Past Tense (Schooled in Magic Book 10) (15 page)

And yet, she knew one hell of an opportunity had been dropped in her lap. If this
was
the start of alchemy—and it certainly looked like it—she could work with Julianne to set the whole system on a solid footing. And if she taught Julianne a couple of spells to help her test her experiments before forcing anyone to drink them, it might help convince her father that women
should
learn magic. And if she could uncover the truth behind the curse ...

“I can teach you,” she said. She forced herself to think for a long moment. At least Julianne didn’t have anything to unlearn, unlike Frieda. “But you’ll have to give me a day or two to work out the best way to teach you.”

Julianne leaned forward and gave her a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you,” she said. “You won’t regret it.”

“Just get between me and your father if he decides to be furious,” Emily said. “And now, I think we should go to sleep.”

“Of course, Master,” Julianne said. She was grinning from ear to ear as she packed up her tools. “Or ... should I call you
Mistress
?”

“Just stick with
Emily
,” Emily advised. She leaned back and pulled the blanket around her body. “And don’t tell anyone until you’ve mastered a few tricks.”

“Of course,” Julianne said.

Emily had half-expected not to be able to sleep again, but darkness overwhelmed her almost as soon as she closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, it was morning and Julianne was shaking her awake. Emily resisted the urge to hex her—deliberately this time – as she stood and used the chamberpot, silently promising herself to discuss hot and cold running water with Whitehall and Master Wolfe as soon as possible. Tapping the nexus point would open up a great many possibilities.

“My father said you should meet him outside, after breakfast,” Julianne said, as Emily dressed. The clothes were still itchy, but she was getting used to them. “Do you think he knows ...?”

I hope not,” Emily said. “We haven’t
done
anything yet.”

She ate breakfast quickly, then walked through the courtyard to where Whitehall stood by the grassy lawn. If he
did
know what she’d agreed to do with Julianne, he showed no sign of it as he demonstrated another couple of spells and watched, dispassionately, as Emily duplicated them. She couldn’t help wondering just what was going through his mind—to him, her powers had to seem a form of outside context magic.

“I don’t think there’s much I can teach you,” Whitehall said. “And you’re still holding back.”

Emily nodded. There was no point in trying to deny it, so she changed the subject.

“Did you have a chance to look at Robin’s new spell?”

“We found no unpleasant surprises,” Whitehall said. “But with demons, one never knows.”

Emily frowned. There
was
an unpleasant surprise—the spell used too much power, slopping magic everywhere. But to Whitehall, that was normal. He might not even see just how the spell could be modified to use less power, yet still have the same effect.

She looked up at him. “Why don’t you trust demons?”

“My old master believed that demons were dangerous,” Whitehall said. “They grant wishes—if the price is right—but the wishes always come with nasty surprises attached. He was fond of telling stories about fools who sold their souls to demons, only to discover that the demon kept the letter of the bargain and not the spirit.”

He shrugged. “There was a man who sold his soul for the fairest beauty in all the land,” he added, after a moment. “And the demon kept the letter of the deal—it brought the woman to him, as soon as the deal was made. But the woman was a haughty princess with five brothers and a very angry father.”

“And so the man was killed,” Emily guessed.

“Correct,” Whitehall said. “I don’t think that was
quite
what the young idiot wanted.”

“No,” Emily agreed.

“Demons will offer much in exchange for very little,” Whitehall added. “Or so it seems. But the more you call upon demons, the more dependent you
become
on demons. Their magic becomes an addiction. You can perform fantastic spells by using demons, but
only
by using demons. And who’s really in charge if the demon is the one performing the spell?”

“You’re compelling the demon to serve you,” Emily mused. “Aren’t you?”

“A demon is a vastly powerful creature,” Whitehall reminded her. “And it will take advantage of any loophole in the orders to wreak havoc.”

He snorted. “And the DemonMasters
hear
their demons all the time,” he added. “They tend to go mad quicker than other magicians.”

“Oh,” Emily said.

“There isn’t much else I can teach you,” Whitehall said, changing the subject again. “Your tutor appears to have given you an excellent grounding in magic.”

