The Wizard Heir (31 page)

New
Threats

Each time Seph surfaced, the pain returned, so he dove
deep and stayed there as long as he could. He felt oddly inverted. During his
time at the Havens, he had come to fear the descent into the abyss of sleep.
Now it was a refuge from what seemed like years of torture at Leicester's
hands.

But hands plucked at him and voices nagged at him
relentlessly. “Joseph.” He gave up, opened his eyes, and looked into
Martin Hall's worried face.

“What do you want?” he meant to say, but it
emerged as a painful croak. He'd been screaming, as if in a nightmare. But it
wasn't a dream. It was real.

The thought amused him, and he laughed.
Unsuccessfully. More of a wheeze.

“Come on, Joseph,” Martin said. “You
have to eat something. You've been sleeping for three days.” He picked up
a sweet roll and waved it enticingly under Seph's nose. The mingled scents of
yeast and sugar turned his stomach.

“Go away, Martin. I mean it.” Seph tried to
organize his face into a scowl, but his body wouldn't obey his commands. He
felt as if his skin had been flayed off, his flesh exposed. Even the pressure
of the sheet was almost too much to bear.

But Peter appeared on his other side, and together
they hauled him into a half-sitting position. Peter gripped his jaw, forced his
mouth open, and Martin poured in the Weirsbane. Seph offered only token
resistance. It was an established routine by now.

But this time was different. They brought him a basin
of warm water, soap, and a washcloth. Peter supported him while Martin
carefully removed his sweatshirt and washed the blood from his body. They
stripped off his jeans, stiff and stinking of lake water, sweat, and terror,
and dressed him in fresh clothes, while he bit his lip to keep from groaning.

“So what's up, Peter?” he asked, feeling a
little giddy. “Do I go to the gallows today, or has Leicester finally
decided to surrender to me?”

It was a feeble joke, but Peter lit up anyway.
“He's really p-pissed, you know, because he can't get anything out of
you.”

Seph rolled his eyes. The only part of him that didn't
hurt. “I don't know anything. That's why he can't get anything out
of me.”

“But you haven't g-given in, either,” Peter
said, admiration plain on his face. “You won't link with him. It makes him
c-crazy.”

“Yeah, well, I can't hold out forever.” Seph
took deep breaths, fighting down despair. He didn't need the alumni making him
into a hero. Three things kept him going. First, the months of mental and
emotional torture at the Havens had desensitized him somewhat. Second, he knew
from Peter that surrender to Leicester was only the beginning of a lifetime of
torment. And third, he knew that to give in was to betray Maddie's presence on
Second Sister.

“He's scared of you,” Martin confided.
“That's why he keeps you doped up on Weirsbane.”

“It was so c-cool,” Peter said. “How we
came in and you had him smashed up against the wall, and his eyes were
b-bulging out. He was practically c-crapping himself.”

Seph dragged his fingers through his resistant curls.
“Oh? Then why didn't you let me finish him?”

“We're linked,” Martin said. “If
Leicester dies, so do we.”

“There's got to be a way to break it.” Seph
looked from Peter to Martin, but they wouldn't meet his eyes.

Seph released a long, exasperated breath. “Are
you guys holding anyone else down here?”

Martin and Peter glanced at each other, shook their
heads. “Just you,” Martin said.

So Maddie wasn't in Leicester's hands. Where was she
then? Stay hidden, he said to himself. Stay hidden until it's all
over.

He plucked at his clean shirt. “What's this all
about?”

Peter looked about warily, as if someone might be
eavesdropping. “I think you have a visitor.”

Once he was more or less presentable, they led him
back up the narrow stairway and down quiet corridors to the study where he'd
met with Leicester the night of his arrival. A half dozen of the alumni milled
about nervously. They took charge of him when he arrived, sitting him in a
chair and binding his hands to its arms with cord. Seph submitted without
protest. The Weirsbane was working, and he had no chance against those odds
without magic.

Leicester entered, wearing jeans and a pristine white
shirt. He spoke briefly to Bruce Hays and then stood behind Seph, resting his
hands on his shoulders. By now, Seph could read the wizard's touch. Power and
excitement and, yes, fear bled through Leicester's fingertips.

