The Wizard Heir (13 page)

On the other hand, the alumni continued to take an
unwelcome interest in Seph. Now it seemed that everywhere he went, Warren
Barber turned up, offering help with homework, music downloads, pills and
peppermint schnapps and potent South American weed that might settle Seph's
nerves. Bruce Hays and Aaron Hanlon invited him to eat with them in the alumni
dining room, and to work out in the fitness center in the basement. On
Leicester's orders, no doubt.

Seph went, hoping to glean information that might
prove useful. But the alumni were more resistant to mind magic than the
Anaweir.

Now that he knew the stakes in the game they were
playing, Seph was extraordinarily careful about using magic in the open. He
kept his distance from Leicester for fear the headmaster would see the truth in
his eyes. He and Jason spent as much time as possible in the alumni library.
Jason tapped volumes of notes into a tiny electronic organizer, while Seph used
his knowledge of Latin to decipher the Middle English manuscripts.

They spent hours trying out incantations in the hidden
corners of campus, mostly attack charms and charms of protection and influence.
As Seph became more self-aware, he emitted fewer “sparks,” as Jason
called them, that is, unintentional releases of power. When Seph noticed the
magical tension building up in his body, he found ways to use or dissipate it.

Jason proved to be reckless, a risk taker when it came
to magical experiments. He would launch powerful combinations of charms without
a clear notion of the consequences. Sometimes Seph wondered if he had a death
wish.

Seph tried to fit the concept of magic into math and
physics: the teleology that he had always taken as the truth. As far as he
could tell, physical magic was most useful in generating energy: light and heat
and air currents, the movement of molecules that were loosely packed to begin
with.

The other important role of magic was in influencing
others. As Jason said: the Anaweir had little protection against wizards in
that regard.

“Anaweir women can't resist wizards,” he
said. “All that barely controlled power. They can sense it, you know. The
touch of a wizard drives women wild. That kind of direct physical magic is
called persuasion” He grinned and laced his fingers behind his
head. “It can get very complicated.” Jason apparently thrived on
those kinds of complications.

Seph thought of the way girls responded to his touch,
the power that spilled from his fingers. He hadn't used it inappropriately—had
he?

He was more comfortable with spoken charms, because he
could better control the outcome. Seph loved the cadence of magical language.
He rolled the ancient charms off his tongue, conjuring words from the ancient
magi. Sometimes the words came from within, like a spring bubbling up from a
deeper pool. He had never been more convinced of the power of language, the
leap from symbol to reality.

He noticed Jason watching him as he drew the spells
off the page and spun them out, like shimmering flames in the air. “You
really have a gift, Seph,” Jason said once. “You're more powerful
than I'll ever be. If you could find a teacher, I bet you could blow Leicester
away.”

Jason's strength lay in the area of glamours:
deceptive images and visions that carried no firepower, save their ability to
confuse, distract, startle, and scare. And that was enough. Sometimes, out in
the woods, Seph would walk into one of Jason Haley's fever dreams. He'd
encounter a gryphon grazing on ferns or a satyr or a phoenix perched in the
branches of an oak, or a great ship sailing through the trees crewed by
impossibly beautiful mermaids.

Seph asked about Weirbooks.

“You have one somewhere,” Jason said.
"It was created by the Sorcerers' Guild when you were born, and it can't
be destroyed. If you could find it, it would tell you all you want to know
about your family.

Jason showed Seph his own Weirbook. Jason's name was
recorded on the last page, along with his parents and grandparents. The
genealogy went back to the tenth century. He kept it locked up, protected by a
series of complicated charms. “You don't want your Weirbook to fall into
your enemies' hands. Then they have your history, and they know your weaknesses
and strengths.”

Seph was fascinated by the idea that, somewhere out
there, his history lay between the covers of a book, if he could only lay his
hands on it.

By the end of April, spring was visiting the Havens in
frustrating fits and starts. The snow melted away to patches where the heavy
drifts had been, and daffodils glittered among the trees. Gregory Leicester had
visitors, also. Rental cars and cars with out-of-state plates appeared in the
parking lot, feeding what appeared to be a series of small meetings. One
morning, Jason intercepted Seph on his way to class, pulling him into a
stairwell.

“D'Orsay's here,” he whispered.
“Gamemaster of the Council. Let's go.” Within seconds, they were both
unnoticeable, loping across the grounds, heading for the administration
building.

This was a very private meeting, just Leicester and
D'Orsay, held in Leicester's office on the third floor, with Hays and Barber
stationed in front of the door like bouncers at an exclusive club. Seph and
Jason had to wait in the hallway for two hours until Martin Hall arrived with
lunch. They managed to slip through the doorway behind him when he rolled the
cart in.

D'Orsay and Leicester sat at the table by the window,
bodies rigid, faces stony, like a quarreling couple interrupted midspat. Papers
were spread out across the table and a notebook computer sat between them.

Claude D'Orsay was a tall wizard with close-cropped
gray hair and custom-tailored clothes. He wore a heavy gold chain around his
neck, the emblem of his wizardry office.

When the door closed behind Martin, Leicester hissed,
“I can't believe the Dragon's that difficult to find. He puts up new
messages every day. Listen to this.” Leicester pulled his laptop toward
him and read from the screen. “'One wonders what games the Gamemaster is
playing. Sources tell the Dragon that D'Orsay has scheduled a series of secret
meetings leading up to the Interguild Conference. If you've not received an
invitation, I suggest you watch your back.' Where the hell does he set his
information?”

“Guesswork and speculation,” D'Orsay suggested,
sipping at his wine.

