Snippet - Emile's Tale

This probably requires more introduction than I normally give.

During the events of Hour of the Wolf (Schooled in Magic 29), Emily encountered a number of alternate versions of herself, counterparts who had a very different lives and consequently were very different people. One of those counterparts was Emile, a young man whose time at Whitehall was far less pleasant than Emily’s and eventually grew up into a bitter and reclusive sorcerer who eventually, almost despite himself, sacrificed his life to buy Emily the time she needed to save the world.

And it was decreed by a higher power that he deserved a second chance.

This novella is very much my homage to the many light novels and manga that have the hero/heroine coming to a gruesome end, dying painfully ... and then opening their eyes to discover that they are now in the body of their younger self, years before the crisis that ended with their death. They have a second chance to save the kingdom, or defeat their enemy before they can be executed a second time, or even just build a very different life for themselves, a task which is both made easier by their knowledge of what went wrong the first time and made harder by their knowledge becoming outdated as they make changes to the original timeline. Some of those stories are very good, if the universe can sustain it (there is no shortage of time travel fix-it stories set in the fold of Harry Potter or Game Of Thrones); others have a tendency to drag, through the writers not having a planned plotline with a very definite ending, or the hero becoming unstoppable because they have all the knowledge and power of a grown adult facing children. I have tried to emulate the best and learn from the worst.

If you are not familiar with the Schooled in Magic universe (and it would be remiss of me not to point out that the first five books are currently available on Kindle Unlimited), I have done my best to make this story as stand-alone as possible. I have also attached an outline of Emile’s first life at Whitehall, which may fill in some of the blanks.

I hope you enjoy the novella. I do have a rough idea for telling it into a full-length novel, if anyone is interested, so please don’t hesitate to tell me if you are. Or if you are not. I’m not proud.

Thank you for your time

Chris

Prologue

Emile burned.

The fire burned through his very soul, drawing on the core of his very being to destroy himself and take his necromantic counterpart with him. He’d cast the spell in a nexus point and ... he wasn’t sure what had happened then, save that his prime counterpart had gone onwards and the necromancer had fallen out of reality with him. He wasn’t even sure if he was falling, not when the fire was consuming everything. The necromancer was screaming or perhaps it was him, the flames burning so brightly it was impossible to be sure of anything except the fire ...

It was the end. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name, the end of his life – the end of everything – rushing towards him with a certainty that could not, that would not, be denied. Everything was cracking around him, the gaping fissures in reality growing wider ... he would drop out of everything that ever was and vanish, if the fire didn’t kill him first. Visions of alternate timelines swung around him, each one a mocking reminder of what he could have been and now never was. Memories bubbled against his mind, memories that weren’t his ... his counterparts and himself were the same person, in so many ways, and their thoughts were blurring together. It only made him feel worse.

You wasted your life, he thought. Or was someone else speaking? The fire was so intense he couldn’t tell if the thoughts were his or hers or someone else’s altogether. You had the universe before you. You had the chance to start again in a brand new world. You could have built a whole new life for yourself. And instead you were defeated by your own demons.

Mocking laughter battered his brain, as the flames grew hotter. His life flashed in front of him, a reminder of his own weakness and humiliation and bad habits, habits that had ruined his second chance at life. He could no longer hide from himself, no matter how much he wished to curl up in a ball and pretend he was the hero and everyone else the villain. His counterpart – his female counterpart – had done so much better than himself that it was just impossible to deny. Even the necromancer had done better. She, at least, had taken control of her own destiny. Emile had not. Even at the last, the only decision he’d made that had been truly his had been the one that had led to his death.

Pathetic little incel, the voice boomed. It slammed into his skull, tearing away illusions he’d thought already dispelled. You had it all and you lost it, because of who and what you are.

The memories grew stronger, his and hers and hers, all reminding him of just how pathetic he truly was. He’d had magic. He’d had a chance ... he’d blown it, because of his own failings, and now he was dead. He’d been surrounded by everything he needed, but he’d been too weak and feeble and useless to take advantage of the priceless opportunities before him. He could have been a player. Instead, he’d been the played upon. The bitterness gnawed at his soul, the lack of self-worth and self-belief sentencing him to a fate he knew he deserved. He had failed everything, including himself. Better to die than prolong the agony any longer.

