Hastings wasn’t hungry anyway. He was sleeping more and more, his body conserving its resources, resisting the draining of power from his stone.
It took some getting used to, walking into traps. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding them. Still, Seph was safely out of harm’s way, for the time being at least. By now he would be back in Trinity. Hastings consoled himself with that. His was an ancient line, and it would continue through Seph. Throughout more than a hundred years of risk and intrigue, that had never seemed important. Until now.
A slight sound at the door alerted him that someone was coming. The bolt slid back, and then he was blinded as the switch was thrown and the bare bulb kindled.
Someone came and stood over him, backlit by the fixture.
“Mr. Hastings.”
“Martin? What a pleasant surprise.” Those few words seemed to claim all his breath.
Martin dropped to his knees beside him. “They’re coming for you. We only have a few minutes.”
“They’re coming for me?” Hastings tried to show a spark of interest. “What for?”
“To kill you. There’s two wizards dead already. And I think we’re going to kill some more people after you.” Martin stared at the floor.
“Who’s dead?”
“Ravenstock. And Hadrian Brennan, from the Wizard Council.”
“From the Wizard Council?” Hastings’s sluggish mind tried to fit that into some scheme. “Why are you attacking them? What’s going on?”
Martin’s eyes slid away. “Dr. Leicester wrote up a new constitution. Everybody just signed it. He and D’Orsay are kings for life. Something like that.”
“I see. So, Martin. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for everything that’s happened.”
Hastings sighed. “If you’ve come to make confession, I can scarcely offer absolution.”
But Martin rolled on. “I understand why you killed Joseph. It was a brave thing to do. Dr. Leicester was . . . was torturing him. Leicester is a coward. He was afraid of Joseph. Even . . . even with our help. That’s why he kept him doped up on Weirsbane. And he’s afraid of you. That’s why he had me place the torc.”
And then, unexpectedly he smiled, the brown eyes lighting behind his glasses. “Only the wizard who places a gefyllan de sefa can remove it,” he said. He reached for the collar.
Hastings held up a hand. “Are you sure you want to do this? It probably won’t make any difference in the end.”
“It does to me.”
“Leicester will kill you.”
“I don’t really care.” Again, Martin reached toward Hastings, took hold of the collar around his neck, and manipulated the catch. The torc fell away, landing with a clang on the stone floor. It was sooty black, tarnished, and unrecognizable as the jeweled collar Martin had placed three days before.
The immediate effect was anything but pleasant. The little power that was left in Hastings slammed back into his stone, protecting the source over everything else. For a moment, Hastings thought he might vomit all over Martin Hall. He leaned his head back against the wall, taking deep breaths.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful, but it’s a pity you couldn’t have managed this a day or two ago.”
Martin picked up the collar. “Now I’ll reverse the charm. But I’m afraid it will take some time to restore your stone fully. And . . .” He glanced toward the door. Hastings could hear it, too. Someone coming.
Martin refastened the collar around Hastings’s neck, fumbling in his haste. It was all Hastings could do to sub-mit. He would prefer dying unencumbered. Martin muttered the countercharm as the door opened.
Leicester had sent only three of the alumni to fetch him, a reflection of Hastings’s presumed diminished powers and the need to keep watch on those council in the chamber. The one in the lead, Bruce Hays, skidded to a halt when he saw Martin. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve asked Mr. Hastings to forgive us for everything we’ve done,” Martin said, without hesitation. “I wanted him to understand we had no choice.”
“Oh, please.” Hays rolled his eyes. “Do you realize how powerful we’ll be under the new constitution? We’ll be the enforcers. We’ll have all the toys at our disposal. Unlimited access to the servant guilds.”
Hastings could feel the power returning, a faint trickle, like good brandy into his gut. So slowly.
Hays unfastened the chains from the wall. They hauled him to his feet and propelled him toward the door, Martin Hall following behind. They half lifted him up the stairs, out of the cellar, and into the fresher air above.
