Seph looked up, startled. It was the same phrase Linda Downey had used, the day she’d rescued him from the Havens.
“He should never have brought me here,” Hastings went on. “He should have killed me as soon as he had the chance. His need to show off, his desire to bully and intimidate people will be his downfall.”
“But he has what he wants,” Seph said. “Everyone’s heading right into his trap, and there’s nothing we can do.”
“I will not let Gregory Leicester lay a hand on you again,” Hastings said, looking him in the eyes. And despite all the evidence to the contrary, Seph believed him.
“There’s something else,” Seph said. “Madison is here. The girl from the Legends. The—ah—elicitor.”
Hastings sat up straighter. “Where is she?”
Seph shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since the night we landed. I don’t think they know she’s here.”
“We can’t let Leicester get hold of her. For several reasons.” Hastings pondered this.
Then they heard the snick of the bolt sliding back. Martin and Peter entered, bringing bedding materials, first-aid supplies, and two small folding cots. They also brought a change of clothes for Seph and a tray of leftovers from dinner. They set up the cots side by side in a corner, and spread out the blankets on top. They carried in a small wooden table and two chairs, and laid out the food. There was even a bottle of wine for Hastings, which Martin uncorked. “It’s last year’s Zin from Second Sister,” Martin explained. “Let me know what you think.”
And then they were gone, the bolt replaced. Hastings looked over at Seph. The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’ve stayed in better accommodations, but things are improving.”
Using his bound hands together, Hastings dressed Seph’s wounded hand with gauze, tying it off securely. Then Hastings unbuttoned Seph’s bloody shirt, and between the two of them, they pulled it off his shoulders. Seph put his hands carefully through the sleeves of the new shirt and managed to get it on and buttoned.
“Do you want to sit up at the table?” Hastings rose, a little awkwardly, to his feet. There was about three inches of play in the chain between his hands.
Seph shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” He felt entirely filled up with what he’d already learned. And consumed with what he stood to lose.
“I insist that you eat something,” Hastings said. “In a situation like this, it’s wise to eat when you can.”
Seph wondered how often his father had been in a situation like this. His parents were assassins, spies, operatives, in the thick of the rebellion. What would Jason say?
Hastings prepared a plate, pulling apart a piece of chicken so Seph could eat it easily with one hand, adding cheese, grapes, a slice of bread. He brought it over to where Seph was sitting against the wall. Then he brought him a glass of wine. Seph looked up at him, startled. “Go ahead and drink it, Seph. It might improve things if it’s any good.”
Despite his desperate situation, Seph felt cared for.
Hastings sat down next to him, balancing his own plate on his knees, the bottle of wine by his side.
“Where did the name ‘the Dragon’ come from?” Seph asked.
“Do you know the legend of how the magical guilds were founded?”
Seph shook his head. It hadn’t come up.
“Supposedly the guilds were sired by five cousins, who wandered into a magical valley in northern Britain centuries ago. There they found a powerful dragon guarding a hoard of fabulous treasure. Much of it consisted of precious stones mined in the valley itself, magical artifacts, and such. The dragon welcomed them to the valley and treated them as honored guests. However, the cousins were greedy and wanted to take the dragon’s hoard for themselves. One night they slipped into the treasure room beneath the sleeping dragon. When the dragon awoke, they swallowed the jewels they had stolen. Those became the first Weirstones, and conferred unique magical gifts on the cousins.”
The wine was having its effect. Seph leaned his head against Hastings’s shoulder. If anyone had told him he would be sitting in a dungeon on Second Sister listening to his father tell fairy tales, he would never have believed it.
Hastings drained his glass of wine, poured another. His hand shook a little, splashing wine onto the stone floor. For the first time Seph noticed that the wizard looked drawn and tired, with deep lines of weariness etched into his face.
“Are you all right?” Seph asked, feeling uneasy.
“It’s been a long day,” Hastings said. Then continued with his story. He was a surprisingly skilled storyteller.