Other memories darted across his mind. He’d done things. He really had. He’d devised new magics of his own, spells that even his prime counterpart couldn’t match. He could have made a name for himself, carved out a niche ... instead, he’d been seduced into madness and then discarded, as casually as one would toss aside a used tissue. The bitterness had been his constant companion, from his earliest days. Now it would accompany him into death.

It’s not fair, he thought. Or cried. I never stood a chance!

The memories hammered him. A neglectful mother. An abusive stepfather. Abusive teachers. Bullies. Girls who laughed at him, without even trying to hide it. Days of wishing for something, anything, to get him out of the nightmare; being yanked into another world, being given a chance, only to lose it through his own failings. He wanted to blame everyone from Destiny Sanderson to Void, the woman who’d birthed him and the sorcerer who’d saved him from a fate worse than death, but in truth it wasn’t anyone’s fault. The only person who was truly to blame was himself. He could have taken martial arts classes. He could have gone to the gym. He could have studied magic ... but in the end, the hopelessness and bitterness had consumed him. He’d been defeated before he’d understood he was in a fight for his life.

He spun in an endless void, the flames slowly abating. The multiverse was above him and below him and all around him, billions upon billions of possible universes shimmering their way through the Cosmic All. His necromantic counterpart was gone, burned to ash by the fires that had consumed their souls; he was alone, falling forever, his death a heartbeat away and yet infinitively delayed. He took a breath or thought he did, calming himself as the universes danced above him. It was time to die.

NO, a voice said. It was all around him, calm and gentle and as welcome as a mother’s touch ... the kind of comfort that had been rare in his childhood. YOU DESERVE A SECOND CHANCE.

The world went white. Emile squeezed his eyes shut as the light blazed into him, a strange sensation seeming to touch every last atom of his body, the light burning through his eyelids and stabbing deep into his soul. It wasn’t painful. It was almost cleansing ...

“Welcome to Whitehall,” a very familiar voice said.

Emile opened his eyes. The Grandmaster stood in front of him, just as he had the day Emile had arrived at Whitehall. Exactly like he’d stood ... a surge of déjà vu shot through him, so overwhelming his legs threatened to buckle and send him tumbling to the ground. It felt like a dream, a mocking reminder of his first failure ... the first of many. He took a long breath, tasting the sweetness and magic in the air, and felt the world around him ...

And then he realised. Oh.

Chapter One

The Grandmaster hadn’t changed a bit.

Of course he hadn’t, Emile corrected himself, as the older man gave him a penetrating look that managed to be intimidating even through his eyes were covered by a dirty rag. This was the first time they’d met, from the Grandmaster’s point of view, and ... he barely heard the dragon taking off behind him, vanishing into the skies and out of Emile’s life with the same lack of concern Void and his own mother had shown. Last time, he’d been too inexperienced to feel the power surrounding the older man; this time, he could feel magic spinning around him, tightly controlled power that could raise hopes and dreams or send them crashing into nightmares on a whim. His legs threatened to give way as the sheer magnitude of what had happened struck him. He wasn’t just back in time, he was back in his old body. It was ...

“Thank you,” he managed, trying not to stammer. The Grandmaster had never been an enemy, not in any real sense, but he’d never been an ally either. Emile had disappointed the older man and he’d never been quite sure why. “It’s good to be here.”

“Come.” The Grandmaster turned and led the way into the castle. “We have much to discuss.”

Emile barely heard him, his legs seeming to move of their own accord. The castle was exactly as he remembered, from students running through the corridors to magic dancing through the wards. He’d thought it a very wonderland, the first time around; he’d thought it a chance to go to Hogwarts, a place where his true worth would finally be appreciated and he’d have the respect and love and women he’d always wanted. He cringed, mentally, at just how foolish he’d been back then, just how much he’d allowed his preconceptions to blind him. It wasn’t an absurd self-insert fantasy, it wasn’t even Hogwarts. It was a time and a place that was very real and by the time he’d realised his own mistake, it had been too late to save himself.

