Emily sighed, feeling oddly woozy. The combination of the potion—and whatever was on the cloth—made her feel disconnected from her body, as if she was mildly drunk. She didn’t remember side effects like those from the potions she knew, although Julianne probably had to work with whatever ingredients were on hand. Emily just hoped that feeling woozy was the worst of the side effects. Some potions she knew forced their drinkers to stay near the toilets for hours until it had finally passed through their systems.
The wonders of modern medicine, she thought, as she pulled her shirt closed again. But at least it’s a step in the right direction.
“Father wants to see you as soon as you’re feeling up to it,” Julianne said. She cocked her head mischievously. “Should I tell him that you won’t be up to it for a few days?”
Emily hesitated. She didn’t feel very good, but there was no point in trying to hide indefinitely. Lord Whitehall might understand that she wasn’t at her best—or, more likely, he’d see her as a weak and feeble woman. The commune magicians simply didn’t have much respect for women, although they did seem to make an exception for her. She didn’t want to lose that merely because she needed time to recover.
“Give me a moment,” she said, finally. Her legs felt wobbly, but they grew stronger the more she forced herself to walk around the room. “Are you going to be with me?”
“Father would probably prefer to talk to you in private,” Julianne said. “You did kill one of his oldest friends, after all.”
Emily sucked in her breath. She hadn’t thought of that—and she should have. Master Gila hadn’t always been a monster, had he? He’d been a great healer, once upon a time; he’d had friends and allies in the commune. No matter what he’d become, he’d still have friends and allies. And even those who didn’t like him would start muttering angrily about someone having killed a healer, even though he’d been trying to kill her at the time. It would be hard to blame Whitehall for being unhappy ...
He was torturing his wife, Emily reminded herself, sternly. And that is utterly unforgivable.
“I understand,” she said, grimly. There was no point in trying to put it off any longer. “Let’s go, shall we?”
Julianne eyed her doubtfully, then led her out of the room and down the stone corridor. The castle seemed empty, much to her relief, until they reached Whitehall’s office. Bernard and Robin stood outside, talking together in low voices. Bernard gave Emily an unreadable look as she approached and then smiled broadly at Julianne. Robin grinned openly at her, then nodded towards the wooden door. He didn’t seem particularly concerned by Master Gila’s death.
“Good luck,” he muttered.
Emily scowled, then tapped on the door. It opened a moment later, revealing a bare stone chamber. Whitehall was kneeling on the floor, his hands pressed together as if he were in prayer; he looked up, sharply, as Emily stepped into the room and closed the door behind her with an audible click. And then he rose to his feet in one smooth motion. Unsure what to say or do, Emily waited. His face was so impassive that she couldn’t read his feelings at all.
“You killed Master Gila,” Whitehall said. It was an observation, not an accusation, but Emily flinched anyway. She’d killed a man in mortal combat ... and it bothered her that it didn’t bother her. “What happened?”
“He was torturing his wife,” Emily said, flatly.
Whitehall met her eyes, firmly. Emily felt a pressure at the back of her head and hastily tightened her shields, hoping she could keep him out if he tried to invade her mind. She hadn’t realized that Whitehall could do that too ... she cursed herself under her breath as the pressure intensified, then lessened. Master Gila might not have been in the habit of sharing his secrets, but Whitehall could have devised the technique for himself. He would certainly have known it was possible.
And he isn’t mad, Emily thought, as the mental pressure vanished completely. That works in his favor too.
“Explain,” Whitehall ordered.
He didn’t seem pleased or displeased that his mental probe had failed, Emily noted, as she took a moment to gather her thoughts before launching into a full explanation. Whitehall showed no visible reaction to her story, starting from her talk with Master Gila to their brief and thoroughly savage duel. His face only tightened when she told him about the summoned presence—the entity Master Gila had tried to summon—and how she’d accidentally killed him in a desperate bid to stop him from raising a demon.
