Schooled in Magic (9 page)

They walked out of the dorm and down a long flight of stairs. Emily said nothing, staring around her. Every time the castle seemed to make sense, something happened to confuse her again. The corridors seemed to be rearranging themselves at will; worse yet, some of the students didn’t even look human. One of them had pointy ears like an elf, reminding her of one of the
Star Trek
characters she’d watched as a younger girl. Another seemed to be a living plant, with green skin and twigs in place of hair. And a third ... Emily realized in shock that the strange girl’s head was surrounded by living snakes that moved of their own accord. She looked like the pictures of Medusa from the role-playing games, the ones that had been modeled on the legends of Ancient Greece.

“She’s a Gorgon,” Imaiqah explained, when Emily asked. “It’s very rare for a Gorgon to attend Whitehall, or so we’ve been told. Their society prefers to have nothing to do with the Allied Lands.”

Emily actually felt her head spin as she tried to wrap her mind around the concept. Classes with a Gorgon? Could she turn people into stone? Wouldn’t her classmates be afraid of her?

They left the Gorgon behind and, eventually, reached a huge doorway which led into a massive dining room. There were tables everywhere, all crammed with students who were stuffing their faces with all sorts of food, served on giant platters. Bright balls of fire hung high overhead, casting warm light over the dining hall. Emily looked towards the raised table at the front of the room and saw a dozen tutors–they had to be tutors–eating with more dignity, looking up between every bite to make sure that their students weren’t getting into mischief. They seemed a varied lot; a handful looked like traditional wizards, complete with robes and pointy hats, while others looked even stranger. One even looked like a wicked witch, gimlet eyes flashing as she stroked her cat and eyed her students sardonically. Another looked alarmingly like Red Sonja.

At least none of them look like Professor Snape
, Emily told herself.

Imaiqah pointed her towards the line of pupils waiting for food, jostling one another as the line slowly advanced towards a hole in the wall. A pair of cooks were serving plates of food, something that looked like a hot stew with boiled potatoes and some vegetables she didn’t recognize. One of the cooks smiled at Emily, reminding her of one of her stepfather’s favorite sayings. Never trust a thin cook, he’d said; the cook was fat enough to pass for two people. Clearly, she’d been eating her own cooking.

“This way,” Imaiqah said, once they had been served. The food smelled strange to Emily, but it
was
from another universe. “The first-years sit at the rear of the room...”

“So, the mouse has found a friend,” a new voice said, interrupting Imaiqah.

Emily looked around and saw a tall girl sneering at them. The speaker had long white-blonde hair, surrounding a china doll face that could only be described as patrician.

Before she could think of anything to say, the strange new girl went on. “I trust that you will soon learn the folly of your choice.”

Emily had endured school psychologists and far too many cheerleaders who were ridiculously full of themselves, but she’d never been spoken to in such a condescending manner. But because she was new here, she swallowed the response that came to mind and attempted to ignore the newcomer. It wasn’t easy.

Finally, she ventured a question. “Umm...who are you?”

“We are Alassa, Heir to the Throne of Zangaria,” the girl replied. She had the regal dignity act down pat, Emily had to admit, even if she did seem a little surprised. Had she thought that Emily would
know
her? “You will give us due honor, as we deserve.”

Emily stared at her–and then started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Maybe a genuine monarch, with years on the throne of her country, could have pulled off the regal act, but Alassa sounded more like she was posturing rather than actually being dignified.

Alassa’s face clouded rapidly and one hand reached for the wand at her belt. But before she could do anything, Imaiqah caught Emily’s hand and dragged her off towards the tables. Emily would have preferred to stay and exchange barbs–it was her experience that bullies needed to be fought–but her new roommate didn’t give her any choice. Besides, the self-styled Heir to the Throne of Zangaria probably knew much more magic than Emily.

“She’s a pain in the posterior,” Imaiqah muttered, as soon as they were out of earshot. “If you’re not one of her cronies, you’re her target.”

“I’ve met the type before,” Emily agreed. “Is she really royalty?”

“Where
do
you come from?” Imaiqah asked. “Zangaria is one of the Allied Lands–one of the most powerful states in the West. Alassa is their royal princess and will be Queen one day, may the gods help them.”

Emily had to smile. “So why is she here?”

“Their Royal Family has a long tradition of magic.” Imaiqah snorted. “So they send their heirs out to Whitehall to learn magic–and, just incidentally, to make contacts among their fellow nobility in the Allied Lands. But she is the social queen of the school and is not inclined to actually make friends ...”

“But she has a small following of cronies,” Emily guessed. Oddly, she found it reassuring, even if she
was
in a very different world, to find the behavior she’d seen before had continued to manifest. The people were
definitely
human, regardless of their magic or their odd appearance. “People who keep telling her how wonderful she is, in the hopes that the glamour of royalty will rub off on them.”

Imaiqah nodded.

Emily smiled, and then asked the obvious question. “Why doesn’t she like you?”

Imaiqah hesitated, then tried to answer. “I don’t have strong magic. And I’m a tradesman’s daughter.”

That can’t be it
, Emily thought.
Or maybe the Royal Brat really is that shallow
.

Before she could ask, Imaiqah went on. “I made the mistake of refusing to do her homework several months ago and now she ...”

She shook her head. “Well,” Imaiqah added, “you know.”

Emily didn’t know what to say. Commiseration wouldn’t help, she knew, it had never helped back on Earth. So she sat there, silent. Helpless.

“I really
don’t
have strong magic,” Imaiqah added, a moment later. “You won’t want to associate with me ...”

