The Wizard Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Seph took this news philosophically. N’exigez pas beau-coup et vous ne serez pas déçu. Don’t expect much, and you won’t be disappointed.

  One thing he did expect was Internet access. “What’s this deal about not being able to go online?”

  “It’s weird,” Harrison said. “They’re up-to-date in a lot of other ways.”

  “Let’s go ask Dr. Leicester about it,” Seph suggested. This was greeted by a notable lack of enthusiasm. Which was surprising, because people always liked his ideas. He tried again. “We could get up a petition. Have a demonstration.”

  Troy cleared his throat. “Um . . . I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Don’t you even care?” Seph demanded, exasperated. Being online was like having access to oxygen.

  “You could ask Dr. Leicester about it,” James ventured, making it clear Seph was on his own. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I think the alumni go online, but that’s it.”

  “That’s another thing,” Seph said. “The alumni. What’s up with them? What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” He looked around the table, but nobody met his eye. “I mean, aren’t you curious?” There was some shrugging of shoulders and clearing of throats. But no real response.

  “Okay. So you’re not curious.” Seph pulled out his cell phone, wondering if the change in location would make any difference. It didn’t. “My cell phone isn’t getting a signal. Should I change providers?”

  “I guess there’s no transmission towers around here,” Trevor said. “Nobody’s phone works. You’ll have to use a land line.”

  This was the most passive group of students he’d ever met. It was as if something had taken the rowdy right out of them.

  “Is there a Catholic church near here?”

  “There are no churches of any kind that you can get to,” James said. “You’ll have to make it up to God in the summertime.”

  “There’s nothing?” Seph looked around the table. “I can’t believe that.”

  “They have an outdoor chapel here, though I can’t tell you why, in this climate,” Trevor said. “There are ecumenical services once a week, either there or in the admin. building.”

  Genevieve had been a devout Catholic, so Seph had attended Jesuit schools until she and the Fathers had disagreed on how to deal with his magical extravagances. The Jesuits had proposed an exorcism. Genevieve had declined.

  Church had always been a sanctuary. The Latin Masses relaxed him. He liked the reassuring cadence of the old language, like ancient charms against the darkness, the perfumed smoke rising from the censers, the cavernous architecture within which his problems seemed small and manageable. He seemed to have an affinity for ritual.

  No Masses. Well, he didn’t expect to stay long.

  “Which one of you is Joseph McCauley?”

  Seph looked up, startled, realizing that the table conversation had died away. Two young men, perhaps college age, stood at the head of the table. One was tall and whippet thin, with hair and lashes so pale as to be almost transparent. The other was dark haired, broad shouldered, and bulked-up. The kind of guy who had creases in the back of his neck and needed two-a-day shaves.

  “That’s me,” Seph said, raising his hand and waggling his fingers. “What’s up?”

  “Dr. Leicester would like to see you in his office.”

  Seph noticed that everyone else at the table was focused on the floor. Like in class, when you hadn’t read the chapter and were afraid the teacher would call on you. “Oka-ay. And you are . . . ?”

  “I’m Warren Barber,” the blond one said. “This is Bruce Hays.” As if that explained anything.

  Seph glanced at his watch. Almost eight o’clock, and, despite his nap, he was bone tired. Best to get this meeting over with so he could go to bed. He pushed back his chair and smiled around the table. “Hey. Good to meet you. Thanks for all the inside. Guess I’ll see you later.”

  They all studied him as if they were trying to fix his image in their minds, like they might forget what he looked like after he was gone.

  “Good luck, Seph,” Trevor said softly.

  “Welcome to the Havens,” Hays said as they climbed the stairs from the cafeteria level to the administrative offices on the third floor.

  “Thanks. Ah—are you faculty members?” Seph asked, while trying to imagine what these two could possibly teach.

  “Nah. We’re alumni,” Barber replied. “We’re the alpha wolves in this organization. Hate to tell you, but you’ve been dining with the sheep.”

