And me, Emily thought.
She shook her head as Whitehall led them towards the big tent. If they wouldn’t listen to Lord Whitehall, one of the greatest magicians of the era, they certainly wouldn’t listen to an uppity little girl. They’d wonder why she wasn’t barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen instead of learning magic. It still galled her to be dismissed so easily. Even the nobles of Zangaria, the ones who had disliked her, had respected her power.
The fear was almost palpable, she discovered, as they stepped into the tent. Julianne and she were the only women in the chamber. The remainder were all men, ranging from DemonMasters in bright red robes to apprentices—attached and unattached—standing at the rear, their eyes flickering from side to side nervously. There was an ugly feel to the air, a sense that something could happen at any moment, that chilled her to the bone. And, for the first time, she could sense the presence of demons. She could feel invisible eyes watching her as she followed Whitehall up to the front row. The organizer was already standing on a box, pitching his voice so it could be heard throughout the tent.
“Wait here,” Whitehall ordered, as they reached the front. Emily was all too aware of other eyes—human eyes—studying her. It was hard to resist the urge to turn her head and look around to see who was looking at her. “I’ll be at the front.”
He stepped up to stand next to the organizer, who introduced him briefly—Emily wasn’t too surprised that not everyone knew who Whitehall was—and then stepped down, allowing Whitehall to speak. Whitehall took a long moment to look around the tent, then cleared his throat. He didn’t seem to need any spells to project his voice right across the chamber.
“For uncounted years,” Whitehall said, “it was rare—truly rare—for a magician to survive long enough to gain control of his powers. He would either be killed by his fellows, out of fear of what he would do to them, or accidentally kill himself. Even when he was lucky enough to find a master willing to teach him, it was very hard for him to survive. It was not until my master, Myrddin the Sane, laid the groundwork for actually casting spells that magicians could be fairly sure of gaining control over their powers, allowing the novice to eventually become a magician in his own right.”
He discussed—briefly—the problems of the master-apprentice system and the madness caused by demonic spells, then talked about the castle and the nexus point. Emily couldn’t help thinking that some of the listeners seemed suspicious—or downright angry—when demons were mentioned. Myrddin the Sane had been strongly opposed to demons, she knew, and Whitehall had continued that tradition. And yet he was close friends with at least two DemonMasters ...
“We have a unique opportunity,” he concluded, after outlining the planned school. “Instead of one master to one apprentice, we can teach the basics of magic to a much larger number of apprentices simultaneously. Each apprentice will have a grounding in all of the magical disciplines, allowing masters to select the best of them for future training ...”
“Enough,” a voice thundered.
Emily turned. Who would dare to interrupt?
A fat man—easily the fattest man in the chamber—was stalking towards the stage. She could sense the demons surrounding him, invisible eyes glinting madly. He cast a nasty look at Emily as he strode past and stopped in front of Whitehall, glaring at him.
“This is nothing more than an attempt to win all the apprentices for yourself,” he snapped, loudly. “And to deny us the right to use demons.”
A low mutter ran through the crowd. Emily shivered. Some of them clearly agreed.
“This cannot be borne,” the newcomer thundered. He tugged on his beard, warningly. “I ...”
Lord Alfred moved forward. “It must be borne, Lord Fire,” he said. “Demons have proved themselves to be horrifically dangerous. Magicians who wish to use them must be prepared to deal with the consequences ...”
Fire slapped him across the face. “Traitor,” he snapped. “I challenge you to a duel!”
“And I accept,” Lord Alfred said, calmly. “Should we have the circle prepared?”
“Yes,” Fire snapped. “We will meet after lunch, so the circle can be drawn properly. And may the best man win.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
EMILY WANTED TO TALK WITH WHITEHALL about what had happened, after Fire and a good third of the other magicians stormed out of the tent, but he snarled at her to shut up and then practically dragged Alfred in the other direction. The remaining magicians seemed just as confused as Emily, although they did seem convinced that the duel would settle the question of following Whitehall or not. Bernard caught Emily’s hand and led both her and Julianne out of the tent, just in time to watch a trio of apprentices drawing out a large protection circle on the ground.
