The Wizard Heir (6 page)

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The next evening, Seph dressed carefully in a cotton
shirt, khakis, and a jacket (no tie), and gelled his hair, reasoning that there
was a chance Dr. Leicester would be at dinner. He made his way to Alumni House
at the appointed time, hoping that the evening would go better than the
encounter of the day before.

To be honest, he didn't really care for any of the
wizards he'd met so far.

Mr. Hanlon, whom he'd met in the woods, greeted him at
the door to the dining room.

“Call me Aaron,” Hanlon said.

Although Seph had been careful to arrive on time,
service was already underway. The room was reminiscent of the dining hall in a
very expensive ski lodge: soaring beamed ceilings, flagstone floors, a mammoth
fireplace, and a wall of windows overlooking a waterfall.

The alumni were gathered around a long table. There
were fifteen in all, not counting Seph, a mixture of faculty members and
“researchers” like Warren and Bruce. Leicester wasn't there. Servers
circulated unobtrusively, pouring beverages, passing platters of appetizers,
clearing dishes, and taking orders from an upscale menu. To Seph's surprise,
beer, wine, and liquor flowed freely, but then, he guessed most of the alumni
were of age.

Aaron placed Seph in a position of honor, at the table
center, then sat beside him, with Kenyon King, a phys. ed. teacher, on his
other side, and Bruce and Warren across the table. Someone set a platter of
spiced shrimp in front of him, a glass of wine by his right hand. The alumni up
and down the table introduced themselves.

At the far end of the table was a rumpled kid with
glasses and a twitch, who introduced himself as Peter Conroy. It was the boy
Seph had met in the woods two days before, on the way to swimming. He tried to
catch Peter's eye, but the other boy wouldn't look at him. Seph shrugged. It
seemed less important here, surrounded by wizards, than it had been the other
day.

Seph sipped cautiously at his wine, meaning to keep
his wits about him. It had a distinct Gewurz nose. He smiled to himself.
Genevieve had taken a typical French attitude toward wine, considering it less
risky than water. So he'd had his share at her table and in Europe.

“So tell us about yourself, Joseph,” Aaron
suggested. Everyone leaned forward.

The question he despised. “Um … I was born in
Toronto, but I've moved around a lot. I was raised by a foster mother. A
sorcerer.”

“That must've been fun,” Bruce said, making
a face. “Raised by a sorcerer. Did she have you hunting toadstools and
grinding up frog's tongues and like that?”

Seph blinked at him. “Well, no. Can't say that I
ever did that.” He thought of saying, We used to go to markets in
Chinatown and pick exotic roots and vegetables.

But he didn't.

“Anyway, I haven't had much training in wizardry.
I was hoping you could tell me something about the program here.”

“We have a great library, reserved for the use of
the alumni,” Aaron said. “Thousands of volumes on charms,
incantations, attack spells, and shields. Plus Weirbooks from famous
families.”

“So. Is it mostly independent study?” Seph
asked.

“Well. Kind of,” Bruce said. “Dr.
Leicester has a magical shortcut system that allows all of us to share
knowledge and power. So you'll be in business in no time.”

“Shortcut?” Leicester had mentioned
something about that at their meeting. Seph looked down the table, and it
seemed that there was a lot of foot shuffling and seat shifting going on.

“Plus we're involved in a lot of off-campus
assignments,” Warren said. “Special operations.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know.” Warren looked
uncomfortable. “I think Dr. Leicester told you something about his dream
of uniting the wizard houses. So we work on that.”

“It's really cool. Getting out on our own,”
Bruce said. “We've traveled all over the world. Thailand. London.
Brazil.”

Seph felt that somehow he still wasn't getting it.
It's was like sex, the way people talked all around it but you could still end
up not knowing the basics. “Who pays for all this?” he asked.

“Dr. Leicester has backers,” Aaron said.
“Trust me, money's not a problem. We don't pay a penny for tuition,
clothing, room and board, or anything else.” He picked up a shrimp.
“As you can see, everything's top shelf.”

“How long does the program last?” Seph
asked, handing his plate to the server. “How long do most people
stay?”

Everyone just kind of stared at him as though it were
a really hard question.

