Chosen (9781742844657)

by Morgansen, Shayla

  ‘I need to tell her that Egan’s mum is an idiot,’ I said, ‘and that I’m staying here.’

  I’d known it would be my answer even before I’d opened her letter. I had crazy friends and daily misadventures of varying degrees of awkwardness, but I had no intention of going anywhere.

  ‘You seem certain,’ Renatus noted, giving me the paper. I grabbed one of his beautiful fountain pens from its perfectly aligned position at the top of the desk.

  ‘I am.’ I began to write. Dear Angela. ‘I’m only just scratching the surface of what I can do. I can’t leave now. And she won’t make me. She’d never make me do anything I didn’t want to do.’

  I wrote for twenty minutes in total silence while Renatus sat opposite me, reading an old hand-written book, possibly a massive journal. I told Angela how Egan and his mother had bought into Lisandro’s stupid stories, how I’d seen some of this through Renatus when he’d touched me (I made it clear that he’d touched me to get my attention, not wanting any confusion, especially after this morning) and how happy I was here to be learning so many new and exciting things. I finished by asking how work was going and promising that I would try to write more.

  I signed off and slid the completed text across the desk. Renatus looked up from his book and glanced at it. He didn’t seem to be looking close enough to be actually reading, more just skimming, but then he must have noticed something that caught his attention. Frowning, he turned the letter around to read it properly. Again, I felt no invasion of privacy.

  ‘What you said here,’ he said, pointing as he read. ‘Is that true?’ He showed me. ‘You scried through me?’ Renatus paraphrased, frowning slightly. ‘When? And how?’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ I admitted. ‘And I only assume that’s what I did. The night you went with Qasim, and you touched my arm…’ He was staring at me, and I felt suddenly uncomfortable. Scrying had gotten me into deep trouble in the recent past. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘What did you see?’ Renatus was insistent.

  ‘I had this sudden rush of feelings and blurry images. It felt like they were channelled from you.’

  ‘What did you see?’ he repeated.

  ‘I saw a man and woman having drinks at a bar, talking about a life Lisandro wanted to save,’ I said quickly, ‘and everyone felt really content and curious. That’s it. I didn’t mean to scry anything, I promise.’

  I’d been in enough trouble last time. I didn’t need that whole adventure again. Why did this keep happening?

  Renatus sat back, regarding me with interest.

  ‘You aren’t in trouble,’ he assured me. ‘I just…didn’t expect this. Do you usually feel things when you scry?’

  I considered this for a moment. When I’d scried what turned out to be Peter, I’d felt the desperate hunger of the birds; when I’d wandered around this office as a disconnected spirit, I’d felt Emmanuelle’s outpouring of grief.

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘Has anyone ever suggested that you may be empathic?’

  I’d heard the term thrown around by my uncle and father since I was young. They said it was when someone felt things more intensely than others, and that it explained why I was like I was.

  As a child, I was sensitive. My mother had often complained to me later on that I had been a tearful baby and a moody toddler – much higher maintenance than either of my older siblings. In primary school I was the weird girl. I didn’t have many friends. Several times, other kids tried to single me out and pick on me, but they usually ended up in tears themselves. I had a knack for knowing what to say – what would hurt the most – and before I was old enough to know better, I was happy to use this knowledge to protect myself. These days I was usually more tactful.

  As primary school neared its end and secondary loomed, my sensitivity suddenly increased (psychic changes often coincide with biological changes, and early adolescence is usually a pretty hectic time, regardless of whether you’re a witch). It began as waves; I would be sitting in class, writing an essay, when I would suddenly be swamped by the unchecked feelings of my non-witch peers. The overwhelming jealousy felt by Siobhan of Aisling would suddenly make my vision blur. Shamus’s fear of ridicule would threaten to choke me. The mixes of stress, confusion, anger, worry and nervousness would wash over me again and again until my body responded by running to the bathrooms and throwing up.

