Past Tense (Schooled in Magic Book 10)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Emily blinked in surprise. Spellwork—understanding spellwork—was the key to everything from transfiguration to subtle magic and wardcrafting. She’d thought Master Wolfe’s spell notation was primitive ... perhaps it was primitive. Perhaps she was looking at the very early stages of what would become charms ...

  “I care,” she said. “My tutor cared.”

  Master Wolfe looked up. “Master Myrddin? Myrddin the Sane? No one knows what happened to him after Lord Whitehall was released from his apprenticeship.”

  Emily shook her head, surprised. Myrddin ... Myrddin was an old name for Merlin, a very old name. A coincidence? Or, perhaps, a hint that she wasn’t the first person from Earth to walk the Nameless World. She’d often wondered just how humans had managed to evolve in a mana-rich environment, but perhaps they hadn’t. If she could be yanked across the dimensional barriers and dumped into the Nameless World, why not a few hundred thousand others?

  “I’ve never heard of him,” she admitted. “Who was he?”

  Master Wolfe gave her an odd look. “Only the sorcerer who managed to make magic work,” he said, softly. “Without his work, none of us would be here. He shared his secrets.”

  Emily met his eyes. “What happened before him?”

  “Sorcerers would go mad very quickly,” Master Wolfe said. “They would start showing signs of magic as they grew older, then rapidly lose control as their powers grew. No one could reason with them ... they did terrible things to everyone unlucky enough to be nearby ... men were killed, women were enslaved, children were blinded merely for laughs. Smart villagers killed magicians as soon as they began showing signs of power, which didn’t make matters any better. But what choice did they have?”

  “None,” Emily said, quietly.

  “None,” Master Wolfe agreed. “You don’t know any of this?”

  “I had a very sheltered upbringing,” Emily said.

  Master Wolfe frowned. “Your tutor did you no favors,” he said. “But then, teaching women to use magic is frowned upon.”

  He went on before Emily could ask why. “Master Myrddin was the first to work out how to control and channel magic to prevent accidents,” he said. “He devised the first true spells and taught them to others. In his later years, he would walk from village to village, taking magical children and teaching them how to control their powers. Those magicians, in turn, taught others.”

  Emily considered it for a long moment. She had heard of Myrddin, she recalled now, but only as a throwaway line in Life of Whitehall. Offhand, she couldn’t remember if he’d been mentioned in any of the other history books she’d read. But then, there were so many legends about the time that it was impossible to tell just how much was true and how much had been added later. Lord Whitehall might well have overshadowed his former master.

  “I see,” she said, finally. Necromancy drove its practitioners insane, but she’d never heard of other magicians going mad. And yet, all of the older magicians were a little erratic. Lady Barb had even suggested that Void was dangerously unstable. “I didn’t know any of this.”

  “Then I suggest you learn,” Master Wolfe said. He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re part of our commune now.”

  He frowned down at his notes. “The spell structure will have to be built up, piece by piece,” he said. “Putting something so ... so big ... together would be impossible, even for us. I’m going to have to give this a great deal of thought. The binding we’ve placed on the nexus point may not last if we start fiddling with it.”

  “Channel the power elsewhere,” Emily suggested. “Make it work for you.”

  She closed her eyes in thought. It wouldn’t be hard to make one of her batteries—she’d practically have to make one of her batteries to expend her power, unless Whitehall kept her busy casting spells. They could channel the power from the nexus directly into a pocket dimension, then use it to power ... something. But they could only do that if they could tame the nexus.

  Master Wolfe scowled as there was a sharp knock at the door. “Enter!”

  The door opened. A boy—he looked around twelve, although there were faint hints of stubble on his dirty chin—stepped into the room and knelt before Master Wolfe. He didn’t look at Emily. “My Lord,” he said, “Lord Whitehall wishes to remind Lady Emily that she is to meet him in the courtyard.”