“Thank you,” Emily said.

“Master Wolfe has requested that you work with him,” Whitehall added. His lips curved into a warm smile. “He has some theories he wishes to run by you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Emily said.

Whitehall smiled. “Of course.”

Emily took a breath. “I would also like to try to learn from the other masters,” she said, carefully. For all she knew, it might be a touchy subject. If the apprentice system in the past was anything like the one she was familiar with, trying to learn from another master was a grave insult to
her
master. “They might well have something to teach me.”

Whitehall gave her a long, contemplative look. “They may refuse to show you anything,” he said. “Unless you have something you can show them in exchange.”

Emily sighed. There was a
lot
she could show them. But unless she was very careful, she’d do a great deal of damage to recorded history. Perhaps she was
meant
to do everything she did ...

... But what if she was wrong?

She shook her head. “They should share ideas,” she said, instead. “How many spells are invented, lost, and then reinvented because the original inventor doesn’t share them?”

“A long-standing problem,” Whitehall said, dryly. Wolfe had said the same thing. “But trying to convince magicians to work together is quite hard enough
without
asking them to share their secrets too.”

He sighed. “It’s rare to have a commune with more than four masters,” he added, “and even then they tend to keep their distance from one another.”

Emily nodded. “But I can ask them?”

“Of course you can
ask
,” Whitehall said. He sounded annoyed, although Emily wasn’t sure why. It didn’t seem to be directed at her. “But don’t come crying to me when they refuse to share
anything
with you.”

A
S SHE WALKED THROUGH THE CASTLE
, Emily was surprised to discover that Master Wolfe had moved into a much larger chamber near the nexus point. It was a dark room, illuminated only by a trio of lanterns hanging from the walls; three rickety-looking wooden tables had been placed in the center, surrounded by a couple of stools. They all looked as if they had been constructed overnight, Emily decided, as she knocked on the open door. The commune’s carpenters were very efficient.

“Ah, Emily,” Master Wolfe said, opening the door. “And you brought lunch!”

“Master Whitehall insists that you eat,” Emily said. She’d carried the heavy tray herself, declining Robin’s offer to carry it for her. “He said I was to force you to eat, if necessary.”

She didn’t dare put the tray on one of the tables—they were covered in parchment scrolls that were probably irreplaceable. Master Wolfe seemed to be the kindest of the masters in the commune—although she had to admit she hadn’t spoken with many of the others—but she had a feeling he’d explode with rage if any of his parchments were damaged. And she wouldn’t blame him, either. Parchment and vellum were both expensive, even in her time. It would probably be years before the Whitehall Commune could start producing it for themselves, if they were allowed to settle peacefully in the castle.

“I don’t have time to eat,” Master Wolfe said. His eyes were bright, too bright; his hands shook as if he were cold, even though the room was surprisingly warm. Emily suspected that he hadn’t slept all night. “I have too much to do.”

“You need to eat,” Emily said, firmly. She picked up the bowl of stew and held it out to him, hoping he’d take it without further argument. “Please.”

Master Wolfe sighed, but took the bowl and sat down facing her. “I’ve been dissecting Robin’s spell,” he said. “There are no surprises, as far as I can tell.”

“Master Whitehall said as much,” Emily said. She sipped her own stew thoughtfully, using a spoon to pluck out and nibble the meat. It tasted of lamb, but—as before—she didn’t recognize the vegetables. “But it uses a great deal of power.”

“Precisely,” Master Wolfe said. He jabbed his spoon at her as he spoke. “I could devise a better spell, if I had time. But it won’t be so easy to cast.”

Emily shrugged. The spell drew on so much power that she suspected Robin was actually filling the holes in the spellware with raw magic. It was certainly possible—whatever his flaws, Robin was a powerful magician—but it was grossly inefficient. The light spells she’d been taught were commonly taught to First Years; Robin’s spell would be tricky for a Fourth Year student to cast. Anyone younger probably wouldn’t have the raw power to make it work.

“I’ve also been improving the nexus point spells,” Master Wolfe said. He finished his bowl and dropped it back on the tray, then rose. “Tell me what you think of this?”