“What's up?” Seph asked, trying not to
react.

“Your father's come. He's demanding proof that
you're still alive.”

Before Seph had time to process this, the door opened
and Warren Barber entered, followed by another man. It was Leander Hastings.

Hastings advanced quickly toward them until Leicester
put up a hand, stopping him several yards away. Hastings studied Seph from that
distance, as if assuring himself that he was complete.

Leander Hastings his father. Could it be true? Seph
sat pinned to the chair, feet on the floor, back straight, inhaling as if he
could breathe in the image before him: the structure of the face, something
like his own, but leaner, crisper in profile. The tumbled dark hair, unruly,
familiar. The thick brows overshadowing deepset eyes. Seph wanted to fling
himself forward. Leicester must have felt his muscles bunch under his hands,
because his grip tightened and he said, “Don't.”

“I've come as agreed,” Hastings said.
“That was the deal: a trade—me for the boy.”

Seph found his voice. “Don't negotiate with him!
You can't trust him!” Leicester tightened his grip and new pain laced into
him, effectively stopping his speech and bringing tears to his eyes.

Hastings's expression didn't change, but rather
crystallized, the green eyes like shadowed pools unruffled by any movement of
air.

Leicester didn't seem to notice. “What will the
rebels do without the Dragon? No one to pull the strings of the spy network. No
one to set traps for the unwary.”

“They'll manage, no doubt,” Hastings said,
seeming to choose his words carefully. “Let Seph go now.” He took a
step forward, and Leicester raised his hand again.

“I'll need to restrain you first.” Leicester
nodded to the alumni. They converged on the wizard, but stopped about four feet
away, as if hitting a wall, unable to approach.

Leicester sighed and flattened Seph's right hand
against the table next to the chair. He isolated the little finger, pulling it
away from the others, then picked up a knife from the table, the same as he had
used before. Seph watched in horrified fascination, his breathing quick and
shallow, his hand pink and vulnerable against the bleached wood of the
tabletop.

Hastings saw what Leicester had in mind. “I
give,” he said quickly.

“That's better,” said Leicester.

The alumni shackled Hastings's hands with a heavy
chain.

“The torc.” Leicester nodded to Martin Hall.

Martin opened a jeweled box on the table and brought
out a glittering gold band, etched with runes and studded with jewels. He
encircled Hastings's neck with it, being careful not to touch the wizard.
Martin's hands were shaking, and it took him several tries to close it. Once
fastened, the metal immediately tarnished and the jewels darkened, like stars
blinking out.

Hastings ran a finger under the collar. “Now this
is a rare piece, Gregory. Who did you steal it from?”

Leicester smiled. “It came from the Hoard, of
course. I'll actually miss having the Dragon at large. He always gets the blame
for everything that goes missing. The curator assured me it would keep you
quite docile for the time you have left.”

Leicester's weight shifted, his grip tightening on the
hand on the table. Seph had time to close his eyes before the blade came down.
There was a terrible pain in his right hand, and he had to work on it a while,
convince himself it was somebody else's hand and somebody else's pain, lose his
affection for what had been taken from him.

It took a minute, and several deep breaths, but when
he opened his eyes he could look at his hand with some detachment. It was not
his little finger, but the tips of his middle and ring finger that had been
clipped off, across the nail, even with his forefinger. They were bleeding
heavily, blood staining the unfinished wood of the table.

Seph took another deep breath, lifted his chin, and
looked straight across the room at Hastings. The wizard held his gaze for a
moment. His face was impassive, but Seph could feel his anger, like a beast
crouching in the room.

Hastings shifted his eyes to Leicester. “I won't
forget this,” he said softly.

“That's the idea,” Leicester said, smiling.
“I needed to verify that the restraints are working. You see, I can't
release the boy after all. I have plans for him.”

Hastings's eyes flicked from the alumni to Seph, and
back to Leicester. “Plans?”

“I've offered Joseph a place in my collaborative.
I can be very persuasive.” He wiped the bloody knife on Seph's shirt and
carelessly dropped it back onto the table beside him. “Once we come to an
agreement, he'll play a special role in the upcoming conference.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I'm going to use him to destroy the conference
participants. Beginning with you.”

