“Good luck,” she mouthed. “And ...”
She blew the whistle. Frieda launched her first spell at once ... no, two spells fired off so closely together as to make them seem one. Her opponent tried to block it and was knocked backwards for his pains, although his shield was strong enough to deflect most of the magic and absorb the rest. He retaliated with a set of spells of his own; Frieda dodged and ducked, hurling spells towards him as she moved. Emily felt Gordian tense beside her as Frieda cast a prank spell, followed by one of the nastier—and yet legal—hexes. Her opponent yelped in pain as the prank caught his arm, then threw back a ward-cracker. Frieda grunted, then launched herself forward. Emily sucked in her breath as Frieda slammed her wards into her opponent’s.
“Ouch,” Gordian said.
Emily nodded in grim agreement. It wasn’t—technically—illegal, but it was borderline. She half expected Gordian to call Frieda on it. Instead, he watched as magic cascaded around the two duelists, Frieda pushing her cracking wards right into her opponent’s face. Emily wanted to scream at her to stop—if something went wrong, both of them would be injured—but she couldn’t form the words. And then there was a flash of light as her opponent flew backwards, landing badly. Frieda lifted her hand and stunned him before he could recover ...
“Very good,” Gordian said.
Emily glanced at him suspiciously, then at Frieda. There were scars on her face and blood was trickling down her cheek ... and yet she looked unbowed. And the cold satisfaction on her face made her look completely different. For an insane moment, Emily wondered if it really was Frieda ...
“Congratulations on your victory,” Gordian said to Frieda, his voice flat. “I trust this will improve your mood.”
I hope it will make her feel better too, Emily thought, as she watched Frieda stumble out of the ring. Someone had busted her knee in an earlier duel. But we still need to talk.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“WHY IS IT,” FRIEDA ASKED, “THAT they call half-term the holidays?”
Emily smiled. They stood together in the battlements, watching a line of coaches making their way down to Dragon’s Den and the world beyond. Nearly two-thirds of the student body were heading home. Whitehall felt empty, now they were gone. Emily welcomed it, even though she knew she had a considerable amount of work to do. Most of the lower years were leaving and they were the ones who gave her the most trouble.
They need help, she told herself. And I’m the one who’s supposed to give it to them.
“I imagine they plan to do as little work as possible,” she said wryly, putting the thought aside. “And they will pay for it, when they come back.”
She glanced at Frieda, who was waving to a handful of students driving down to the gates and out onto the road. She’d had a talk with Frieda, after the duel, but she wasn’t sure if Frieda had paid any attention. It wasn’t easy to keep an eye on her younger friend when they had different classes and responsibilities, yet it was clear that Frieda was having problems. Emily had seen too many half-hidden cross faces and angry sighs—and overheard too many snide comments—to think otherwise.
“At least we don’t have any classes,” she added. “You and I need to sit down and go over your work.”
Frieda looked rebellious. “Can’t we spend a couple of days resting first?”
“Perhaps,” Emily said. Dragon’s Den would be quieter now. They could go to the house, if they wanted, or even just go for a meal. “But I’d sooner get to grips with the problem before it’s too late.”
She shook her head. The last two weeks had been nightmarish, as tutor after tutor struggled manfully to cram information into student heads. The tutors had been growing more and more irritable too; she’d been snapped at twice, while other students had been even less lucky. Professor Armstrong had given them two days to work on the practical side of wardcrafting, then set a whole series of theoretical exercises that had left Emily’s head spinning by the time half-term finally rolled around. She didn’t think a single Sixth Year student was leaving the school, even for a weekend. There was too much work to do.
And I don’t have much time to work with Frieda, she mused, as they started to walk towards the dorms. The wards felt quieter now too, reflecting the reduced student body. It was something of a relief. They sank into the back of her mind when she wasn’t thinking about them, but they tended to emerge the moment she remembered them. I have too much work of my own to do.
“Celadon is staying too,” Frieda said, mournfully. “Do I have to work with him?”
“Yeah,” Emily said, absently. A younger student was hurrying towards her, waving his arms in the air. She tensed, unsure what to expect. “I’m afraid you do.”
The student skidded to a halt, breathing heavily. “Ah ... um ... Lady Emily, the Grandmaster requests your presence in your office.”
Emily frowned. “My presence in my office?”
“Yes, My Lady,” the student said, still struggling for breath. “He says he’ll meet you there.”
Emily exchanged glances with Frieda. She was fairly sure Gordian could enter her office, if he wished—the wards would let him in unless she configured them to block him—but it was a severe breach of etiquette. Legally, the Grandmaster could go wherever he wanted; practically, he’d be unwise to invade his staff’s quarters without a very good excuse. Emily might not be staff, technically, but the rule still held. Magicians valued their privacy. The staff was reluctant to search student dorms and trunks without good reason. If nothing else, it would cause problems with the student’s parents.
“I’ll go there.” She made sure to memorize the student’s face, just in case it was a prank of some kind. “Thank you.”
“I could come with you,” Frieda offered, as the student hurried away. “You might want a witness.”
Emily hesitated, then shook her head. “You go to the library and catch up with your studies,” she said, firmly. “I’ll find you afterwards and we’ll go walking.”
She watched Frieda go, then walked up the stairs to her office door. Gordian was standing outside, accompanied by two men in plain robes. One of them looked old enough to be Samra’s father, with short white hair and a wry smile; the other was only a few years older than Emily, with bushy black hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. She glanced from one to the other, wondering who they were. She didn’t recall seeing either of them before.
“Lady Emily,” Gordian said, formally. “Please allow me to introduce Brothers Akanke and Oscine of the History Monks.”
“A pleasure,” the older man said. “Oscine and I have heard much about you.”