  “Then she will go to the courtyard,” Master Wolfe said. He looked at Emily. “I’ll want to go through this in more detail with you later.”

  “Of course, My Lord,” Emily said. If nothing else, she had a feeling that Master Wolfe was well on his way to understanding how to tap and manipulate the nexus point. How long would it be before he started crafting basic wards? “Just call me when you need me.”

  She turned and nodded to the messenger, who looked back at her with a mixture of curiosity and bitter resentment. It puzzled her until she realized that she’d taken one of the handful of apprenticeship slots, even though she’d only been with the commune for less than a day. The other apprentices would have to wait longer for formal training, thanks to her. She’d be unpopular through no fault of her own. And it was hard to blame the apprentices for feeling that she’d gained an unfair advantage.

  But there was nothing she could do about it. Shaking her head, she motioned for the messenger to lead the way and followed him out of the room.

  Chapter Six

  EMILY HADN’T REALIZED JUST HOW FOUL the air inside the castle was until she stepped into the courtyard and took a breath of fresh air. A sweet scent hung on the air, tantalizing her senses as she walked towards where Whitehall and Bernard stood, at the far end of the courtyard. The sky was a brilliant clear blue; she could hear the sounds of birds singing in the trees, not too far away from the castle. And the courtyard itself didn’t look too different, although the carriages and carts she recalled from her time were missing. It made her feel as though she was back home.

  “Lady Emily,” Whitehall greeted her. His voice was strictly formal. “I trust Master Wolfe didn’t give you too much of a headache?”

  “It was very interesting,” Emily said. She saw Bernard’s eyes open wide with astonishment and smiled. “I enjoyed it.”

  “I enjoyed it, My Master,” Bernard said, although there was no real rebuke in his tone. “You have to be polite.”

  Whitehall shot him an amused glance, then looked back at Emily. “Before we begin the task of completing your education,” he said, as he turned towards the gates, “we have to know where you are. Did your tutor give you any idea of how long it would be before your apprenticeship was declared concluded?”

  “I’m afraid not, My Master,” Emily said. She still had a year and a half at Whitehall School, but she had a feeling that her experience and his would be incompatible. “He would never be drawn on such matters.”

  “Most masters would refuse to answer unless they felt the student was on the verge of being ready,” Whitehall said. He didn’t seem surprised by her response. “How long were you his student?”

  Emily frowned. She had no idea what a convincing answer would be.

  “Around three years, My Lord,” she hedged. “I was never very good at keeping track of time.”

  “It does feel much longer,” Bernard said.

  “Disrespectful young man,” Whitehall said. He didn’t sound angry. Indeed, he sounded rather amused. “The average apprenticeship lasts around five to ten years, unless something goes very wrong early on and both parties agree that the bonds should be dissolved. Bernard has been with me for five years.”

  Emily glanced at Bernard as they strode through the gate and into the field. The sculptured gardens she recalled were missing; instead, there was a large grassy field that led towards a forest. A handful of horses—smaller than the ones Alassa had taught her to ride—grazed peacefully near the walls, watched by a pair of young boys. She looked back at the castle, feeling her head spin. Whitehall seemed to be what she remembered, but the Arena and the Zoo were also missing. S
he wondered, vaguely, when they’d been built.

  “Don’t worry,” Bernard whispered, as Whitehall motioned for them to stop. “He’s not going to push you too hard.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Emily whispered back. She was nervous, despite herself. “What does he want me to do?”

  “He wants you to copy his spells,” Whitehall said, sternly. Emily flushed. Whitehall’s hearing was evidently better than she’d assumed. “Do what I do.”

  He held up his right hand and cast a fireball spell, throwing it down the grassy field and straight into a tree. Emily shuddered—the spell leaked badly, by her standards—and watched as the tree shuddered, then tumbled to the ground. Lady Barb had taught her to use similar spells to produce firewood, if one was in a hurry, but she’d never had to use it for real.

  “Try it,” Whitehall ordered.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Emily said.

