Finally, she ventured a question. “Umm...who are you?”
“We are Alassa, Heir to the Throne of Zangaria,” the girl replied. She had the regal dignity act down pat, Emily had to admit, even if she did seem a little surprised. Had she thought that Emily would know her? “You will give us due honor, as we deserve.”
Emily stared at her–and then started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Maybe a genuine monarch, with years on the throne of her country, could have pulled off the regal act, but Alassa sounded more like she was posturing rather than actually being dignified.
Alassa’s face clouded rapidly and one hand reached for the wand at her belt. But before she could do anything, Imaiqah caught Emily’s hand and dragged her off towards the tables. Emily would have preferred to stay and exchange barbs–it was her experience that bullies needed to be fought–but her new roommate didn’t give her any choice. Besides, the self-styled Heir to the Throne of Zangaria probably knew much more magic than Emily.
“She’s a pain in the posterior,” Imaiqah muttered, as soon as they were out of earshot. “If you’re not one of her cronies, you’re her target.”
“I’ve met the type before,” Emily agreed. “Is she really royalty?”
“Where do you come from?” Imaiqah asked. “Zangaria is one of the Allied Lands–one of the most powerful states in the West. Alassa is their royal princess and will be Queen one day, may the gods help them.”
Emily had to smile. “So why is she here?”
“Their Royal Family has a long tradition of magic.” Imaiqah snorted. “So they send their heirs out to Whitehall to learn magic–and, just incidentally, to make contacts among their fellow nobility in the Allied Lands. But she is the social queen of the school and is not inclined to actually make friends ...”
“But she has a small following of cronies,” Emily guessed. Oddly, she found it reassuring, even if she was in a very different world, to find the behavior she’d seen before had continued to manifest. The people were definitely human, regardless of their magic or their odd appearance. “People who keep telling her how wonderful she is, in the hopes that the glamour of royalty will rub off on them.”
Imaiqah nodded.
Emily smiled, and then asked the obvious question. “Why doesn’t she like you?”
Imaiqah hesitated, then tried to answer. “I don’t have strong magic. And I’m a tradesman’s daughter.”
That can’t be it, Emily thought. Or maybe the Royal Brat really is that shallow.
Before she could ask, Imaiqah went on. “I made the mistake of refusing to do her homework several months ago and now she ...”
She shook her head. “Well,” Imaiqah added, “you know.”
Emily didn’t know what to say. Commiseration wouldn’t help, she knew, it had never helped back on Earth. So she sat there, silent. Helpless.
“I really don’t have strong magic,” Imaiqah added, a moment later. “You won’t want to associate with me ...”
There was something in her tone that made Emily’s heart twinge in pain. She’d been a social outcast too, even though she’d lived in a world that should have known better. It wasn’t a bearable life; kids could be cruel...and those who might be decent otherwise chose to have nothing to do with the outcast, for fear that the popular kids–and the bullies–might turn on them next. Emily knew the unspoken truth behind every kid who took a gun to school and opened fire at random. They’d been knocked down so hard that they believed themselves to be at war with the entire establishment.
“I can associate with whoever I like,” she growled. The Grandmaster had warned her about political factions, but it wasn’t as if Emily was going to be socially important. It was rather unlikely that a prince would want to marry her, and she had no family here. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me.”
Imaiqah stared at her, and then started to protect. “But you’re a sorceress...”
“I’m still learning,” Emily interrupted. It was technically true, although–more practically–she hadn’t even started learning. “And I can be friends with whoever I like.”
She started to eat the stew while studying the other students. They were definitely diverse, far more diverse than any crowd she’d seen back home. Apart from white, black, brown and yellow skins, there were students who were green-skinned, or blue, one so bright a blue that it had to have been a magical accident of some kind. And a number of students seemed to be the products of mixed-race marriages, as she knew them from back home, and others seemed to be part-human hybrids. One older student looked to be part-Orc, not unlike the characters from the role-playing games. Another was a dark-skinned elf-like humanoid who looked far too thin to be human.