“I’m sorry Father snapped at you,” Julianne said. “He’s desperately worried.”
“Yeah,” Bernard agreed. “Lord Alfred could lose.”
“And it will be very unpleasant for him if he loses,” Emily finished. Fire had called Lord Alfred a traitor, after all. One DemonMaster had betrayed the others, as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t going to hold back. “What happens if he does lose?”
Bernard gave her an odd look. “Dead—or wishing he was.”
“I meant to us,” Emily corrected. “What happens if he loses?”
“I don’t know,” Bernard said. “Fire can probably convince a majority of the others to kick us out of the Gathering.”
Emily frowned as they made their way towards the cooking pits. Something was nagging at the back of her mind, a memory from her studies. But it refused to come to her as she took a plate of meat and bread, then sat down to eat with her friends. Whitehall and Lord Alfred were talking some distance away, but she didn’t dare try to eavesdrop. She didn’t think she wanted to know what they were saying to one another ...
... And besides, she’d promised Whitehall she wouldn’t.
“I was expecting them to demand proof that you could cast spells,” Bernard mused, drawing her away from watching the older magicians. “Or perhaps proof you could have children.”
Julianne giggled. “And how would you prove that?”
Emily shrugged. “It would take nine months for me to give birth, even if I got pregnant now,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure where she was on her cycle—Julianne’s potions were nowhere near as efficient as the ones she used in the future—but she was damned if she was trying to get pregnant just to prove she could. “There’s nothing wrong with my cycles, though.”
She smiled as Bernard reddened, then watched grimly as Whitehall and Lord Alfred ate their food. It had to be a nightmare for Whitehall, she realized; his friend might well die, yet he could do nothing. And even if Lord Alfred won, he’d have won through the use of demons. It would be a slap in the face to everything Whitehall had planned to achieve—and to the lessons he’d learned from his master. She couldn’t help wondering just how much of it Fire had calculated before issuing the challenge to a duel.
“He could have challenged Whitehall,” she muttered. “Why not?”
“He wouldn’t have been able to use demons,” Bernard said. Emily flushed. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken loudly enough for him to hear. “And without them, our master would have the advantage.”
Emily felt sick, sick at heart, as she slowly finished her dinner. Lord Fire had appeared at the far end of the dining area and was holding court, bragging loudly and boastfully about just what he intended to do to Lord Alfred. He wasn’t making any preparations, as far as Emily could tell; he just seemed confident of victory. She wondered, despite herself, if he’d asked the demons for a vision of the future, one that ‘proved’ he was bound to survive the coming duel. Oddly, the thought gave her hope. A demon might well have deliberately misled its master.
She looked up as Whitehall walked over to join them. He looked to have aged twenty years in an hour. Emily silently forgave him for snapping at her, even if it had been a shock. She wouldn’t have liked to
lose a friend either. Caleb had chosen not to watch her duel with Master Grey and she didn’t blame him. Watching his girlfriend die—and being unable to do anything to stop it—would have torn him apart.
“The duel will be held after we finish eating,” he said, quietly. “Whatever happens, whatever you see or hear, do nothing.”
“Yes, master,” Bernard said.
Emily merely nodded, then listened absently as Whitehall talked them through the dueling rules. They didn’t seem too different from the ones she knew, save for a warning that no one was to cross the circle once the umpires announced the start of the match. Anyone who did would be unceremoniously killed, if they were lucky enough to survive the energies unleashed by the magicians.
“It’s time,” Whitehall said, finally. “Let’s go.”
This is going to be bad, Emily thought. She glanced at Julianne and noticed, to her surprise, that she was holding hands with Bernard. Her father seemed to be ignoring it. This is going to be very bad.
