Past Tense (Schooled in Magic Book 10)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Yes, Master,” Emily said. It could easily have been a great deal worse. She could have crossed the circle before Whitehall caught her. “I understand.”

  “You must have driven your tutor insane,” Whitehall commented. “Do you know what would have happened if you had stepped into the circle?”

  “Yes, Master,” Emily said. “I just didn’t want Lord Alfred to die ...”

  Whitehall gave her a long, considering look, then placed both of the books into the knapsack, tying the string tight before adding a nasty protective curse. Emily was fairly sure she could dismantle it, given time, but she had no intention of opening the bag, let alone removing the books. Even looking at them was difficult. Perhaps it was her imagination, but there was a faint sense of pulsing evil surrounding the knapsack.

  “Stay here,” Whitehall ordered. “There’s a chamberpot, if you need it.”

  “Yes, Master,” Emily said.

  Bernard took a breath. “Lord and Master,” he said. “Please, may I plead for the hand of your daughter in marriage?”

  Whitehall’s eyebrows rose. “You’re asking now?”

  Emily had to smile, despite her concerns about being alone with the books. Bernard really should have asked earlier. Whitehall had practically done everything but tell him that it would be all right. And Julianne had started to wonder if he would ever have the nerve.

  “Yes, Master,” Bernard said. “I’m asking now.”

  Whitehall gave him a contemplative look. “Marriage is a holy state,” he said, bluntly. “You and Julianne will be tied together for the rest of your lives—and beyond. Your children will carry your names into the next generation. You will be charged with her protection, even from herself; you will be charged with power over her, power you must never abuse. Are you willing, truly, to take on such a responsibility?”

  Power over her, Emily thought. But she’s a magician now ...

  “I am,” Bernard said.

  “Julianne,” Whitehall said. “Will you marry him?”

  “I will,” Julianne said. “Father ...”

  “Very well,” Whitehall said. “You will be married when we return to the castle. One would not wish to deprive your friends of a chance to make merry before you become a respectable married man.”

  “No, Master,” Bernard said. “And thank you.”

  “We will discuss your precise responsibilities later,” Whitehall added. “Until then ...”

  He looked at Emily. “Remain here,” he reminded her. “And don’t let anyone near the books.”

  Emily sat down on the blanket as they walked out of the tent, leaving her alone. It was hot and stuffy, rather like she envisaged a prison; there was no light, save for what came through the flap. She cast a handful of spells to cool the air and illuminate the tent—and provide warning if anyone tried to break in—then closed her eyes and forced herself to meditate. And yet, the mere presence of the books made it impossible. She could feel them calling to her, promising power, if only she would make them her own.

  You could take the books and be well away by the time Whitehall returns, a voice said, within her mind. She wasn’t sure if it was her own thoughts or a demon, perhaps one still bound to a book. And you could be great.

  “Shut up,” she snarled.

  She bit her lip, hard. It wouldn’t be long, she was sure, before Whitehall returned. Hell, Julianne would probably be sent back while Whitehall had a long chat with his future son-in-law. And then ...

  But it’s going to feel longer, she thought, grimly. And I can’t wait to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  EMILY HADN’T EXPECTED MUCH FROM THE remaining two days at the Gathering, but she was pleasantly surprised as Julianne dragged her from meeting to meeting with her fellow potions brewers and a number of other young women related to magicians. Julianne made her show off a handful of spells, then explain—repeatedly—the nature of the curse and how it could best be avoided. By the time the party was assembling, ready to return to the castle, Julianne had managed to convince nine other potion brewers and thirty-seven young women to join a small army of unattached apprentices. Emily couldn’t help thinking that it wouldn’t be long before they started pairing up.

  “We only recruited a handful of masters,” Bernard said, as they made their final preparations to depart. “We should have been able to get more.”

  “They’re not ready to embrace change,” Whitehall said, darkly. He’d been his normal self, when speaking to potential recruits—as well as spreading news of the Manavores far and wide—but he’d brooded in the tent. “And there’s no way to avoid the simple fact that we’re threatening their power.”