  “I ...um ...” Seph had no clue how to respond to this.

  “Dude, you’re going to like it here,” Hays said, clapping him on the back. “We promise.”

  Dr. Leicester’s office occupied the choice position at the front of the building, with the best view of the ocean. It was like no headmaster’s office Seph had ever seen: sleekly modern, with a fax, computer, printer, and scanner. He saw none of the usual diplomas, awards, and other detritus of interschool competitions, save several large sailing trophies.

  Seph looked longingly at the array of cutting-edge hardware, then leaned his hip against a table by the window. “So. What exactly do you do here?” he asked Hays and Barber. “Are you like, teaching assistants?”

  Hays and Barber looked at each other. “I guess you could say we’re more like, you know, research assistants,” Barber said, grinning.

  Seph thought they looked more like, you know, thugs. If you saw Hays and Barber walking down the street, you’d cross to the other side.

  Well, maybe good help was hard to find. “What’s your research about?” Seph asked. “Do you have a grant, or what?”

  “Dr. Leicester will tell you more about the—ah— research,” Hays said. “The thing to remember about us is that we rule on this campus. We answer only to Dr. Leicester.”

  Well, if so, it’s kind of a remote kingdom, Seph thought. I’d rather rule a few square blocks of Toronto than—

  “Hello, Joseph.”

  Seph swung around. Dr. Leicester stood in the doorway.

  “Thank you for coming up. Have a seat.” Leicester pointed to one of two chairs drawn up to a table in the corner. Seph sat. Leicester took the other seat. “You’ve met Mr. Hays and Mr. Barber? Good.”

  A file folder lay on the table. Leicester pulled it toward him and began leafing through the contents. “Joseph, I told you earlier today that here at the Havens we pride ourselves in tailoring the curriculum to the student. Based on your record and the difficulties you’ve been having, I suspect that you may require special attention.”

  Seph peered at the pages between Leicester’s hands, trying to read upside down. “I’m not sure what you mean. What difficulties?” Muddled by fatigue, his mind was not as nimble as usual. “I’ve been doing really well. If you look at my transcripts, you’ll see that . . .”

  “I’m talking about the episode down at the cove this afternoon.”

  Admit nothing—that was his first rule. “I’m sorry I was late. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

  Leicester waved away his answer impatiently. “The ocean very nearly came to a boil. Most unusual, even in midsummer. In fact, it’s never happened before.”

  Appeal to logic—second rule. “What’s that got to do with me?” Seph looked from Leicester to the two alumni and back again.

  “We believe you were the cause—intentional or not.”

  Delay the inevitable—third rule. “Look, I’m really tired, and none of this is making sense. Could we talk about this tomorrow?”

  Leicester riffled through his papers. “You’ve changed schools four times in three years.”

  “Sometimes it takes a while to find a good fit.”

  “I understand there have been other incidents. Fires. Explosions. Flying sheep?” Leicester raised an eyebrow.

  Seph was baffled. If Leicester knew his history, then why had he been admitted in the first place? He shoved back his chair and stood
. “Flying sheep? Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve really got to go.” He turned toward the door, but Hays and Barber blocked the way.

  “Sit down, Joseph,” Leicester said calmly. “Please. Trust me, it’s in your best interest to hear me out.”

  Hays and Barber weren’t moving. Seph returned to the table and sat.

  “That’s better.” Leicester sighed and thought a moment, as if unsure how to begin. Finally, he reached out and closed his hand on Seph’s forearm. Seph flinched, expecting the crushing grip characteristic of men who make a religion of working out. What was surprising was not the strength, but the raw power that roared through.

  Seph sucked in his breath, struggling to keep a stunned, stupid look off his face and not sure he succeeded. After a moment, Leicester released his arm. The print of his hand remained.

  Dr. Leicester was a wizard, too.

