“I don’t think so,” she said, finally. “But you do need to let her stand on her own two feet.”
“If she can,” Caleb said.
Emily shrugged. Marian was sixteen. There were places on the Nameless World where she would be married by now, perhaps even raising her first child. She was certainly not a child herself, as far as the outside world was concerned. And if she wanted to be a magician, she would have to learn the basics herself. There was no way to cheat on the exams, not in Whitehall. Anyone who hadn’t mastered the material was unlikely to get very far.
“Keep an eye on her,” she said. “But she won’t be able to advance if an overprotective big brother keeps jumping in whenever she has a problem.”
“Casper never did that for me,” Caleb said. “He ... preferred to rub my nose in my own mistakes.”
“Which probably didn’t help,” Emily said. That explained a great deal about Caleb, coming to think of it. “But you don’t have to do the opposite.”
“Thanks,” Caleb said.
Emily relaxed, slightly. “I’ve got to write a short speech for the firsties,” she said. Gordian had dropped it on her, as well as a hundred other tasks. “What do you think I should tell them?”
“Don’t tell them the truth,” Caleb advised. “They’ll run for their lives.”
“Hah,” Emily said. She’d been nervous when she’d walked into Whitehall for the first time, even though a whole new world had been opening up in front of her. “Should I tell them the school was nearly destroyed three times in the past five years?”
“Four times, if you count the Mimic.” He smiled. “It would probably not be a good idea to tell them that.”
“Probably,” Emily agreed. “But what should I tell them?”
“Work hard, do well; party hard, fail spectacularly,” Caleb said. “Short, succinct and completely true.”
Emily giggled. She had to admit he had a point.
“And you’ll be loved for giving a short speech,” Caleb added. “The Commander at Stronghold was very much in love with the sound of his own voice. We stood for hours while he babbled on and on and on and ...”
“Oh,” Emily said. “What did he say?”
“I don’t know.” Caleb winked. “I wasn’t listening.”
Chapter Nine
THE FIRSTIES LOOKED ... YOUNG.
Emily had thought the same last year, when she’d watched the First Years make their way into Whitehall’s Great Hall for the first time, but this time the effect was far more pronounced. Eighty-two students, the youngest being sixteen ... they shuffled into the hall, too nervous to speak a single word. Emily’s eyes flickered over them, silently picking out the ones who’d grown up in magical families or had learnt something about magic before they went to school. They were the ones who didn’t seem that daunted by their surroundings.
She stood on the raised stage, next to Gordian and Master Tor, and waited while the room slowly filled. Some of the students were already using levitation spells to maneuver their trunks to the stairs or—perhaps more practically—ordering servants to transport their trunks to their room, while others were struggling to move their trunks into the hall. It didn’t seem to occur to them to use magic, or to ask others to cast the spells, or even to order one of the servants to do the heavy lifting. That, if nothing else, suggested they came from poorer households. People who grew up without being waited on hand and foot found servants a little creepy.
Alassa can issue orders as she pleases, Emily thought. But I still find it strange.
She shook her head. Alassa had a small army of servants, ranging from the young girl who brushed her hair to the manservant who carried her bags everywhere. None of them seemed to find anything odd about the whole setup. Hell, there were people who expected Emily to have an even bigger army of servants. Having servants was a sign of wealth and power ...
Emily sucked in her breath, grimly. Some of the younger students were too thin, suggesting that they’d grown up in peasant households. Others had scars and other wounds that had been allowed to heal naturally, rather than by magic. They’d have nothing in common with the rest of their families, she knew all too well. By the time they left Whitehall, they’d probably have lost touch. Frieda had certainly lost contact with her family.
Imaiqah didn’t, Emily thought, as she sought out Marian. But she was a special case.
Caleb’s sister stood alone, a little apart from the remainder of the students. Marian had always been healthy—Sienna would never have underfed her children—but Marian looked thin and scrawny, somehow. Her long blonde hair fell around her shoulders, thinner than Emily remembered. There were no visible marks on Marian’s face, but there was something in her expression telling anyone who cared to look that she’d seen terrible things. Her blue eyes were haunted by the past.
She looks like she came from a village, Emily thought. She shivered, remembering the first time she’d met Frieda. She looks as though she doesn’t know what to do.
Marian looked up. Emily looked away, half-hoping Marian didn’t see her stare as a challenge. But the girl standing apart from her future classmates didn’t look as though she had the energy to shout and scream, let alone throw wild accusations. Emily would almost have been relieved if Marian had shouted at her. Gordian would not have been pleased—there was no way Emily could have covered it—but it would have showed that Marian still had spirit. Instead, she seemed to have withdrawn completely.
She needs help, Emily thought. But there’s no one here who can give it to her.
Gordian stepped up to the podium and tapped it, once. A wave of magic fanned out through the air, silencing the handful of firsties who’d begun to whisper to their friends. Emily smiled as she tried to assess their reaction to the simple spell, noting the ones who seemed alarmed by the casual use of magic. They were probably unused to magic, she told herself firmly. They’d have to learn to use it as casually as breathing. Brute force might solve some problems, but it wouldn’t find favor at Whitehall.
