If he knew what Renatus was capable of, and what went through the younger man’s head, would he have ever allowed him to rise to the position of Dark Keeper?
Certainly not was the answer to all questions.
That evening, I wrote to my aunt and uncle while Hiroko wrote to her father, Xanthe wrote to her family, and Sterling chattered about nothing.
‘Damn,’ Xanthe murmured, as her pencil’s lead snapped. She glanced over her desk, and then turned to the rest of us. ‘Does anyone have a pencil sharpener?’ She held up her pencil to show us what had happened. Sterling shook her head and continued going through her clothes, all the while chatting about what she was going to wear the following day. She was easy to block out. I glanced at my pencil sharpener, glinting of dull silver as it sat, unused, in my disorganised pile of stationery.
‘I don’t,’ Hiroko apologised. Xanthe frowned, and turned her attention to me. Her gaze met mine.
‘Aristea?’ she asked. I paused for probably a second too long, but I nodded, forced a smile and stood, pencil sharpener in hand.
‘Aye, it’s fine,’ I said, walking over and passing it to her. Perhaps I’d been too hard on her, I thought, as she thanked me, smiled quickly, and sharpened her broken pencil. She handed it back, and I went back to my desk, hoping that meant that our unofficial argument was over.
The weekend was uneventful but enjoyable. I spent a great deal of time doing very little, playing cards with Hiroko, leafing through Sterling’s magazines, going for walks around the grounds with the girls (which was much more comfortable now that Xanthe wasn’t ignoring me) and doing the little amount of homework I’d been set.
At breakfast on Monday, one of the servants, the portly little lady dressed in green I’d seen talking with Renatus (Fionnuala?), handed me an envelope with my name printed on it in Angela’s handwriting. I didn’t ask how she knew who I was.
To: Aristea Byrne
House of Morrissey
From: A. Byrne
9 Cairn Gardens
Coleraine
I tore it open and began to read, eagerly.
Aristea,
I received your letter this morning (it’s Thursday) and had to write back to you straight away. It sounds like you’re having the most amazing time there. I laughed when I read what you said about your friend Sterling and her obsession with your headmaster – I had a girl in my class at primary school who always said that she was in love with our teacher.
In your next letter you must tell me everything there is to know about Lord Gawain and Lady Miranda! Are they as amazing and incredible as the rumours say? I don’t want to just take Aunt Leanne’s word for it…
What is Renatus like in true life? Kell and I were just saying last night that he’s the one White Elm that you never hear anything about. All I know is what you’d hear from gossip, so I was surprised when you said he is your headmaster. I thought that surely Lord Gawain or somebody high up would be in charge.
Your new friends sound lovely and your classes sound fantastic – I’m almost drowning in envy.
Sorry that this letter has been so short. Nearly nothing has been happening in my life. Work is dull, household chores are dull (although the sheer amount of chores to be done has noticeably decreased since you left) and being by myself in the house is dull. Kelly has been coming over in the evenings to keep me company, though, so don’t you worry about me. Just focus on your studies!
Make sure you write again soon.
Love you so much xox
∼ Angela
I smiled and reread the letter. Angela’s handwriting was so neat, precise and familiar; reading words written by her hand was almost as good as hearing her voice. She was a receptionist, with access to a computer all day every weekday, but I was grateful that she hadn’t thought to fill in her spare time at work by writing to me. Typed letters, though often longer, simply did not compare to handwritten notes.
Hiroko, too, had received a letter, I noticed eventually. I glanced over the page, unintentionally peeking, but it didn’t matter anyway. The entire letter was hand-printed in elegant Japanese script. To me, it was such a pretty and exotic-looking written language. I wondered whether it would be difficult to learn.
Breakfast finished, and since we had no classes first up, Hiroko and I went for a wander through the grounds. It was another beautiful day, and when Hiroko commented on this, I told her not to get too used to it. It wasn’t going to last, it never did. We saw a young hare bounding across the grass, and I pointed out to Hiroko the differences between the hare and a rabbit.
‘My father has been very busy with work,’ Hiroko informed me as we peered into a rabbit hole, waiting to see if anything came out. ‘He works for the biggest bank in Sapporo. It is not a very magical job but he likes it very much and he must work so I can learn English and go to good schools.’
‘My father built furniture,’ I told her, remembering how Darren Byrne had always been good with his hands. ‘One year, when I was only very young and hardly old enough to even play in it, my father built a tree house in our yard. It was mainly for my brother and sister, because they were older and they could climb to it. But when they outgrew it, it was all mine.’
‘And now, you live only with your sister?’ Hiroko added hesitantly. She glanced at me sideways, obviously hoping not to upset me, but curious all the same. For a long time I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t talked to anyone about this, except relatives, at any point since it happened. I hadn’t even spoken to the grief counsellor. Was I up to it? How to even start? Hiroko was still waiting, but she wouldn’t be affronted if I declined to discuss the matter. She would understand. With that in mind, I sat down on the grass and I just said it.
‘My parents and brother died when I was fourteen.’