The stew tasted surprisingly nice, certainly better than anything she’d ever eaten at her old school. There were herbs that sent odd tingling sensations running down her tongue; the meat itself tasted like a vague cross between beef and pork. Servants moved from table to table, pouring glasses of fruit juice and water for the students; Emily couldn’t help, but notice that the servants flinched away from some of the tables. She wondered if they were targeted by the magical students for practical jokes on a regular basis.
Imaiqah pointed out some of the tutors as they ate. “Professor Thande is the Head of Alchemy,” she said, nodding towards a short professor who was arguing with one of the other tutors. “He prefers research rather than actually teaching, so don’t get on his bad side or he’ll use you as a test subject for his concoctions. Professor Torquemada, beside him, is the Head of Healing; they’ve been squabbling for years over something that happened when they were both students. Or so I’ve been told.”
She grinned at Emily, as if she couldn’t quite believe that she was actually getting a chance to talk to someone and show off. “Professor Lombardi is Head of Charms; you’ll probably have a private session with him before you formally join his classes. He prefers to measure everyone’s potential first, before they join the other students. The man beside him is General Kip; he teaches combat magic and battle strategy. Don’t ever forget to call him General. He assigns the worst detentions in the school.”
Emily jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder. “Welcome to Whitehall,” a voice said. She turned to see a stern woman looking down at her from a great height. Her face could have been carved from stone, seeming as if it were permanently fixed in a disapproving expression. “I am Mistress Irene. You will report to me in my office tomorrow at nine bells.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Emily stammered. There was something about Irene that warned her to be careful. In some ways, she reminded her of Madame Razz, but with far more power. “I’ll be there.”
Irene’s gaze switched to Imaiqah. “You will ensure that she finds my office tomorrow morning,” she added sharply. “Make sure that she goes to bed early and has a proper sleep. Tomorrow she starts studying in earnest.”
She stalked off towards the end of the table to deliver a reprimand to another student, leaving Emily staring after her. “Don’t take it personally,” Imaiqah advised. “She’s like that with everyone. She’s meant to supervise all first year students and keep them from killing themselves or each other.”
“Oh,” Emily said.
Imaiqah smiled. “And she dislikes Alassa. That’s one point in her favor.”
“Yeah,” Emily agreed. “But what will she think of me?”
Imaiqah shrugged and changed the subject. But the thought continued to bother Emily as they returned to their room and prepared for bed. If Irene was so severe, how was Emily ever going to relax in her presence?
But then, she thought slowly, she probably doesn’t want me to relax.
It made sense. She knew magic was dangerous; quite aside from Shadye and Void’s barely-leashed power, several of the students bore scars from what Emily assumed were magical accidents. And the Grandmaster had warned Emily that students could die in Whitehall. It was obvious that Irene didn’t have an easy job at all.
On that thought, she climbed
into bed and fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, EMILY STOOD IN front of Mistress Irene’s office, wondering if she dared knock. Imaiqah had escorted her to the office after breakfast and then left, pleading an early class. Emily lifted her hand to the door and then hesitated. Mistress Irene’s door alone looked intimidating and the woman herself, according to Imaiqah, was formidable. Mistress Irene apparently faced down a necromancer with nothing more than a sharp tongue and a complete refusal to surrender to the dark wizard. After meeting Shadye, Emily had an idea of just how much courage that had to have taken.
Bracing herself, she tapped on the door. There was a long pause, just long enough for her to wonder if Mistress Irene was somewhere else, and then the door swung open, silently. Emily stepped inside and saw a simple office, with walls lined by shelves crammed with books. It was smaller than the Grandmaster’s office and far more down-to-earth.
Mistress Irene was seated at her desk, studying a sheet of parchment. She pointed one long finger at a chair and motioned for Emily to sit. Emily obeyed, trying to resist the temptation to glance at the devices on the tutor’s desk. Some of them shimmered with brilliant magic.