Nor would asking someone else to do the work, she reminded herself. Even older students are expected to do their own work.
“A thousand years ago, Lord Whitehall and his followers determined to set up a place where young magicians could be schooled in magic,” Gordian said. “They built Whitehall Castle and laid the groundwork for what would become Whitehall School. Over the years, Whitehall developed a reputation for turning out some of the most proficient sorcerers in history, men and women who were heirs to a tradition of practical magic. You are the latest students to enter the castle, but the eyes of history look down on you.”
Emily kept her face carefully blank. No one knew who’d really built the castle, not even her. It had been empty for generations before the Whitehall Commune arrived to take possession and tap the nexus point. But otherwise, Gordian was correct. The seeds Whitehall had sown—with her help—had blossomed into a proud tradition. She’d never felt any real pride in her school on Earth—it had been a shitty building filled with shitty teachers and worse students—but Whitehall was different. The students and tutors knew themselves to be part of something greater.
It helps that students can be punished or expelled for bad behavior, she reminded herself, wryly. There had been students at her old school who should have been expelled, but had been allowed to remain instead. The staff are in full control.
“Some of you have grown up with magic,” Gordian added. “Some of you have never seen a single spell until you were tested when you turned fifteen. Either way, we will teach you to develop and control your magic. You will spend four years learning the basics, honing your skills and teasing out your specialities. And then, if you choose to remain, you will spend two more years focusing your powers and preparing for an apprenticeship.
“This will not be easy. Those of you who have grown up with magic will, perhaps, be surprised to discover how hard it can be. You will be required to comprehend the fundamentals of magical theory as well a
s memorizing and casting spells—those of you who do not comprehend will always be at a disadvantage when it comes to testing and using your magic outside the school. Many of you will feel like giving up—some of you will give up—but those of you who push onwards will find it very rewarding.”
He held up his hand. A series of lights darted out of his fingertips and danced up and down his arm.
“This is a party trick, a spell that requires little power, yet none of you will be able to cast it until you master the fundamentals,” he told them. The lights reached his head and floated above his hair. He paid them no mind. “Some of you will already be able to cast more powerful spells. And yet, very few of you will be able to calibrate and recalibrate your spells on the fly. A true magician—a true sorcerer—is one who can alter and adapt his spells at will. That is what we will teach you.
“The tutors are here to help. They will teach you the basics and warn you of the dangers. And yes, there will be dangers. Magic is not safe. Listen to them. There isn’t a person on the staff who doesn’t have at least ten years of experience with dangerous magic. You’ll want to experiment—every student in Whitehall has wanted to experiment—but learn the dangers before you begin. The warnings are not there to keep you from having fun. They are there to keep you from making dreadful mistakes that might get others—and you—killed.”
And the warnings are all written at the front of the book, Emily thought, wryly. There’s no excuse for missing them.
Gordian paused, his eyes sweeping the room. Emily wondered, absently, just what he saw when he looked at the younger students. Potential? Students who could become great? Or liabilities who had to be coaxed through the basics before they could turn into something useful? Offhand, she couldn’t recall Gordian ever taking a class for a full term. He’d stepped in when a teacher couldn’t be present, but he hadn’t been a full-time tutor.
Maybe he has, she told herself. What was he doing between graduation and now?
“Master Tor will explain to you the basic rules and regulations,” Gordian concluded. “I don’t care who or what you are, nor do I care who your parents are. If you break the rules, you will be punished. And if you break the rules in a manner that injures or kills another student, or risks the school itself, you will be expelled. Do not test me on this. It will not end well.”
Emily winced. She’d been lucky not to be expelled, back when she’d been a firstie. If she had killed Alassa, she would have been expelled ... and triggered a civil war. Master Tor had made it clear, later, that he would have expelled her in Second Year if the Grandmaster hadn’t overruled him. In hindsight, Emily had to admit he’d had a point.
Master Tor took the stand and started to speak. Emily had to fight to keep her face impassive as he droned on and on. For someone who looked an awful lot like Captain Picard, the nasty part of her mind noted, he certainly didn’t have any talent for making short and inspiring speeches. No one came thousands of miles to listen to Master Tor giving a speech.
She forced herself to keep an eye on the firsties instead, silently noting who was paying attention and who’d wandered off into their own little world. A couple of girls who looked almost like twins—she would have thought they were twins, if magical twins weren’t completely unknown—whispered quietly, despite the silencing spell. A boy beside them stared at the stage, challengingly. The older boy next to him rolled his eyes; he caught Emily’s gaze and looked away, hastily. No doubt he didn’t want to be noticed that much. Emily smiled as she glanced at Marian. Caleb’s sister was looking away, her eyes flickering from place to place. She clearly wasn’t listening to Master Tor.
It’s not easy to blame her, Emily thought. He just keeps saying the same thing over and over again.
