If only the rest of the White Elm would take Aubrey as seriously as Jadon and Teresa did.
Aubrey sifted through the mountains of crap on his desk, looking for his lesson plan for this morning’s class. The students were still at breakfast but would soon be here, expecting to be taught something.
‘Merde,’ Aubrey muttered, pausing to look at a stack of papers bound with elastic bands. ‘These will need to be all adjusted now.’
‘What is it?’ Jadon asked, taking them to look. ‘Enrolment forms?’
‘Just copies for the records, but some of those students have left now so I’ll need to add that before I can enter them as current.’
The White Elm was hundreds of years old, with tens of thousands of various paper records, from minor stuff like minutes of meetings, public statements, publications and surveys to major things like private journals of long-dead councillors, confiscated dark spells, documentation of investigations and records of criminal trials and verdicts. It was necessary, of course, that this all be kept safe, and so a secure archive had been established. As Historian, Anouk was the only White Elm with access to this treasure trove of information. Aubrey didn’t even know where it was, but as the White Elm’s Scribe, most records added to it this year were written in his hand.
A bell rang to signal students to head to class.
‘Man, do me a favour,’ Aubrey said, still searching for that lesson plan. ‘Take those to my place? I’ll work on them tonight and have them back tomorrow for Anouk.’
‘Yeah, no worries,’ Jadon agreed. He tucked the stack of forms under his arm and held out a hand while Aubrey dug through his pockets for his house key. ‘Will Shell be home?’
‘Doubt it.’ Aubrey handed over the key. ‘She had an appointment this morning so she’s probably taken that as an excuse to have breakfast with a girlfriend or go shopping. You know, since she’s out of the house already. Or because it’s overcast, or because a new café opened, or any other excuse she can think of.’
‘How is she?’ Jadon asked quietly as the first few students entered the classroom. Aubrey went back to looking for that stupid lesson plan. He’d left it here somewhere, hadn’t he?
‘She’s good,’ Aubrey answered, but he knew that Jadon was asking about more than just in general. Unlike the rest of the White Elm, Jadon and Teresa knew that Shell was due to have Aubrey’s baby in about three months. It had been unexpected and ill-timed, considering that Aubrey was twenty-two and his partner only nineteen and neither had been planning to start a family for many more years, but her family, and especially her foster-father, had been so delighted and supportive that Aubrey had quickly gotten past his fear and embraced this for the blessing it was. He hadn’t intended on telling anybody White Elm – after all, the council had done so little to prove its trust in him, so why should he share his joy with any of them? – but Jadon, a Telepath, had stolen the news straight out of Aubrey’s head the very day he’d learned it.
How had he managed to lose a page of dot points he’d written only two days before? Jadon gave him a resigned look and pulled a sheet of paper out from under a folder. Aubrey grabbed it from him, knowing he’d overheard his thoughts. The trade trick of Telepaths. No matter how well-guarded your thoughts are, thinking in questions immediately voids any wards you thought you had protecting your inner monologue. By their very nature, questions are intended to be answered, which was perhaps why they were always broadcasted for the listening pleasure of nearby Telepaths, and which was why Jadon knew exactly what Aubrey was looking for without needing to ask or be told.
‘She’s got some appointment in Glasgow this morning,’ Aubrey added, reading over his dot points quickly. ‘A scan thing. We couldn’t see last time what it was; she wants to know whether to buy pink or blue.’
Jadon grinned and pulled a Euro coin from his pocket.
‘It had better be a boy or I owe this to Teresa,’ he told Aubrey as he left.
The students arranged themselves in their seats and a few wrote the day’s date in the margin of a fresh page. Some of the Academy’s younger girls entered and took seats near the back. Aubrey recognised one as Aristea Byrne and resumed going over his notes to avoid looking at her.