Lord Alfred and Lord Fire stood within the dueling circle, both hastily drawing smaller circles of protection around themselves. That was new—old, she corrected herself—but she supposed it made sense, if both contestants intended to use demons. Lord Alfred held his Book of Pacts in one hand, chanting under his breath as he marshalled his forces; Lord Fire placed his on the ground, then used a wooden cane to turn the pages. Emily wondered, absently, if there was some advantage in not carrying the book ...
Maybe it’s so vile even he can’t touch it, she thought. It seemed unlikely—Robin had never shown any reluctance to touch his Book of Pacts—but magic constantly surprised her. Or maybe he thinks it will give him some safety if one of the demons breaks free.
She wished, suddenly, that she had someone to hold as the umpires took their places, one of them announcing the duel while the others checked and rechecked the protective wards. The gathered crowd fell silent, watching and waiting to see what happened. Emily glanced at Whitehall—his face was completely expressionless—and then back at Lord Alfred. He was smirking, an insolent pose that made her want to smile, despite the seriousness of the situation. Lord Fire’s face was quivering with anger, clearly believing that he was being mocked. And then the lead umpire spoke a single word.
“Begin.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. The two combatants eyed each other, clearly waiting to see who would move first. And then Fire spoke a single word. A wave of malice flared through the air—Emily had to force herself not to look away—as a demonic ... thing launched itself out of Fire’s Book of Pacts and hurled itself towards Lord Alfred. Another creature materialized in front of Lord Alfred, catching the first creature and holding it at bay. There was a brilliant flash of light and both creatures vanished.
Lord Fire hissed out a string of words, each one sounding like breaking glass. Emily had a flurry of impressions as more and more creatures materialized; flashing teeth, sharp claws, evil eyes gleaming with malice ... she remembered, suddenly, the Manavore and wondered if there was any connection between the demons and the Manavores. Perhaps the Manavores were demons that had been allowed to go free.
Julianne turned, her eyes streaming with tears, but Emily refused to look away as the impressions grew stranger and stranger. Thunderstorms flashed and flared in front of her, each seemingly huge and yet tiny; brilliant flickers of inhuman eyes growing stronger for long seconds, then flickering away into the ether. She saw a creature that looked like a particularly demonic raptor, its semi-translucent jaws dripping with blood, lunge towards Lord Alfred. Alfred raised his hand and spoke a single word. The creature snapped out of existence with a thunderclap.
The Books of Pacts were steaming slightly, Emily noted, as more and more creatures joined the fray. It struck her, deep inside, that she was only seeing the tip of the iceberg, that most of the conflict was taking place at a level beyond her perception. And she knew she should be grateful. The flickers she did see were enough to make her eyes water, as if she was looking into a bright light. Each half-seen impression was terrifying to the imagination.
Flames burst into existence, roaring towards the combatants and only flowing back when they touched the protective circles. The crowd murmured and fell backwards as the heat began to rise—Emily felt sweat trickle down her back—but neither of the combatants seemed to notice. She saw faces within the fire, evil twisted faces that laughed and laughed as they grew larger, feeding on the energies unleashed by the duel. More and more creatures flared into existence, charging forwards and slamming into the protective circles. And then Emily knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what she was seeing.
This is the last great duel, she thought, numbly. She already knew the outcome. And both of them are going to die.
She started forward, unsure what she intended to do, but Whitehall caught her upper arm and dragged her back towards him. His grip was strong enough to hurt, yet she didn’t dare try to do anything to break free in the middle of the crowd. She refused to look back at him as the noise grew louder, as still more creatures materialized ...
... And then the protective circles broke.
Lord Fire screamed, in horror and fear and pain, as the demons lunged at him, dragging him down into the pits of hell. There was a flash of light and then he was gone. Emily turned, just in time to see Lord Alfred’s body crumple into dust. And then the demons vanished too.
“It’s over,” the umpire said, quietly. “They both died.”
