by R. L. King
“Ah. Dr. Stone. Pleasure to meet you. I am Terence Atthill.” Atthill’s appearance went well with his upper-crust voice: he was a hale sixty, comfortably paunchy without being fat, with snow-white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a severe, tailored dark blue suit. “Please follow me.”
He led Stone into a large office only slightly less old-fashioned than the reception area, and indicated a leather chair in front of a large, carved wooden desk. “May I get you anything?”
“No…no thank you.” Stone took the indicated seat. Behind the desk, a large window displayed an impressive view of Westminster.
“Well, then, let’s get to business, shall we?” Atthill settled himself behind his desk and pulled a thick folder to him. “I understand you and Mr. Desmond were quite close.”
“You said you were familiar with our…community?”
“Yes, very much so.” He looked up from the folder. “My mother was magically talented, as are one of my sisters and my daughter. My long association with Mr. Desmond and other clients in the community has given me a thorough grounding, so you can speak freely around me, Dr. Stone.”
Stone nodded. “I was Mr. Desmond’s apprentice. One of them, at any rate.”
“You sell yourself short, Dr. Stone.” Atthill indicated the folder. “From my conversations with Mr. Desmond, as well as what he’s indicated here, you were by far his most prized apprentice. He considered you his magical and intellectual heir.”
“Yes, well.” Stone knew all of this, of course, but it wasn’t the place to be boastful.
“At any rate,” Atthill continued, paging through the first few documents in the folder. “As I’m sure you’re also aware, Mr. Desmond controlled a considerable array of resources: capital, real estate, and…other items that it wouldn’t be practical to include in a standard will.”
“Yes.”
“So…there will actually be two parts to this meeting. The first will cover the bequests from the…er…mundane will, and the second, those of a more magical nature.”
None of this surprised Stone either. It wasn’t at all uncommon for mages, especially those with significant resources, to leave behind two wills—the first properly administered and witnessed by a mundane lawyer, and the second witnessed and sealed with magical oaths and held by a trusted associate. He’d never heard of both being handled by the same people, but aside from Desmond, Stone had little experience with such things. His father had not left a magical will, probably because he hadn’t expected to die so young and so unexpectedly; aside from trusts set up to ensure that the house would be maintained indefinitely and Aubrey’s salary paid, Orion Stone had left his entire estate to his son, and no one had contested it.
Atthill shuffled more papers. “Right, then. To begin—of course, you will have the right to examine the entire will if you wish, but today we’ll cover only those bequests that directly affect you. I’ll provide you with a copy you can peruse at your convenience.”
“Of course.”
“Excellent.” He flipped more papers, then glanced up. “Oh—and please forgive my lack of manners, Dr. Stone. You have my deepest condolences on the loss of Mr. Desmond. We were all shocked when we heard the news.” At Stone’s nod, he settled on a page. “All right. To begin—he has left you a property in London.” He read off the address.
Stone froze in his chair. “Mr. Atthill—could you repeat that address, please?”
When Atthill did, he could only stare at the man. Desmond had left him the London house in Kensington? “Are you sure? I’d have thought Imogen—”
“Yes, Dr. Stone, I’m quite sure. Mr. Desmond and I had several conversations about this particular property. He had originally intended to bequeath it to his daughter, but she made it clear she didn’t want it—largely, from what I understand, because she didn’t wish to reside there and it includes certain features that would make it difficult to sell.”
The portal, and the magically hidden areas. Stone took a deep breath. “Nonetheless…that is a surprise.”
“Mr. Desmond felt that you would be the best custodian for the property. He’s also left a significant trust fund earmarked for all necessary expenses, maintenance, staff, and other requirements. He’s arranged it so the upkeep of the house won’t cost you a penny.”
Of course he had. Because that was what Desmond did. He prepared for every eventuality, anticipating every possible difficulty—except, of course, the biggest one of all.