He tried again. “I mean, by the time I graduate
next year, will I know everything I need to know?”

Aaron was the first to recover. “Yes,” he
said, smiling. “By next year, you'll know all you need to know.”

Over the next two weeks, Seph settled into the cadence
of life at the Havens. Schools were totally different; they were totally the
same. The course work wasn't as rigorous as he'd feared. In fact, it was rather
superficial. It seemed that the administration at the Havens wasn't focused on
the Anaweir students who filled most of the seats.

It was a small school, and because Seph and Trevor
were both juniors, they had several classes together: algebra II/trig and
physics, social studies, and English literature. But Trevor's warm friendliness
had morphed to a sullen and twitchy mistrust.

Trevor must have told the others about what happened
at Alumni House. Harrison and Troy and James were still chatty and cheerful,
but it was the spun-sugar kind of speech about nothing, usually reserved for
snitches and the rich, insufferable cousins you see once a year. Seph knew he
could win them back if he tried, but he reined in his powers of persuasion. Friendship
didn't mean much if it was inflicted. Once or twice a week he ate dinner at the
Alumni House. He wondered what they said when he was gone.

At first glance the faculty seemed to be a mixed lot,
from the charming Aaron Hanlon to gruff Elliott Richardson to the buff physical
education teacher Kenyon King, to tiny, blue-blooded Ashton Rice. They were
diverse, but there was something the same about them, too, some shared
experience.

Like Harvard men. They all have the mark of the Havens
upon them.

One evening, Seph received a note at dinner, on the
sailboat stationery, please be AT
THE ALUMNI HOUSE AT 9 P.M. G. LEICESTER.

Nine o'clock was a funny time for a meeting, but maybe
this meant his magical training was about to begin. Seph felt a rising
excitement, mixed with apprehension. So far, he didn't much care for Leicester or
the alumni. But he would take what he needed from them and move on.

That night, the fog rolled in off the Atlantic and
condensed into rain—the cold, relentless drizzle that Genevieve called larmes
d'ange. Angel's tears. Seph pulled on a bulky sweater she'd knit for him,
jeans, and a leather jacket. Thus armored, he walked through sopping leaves and
dripping trees to his rendezvous.

When he arrived at Alumni House, he was surprised to
find the common room empty, except for Warren Barber, who leaned against the
mantel, smoking and flicking ashes into the fireplace.

Warren tossed his cigarette into the hearth and
scooped up an armload of clothing from the nearest chair. “Everyone else
is meeting us at the chapel,” he said. "Let's

Seph hesitated. “We're meeting outside?” Was
this some kind of hazing event?

“Brilliant, ain't it?”

Seph had no choice but to follow. Warren led the way
into the woods, following a wood-chip path that bridged a little stream in
several places. Mist clung to the ground, waist-deep in places, beaten down by
the rain. Seph swiped water from his face, looking from side to side, wary of
an ambush.

About a mile into the woods, the trees thinned into a
clearing, revealing a rude amphitheater. Rows of stone benches faced a raised
platform with an altar in the center, framed by standing stones and lit by
torches, the light smeared by the mist.

It reminded Seph of places he'd seen in Britain—
Celtic temples of druidic magic. “What's this all about?” he
muttered, shivering.

Warren led the way up the center aisle toward the
platform. When they reached the front, he tossed Seph a wad of cloth. “Put
this on,” he said.

It was a rough-woven wool cowled robe, bleached white.
Seph pulled it on over his damp clothes. Warren shrugged his way into a robe of
his own, his a deep gray color. The gloom under the trees eddied and shifted,
and other gray-robed persons appeared, moving silently onto the platform, behind
the altar.

“You. Stand here.” Warren tugged Seph to a
spot in front of the benches, facing the platform, then joined the others on
the stage.

And then, finally, a black-robed figure, tall and
spare, materialized on the platform. His face was hidden in shadow, backlit by
the torches along the perimeter, but Seph knew beyond a doubt that this was
Gregory Leicester.

Leicester carried a staff, a tall column of metal-—
bronze and gold layered together, topped by a faceted crystal. Embedded in the
crystal was something dark, like a shadow or a flaw. An amulet. Seph's eyes
were drawn to it; he had to force himself to look away.