There was something in her tone that made Emily’s heart twinge in pain.
She’d
been a social outcast too, even though she’d lived in a world that should have known better. It wasn’t a bearable life; kids could be cruel...and those who might be decent otherwise chose to have nothing to do with the outcast, for fear that the popular kids–and the bullies–might turn on them next. Emily knew the unspoken truth behind every kid who took a gun to school and opened fire at random. They’d been knocked down so hard that they believed themselves to be at war with the entire establishment.

“I can associate with whoever I like,” she growled. The Grandmaster had warned her about political factions, but it wasn’t as if Emily was going to be socially important. It was rather unlikely that a prince would want to marry her, and she had no family here. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me.”

Imaiqah stared at her, and then started to protect. “But you’re a sorceress...”

“I’m still learning,” Emily interrupted. It
was
technically true, although–more practically–she hadn’t even started learning. “And I can be friends with whoever I like.”

She started to eat the stew while studying the other students. They were definitely diverse, far more diverse than any crowd she’d seen back home. Apart from white, black, brown and yellow skins, there were students who were green-skinned, or blue, one so bright a blue that it
had
to have been a magical accident of some kind. And a number of students seemed to be the products of mixed-race marriages, as she knew them from back home, and others seemed to be part-human hybrids. One older student looked to be part-Orc, not unlike the characters from the role-playing games. Another was a dark-skinned elf-like humanoid who looked far too thin to be human.

The stew tasted surprisingly nice, certainly better than anything she’d ever eaten at her old school. There were herbs that sent odd tingling sensations running down her tongue; the meat itself tasted like a vague cross between beef and pork. Servants moved from table to table, pouring glasses of fruit juice and water for the students; Emily couldn’t help, but notice that the servants flinched away from some of the tables. She wondered if they were targeted by the magical students for practical jokes on a regular basis.

Imaiqah pointed out some of the tutors as they ate. “Professor Thande is the Head of Alchemy,” she said, nodding towards a short professor who was arguing with one of the other tutors. “He prefers research rather than actually teaching, so don’t get on his bad side or he’ll use you as a test subject for his concoctions. Professor Torquemada, beside him, is the Head of Healing; they’ve been squabbling for years over something that happened when they were both students. Or so I’ve been told.”

She grinned at Emily, as if she couldn’t quite believe that she was actually getting a chance to talk to someone and show off. “Professor Lombardi is Head of Charms; you’ll probably have a private session with him before you formally join his classes. He prefers to measure everyone’s potential first, before they join the other students. The man beside him is General Kip; he teaches combat magic and battle strategy. Don’t ever forget to call him
General
. He assigns the worst detentions in the school.”

Emily jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder. “Welcome to Whitehall,” a voice said. She turned to see a stern woman looking down at her from a great height. Her face could have been carved from stone, seeming as if it were permanently fixed in a disapproving expression. “I am Mistress Irene. You will report to me in my office tomorrow at nine bells.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Emily stammered. There was something about Irene that warned her to be careful. In some ways, she reminded her of Madame Razz, but with far more power. “I’ll be there.”

Irene’s gaze switched to Imaiqah. “You will ensure that she finds my office tomorrow morning,” she added sharply. “Make sure that she goes to bed early and has a proper sleep. Tomorrow she starts studying in earnest.”

She stalked off towards the end of the table to deliver a reprimand to another student, leaving Emily staring after her. “Don’t take it personally,” Imaiqah advised. “She’s like that with everyone. She’s meant to supervise all first year students and keep them from killing themselves or each other.”

“Oh,” Emily said.

Imaiqah smiled. “And she dislikes Alassa. That’s one point in her favor.”

“Yeah,” Emily agreed. “But what will she think of me?”

Imaiqah shrugged and changed the subject. But the thought continued to bother Emily as they returned to their room and prepared for bed. If Irene was so severe, how was Emily ever going to relax in her presence?

But then,
she thought slowly,
she probably doesn’t want me to relax.

It made sense. She knew magic was dangerous; quite aside from Shadye and Void’s barely-leashed power, several of the students bore scars from what Emily assumed were magical accidents. And the Grandmaster had warned Emily that students could die in Whitehall. It was obvious that Irene didn’t have an easy job at all.

On that thought, she climbed into bed and fell asleep.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, EMILY STOOD IN
front of Mistress Irene’s office, wondering if she dared knock. Imaiqah had escorted her to the office after breakfast and then left, pleading an early class. Emily lifted her hand to the door and then hesitated. Mistress Irene’s door alone looked intimidating and the woman herself, according to Imaiqah, was formidable. Mistress Irene apparently faced down a necromancer with nothing more than a sharp tongue and a complete refusal to surrender to the dark wizard. After meeting Shadye, Emily had an idea of just how much courage that had to have taken.

Bracing herself, she tapped on the door. There was a long pause, just long enough for her to wonder if Mistress Irene was somewhere else, and then the door swung open, silently. Emily stepped inside and saw a simple office, with walls lined by shelves crammed with books. It was smaller than the Grandmaster’s office and far more down-to-earth.

Mistress Irene was seated at her desk, studying a sheet of parchment. She pointed one long finger at a chair and motioned for Emily to sit. Emily obeyed, trying to resist the temptation to glance at the devices on the tutor’s desk. Some of them shimmered with brilliant magic.

“You are an odd pupil,” Mistress Irene said, without preamble. “You are ignorant, yet powerful. That makes you dangerous.”

Emily swallowed.

Mistress Irene’s voice was cold, rapping out the points one by one. “Magic can kill the ignorant. You must learn to control your magic as quickly as possible. Losing control could be disastrous. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Emily said.

“Good,” Mistress Irene said. There was a pause. “It is possible to use a sorcerer’s real name against them, but it requires their complete name to work. You may go by your first name, if you wish, or you may select something else you wish to be called. Choose.”