Stone let his breath out. “All right, Mr. Atthill. Thank you.”
Atthill flipped a page. “This second bequest is a bit more…complicated, and from what I understand, encompasses not only this will, but the other one as well.”
“From what you understand?” Stone tilted his head. “You haven’t seen the other one?”
“I have not seen the contents, no. I witnessed Mr. Desmond’s signature, along with two other magically talented individuals, all of us under magical oath. Mr. Desmond specified that you must be present at the opening of the document.”
Well. That was another surprise, but perhaps not as unexpected as the London house bequest. “I…see.”
“We can deal with the mundane aspect first, if that’s acceptable.” When Stone inclined his head, he flipped two more pages. “This section deals with another, and more significant property, known as Caventhorne. It is located in Wexley.”
Once again, Stone could only stare at him in shock. Desmond couldn’t have left him Caventhorne as well—that would be unthinkable.
“You are familiar with it, of course?”
“Of course.” Stone’s voice came out sounding a bit raspy. “He’s—left Caventhorne to me?”
“Not…per se.” He consulted the papers. “That is why we’ll need to take a look at the magical will as well. This covers only the mundane aspect of the bequest. But what he’s done is set up another trust to maintain the property and its grounds in perpetuity, ostensibly to be repurposed from a private residence to a sort of…educational retreat. And he’s specified that you’re to be fully in charge of how his wishes are administered.”
“Educational retreat?” What did that mean? Did Desmond want to set up some sort of magic school at Caventhorne, and want him to run it? That didn’t even make sense. There weren’t any magic schools, and Desmond, traditionalist as he’d always been, certainly wouldn’t have done anything to alter the time-honored master/apprentice system that had served the magical community well for hundreds of years.
“I believe we will have to consult Mr. Desmond’s other will to get the rest of the story,” Atthill said. “Obviously, there’s a great deal more here, detailing all the legal necessities, but I trust you don’t want to involve yourself in this at present—at least not until you’ve heard all the bequests.”
“Er—no. You’re right, I’d rather not just yet. But—there’s more?” Wasn’t that enough, at least for the mundane portion of the will?
“Just a bit more, at least for the bequests in this document.” He flipped more pages. “Mr. Desmond’s final mundane bequest to you is monetary in nature.” He consulted the page, then grabbed a small pad of paper from the side of his desk, plucked a fancy fountain pen from its holder, and wrote down a figure. Then he slid the pad across the desk toward Stone. “Naturally, it will take a bit of time before everything is settled, and there are taxes involved, of course.”
Stone glanced at the number, then froze in his chair, unable to do nothing but stare. After a moment he looked up at Atthill and indicated the pad. “This—this can’t be correct.”
“I assure you, Dr. Stone, it’s quite correct. Mr. Desmond left the bulk of his estate to his daughter, and to his various trusts and charitable and educational foundations—you’ll see when you’ve had time to peruse the entire document—but he’s also made some personal bequests to his longtime staff and his apprentices. Yours was by far the la
rgest—Mr. Desmond held you in exceptionally high regard, Dr. Stone. You can be certain of that.”
Stone dropped his gaze back down to the number, and rubbed the back of his neck. This was insane. The number on that innocuous legal pad, even after it had been significantly reduced by taxes, represented a truly life-changing amount of money. He was certainly no stranger to wealth—his own holdings and investments were sufficient that he wouldn’t have to work a day in his life if he didn’t choose to, and that didn’t even count the value of his various magical items that he’d never sell—but this…
He didn’t even know how to respond.
“Dr. Stone?” Atthill’s voice was gentle.
He jerked his head up. “Er—sorry. Just a bit…shocked.”
“I take it Mr. Desmond never discussed such things with you.”
“No. We—didn’t see as much of each other after I moved to the United States, and even before that, our conversations were usually about magic.”
“Of course.” He closed the folder. “Well, in any case, that’s the end of the bequests from the mundane document.” He pulled a thick manila envelope from one of his desk drawers. “Here is a copy of the document for you to peruse later.”
