Chosen (9781742844657) (25 page)

I
had scried a private beach yesterday, with plants flowering in spring and birds circling something dead. I had thought it was a seal or something.

Could that dark shape have in fact been a person? It would explain why Qasim had directed me to pull my attention away from it, if he had suspected the seal to be this Peter. 

‘Emmanuelle and I will meet with Lord Gawain to finalise her plans for the funeral,' Renatus was saying. He looked back to Qasim. ‘My housekeeper, Fionnuala, has prepared the basement room for the body. You may meet her in the reception hall, and Glen and Elijah may bring Peter there.'

Qasim nodded once, and Renatus gestured the other two towards the still-open door. Emmanuelle went to the doorway, followed by her male colleagues, before stopping and turning back to them.

‘I…I want to see ‘im,' she said in a small voice. I walked over, watching the expressions of the men she spoke to. Without even glancing at one another, both Renatus and Qasim said, in unison, ‘No.'

Emmanuelle looked ready to argue, but then seemed to take in their stern, stubborn expressions. She silently walked out the door. Qasim followed, then Renatus. I realised that I was about to be locked in here alone, and ran for the door as he walked through. It began to swing shut behind him, and I had almost reached it when it slammed in my face. I blinked.

Bang
.

My eyes snapped open, but I couldn't see anything. My heart was thudding; my head was throbbing dully. I sat up. Hadn't I just been standing, running? I looked around. Incredibly, or perhaps not, I was back in bed, in my room, with Hiroko asleep in the bed to my right and Sterling and Xanthe on the other side of the room.

Did that mean it really had been just a dream?

I slowly lay back down. I felt massively disorientated, as though I really had just teleported straight from my bed, into the office and back again. The experience had been so real – I had been fully aware of my surroundings, and there had been none of the surrealism that typifies dreams. You know, changing landscapes, people morphing into other people, pink elephants, that sort of thing. None of it. I almost might have believed that I
had
teleported – displaced – to the head's office during my sleep, except that nobody else had been able to see me. If I had actually displaced, then I would have been physically present at the time and there should have been nothing stopping the other three from noticing.

This left me with my original suspicion. I had dreamt the entire thing. That meant that the conversation had not really happened, except in my head. Why would I dream something like that? Why would my mind make up an office for Renatus, complete with the arched window at the top of the house and the door with no doorknob, and play out such an odd scene?

I tried unsuccessfully to fall back to sleep. My mind kept going over the dream, as though it were a video on a loop. Maybe it was a prophetic dream, trying to warn me of…something? If that were the case, it might have been warning me about the death of Emmanuelle's friend Peter, or that the councillors of the White Elm were not as close friends as I had imagined. There had been a moment or two of obvious hostility between Renatus and Qasim.

But of course, it had only been a dream. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't real; that I'd invented the entire exchange, from the heated conversations to the tears to the kiss.

Of course, Qasim would be on my thoughts because of how hard I'd been working on scrying. Emmanuelle was the White Elm with which I identified the most, because, as my supervisor, she was more involved in my life than the others. It made as much sense that these two people might pop up in my dreams as if Hiroko or Kendra were to do.

Renatus? Well, I heard his name fifty million times a day from Sterling…obviously she'd talked enough rubbish that it had invaded my dreams.

By the time the other girls had awoken the following morning, I had almost managed to convince myself that my experience had been a perfectly rational dream. I forgot to wonder why, after three weeks of dreamless sleep, I would dream anything at all.

Unlike the previous few days, Thursday dawned overcast and gloomy. The sun made no attempt whatsoever to shine through, as though it knew already that it wasn't worth the effort. A few sunbeams weren't going to make Emmanuelle's upturned day any less horrible.

She'd been sitting in the ballroom of Morrissey House since just before midnight. It was hard to tell what time of day it was through the windows, because the sky was so grey, but she knew that many hours of numb nothingness had passed.

After Renatus had brought her here to speak with Lord Gawain about the funeral service, she had collapsed into a chair and he had left. She hadn't seen him since, and for that she was glad. She couldn't think of him without wanting to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. What had she been
thinking
? Obviously, nothing.

It was a weak moment
, she kept telling herself. She hadn't been thinking straight – she'd been distraught, thinking only of Peter and all the things she now wished she'd thought to say and do while he was alive.
Imbécile, Emmanuelle
.

Lord Gawain had sat with Emmanuelle for a while, wanting to know all about how the ring had come to her, as if that mattered. She'd offered it to him, and he'd shook his head.

‘Fate has brought it to you. It's yours for now, and for a reason.'

He'd explained how the service would go. The students would be told at breakfast that they would be attending a funeral for a former White Elm councillor that morning. The service would be short, held in the ballroom, and would be used as an example of Lisandro's destructive power.

‘I think Peter would approve of his death being used to incriminate his murderer and to educate young sorcerers against Lisandro,' Lord Gawain had said, not noticing Emmanuelle's miniscule flinch at the word
murderer
. Renatus hadn't said that Lisandro had
murdered
Peter – only implied it, and it hurt much more to hear the word. The word made it real and horrible. ‘He was lied to and manipulated, and it's our responsibility to ensure that Lisandro doesn't get the chance to do the same to any of our students. Emmanuelle,' he had added when she just nodded. ‘Peter was not White Elm when he died. We don't have to have any special ceremony if you would rather not…'

Emmanuelle thought for a few moments in silence. The idea of Peter's death being
used
, in any way, to promote an ideal or rule upset her. She would love for Lord Gawain to hand to her a decorative urn with Peter's name on it and to take it to Peter's grandmother, and to grieve in her own time and space. Alone.

