Schooled in Magic (41 page)

“Yes,” Emily said.

The librarian tapped the wall and it opened to reveal a small pile of books. “Here you are,” she said, and placed the books on the table. “Put the books back in the alcove before you leave the room for any reason. Once you’re finished, let me know and I’ll return them to the Black Archive.”

Emily watched the librarian go, closing the door behind her, then turned her attention to the first book in the pile. Whoever had named it had a sense of humor; they’d called it
The Little Black Book
. It was small, made from a material that Emily didn’t recognize, but smelled rather like an inkpad from back home. The material used to make the inner pages wasn’t parchment, but something else. Even touching it made Emily feel queasy.

She glanced at the next few books in the pile and frowned.
A Compendium of Curses
, followed by
Dark Magic and Malice, The Naming of Things
and
The Story of Russell the Bold
. The last one seemed out of place until Emily glanced through it, eventually realizing that she was looking at a story–fictional or not–that also seemed to be an instructional manual. And then the final book–
Necromantic Nightmares–
caught her eye and she shivered. It claimed to be nothing less than a primer on how to become a necromancer.

The book felt
evil
in her hand as she picked it up, staring down at the neat golden letters on the front cover. Perhaps she was imagining it, but it was very hard to open the book to the first page, almost as if her fingers refused to move properly. Someone–either the original writer or the librarian who had catalogued it–might have charmed the book to make it hard to read. She opened the first page and recoiled as she saw the brownish letters drawn–almost painted–on the strange leathery material. The unknown writer had written the book in blood!

“Blood is very magically significant,” Professor Thande had said, when lecturing a girl who had cut herself while slicing up vegetables for an energy-boosting potion. “Your life is represented in your blood. To use it in magical rites is to tap into your life and soul itself.”

Emily shuddered and started to read the book. Her first impression was that the author hadn’t had a very ordered mind. The text seemed to veer alarmingly from a dispassionate, cold-blooded analysis of necromancy to outright raving, some of which simply didn’t make any sense to her at all. At one point, the author wrote two whole pages on the life and health of his pet cat, before the writing degenerated into scribbling that the translation spell couldn’t, or wouldn’t, adapt properly. Maybe there just wasn’t any meaning to it at all.

Slowly, part of the story began to emerge, a story that didn’t fully agree with Professor Locke’s version of history. There had been a great war and humanity had been pushed to the brink of extinction before someone had accidentally discovered that murder could be used as a source of magical power. They’d tried to keep that power in the ancient magical bloodlines at first, but then the technique had leaked and necromancy had spread rapidly. It had beaten the Faerie, or at least pushed them back long enough to give humanity time to recover, yet the cure might have been worse than the disease. The necromancers went rogue soon afterwards.

There were a hundred cautionary tales about men–and a handful of women–who had tried to use necromancy. Some of them had merely wanted power; oddly, they’d lasted longer than the ones who had tried to use necromancy out of good intentions. Emily couldn’t understand why until it occurred to her that well-intentioned people might have ideals that could be twisted easier than a simple, if selfish, desire for power. The latter kind of person would know himself better than the idealist. Or so she told herself.

Professor Locke had mentioned a King who had tried to bargain with the necromancers and eventually lost his Kingdom, but that merely scratched the surface. There were Kings and Princess–and one Princess–who had experimented with necromancy, only to be either killed by their followers or overwhelmed by their new power. She couldn’t see if there was any better explanation than Professor Locke’s for why the power drove everyone insane, but it didn’t seem to matter. No matter who took up necromancy, for whatever reason, they invariably went mad. It was not a very reassuring thought.

She stared down at the pages instructing the reader in the art of necromancy, unable to understand why the Grandmaster had instructed her to read the book. Surely Whitehall would have a vested interest in
preventing
people from learning how to use necromancy; there had certainly been no hint of a class teaching the students how to use the dark arts. But as she read through the ritual, she realized–to her horror–that it was really very simple. A magician with enough theoretical background could easily reinvent it if Whitehall were to prevent him from learning from the Black Archive. No
wonder
they were reminded, time and time again, of every necromantic failure. It was the only way to prevent thousands of necromancers springing up everywhere.

But maybe they do
, she thought, as she read through the rest of the book. Necromancers weren’t sane. They tended to harm themselves, or to run out of power, or to make simple mistakes that allowed their enemies to kill them before it was too late. Several dozen, according to the book, had been poisoned. The smart ones enslaved everyone around them just to make sure that they couldn’t stick a knife in their backs. Later, as the power slowly transfigured them, they became much harder to kill - if they lasted so long. Emily remembered looking into Shadye’s eyes and shivered. He might have been human at one time, but he wasn’t now.

Drain the
mana
, then drain the soul. It was so
easy
.

Carefully, she closed the book and stared down at the inky cover, before placing it back in the alcove and picking up
Dark Magic and Malice
. Malefic had been a Dark Wizard, apparently, but he’d been allowed to practice his trade in Dragon’s Den without anyone trying to stop him. The City Guard had known
what he’d been doing for anyone with enough money to pay him and they hadn’t given a damn. There was no way to know if that was because they were nervous about confronting a magician or because they were bribed into condoning his offences.

Dark Magic and Malice
had been written by someone with an unholy fascination with the dark arts, she decided after reading the first few pages. The writer had listed thousands of charms, curses and magical rites that were terrifyingly evil, ranging from compulsion and enslavement spells to hexes and jinxes that would be sure to have a lethal effect. Emily found herself remembering Thande’s warnings about blood when she read the outline of one of the enslavement spells, shuddering at the mere possibility of being turned into a slave. An even more disgusting spell used blood to kill its target from thousands of miles away, unless the target had proper protections woven into his flesh. Emily made a mental note to get those protections immediately. There was no excuse for being vulnerable.