“One of the cousins had swallowed the stone that delivered the gift of the spoken charm. That was the wizard, of course.
“So the wizard conjured a plan to overcome the dragon and take control of the magical valley. He charmed the others into submitting to him, because he needed the talents of the other cousins. The sorcerer prepared a powerful poison, the enchanter sang the dragon to sleep, the warrior poured the brew into his mouth, and so on. There are several versions of the story. Some say the dragon was killed outright. Others that he sleeps in the mountain to this day.
“Some say the story is just a fable. Some claim that one day the dragon will awake and right the wrong that was done by the magical guilds and kill us all. Others that the dragon will awake and free the under-guilds from the autocracy of wizards. Hence the name.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Hastings leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. When he spoke, it was almost as if he were talking to himself. “One wonders what a father should tell his son at a time like this.” He put his hands on his knees, the chains on his hands clanking softly. “I’ve spent my life in the pursuit of greatness. Great feats of courage, daring acts of revenge, great demonstrations of hatred. Even great acts of love, when the opportunity presented itself.” He smiled.
“Your mother has accused me of being obsessed with taking revenge on the Roses for the loss of my family. And it’s true. The wrongs done to me have been an excuse for everything I’ve done: murder, betrayal, seduction, larceny. All for the cause. Very convenient.
“I was willing to sacrifice anything and anybody. It wasn’t until recently that I realized what I’d given up. Relationships are a series of small, daily sacrifices. Negotiations, compromises, and gray areas. You become enmeshed. It’s not well suited to someone on a mission.”
Seph shifted on the hard floor. Was Hastings trying to apologize for not being a better father? But he hadn’t even known Seph existed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I see myself in you. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I’ve made. I have to think it’s possible to suffer a great wrong and walk away from it. To build a life of small, exquisitely important moments.”
“But I still don’t . . .”
“Just promise me you’ll consider what I’ve said.”
Hastings lapsed into silence. Seph looked over a few minutes later and realized the wizard was asleep, leaning against the wall. Perhaps weariness and wine had prompted the speech.
Setting his plate aside, Seph stretched out on the cot closest to the wall. Hastings’s potion, whatever it was, was working. Between that and the wine, Seph could scarcely keep his eyes open.
It has been an awful and a tremendous day. It was tremendous, because he had found his father and learned about his mother. He tried not to think of the awful part, but it was there just the same, and it appeared that more awful things lay before him. But his father’s words came back to him, warming him.
I would have refused to give up the only family I have. My son.
And so he slept.
Chapter Eighteen
Reunions
First he noticed the harsh glare of the bare bulbs against his eyelids. Then he became aware of the sound of voices in quiet conversation nearby. For some reason, his right hand was bothering him, his fingers feeling fat like sausages, exceedingly tender. For a few blessed m
inutes, Seph forgot where he was. And then he remembered, and everything made sense but the voices, so he opened his eyes.
Two people were sitting at the table, which had been pulled into the shadows in one of the corners. The one closest to Seph was Hastings. He couldn’t tell who the other person was, so he propped up on his elbows, peering through the gloom. Somehow it still seemed awkward to claim the relationship with Hastings, to call him anything other than his name, so he said, “Hastings?” out loud.
“He lives,” the other one said, laughing softly. The voice and the laugh were familiar, and Seph knew he was either dead or dreaming, because he was never going to hear that voice again. The owner of the voice rose and crossed the room to him and stood silhouetted against the light, looking down at him.
“Hey, Clueless,” he whispered, the light catching the gold at his right ear. “You been working out or what? I think you’ve grown.”
Impossible. It was impossible. “Jason?” Seph said it louder than he intended, and Jason Haley put his finger to his lips.