He paused in front of a mirror, trying to ignore a flinch that came straight out of his counterpart’s memories. He was short and weak, his body trending towards fat and his eyes flickering nervously from side to side, as if he expected a blow to come at any moment. It struck him, suddenly, that he looked like a young Peter Pettigrew, a teenager who had allowed a combination of mistreatment and fear to overwhelm his rational mind and send him plunging into the dark side. His lanky unwashed hair was brown, but otherwise ... Peter Pettigrew or Billy Bunter or yet another young boy dismissed for a lack of bravery, sporting aptitude, charisma or all the other qualities that were doled out so unfairly. He hadn’t done well at his old school and Whitehall had been a thousand times worse ... he felt a sudden wave of envy for his female counterpart, who’d had it so much easier. At least she hadn’t been expected to have muscles on her muscles!

“Come along,” the Grandmaster said. “We don’t have all day.”

Emile nodded, feeling his body ache ... he really wasn’t in very good health. There’d never seemed any point in trying to keep himself healthy, never seemed any point in playing games willingly when bullies used it as an excuse to hurl balls at his head. He’d certainly never been welcome to play outside school ... he gritted his teeth, cursing his folly. There were spells he could use to improve himself, within reason. But there were limits. He’d have to exercise if he wanted to keep his new body.

The Grandmaster’s office was exactly as he remembered it, a large chamber lined with bookshelves and scattered with tables, groaning under the weight of magical devices that hummed in tune with the school. Last time, they’d been mysterious as well as wonderful; this time, he understood them ... a thrill ran through him as he realised he knew far more magic than any other first-year student. Of course he did. He was a twenty-five year old man trapped in a sixteen-year-old body. A painting hung on the wall, four young men who looked surprisingly similar ... funny. He didn’t recall seeing that the last time around. But then, he had been too wound up in the wonder and magic of it all.

“Please, sit,” the Grandmaster said. “I trust you had a pleasant trip?”

“It was fantastic, and terrifying,” Emile said. It had been too, nine years and twenty minutes ago. His head spun as he tried to think of a proper terminology for the whole thing. “I ... I’ve come a long way.”

“So I hear.” The Grandmaster studied him, levelly. “From a whole other world, it would seem.”

Emile hesitated. Should he tell the Grandmaster that he’d travelled in time as well as space? If he did ... he could warn the Grandmaster about Shadye and the Hierarchy and all the other menaces that had plagued the last few years. But ... no one had thanked him for defeating Shadye the first time around. They’d thought it a trick, when he’d made the mistake of explaining just what he’d done; they’d said it was something anyone could have done. They might have been right, if someone else had thought of it. Ice prickled down his spine. It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, not yet. He needed to sit and think and try to sort out his memories from hers.

“Yes,” he managed, finally. “I’m sorry I don’t have much to tell you.”

The Grandmaster’s unseen eyes never left his face. “Your ... benefactor has arranged for you to study here. You will take the preparatory classes with the other first-years, so that you may learn the basics; I suggest you learn to read and speak the language ...”

“I already do,” Emile said. God, but that had been difficult. He’d never had any talent for languages and both High and Low Speech were very different from English. “I ...”

He realised his mistake a fraction of a second too late. He’d been born and raised on a very different world. How could he possibly have known the language? There were some words that were very much like Latin, to the point he wondered if he was truly the first crosstime traveller, but he’d never studied Latin in school. Even if he had, he doubted it would have let him understand the local tongue.

“Good,” the Grandmaster said. His face didn’t change expression, but Emile wasn’t reassured. Too many authority figures, too craven to challenge the real troublemakers, had been happy to let him dig his grave before calling him out for lying. Or asking pointed questions he couldn’t answer without admitting to things he wanted to keep to himself. “You’ll find that very useful.”

He leaned forward. “Once you master the basics, you can pass your exams and make your way into the later years,” he continued. “You’ll be able to decide in which field of magic you wish to specialise, if that is how you want to proceed, or continue studying them all ...”

“All of them,” Emile said. “I want to learn them all.”

“Good,” the Grandmaster said. “It is always good to meet a student who wishes to expand his magic beyond any single subject.”

