A classy hotel bar with low, flattering lights…A man and a woman sitting in stools sipping drinks…’If you’d told me your name at the outset I probably would have called them on you’…The man laughs…Long black hair hangs over his shoulders…Warmth, honesty, genuineness…His bronze-brown eyes are bright and friendly…’I would have understood’…Smiles, another round of drinks, and the light atmosphere moves to a more serious one…’Is my boy safe?’…Trust, warmth…’I’m not saying they’ll hurt your son – not at all. I won’t lie about them like they lie about me. They’ll treat him right. I’m just saying that their idea of “right” can be different from yours or mine’…Worry…’How different?’…
‘Aristea?’
I heard my name, sounding to be in a separate place from what I was seeing and experiencing and was aware that Renatus had a hand on my arm and that less than a second had passed. The images, I knew innately, were from him – he was a channel, and I was tuned in to it, whether he realised or not.
‘You know why I left? The story nobody tells? I wanted the power to save one life – just one little life, make it worth living…and they wouldn’t grant me that.’
I yanked my arm away from his touch, and the stream of images, sounds and feelings immediately stopped. I was in the dining hall, with a plate of lasagne sitting in front of me and my friends sitting around me, and nobody else had noticed what I had.
‘I hope you don’t mind but your detentions start tomorrow night,’ Renatus said, already backing away. I nodded, pretty sure it wouldn’t matter if I did mind, and he turned and all but ran through the doors.
I was left feeling completely content and warm, just as that classy hotel place had felt.
‘Oh my god he touched you.’ Sterling grabbed my arm as though she could absorb his essence by touching where he’d touched. I didn’t tell her he’d also held my hand, just hours ago, because then she might want to amputate the whole arm and keep it forever.
What the hell was that about? It had been both less and more realistic than actually being present at that scene. Able to see and hear everything in the bar while also feeling distinctly distant, like watching a TV programme, made me think I’d scried it all, although feeling what the people felt had been completely surreal. Was that normal in scrying? Who cared? The warm, trusting, friendly atmosphere of the scene had totally relaxed the anxiety and worry I’d been feeling moments earlier. Except last night when I’d accidentally Haunted Renatus’s office, I’d never scried anything that clearly before. And I’d never scried anything through someone, either.
In my happy and quiet state, I decided it didn’t really matter. I was feeling so pleasant that I couldn’t even bring myself to feel particularly sad for Sophia, whereas normally I would felt extremely sorry for someone whose sister and Addison actively and unashamedly flirted over her for the duration of the whole meal.
I finished off my lasagne, glad for the general simplicity of the existence I led.
Qasim was having trouble quietening his mind.
All day he’d felt off, ending lessons early and overhearing the quiet conversation of students as they left, so certain were they that they were out of his earshot.
‘He seemed fine to me. Did you hear that he went off at that girl Aristea this morning?’
‘I heard she was being a smart-arse.’
Teenagers spread rumours like kindergarteners spread germs, and just like disease, rumour had a tendency to evolve and change as it moved from person to person. Aristea had indeed been too arrogant for his liking, but that wasn’t the core of his anger. She was a scrier, a powerful one – so powerful and gifted that she could Haunt, yet she consistently failed the simple exercises he set her in class. A lot of the time, she seemed to not really understand how to do what he asked of her. Given guidance and support, she could be amazing…but Haunting was such a dangerous, serious issue. How many sorcerers had killed others or themselves by projecting themselves from their bodies? She would be charged, of course, for such a gross breach of law and ethics. She would be expelled. She would be out of reach, gone forever.
He’d been too proud, he knew. Renatus had done exactly what he’d really hoped he would – he’d been only too willing to sweep the problem away, make it unseen – but Qasim had been too angry about being overstepped by his least favourite colleague that he hadn’t even realised. Aristea was still a student at the Academy. She was not going to be charged. She was not going anywhere. She was still within reach.
True scriers – those sorcerers born with an innate gift for the art – were rare, and often discovered the talent by themselves as children. Qasim had. He was sure Renatus had. Aristea, however, had never learnt to use her gift. Her self-doubting personality had walled it off, and then the trauma of losing her family had further obscured it. Qasim had seen the emotional scars all through her mind. The damage and the talent for scrying reminded him strongly of Renatus, whom he disliked very much more.
This morning, they had both dropped several more rungs down his list of favourite people. Whenever he thought about his confrontation with Renatus, Qasim felt an urge to rage and shout. Who did Renatus think he was? What had Lord Gawain been thinking when he’d picked the boy for Lisandro’s secretive chair? What had Qasim been thinking when he’d voted in agreement?
Better him than me, he’d thought. The Dark Keeper could never be the council’s Lord, and Qasim was next in line for that. He’d devoted thirty-two years to the White Elm – he’d worked hard and selflessly and he had no interest in ending his career as Dark Keeper, probably dead much too soon as they typically were. Dark Keepers never lasted long. Lord Gawain must have forgotten that when he chose his favourite boy for the job.