  Leicester’s voice trickled into his brain, exploding with a heat like Genevieve’s brandy. “None of what’s happened is your fault, Joseph. Wizards need training, and I expect you’ve had none. You are very powerful, from what I’ve seen. And power will find its . . . outlets.” He paused, then spoke aloud. “So. Am I right so far?”

  Wordlessly, Seph nodded, still trying to grapple with this sudden twist of events.

  Leicester patted him on the shoulder. “I know this must be a bit . . . jarring.” The wizard settled back in his chair. “Once, Mr. Hays and Mr. Barber were just like you—gifted but unschooled. Now they are well on their way to becoming masters.”

  Hays and Barber smiled modestly.

  If I were a master of magic I would work on my appearance, Seph thought.

  “What about everyone else?” he began. “Are they all ...?”

  “Most are not. Most are only what you would call wayward.” Leicester shrugged dismissively. “We recruit students who’ve had difficulty elsewhere because often that includes persons like yourself. The untrained gifted.” The headmaster toyed with an elaborate ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand. “How much do you know about the guilds and the elements of power?”

  “A little.”

  “Tell me.”

  Seph searched his memory. “Um. The gifted are born with Weirstones, a crystalline source of power that sits behind the heart,” he recited. “The power runs in families. The . . . ah . . . kind of Weirstone you have determines the nature and extent of your power and which of the guilds you belong to.”

  When Seph paused, Leicester nodded, encouraging him to go on.

  “The magical guilds include sorcerers, seers, warriors, enchanters and wizards. In the specialty guilds, the magic is more elemental, more direct. Wizards are the most powerful, because they shape magic with words.”

  “And who told you all this?”

  “My foster mother. She was a sorcerer.”

  Genevieve claimed she’d promised his parents not to involve him in the dangerous world of wizardry. So she’d left him with a thousand questions and a power he couldn’t control.

  “And where is your foster mother?”

  “She died three years ago.”

  “Pity.” Leicester mustered up the familiar, sympathetic look. “So you don’t have any family.”

  “Not really.”

  “What is your House affiliation?”

  The same question Alicia had asked. Maybe now he could finally get some information. “I guess I don’t know much about the Houses.”

  Leicester studied him with his ball-bearing eyes, as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth. “As the ruling guild, wizards have been required to develop systems for the allocation of power. Else we would have had Armageddon on our hands.”

  Seph sensed that Leicester had delivered this speech many times before.

  “There are two major Houses of wizards, the Red Rose and the White. Wizard families align themselves with one or the other, and many of those allegiances go back to the War of the Roses in fifteenth-century Britain. Interactions between the Houses have been governed by a document called the Rules of Engagement, the treaty that ended the war.

  “For centuries, power has been allocated between the Houses by a series of tournaments. Members of the Warrior Guild fight as proxies for the Roses. The winning house rules the Weir—the magical guilds—until the next tournament is held. It’s a system that has worked well.”

  Seph leaned forward. His weariness seemed to have disappeared. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”

  “Here in the States, many of the Weir don’t know they are gifted. Old connections have been broken. Some who came here made a conscious decision to leave their Houses behind.” Leicester sighed. “I suppose the under-guilds saw it as an opportunity to escape from service. But for wizards, the result is that young people like yourself have no guidance or instruction. And that can be disastrous. Our purpose here at the Havens is to remedy that.”

  “So you’re saying you can train me in wizardry?”

  Leicester smiled. “I am saying that, yes.”

  “And I’ll learn how to control magic, and how to avoid . . . accidents.”

  “Yes.”

  After the warehouse, Seph had wanted to have nothing to do with magic, ever again. But he had no choice. In his case, power had a way of surfacing in uncontrollable ways. To be able to control magic, to use it properly . . . that would be a miracle.

  But he knew enough to question wizards bearing gifts.

  “What’s in it for you?” Seph asked.

  Leicester stood and walked to the window. He gazed out at the harbor, hands clasped behind his back. Then turned back to face Seph.

