Little Witches (Schooled In Magic Book 21) Read online

  They need parachutes, Emily thought. It would be easy enough to set up a safety net, perhaps using a nexus point for power, but only within the school itself. Anyone with magic and a grudge could kill them effortlessly.

  She stared for a moment longer, feeling a sense of wonder. She’d seen so much, over the last few years, that it was difficult to remember feeling this way about anything. She was used to the Nameless World, used to magic and primitive technology and attitudes straight out of the Dark Ages... she shook her head. It was good to remember there was magic in the world, that magic was... wonderful as well as terrifying. She cancelled the vision spell, then resumed her walk. She’d have to learn how to fly later, once she was settled in. She had no doubt someone would be willing to teach her.

  It might be useful, she reminded herself. And I could use a battery to power the spell...

  It felt like hours - her legs certainly complained that it must be hours - before she crested the valley’s ridge and walked down into Pendle. The maps had made the town look small, but - to her complete lack of surprise - it was actually around the same size as Dragon’s Den. The road led right through town, the street flanked by shops clearly designed to cater to student magicians. She spotted a handful of apothecaries, bookshops and even a couple of fancy-looking restaurants and inns along the main street. Judging by the number of alleyways leading into darkened streets, there were plenty of places that were cheaper - or darker - within easy reach. She made a face as she spotted a pub. Magicians weren’t supposed to drink alcohol - it was banned in all of the magic schools - but she’d seen more than enough young magicians indulging themselves. She hoped the pub’s owner had warded his building thoroughly. Alcohol-induced idiocy was depressingly common. She was surprised the school hadn’t shut the pub down.

  The pub is probably used by the locals, she thought. And it isn’t as if they could say no to the magicians.

  Her eyes narrowed as she walked down the street. It was the weekend - Laughter followed the same schedule as the other schools - but the town was suspiciously quiet. There was a feeling of impending trouble in the air, as if the townspeople were keeping their heads down and trying not to be noticed. There should have been dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people on the streets, but she could barely see anyone. And yet, she could feel eyes watching her as she made her way past the stagecoach inn. They didn’t feel friendly.

  A peal of laughter rang out. She turned to see a pair of girls - they couldn’t be older than eighteen - running out of the alleyway and across the streets. Their giggles brought back unhappy memories of the days when she’d been alone and friendless and utterly hopeless... Emily shivered, despite herself. The girls wore long grey skirts that brushed against the ground, suggesting they were junior students. She couldn’t help thinking the uniform was ugly, as well as impractical. One of the girls had to hike up her skirts to run properly.

  Odd, Emily thought. What are they running from?

  She remained wary as she kept walking down the street, noting the handful of other oddities. Female shopkeepers were far from unknown in the magical community, but it looked as if each and every shop on the main street was owned or operated by a woman. She couldn’t see any male shopkeepers at all. The bookshop was crammed with the usual collection of fake ancient tomes, modern textbooks and fiction... her lips quirked as she spotted one of Frieda’s favorite blue books in the window display. Emily had read better fan fiction, but... she supposed it didn’t matter. It helped Frieda and her fellows learn to read, and that was all that mattered. The cover was so explicit Emily was surprised it hadn’t been banned. And anyone who actually tried to copy the movement on the cover would probably wind up with broken bones.

  The wind shifted. She kept walking, her stomach rumbling as she tasted hints of bread and cooked meat in the air. She was tempted to stop and eat something, but she didn’t have time. Lady Damia’s reply had insisted she’d meet Emily at the Outpost, an hour after noon. Emily was all too aware she was pushing it. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a piece of graffiti on the wall, remaining firm despite the best efforts of the female shopkeeper. PENDLE WILL RISE AGAIN. Emily winced in sympathy. Someone had painted it right over the front window, blocking the view. Glass was expensive, particularly for merchants. Whoever had done the painting deserved to be flogged.