“Careful. Don’t want to draw the alumni to this reunion. They’d spoil it for sure.” He grinned crookedly. Jason’s hair had grown out somewhat, still ragged where it had been spiked. There was just a suggestion of bleach at the tips. Wherever he’d been since leaving the Havens, he’d been unable to maintain his usual style. He was wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt. He seemed thinner than Seph remembered, although somehow more alive, as if the flesh had been pared away to let the spirit burn brighter.
“Leicester said you were dead,” Seph whispered, as seemed appropriate in speaking to a ghost.
“As far as he knows, I am.” Jason sat down on the edge of the cot. Seph pushed himself into a sitting position and embraced Jason.
Jason patted his back awkwardly. “Hey, anybody ever tell you that you look like your old man?”
“What happened? How did you get away?” Seph released Jason and leaned back against the wall, waiting for an explanation that would convince him it was true.
Jason gazed out into space. “To say I got away would be stretching a bit. They got me at the Weirweb. They’d changed the configuration of the barrier, so my counter-charms didn’t work.” He paused, apparently editing, picking and choosing what he shared with Seph. “Leicester must’ve decided that a drowning was easiest to explain. So when they were done ...ah ... talking to me, they took me to the cove.”
Seph shuddered. Ever since his dream about the boathouse, the experience of drowning was never far away.
Jason went on, speaking in short, economical phrases. “Fortunately, Leicester didn’t disable me. Guess he wanted to see me kick and struggle. They held me under water. I fought them for a while, and then I used the dyrne sefa to step away. I looked good and dead, but didn’t even suck in any seawater. They ‘found’ the body, called my stepmother with the bad news, and shipped me out the next day in a body bag.”
“We never heard anything,” Seph said quietly. “You just disappeared. I thought you got away, until Leicester told me.”
“I split at the airport, scared a few people when I unzipped.” He grinned. “Had to wipe a few minds clean on that one. Then I went home to square things there, keep the family from calling the Havens when my body didn’t show up.” He shook his head. “Thank God for the Anaweir. You never have to explain anything to them if you don’t want to.
“I called Sloane’s, but they said you’d left school, that you were with your guardian. I thought they’d killed you.
“Then I looked up this hacker friend of mine from high school. The Dragon was posting messages on the Web at the time—secrets, coded messages, that kind of thing. I asked my friend to track it down, get a location on the machine the stuff was coming from.”
Jason grinned. The next thing I know, your father here tracked me down. He put his wizard hands around my throat, wanting to know who I’m working for, and why I’m so damned interested in the Dragon.”
Hastings shrugged, a slight smile on his face. Even after a night’s sleep, he still looked pale and tired. The torc around his neck was nearly black, like a piece of silver exposed to the elements.
“Of course, I’d heard of Leander Hastings. Everyone has. It wasn’t easy convincing him not to kill me. I told him all about the Havens, what Gregory and the gang were up to, showed him the portal and how it worked. Naturally, he was real interested once he was persuaded I wasn’t on the other side.”
“That’s why you knew about the alumni,” Seph said, looking at Hastings. “And you weren’t surprised when I showed you the portal stone at the Legends.”
Hastings nodded. “I assumed you were working for Leicester until I found out Jason had been helping you. After our conversation at the Legends, I asked Jason about you and confirmed that you were telling the truth.”
“And you let me keep thinking Jason was dead?” Seph shook his head in disbelief.
Hastings hesitated. “It’s important that Leicester and the alumni not find out that Jason is alive.”
“Now, let’s see what the old bastard did to you,” Jason said, changing the subject. Reluctantly, Seph extended his right hand. Jason examined it gently, turning it over, being careful of the injured fingers. “He gave you a witch’s hand, Seph,” he said softly.
“Witch’s hand? What are you talking about?” Seph pulled his hand back.
“Three middle fingers, all the same length. Old Magic. Witch’s hand,” Jason said solemnly.
Just then, they heard the rattle of the bolt on the door sliding back, and Jason went unnoticeable as it opened. It was Martin Hall and Bruce Hays.
Martin was carrying a breakfast tray. He set it down on the table. “How was the wine?” he asked Hastings.
