, Aristea,’ Qasim said. He waved a hand over my candle and snuffed the flame with a flick of his energy. ‘You should not be too discouraged – you have great talent, so with some practice you should be able to grasp the concepts eventually. I’d hoped you would be able to keep up with the progress of the rest of the class regardless of your mental blockages, however. Before our next class, you should do this exercise each morning before breakfast, when your mind is quietest. Take that candle with you. That way, when we return on Monday, you will hopefully not be too far behind the others. It will also help to prevent your talents from regressing.’

  Before I had the chance to argue, Qasim turned away and addressed the class, snuffing each candle that was not blown out by the students.

  ‘Overall I consider today’s lesson a success,’ he said. ‘Neither of my other two classes is at the stage that you have reached today. Well done to those of you who succeeded at this first task. We will begin each lesson for the next few weeks with similar exercises, as they are good for preparing the mind for scrying. I will see you all again on Monday.’