“An interesting story,” Whitehall said, when she’d finished. “Perhaps you could answer me a question?”
Emily frowned. She hadn’t lied to him ... not this time, anyway. Did he think there was a hole in her story? Or ... or what?
“Of course,” she said.
“Of course, Master,” Whitehall corrected. He sounded irritated. “I checked Eldora thoroughly, Lady Emily. And she does not appear to be wounded.”
Lady Barb was right, Emily thought, sourly. No good deed ever goes unpunished.
She would have laughed, if it wasn’t deadly serious. She’d healed Eldora—she’d made sure that the older woman survived, even to the point of repairing older damage and scars—and now there was no physical evidence to support her words! But what had she been meant to do? Leave Eldora with a broken leg and enough scars to practically guarantee she would die before winter? Or try to duplicate Master Gila’s spells, despite knowing the risks?
“I healed her, Master,” Emily said. She wondered suddenly if she was supposed to be on her knees, but it was too late. “I know a handful of healing spells.”
“A handful of remarkably good healing spells,” Whitehall said. He met her eyes. “Where did you learn those spells?”
Emily gritted her teeth as the pressure on her mind grew stronger. Her head started to ache, as if she were caught in a vice. Whitehall might not be able to crack her mental shields—Void’s protections were still in place, even if her own defenses failed—but he could probably pick up on a lie. And he probably already suspected that she’d lied to him a few times. If he knew she was holding back, he’d have to start worrying about what else she might be capable of doing. Somehow, Emily doubted a normal apprentice would be capable of killing a master.
“My tutor taught me,” she said. It was true enough, merely incomplete. “I was curious to see how they compared to Master Gila’s spells.”
“Were you?” Whitehall said. “And what did you conclude?”
“My spells are better,” Emily said. “And my tutor less of a sadist.”
Whitehall surprised her by laughing as he pulled back, the pressure on her mind fading away into nothingness. “He wasn’t always a monster,” he said, quietly. “But we knew it was just a matter of time until he needed to be put down.”
Emily swallowed, hard. Master Gila had been mad. She didn’t want to think about having to kill a friend because he was on the verge of losing control completely, but Whitehall—it was clear—had had no choice. And Master Gila wasn’t the only magician in the commune who was losing it. Lord Alfred was clearly more than a little dotty.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“So am I,” Whitehall said.
He shook his head. “I remember meeting him for the first time, Lady Emily,” he said. “He had paid a high price for his knowledge, like so many others, but he tried to be good and cheerful despite it. I recall him mending Stuart’s arm after he took a fall ...”
Emily bowed her head, feeling a stab of sympathy. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have to keep an eye on her fellows for madness—and to be prepared to kill them before they became a danger to everyone else. And it must be worse for friends. Jade and his friends had been strikingly loyal to one another—they’d worked well together—and he wouldn’t have wanted to kill a friend. Hell, she wouldn’t have wanted to kill a friend.
And in some ways, she thought, he’s almost grateful I killed Master Gila.
“Madness is the price we pay for power,” Whitehall said, m
orbidly. “And one day ... Bernard may have to kill me.”
“Yes, Master,” Emily said.
She shook her head. The texts and tomes had said little about how Whitehall had died; indeed, save for the transition between Whitehall and Bernard as Grandmasters of Whitehall, there was almost nothing about Whitehall’s later years. But she doubted that anyone would have wanted to record Bernard killing his master, even if he’d had no choice, even if Whitehall himself would have wanted to die rather than go mad. She wondered, darkly, if she’d be stuck in the past long enough to find out.
Whitehall clapped his hands, making her jump. “So we have two issues,” he said, turning and striding over to pick up a bundle lying against the wall. “The first is this ...”
He started to unwrap the bundle. The aura of evil surrounding the cloth told Emily what was in it, even before she saw the Book of Pacts; the runes and sigils on the front cover were steaming slightly, as if the book had been boiled before it had been wrapped in a cloth. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of burning human flesh—the book had to be made from human skin—and recoiled when Whitehall held it out to her.