Qasim opened his eyes and looked around his classroom. When selecting the best room to convert into their ideal work spaces, most of the councillors had been easy to please. Well-lit, please. Lots of space for practical work, thanks. Qasim had wandered through several rooms and quickly learned to avoid touching things. The Morrissey’s had always been scriers, powerful and passionate, and traces of their lives remained all throughout the house on walls and furniture for an attuned scrier to tap right into. Advanced or gifted students in his subject area would be sensitive to these traces and some were confronting, so when he’d stepped into this room and detected nearly nothing, he’d known it would be perfect. Totally traceless. Not long before Renatus’s entire immediate family had been wiped out, they’d been betrayed, and this room was probably where it had happened if he’d been upset enough with the room’s energy to wipe it.
So there was absolutely nothing here to distract a scrier from working his gift, except himself.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Qasim closed his eyes again. It had been just over six months since he’d last seen, heard or felt a current trace of the previous Dark Keeper, and it was easy to lose heart and wonder whether they would ever track him down. Tapping into the energetic echoes of Peter’s murder had been a strike of luck – no enchantment could hide something like that for long; had Lisandro slipped up and forgotten that? – but not necessarily good luck. They’d been much too late to prevent anything, and still hadn’t discovered the actual site of the crime, the only place in the world they knew Lisandro had visited all year. There were whispers, sure, that he’d been there, popped up over here, been sighted there…A whisper was only ever a starting point, not real evidence, and each place the White Elm searched based on sightings had turned up nothing at all.
Lisandro.
Visions, images and sounds flowed through Qasim’s subconscious, and his meticulous, expert mind sifted through them, easily able to discriminate between the useful and the useless in milliseconds.
A pair of girls strapping on roller skates…’Mom says we’re still going skiing this year, even though that Lisandro guy is around’…Useless. Three teenage boys at the Academy in a disastrously messy dormitory – one is Constantine, a good scrier. He an
d Jin are mucking around, sparring…’Think Lisandro knows how to get out of this arm bar?’…Useless.
Qasim could easily wile away hours like this, and did; most scriers became so absorbed by their visions that they lost track of time but Qasim was always aware. Right now, he was mostly just aware that Lisandro was too well-hidden in enchantments.
One more minute, he decided, and opened his mind as far as it would go, the ultimate metaphorical satellite dish. He let go of his focus – Lisandro – so that anything and everything the universe wanted him to see would come.
Peter’s grandmother, talking quietly to the ceramic urn above her mantle…
Two hooded figures running in the rain…
Emmanuelle’s front door…
A gypsy market…Adult brother and sister admire a handmade necklace while the toothy saleswoman talks about its craftsmanship…’You should get it, or you’ll have nothing for her birthday. You always leave things so late’…A shapely gypsy woman with her face shrouded catches the sister’s hand. ‘They said you’d ruin everything. I can’t let you. I’m so sorry’…The brother steps in but the gypsy just turns her attention to him. ‘There are two places. Write to them and say you don’t want to be considered. Do it or we’ll remove you from the pool of applicants. I can’t let you stop us’…’Get lost,’ the brother snaps, directing his sister away…
Qasim slowly started to come out of his trance, uncomfortably aware that though the gypsy and the brother were unfamiliar, he’d met the sister before…
A classy hotel bar with low, flattering lights…A man and a woman sitting on stools sipping drinks…’If you’d told me your name at the outset I probably would have called them on you’…The man laughs…Long black hair hangs over his shoulders…His bronze-brown eyes are bright and friendly…
This final vision drove all the others from Qasim’s mind immediately, and in an instant he was on his feet and running out the door.
‘I would have understood’…’You’re not what I expected’….Lisandro waves down the bartender and orders another round of drinks…’Well, haven’t you heard not to judge a book by its cover?’…The woman laughs…She seems so at ease with him…
This was not an echo of a long-lost past event, like that marketplace or the death of Peter. This was happening right now. But how? How was Qasim able to see this? Lisandro’s movements had been totally shrouded from Qasim since he’d left the council. The only means Qasim had of tapping into this was if Lisandro allowed it.
If Lisandro wanted him to come, then he would bring the only weapon he had.
He displaced from the top of the staircase to the entrance hall, a tiny jump that he normally wouldn’t have bothered with but tonight was different. He only had to take a few steps into the dining hall to know what he’d suspected – Renatus could see it all, too. His eyes were closed as he gave himself over to what he was seeing, but he would still be completely aware of his surroundings, so when Qasim beckoned and turned away, he knew the younger scrier would follow. He had to. This was his job – this was what they’d kept him for.
The woman finishes her drink and puts down the glass with a loud clunk…’You must know I have a son at the White Elm’s Academy. That must be why you’re talking to me’…Lisandro sips from his glass and smiles over the rim…’You won’t believe I just thought you looked much too fabulous to be stood up tonight?’…’Yes, well, obviously I won’t be accepting future dates from the loser who forgot me here’…’That’s such a great dress. I bet you didn’t think you’d be drinking with White Elm’s Most Wanted tonight when you picked that out’…They both laugh and order another drink…
Renatus met Qasim in the entrance hall, his usually expressionless face tight.
‘He knows we’re watching,’ was the first thing he said as they started towards the front doors, the confrontation from earlier today completely forgotten for now. ‘There’s no way this is an accident.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘We’re walking right into his hands.’