By the time they reached the cellar, Seph was close to
fainting. He remained upright only through the efforts of Martin and Peter, who
gripped his elbows. Peter wrapped Seph's shirttail around the bleeding hand,
surreptitiously applying pressure.

Hastings surveyed the cellar chamber, frowning like a
guest in a substandard hotel: Seph's mattress in one corner, his pile of
clothes next to it, Leicester's awful worktable as the centerpiece. The room
was cavelike, roughly square, perhaps twenty by twenty feet, with a damp stone
floor and a moist, organic odor. One corner of it had been drywalled into a
crude enclosure containing a shower and toilet. Electrical conduits had been
run across the ceiling to a light fixture in the center sprouting four bare
bulbs that shed a harsh light over the center of the room. The corners were
shrouded in darkness.

“Let's hope the rest of the inn is a bit more
comfortable.” Hastings turned to the half dozen alumni who had escorted
them down. “We'll need dressings, bandages, and antiseptic. Bring down
some bedding, towels and soap, and a change of clothes for him.” He issued
orders as easily as if he were master of the house, welcoming a guest, rather
than a prisoner. He turned to Seph. “What would you like to eat?”

Seph shook his head and slid down against the wall
until he was sitting against it. He closed his eyes, resting his injured hand
over his heart.

“Bring us something anyway,” Hastings
directed the alumni. “I'll see if I can persuade him to eat
something.”

“Yes, sir.” The alumni practically bowed
their way out. Seph heard a bolt sliding into place on the other side of the
door.

“Dr. Leicester's students are not used to
thinking for themselves,” Hastings said. He knelt next to Seph. “Now
let me see the hand.”

Seph kept his hand folded tightly against his chest,
ignoring the blood soaking into his shirt. “Is it true?”

Hastings sat back on his heels. “I am your
father, yes. I'm sorry our first meeting as father and son has to take place
under these circumstances.”

“How long have you known about me?”

“I found out about you three days ago.
Unfortunately, from Gregory Leicester.”

“Somebody knew about me.” Seph kept his eyes
on Hastings's face, drinking in the detail.

“Yes. Somebody did.” The wizard took Seph's
hand and unfolded the bleeding fingers, wrapped them in the shirttail, applied
gentle pressure.

“Who?”

“Your mother.” The wizard spoke matter-of-factly,
with none of the drama warranted by this revelation.

“My mother.” And then, afraid he would die
in the instant before he asked the question, he plunged on. “Who?”

“Perhaps it's best to discuss that when you're
out of Leicester's hands.” Hastings said it as if rescue was just hours
away. “He doesn't appear to know who your mother is, and I would prefer to
keep it that way.”

Seph wrenched his hand free. “No. I've waited
long enough. Gregory Leicester had to introduce me to my father, but you're
going to tell me who my mother is.”

Hastings inclined his head slightly. “All
right.” He spun out a gossamer thread from his fingertips, fine as a
spiderweb, casting it into a large circle around them on the floor until it
enclosed half the room. At Seph's puzzled look, he said only, “Discourages
eavesdropping.”

The wizard massaged his forehead with his thumb and
forefinger, as if he were a man who found it hard to give up secrets.
“It's Linda Downey.”

Linda Downey. Who seemed to know him so well, his
habits, his favorite foods. Who'd pretended to be his guardian. Who was
building a house for them in Trinity.

Nick Snowbeard's words came back to him. Linda and
Hastings were involved, years ago.

Seph scarcely noticed when Hastings picked up his hand
again. He felt a slight tingling now, replacing the pain. Hastings pulled a
small bottle from a pouch at his belt, uncorked it, and handed it to Seph. Seph
took a cautious sip. “Finish it,” Hastings ordered, and Seph drained
the bottle. It spread through him, warming him.

Hastings sat down next to Seph, shoulder to shoulder,
against the wall, still keeping hold of his hand. The wizard's strength flowed
into him, the pain fleeing before it.

Hastings smiled. “I guess I still have a little
power in me, despite the torc.”

“What do you mean? What does it do?”