Aristea Byrne. Seventeen years old and local. Renatus’s pet. She was pretty enough, though did nothing to accentuate it. She dressed as though she were somebody else; she was not yet comfortable with who she really was. Of thirty-whatever students in the Academy, she was the only scrier. He knew that Qasim had been watching her progress very closely. Word was that she and Qasim didn’t actually get along – she’d apparently crossed him somehow and landed herself almost a month of detentions with Renatus, which seemed to suit Renatus just fine. Renatus, most unusually, had also taken an interest in her, asking other councillors about her abilities in their specific fields. Aubrey had told him the truth as he knew it: Aristea was a powerful sorceress, certainly, but with no particular gift for spell-crafting or spell-writing. Her talents obviously lay in other areas.
Like disobedience.
On Saturday, after a confrontation with Egan Lake’s neurotic mother, Aristea had destroyed a precious memory sphere that might have contained Lisandro’s every motive, idea and plan. The information was irretrievable. Yet Renatus was perfectly unfazed; indeed, he’d seemed almost proud when he’d reported this to the council. Aubrey had wondered several times what it was about her that so intrigued and impressed the Dark Keeper.
Maybe he just liked to look at her, or maybe he just liked the idea of someone with the potential to be even more trouble than he was.
The students were all gathered, so Aubrey began his lesson. They were a good bunch. They just sat silently, writing anything he told them to write, putting their hands up to respond whenever he asked a question and always, always watching attentively.
Again, teaching magic to teenagers wasn’t something he’d intended to do with his life, even when he’d applied for the White Elm, but it was something Aubrey had come to really enjoy. The students were interested and interesting, and Aubrey was surprised each day by how much he learned by working with them.
He set them copying a spell from the blackboard and wandered between the desks. One student, Jacinta, put her hand up to ask for help. Aubrey stood beside her and leaned over to check her careful handwriting.
‘It doesn’t look right,’ she said quietly, frowning at her words with searching blue eyes. Aubrey could see what she meant. She’d been careful to copy his spell letter by letter, even going so far as to replicate his slanted font, but it still appeared incorrect. He ran his fingertip along each line as he read it under his breath, looking for the error. He soon felt the problem, and his eyes – always slower than the magical senses – confirmed it.
‘For this to work, you’d need to close your o properly,’ he explained softly, pointing to a few examples of the second-last vowel that were not closed circles. He took her pen and rewrote the beginning words a few lines lower, deliberately etching each letter as they were intended to appear. ‘Try it slower.’
‘Thanks.’ Jacinta smiled up at him, taking back her pen. They were good kids, if kids was still the right term for sixteen to nineteen-year-olds. They were only a few years younger than Aubrey was – the eldest was born the year after Jadon. Despite that fact, they were very definitely kids in Aubrey’s mind. The girls were pretty and the boys were funny and friendly, but Aubrey was careful to keep a cool, detached distance from them all. Professionals did not make friends with their students.
Renatus should be told.
The lesson eventually ended and the students filed out. Aristea was among the first out the door, but was stopped just outside by a friend. Aubrey found himself wishing she would go away, and immediately felt bad. She was one of his students and he should regard her the same way he did all the others, but it was becoming difficult not to associate her with the Dark Keeper, who Aubrey very much resented.
Renatu
s was an idiot. He’d had a rough trot, admittedly, but he’d spent years under the wing of one of magical history’s greatest men and squandered away the incredible opportunity this presented with every breath he took. Every step was in the wrong direction. Every scathing word burnt another bridge. His tenuous loyalties were unclear even to those close to him and Aubrey knew he’d never succeed in his own role if he allowed himself to rely on Renatus.
Aubrey quickly turned his thoughts away from this dangerous path before anyone could overhear and lecture him on how Renatus had never actually done anything wrong and that the council had never had any real reason to question his loyalties…
Right.
Aristea’s friend waited until most of the other students were gone before coming inside, and Aubrey, now shuffling through the crap on his desk once again, attempting to put everything into some semblance of an order, recognised her as Sterling Adams. Nice girl; bubbly; talkative. She’d not seemed all that interested in his class previously, though, so he wasn’t sure what she wanted.
