The Wizard Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Two more years, Seph was thinking. Two more years, and I claim the trust fund and dismiss Sloane, Houghton, and Smythe. Two more years, and I’ll have the time and money to find out who I really am.

  Two years sounded like an eternity.

  Chapter Two

  The Havens

  Seph pressed his face against the cool glass of the airplane window, watching the rugged New England coastline pass beneath him. From this altitude, the Atlantic seemed a gentle lake, a deep gray-green with a delicate frosting of lace where it broke against the beaches.

  The music pounding through his headphones was not enough to occupy his relentless mind.

  He thrust his hand under his sweatshirt, pulling free the half-melted cross Maia had made for him. Surprisingly old-fashioned for a free spirit like Maia. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the ropy intensity of her embrace.

  Seph didn’t consider himself particularly attractive. He knew enough about art to realize he met no classical standard of beauty. His face looked like something he needed to grow into: all bony prominences and sharp angles. His hair tumbled into unruly loose curls if he didn’t gel it into submission. He’d grown so recently that he still felt awkward and poorly put together. But girls still made excuses to touch him, to play with his hair. Maia had always talked about his eyes: how they changed color with the light— brown, and then green or gold.

  And now she was dead. Because of him.

  He stared down at his hands. Murderer’s hands, though they looked like normal flesh and bone. He was . . . pathological. Was it merely a lack of knowledge, or was it some kind of fatal flaw?

  He pressed his fist against his chest, imagining that he could feel the weight within. “Vous avez un cristal sous votre coeur,” Genevieve had said. You have a crystal beneath your heart. A source of power that is different for each of the guilds. For sorcerers, enchanters, warriors, and seers, the use of power is more or less hardwired.

  But wizards needed training in order to use and control their power. Genevieve had told him that when magical accidents happened. So he wouldn’t think he was possessed, as the Jesuits had claimed when he was still small.

  But she hadn’t told him the truth about his parents. And for that, he felt betrayed.

  He needed a teacher. If he couldn’t learn to control his gift, it was better not to have it at all. Could the stone be removed, like a diseased gallbladder?

  At least Genevieve had not had to deal with the warehouse. She would have gone to church and lit a candle and prayed for him. She would tell him that in God’s eyes he was perfect, though how she knew this, Seph couldn’t say.

  Seph’s ears told him they’d begun their descent. The aircraft was a sixteen-seater, with only six other passengers—hunters and tourists, by the looks of them. Seph liked the intensity of small planes. Perhaps he’d buy a plane now that he was old enough for flying lessons. He smiled at the thought, his first smile of the day, and pulled off his headphones.

  The plane banked and circled. The ground rushed toward them and bumped down on the grassy runway. Before they had rolled to a stop, he was on his feet, pulling his bag from the overhead compartment.

  He closed his eyes and centered himself, as Genevieve had taught him. You can do this. You’ve done it before. You’re good at meeting people. Only, this new school was small, about one hundred students, according to the brochure. He’d never done well at small schools. He made too many waves to survive in a small pond.

  Somehow, he had to find a way to succeed here. Two years, and he could go back to the city and disappear.

  The airport boasted one battered, sheet-metal building. Grass feathered the asphalt of the parking lot.

  A man waited by the metal fence that surrounded the landing strip. He was tall—taller than Seph by at least half a foot. He was absolutely bald, but whether he was naturally so or shaved his head, Seph couldn’t tell. Despite the brisk weather, he wore a white, short-sleeved golf shirt that showed off his muscular arms. He looked to be about fifty, but it was hard to tell with bald men.

  Seph waited until the crew had unloaded the baggage compartment, then pulled his other bag from the cart, swinging it over his shoulder. As he walked toward the gate, the man stepped forward to meet him.

  “You must be Joseph McCauley,” he said in an upper-class British accent. “I’m Dr. Gregory Leicester, headmaster of the Havens.”

  Up close, the headmaster’s eyes were a peculiar flat gray color, like twin ball bearings. The absence of hair and the fact that his lips were the same color as the rest of his face gave him a strange, robotic quality.