“This is yours, by right,” Whitehall told her. He sounded thoroughly displeased. “Some of the contracts are null and void with Gila’s death, but others are still in effect and can be transferred to you ...”
Emily shook her head, sharply. “No,” she said. There was no way she wanted a Book of Pacts, certainly not one that had belonged to a madman. “Can you get rid of it?”
“There are people who would give their right arms for such a book,” Whitehall said. His tone hadn’t changed. “I am obliged to tell you that, Lady Emily.”
But you’d rather the book was destroyed, Emily thought, even though you’re not allowed to mislead me about its value.
She considered it for a long moment. Master Gila had wanted to bargain with her—and she didn’t have much to bargain with, unless she offered spells she suspected hadn’t been invented yet. The next master she talked to would want the book—perhaps—instead of spells or anything else she might offer. But on the other hand, the demons that had started Master Gila on the path to madness were bound within the book. She wouldn’t have cared to bet that their sigils and contracts had been destroyed.
And that would just start another magician on the path to madness, she told herself. It wouldn’t be worth the cost.
“Destroy it,” she said, firmly.
Whitehall gave her a relieved smile. “As you wish, Lady Emily.”
Emily met his eyes. “And the second issue?”
Whitehall looked back at her, evenly. This time, there was no pressure on her mind.
“The second issue,” he said. “What, Lady Emily, are we going to do with you?”
He leaned backwards, his eyes never leaving her face. “Far too many of us,” he added after a moment, “are going to say you shouldn’t have killed him.”
Emily forced herself to stand up straight. “He was torturing his wife,” she said, “and he was on the verge of summoning something truly nasty.”
Whitehall frowned. “And you believe that justifies killing him?”
“I believe he shouldn’t have been doing either,” Emily said. She knew she was being tested and forced herself to keep looking at him. “I regret the need for what I did, but I could not have walked away.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Whitehall agreed. “And he was balancing on the edge of madness for years before he finally fell.”
“On the edge,” Emily repeated. “He was already insane.”
“Perhaps,” Whitehall said. “But there is still the matter of deciding what to do with you.”
Emily waited, wondering just what sort of punishment awaited an apprentice who had killed a master. The past was far too much like the present—the victim’s name and family mattered more than the reason he’d been killed. A peasant who killed a nobleman for molesting his preteen daughter could expect to be executed, even though he’d been perfectly justified in what he’d done. And Whitehall had to do something to assert his authority.
Because it will be seen as a sign of weakness if he doesn’t, Emily thought. She couldn’t help thinking that Lord Whitehall and King Randor had a great deal in common. And if he can’t control his apprentices, his enemies will start sharpening their knives.
“There is a case to be made that you should be given your mastery,” Whitehall mused, slowly. “I can teach you very little without you taking the oaths, which you refuse to do—and you did kill a master. Your punishment will be being denied your mastery for quite some time.”
He smiled, rather dryly. “What do you make of that?”
Emily had to fight to hide her amusement. She had a sneaking suspicion that Bernard, Robin or any of the other apprentices would have begged for beatings or punishment duties like working in the kitchens, rather than being denied their masteries for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. But Whitehall, she suspected, had only taken her on as a semi-apprentice to allow him to keep an eye on her. Her punishment wasn’t much of a punishment at all, but hardly anyone would realize it.
And I don’t want to be given a mastery anyway, she added, in the privacy of her own mind. I would be noted in the history books ...
She sighed, inwardly. It would be a great deal easier if she’d had an accurate account of everything that had happened—or would happen—in the past.
“A terrible punishment,” she said. Whitehall’s eyes sparkled with brilliant amusement. He knew she knew it was no real punishment. “Should I be begging for something else?”
Whitehall gave her a sharp look. “He was my friend,” he said. “And while I know he had to die, I do not ... like ... the thought of losing him.”
