Past Tense (Schooled in Magic Book 10) (4 page)

They’re only teaching one student at a time
, she reminded herself.
They have far more emotional investment in their apprentices than any of the tutors from Whitehall.

“I can try,” she said, dryly.

She wondered, briefly, what Bernard De Born would think of Whitehall taking on a second apprentice. She’d already beaten him in a duel. Would he accept her presence or would he resent her? And what would Whitehall do if they started fighting?

“It won’t be easy,” Whitehall warned. “Apprenticeships are never easy.”

“I know,” Emily said.

Whitehall gave her a sidelong look. “Why did your tutor choose to teach you?”

Emily frowned to herself. Was Whitehall always going to be prying? But then, it was hard to blame him for being curious. Emily had shown him two impossible spells in less than an hour, assuming she was right about prank transfigurations coming later. He had to be wondering just who had taught her and why he hadn’t heard of him. And, perhaps, just what other secrets might be locked up in Emily’s head.

“I believe I was a good choice,” she said, tartly.

It was hard to keep her voice under control, but she had no choice. She didn’t want to tell too many lies or she’d have problems keeping them all straight. Whitehall might not be as capable as Void or Lady Barb, but he was far from stupid. If he caught her in a lie, he’d start hacking the rest of her story apart. And who knew what would happen then?

She hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering her from the moment she’d entered the Great Hall. “Who are you running from?”

Whitehall tensed. “You don’t know?”

“No,” Emily said. She kept her face under tight control. Was it common knowledge, something she should have learned when she was studying magic? Her ignorance would be suspicious, but what else could she do? “What drove you to the castle?”

His eyes studied her face for a long moment. Emily forced herself to look back, even though she was afraid that he might be able to tell she wasn’t being entirely honest. No magician in
her
era would want to mess with a sworn oath, but that might not hold true for Whitehall and his commune. They might not understand Soul Magic—the power that binds oaths—any more than they understood Healing.

“We were attacked,” Whitehall said. “We were being
hunted
.”

Emily leaned forward, alarmed. “By who?”

Or what,
her mind added.

“We don’t know,” Whitehall said. “But they seem to hunt magicians.”

He rose, slowly. “Bernard will take care of you, for the moment,” he added. Emily had the feeling he was going back to consult with his fellow masters. “And then I think you had better bed down with Julianne.”

“I need some sleep,” Emily agreed. She also needed more food, but she suspected the commune simply didn’t have any to spare. It wasn’t as if they could walk down to Dragon’s Den to purchase food. The town had only been founded three hundred years—give or take a few decades—prior to her arrival. “Which tent is hers?”

“We cleared a room for her,” Whitehall said. He made an odd gesture with his hand, casting a spell. “I’ll have her take care of you instead, if you don’t mind. You can talk to Bernard tomorrow.”

Emily nodded, relieved. Bernard might seem to be the typical cocky teenager, but she’d read his writings, his
future
writings. He’d been no fool. And she was too tired to engage in pointless verbal duels. Besides, she’d probably shocked him quite badly. A good night’s sleep would do them both a great deal of good.

Julianne walked over to her father, looking as tired as Emily felt. She gave Emily a sharp glance as Whitehall explained what he wanted her to do, then beckoned for Emily to follow her towards the nearest door. The corridor outside was dark, illuminated only by a single burning torch. Emily resisted the urge to cast a light globe as Julianne led the way down to a line of doors and opened one, revealing a tiny bedroom. A handful of blankets lay on the floor.

“This is my room,” Julianne said. There was an odd note in her voice—resentment? “I’ve only got a couple of blankets.”

“I don’t mind,” Emily said. She’d slept in worse places on camping trips. And there were spells she could use to keep warm, if necessary. “Thank you for sharing.”

“Father insisted,” Julianne said, wryly.

She nodded towards a bucket at the far end of the room. “Make sure you don’t tip it over,” she added. “You’ll have to help me scrub the floor if you do.”