“Perfect,” the wizard replied, indicating the empty bottle by the door. “My compliments.”
Martin looked pleased. He took off his glasses, polished them on his shirt, returned them to his face. “Not too much berry?”
“Perfect,” Hastings said again.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” Martin said. “I’ll bring another bottle tonight. The other guests will be arriving tomorrow night, so I’ll be pretty busy after that,” he said, almost apologetically. The alumni left, and they heard the bolt slide back into place. They sat quietly for a moment, to be sure they were gone, and then Jason reappeared.
Seph and Hastings ate at the table, while Jason sat on one of the cots. Jason didn’t eat much before he set his plate on the floor. He rose, pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage.
“So what are you doing here?” Seph asked, pushing his plate away. He was finding that eating with his left hand was awkward. He had eaten his muffin without butter because he didn’t think he could handle the knife, and he didn’t want to ask for help. “How did you get in here? Are you just visiting the prisoners, or what?”
Jason stopped pacing. There was another exchange of glances with Hastings.
“Your father and I have been working together,” Jason said. Seph felt a twinge of jealousy that Jason had this shared experience with his father. “When they brought him here, I hitched a ride.” He hesitated, looking at Hastings again, as if for permission to go on.
Hastings nodded. “Although we don’t know exactly what the plan is, Jason and I are going to do what we can to ruin it. The first thing we’re going to do is get you out of here.” He gestured, indicating their surroundings.
“What do you mean?” Seph looked from one to the other.
“We don’t want them searching the island for you. It’s just too small,” Jason said. “So the thing is, we’ll have to kill you.”
Martin noticed something different as soon as he entered the cellar. It was emptier, somehow, and deadly quiet. Before he stepped farther into the room, he waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light along the borders of the chamber. He finally made out two recumbent forms on the cots. No one rose to greet him, however.
He carried the lunch tray to the table and set it on
the floor so he could remove the breakfast dishes. Bruce Hays remained by the door. He didn’t like playing waiter, but Martin didn’t mind. In fact, he considered it a privilege to serve the Dragon. He transferred lunch to the table and the breakfast dishes to the tray.
“It’s lunchtime!” he cried. He’d brought soup and he didn’t want it to get cold.
Hastings spoke without moving. “I don’t care for any,” he said quietly.
“What about Seph?” Martin gestured at the other cot.
“He won’t need any, either.” Hastings paused. “Not anymore. The boy is dead.”
Martin stood frozen for a moment. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. Bruce Hays warily took a step into the room, as if anticipating an attack. Martin crossed to Seph’s cot. Seph lay on his back, his face waxy and pale against the sheets, hair tumbled dark against the pillow, his bandaged hands folded, a still life. Martin shoved his fingers under Seph’s chin, feeling for a pulse. There was none, and he was cold to the touch. Even in the dim light, Martin could see the bruising at the base of his neck.
Martin could scarcely speak. He’d liked Seph, he’d always liked him. And he’d enjoyed Leander Hastings, someone with power and a knowledge of and appreciation for good wine. Now all was ruined.
He sat back on his heels. “Go get Dr. Leicester,” he said to Bruce Hays, who was still hovering by the door.
Hays hesitated. “You shouldn’t stay in here alone with . . .” He didn’t finish.
Martin shook his head impatiently. “Just get him.”
Bruce shrugged and left, bolting the door behind him.
“How could you?” Martin asked, staring down at Seph’s face. “He was your son.”
Hastings said nothing.
They heard a fumbling at the door, someone in a hurry. It swung open and Gregory Leicester stalked in, followed by Bruce Hays, Warren Barber, and Peter Conroy. Hastings sat up and waited, hands on his knees.
Without looking at Hastings, Leicester knelt next to Seph’s cot and ran his fingers over him, felt for a pulse, lifted his eyelids, touched the blueblack fingerprints at the base of his neck. He shook his head, his face a mask of anger.
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 64