  She stepped up beside the shopkeeper and touched the paint lightly. It had been charmed to stay on, no matter how vigorously the shopkeeper tried to wash it away. Emily tested the spell, then mustered her magic and banished the charms. The shopkeeper gave her an odd look, a mixture of gratitude and fear, then washed the rest of the graffiti away. Emily nodded to her and resumed her walk, making a mental note to raise the issue later. It was something that would have to be addressed...

  Three girls stepped out of an alleyway to block her path. Magic sparkled around their fingertips, as if they were ready to curse or hex her at a moment’s notice. Emily would have been intimidated, if she hadn’t faced necromancers and other - far more dangerous - threats. She felt a flicker of... something... as she studied the girls, remembering the mean girls of her youth. They might have magic, instead of cheerleading skills, but the expressions on their faces were practically identical. They were queens, as far as they were concerned, and woe betide anyone who challenged them. Emily looked from face to face, torn between old memories and naked irritation. The girls just weren’t that scary.

  The leader - dark skinned, with blonde hair - snapped her fingers. Emily felt the magic levels rise, slightly. The girl was skillful enough, she noted, but she lacked either the raw power of a necromancer or the skill and cunning of a dark wizard. And she had no idea who she was facing. Emily remembered the paintings and statues of her and rolled her eyes. Of course the girl didn’t recognize her. Her closest friends wouldn’t see her in the paintings...

  “Who are you?” The girl spoke with a musical accent, suggesting she’d been raised amongst the magical aristocracy. “What are you doing here?”

  Emily met her eyes, evenly. “Is it any of your business?”

  The girls shifted, angrily. The magic sparkled around them. They weren’t used to defiance. Emily guessed they’d taken her for a new student, perhaps even for an apprentice coming to study in the town itself. She wasn’t that much older than them. She’d given serious thought to entering Laughter as a student, rather than a junior tutor. The only thing that had kept her from proposing it was the grim truth that the last intruder had posed as a student.

  “Yes,” the leader said. Behind her, her friends shifted. “Tell us who you are or we’ll hex you.”

  Emily held the girl’s eyes as she unmasked her power. The girls stumbled back in shock, their mouths dropping open as they saw her clearly for the first time. Emily had masked her power well. They might not even have realized she was a magician, let alone one who was far above them. If they’d taken her for an apprentice... female apprentices were rare, outside the magical community, but they did exist. They might have taken her for a scribe or a chirurgeon or something else utterly mundane.

  “Call me Emily,” she said. There was only one adult Emily, as far as she knew. She’d certainly never heard of anyone with the same name, at least until she’d made it popular. Alassa’s daughter wasn’t the only one who’d been named for the Necromancer’s Bane. “Please point me to the Outpost.”

  “I...” The leader looked stunned. “I...”

  “Please point me to the Outpost,” Emily repeated, putting as much ice in her voice as she could. The urge to just swat the girls was almost overpowering. They pushed too many of her buttons. “Now.”

  “I... I beg your pardon, Lady Emily,” the leader said. She lifted a trembling hand and pointed towards a small house, resting on the road towards the school. “That’s the Outpost there.”

  Emily nodded, then pointed towards the edge of the forest. “Scram.”

  The girls ran. Emily watched them go, wondering who’d pay the price for their humiliatio
n. She’d met too many people like them - boys as well as girls - to doubt they’d find a way to take their feelings out on someone else. The entire nobility was an endless chain of shit rolling downhill until it landed on the scullery maids and the lads who cleaned the privies, the poor commoners who were right on the bottom. She’d read a bunch of history books that made little sense until the reader worked out that a bunch of kings and noblemen had preferred to fight to the death, rather than swallow their pride and admit they’d lost. Or that they’d bitten off much more than they could chew. She wanted to call them back, to make it clear they weren’t to do anything of the sort, but she knew it would fall on deaf ears. They’d been unchallenged for too long for them to change overnight.