Hastings looked quickly about him when they entered the hall. The Weir representatives were seated around a large table at the center of the room, bodies locked in place. Thirty-odd members of the Wizard Council were ranged along the wall, similarly incapacitated.
Linda was seated at the head of the table. Leicester was standing just behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. She had her enchanter mask on, the carefully blank expression that could mean anything at all. Hastings could tell that it frustrated Leicester, and he smothered a smile.
But then Linda saw Hastings, and the mask slipped a little. Her expression was complex: surprise, pain, a question. She thinks I killed our son, Hastings reminded himself. And realized that she might never learn the truth.
The end of the room opposite the door was anchored by a huge fireplace. What looked like an executioner’s block had been placed just in front of the hearth. Leicester’s young wizards were milling around it. This, then, was their destination.
Hays directed Hastings to stand just behind the block. The alumni arranged themselves in two arcs on either side of the fireplace with the stone at their center and the open end toward the conference table. The wizards along the perimeter and the other Weir at the table shifted and whispered like a class at dismissal time.
Leicester faced his audience. “Under the new constitution, punishment for traitorous activity will be quick and direct, as it was in centuries past. This serves all of us.
“For years, a traitorous wizard who styles himself as the Dragon has interfered with the administration of the Rules of Engagement and incited the servant guilds to rebellion against their lawful lords and masters. The fact that he has survived this long speaks to our lack of an organized enforcement entity.
“Through our efforts, we have captured the Dragon and disabled the gift that he has dishonored and misused. We will now mete out justice before your eyes.”
A rumble of excitement and dismay rolled through the crowd: muted excitement from the wizards on the perimeter and dismay around the table.
Two of the alumni advanced, bearing an elaborate velvet robe that they settled about Leicester’s shoulders. Two more came forward carrying a long, jeweled case. They knelt before Leicester and opened the case. He lifted from it an elaborate staff that he held aloft in his two hands.
“Leander Hastings, known as the Dragon, you have been convicted of treason and inciting of rebellion among the servant guilds. Do you have anything to say before your sentencing?”
Hastings raised his brows. “I’ve been convicted? Somehow that got by me. By what court?”
“You’re a traitor, Hastings. You don’t deserve due process.”
Hastings looked him up and down. “You always did like to play dress-up, Gregory. Get on with it, then.”
“And so for these crimes you are sentenced to death. Sentence to be carried out immediately.”
“Leicester! May I speak?” It was Linda.
Hastings swore under his breath. “Linda, no. Leave it be.”
Linda ignored him. “I have something to say relative to this man’s crimes.”
“Just get on with it, will you?” Hastings said to Leicester. “Don’t you have other murders to commit yet tonight?” He looked over at the wizards against the wall, and they shifted uneasily.
Leicester smiled. “No, Hastings, I think she deserves to be
heard. After all, you murdered her son.” He walked back to where Linda was sitting, yanked her to her feet, and led her to the front of the room, pointing her at the defendant. “Speak!”
But Linda did not speak to Hastings. Instead, she turned and addressed the assembly. “Leicester and D’Orsay are to be commended. God knows, they are efficient. Risking life and limb, they kidnapped an adolescent boy so they could lure the Dragon here to Second Sister. They captured the notorious Leander Hastings, locked him in a wine cellar, and within hours, convicted him of a capital crime. Now they propose to summarily execute him.
“What are the Dragon’s crimes? He is known to be in the habit of asking difficult questions. He is a spymaster who turns over stones and exposes what’s underneath. He reveals secrets. On occasion, his followers have stolen magical objects and blown things up. Yet it seems to me the Dragon’s greatest crime has been revealing the truth about the guild hierarchy.”
You could have heard the beat of a butterfly’s wing in the hall. The whisper of snow sifting into the treetops.
D’Orsay shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Linda went on. “Tyranny is the most efficient form of government. But I would suggest that due process has a purpose. That there is a difference between efficiency and justice. You see, Leander Hastings is not the Dragon. I am.”