‘How awful,’ Hiroko stated, sitting down beside me. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a big storm, and a tree fell in the wind and killed them,’ I said, expecting tears and tightness in my throat. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt as much as I expected it to. It felt kind of relieving to share my experience with someone who cared and honestly wanted to know. ‘My sister and I had to find somewhere else to live, and we’ve had our aunt and her family for support.’
‘My mother is dead, too,’ Hiroko told me, without hesitation. ‘She died in an accident, in a car, when I was a five-year-old. She was pregnant. So, I have no brothers or sisters.’
I tried to imagine losing my mother at age five. Who would have kissed better my bruises? Who would have sung me to sleep? Who would have read to me? That was when I’d needed her the most. I’d lost my mother after fourteen years of love; Hiroko had lost hers after only five.
I tried to imagine life without my siblings, as an only child. I tried to imagine my father’s hands building a tree house intended for me alone. I tried to imagine wanting anything for my own reasons, instead of just because my brother and sister had one. I couldn’t. Hiroko would have been a big sister, I realised, had this accident not taken away her mother. And I knew she would have been a fantastic one, just like Angela.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and it was true. I’d never felt sorrier for somebody else in my life. It was a strange feeling, to pity her instead of myself. Hiroko smiled.
‘There is nothing to be sorry for,’ she said, getting up and beginning to walk again. I did the same and fell into step. ‘Life can still be happy without a person I love. I can still have my father; you can still have your sister.’
I thought over the wisdom of her words. She was basically telling me to be grateful for what I still had. In truth, I realised that Angela and I would not be as close as sisters had we not lost everything else. I imagined that Hiroko and her father, too, would have come together following the death of the late Mrs Sasaki.
Even though I already liked Hiroko, and already felt a connection with her, I felt another level of closeness form. We had so much more in common than I could have im
agined a week ago.
Before my scrying lesson, I spent half an hour practising with my candle. I’d spent every moment of my weekend alone-time staring into that stupid candle, staring and concentrating and straining until my head ached and my normal vision was swimming.
Qasim was staying at Morrissey House for much of this week, so we were to have a scrying lesson almost every day, except Wednesday, when apparently too many other classes were running for him to be able to have an uninterrupted lesson. I couldn’t wait to get into this week, to get better and to show Qasim how good I could be at his subject.
Trying to ignore the dull ache in the back of my head, I sat down in the scrying classroom with Xanthe. Hopefully we’d leave this lesson on better terms than we had the last.
Did you do the exercises? I heard Qasim’s voice clearly in my head. I looked at him, but he carried on with preparing his lesson. I tried to think affirmative thoughts. I felt his mental fingers probing my recent memories and witnessing my candle burning out, minutes before, from overuse. I felt his surprise.
I’m glad you didn’t shirk this, he said. I worried that without this work, you might have regressed. Another few good tugs and it should be free of its blocks.
‘To begin, we will continue with last week’s exercise,’ Qasim said to the group. He began to hand out candles, lighting them as he went. ‘One partner stands behind the seat of another, holding up a number of fingers. The seated partner scries themselves and their own surroundings, and counts their partner’s fingers. Please begin.’
I stood as soon as I had my lit candle, allowing Xanthe the first turn at scrying. I positioned myself behind her where she couldn’t see my hand behind her head and held my open hand up – five.
When it was my turn to scry, I got it within seconds – three fingers. Xanthe smiled, a small smile but a smile nonetheless, and we swapped places. After five minutes, Qasim stopped us. My head was swimming again.
‘As promised, today we will begin working towards scrying without tools,’ the Scrier said, taking a seat in an armchair. ‘Put out the candles.’ We did. ‘This next step requires a great deal of mental strain and effort. The jump from tool to unaided scrying is a difficult one, but I am confident that you will all show progress very quickly, and with the potential contained within the people in this room, I don’t want to waste time teaching you different ways to tool-scry when you have the ability to take the next step. Knowing how to tool-scry is useless when you can’t light a flame or have no access to crystals or mirrors or water.’
He paused, and we were silent, considering this truth. Qasim looked around at us.
‘Please close your eyes and regulate your breathing,’ he said. I did as I was told, although I felt disappointment – I hated meditation. ‘You must turn your attention inward. You must locate your talent and try to exercise it in the same way as when you have a candle. It is difficult to receive the images without a tool at first, but the methodology is the same.’
He continued to speak and give instructions, but I couldn’t listen to him and follow his instructions at the same time. I couldn’t concentrate like that. Instead, I blocked out his voice and began searching the back of my mind for my scrying talent. I knew exactly where to find it, hidden at the back, throbbing dully with overuse. I tried to think of exactly how I had used it only minutes before with the candle flame, but it wasn’t something I could really explain to myself, let alone anyone else. It was like making a fist. You don’t know exactly how you do it – there’s some unconscious nerve and muscle involvement, certainly – you just do. When I had been practising scrying, I’d just done it. I tried to break it down, but all I could really identify was a stretching and straining sensation that didn’t really answer my question. That was how it felt, not how it was done.
Overwhelmed by the impossibility, I opened my eyes. All seven of my peers were sitting silently, concentrating madly. Qasim met my eyes.
If you think it’s impossible, then it is, he said. Just give up.