  She shook her head and kept walking, climbing towards the Outpost. It looked like a bunker peering over the town, ready to rain cannon fire and curses down on the inhabitants if they displeased the witches in any way. She couldn’t help feeling a chill as she walked closer, wards poking and prodding at her as she made her way up the road. It wasn’t a surprise - Whitehall guarded the roads, too - but it still felt unpleasant. The witches had had centuries to weave their magic into the surrounding landscape, crafting spells to give them every possible advantage if their enemies attacked. She shivered as she looked at the ruined castle, wondering - again - what had torn charmed stone apart like paper. Even a dragon would have had problems.

  A shape detached itself from the Outpost and stepped onto the road. Emily felt magic - stronger magic than the girls’ by far - peering at her. The witch was a strong magician, perhaps not on the same level as Void but certainly strong enough to prove a serious challenge. Emily raised a hand in greeting, mouth suddenly dry. It was vital that she make a good impression. Void had warned her, last night, that the witches wouldn’t be happy with outsiders coming to solve their problems, even though they knew they needed help. He’d even admitted he was surprised Lady Barb had been asked. She had no obvious ties to Laughter. The school had graduated plenty of experienced witches who could have been asked instead.

  And that’s something else you should ask yourself, he’d warned. Why her? Why you?

  Emily stopped, putting her thoughts out of her mind. “Lady Damia, I assume?”

  “Just Damia, please,” Damia said. Her voice was tart, very much like Lady Barb’s. It was hard not to wonder if they were related, although Lady Barb was an only child. “And you are Emily.”

  “Yes.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I’m sorry I’m a little late.”

  She studied the older woman with interest, all too aware she was being studied in return. Damia looked to be around twenty or thirty years older than Lady Barb, although it was impossible to be sure. Her face was cold and hard, practically daring someone to start something; her dark hair was tied up so tightly that it made her look years older. Emily couldn’t help thinking of Mistress Irene, but Damia was so pale her skin was almost translucent. The only spots of color were faint traces of dark lipstick on her lips. Her dark eyes bored into Emily, quietly assessing her and probably finding her wanting. Emily had to fight to hold her ground.

  “You are welcome,” Damia said. She nodded towards the castle. “Come. The Old Woman is waiting.”

  Emily fell into step beside her, eyes narrowing as she spotted another piece of graffiti on the side of the Outpost. PENDLE WILL RISE SOON. She waved a hand at the graffiti, looking at Damia. The older woman seemed thoroughly displeased.

  “I saw that in the town,” she said. The wording was slightly different, but the meaning was identical. “What does it mean?”

  Damia’s expression didn’t change. “That, Lady Emily, rather depends on who you ask.”

  Emily smiled, although she felt no real humor. “And if I asked you,” she said, “what answer would I get?”

  Chapter Seven

  DAMIA’S VOICE DIDN’T CHANGE. SHE COULD have been discussing the weather for all the interest she showed in the subject. And yet, Emily thought she could hear a faint hint of fascination hiding behind the bland tone. She understood, or thought she did. It wasn’t always safe to display an interest in ancient history, even in a world where history overshadowed the modern world. Too much had been forgotten, for better or worse, for the rulers to be comfortable with the thought of digging it up again.

  “Pendle was the founder of our academy,” Damia said. “That, at least, is certain. Beyond that, there are many different versions of the story. One states that Pendle was a witch who defeated a banshee and was granted the region as a reward. Another insists she was a princess as well as a witch. A third states she was the banshee itself. A fourth insists she was sent to the tower to keep her safe and chaste until marriage” - her lips thinned until they were almost invisible - “her father unaware the tower had once belonged to a powerful witch. In that story, Pendle studied magic and saved herself from an unwanted match.”

  Her lips - somehow - managed to thin still further. “And yet another story insists a noble prince managed to best Pendle, winning her as his wife or - depending on whom you believe - winning her services, and those of her sisters, until the end of time. It is hard to tell which of the stories is true, if indeed any of them are. Pendle clearly won us some degree of independence, but how? We don’t know.”

  Emily nodded, slowly. “What happened to her?”