  “But building up more for later,” Emily added. “They’ll have influence over hundreds of magicians rather than a handful.”

  “Influence,” Whitehall stated. “Influence, not power.”

  He picked up his knapsack and strode out of the tent, walking over to where the convoy was waiting. Emily followed, silently relieved that someone had provided horses and carts—and even a couple of carriages—to transport the volunteers home. A number of carpenters, blacksmiths and other tradesmen had requested permission to join as well and Whitehall had gravely accepted. It wouldn’t be long before the castle was surrounded by a small township of its very own.

  Which doesn’t exist in my time, Emily thought, morbidly. Either it was destroyed during the wars ... or they moved down the road to Dragon’s Den.

  She scrambled into one of the carriages and sat back, forcing herself to relax. Someone—she had no idea who—had assigned most of the girls to the carriages, either in an attempt to make their trip easier or separate them from the men. The carriage rattled to life moments later, shaking so heavily that she almost regretted her decision not to ride on horseback. She quickly cast a handful of spells, in the hope of making the trip easier, but they didn’t seem to be particularly effective. The roads—or what passed for roads—were uneven and thoroughly unkind to the posterior.

  The trip back took longer than she’d expected, although she supposed it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. There was no way they could take the carts and carriages through the mountain pass or the forests surrounding the castle. They needed to go the long way around, just to get back to the forest. And then a number of the mundanes had to be detailed to hack open the path to the castle before they could pull the carts and carriages to the gates. A couple of dozen workers found themselves carrying vast quantities of supplies from the stalled carriages to the castle.

  “We really need a proper road,” she said to Bernard, as they walked slowly up towards the castle. The sense of being watched nagged at her, although she couldn’t see or hear anything in the undergrowth. “People aren’t going to come if it’s a difficult trip.”

  “It’ll take a good long time,” Bernard said. He’d been happier since Julianne had accepted his offer of marriage. “But you’re right. It does need to be done.”

  Emily nodded to herself. By her count, the commune had occupied the castle for just under two months, but the path they’d hewed through the forest was almost completely gone. It would have vanished completely, she suspected, if the workers hadn’t been chopping trees and bushes down for firewood. The wild magic loose in the forest clearly made it grow faster—indeed, she couldn’t help wondering if it was a defensive mechanism to hide the entire castle. No one would come probing into the forest if they had no idea there was anything to find.

  She allowed herself a sigh of relief as the castle finally came into view. The nexus point was a constant presence in the background—it seemed stronger, somehow, than it was in her time—yet there were no wards designed to keep them out. Whitehall might have faith that Master Chambers and Master Reaper would honor the vote, but Emily had her doubts. Leaving the castle unattended might have been a dangerous mistake.

  But we have access to the command spellware too, she reassured herself. Getting back in wouldn’t be that difficult.


  “Whitehall,” a voice called. Emily looked up to see Master Chambers standing by the gates, glaring at the newcomers. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Get everyone up to the field,” Whitehall ordered Bernard. “We’ll assign rooms and suchlike after we’ve had this little chat.”

  “Yes, Master,” Bernard said.

  Emily wasn’t sure what she should do, but Whitehall motioned for Julianne and her to follow him as he strode up to the gates. Master Chambers looked forbidding, his arms crossed over his chest as he sneered at Whitehall. She could sense a pair of demons, both invisible, sitting on his shoulders. Technically, he wasn’t defying Whitehall’s ban on summoning demons, but it was very much a gesture of defiance. Master Chambers was throwing down a gauntlet.

  “Whitehall,” Master Chambers said. He cast a sharp glance at Emily, then looked back at Whitehall. “What have you done?”

  “Invited others to the castle,” Whitehall said. “Enough apprentices and tradesmen came with us to make a start on a real community. We even recruited three new masters.”

  “I do not recall granting permission to recruit other masters,” Master Chambers said. “Is it not traditional that masters may only be admitted to the commune with the agreement of every other master?”