“I know,” Emily said. “And I am sorry.”
“You know healing spells that are unknown to us,” Whitehall mused. “Why don’t you try to teach them to Apprentice Sake? He has good reason to hate you.”
Because I killed his master, Emily thought. Does that mean he can’t earn his mastery?
“I will try,” she said. She didn’t know how Sake had felt about Master Gila—she wouldn’t have cared to be so close to a madman—but he’d resent being kicked back to join the unattached apprentices. “Will he be denied his mastery?”
“That is a matter to be discussed,” Whitehall said. He nodded to the door. “Go.”
Emily bowed, then turned and walked out. Robin was waiting outside, keeping a sharp eye on Bernard and Julianne as they talked in hushed voices. He smiled at her as she closed the door.
“So,” he said. “How bad was it?”
“I’m to be denied mastery for a while,” Emily said, flatly.
“Ouch,” Robin said. He sounded genuinely sympathetic. “That’s bad.”
“Yeah,” Emily said. She yawned, despite herself. She wanted to go to bed and rest, but she knew she couldn’t—not when there was too much else to do. “It’s pretty bad.”
Chapter Fifteen
EMILY COULDN’T HELP FEELING SURPRISED, over the next few days, at just how calmly most of the commune took Master Gila’s death. She’d expected to find herself hated, she’d expected to be ducking hexes and curses in the corridor, but hardly anyone seemed angry at her. Even Apprentice Sake—who was due to be tested after the funeral by the assembled masters—seemed torn between dislike and a kind of wary respect. On one hand, Emily reasoned, he had to dislike her for making it harder for him to gain his mastery, but on the other hand she’d saved him from constant beatings and death threats. Master Gila’s wife, it seemed, was hardly his only victim. He’d abused his apprentice too.
She’d seriously considered not attending the funeral, but Bernard and Robin had practically dragged her out of the castle and forced her to watch as Master Gila’s body—already decaying faster than it should have—was placed atop a funeral pyre and burned to ashes, while his friends spoke a handful of words each about his life. Emily couldn’t help feeling a little guilty as
Lord Chamber and Lord Alfred spoke about how Master Gila had saved their lives, more than once, but it made no difference. Whatever he’d been in the prime of his life, at the end Master Gila had been a monster.
“Lady Emily,” Whitehall said, afterwards. “The Book of Pacts was burned with him.”
Emily nodded, relieved. She’d half-expected to hear the screams of burning demons, to watch the flames flicker eerie colors as the book burned with its owner, but there had been nothing. Perhaps it was for the best. Robin had already asked her what she intended to do with the book and hadn’t believed her when she’d told him that she had asked Whitehall to destroy it, although Bernard had looked relieved. He didn’t feel so unhappy, Emily guessed, about not being allowed to play with demons when there was someone else under the same restriction.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
Whitehall looked tired. “Apprentice Sake will be tested in an hour,” he added, after a moment. “Did you teach him some spells?”
“A couple,” Emily said, carefully. She’d insisted on testing the spells on the mundanes who were still nursing wounds from their flight to the castle. “But I don’t know if he mastered them.”
“We will see,” Whitehall said. He scowled at Bernard, who was sitting just a little bit too close to Julianne. It didn’t look remotely indecent, not to Emily, but she knew Whitehall had different standards. “There will be drinking afterwards, Lady Emily, so we may bid Gila a proper goodbye. Take my daughter to your rooms and stay there until dinner.”
Emily nodded, relieved. She wouldn’t have wanted to join a wake, even if she’d been invited; Bernard and Robin had talked about it as though it was a celebration, an excuse to get drunk, rather than a final goodbye to a madman. Perhaps she should have protested, she thought, as Whitehall summoned Julianne to his side, but it wasn’t worth the effort. She didn’t want to get too close to a bunch of drunken magicians. There was a reason alcohol was largely banned at Whitehall, in the future.
Past Tense (Schooled in Magic Book 10) Page 14