  “These are troubled times for the Houses, a time of great danger. Back in the summer, a tournament in Britain went wrong. The Rules of Engagement were broken. A group of mostly servant-guild rebels has taken sanctuary in Ohio. An anarchist who calls himself the Dragon is fomenting rebellion and attacking wizards of both houses all over the world. Alliances are shifting. If war breaks out between the Houses again, we are all at risk.”

  He paused, as if expecting a reaction, but Seph said nothing. He’d always found that he learned more if he kept quiet.

  “To answer your question, I am still nominally affiliated with the White Rose. But it is my hope that through our work here at the Havens we can create a new path, a new order that ends the bloodshed and eliminates the constant warfare between the Houses. Think of what we could accomplish if we were not focused on murdering each other.”

  That made sense.

  “Are there students from other guilds here?” Seph asked. “Like warriors and . . . and sorcerers?”

  “They hardly need the kind of instruction I can provide. After all, they are bred to a purpose.” Leicester’s expression was faintly disdainful. “No, we focus on wizards. Our graduates become the most powerful users of magic in the world.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “We graduated our first class five years ago.”

  “How do people find out about the Havens? I’ve been looking for help for three years, and I’ve never heard of it.”

  Leicester smiled thinly. “The nature of wizard politics requires that we be discreet. You may have heard that we closely control communications in and out of here. There is a reason.”

  “But I don’t understand why . . .”

  “When you know more, you’ll understand,” Leicester said sharply. “We can’t risk discovery by those who would destroy our only real hope for peace. There are those who have a strong vested interest in maintaining the status quo. For that reason, it’s important that no whisper of this reach the Roses.”

  From what he knew of wizards, Seph wasn’t surprised to learn that Leicester had a political agenda. Genevieve had infused into him a deep suspicion of wizard politics, which often seemed to involve bloodying the under-guilds. No doubt the headmaster would try to get him involved sooner or later. But he’d deal with it, if he could get the help he needed. “How does it w
ork? Who does the teaching? How long does it take?”

  “Shall we assume, then, that you are interested in joining our magical collaborative?” Leicester’s eyes glittered.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” The precision of the wizard’s language was a warning, but he could not afford to say no.

  “Good,” Leicester said. “I thought that would be your answer.”

  “When do we get started?” Seph persisted.

  “Take a few days to settle in and get caught up with your other classes. Then we’ll talk again. We have techniques that streamline the process.”

  “Isn’t there something I could be reading in the meantime, some way to prepare?”

  Leicester studied him a moment. “Perhaps. Do you have a Weirbook?”

  “I don’t know what that is.” Alicia Middleton had mentioned Weirbooks at the party.

  “Each member of the Weirguilds has a Weirbook, created at birth. Even those in the servant guilds. It summarizes the member’s magical lineage and family history. Wizard Weirbooks include charms and incantations that have been handed down through families over the centuries.” He paused, raising his eyebrows in inquiry.

  “I don’t have one,” Seph admitted.

  “Actually, you do have one,” Dr. Leicester said. “It’s a matter of locating it. What is really key is what I told you earlier: we require total commitment from our wizardry students. Are you capable of that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Seph replied. “You won’t be disappointed.” He’d lived precariously for years, like someone with a terminal disease, never able to plan more than a few months ahead. Whatever the consequences of this decision, he’d risk it.

  “Good,” Leicester said. “Oh, and it would be best for you not to discuss any of this with the Anaweir.” At Seph’s blank look, he added, “The ungifted students. It only causes resentment, and we don’t want them spreading rumors once they leave the Havens. In fact, it would be best for you to keep your distance from them outside of class.”

  Seph thought of Trevor and Harrison and Troy and the others. “I don’t understand. Why do we . . .”

  Leicester waved his hand impatiently. “Oh, be polite, of course. But you’ll find you’ll have little in common with them as your training progresses. Once you are properly enrolled, we’ll move you into the Alumni House with the others.”