‘Hi, Sterling,’ he said. ‘What is it that you need?’ He made an effort to paste an approachable expression across his face, even as Aristea trailed uncertainly behind her.
‘Nothing much,’ Sterling said. ‘I just wanted to, you know, talk.’
Aubrey looked up, immediately wary. Talk? About what? He glanced at Aristea (Why can’t you just talk to her?) but she appeared just as confused as he was.
‘What would you like to talk about?’ Aubrey asked, speaking slowly but his mind working at the speed of sound. Shit, this was the counsellor part of his job. Please, goddess, please don’t let her cry in front of me, and please, please don’t make me listen to any talk about boys.
‘Uh, like, school stuff,’ Sterling said with a small shrug and a coy smile. Thank you, goddess. ‘I was just thinking, you know, how all the subjects are so linked together, and how spell-writing is really at the core of it all.’ She smiled wider. ‘Your subject is kind of the most important of all, and I’m no good at it.’ She glanced back at Aristea. ‘I’ve got this. You can go if you want.’
The young scrier nodded and began to slowly walk away. She shot an uncertain glance back, and Aubrey knew why. Sterling’s entire demeanour, her tone, her body language, had all changed abruptly. She’d shifted her weight onto one leg, one hip jutting out, calling attention to her curvy female shape, and her cute face was tilted to one side. What on Earth was she doing?
‘I wouldn’t say it’s the most important one,’ Aubrey disagreed, wondering whether he was meant to be flattered by that notion, ‘and you’re working on it, which is all anyone can ask of you.’
Aristea had paused just inside the doorway to retie her shoelace. Aubrey was kind of glad for her remaining presence.
‘Well, I think that creating magic with your words is the most impressive magical art, and I want to be better at it. I’ve been practising. See?’ Sterling withdrew a folded sheet of lined paper from the pocket of her denim miniskirt and moved closer to hand it to him. Aubrey accepted it, and weirdly, she held onto the page for a beat too long. He met her eyes, and she was looking straight at him, smiling. She let go. Starting to feel uncomfortable, Aubrey turned his attention back to her handwriting as she continued speaking. ‘I know my calligraphy isn’t great, but yours is so perfect. Could you rewrite this for me?’
‘Sure.’ That request seemed harmless enough. Stepping back over to his desk to put some much-needed space between Aubrey and his overeager student, Aubrey grabbed a pen and began to rewrite her amateur spell underneath the first. Sterling moved close again.
‘I love watching calligraphers,’ she commented. ‘I just love how the pen just glides across the paper, like a caress on skin.’ She giggled girlishly. ‘And when you use the proper pens, and dip it into the ink, it’s like the pen kisses the ink-’
‘Sterling,’ Aristea interrupted, straightening suddenly with a knowing look of dread on her face.
‘Aristea, just go. I’ll see you soon,’ Sterling insisted, smiling brightly. Aristea looked unconvinced and did not move. Sterling turned her attention back to Aubrey. ‘You hold that pen really well,’ she admired, and Aubrey knew he was in trouble. ‘Does the grip make a difference?’
‘A little bit.’ Aubrey remained focussed on writing. She didn’t let up. She rested a hand on his forearm.
‘Like, is it better to keep your grip loose…or really tight and firm?’
She tightened her grip to accentuate her words, and Aubrey was saved the humiliating horror of having to ask a seventeen-year-old sweetheart to back off by Aristea.
‘Sterling,’ she said, her tone pleading, and Sterling pulled her hand away. ‘We have to go to-’
‘I’ll meet you there,’ Sterling said meaningfully. Aubrey recognised his cue.
‘I actually have to go, too,’ he decided, handing the page back, unfinished. In his haste to avoid her contact, he let go before Sterling had a grip, and the paper fluttered to their feet.
‘I’ll get it,’ she said, bobbing down at Aubrey’s feet and reaching around his legs to collect the sheet as it fluttered further away.
‘No, don’t bother,’ Aubrey protested, still trying to maintain a casual air. His desk prevented him from backing away. ‘Really, just leave it.’