  Relieved that the headmaster didn’t offer his hand, Seph conjured a smile and said, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Must be a small staff, he thought, if the headmaster comes to collect you at the airport.

  “Is that all you have?” Dr. Leicester asked, nodding toward the luggage.

  “That’s all. I shipped some books ahead, and my computer.” Seph traveled light, which was convenient when you moved around as much as he did.

  Of the half dozen vehicles clustered in the lot, Dr. Leicester directed Seph toward a white van with THE HAVENS and a sailboat stenciled in gold on the door. The van was unlocked. The headmaster took Seph’s bags and tossed them easily into the backseat. He motioned Seph to the shotgun position, and climbed in on the driver’s side.

  “We’re just about an hour away from school,” Leicester explained. “It will give us a chance to get to know each other.”

  They pulled out of the gravel parking lot and turned onto a two-lane highway. From the maps, Seph knew there was a small town south of the airport. But their destination was about fifty miles north, with nothing much in between. Why would anyone build a private school in such a remote location? A hunting lodge or a prison, he could understand.

  “Did you come directly from St. Andrew’s, or did you spend some time at home?” Leicester asked, keeping his gaze on the road.

  “I came from Toronto. I was at a camp there all summer,” Seph replied. His head ached, as if metal bands were tightening around his forehead, and he felt dizzy and disoriented. It could’ve been the aftereffects of the flight, though he was usually a good flyer.

  They swept past two gas stations, a scattering of houses, and then plunged into a thick forest of pine and aspen. He lowered the window, hoping the fresh air would revive him, and was rewarded with the sharp scent of evergreen.

  “You’ve had a long day, then.” Dr. Leicester broke into his reverie. “I hope you were able to sleep on the plane.”

  “Yes. Some.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “I was born in the States, but I grew up in Toronto.”

  “Do your parents still live in Toronto?”

  “My parents are dead.” Seph stared straight ahead.

  “Ah. Well. We’ve corresponded with your guardian, Mr. Houghton. I assume you have relatives in England, then?”

  “Mr. Houghton is just a solicitor. An attorney. I don’t know much about my family.” Nothing, in fact.

  What he’d been told of his parents was frail and colorless, like a line drawing, an outline of a story without the flesh and bone. His mother was a Toronto-based flight attendant; his father a software entrepreneur. They had died in a fire in their California canyon home when Seph was a year old. Genevieve LeClerc had been his childcare provider, and became his foster mother. That story had been repeated to him since he was very small.

  And now he knew it was a lie.

  “I think you’ll like it here, Joseph, once you settle in,” Leicester said. “I know you’ve changed schools several times. Often talented students get into difficulty when their needs are not met. Here at the Havens we rarely lose a student. In fact, we integrate high-achieving secondary students into our more specialized programs. We’re believers in tailoring the curriculum to the student.”

  “I see,” Seph said. “That sounds like a good approach.”

  He co
uldn’t help being distracted by the view. He was a city creature. For the past half hour, he’d seen nothing but trees on either side of a fragile strip of pavement. Not even another car on the road. “It seems . . . um . . . isolated.”

  “You can wander for miles and never leave the property,” Leicester said, as if that were a plus.

  Many of the crossroads were now dirt roads that carried the names of beaches. Following a long stretch of unbroken trees, they reached a turnoff marked with a tasteful brick-and-stone sign that said, THE HAVENS and PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  A high stone wall extended in both directions, as far as he could see. To keep the trees from wandering, no doubt. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The wall had a smudged and fuzzy quality, as if shrouded in tendrils of mist.

  Maybe he had a migraine coming on.

  They turned right, through a high wrought-iron gateway onto an oiled dirt road.

  Along the lane, the trees stood so close Seph could have reached out and touched them. Their leafy tops arched and met overhead, sieving the light into frail streamers that scarcely colored the ground. The air hung thick with the scent of green things long dead and half decayed. They drove through dense woodland until the trees thinned and the light grew. Glimpses of water and a freshening of the air said they’d reached their destination.