Emily shuddered. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“I will,” she said. She took one of the blankets and lay down. “And thanks again.”

S
HE COULDN’T SLEEP
.

Her body felt tired, her
mind
felt tired, but she just couldn’t fall asleep. The floor was hard, despite the blanket; no matter how she tossed and turned, she just couldn’t get comfortable enough to relax. And she was too tired to cast any spells that might have made the makeshift bedding more comfortable. She could hear Julianne snoring quietly, sleeping peacefully, yet Emily couldn’t follow her into dreams. The constant sense of being out of place, of being in danger, nagged at her mind.

She sat upright, cursing her body as she rose. It had taken her time to get used to sharing a room at Whitehall, but it shouldn’t be a problem any longer. She’d had no trouble sharing her bedroom with Cabiria. And yet ... now, she just couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too active to let her rest. She tested the privacy ward she’d cast on the door—Julianne hadn’t noticed, somewhat to Emily’s surprise—and then stepped through the door, out into the corridor. It was as dark and cold as the grave. Someone should be on watch, she thought, down in the Great Hall, but she could hear nothing. She closed the door behind her and cast a night-vision spell, then started to walk up the corridor towards the stairs. They, at least, seemed to be where they
should
be.

No one blocked her way as she reached the stairwell and headed upwards, reaching out with her senses for traps. Whitehall had warned her, after all, but she sensed nothing until she reached the fifth floor. A nasty little hex lay on the stairwell, ready to blast anyone stupid enough to step on it. It looked odd, compared to some of the hexes Sergeant Miles had taught her; she honestly wasn’t sure just how it had endured for so long. It didn’t
seem
to be connected to the nexus point.

And power doesn’t run through these wards
, she thought, as she dismantled the hex and walked further upwards. Two more hexes barred her way, but she took them apart just as easily.
These hexes couldn’t have been set that long ago
.

She reached the top of the stairs and stepped out onto the battlements. Her eyes widened as she saw the night sky, the stars twinkling down in all their glory. There was nothing beyond the battlements, save an utterly unbroken darkness. The wind blew hot and cold, blasts of icy air alternating with gusts of warmth that left sweat trickling down her back. She was used to the weather surrounding Whitehall being somewhat unpredictable, but this was odd. There was magic in the air, she realized slowly, that was far stronger than anything she’d sensed back in
her
day.

Bracing herself, she inched up to the low barrier and stared out into the darkness again, trying to see something—anything—that would remind her of the world she’d left behind. But she saw only darkness. The lights that would have marked Dragon’s Den were gone; the lights that marked the edge of the wards surrounding the castle hadn’t been created yet. It struck her as she turned to peer east that she was actually back in the era before the necromancers, before the southern continent was overrun and turned to ash. The Blighted Lands had yet to exist.

And the reality of where she was crashed down like a physical blow.

This is not good
, she thought, numbly.

She sat down on the hard stone and forced herself to
think
. She’d fallen back in time—and she had no way back to the future. Or did she? If she’d crafted a pocket dimension that had allowed her to skip forward a day, she could create one that would last for much longer ... couldn’t she? And yet, she wasn’t remotely sure just how long she’d need to hide in the pocket dimension before emerging back into her world. Professor Locke had made it clear, more than once, that even the dating system was imprecise. She had no way to be sure how much time had passed between Whitehall and Grandmaster Hasdrubal, let alone timing her emergence to make sure she didn’t clash with her past self. And if she went too far into the future, she wouldn’t have a hope of getting back.

No
, she told herself.
This is definitely not good
.

She frowned, considering her options. Perhaps she should simply leave the castle and step outside recorded history. It was the safest way to ensure she didn’t fiddle with the historical record—unless, of course, she was
meant
to be there. She’d seen nothing to disprove her theory that she
was
the Dark Lady. And if she did leave, what would that do to history? She was living proof that different worlds and alternate universes actually existed, but if time changed around her ... what would happen? Would there be two timelines, or would she simply blink out of existence? Or would she set off a series of catastrophic changes in history?