‘No, it’s okay, I’ve got it,’ Sterling said brightly as she got back to her feet, way too close. ‘I-’
‘What is going on?’
Qasim’s powerful voice scared all three of them. Sterling sprang back, Aubrey turned quickly and Aristea was immediately encased in an invisible bubble of magic. None had expected that Qasim was near. He stood now in the doorway, looking angry.
Everyone stood in stunned silence for a very long moment. Sterling’s face went steadily redder with every passing second.
‘Nothing’s going on,’ Aristea eventually managed, moving over to her friend and grabbing her hand. ‘We were just leaving.’
Sterling practically ran behind the young scrier as they left the classroom. Aubrey collapsed into his chair, suddenly exhausted with relief.
‘What on Earth?’ was all Qasim could ask, and Aubrey could only shake his head helplessly. Qasim folded his arms, and Aubrey knew that his response wasn’t going to be enough.
‘I have no idea what that was,’ he admitted, sitting up straighter. The Scrier commanded a sort of respect that few men could ask for, and Aubrey couldn’t help but give it. Qasim was a man he admired, with his firm morals, unshakable standards and no-nonsense attitude. The other senior councillors had welcomed their new three with warm smiles and endless patronising kindness, but Qasim had remained distant, determined that Jadon, Teresa and Aubrey would earn his trust and respect.
Qasim would be the next Lord of the White Elm, and he would be great, probably better than placid, eccentric Lord Gawain. Despite finding him terrifying, Aubrey had made the effort to familiarise himself with the Scrier. He felt compelled to earn Qasim’s respect, to be properly accepted. He was sick of being “one of the new kids”, almost grouped in with the students, left to baby-sit the students while the older councillors went about important business without him.
‘Sterling has never acted like that before,’ Aubrey elaborated, still surprised and confused by her odd behaviour. It had seemed extremely flirtatious, yet, in his classes, all she talked about was Renatus. ‘I’ve never said or done anything to encourage anything more than a professional relationship. I can’t think of what might have brought that on.’
Qasim’s sharp gaze clung to Aubrey as the senior councillor considered his words. Aubrey waited, nervous but patient. He hadn’t lied – he’d never done anything to incite Sterling’s behaviour, and he’d never have touched her even if he had – so all he needed was for Qasim to realise this, however long that took. Eventually Qasim unfolded his arms and moved his hands to his hips with a sigh.
‘They’re a pool of potential, but they’ll not be in control of
their magic until they’re in control of their hormones,’ he conceded finally. ‘It was probably fortunate that Aristea was still present. It would serve you well to avoid being alone with students. You are young and friendly, and some of these children have blurred boundaries.’
Aubrey nodded immediately. Qasim was still regarding him shrewdly, and for a too-long moment, neither man spoke. Aubrey was determined not to crack, and so he waited.
Qasim took a small cloth bag from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it up.
‘Can you write me a trace? Two of them?’ he asked shortly. Aubrey blinked, wondering before he could stop himself what sort of test this was.
‘Uh…Yes,’ he answered warily. ‘What sort?’
‘Jackson broke a vase at Emmanuelle’s when he was tearing around looking for…the treasure. Some traces of his magic or his essence should remain on this piece. Also, there’s a possibility that some trace of Lisandro may remain in the orb Aristea shattered, but after all the hands that thing moved through, it would be a very slight one. Jackson is clumsier and more likely to have left energy lying around. I want you to write a trace spell to track him. Can you do that?’
Aubrey didn’t know what to say. Of course he knew how to write a trace – he was a Crafter; he wrote magic as naturally as he breathed. But this was the first time in half a year anyone on the council had actually asked him to write anything more interesting than a document. This was what they should have been using him for all along – the council’s only Crafter – but nobody had trusted him enough up to this point to give him such tasks.
‘I…Yes, I can do that,’ Aubrey agreed finally, still surprised. He’d been waiting for this day for so long, and now it was here. He really hadn’t expected Qasim to be the one to finally branch out from the old White Elm family and ask for “outside” help.
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