Emile flushed, unsure if he was being mocked. The Grandmaster was making at least some allowances for him ... most teachers would be annoyed if they were interrupted, even if some lowly student merely wanted to report the class was on fire. The Grandmaster, by contrast, had little to prove. And yet .. his legs wobbled again, a grim reminder that he couldn’t afford to play it by ear. The timeline had already changed. He needed a plan ...

And there was no way in hell he was going to go through six years of hell again.

“I hope you will do well in your studies,” the Grandmaster finished. Had he said something else? Emile wasn’t sure. “Mistress Irene will give you your timetable tomorrow, at breakfast, and you’ll have your first class shortly afterwards. If you have any problems, Mistress Irene or Housefather Jackrum will be happy to provide assistance. I’ll have someone take you to your room ...”

“I know where it is,” Emile said. “I ...”

He kicked himself. Stupid mistake. Stupid, stupid, mistake.

“That’s very impressive, given that I have only just assigned the room to you,” the Grandmaster said. “How do you know where to go?”

“Ah ... Void told me where the dorms are,” Emile said. Lying to hide from the consequences of his mistake was a bad habit, yet one that had been drilled into him through the punishments being far beyond reason. “I assumed my room would be marked ...”

“No,” the Grandmaster said. Magic darted around him. “I’ll have you taken there.”

The door opened. Jade stepped into the room. Emile felt a confusing array of emotions as his memories and her memories warred with one another: Jade was someone to hate and envy and also someone to love and respect. Jade had been everything Emile had ever wanted to be, an alpha male who was genuinely kind and decent and admired and respected and ... his head spun as Jade looked him up and down, his eyes lingering briefly on Emile’s paunch. Jade was just too handsome and he was going to marry the princess and ... the memories contradicted themselves again. His Jade hadn’t married Alassa. Or so he thought. It was hard to be sure.

“Jade, please escort Emile to his new bedroom,” the Grandmaster said. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

“Yes, sir,” Jade said. There was no hint of disdain in his tone, no suggestion he resented the duty. Somehow, that made it worse. “Emile? Shall we go?”

Emile felt another surge of déjà vu as Jade led him out of the office, through a maze of corridors and down two flights of stairs. It was almost absurdly familiar, as if he was replaying recent history ... his heart stopped, just for a second, as Maryam ran past ... so young and sweet and alive. She was due to die in a few months, when Shadye invaded the school. Emile had seen the body. It was strange that such a lively girl, larger than life, had looked so small ...

“This is the first-year male dorms,” Jade said, opening a door and leading the way into a corridor. A very familiar corridor. “What do you think of it?”

I’d prefer a room of my own, Emile thought. He hadn’t liked his roommates and the feeling was mutual. It felt like a betrayal that Emily had gotten on well with at least one of them. This is just ...

Jade opened a cupboard, pointing out everything from bedding to a handful of school supplies. Emile took what he needed, silently relieved he’d been taking care of himself for most of his life – both lives. Jade watched him silently, noting everything he took ... Emile wondered, again, if Jade had realised something was off. He hadn’t known, the first time, just what he needed; now, he knew all too well. Perhaps he’d need to think of a better cover story. It was only a matter of time before someone started asking pointed questions.

“Your room is here,” Jade said, opening another door. “The housefather beds down by the entrance. If you need anything, just ask him.”

Not a chance, Emile thought. Housefather Jackrum had been an asshole the first time around and he doubted it would be any different this time. The man had done as little as possible and gotten away with it. I’d sooner buy what I need from Dragon’s Den.

Ice shot through him. He had no money. Not here.

He put the thought aside as he stepped into the room, feeling another unpleasant flicker of déjà vu. The room was small; three beds neatly organised against the walls, each one flanked by a chest of draws and a single wardrobe. Magic hung in the air over two of the beds, very light and basic ... it took him a moment to realise it was the best the other two students could do. They were firsties, not grown adults. The charms might deter someone their age, or someone who lacked magic, but not anyone else. An older student could get through them with ease.

Jade patted him on the back. “Good luck.”