The writer took an even darker glee in listing stories of dark magicians. Some were familiar enough that Emily wondered if they were truly historical–a witch turning a prince into a frog, for whatever reason–and others were so cruel that she felt sick even reading through the precise details. How could
anyone
tolerate such evil magicians living close to them? Or didn’t it matter as long as the dark wizards didn’t go after
important
people?

There was a dark wizard who had taken over a small town in the mountains and turned it into his personal fiefdom, declaring himself the lord and master of all he surveyed. The King who ruled the land had chosen to leave the dark wizard there, rather than risk a fight he might not win, and the dark wizard had tormented his subjects for years until a travelling sorcerer defeated him in a magical duel. But there was no happy ending for his former subjects; apparently, it had been less than a week before
another
dark wizard moved in to fill the power vacuum. And
this
one had eventually been defeated by a necromancer and the remaining subjects had been killed to feed his lust for power.

The next chapter discussed a witch who had apparently rebelled against the right and lawful place of women, according to the author. For once, his sickening admiration of dark wizards was replaced by sexist claptrap that would have impressed even John Knox or the Taliban. It wasn’t much of an improvement, Emily decided; the witch had taken over the village, killed most of the men and eventually started trying to save herself from death by draining the life forces of the remaining village girls. Her story had been turned into a cautionary tale about what happened when witches were allowed to gain too much power, although Emily suspected the truth was rather different. If nothing else, draining life forces sounded alarmingly like necromancy.

She closed the book in disgust and picked up the next one.
The Story of Russell the Bold
was written, at least, by a author who actually knew how to write. If he hadn’t paused the story every few pages to explain how this or that worked, it might have been a great deal more entertaining. As it was, Emily found herself skipping entire paragraphs as she left the instructions and concentrated on the story itself. Russell the Bold, it seemed, had been a travelling sorcerer who had gone from Kingdom to Kingdom fighting dark magicians, defusing hidden traps created by sorcerers and generally serving the Allied Lands. Eventually, he’d even beaten a necromancer in single combat, mainly through trickery. A necromancer might be vastly more powerful than a magician smart enough not to use necromancy, but he or she could still lose. Emily found that something of a relief.

Rubbing her eyes, she put the book down and looked at her watch. It was late; she’d spent too long reading and missed dinner. Shaking her head, she returned all of the books to the alcove and left the private room, stepping back into the library. There were more students than ever before crammed into the massive chamber, hunting for books in the certain knowledge that exams were coming up. Emily caught sight of Jade and winked at him, but the older boy pretended not to see her. He
was
with three of his peers, after all.

The librarian nodded to her as she stepped through the silencing wards and up to the desk. “Do you want the books held for you, or should I return them to storage?”

Emily hesitated. “Hold them for a few more days,” she said. She had no idea if the Grandmaster would allow them to be brought out of the archive for a second time. “I didn’t quite finish reading them.”

“There are students who would study overnight to read them,” the librarian said. Her elegant face twisted in a manner that reminded Emily of Alassa. “I will put them on hold for three days. After that, they will be returned to storage.”

She paused, significantly. “And you have books out to you that are overdue. The Healer’s note doesn’t extend past the time you leave her care.”

Emily cursed her own mistake. She hadn’t had time to go back to her bedroom, so the fact that she had books still out to her had slipped her mind. And she couldn’t claim to be drugged
this
time.

“Luckily, no one has requested them,” the librarian said. “Make sure you return them tomorrow, or you’ll be serving a detention in the library. We need people to help us sort out books and return them to the shelves and there’s a shortage of volunteers.”

“Right,” Emily said, relieved. She’d been expecting a return visit to the Hall of Shame, or perhaps an hour spent as a statue. “I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”

She walked out of the library and headed towards the dining hall. There should just be time to get something to eat before she had to be in her bedroom at twenty bells. And then she could finish reading the books and return them to the library before time ran out. A detention would be embarrassing, to say the least.

Or maybe I should just volunteer to work in the library
, she thought, after a moment.
I would certainly see more books of interest if I saw what everyone else took out to read
.

“E
MILY,” HARKIN SAID. “IT’S YOUR TURN
to serve as team leader.”

Emily winced inwardly. Jade had been the first, but three of the other boys had taken their own turn to take command in a set of different training exercises where they tried to apply their theoretical knowledge to reality. One of them had succeeded outright; the others had lost through making mistakes. Harkin had bawled them out, even though one of the mistakes had been caused by false intelligence provided by the Sergeants. He’d told them to check and recheck
everything
, but none of them had realized that also included the mission briefing itself.

“Across yonder field lies a fortress of the dreaded Snakes,” Harkin continued, pointing towards a thicket of trees and, beyond it, a barricade that looked depressingly solid. “You have to get through the fortress before their leaders realize that they’re under attack and send reinforcements to stop you from breaking through. Go.”

Emily stared at the fortress, willing herself to think. Harkin had explained, at great length, that they were expected to
lead
–and that meant they weren’t allowed to ask for suggestions from their subordinates. The Sergeant had explained that it was meant to give them all a chance to take command, but Emily suspected that it was also intended to weed out those who couldn’t think for themselves or learn from their failures. All of their previous failures had been worked over, extensively, with the Sergeant pointing out every little mistake and explaining why it had led to disaster.