  She braced herself, wondering if she should try to mess up the spellwork. Whitehall’s fireball had looked odd, wavering backwards and forwards as if it had been permanently on the verge of exploding or simply flickering out of existence. Indeed, there had been something remarkably oily about the way the fire had moved. And it had leaked mana in all directions ...

  Bad habit, she reminded herself, as she cast the spell. Professor Lombardi would rap my hands.

  The fireball lanced across the field and struck a tree, sending it crashing to the ground. It was hard to be sure, but she thought Whitehall looked impressed. Her fireball had been a real fireball. Whitehall turned slightly, lifted his hand and threw a second fireball of his own. It flew barely twenty yards before it exploded outwards and vanished. The spell simply hadn’t held together very long.

  “See how far you can throw the fireball,” Whitehall ordered.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Emily said.

  She tossed the second fireball and watched, feeling a mixture of pride and sadness, as it covered fifty yards before exploding. Whitehall was powerful—she could sense his power even from five yards away—but he didn’t have the skill Professor Lombardi and Lady Barb had hammered into her. How could he? She’d been the beneficiary of hundreds of years of spell research and development in the school he’d founded.

  “Not bad,” Whitehall said.

  Emily heard Bernard gasp behind her. Not bad? She’d thrown a fireball further than his master. She smiled at the thought, then looked at Whitehall. He was studying her with a contemplative expression that bothered her. It was one thing to outdo his apprentice, she realized dully, but what if she outdid him? He might not take that very kindly at all.

  “Not bad,” Whitehall repeated. “Let’s see what else you can do.”

  Emily held back, as much as she could, as he showed her a handful of other spells. There was nothing subtle about his magic, no hint that he understood the spells he used; he was powerful, true, but he was wasting a great deal of his magic. She rather suspected he was far more powerful than she was—he might actually be stronger than Sergeant Miles or Professor Lombardi—yet he was draining his reserves at a terrifying rate. If she had to fight him, she might even be able to lure him into expending power fast enough to allow her to win.

  “You don’t seem to be able to fly,” Whitehall observed, nearly two hours later. “Is there a reason for that?”

  “My master never taught me, My Lord,” Emily said. “Can you fly?”

  Whitehall levitated himself into the air and looked down at her. “It’s not a hard skill to learn,” he said. “But it requires a great deal of concentration.”

  “And magic,” Bernard put in. “I have never been able to master it.”

  And you could be knocked out of the sky easily, Emily added, silently. A single spell—or a simple ward—would be enough to send you plummeting to your death.

  “I will teach you,” Whitehall assured her, vaguely. He gave her a sharp look. “Let’s see what else you can do.”

  Emily was sweating, hard, by the time he finally stopped showing her spells and inviting her to try them for herself. His spells were simply too crude for her to duplicate easily, not when conserving her power had been beaten into her from the day she’d started. Whitehall seemed to push the limitations of spellware through raw power. He could transfigure something, if he tried, but it took so much power that she suspected he’d prefer to avoid it.

  “You’re holding back,” Whitehall said. He gave her a sardonic look. “Do you know what the penalty is for lying to your master?”

  “I’m not lying,” Emily protested.

  “You’re holding back,” Whitehall said. “And that is a form of lying.”

  He met her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about Bernard,” he added. “I assure you his ego will survive meeting someone better than him.”

  Emily glanced at Bernard, who shrugged. “It does happen,” Bernard said. “Robin is better than me at many things.”

  Whitehall’s expression darkened. “And many of those things are forbidden,” he said. “How many times do I have to remind you of that, My Apprentice?”

  Demons, Emily thought. She shivered, even though it was a warm sunny day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Bernard wants to play with demons.

  “I understand your feelings, My Master,” Bernard said.

  “But you do not agree,” Whitehall stated. “Consider it incentive to learn.”

  Bernard smiled. “That is what you said about dueling with stronger opponents, My Master,” he said. “Learning to lose is important.”