“You are an odd pupil,” Mistress Irene said, without preamble. “You are ignorant, yet powerful. That makes you dangerous.”
Emily swallowed.
Mistress Irene’s voice was cold, rapping out the points one by one. “Magic can kill the ignorant. You must learn to control your magic as quickly as possible. Losing control could be disastrous. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Emily said.
“Good,” Mistress Irene said. There was a pause. “It is possible to use a sorcerer’s real name against them, but it requires their complete name to work. You may go by your first name, if you wish, or you may select something else you wish to be called. Choose.”
Emily hesitated. She’d wondered, last night, about changing her name completely, but she wanted to cling onto the name she’d been given at birth. Emily alone, it seemed, would be safe to use. Her surname had never been spoken in this new world.
“Emily,” she said, finally. Judging from the other names she’d heard–at dinner and breakfast–it wouldn’t be too strange to local ears. Or so she thought, although she still wasn’t entirely sure of what the translation spell was actually doing. Besides, it was her name. “You can call me Emily.”
“Very well,” Mistress Irene said. She looked up, her dark eyes fixed firmly on Emily’s face. “Mana exists throughout the world. Magic is powered by mana. Your body produces mana. Do you understand me?”
Emily stared at her. “I think so,” she said, finally. Inwardly, she wasn’t so sure. Did her body produce mana itself, or was she drawing on an energy field surrounding the new world? Or both? Perhaps the human race produced the power that kept dragons aloft ... there was no way for her to know. Maybe she’d have a chance later on to apply the methods of rationality to magic and deduce its underlying rules. “That’s what makes me a sorceress?”
“A potential sorceress,” Mistress Irene snapped. “When you cast a spell, you power it with mana from your reserves. Learning how to power spells is the single most important lesson you’ll learn at this school. Overpowering your spells will result in disaster.”
There was a long pause. “There are other forms of magic, but you have to master your own first or you’ll never be anything more than a journeyman,” she added, in a gentler voice. She picked up a piece of paper and passed it over to Emily, who looked down at it, puzzled. “The relationship between magic and spells is both simple and complex. Simple, because the spells help steer the magic in the right direction; complex, because you have to tie the two together in your mind.”
Emily nodded, carefully. “You mean...pouring magic into a given shape, like pouring clay into a mould,” she hazarded. “Or do smaller spells work as building blocks for larger spells?”
“As good an analogy as any,” Mistress Irene said. “Can you read the word on the paper?”
“No,” Emily said, after a moment. She’d half-expected a recognizable alphabet, but in hindsight that had been foolish. The letters she was looking at seemed a cross between Arabic and Chinese. “I can’t read them.”
“Good,” Mistress Irene said. Emily blinked in surprise as her tutor continued. “Had you been familiar with the language, we would have had to find another one for you to use. It is vitally important that you never relax while casting spells, even when you become proficient enough to cast them without verbalizing. A single mistake can be disastrous. Using a different language forces you to think.”
Emily had to smile. Mistress Irene seemed to like warning her about potential dangers.
“This is a charged wand,” Mistress Irene said, picking up a wand from her desk and passing it to Emily. “Wands are normally used for focusing magic; this one has spells inside it, already primed. Can you feel the spells?”
The wand seemed to sparkle in her hand, as if it were alive. Emily felt it twisting like a snake, even though she could see no sign of independent movement. Holding onto the wand was tricky, but the more she held it, the more she was aware of ... spells waiting for her. And as she became aware of them, she became aware of the mana inside her, waiting to be released. Her magic seemed to be crackling with life.
“Try to cast one of the spells,” Mistress Irene said. “Focus your mind on it and trigger the spell.”
Emily reached out with her mind, unsure of what she was doing. The spell glittered in her mind, but it seemed frustratingly insubstantial, as if the spell existed only in potential. An engine, she reasoned, but one that required fuel to run. The trick was to draw the mana from inside her body and use it to power the spell. But she wasn’t sure how to form the link between her mind and the wand, let alone the spells waiting for her power. Her power seemed to stop at her skin ...