As soon as she said it, Seph knew it was true. From the elegant way she’d gutted Leicester and D’Orsay. From the look on Leander Hastings’s face. From so many mysteries finally explained.
The solution to a puzzle seems obvious, once you know what it is.
Jason nudged him. “So, Seph. Guess you’re the son of the Dragon after all,” he said dryly.
Leicester and D’Orsay were staring at Linda as if they’d never really seen her before. And might never underestimate her again.
“So,” Leicester said, attempting to regain his equilibrium. “We have here the brains and body of the rebellion. We are most thankful that you spoke up, Ms. Downey, in time to prevent a serious miscarriage of justice. It appears that two executions are called for, instead of one.”
“Come, Gregory,” D’Orsay said hastily. “Surely not. Such a waste, I mean, an enchanter? Surely she can be rehabilitated.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Seph muttered. “Even if we can’t do what we originally planned.”
“Let’s split up and take our stations,” Jason whispered. “I’m going up to the gallery.”
Seph concealed himself in the alcove just outside the butler’s pantry. He turned and tapped gently on the warded door, hoping Madison might hear him and Leicester and D’Orsay would not.
“Madison!”
No answer. Seph turned back to the hall and peered out from his hiding place next to the fireplace.
Leicester had prevailed, because Seph’s parents were being escorted to the front of the room by a crowd of nervous alumni as Leicester stood by with the staff. It appeared to be the same one he’d used the night at the outdoor chapel, when he’d tried to “recruit” Seph. It seemed a decade ago.
“Perhaps, just this once, we’ll forgo ‘ladies first,’” Leicester said, smiling. “So you can watch the execution of the man who murdered your son.”
They shoved Hastings to his knees. Leicester gripped the staff with both hands, raised it high.
Then Martin Hall said, “Look!” He was focused on something over Leicester’s shoulder. Leicester swung around to see the shimmer in the air behind them coalesce rapidly into a terrifying presence.
It stretched from the floor nearly to the ceiling in the great hall. Flames bled off in all directions, writhed against the ceiling and licked the stone floor. Showers of sparks cascaded over the assembly and exploded into the galleries. The image continually shifted shape, but it was too bright to look at for very long, anyway. Although it was midday, the light coming from the windows in the galleries seemed to have been extinguished. The room was illuminated only by a Dragon whose glittering wings reached from wall to wall.
The alumni backed away, leaving the prisoners alone at the block. Hastings pushed to his feet and faced the dragon, shoving Linda behind him. He was frowning, as if puzzled, but he didn’t look particularly frightened.
Leicester stared fixedly at the image before him, the color bleached from his face by its brilliance. Seph sensed the headmaster’s mind questing out, trying to discover and destroy the wizard behind the image, but finding nothing, no trail of magic, no stone, no flesh and blood to focus on.
Jason Haley, the puppeteer, was safely ensconced in the gallery above.
The dragon’s voice reverberated through the hall. “Who dares to tamper with the constitution consecrated at Raven’s Ghyll last Midsummer’s Day?”
The alumni stirred and muttered, backstepping yet again.
“Quite the pet you have there, Hastings,” Leicester said. “Does he have a name?”
Hastings looked from the dragon to Leicester and shook his head. “It isn’t mine.”
“It takes very little power to conjure a phantom. Apparently we haven’t wrung you dry as yet. We’ll see if it disappears when you’re dead.” He turned to the alumni. “It’s just a construct. It can’t hurt us. Proceed.”
The alumni shuffled forward unenthusiastically.
Now to give the dragon some bite. Seph disabled the unnoticeable charm and stepped back into the partial concealment of the pantry. He focused on Leicester, drew power in from all his extremities, collecting it in his arms and fingers, then gave it everything he had as the dragon breathed out. Flame slammed into Leicester, ran in hungry rivulets over his skin, charred his elegant clothes, and scorched the floor all around him before being drawn into the head of the staff, leaving Leicester still standing, astonished, but unhurt. Linked as he was with the alumni, he was just too strong.
