Chosen (9781742844657) (17 page)

‘And you said?' Qasim prompted.

‘I said it's unusual for a talent like scrying to develop so late so it was probably just a dream. I didn't know how to tell her.'

Lord Gawain released the breath he hadn't known he was holding. Renatus was not the most tactful councillor – it would be preferable for Emmanuelle to hear this news from someone else, and later on.

‘Alright, that's good, Renatus,' he said. ‘That gives us time. I think we can agree to keep this from her?'

Lady Miranda and Qasim nodded and Renatus frowned.

‘What if she asks again? We can't lie to her,' he said, but his words were unheeded. No, they would not lie to her, but they didn't have to give her any information regarding this conversation, either.

‘Well, my day has certainly gone downhill,' Lady Miranda said with a mirthless smile. ‘Did either of you happen to see where this happened? We'll need to find the…the body…and perhaps search the surrounding area for clues as to where Lisandro went next.'

What she meant was, they needed to find Peter quickly so they could track down what he'd done with that ring he'd taken with him months ago. This was the closest they'd come to it all year.

‘The crowd seemed very cold – my best guess is to start with the northern hemisphere, not that that helps much – but it was at night, so there wasn't much to see of the shoreline except that it was mostly sand with a rocky outcrop beside a small structure on stilts,' Qasim said. ‘They were quite far away from the structure, but the water wasn't very deep, so I assume the tide was going out. Unless Peter's body washed up on that beach, and assuming they left it alone, there's no telling where it might be now.'

Lord Gawain felt a wave of sadness to hear Peter spoken of in such an objective sense.

‘Was there anything said that gave any clues as to the location?' he asked his colleagues. ‘Was anything said at all?'

Qasim and Renatus shared a look.

‘I agree with Qasim that we should investigate this further,' Renatus said, choosing to ignore the question completely. He stood for the first time since the others had entered the office. ‘I don't think we should keep this from the other councillors, but it must be kept quiet from the students until we are certain of what has gone down. They needn't be panicked. If I come by any further information, Master, I will certainly forward it to you.'

Strictly speaking, Gawain's title was Lord, but Renatus had always referred to him as Master, like an apprentice might. Lord Gawain had never taken the boy on as a formal apprentice so there was no necessity for it; it was just Renatus's personal choice.

‘Thank you, Renatus, but you didn't answer my question,' Lord Gawain said, meeting the younger man's violet eyes. ‘What did you hear, when you had the vision of Peter's death?'

For a moment, he wondered whether Renatus would answer. The White Elm's leader had never experienced any direct disobedience from his protégé but sometimes wondered whether this respect would last forever. As always, though, Renatus acquiesced.

‘Lisandro pulled Peter out of the water for a few seconds to watch him splutter and beg, but Peter didn't beg,' he described dutifully. ‘Peter caught his breath and spoke.'

‘What did he say?' Lady Miranda asked when Renatus didn't continue. Qasim finished for him.

‘He said, “I never told her I love her”‘.' Nobody in the room had any doubt as to who “she” was.

Despite leaving breakfast early, Xanthe and I were not the first people to arrive at the doors of our scrying classroom. A couple of dark-haired guys stood around, waiting patiently, and a pretty girl of about my age was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was extraordinarily pale, especially compared with those of us around her, with very thin, almost white blonde hair, and very fragile features. Approaching where she sat, I could tell that she was not only extremely powerful, but also very capable – she knew more magic than most of us here. My senses discreetly brushed past hers as I lined up with Xanthe, and my immediate impression was of a wall of ice. I opted to stay out of this one's way.

A couple more people arrived as the minutes ticked by, and when Qasim turned up to let us inside, I counted only eight people in my class.

The room Qasim had chosen as his classroom was darker than most of the other rooms in the massive house. It looked like an old parlour of some description, and hadn't been much changed for lessons. A number of cushy couches were arranged so that people sitting in them could easily converse with people sitting around them without having to turn a lot. The middle of the room was devoted to an ornate rug and a spindly coffee table. Candlesticks lay in the centre of the table.

I was not the only student who hesitated in the tall, thin doorway, somewhat put-off by something I couldn't explain. It wasn't anything visual, or a funny smell or anything else so obvious. It was something else. Something…blank.

‘How did you get the room like this?' the little blonde asked, her accent similar to mine. ‘Did it take long to wipe down?'

The rest of us looked to Qasim, confused for a second before we clicked, one by one. The room had no feelings. No atmosphere. Usually, when you walk into a room, it
feels
like the energy that has been left behind in it. If people argue, the tension is tangible in that space for some time following. A warm, loving home will feel warm and loving. The rest of this house felt like various things, although you didn't think so until it was mentioned. The entrance hall felt busy, the library felt sombre, the hallways felt a little creepy and abandoned. Every room has its own feeling, whether you notice it or not. This room felt blank, which was slightly disconcerting for reasons I couldn't understand yet.

‘It was already like this,' Qasim answered. ‘It's why I chose it. No distractions. Take a seat and try to clear your minds,' he directed as we stood around awkwardly. ‘This class varies more than either of my others in skill, but your abilities in my subject are all roughly equal. I think. I want to get a clearer idea of where to start with this group.'

Well, that answered my question as to why I was in this class if I'd never scried before. I had
natural ability
. With a thrill of excitement, I grinned at Xanthe. She forced a smile and sat down. She was nowhere near as excited about this as I was, obviously.