She pushed the thought to the back of her mind as Master Tor finally came to an end. The firsties looked relieved as he surrendered the podium to Gordian, who also looked a little relieved. Luckily, their first classes would probably go over all the important details again, complete with graphic examples of what happened to students too stupid to listen to the warnings before they started casting spells. Emily’s palm twanged suddenly, reminding her of all the times Professor Lombardi had struck it with a ruler. Better the pain, he’d told the class when he’d started, than the problems caused by a poorly-written spell gone wrong.
“And now our Head Girl will explain the mentoring program to you,” Gordian said, nodding to Emily. “Lady Emily?”
Emily heard a rustle as she took the podium and peered down at the younger students. That was a mistake. Some of them looked awed—they’d heard of her, then—while others looked doubtful. Emily wasn’t a common name—as far as Emily knew, she was the only Emily in the Nameless World—but she still didn’t look impressive. The firsties hadn’t even seen her in the corridors or working in the library. They probably believed all the stories without question.
As long as they don’t believe the really weird stories, Emily thought. The stories that suggested she’d beaten Shadye using advanced—and forbidden—sex magic should have been unprintable. But bards had been singing songs extolling the power of love over necromancy ever since Shadye’s death. She’d cringed every time she’d heard the tamer lyrics. I don’t know what I’ll do if they believe them.
She met Marian’s eyes, just for a second. She’d expected a challenge, but instead ... Marian looked depressed, too depressed to believe in a better future. Or any future at all. There was a loneliness in her eyes that tore at Emily’s heart. She’d been depressed too, once upon a time. She hadn’t climbed out of it until Shadye had kidnapped her and Void had sent her to Whitehall.
Marian will do better here, she told herself, firmly. If nothing else, she’s a long way from her parents.
She composed herself as quickly as possible, remembering the rules for public speaking. In hindsight, she should have practiced more. Speaking to her friends—or even to a handful of Fifth Years—wasn’t so bad, not compared to the firsties. There were nearly a hundred pairs of eyes looking back at her, an alarming number glowing with hero worship. She didn’t think she could live up to her legend. They wanted a heroine, not ... not her.
“Whitehall is a very different environment from your homes, wherever you come from.” She tried to project her voice as much as possible, keeping her eyes fixed on the far wall. There was no way she could speak if she met their eyes. She’d never make a natural politician. They could make crappy ideas sound good, just by pitching them. “None of you have any real idea of what studying here is going to be like.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “Each of you will be assigned to a mentor,” she continued, after a moment. “That mentor—an older student—will advise you, if you need advice; support you, if you need support. You can go to them at any time you like, if you have a question that needs answered. They will be able to advise you on anything from approaching your tutors to comprehending basic spell notation. Think of them as your elder brothers and sisters.
“They will not do your homework for you, but they will show you how to do it. They will not fix your mistakes, but they will show you how to avoid making them in the future. They will not speak for you, if you have problems with your tutors, but they will help you understand the problem so you do not make the same mistake over and over again. They will, in short, help you to come to grips with life at Whitehall.
“Life here can be wonderful. You’ll learn about magic and make new friends, play games and study hard. But it can also be difficult. You are away from your families for the first time in your lives, living with other students who are often very different from you. Life here is different. The mentors will do their best to help you get through the transition as quickly as possible. Listen to them, learn from them ... and if you have any problems, come speak to me. I will try to help.”
She took a breath. “Each and every one of you has already been assigned to a mentor. When you are dismissed, go into the next hall and link up with your mentor,
who will explain the basic rules to you. After that ... how much use you choose to make of your mentor is up to you. If you think you already know everything—if you feel prepared to move ahead without delay—you don’t have to speak to your mentor again. If not ... remember your mentor is giving time up for you. Do not waste their time.
“And, once again, welcome to Whitehall.”
She stepped back, gratefully. Gordian took the stand, said a few brief words and then dismissed the firsties into the next hall. Emily followed, watching as students thronged about, checking lists and finding their mentors. Aloha had used a simpler system, she recalled, but she’d thought it was too random. And then she’d realized separating out the students wasn’t easy.
My system was random too, she thought. I just thought I was trying to be clever.
Her eyes sought Marian and found her, standing shyly next to Jacquelyn. Jacquelyn was Jacquelyn of House Firestorm, if Emily recalled correctly; she was a pretty girl who hadn’t impinged on Emily’s radar. But then, she hadn’t had time to research the Fifth Years in any depth. Perhaps, in hindsight, that had been a mistake. Jacquelyn would see too much—know too much—about Marian for anyone’s peace of mind. If she took what she’d seen to her family ...
I’ll have to have a word with her, Emily told herself. She had told the Fifth Years they were expected not to talk about their mentees, certainly not to anyone outside the school, but she hadn’t demanded any formal oaths. If I speak to her tonight, she’ll be warned before it’s too late.
“You did reasonably well,” Gordian said, coming up behind her. Emily twitched. She hadn’t sensed him coming. “A little unsteady at first, but good afterwards. Perhaps a course in public speaking ...?”
The Gordian Knot (Schooled in Magic Book 13) Page 9