Stone took it numbly and put it in his briefcase. “Thank you.” His brain felt disengaged, sluggish with shock.
“Would you like something to drink, Dr. Stone? Water? A cup of coffee? Something stronger, perhaps, before we look at the magical document?”
Right now a big glass of Scotch—or several—sounded great. But probably not advisable, especially if the day’s surprises weren’t yet over. “Er—just a glass of water would be nice. Thank you.”
Atthill hit a button on his desk and a moment later, the prim receptionist came in bearing a tray with two tall glasses of ice water. “Thank you, Mrs. Wells,” the solicitor said, and she nodded and departed.
“Now, then,” he said, as Stone sipped the water. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll retrieve the other document and we can proceed.”
Stone could do nothing but nod in silence.
After Atthill exited through another door on the left side of the office, he slumped in his chair and let his breath out in a long blast. When he’d arrived here, he’d expected to find out that Desmond had left him his magical library, his research, and probably all or most of his other magical items. That made sense—Desmond had never held any of his other apprentices, as far as Stone knew, in the same level of regard. He’d complained often about them—how they were lazy, lacking in intellectual curiosity, powerful and diligent in their studies but unimaginative. Most of them hadn’t even made it through Desmond’s rigorous training regimen, and of those who had, he’d never made any effort to continue his association with them beyond a superficial level after the apprenticeship period ended. All of that meant there really wasn’t anyone else in a position to take possession of Desmond’s vast store of magical objects and tomes—unless he did something like leave them to some kind of generally beneficial organization like Eddie’s library.
But never in his wildest imagination did Stone expect Desmond to leave him the London house, and control over Caventhorne. He wasn’t even sure how he felt about that, to be honest. He’d made his home in California now, and as much as he loved his native land, he had no desire to return to it permanently. Just wait, he told himself. You don’t even have the whole story yet. It was true. Until he knew what was in Desmond’s magical will—given his master’s priorities, almost certainly the more important of the two—he couldn’t know what the old man had had in mind.
Atthill returned and closed the door behind him. This time, to Stone’s surprise, he didn’t carry a folder or an envelope, but rather a box. About the size of a large hardbound tome, it was intricately carved out of some dark wood.
“Here we are,” he said, returning to the desk and putting the box down in front of him. “I’m afraid the next step is up to you, Dr. Stone.”
Stone almost asked what he meant, but instead leaned forward and pulled the box toward him. The carvings were even more intricate than he’d expected, depicting various magical sigils, symbols, and diagrams surrounded by abstract designs. The thing was a masterwork all by itself, regardless of what it concealed within it. A small metal plate set into the top read, in Latin: That which was once almost your downfall now points the way to enlightenment.
Stone picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It weighed about what he expected a wooden box of its size to weigh, but it had no clasp, catch, or other obvious means of opening. He couldn’t even spot a seam anywhere along its surface. “Magically sealed.”
“Yes. Mr. Desmond specified that you are the only person who can open it. The only way that would change would be if you were…somehow unable to do so.”
Damn. That was some powerful magic Desmond had put on this box: if Atthill could be believed, he’d managed to enchant it in such a way that the nature of the requirements for opening it would change if Stone should die or become mentally or magically incapacitated before he had the chance to do so.
Stone held the box in his lap and shifted to magical sight. It lit up, each sigil and symbol glowing with its own mystical light, shifting and pulsing. The effect almost made the box itself seem alive, like a beating heart. Looking at it this way, he could see what might happen if someone else tried to open it—if a mundane tried to force his way in using some physical means, the contents would simply turn to dust. If someone magically talented tried to circumvent the protective measures—well, Stone wasn’t completely sure what might happen, but he was certain it would be painful and potentially even deadly for the offender. Dangerous stuff. What was so important about the box’s contents that Desmond would protect them so thoroughly?