  Understandably, my parents decided against sending me to high school until this was under control. My family and their nearest friends taught me how to protect myself from all of this by barricading my mind. My father and uncle had home-schooled me to the end of compulsory schooling. I was much more controlled now than I’d been before the training, but I still felt a lot of what was being emotionally processed around me.

  It had become an unspoken issue among members of my family. It was just Aristea’s little problem – not a big deal, but ever-present. Not something we talked about outside the home.

  ‘I’ve heard the term,’ I agreed. ‘I feel stuff all the time. Other people’s stuff. I feel it most around non-witches.’

  Renatus nodded. I was about to keep speaking, but then remembered who I was talking to. This was my headmaster, not my friend or parent – why was it so easy to forget that? I realised, with something of a shock, that I trusted him almost as much as I trusted Hiroko, even though I knew nothing about him.

  That didn’t seem to really be true anymore, though. More and more, I felt like I knew Renatus. Somehow, I felt as though we shared something, like an interest or an experience, but when I actually thought about it, I couldn’t really identify anything that we had in common. He was mysterious, intense and intelligent and I was, well, me. I considered myself the epitome of boring – or at least, as boring as it is possible to be when you are an orphaned witch. What could I possibly have in common with an adult man who was influential, all-powerful and so incredibly organised?

  In the ensuing quiet, Renatus folded up my letter and sealed it inside an envelope. He left it for me to write the addresses.

  ‘I haven’t yet thanked you for the way you stood up for the White Elm when Egan Lake and his mother came slandering our name with Lisandro’s lies,’ he said. I finished writing his estate’s name as my return address and put the pen back where I’d found it initially.

  ‘I haven’t yet apologised for breaking that orb thing that probably could have answered a lot of your questions,’ I countered.

  ‘I’m not concerned that you destroyed it. There could have been much worse outcomes to Saturday’s events.’ He paused, and when I gave him a questioning look, he elaborated unhelpfully by adding, ‘You could have accessed the information left inside the orb instead.’

  I recalled the jolt of horror I’d felt him feel when that had almost happened. What was he scared of me seeing? And why did he care what I saw?

  ‘The less people Lisandro’s stories reach, the better off we’ll all be.’ Renatus nodded at the door. ‘Your time’s up. You can go.’

  ‘Will you send that letter to my sister?’ I asked as I stood up.

  ‘Consider it halfway there,’ he answered, and I noticed that the envelope was nowhere to be seen. I remembered something else that had once been on this desk and no longer was, and dug into my pocket for the scrunched list I’d taken last week.

  ‘I took this by accident,’ I said, careful not to even sound apologetic. He accepted it back from me with interest.

  ‘I don’t think it was really an accident,’ he mused, and I felt slightly offended.

  ‘I assure you it was,’ I said firmly. I left him with it and walked out. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Aristea,’ he called after me. I stopped and looked back. He looked strange. ‘You are going to hear things in the coming weeks, about the council and about myself, which will be incorrect. You won’t believe a word without careful consideration first. Can you promise that?’

  ‘I promise that,’ I agreed, ign
oring the weirdness of yet another odd exchange with Renatus and just going with it. ‘Night.’

  Anouk was a brilliant teacher, like all of the others. Her classes had no active or hands-on component, however, so there was a lot of opportunity for complete boredom, but she taught her council’s history with such fervour and zeal that I didn’t really mind sitting, just listening and writing for two hours at a time. Plus her accent was amazing. She rolled her r almost into a d and pronounced each syllable so fully. Kendra and I liked to try to imitate it after classes.

  Today we wrote as Anouk dictated. She was explaining the current structure of the White Elm. We’d been building to this for weeks, learning about the how the White Elm was first formed from a band of warrior spell-casters in the Dark Ages to protect local villages from dark sorcery, how its purpose had evolved and how various nations had eventually pledged allegiance to the council. Starting as just a little group, the council had later been called abroad to solve international problems, slowly amassing a global following. Today, the White Elm council was generally accepted as the supreme authority of the magical world. It helped that less than a century after forming, Fate itself was invoked to bless the White Elm as a part of the Natural Order, basically meaning that it would be awarded its own powers to do Fate’s work. That part seemed a bit wishy-washy for me, but it was still an engaging story.