When everyone was seated, Qasim moved to the centre of the room.

‘To begin today's lesson I would like for everyone to close their eyes and allow for me to analyse your current level of skill in my subject,' he said. ‘If anyone has any objections, please voice them now.' When nobody spoke, he continued. ‘Good. After I have gauged your skills, we will begin some simple exercises. Everyone in this class has been put here because of advanced abilities, so I'd like to move you all along at as quick a pace as you can manage. The ability to scry is one that the White Elm highly prizes, and one that you will find most beneficial in life.'

He turned to one of the older males in the group.

‘I will start with you, and make my way around the room. Everyone, please close your eyes and try to quiet your minds.'

I did as I was told, and closed my eyes. Calming my thoughts was much more difficult. My excitement over what I could be about to learn, and my concern over whether I would be as good as everyone else, bubbled away in my head, setting off dozens of other thoughts before I had the chance to catch them all and stow them away.

By the time I felt Qasim's mind reaching into mine, I had barely started with quietening my thoughts. I felt his annoyance, but he probed through them anyway, ignoring them and searching for a part of my mind I'd never used. I focussed hard on letting him in, and did my best to avoid clamping down on the silky tendrils of probing presence the way you clamp down on thoughts you don't want to have. Qasim seemed to find what he was looking for and seized it. I heard his voice inside my head.

This is very deeply concealed, Aristea. You have great ability but even with regular exercises it will take some time before you can progress to the level I need you at. This far back in your mind, you might never reach your potential. I can draw it forward, but it may be painful.

I didn't know how to speak with my mind, so I tried to send him enquiring thoughts. I wanted to know a little more. He seemed to understand.

Your abilities are blocked, probably by doubt and grief. Both can be powerful in prohibiting progression. You're being held back by your own mind. Naturally it would take many years, much reflection and a lot of painful personal growth to move past the issues in question. In this class we don't have time for that. I can pull your talent
through
all of that if you like. It will probably still take a few sessions and will probably hurt but will be much quicker than the years of couch therapy you'd need otherwise.

I tried not to be offended by his offhanded and less-than-sensitive comments about my need for therapy and tried to just consider what he was offering for a moment. I'd gone to counselling after my parents and brother died but had never spoken a word to the funny little man except to say hello at the start of every hour-long appointment and goodbye at the end. He was nice and had never pushed me to talk, but perhaps I should have. I decided that a little pain would be worth it if it meant I'd be able to scry. It made sense that my deepest abilities would be blocked by my grief over the loss of my family – I hadn't done much magic since their deaths and it had affected me very deeply. I wanted to learn to scry, more than anything, so I did my best to think affirming thoughts.
Yes, yes, I want to learn to scry
.

Without answering, Qasim's mind took a stronger hold of my scrying abilities. Again, I felt excited. I felt a slight pull and a small twinge as Qasim tugged at my abilities. It hardly hurt at all. I was just starting to wonder what else I'd start to be good at when Qasim yanked, hard, on that part of my mind. I cried out loud. The sensation of a sudden, splintering headache was enough to leave me dizzy. It felt as though a delicate little part of me had just been dragged through a solid brick wall and out the other side.

It
hurt
. My head was aching immediately. What he had found was talent, something insubstantial, but the pain was as real as anything physical. When Qasim pulled a third time, I covered my mouth with my hands to avoid shouting again. The poor little segment of me that had just slammed through a wall was now being dragged through a thicket of thorns. Qasim withdrew, and I opened my eyes, which were slightly watery. My head was throbbing; memories of the storm that had destroyed my family swirled about the forefront of my mind, almost as painful as the day it had happened.

The others in the class were watching me closely, startled. No doubt I'd disturbed them with my shouts of pain. Qasim stood in front of me.

‘I apologise for the pain caused,' he said, though he didn't sound particularly sorry. ‘The wall you felt is your self-doubt and the second pull took your attention through your most painful and grief-stricken memories. It may take a few more lessons to pull your abilities clear of its blockages and to ensure you don't regress. We'll leave it there today. I still need you able to concentrate for the remainder of the lesson.'

The rest of the lesson? It felt like someone was pounding the inside of my head with a brick. The abilities that had remained dormant and unnoticed for so long were extremely obvious to me now – it was hard to ignore what felt like a very sore physical body part.

Apparently I'd been the last person to be analysed, because Qasim went straight into the next part of the lesson. I tried to tune in.

‘…art of scrying has very distinct levels of skill,' he was saying. ‘The first level is the type of scrying performed by most sorcerers around the world, and that is tool scrying – the use of a tool such as a crystal, flame, bowl of water or a mirror in order to view images sent to the quiet and concentrated mind. Most who practise sorcery do not have the discipline or talent to scry without a tool. In this class, we will touch only very briefly on this type of scrying, because each of you have the ability to perform much greater feats.'

Qasim collected the candles on the table and began to hand them out.

‘In the next lesson, which I have scheduled for Monday, we will move onto the second level of scrying, which is the level I expect each of you to be able to master by the end of this semester,' he continued as he handed me my candlestick. ‘That is scrying without a tool and using your own mind to consciously receive and view images. I have complete faith in each of you,' he added when one of the boys looked doubtful. ‘Scrying without a tool is a much more precise and focussed art form. You will receive much clearer impressions and will yield better results overall.'

The throbbing in my head had begun to lessen, and my thoughts, which had been so jostled and upset when Qasim had been messing around with my head, had begun to reorganise themselves.