It was, perhaps, a show—some kind of initiation
ceremony meant to establish solidarity. Like joining a lodge. It should have
been amusing, what with all the pageantry and costume, but Leicester didn't
come off as much of a showman. Seph didn't like being singled out, placed
before the altar, dressed like a sacrifice. His skin prickled and his mouth
went dust dry.

“Joseph McCauley has come before us, with a
request to join our order of wizards,” Leicester intoned, his voice
emerging from his black hood. “Is this, indeed, your intention,
Joseph?”

Seph cleared his throat, feeling an intense pressure
to respond. “I … ah … guess so,” he replied.

Seemingly undeterred by this lukewarm reply, Leicester
continued. “We have agreed to consider this request. Does the petitioner
understand what is required of him?”

Again, the feeling of focused pressure, the pressure
to say yes. Instinctively, Seph pushed back. “No, not really,” he
said. “Can you tell me?”

Leicester paused, as if this answer were unexpected,
then responded awkwardly. “You are required to link your Weirstone to
mine.”

Reflexively, Seph pressed his fingers into the skin of
his chest, through the folds of the robe. His eyes fastened on a shallow stone
bowl that sat atop the altar. And the knife that lay next to it. He licked his
lips and swallowed. “What?”

Leicester shoved back the hood of his robe.
“Through the speaking of charms, and the letting of blood.”

“Is that necessary?” Seph asked, struggling
to maintain an expression of polite inquiry. “I just want to be trained in
wizardry.”

Leicester rolled back the sleeves of his robe like a
surgeon preparing for a procedure. “Wizardry manifests early,” he
replied. “Most begin their training very young. You are far behind your
peers. This system is a shortcut. It allows your powers to be used safely
without extensive remedial training. We haven't the time for that.”

Seph had the sense that Leicester was choosing his
words carefully. As if what he said might be technically true, but
intentionally misleading. Seph felt a more subtle pressure, like an
undercurrent of magic at work. His muscles loosened and his head swirled with
inarticulate thought.

He mounted a faint protest. “So you're saying
that if I don't go through with this … um … ceremony, you won't train me in
wizardry?”

“I'm saying it takes years to develop skills
enough to practice wizardry safely. I'm saying you are getting a very late
start. I'm saying this is the way we do things at the Havens.” Leicester
picked up the knife and nodded to someone behind Seph. “Bring the
supplicant.”

Bruce Hays and Warren Barber materialized behind Seph
and gripped his elbows. They dragged him forward, half lifting him up the steps
and then pushing him to his knees in front of the altar. They stripped back his
sleeve and pressed his arm against the cold, rough stone, exposing the inside
of his wrist.

It was like a dream. Almost as if he were watching it
happen to someone else. He barely felt the blade as it bit into his flesh, and
his blood flowed into the stone bowl. He should have been horrified as
Leicester spoke words over the bowl in some language of magic, dipped the
crystalline head of the staff into the blood, and then lifted it to drink.

This is wrong, Seph thought. But he felt muddled and
lethargic, limp and passive, carried along through the ceremony like a leaf in
the current.

“Now, rise,” Leicester said to Seph,
“and speak the words after me.” Barber and Hays lifted Seph to his
feet and held him upright. Their hands burned through the rough fabric of his
robe as a thought burned itself into his mind.

This was clearly some kind of pagan ritual. What,
exactly, was he being asked to deliver into Leicester's hands?

He pressed his bleeding arm into his side. The
crystalline head of the staff blazed, casting a greenish light over the
participants. Something fluttered at the edge of his vision, like a scrap of
black fabric. And again, and more, blotting out the torchlight. Bats. Clouds of
bats, swooping about the heads of the alumni, silently dive-bombing the
proceedings. Several of the celebrants covered their heads with their arms.

A sign.

Seph looked across the altar, to where one of the
alumni stood watching. Peter Conroy. His face was a mask of dismay. When he saw
Seph looking, his eyes widened behind his glasses. He shook his head, ever so
slightly.

A warning.

Leicester spoke his magical phrase, then paused
expectantly, waiting for him to echo it, like a vow in a devilish wedding
ceremony. The hooded figures leaned forward in anticipation.