  Emily smiled. Sergeant Miles had said something similar, long ago.

  Lord Whitehall looked at her. “Your tutor clearly saw remarkable promise in you,” he said, seriously. “Enough, perhaps, to ignore the curse.”

  “The curse,” Emily repeated. “What curse?”

  Whitehall frowned. “You do not ... ah, you wouldn’t have been told,” he said. “Women who use magic are cursed.”

  “I am not cursed,” Emily said, flatly. Her temper flared. “Do you refrain from teaching women magic for fear they will be better than you?”

  Bernard started to laugh, but stopped when Whitehall tossed him a sharp look. Emily wondered, suddenly, if she’d crossed a line, then decided it didn’t matter. She needed to know what the curse was, if there was a curse. Her Whitehall was split evenly between male and female students. There was certainly no suggestion that any of the female students were cursed. They had the same chances as their male counterparts.

  “Women with the gift are needed to bear children,” Whitehall said, quietly. “Magic is a rare gift and it does not always breed true.”

  Emily stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Women who use magic openly cannot have children,” Whitehall explained. “They ... they lose the ability to have children or care for them.”

  “That makes no sense,” Emily breathed.

  “No female magician has ever had children,” Whitehall said. “My daughter wants to learn magic, but if I teach her I will deprive her of the chance to have children of her own.”

  Emily considered the problem for a moment. Whitehall was wrong. She knew he was wrong. Fulvia had been a powerful magician and she’d had children. And she was hardly the only female magician Emily knew who was also a mother. There was no way so many girls would be invited to study at Whitehall if learning magic cost them the chance to have children. But Whitehall clearly believed it was true.

  She looked up at him. “How many female magicians have you met?”

  “You’re the most powerful witch I’ve encountered,” Whitehall said, flatly.

  Emily met his eyes. “How many witches have you encountered?”

  “I’ve encountered a few women who were able to do basic spells,” Whitehall told her. “None of them had children. And I have never heard, in all my travels, of a woman who was both a witch and a mother.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Emily protested.

  She tossed it over and over in her head, thinking hard. Maste
r Wolfe had told her that the early magicians had rapidly turned into monsters ... had they only been men? Or were female magicians killed quicker? She could believe it—as horrible as it seemed, male children were often regarded as more important than female children. And yet, she hadn’t learned anything to suggest that magicians had trouble conceiving. Caleb’s mother had five children.

  Her face fell as she remembered her boyfriend. She’d left him in bed when she’d been summoned ... what had happened to him? Would she be back before he realized she was gone? Or would she overshoot the mark by days or weeks?

  “Your master should have told you,” Whitehall said, gently. “He should have offered you the choice.”

  It took a moment for Emily to realize that he’d misinterpreted her expression. He thought that she was mourning the loss of her children, the children he thought she could never have ... not wondering what had happened to the world she’d left behind. Cold anger flared through her, driven by rage and bitter grief. To deny his daughter the chance to learn ...

  “You didn’t offer your daughter the choice,” she snarled. She, of all people, ought to have known better. The past wasn’t a long-lost paradise. “If Julianne wants to learn magic, why don’t you let her?”

  “Because girls with the gift are badly outnumbered by the boys,” Whitehall said. “We cannot afford to lose someone who can bear magical children.”

  That’s not a problem back home, Emily thought, sourly. But if there really are so few magicians here, he might have a point ...

  She closed her eyes for a long moment. Julianne wasn’t mentioned in any of the books, as far as she could remember. She’d just fallen out of history, like so many others. It didn’t matter, she supposed, if Julianne learned to use her magic or not. Whatever happened to her had already happened, from Emily’s point of view. And yet, she was an individual in her own right, a living breathing person.

  Bernard coughed. “Can you bear children?”

  Emily colored, angrily. “I assume so,” she said. She certainly had no reason to assume there was anything wrong with her reproductive system. None of her medical checks at Whitehall had shown any problems. “And Julianne should be able to bear them too.”