A flash of light, in the distance, caught her eye. She was on her feet before her mind had quite registered what she was doing, peering into the darkness in desperate hope of seeing something—anything. A flicker of lightning danced in the air for a long moment, followed by faint glimmering lights near the ground. It looked almost like a forest fire, save for the eerie—almost translucent—lighting. Wild magic hummed on the air as she looked closer, then pulled back before she could accidentally tumble over the battlements and fall to her death. There was more magic in the past, she realized dully, than she’d ever seen in the future.

Rain started to fall seconds later, drenching her. She cast a spell to shield herself from the downpour, then cast a second one to dry her clothes. The magic felt normal, as far as she could tell, but there was a faint resonance in the
mana
that bothered her. And yet, the spells had worked perfectly. She turned to watch as the rain fell harder and harder, water washing over the battlements and draining over the edge; she hoped—prayed—that someone had had the sense to set out barrels to collect the falling water. But would it be safe to drink?

She cursed inwardly as her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anywhere near enough. But there was nothing she could do about it ... she shook her head, irritated, at just how spoiled she’d become in five years. There had been days on Earth when she’d eaten so little that she’d had trouble concentrating on anything, yet she’d managed to keep going until she’d finally had a bite to eat. But three regular—and large—meals a day at Whitehall had clearly ruined her endurance. Hell, thanks to the sergeants, she could even live off the land, if necessary. She disliked cutting up rabbits or fish, but she could endure it if there was no other choice.

But I have to stay here until I find a way home
, she told herself, firmly.
If nothing else, I’ll need the nexus point to power my spells
.

She wished, bitterly, that Lady Barb had fallen through time with her. Or Sergeant Miles. Or even Master Tor. Someone—just someone—who would have understood what she was going through, someone whose understanding of modern magic was far in advance of her own. She
thought
she could construct a pocket dimension, with or without the nexus point, but keeping it going for nearly a thousand years would be beyond even
her
magical reserves. And yet, the spellware that had controlled the nexus point in her time didn’t exist yet. She’d have to wait until it did before using it to get home.

The downpour stopped, as suddenly as if someone had thrown a switch. She looked up as the skies cleared rapidly, revealing the stars once again. Sergeant Miles had tried to teach his class how to read them, to use them to navigate, but Emily had never mastered the skill. And yet, even if she had, she doubted the skies changed that much in a
mere
thousand years. She couldn’t even
begin
to use them to deduce how much time had passed between Lord Whitehall and her arrival on the Nameless World. It should be possible, in theory, but she didn’t even know where to begin. Maybe some of the people sleeping below her knew, yet she didn’t dare ask. It would be far too revealing.

They wouldn’t know what the skies looked like in the future
, she told herself, as she peered back into the darkness.
And I couldn’t tell them that either.

She shivered, cursing the nightgown under her breath. It was heavy, but hardly warm enough to serve as an overcoat. Julianne had promised to find her something to wear, in the morning, yet Emily doubted the commune had much to spare. Was someone going to be walking around naked because of her? She
could
transfigure her nightgown into something more useful, she knew, but it wouldn’t last forever. A single cancelling spell, cast at the wrong time, would put her right back in the nightgown. She shook her head, dismissing the thought, then resumed her silent vigil. The darkness almost seemed to welcome her.

A chill ran down her back. The strange glimmering lights were still there, flickering out in the darkness. She couldn’t escape the feeling that something out there was looking back at her. Whitehall—
this
Whitehall—was no longer safe, had perhaps
never
been safe. Who’d laid the traps? Who’d been so determined to build a castle around a nexus point and then abandon it? All the records agreed that the castle had been empty when the Whitehall Commune arrived ...

Maybe they were experimenting with the nexus point
, Emily thought, as she forced herself to turn away from the darkness.
And something went wrong, killing them
.