  He looked past Whitehall, frowning. “And where is Alfred?”

  “Dead,” Whitehall said. “He fought a duel with Lord Fire.”

  Master Chambers’ face flickered with an emotion Emily couldn’t read. “Lord Fire?”

  “Their demons broke loose and killed both of the combatants,” Whitehall said, stiffly. He’d kept his grief to himself, but Emily had been able to tell he was grieving. “They lost control of their ... tools.”

  “I will mourn his death,” Master Chambers said, slowly. He gazed at Whitehall for a long moment. “But accepting other masters ...”

  “They will not have access to the nexus point,” Whitehall said. “And they have agreed to teach magic to multiple apprentices.”

  Master Chambers scowled. “Do you imagine they will be satisfied with an inferior position?”

  Whitehall sighed. “I imagine we will have time to ... discuss accepting them fully into the commune,” he said, tartly. “Or are you going to insist that they leave?”

  “No.” Master Chambers said. “I would lose that vote, would I not?”

  Hopefully, Emily thought. She was still surprised that Master Drake had sided with Master Chambers, at least until a compromise had been worked out. But every new master reduces the influence and power available to the other masters—and they know it.

  Whitehall raised an arm to indicate the rest of the travelers. “We have enough apprentices—untrained apprentices—to make a genuine start,” he said. “And enough workers to build a small township, if we can’t fit them into the castle. We can make our dream real.”

  “We can make your dream real,” Master Chambers said.

  “Yes,” Whitehall said. “And with your permission, we will start organizing their sleeping arrangements for the night.”

  Master Chambers stepped aside, his face unreadable. Emily glanced at him as she followed Whitehall into the school, but he didn’t respond to her. Julianne shadowed her as they walked into the Great Hall, where Master Wolfe and Master Drake were waiting. Whitehall took the Books of Pacts out of his knapsack and placed them on the nearest table. The aura of evil and malice, once again, filled the room.

  “Lord Alfred and Lord Fire are dead,” he said, bluntly. “Their books survived.”

  “Destroy them,” Master Wolfe urged.

  “I doubt they can be destroyed so easily,” Master Drake said. He opened one of the books and turned the pages, inspecting the sigils. A number were still blood-red. “They didn’t expend all of the contracts.”

  “They didn’t make their orders precise enough,” Whitehall said. “And so the demons broke free.”

  He wrapped the books up again, then handed the knapsack to Master Wolfe. “Put these somewhere safe, then use the nexus point to protect and conceal them,” he ordered. “We’ll try to destroy them later, once we have integrated the newcomers into the commune, but for the moment they will just have to be hidden.”

  “Understood,” Master Wolfe said. He took the knapsack and glanced at Emily. “I have some ideas I want to show you ...”

  “Later,” Whitehall said. “We will be holding a ceremony for Lord Alfred this evening.”

  He dismissed Emily and Julianne, ordering them to head back to their bedroom, then hurried to the courtyard. Emily didn’t envy him, she decided. Master Chambers was not going to be welcoming to the newcomers—and, as a master who had helped take control of the nexus point, his opinions could not be easily dismissed. Maybe Whitehall had pushed a little too far by recruiting masters as well as apprentices, although he’d made no secret of his plans to do just that. Master Chambers had a perfect opportunity to undermine his position amongst the rest of the original commune.

  She pushed the thought aside as she caught sight of Robin, walking down the corridor towards them. He lowered his eyes theatrically, pretending to stare at the stone floor as they walked past. Emily sighed, then told herself that it was for the best. She wasn’t sure just what had happened in the forest, but she didn’t have any feelings for Robin. Besides, she’d have to make the jump to the future soon. She felt the weight of history pressing down on her.

  “I’m sorry the two of you couldn’t be together,” Julianne said, as they stepped into the bedroom. “It would have made matters so much easier.”