Seph had made an impression, just the same. As far as the alumni were concerned, Leicester’s harmless “construct” had just spewed flame clear across the hall. Pushing and shoving, they fled toward the back of the room.
If wizard fire made no impression, perhaps something else would. An enormous candelabra hung from the ceiling at the front of the room. Seph flamed the cable, focusing white-hot heat on the metal fittings. It finally parted, sending the fixture crashing to the floor. Leicester just managed to sidestep out of the way.
The flames in the sconces along the walls flared up and ran across the ceiling, charring the ceiling beams. Next, Seph collected armloads of air, hardened it, and smashed through the gallery windows. Shards of glass pinged on the stone floor. The roar of the storm was suddenly amplified, and rain poured down on them.
The Dragon spoke again. “Leicester’s wizard slaves! It is time to reclaim what has been stolen from you. You are more powerful than any wizard, if you work together, as you have been taught. You believe you are owned by another, but you belong to me, before all else!”
Seph wasn’t so sure that was true, but it was enough to enrage Leicester. He screamed at the cowering alumni. “This is wizardry, you idiots! It’s a wizard behind all of this! I’ll show you.” Spinning, he thrust forward the staff. Flame gouted from the crystalline tip and slammed into Hastings, throwing him backward onto the stone floor, where he lay still, his clothes smoldering.
There was a dead silence, save the shriek of the wind and clatter of the rain.
Linda knelt next to Hastings and cradled his head in her lap.
Leicester turned to look at the dragon. It hung over them mournfully for a long moment, wingtips drooping a little, then reared up, drawing its lips back to reveal stalactite-size teeth.
Flame gushed forth, enveloping Leicester. The hot breath of the dragon extended to the far end of the hall, blackening the walnut paneling around the doorway and setting the papers on the conference table aflame. Smoke and confusion filled the chamber. People were screaming, shouting orders, demanding to be released.
But when the flames died away, Leicester was st
ill on his feet, though noticeably singed and unsettled.
“Cut us loose before we’re incinerated where we sit!” Wylie demanded from the sidelines. “This is obviously not Hastings’s work unless the man can conjure from the grave.”
Now Leicester focused his attention on the dragon, extending the staff, sending bolt after bolt of wizard fire into the beast. The dragon remained unharmed, but the wall of the conference room began to disintegrate under the assault. Seph ducked back into the butler’s pantry to avoid falling masonry. The huge stone fireplace was reduced to heaps of rubble and he could see into the corridors beyond the conference room.
Seph looked for other targets. Claude D’Orsay had taken cover when the fireworks started. Sedgwick and Whitehead were nowhere to be seen.
Seph slammed his fist against the wall in frustration and pain. His father lay dead on the conference room floor. He and Jason were taking the winery apart, but it would do no good if they couldn’t take down Leicester. Sooner or later, the headmaster would figure out what was going on and nail them. The only thing he could think of was to go after the alumni, try and pick them off one by one, diminishing Leicester’s power.
But he knew that at least some, if not all, of the alumni were unwilling participants in Leicester’s schemes. He thought of nervous Peter Conroy with his inhaler and Martin Hall, the principled viniculturist. Wayne Eggars, the physician, and little Ashton Rice, the music teacher. He forced himself to make a list in his mind, putting them in priority order. Barber would be first, of course, but he was out in the garden. Then Bruce Hays, who’d seemed to enjoy torturing Ellen and the others.
All the while, he maintained a constant assault on Gregory Leicester, keeping him and the others occupied, directing his fire to make it appear it was coming from Jason’s dragon. Cautiously, he leaned out from his hiding place, looking for Bruce Hays, and was met with a blast of wizard fire that he only just turned by throwing up a shield and ducking back into hiding.
“Ah,” said Leicester, sounding relieved. “I think we’ve discovered the guilty party.”
The Wizard Heir Page 35