Emily winced as Whitehall squeezed her arm tightly and then let go. “That was stupid,” he hissed. “You could have died.”
He marched past her and over the outer circle. Emily rubbed her aching arm—Whitehall had probably bruised her—and then watched as he picked up Lord Alfred’s Book of Pacts. No one came forward to claim Lord Fire’s, so he picked that one up too. Emily couldn’t help noticing, as Whitehall turned to speak to the umpire, that both books were still steaming. The red sigils on the front covers had turned black.
Their owners are dead, she thought. And the books themselves can pass to another owner.
Bernard glanced at her. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I didn’t want him to die,” Emily said, quietly. But history clearly recorded that both men had died. “Did you?”
“He knew the risks,” Bernard said. “He could have backed down.”
Julianne looked as if she wanted to cry. “He was always good to me, you know,” she said, softly. “He never talked down to me.”
Whitehall’s voice echoed over the field. “Lord Fire summoned a demon and asked who would win the duel,” he said. “And the demon told him—the demon told him—that Lord Alfred would not survive the day. And the demon was right! Lord Alfred did not survive, but nor did Lord Fire. Do we really need such creatures?”
There was a long, chilling pause. “I say that we do not need such creatures,” he said, his voice growing louder. “We can learn to use magic—we can learn to develop magic—without them. And I intend to lay the foundations for a whole new approach to magic at the castle, where all will be taught the basics before they can proceed. I invite all of you—masters, attached apprentices, unattached apprentices—to join us. The one condition is that you do not bring your demons with you.”
He lowered his voice. “The demons have never lied to us,” he warned. Emily felt an odd thrill as his words echoed on the air. “But they have frequently misled us, as Lord Fire could attest, if he wasn’t dead. They have ensured that we have learned spells that damage our minds, spells that make it harder for us to have children, spells that will eventually destroy us. How many of our finest minds have fallen to madness?”
Emily’s gaze swept the crowd. Many—far too many—of the older magicians had eyes that were going red. Others looked unstable—or displeased with Whitehall’s words. And yet, the duel had strengthened his hand. Lord Alfred had died for Whitehall’s cause. The other DemonMasters had to respect his decision, even if they didn’t understan
d it.
He knew he didn’t have long to live, she thought. If Lord Alfred had kept his mouth shut, he would have survived. Instead—and she felt a strange mixture of awe and grim sadness as she realized what he’d done—he’d made his death serve a greater purpose. And he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.
“We will be returning in two days,” Whitehall concluded. “Those of you who wish to study with us, to learn how to master your powers, are welcome to accompany us. Those who wish to come later will also be welcome. But those who bring demons will be turned from our walls. There will be no further warnings.”
Emily let out a sigh as the crowd began to disperse. A handful of servants were already dispensing drinks, pouring tankards of beer in honor of the two dead magicians. Several gamblers were threatening to curse the bookies because hardly anyone had bet that both magicians would end up dead. Bernard was staring at where Lord Alfred had been with a contemplative expression as Whitehall returned, carrying both books under his arm. Emily quailed at his forbidding expression.
“Back to the tent,” he ordered, curtly. “We’ll join the wake later.”
“Master,” Bernard said. “I ...”
“Later,” Whitehall snarled.
Emily rubbed her arm and then followed him, wondering just what Whitehall intended to do with the books. Master Gila’s Book of Pacts had been priceless, she’d been told, even though he’d only harnessed a handful of demons. Lord Alfred had claimed to have over fifty demons under his control. His book had to be even more priceless. She would have smiled at the thought, if she hadn’t just watched a man die. DemonMaster or not, Lord Alfred had been a good man.
“I’m putting both of these books in Alfred’s knapsack,” Whitehall stated, as soon as they were inside the tent. His voice hardened. “Emily, as punishment for gross stupidity, you will remain to guard the books while the rest of us attend the wake.”
Past Tense (Schooled in Magic Book 10) Page 27