  Emily barely heard her. She’d had neatness and tidiness hammered into her head almost from the very day she’d entered Whitehall to the point it was almost second nature. It was impossible to be sure, but she thought someone had entered the bedroom while they’d been away and searched it thoroughly. The more she looked from place to place, the more certain she was that someone had broken into the room. Too many things were out of place. She hesitated, cursing her own caution under her breath. Warding the room as carefully as she would have done back home would have been far too revealing, if someone had tangled with the wards.

  “Check your stuff,” she ordered, grimly. “Someone was in the room while we were gone.”

  She cast a spell, searching for traces of magic, but found nothing apart from the background hum of the nexus point. It wasn’t as if anyone would have needed vast amounts of magic to break into the room. Besides, if someone had entered shortly after they’d left the castle, there would have been plenty of time for any traces to fade into nothingness. She checked her small collection of clothes carefully, half-expecting to find a nasty jinx or hex hidden within the cloth, but found nothing. Perhaps she was just being paranoid.

  “My supplies were turned over,” Julianne said. “But nothing was taken.”

  Emily puzzled over the mystery as they unpacked, wondering just what the mystery intruder had actually wanted. If he’d wanted to make it clear that her privacy had been violated, surely he would have ransacked the room; if he’d wanted to take something, surely he would have taken it. Unless, of course, he hadn’t found it ... but what had he wanted? Master Gila’s Book of Pacts had been destroyed and she didn’t have anything else worth the effort, save perhaps for the snake-bracelet. But she’d worn that on her wrist, taking it with her to the Gathering.

  “I don’t get it,” Julianne said. “They took nothing.”

  “Me neither,” Emily said. “Do we even have anything worth stealing?”

  Bernard tapped on the door a minute later, inviting them back down to the dining hall. Emily followed Julianne out of the door, taking the time to set up a hex that would surprise anyone who made it into the room, then walked behind them as they hurried down the corridor. Bernard and Julianne held hands, even though Whitehall couldn’t turn a blind eye to anything they did in front of his fellow masters. Perhaps Whitehall had already informed the rest of the commune that they were engaged.

  Robin was standing
by the door, handing out tiny glasses of wine. Emily took one, sniffed it doubtfully and then held it, rather than drinking. Robin still refused to meet her eyes as Bernard led her further into the room, pushing through the gathered crowd until they stood at the front. A large bier sat in front of them, a wicker effigy of a man placed on top. She realized, with a chill, that it was meant to represent Lord Alfred.

  “Lord Alfred was a remarkable man—and a talented liar,” Whitehall said. “I have never known anyone so full of contradictions. He would happily tell a story about his early life—and then tell another, the day after, that contradicted the first story completely. I know nothing about his birthplace or about his early life. And I know nothing about which of his stories are true, which are merely exaggerated and which are outright lies. The only thing I know for sure is that he was a DemonMaster.

  “He would, I think, find it amusing that we would tell lies about him after his death,” he added, “even though it flies in the face of tradition. And yet, we have no way to know what is a lie. One of his stories might be a lie; another might be true. We have no way to know which ones should be told and which ones should be politely forgotten. But there is one of his stories that has always stayed with me. And I tell it now because it speaks, I think, to the person he was.

  “Many years ago—or so he told me—there was a king in a far-distant land. And that king was very—very—fat. He was so grossly overweight that he looked like an immense slug. His health had suffered so badly that it took five strong men to help him in and out of his bed each day. And every time a magician came to his city, the king would demand a cure. But how many magicians would dare to tell the truth? That the king was so fat because he ate and drank his fill, without working it off afterwards? How many would dare tell such a man that he was a lazy slug?”

  Very few, Emily thought.

  “Lord Alfred tricked him into exercising, so the story goes,” Whitehall continued. “He told the king that he could cast a spell to help him regain his health, but the king would have to follow his instructions precisely or the spell would not work. And the king, so desperate for a cure, did as he was told. He forced himself to walk every day, then to run, then to climb hills and dig ditches ... eventually, one day, he looked in the mirror and saw a healthy man looking back at him.