“Abracadabra,” she muttered, in frustration.
Something clicked in her mind. Power shimmered out of her and into the wand; a moment later, the spell blazed with light in her mind and vanished. Emily opened her eyes, unsure of just when she had closed them, and saw a shimmering image of herself hanging in the air. She let out a yelp in shock, just before the image vanished into nothingness.
“Did ...” Emily swallowed and started again. “Did I do that?”
“You powered the spell,” Mistress Irene said sardonically. “Everyone has their own way to tap their mana.”
Emily put it together, slowly. There was a muscle for magic in her mind and she had to learn how to use it, but–like every other muscle–she didn’t really issue precise instructions to her body and mind. The trick was learning how to issue basic orders. When she’d spoken the magic word aloud, her subconscious mind had done the hard work–and now that she knew what she was doing, she could do it again.
“Try the second spell,” Mistress Irene said. “See if you can figure out how to make this one work.”
“Right,” Emily said. She closed her eyes and reached out with her mind, right into the wand. The spell was just waiting for her ... this time, there was no need to struggle to channel power into the spell. It flared to life in her mind and, when she opened her eyes, she saw a second image of herself. This one seemed alarmingly substantial. Her head started to spin a moment later as it glowed brighter. Something was draining the mana out of her body. “I ...”
Mistress Irene muttered a word. The image snapped out of existence. A moment later, the sense of being drained faded away.
Emily rocked back on her chair. The spell ... the spell hadn’t stopped, she realized in alarm. It had just kept draining power from her until Mistress Irene had cancelled it. What would have happened if the spell had kept draining her? Would it have killed her outright, or merely knocked her out for a few hours?
“Something else to remember at all times,” Mistress Irene said. “Never let a spell demand unlimited power. Magicians, even sorcerers, have been known to kill
themselves through trying to use a spell before checking it carefully. Do not try to use any spell until you see how it goes together.”
She stood up and picked a book off the shelves. “I’m going to give you a basic translation spell. It will only last a couple of months, but by then you should be capable of renewing it for yourself. Sit still and don’t resist.”
Emily shifted uncomfortably as Mistress Irene muttered several words into the air, moving her hand in a complicated gesture. She felt ... something gossamer-thin shimmering into existence around her, as insubstantial as a spider’s nest, before it fell down and over her body, embedding itself in her mind. It was all she could do to remain still until the spell was completed. The spell was so uncomfortable that it could never be a permanent solution.
The Grandmaster had been right. She would have to learn to read the local language, just as soon as she possibly could.
“Now,” Mistress Irene said, once the translation spell had been completed. “It’s time to start looking at how spells go together.”
The next hour passed very slowly as Emily puzzled over the building blocks of magic. Spells, Mistress Irene explained carefully, were made up of smaller spells; it was possible to memorize a more advanced spell, but without an understanding of the underpinning spells it would be impossible to progress any further. Looking at the magic words, Emily was reminded of a simple computer language, one that ran in her brain. One of her nerdy friends had bought an ancient computer and experimented with one of the earliest computer languages, before graduating to more complex systems. She was sure that he would have had little difficulty in learning to cast spells because of how familiar he was with arcane computer languages.
“Keep them in your mind,” Mistress Irene said, again and again. “Concentrate on breaking down spells into their smallest components.”
Emily scowled, feeling her head starting to pound. A computer language didn’t actually do anything unless it was in a computer; writing a line of computer code on blank paper didn’t automatically alter the coding inside the computer. Logically, she had to consider herself a magical computer and run the coding–the spells–inside her own head, but sometimes it didn’t seem to work out that simply. Writing down a magic spell was sometimes exactly the same as casting it, sometimes not. Worse yet, it took several tries before she managed to learn how not to infuse power into the spells.
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