  ‘Each White Elm councillor takes on one of thirteen traditional roles when initiated,’ Anouk said, waiting for us to write that before continuing. Those r’s sounded like a cat purring. ‘We use Lord Philip’s 1512 model, but we are flexible on the ranking of most roles. Today, only three are formally recognised and given authority – the others are allocated to those best suited to the role, rather than the next in line – and there is only one that allocates authority irrespective of seniority.’

  I paused with my pen in the air and it took a moment for me to process that, because the phrase “allocates authority irrespective of seniority” was too full of big words. I put my hand up.

  ‘So…usually, authority in the council is dictated by age?’ I asked when Anouk gestured to me, and she nodded, although by now I’d guessed this.

  ‘That’s correct.’ It sounded like cord-eckt. ‘The eldest male is the High Priest, entitled Lord; the eldest female is the Lady, or High Priestess. Those roles are the ultimate goal of every councillor. Fate awards the possessors of those chairs extra powers, and no position is more respected in our society.’ Anouk paused again while we wrote madly. ‘Statistically, most White Elm councillors pass away while still in service, but many others have chosen to retire when they feel that they can no longer serve effectively. In both of these cases, their role becomes available and others on the council, or a new initiate, may take that role. If the departing councillor is a Lord or Lady, the next in line will automatically take that position. If the new position is another…’ Anouk trailed off to let us catch up, and gestured to the blackboard behind her, where she’d written thirteen titles and a short description of each. I’d started writing that list when I’d come in, before she’d started talking. I glanced up at it as I scrawled about statistics.

  Lord Philip’s Council Structure, as at 1512:

  Lord Philip – leader, priest and judge

  Lady Catherine – leader and priestess

  Keeper Nathaniel – researcher and warrior

  Scrier Christopher – researcher and strategist

  Seer Edward – philosopher and strategist

  Healer Anne – doctor and counsellor

  Displacer James – tracker and transporter

  Listener Daniel – chief telepath and researcher

  Illusionist Isaac – defender and trick-maker

  Wandcrafter Hannah – creator of council wands and minder of weapons

  Swordcrafter Walter – creator and minder of council weapons

  Historian Rowland – keeper of council histories and researcher

  Scribe Allen – scribe of council documents and writer of council magics

  It was pretty easy to guess who a couple of these long-dead former councillors had most recently been replaced by. Lord Gawain and Lady Miranda were givens, obviously, but Anouk was evidently the Historian of this modern incarnation of the White Elm, Elijah the Displacer, Qasim the Scrier and Susannah the Seer. I recalled a conversation with the twins and Marcy that indicated that Emmanuelle must be the Healer. It still seemed strange to me that this should be Emmanuelle’s job – she didn’t seem like the kind of gentle, compassionate soul I’d envisioned the Healer would have to be – but later, when I knew her better, it would seem obvious.

  It was Renatus that I kept wondering about, because lots of those descriptions seemed to suit him. He was so strange. Monday night’s detention had been so tense, then last night’s had been totally boring, back to licking envelopes. I had two left and no idea what to expect from either one.

  Anouk moved on to discussing the roles in depth, and I wrote half-heartedly until she reached the third and fourth.

  ‘The Keeper is the White Elm’s researcher and warrior in apparent peace-times,’ she began, and then moved onto the Scrier without any elaboration, whereas for the previous two she’d spoken for several minutes about the expectations and a number of famous councillors former to that role. I looked around but seemed to be the only one to have noticed; I quickly forgot, however, as Anouk began to describe the position of the White Elm Scrier.