Emile tried not to flinch as Jade left him alone. The bed was exactly as he remembered ... he hastily made it up, then sat down on the mattress as everything threatened to catch up with him. His body felt weak and frail, his magic was practically popping out of his skin ... he’d need to cast a few spells soon, before the magic rose to dangerous levels. Should he use powerful charms to protect his safety and privacy or would it raise too many eyebrows if he used spells known only to older students? Or ... would they just assume he’d been taught the spells before being sent to school? Everyone had thought he was Void’s son ...

The Grandmaster knows better, he told himself. And you have already given him reason to be suspicious of you.

He paced the room, his mind running in circles. How much could he safely do? History had already changed ... was he threatening everything by changing it further? He’d seen the multiverse ... logically, changing the timeline should only create two new timelines. But was that actually true? He hadn’t been just sent back in time. He’d been dumped into the body of his past self. Was that a form of murder? Had he killed himself? Or had they merged into one ...?

The door opened. Emile looked up and froze as Cirroc and Bertram stepped into the room. He should have expected to see them and yet ... it was hard, so hard, to keep the fear from showing on his face. Judging by the flicker of contempt that crossed Bertram’s face, he’d failed. The second-year student had never liked Emile and never bothered to hide it. And he was a bully. Cirroc wasn’t much better.

“So, you’re the new bug,” Bertram said. He was big and beefy and possessed of a certain animal cunning and bottomless reserves of cruelty ... Emile had been relieved beyond words when he’d left Whitehall after his exams. His piggy eyes seemed to bulge as he eyed Emile, conveying a challenge. Emile had failed the first time. Now ... it was still hard to meet his eyes. “Let me explain something to you.”

He strode over to Emile, who found himself inching backwards. Up close, Bertram was far more intimidating than any of his earlier bullies and far more dangerous too, with the power to turn someone into a toad as easily as he could punch them in the gut. Emile knew, intellectually, that this was a test, that the predatory fucker was trying to see if Emile could be pushed around or not. Void had done him no favours, by sending him to Whitehall on a dragon. It had drawn far too much attention from trainee sorcerers who wanted – needed – to sort out their place in the pecking order. Emile had rapidly fallen to the bottom.

“I am the boss,” Bertram said. “I am in charge. And that means you do what I say.”

He reached out to poke Emile in the chest. Emile’s mind cracked, too many realities colliding inside his own psyche. Magic blasted out of him, a blast too uncontrolled to be called a real spell and yet shaped by charms and techniques he had only a vague memory of creating and casting. Not his memories ... Bertram was picked up and thrown against the far wall, the wards around his bed shattering as the magic ripped them to pieces. The bully fell to the ground and lay there, blood pouring from his nose. Emile felt a flash of panic – a lucky hit; now, the asshole was going to kill him – followed by pure rage and delight. Bertram had been a bully and now he’d been slapped down so hard he couldn’t get up again. And yet ...

There’s nine years of magical education between you, his mind whispered. You’re a grown man picking on a child.

He’s a bullying thug, his thoughts answered. He deserves everything he gets.

“This is your one warning,” he managed, somehow. It was hard to speak clearly, hard to focus his mind. He felt like the mouse who’d volunteered to bell the cat. “Listen to me.”

His voice shook as he spoke. Cirroc stared at him, his eyes unsure ... he’d always been a little smarter than Bertram, to be fair, and yet he was getting some very mixed messages. Emile was both terrified and powerful, weak and yet strong ... how did one square this particular circle?

“I don’t care if you love or hate me,” Emile continued. Neither Bertram nor Cirroc were the type he would have wanted for friends, even if they hadn’t started on such a bad note. “I don’t care what you think of me. I am here to study, nothing else. Leave me alone. That’s all you have to do. Leave me alone and I will leave you alone in return.

“If not ... I’ll hurt you.”

The words hung in the air. Emile could practically feel Bertram’s rage and fear as he stumbled to his feet. The lout had to be mad ... he wanted to lash out and yet feared what would happen if he did. It was hard to keep his face steady, when too much of his mentality wanted to grovel and beg forgiveness even though he knew it would never come. Bertram glared, blood splashing to the floor, then turned and left the room. Cirroc gave Emile a long considering look, then followed. Emile breathed a sigh of relief. They’d be back, of course, but not for a while. It would give him time to think, to cast spells to defend himself, to work out what to do next ...

And to try and assimilate memories that were and yet weren’t actually his.