Emily put her bowl to one side and joined him as he stood by one of tables. A large roll of parchment had been unfolded, allowing Master Wolfe to draw out a set of complicated spell notations. Emily took a long look—and then sucked in her breath as she understood what she saw. Master Wolfe had taken the spells she’d used, down in the nexus chamber, and expanded on them. Each of his pieces of spellwork was designed to
grow
, rather than remain rigid: they would automatically adapt as the power ebbed and flowed through the nexus point. And the longer the spellwork remained in place, the more they’d be able to do with it.

Given time
, Emily thought,
they’d be able to build up Whitehall itself
.

“I’m altering the spellwork so it expands outside our normal world,” Master Wolfe told her, as he pointed to a cluster of elaborate notations. “Should something go wrong—and it might—the remainder of the system will compensate automatically. A major power surge will be shunted sideways ...”

Emily frowned. “You’ll still need a way to control it.”

“I know,” Master Wolfe said. “But crafting a genuine
mind
will not be easy.”

The Warden
, Emily thought.
We need to craft the first Warden.

“I’ve been looking at ways to transpose my own mind into the spells,” Master Wolfe added, after a moment. He picked up a large sheet of parchment and held it out to her. “This should be workable, if I could muster the power ...”

Emily took the sheet and had to bite her tongue to keep from swearing out loud. Master Wolfe’s notation was odd—there were runes she didn’t recognize included within the bundle of notes—but there was no mistaking the proto-mimic. She’d done her best to duplicate what she’d seen, back in Second Year, yet she knew there had been pieces missing. Now ... now she knew
what
had been missing.

Soul magic
, she thought.
The Mimics don’t just drain magic and life from their victims, they practically copy their very souls. And they don’t even realize that’s what they’re doing
.

She shuddered. She’d had nightmares—everyone in Whitehall had had nightmares—about being replaced by a Mimic, utterly unaware of what had happened to her. She would be dead, but she wouldn’t know it ... until the Mimic ran out of power and reverted to its natural form, shedding what remained of her as it started to hunt for a new target. The proto-mimic didn’t look like a hunter—indeed, it seemed designed to serve as a host for Master Wolfe’s mentality—but it wouldn’t be able to keep going indefinitely. How could it?

“This is madness,” she said, softly. “How could you even power the spellwork?”

“Like this,” Master Wolfe said. He held up yet another sheet of paper. “I devised this rite myself. It was so simple that I don’t understand why no one ever thought of it before.”

Emily took it—and blanched. There was no mistaking the necromantic rite, the simple spell that allowed a necromancer to use murder as a source of magic ... at the price of everything from sanity to humanity. Shadye had been utterly insane, fighting desperately to find more and more sources of power as his mind collapsed in on itself, while Mother Holly had lost sight of why she’d sacrificed herself in the first place. Master Wolfe would be driven insane if he attempted the rite ... if he was prepared to sacrifice someone to save his life.

“Madness,” she breathed. “You’d go mad.”

“All magicians go mad, eventually,” Master Wolfe said, stiffly. “The smart ones kill themselves before it’s too late.”

Emily looked at him, then down at the sheet of paper. The necromantic rite
was
simple—and therein was the danger.
Anyone
with a tiny spark of magic could trade their sanity for power, if they were prepared to keep murdering people to stay alive. Grandmaster Hasdrubal had even told her, years ago, that particularly foolish magicians saw the necromantic rite as a shortcut, but it led right off a cliff. Shadye probably hadn’t even
remembered
why he’d become a necromancer by the time he’d kidnapped Emily. All he’d cared about was remaining alive.

“You couldn’t handle the surge of power,” she said. “Your mind would snap at once.”

Master Wolfe and Whitehall had looked for a sting in the tail, she thought, when they’d dissected Robin’s spell. They’d even been surprised when they found nothing. But it had been hiding in plain sight. The sloppy magic spilling around, whenever the spell was cast, would damage Robin’s mind. Each successive use of the spell would cause more and more problems, eventually driving him insane. And the more unstable he became, the more likely it was that he’d summon a demon without taking any precautions.