‘So we’ll be careful,’ Qasim reminded the Dark Keeper. ‘We have to. The woman he’s talking to is a parent of one of our students.’
Renatus touched the doors and they started to open, but instead of pushing through them, he paused, and half-ran back into the dining room.
‘What are you doing?’ Qasim demanded, frustrated. Every second wasted here was another second that woman was in danger of being either harmed or converted by Lisandro. Without even thinking about it, Qasim automatically tuned into the energy of his younger colleague, and, through the wall separating them, was able to scry a glimpse of Renatus briefly exchanging words with a shell-shocked Aristea.
What on Earth…? The pair had probably never even spoken before Qasim had brought them together today, so what did Renatus have to tell her that was so important he’d risk this chance?
Unless Renatus didn’t want to catch Lisandro…
Lisandro smiles kindly, with a small twist of bitterness…’I’m not saying they’ll hurt your son – not at all. I won’t lie about them like they lie about me. They’ll treat him right. I’m just saying that their idea of “right” can be different from yours or mine’…
Renatus was back in seconds and the two scriers ran out the door together.
‘Rescheduling,’ Renatus said by way of explanation. ‘Where exactly?’
Qasim knew already, from the accent of the woman, that he was heading to America somewhere, but it took a great deal of concentration to be able to pinpoint the exact place of the vision.
‘Michigan, U.S.,’ he said, though Renatus would know almost at the same instant. ‘Who’s coming?’
The conversation was entirely rhetorical – whatever Qasim asked he would know as soon as Renatus did, just as he knew even as Renatus told him that Lord Gawain and Susannah were preparing to meet them on location. Had those two Seers known or suspected this event? Emmanuelle would stay behind. She possessed the council’s other, more reliable, weapon but had had only a day to get used to it. The possibility of her doing more damage with that sort of power than good was too great a risk.
The gate opened obediently for Renatus and they bolted through, trying to get far enough away from the house that its tightly woven spells would not disrupt attempts to warp space and displace. Qasim felt for the Fabric, the stuff from which all space was made, but hesitated when he recognised that it was already misshapen.
Someone was already manipulating this space.
Jadon and Aubrey appeared a few metres away.
‘Where is he?’ Jadon asked at the same time that Aubrey asked, worriedly, ‘What’s going on?’
Qasim resisted the frustration that was rising within him. He didn’t have the time for this, but already, the Fabric was smoothing, relaxing to its natural state.
‘We’ll handle it,’ he told them, beginning to open the wormhole.
‘No, take us with you,’ Jadon insisted, and the way he stepped forward demanded Qasim’s attention. He was only twenty, the youngest councillor currently on the White Elm, and though right now he seemed older, it was difficult for Qasim to perceive him as the capable adult he probably was. Jadon knew a lot of magic, a great deal more than most modern young sorcerers. Perhaps…?
And Aubrey was a Crafter, an invaluable talent facing Lisandro, and the same age as Renatus…
‘I don’t know what to think. I can’t believe that’…’There are always two sides to every story’…The woman fidgets with the straw of her last drink…Brown eyes and hair, straight nose…Egan Lake’s mother…’You should go. They’ve found us and they’re here now’…’The White Elm? Are you sure?’…’Go. They’re not here for you; don’t get caught in the middle’…
Renatus grasped Qasim’s elbow, helping him to make up his mind. He might personally trust the newer two councillors more than he trusted the Dark Keeper, but he couldn’t trust that they would hold their own in a conflict.
They were standing in the underground car park of the hotel. Susannah and Lord Gawain stood opposite, looking pale. The last contact with Lisandro had been a disaster and no one was looking forward to this one.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Renatus said to the council leader. ‘This is your mortal weekend. You should be with your clients or your family.’
‘Court has adjourned for the day and this is more pressing than the dishes.’
‘Lobby,’ Qasim said, leading the way up the nearby fire escape stairs. The others followed closely, and four flights up, he shoved open an alarmed door. A high-pitched bleat started to sound, but Renatus slammed the heel of his palm into a fuse box beside the doorframe before it could finish even one whine. The sound died and the box was left sparking pitifully. Magic and electricity did not mix.
The lobby was exactly as Qasim had seen it, except with slightly more bewildered patrons. They’d all been startled by that brief but loud sound. They were sitting in the same seats, sipping the same drinks, reading the same magazines. The framed vintage posters were the same, the mismatched vases lined along the hall table were the same, and the coasters on the bar were the same.
And sitting in the same seat, waiting for them, was Lisandro. For one horrible second, Qasim knew that all hell was about to break loose here, that dozens of people were about to witness something they couldn’t possibly explain and that they could easily come to harm in the cross-fire. There was no way around it and they’d waited for this moment for so long that no one was going to interfere with whatever Renatus needed to do.
But in the next second, when Lisandro spoke, Qasim knew that he was wrong.
‘Guys! Join me for a drink?’
No one needed to die. Lisandro wasn’t here for a fight. He was happy to sit, totally unworried. He knew exactly what he was doing, as usual. He knew the White Elm couldn’t initiate a conflict and would avoid a scene if they could manage it.
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