The painting on the wooden door—a snake, eyeing her unpleasantly—came to life as she approached. Emily could feel the wards poking and prodding at her, making sure she was exactly who she claimed to be. She braced herself, feeling as if she was being watched from up high, a second before the feeling vanished. The door opened a moment later, the snake hissing quietly as Emily walked into the classroom. An elderly lady, so frail that Emily couldn’t help thinking a gust of wind would blow her over, was sitting at a table. The rest of the room looked more like an examination chamber than anything else.
Emily looked around, interested despite herself. The walls were dominated by diagrams of the human body, showing everything from veins and chakras to skeletons—male and female. She couldn’t help being fascinated by a set of hand-drawn diagrams that were more detailed than anything else she’d seen in the Nameless World, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how the healers had garnered that kind of knowledge. Smaller diagrams discussed the life cycle of a human, the reproductive and menstrual cycle, the innermost workings of the brain and a dozen other subjects. She was tempted to ask if she could stay and study them. Healing had never really interested her—she didn’t have the patience, let alone the dedication—but knowledge was always useful ...
The elderly woman cleared her throat. Emily turned back to her, suddenly aware that she was being very rude. The woman—the tutor, Emily assumed—looked frail, but there was a strength about her that suggested she was no pushover. Her bushy white hair rested atop a face covered in wrinkles, yet still projected determination and power. Emily could feel the magic curling around the woman, barely visible under her wards. This, she realized numbly, was a magician in absolute control of her magic. Even Lady Barb allowed flickers of her power to leak out when she was upset or angry.
“Lady Emily,” the woman said. Her voice was strong, too. “I am Samra. I am a Healer, a Mistress of Soul Magics and a Mistress of Charms. Do you wish to see my qualifications?”
“No, thank you,” Emily said. There was something in Samra’s voice that practically dared her to ask for proof. It was hard to escape the feeling that Samra didn’t want Emily in her classroom. She hadn’t even invited Emily to sit down. “I don’t think you’d be here if you weren’t qualified.”
“I would be elsewhere, if I could,” Samra said, her voice tart. “The Grandmaster has made it clear to me that you are to be tutored in Soul Magic, without taking any binding oaths. I am not pleased about this. There would be nothing stopping you from abusing your knowledge.”
She met Emily’s eyes. “Healers swear such binding oaths to keep them from abusing their powers. Even for one such as I, the temptations are sometimes too much to handle. I accepted the oaths because I feared what I might become, if I abused the power in my hands. If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be taught Soul Magic. Or anything, without the oaths.”
Emily swallowed. Her throat was suddenly dry. Aurelius of Mountaintop had taught her a handful of healing spells, then given her a rough introduction to Soul Magic. She hadn’t even scratched the surface of the possible, yet ... she understood just how easily some of the spells could be abused. She didn’t blame Samra for being worried. Healers had far more power perversion potential than a doctor on Earth.
“I understand,” she managed, finally.
“Understand this.” Samra pointed a long finger at Emily’s chest. Emily had to fight the urge to take a step backwards. “Healers are not allowed to kill. A Healer who does kill signs her own death warrant. Her oaths would kill her before the wheels of justice caught up with her. That is a form of judgement. A Healer cannot knowingly break her oaths.
“If you abuse the magic I will teach you, I will kill you. I will accept the judgement of my oaths and go to my death knowing that you will no longer be able to pervert my teachings. And I will do it with magic that even your father would find hard to defend against, if he realized he was under attack before it was too late.”
She rose, slowly. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Emily managed. She knew enough about Healers to realize it was no idle threat. Her defenses were good, but Healing magics—when perverted—were almost impossible to stop. And if Samra was willing to sacrifice her own life to kill Emily, it would merely give the magic extra punch. “I understand.”
“Good.” Samra walked around the desk and headed to another room. “You have a great deal to learn before I can put you in a class with other trainees. If you don’t learn the basics, you’ll get nothing—at best—from the class.”
Emily sighed to herself—she’d heard that before—as she followed Samra into the next room. It looked like a study, complete with bookcases and a pair of comfortable armchairs. Soft light shone down from high overhead, somehow warm and welcoming even though she couldn’t sense the source. Samra picked up a small mirror and held it out to her. Emily took it, puzzled. It was a small handheld vanity mirror, no larger than a hairbrush. Alassa had been fond of carrying one just to check her hair. If someone hadn’t carved a handful of runes into the gold edge and more into the handle, she would have dismissed it as something along the same lines.
“Know thyself,” Samra said, as she sat in one of the chairs. “And understand this—you will not share anything you discover about your classmates with anyone. Or I will kick you out of the class and do everything in my power to get you kicked out of the school.”
“And what if they discover things about me?” Emily turned the mirror over and over in her hand. “Truths I would sooner keep secret?”
Samra gave her a nasty look. “We all swore oaths. Whatever we learn through soul magic, whatever a patient tells us in confidence ... we keep it to ourselves. I could not discuss your affairs with anyone without my jaw locking closed. It is not a pleasant experience. Nor is it possible to hide what I tried to do.”
Emily made a face. Melissa had cast a mouth-sealing spell on her once, back when she’d had a pointless feud with Alassa. It had been horrific, even though she’d been able to breathe through her nose. Imaiqah had been able to undo the spell, but a Healer probably wouldn’t have that option. They’d have to go to another Healer and seek help, which would expose what they’d tried to do. Their peers would not be impressed.
Samra pointed to the mirror. “Hold it up in front of your face and admire yourself,” she ordered. “Now.”
Emily lifted the mirror, feeling oddly embarrassed. She’d never been particularly vain, not when she’d never wanted to be attractive. Her stepfather had been bad enough even when she’d been a scrawny girl in third-hand clothing. Any lingering traces of vanity she’d had when she’d arrived at Whitehall had vanished when she’d met Alassa. The princess’s perfection was just overpowering.
“Look at your features,” Samra said. “And concentrate.”
“On what?” Emily tilted the mirror. “My nose?”
“On your face,” Samra said. “Concentrate.”