  They pulled up before a large cedar-and-stone building separated from the water by a broad boardwalk. A long dock ran out into the harbor. Several sailboats bobbed alongside, sails furled and tied to the masts.

  “This is the administration center,” Dr. Leicester explained. “The cafeteria, gymnasium, library, commons areas, and other student services are all in here.” He drove a hundred yards farther and stopped in front of another building. “This is Gareth Hall. Most classes are held here, with the exception of physical education, art, and music. We’ve been in session for several weeks now, so you’ll have some hard work ahead of you.”

  Art and music shared their own building. It couldn’t really be called a campus—there wasn’t enough open space for that. Each building stood isolated in its own clearing, the forest crowding in on all sides, as if struggling to hold it at bay. The tall, straight trunks of trees marched away until they collided in the gloom.

  All of the buildings were of similar construction, as if the school had erupted, fully formed, out of the ground. It was a jarring contrast to St. Andrew’s, with its ancient stone lecture halls, bell towers, and green lawns, the mountains framing every vista. And UTS—he shoved images of the city out of his mind.

  “You must see a lot of wildlife here,” Seph observed, because Dr. Leicester seemed to be expecting him to comment. Middle of nowhere, he thought.

  “A little bit of everything: moose, bear, wolves, deer. The raccoons and bears can be a problem.” Leicester laughed like it didn’t come easy. It was hard to imagine this man presiding at a fundraising dinner or glad-handing parents.

  They stopped in front of a more modest three-story structure, stone and glass and cedar, similar in design to the other buildings, but on a smaller scale. “This is your dormitory.” He handed Seph a key card. “You’re in suite 302. Need help with your luggage?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Seph climbed out and retrieved his bags from the back seat.

  “I’ll arrange for one of our students to give you a full tour before Monday. If you’re hungry, you ought to be able to find something in the cafeteria in the admin. building.”

  Seph wasn’t hungry. His headache was worse. He felt as if someone had been beating against his skull.

  “Swimming is at four thirty,” Leicester said. “Change into your swim gear and follow the signs to the cove. Everyone will be down there, and you’ll have the opportunity to meet the other boys.” The headmaster didn’t give him a chance to argue. The van lurched forward, spitting gravel from beneath its wheels.

  Seph looked around. Sunlight painted the tops of the trees, and here and there a break in the canopy overhead allowed it to penetrate all the way to the forest floor. Otherwise, the ground was bathed in a cool green twilight. Leaves shuffled overhead and branches rattled in the wind. A squirrel scolded him furiously from a nearby stump. He was already chilly, even in his hoodie. Maybe this was swimming weather in Maine, but not where he came from.

  Wherever that was.

  He slung his bags over his shoulder, ignored the elevator, and climbed three flights of stairs to his floor. His room was at one end of the building, rather isolated, off a short corridor. Leicester hadn’t said anything about a roommate, and Seph wasn’t surprised to find he had a room to himself. Students at expensive schools were used to their own space and plenty of it.

  Each school he’d attended was captured by single image in his mind: the cavernous great hall at Dunham’s Field School in Scotland; the view from the bell tower at St. Andrew’s in Switzerland; Montreal illuminated at dusk in midwinter, where the sun seemed to set in midafternoon.

  This room boasted a gas fireplace and a screened porch overlooking the woods. The furniture included a single bed with a heavy oak headboard and a thick comforter with a pine-tree pattern, a dresser, a serviceable desk and bookcase, two upholstered chairs for guests, rag rugs on the floor, and ceramic tile in the bathroom.

  The walls had been left empty, a fresh canvas for someone to paint on. Only, Seph didn’t do much to personalize his rooms anymore. There was no point. He’d learned to carry his sense of self around with him.

  A basket of fruit and several bottles of water were arranged on a small table with a note, Welcome, Joseph, imprinted on cream-colored stock embossed with a sailboat.