  “We don’t know,” Damia repeated. “Legend insists she will return, that she is sleeping under the school and will awaken in our darkest hour to save us. There are certainly tunnels deep under the castles that have never been fully explored, caves that could easily hide an entire army of sleeping witches. But we just don’t know.”

  She glanced at Emily. “How did you find the town?”

  “Three of your students tried to get in my way,” Emily said. She felt a twinge of guilt in ratting them out. “And someone else painted the Pendle graffiti over a shop window.”

  Lady Damia grimaced. “Things have been going from bad to worse,” she said. “The students have been playing increasingly nasty pranks on each other, as well as their tutors and the townspeople. My deputy - your predecessor - left in a hurry, without leaving a forwarding address. We don’t know why.”

  Emily frowned. “Who was she?”

  “Her name was Scarlett Robyn,” Damia said. “She came highly recommended, with commendations from Grandmaster Gordian and a number of others. Do you know her?”

  “No.” Emily shook her head. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Unfortunate.” Damia’s expression seemed to harden. “She had potential. She didn’t look to be struggling. But she chose to leave, sending her resignation through the mail rather than offering it to the headmistress in person. We haven’t seen her since.”

  Emily frowned. “Did she leave at the same time the trouble started?”

  “No,” Damia said. “The trouble started, in hindsight, two months ago. Scarlett Robyn left ten days ago.”

  “And didn’t bother to leave a forwarding address,” Emily said. “I assume you checked her credentials?”

  “Yes.” Damia’s voice grew colder. “We checked everything. Everyone vouched for her. There’s no hint she was up to something unpleasant, no suggestion she had ulterior motives for being at the school. One moment, everything was fine; the next, she just... left.”

  Interesting, Emily thought. Why did she leave?

  The question nagged at her mind as they walked further up the road, which twisted and turned until straightening out and driving right at the school itself. Up close, the castle looked like something out of a gothic fantasy, with tall spires, spike-topped walls and huge iron gates designed to intimidate visitors. Emily could sense the wards growing stronger, including one designed to identify men before they reached the castle. She had the feeling that any man who tried to get over the wards would regret it, if they survived. A handful of witches soared through the air, including two riding pitchforks. Emily had to smile. She’d always thought witches rode broomsticks.

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nbsp; The gates creaked open as they approached. There were no guards on the doors, but she could see a handful of monstrously ugly gargoyles just inside. They’d be charmed, if she was any judge; they’d be ready to spring to life and attack intruders with stone teeth and claws. She had a sudden nightmarish vision of her arms and legs being crushed by the gargoyles and shivered. Someone had woven a subtle magic hex into the design, enough to seriously worry her. She tightened her mental shields as she looked around the courtyard, frowning as she noticed there were no men in view. The handful of stableboys were clearly girls.

  “This way,” Damia said. “Don’t dawdle now.”

  You talk that way to a grown adult? Emily studied Damia thoughtfully. The older woman didn’t seem pleased to see her. It was easy to tell she resented Emily’s presence. Do you think someone else should have come in my place?

  She kept her thoughts to herself as they walked into the school. The air reeked of magic, from spells designed to light the corridors to charms intended to hide sections of the school from intruders. She thought she spotted a handful of hidden doors leading to concealed chambers, perhaps even secret passages. Whitehall and nearly every other castle she’d visited had its own collection of passageways, some intended for the students to find and others designed purely for the tutors. Laughter’s secrets wouldn’t be revealed to her immediately. She’d have to look for them.

  Damia kept up a running commentary as they made their way through a maze of passageways and stairs, pointing out the student dorms, rooms for the older girls and a handful of classrooms that were in permanent use. Emily listened, filing away the information for later contemplation. Laughter didn’t seem as transdimensional as Whitehall, but the school had clearly been designed to be hard to navigate. Someone had probably woven a labyrinth spell into the walls. They might not change places when she wasn’t looking, but it would certainly feel that way. A couple of girls walked past them, carrying baskets of clothes down to the laundry. Emily nodded to herself. The prospectus had made it clear the girls were expected to do most of their own chores.