  ‘The Scrier is the gatherer of information both past and present, and due to the secretiveness of the job, has often been used as something of a spy,’ she said while I listened attentively. ‘A great deal of the White Elm’s wartime research is carried out by the Scrier, and much of our successes over the years can be attributed to the work of Scriers. This role can only be held by a natural scrier because of the demands of the job.’

  She went on to list various famous Scriers through the council’s history, and I promptly forgot the names and neglected to write them down. It didn’t matter anyway. It was irrelevant who’d been in the role before. What mattered was that I’d be the next one.

  ‘Anouk.’ I grabbed my pen and notebook as everyone else filed out at the end. Kendra stopped at the door and waited for me while I spoke with our teacher. ‘Anouk, is there anywhere I can read more about this stuff?’

  The rake-thin Russian sorceress waved a hand across the chalkboard and the whole thing cleared itself. Chalk dust fell to the floor as she turned to me.

  ‘About the White Elm?’ she clarified. I nodded.

  ‘About anything,’ I agreed. ‘About the council, about the positions, about the traditions…’

  Anything about the Scrier, and about how to get that job?

  ‘Oh.’ Anouk smiled thinly, going to a small shelf behind her desk. ‘You should be so specific in speech, Aristea.’ Ard-iss-tay-ya. I loved it. ‘This book should tell you everything you want to know about the various positions on the council, including the Scrier, and about the traditions and processes involved in entering the White Elm.’

  She pressed an old book with a tatty dust jacket into my hands. I stared at her. Now, I know I didn’t say anything about-

  ‘I know, you didn’t say anything about the Scrier,’ she guessed, keeping her voice down. ‘I’ll let Glen cover that one in his classes.’

  I couldn’t believe how un-private a place my mind had become since arriving at the Academy.

  ‘I love her lessons,’ Kendra told me as we left a little while later. ‘She makes history so inspiring and makes the council seem so incredibly complex and interesting.’

  ‘She makes me want to sign up for the White Elm’s waiting list right now,’ I admitted. We went to the dining hall even though dinner was ages away. It was kind of the central meeting point for students. I was sure that the ballroom had been intended as a social common room of sorts, but staging a funeral there just a few weeks into term had really turned most of my classmates off that particular part o
f the mansion.

  ‘Which would you be?’ she asked, taking a seat in our usual section of the table. ‘I would want to be the Seer. I think that’s Susannah at the moment.’

  ‘I think it is,’ I agreed. ‘I want to be the Scrier.’

  ‘No “would” for you,’ Kendra noted playfully. ‘Just plain old “want”.’

  I grinned back at her.

  ‘No harm in wanting something.’

  ‘Too true,’ Addison said, announcing his arrival at Kendra’s shoulder. He playfully tipped her chair to the side, partly unseating her, but he was quick to catch her, steal her seat and set her down on his lap. ‘What’s happening? Forming a boy band?’

  ‘Close. We’re joining the White Elm,’ Kendra informed him. ‘We’re just discussing the various spots and taking the best ones for ourselves.’

  ‘Well, as long as you leave the “hot, bad-boy guitarist” spot open for me,’ Addison warned.

  The rest of our friends filtered in over the course of the afternoon and evening and I enjoyed the conversations, but I was still thinking about scrying for the White Elm the whole time, even as I walked into Renatus’s office, still holding the book.

  ‘For that to happen,’ he greeted me as I walked in, ‘Qasim would need to rise to High Priest.’

  ‘And I’d have to hope that you wouldn’t want that spot,’ I added, because I’d guessed by now that he was a scrier, too. Why else would he have countless books on scrying lying about his office, and how else would he have been receiving those images I’d channelled through him?

  ‘That wouldn’t be an issue,’ he told me. I sat down and put the book down on the desk in front of me. ‘I have a position I can’t step down from.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Like Lord Gawain?’

  ‘Similar. I’m actually not allowed to discuss it.’

  He looked up and met my gaze. The challenging look in his violet eyes was unmissable. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say to that.

  ‘I see. Perhaps I should stop discussing it, too.’