Let’s find out.
He studied it a moment longer, acutely aware of Atthill’s scrutiny, and then nodded as the answer clicked into place in his mind. Desmond hadn’t concealed the box’s contents behind any complicated puzzle or cipher—he’d simply made it so no one but Stone would have the necessary key, because only Stone knew the meaning of the message on the metal plate. The magical sigils and symbols he’d included weren’t random or arbitrary, but rather placed in a specific arrangement, each one representing a particular spell or magical technique. The trick to opening the box was simply, while viewing them using magical sight, to touch the correct sequence of symbols in the correct combination.
That which was once almost your downfall now points the way to enlightenment.
In spite of himself, Stone smiled. Leave it to Desmond to get one last little good-natured dig in at him from beyond the grave. His thoughts went back to the story he’d recently told Verity about the days of his apprenticeship—about the first time he’d come very close to losing that apprenticeship because he’d failed to obey Desmond’s stricture about combining magical techniques in ways he hadn’t yet been taught. Because he’d almost lost his apprenticeship twice, there were two possible answers, but only one of them was depicted in the box’s symbols.
“Do you know what it means, Dr. Stone?” Atthill asked. His voice held the faintest edge of tension.
Stone didn’t blame him—if he somehow didn’t know the answer, the box would likely remain sealed until his death. “Oh, I know it,” he murmured. “Just—remembering old times.” Keeping magical sight active, he shifted the box until the fingers of his left hand settled over the symbol for the telekinesis spell, and those of his right over the symbol for a magical shield. The combination of those two spells, which he’d used as a cocky fifteen-year-old probationary apprentice to fend off beanbags his master had thrown at him and then fling them back at Desmond, had been the first time he’d gotten in trouble with his master. He paused a moment, hoping he hadn’t somehow misinterpreted Desmond’s intent. Then, infusing magical power into his hands, he pressed down simultaneously on the two symbols.
/> There was no fanfare, no magical glow, and nearly no sound except for the tiniest of clicks as the top of the box popped open.
Atthill let his breath out in relief.
Stone glanced inside. Three items lay nestled inside the revealed space: a business-sized envelope sealed with wax, a larger, thick envelope, and an elaborate key that glowed with magical energy.
He pushed the box back across the desk toward Atthill. “Do you need to handle this, or—”
The solicitor reached into the box and withdrew the smaller envelope. “This is the actual document,” he said. “I don’t know its contents. I also don’t know what is inside the larger envelope, nor what the key opens. He placed both items in the box after we prepared and witnessed the will.” He turned the envelope over to show Stone four signatures. The first, neat and orderly, was Atthill’s. The second, bold and large, was Desmond’s. The other two, more elaborate and illegible, Stone didn’t recognize. “With your permission, I’ll open this.”
“Of course.” Stone leaned forward in anticipation.
Atthill broke the seal on the envelope and withdrew several sheets of parchment. When he unfolded them, Stone saw that whatever they contained was handwritten, and he once again recognized Desmond’s confident and precise hand. He waited while Atthill read through a few of the pages, then glanced at a few others and re-folded the sheets.
When the solicitor put the stack back on the desk, Stone was tempted to say, “Well?” But he didn’t. Instead, he waited patiently, hands in his lap.
“To begin with,” Atthill said, “he has provided more detail about his wishes for Caventhorne. He recognizes that it wouldn’t be practical for you to take ownership of the property, and given its unique nature—similar to the London house but with even more difficulties involved—he felt it best that it be maintained for the benefit of the magical community, as a meeting place, reference library, and central clearinghouse for magical research, knowledge, and study.” He picked up one of the sheets. “He also recognizes that you probably won’t want to return to England to take on the job of administering the property—though he believes you would be the best man for the job should you decide to do so—so he understands and has faith that you will delegate these tasks as necessary. Until such time as you do, Caventhorne will continue to operate as it has done in the past.”