If anyone asked, she would say that her friend had been killed by Lisandro. It wouldn't be shocking; it would be sad, and people would feel sorry for her. If the story circulated, it would change slightly with each retelling until Peter was no longer Peter and Lisandro was no longer a heartless killer. The story would not save anybody, nor would it do justice to Peter's life.

Emmanuelle thought of the students – particularly her four, the girls in her dorm group. Xanthe, Aristea, Hiroko and Sterling were just sweet children. They were powerful, with much potential, but, like all young people, they could very easily be led astray by someone like Lisandro. She shivered at the thought of strawberry-blonde Sterling being found dead in a field, or Hiroko's body in a third-world side alley, or Aristea in a creek or Xanthe in an abandoned apartment. Lisandro had given Peter enough empty promises to drag him away from his oaths and his love for Emmanuelle – what would he need to promise a teenager for their loyalty and involvement? A vague, fifth-hand story about a friend's cousin's friend's best friend being killed by Lisandro wouldn't save a student from Peter's fate.

Seeing a coffin, seeing it surrounded by white flowers, seeing Emmanuelle struggle with her grief openly, knowing that Lisandro had done this…That might.

‘You must do what is best by the students,' she had said finally, and after a few more words of comfort, Lord Gawain had excused himself and left her alone, which was exactly what she'd thought she wanted, all along.

Now, she could hear the sounds of the early-rising students coming down the stairs and traipsing through the reception hall. She heard their chatter and their laughter. Their lives had not fallen apart at the seams – and hopefully, at Emmanuelle's expense, they never would.

Peter
…

He had loved her, all along, and said nothing. They had met as hopeful twenty-year-olds, brilliant and powerful and eager to take the place of the two White Elm councillors who had recently passed on within weeks of each other. There had been other applicants, too, but they had been so ordinary, too intimidated by Emmanuelle's physical beauty to make real attempts at getting to know her. Peter had walked into the waiting room, seen the three spare seats, smiled and taken the one right beside Emmanuelle. She remembered thinking that nobody as nerdy-looking as Peter had ever dared to sit beside her.

She had initiated conversation, and quickly came to adore his off-kilter sense of humour, sweet disposition and odd, quirky personality. She'd found herself inspired by his insatiable idealism and passionate desire to be part of positive change. She had been delighted when they had both been initiated into the council. They had remained close friends, telling each other everything, almost. He had never indicated that he was working with Lisandro to overturn the White Elm; he had never shared his true feelings for Emmanuelle. What else had remained hidden within Peter's heart, and died along with him eighteen nights ago?

She heard hesitant steps, and looked to the door. Aubrey and Teresa had entered the ballroom, and both looked extremely uncomfortable.

‘The service will start straight after breakfast,' Aubrey explained, while Teresa hovered near the door. ‘It will be held in here. Lord Gawain suggested we be present in full uniform.'

Emmanuelle nodded. By uniform, of course he meant the white robe. She followed the two younger councillors from the ballroom.

Aubrey's chestnut hair was shiny, worn straight and cut like a nineties' boy-band star. His bangs hung into his eyes, just like the pop icons of the decade. He looked comfortable in his body; he was nothing like Peter. Did he know that he only had a job because Peter had left? Jadon and Teresa had been everybody's first choices after the initial interviews. Aubrey was more like a wild card – a distant cousin of Emmanuelle's, after all, had seemed a safe and reasonable choice.

Were Aubrey, Jadon and Teresa close like Peter and Emmanuelle had been? Were they friends? Did they hold secrets from each other? Did Aubrey love Teresa?

‘Will you be alright?' Teresa asked, and Emmanuelle realised that Aubrey was gone, and she was standing in front of the door to her own room in this house.

‘I think so,' Emmanuelle said, fumbling for her key. Her hands were shaking. They hadn't stopped shaking since Lord Gawain had said that Lisandro was Peter's murderer.

Teresa gently took the key from her trembly hands and opened up the room.

Half an hour later, Emmanuelle was dressed appropriately and standing in the ballroom between Tian and Aubrey. This was her place in the White Elm, and it felt right to stand there. The students were seated in rows, all eyes glued to either the gleaming white coffin or to Lord Gawain, who spoke about Peter and how Lisandro had manipulated and destroyed him. Behind Lord Gawain, Lady Miranda and Renatus stood silently, like guardians.

Life is constantly changing, like the path cut by a river. Only a year before, Lisandro had been a colleague and an ally, and his place had been Renatus's. Emmanuelle's place had been between Peter and Renatus, and the year before that, her place had been right at the end, where Jadon was now. Though Renatus was several years younger than her, she had once again become the council's baby after his promotion – the last one in the line, until Aubrey, Teresa and Jadon had been initiated.

Emmanuelle gazed over the students, seeking those four that she felt most responsible for. She spotted them, sitting all together in a row with a pair of twins. She was glad to see their saddened and alert faces; this affected them, and so they would learn from it.

As her eyes moved along the row, Emmanuelle met Aristea's gaze. The girl was looking right at her. Aristea's eyes were wide, and she looked slightly frightened and ill.

What was important, though, was that Aristea would never fall under the illusion that Lisandro mightn't be so bad – today she had learned that he was a dangerous killer, capable of murdering even his allies and friends.

Today, the students had learnt the capabilities of their enemy. Tomorrow, or next week, or in thirty years, whenever the true war started, would they be as eager to destroy that enemy as Emmanuelle was right at that moment?

She lightly touched her fingertips to the dull, ward-protected ring around her thumb. The Elm Stone rarely chose female keepers, which might be the reason for its large size. On any of her other fingers, it would have slid straight off. As it was, it sat very loosely in its place, held mostly by her knuckle.