  His books had arrived and were waiting in boxes in front of the bookcase. His computer had been unpacked and left on the desk. There was no phone, however, and no data port that he could find. Pulling out his cell phone, he scanned the screen. No signal. He swore softly and returned it to his jeans pocket.

  Methodically, he unpacked his bag, put away his toothbrush and paste and the rest of his washroom supplies, and took two ibuprofen. He located the electrical outlets, set his MP3 player in its cradle, and placed the speakers. He had the best sound system money could buy. He turned the music up loud, hoping it might draw visitors. It didn’t.

  His clothes only occupied three drawers out of six. He moved his books from the box to the bookcase, running his fingers over the familiar titles in French and English.

  Maybe he didn’t need to carry so many books around with him, either. How often did he read a book more than once? He’d learned to pare down, to simplify, like a business traveler trying to force his life into a carry-on.

  By four o’clock his headache had eased somewhat.

  He wanted more than anything to lock the door and collapse into bed. But it was his custom to get introductions over quickly.

  There was no answer at any of the nearby rooms, until he knocked on the door of the room at the far end of the hall, on the other side of the staircase. A solid, athletic-looking black student answered, clad only in swimming trunks. A silver amulet hung from a chain around his neck: a stylized Hand of Fatimah.

  Protection against the evil eye.

  Seph smiled and stuck out his hand. “I’m Seph McCauley. I just moved in at the other end of the hall.” Good social skills, it always said in his evaluations, along with Excels academically.

  “I’m Trevor Hill,” the boy replied, grasping Seph’s hand, then flinching and letting go quickly. “Whoa, you shocked me!”

  Seph shrugged, accepting no credit or blame. How often had he heard that one?

  “I heard someone new was coming this week.” Trevor’s voice was like a slow-moving river: warm and rich with Southern silt. “Would you like to come in?”

  Trevor stepped aside so Seph could enter. It was a mirror image of Seph’s room, but seemed smaller, because it was crowded with extra furniture: a small refrigerator, a television, posters of sports figures. Seph’s room was spar-tan in comparison.

  “This is cool!”
Seph said. “Did you do all this in the last three weeks?”

  “Nah, I’ve had the same room for three years.” Trevor glanced nervously at his watch. “I guess we have a little time. You can clear the stuff off of that chair and sit.”

  Seph sat in the desk chair. “Are you a senior?” he asked, trying to put the other boy at ease—knowing he could do it with a touch of his hand, but best not to try that with someone he’d just met.

  “Junior,” Trevor replied. “I’m from Atlanta. Buckhead area. Got no business being so far north. I about freeze to death every fall.” He snatched up a heavy sweatshirt from the bed and pulled it over his head.

  “I’m a junior, too,” Seph volunteered.

  Trevor asked the inevitable question. “Where’re you from?”

  “Toronto, but my last school was in Switzerland. So I’m used to the cold.”

  “Switzerland, huh?” Trevor stopped looking nervous and started looking impressed. “Why’d you leave?”

  “It didn’t work out.” Seph rolled his eyes.

  Trevor nodded, as if this answer wasn’t unexpected. “The Havens your parents’ idea?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings.

  “My parents are dead. I have a guardian. A lawyer. He set it up,” Seph replied, thinking that he should buy a T-shirt that said, ORPHAN FROM TORONTO. It would save time in these situations.

  “So what’s the deal here? How do you get along with the staff?” Seph continued. Not that Trevor’s advice was likely to be helpful in his case.

  Trevor leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. “Oh, I was in trouble a lot before I came here, too. You just need to follow the rules. Do that, and you’ll be okay. They specialize in boys who’ve had problems at other places.”

  “Really?” Great, Seph thought. I’ve landed in some kind of upperclass reform school. Trevor seemed normal enough, though, and he’d been there three years. “Do they kick you out if you get in trouble?”

  “No one gets expelled from the Havens,” Trevor said. “You’ll see. Their program is very—what they call— effective.”