It sounded like a taunt or a challenge, and I resisted the urge to glare at him. I worked to keep my expression neutral. I would not give up. This subject was my dream. I was going to try, and I was going to succeed, regardless of what the Scrier believed or said.
It took all week for me to show any signs of progress. Why did my dream subject have to be so difficult? I practised every morning and night and any moment I had to myself, but nothing changed. One by one, throughout the week, my classmates announced that they had started to see things, and with each person’s success I felt more deeply panicked. What was wrong with me? My friends reported almost daily of their adventures in their preferred areas of magic – Hiroko was teleporting herself all over the place, apparently, and Sterling had foreseen something I hadn’t cared to listen to – so why wasn’t I getting any better at mine?
‘You will,’ Hiroko assured me optimistically at dinner on Friday when I quietly voiced my concerns. ‘It will only take time.’
In my memory, the days of that week all blurred together, one big blob of time filled with fuzzy everyday motions, lots of attempts at scrying and an ever-worsening headache. Each successive lesson was every bit just a repeat of the previous day’s feelings of frustration and failure. Qasim’s scrying lessons were getting steadily more intensive and I didn’t seem to be improving at the same rate as everyone else. After a full seven days of nothing – bringing me into my third week at the Academy – the White Elm councillor asked me to stay back after the other seven students had left. I sat back down in my seat, ignoring Xanthe’s curious backward glance.
‘Aristea, you have a lot of potential in this discipline,’ he began, sitting down in his armchair. ‘I understand that you have an interest in the art of scrying. Are you motivated to learn what I can teach you?’
‘Yes,’ I said honestly, wondering why he couldn’t tell how tired I was, how achy I felt.
‘Are you practising?’
‘Aye, all the time.’ I tried to sit a little straighter, wanting to be taken more seriously. But no matter how I sat, it wouldn’t change the fact that I sucked at the one thing I wanted to be good at. I slumped down again. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’
‘Here,’ Qasim said suddenly, handing me a fresh candle and lighting it with his hand. ‘Look into it and scry. Expect an image. Think of nothing. Do not scry yourself.’
I did as he said, staring into the flame and willing an image to magically present itself. Was it so easy?
‘Yes, it is that easy,’ Qasim said, reading my thoughts. ‘With an aid, you should find this simple and natural. It is the jump between aided and unaided scrying that is difficult.’
Some time passed, maybe as much as ten minutes. Qasim said nothing. Very slowly, a bubble appeared to me in the middle of the flame, and expanded into a moving image. A vision.
‘I can see a beach, a stony beach,’ I told him, trying not to allow my excitement to destroy the image. ‘There are a lot of birds flying around. There’s something in the water, in the shallows, that they’re after.’
I paused, paying closer attention. The birds were hungry, I knew that much. The bulky thing in the low surf looked like a rock, black and wet, but was shifting a little with the tide.
‘It’s not a rock,’ I said, still trying to decipher this vision. ‘It’s something dead. Maybe a seal or something? Although…’
Qasim had gone very still. His eyes were burning with intense interest.
‘Don’t look at the seal, Aristea,’ he instructed firmly. ‘Look around the beach. Where is it? Can you see any signs or buildings?’
I drew my attention away from the dead thing drifting in the water and tried to sort of zoom out. It turned out that I could. I looked around and saw a small, hand-painted wooden sign.
‘“Smithy’s beach”,’ I read. ‘“Private property. Keep out”. It’s a cold beach, and there’re no people. There’s a small house a few hundred metre
s up the beach, but there’s no one living there. Maybe it’s a holiday home? It has a garden and all the flowers are full-bloom.’
‘Have you seen this beach before?’ Qasim asked quietly, and I, stupidly, shook my head, breaking my eye contact with my scried image. ‘Is there anything else? The birds?’
‘The birds were black-headed gulls,’ I told him, though I was uncertain as to what else he wanted to know. ‘We used to see them a lot when we lived near the beach near Coleraine. I think they’re all over the UK and Europe, though.’
Qasim abruptly put out my candle with a click of his fingers and took the candlestick.
‘I am glad to see improvement, Aristea, but scrying with a flame is something all of your class can already do,’ he said bluntly. I deflated rather quickly. ‘You have potential to be great. Is that what you want?’
‘Yes. Every day.’
‘Good,’ he said, itching a spot on his chin. His fingernail running across the bristles of his beard made a scratchy sound. ‘I’ll see some improvement by Thursday morning, then?’
I nodded and left, worried. What if the work I’d been putting in wasn’t enough? What would happen if, come Thursday, I still hadn’t shown any improvement? Would I be given more homework? Moved into a different class? Asked to leave the school for not being good enough?
I didn’t even attend dinner that night, so busy was I with my scrying practice. I lay on my bed in the silence, my eyes closed, trying so, so hard to envision myself in third-person and then to actually scry myself. Just to scry anything, like that beach, would be fine. But nothing was happening. I wasn’t even getting a flicker or a momentary change of focus, like I had with the candle when I’d first started. Nothing was happening, except that my headache was steadily worsening with each passing half hour that I wasted achieving nothing.
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