“Really? He goes on to list the dates,
participants, and locations of three of the meetings.”

“Let me see that.” D'Orsay turned the screen
so it faced him. Then swore softly and pulled out a cell phone. He punched in a
number and spoke into it, low and urgently. Jason nudged Seph with his elbow.

When D'Orsay put the phone away, Leicester said,
“We're running out of time, Claude. He's got the Roses murdering each
other in the streets. How long before they come after us? He knows we're
meeting outside of the usual channels. You promised you'd run him in to ground
before the conference.”

“We almost had him in London. We'll get him the
next time. Nora Whitehead's working on it.”

Leicester frowned. “Nora? This is too important
to hand off to her. Why aren't you handling it yourself?”

“I am handling it. Nora's working for
me.”

“She doesn't stand a chance, if it comes to a
duel. If it's who we think it is, he'll cut her to pieces and then where will
we be?” Leicester didn't seem to be as concerned about Nora as worried his
quarry might get away.

D'Orsay flicked imaginary lint off his trousers.
“Don't be theatrical. I'm not planning on a duel. There's no one we could
send against him, one on one.”

“Doesn't the man have a family? Someone we could
use to draw him out of hiding?”

“I was told they were all murdered back in the
day,” D'Orsay said, frowning, as if this was most inconvenient.
“Apparently that's the source of his fanaticism. But we think we may have
found a vulnerability.”

“A vulnerability?” Leicester raised an
eyebrow skeptically. “What?”

D'Orsay glanced about, as if there might be spies
behind the stonework. The outing of his meeting had clearly rattled him.
“Ah … let's see what comes of it. We should know, fairly soon.”

“Fairly soon?” Leicester rolled his eyes.
“We've spent years on this project. They're too close to you as it stands.
If they trace us back here …”

D'Orsay's expression morphed from disappointed to
annoyed. “Unlike you, I have other responsibilities. While you're playing
schoolmaster, I'm courting seven different sides, trying to keep this whole
scheme from unraveling. Keep in mind that there are advantages to having the
Dragon at large. When items disappear from the Hoard, he always gets the
blame.”

He stood and dropped his napkin on the table. “No
one wants to catch the Dragon more than I do. But just now I have to go and
reschedule three meetings before our colleagues walk into a trap.”

The two wizards glared at each other, emitting faint
showers of sparks.

“I'll call you when the roster is
finalized,” D'Orsay said, stuffing a sheaf of papers into a briefcase.

Seph and Jason managed to slide out after him when he
went out the door.

Back in Jason's room, Jason fizzed with excitement and
worry, pacing back and forth. “Did you hear that? 'If you've not received
your invitation, watch your back.' And did you hear D'Orsay? They don't know
who they'd send against him—he's that powerful. The Dragon's got this network
of spies all over the world that he works constantly …”

“Do you think they really know who it is?”
Seph asked. “They seemed pretty confident.”

“I've heard rumors.” Jason shrugged.
“Seems to me the Dragon would be dead by now if they did know.”

“So Leicester's online,” Seph muttered to
himself, sorting through a pile of CDs. “He must have a wireless network
in his office, at least.”

“But they think they've got something on
him,” Jason leaned against the doorframe. “I wish there was some way
to warn him.”

Seph chose a CD and slid it into the player. “If
I could just get into Leicester's office, I bet I could break into his
system.”

“To warn the Dragon?”

“No. To e-mail Sloane's. So I can get out of
here. And don't give me that look. I don't really want to get involved with
the, um, wizard politics, as you call it. You don't have enough information to
warn the Dragon, anyway. What are you going to say? 'Be careful, they're on
your trail? Watch your back?'”

Jason wasn't really listening. “Maybe it is time
to leave. Maybe I should get out and try and find him. Tell him about the
meeting here, the alumni, and all that. See what he makes of it.” He
tugged at his earlobe. “Then again, I could hang around, see what else I
can find out. I wish I knew when this Interguild Conference they're talking about
is.”

Seph fastened on the notion of leaving. “How
would you deal with the wall?”

Jason grinned. “I think I've finally got that
nailed. Barber's the architect, you know. I heard him bragging about it when I
was lurking in the alumni dining room. So I tossed his room and found some
books on the subject.”

“So how does it work?”

“It's a real, physical wall overlaid with
confusion charms. So you can't stay focused enough to get over or around it.
I've put together some countercharms that should work.”

“Should work,”
Seph said skeptically. “Then let's try it.”

Jason shook his head. “I don't want to tip
Leicester off before I'm ready to leave.”

“If you can leave, you should. Before
something happens.”

“I really don't care what happens to me. As long
as I get Leicester.”

In the end, Jason decided to stay a little longer to
see if he could gather more news to take to the Dragon. But Leicester and
D'Orsay didn't meet again.

A few weeks later, in mid-May, Seph brought his
workout gear to the Alumni House one evening, intending to meet Jason to go
over some books they'd taken from the library. He ate dinner with Martin and
Peter, then walked through the common room and into the stairwell. He took a
quick look around, then spoke the unnoticeable charm. Just then, the door flew
open behind him.

It was Warren Barber. He must have followed Seph out
of the common room. He looked around the landing, puzzled. Seph had just
stepped through the door, and now he was gone. Seph wondered if Barber had even
heard him say the end of the charm.

Barber stood frozen for a moment, listening, then
loped down the stairs with Seph ghosting along behind him. When Barber reached
the basement, he looked up and down the empty hallway. Seph slipped into the
workout room. A moment later, when Barber opened the door, Seph had disabled
the charm and was adjusting the weights on the rowing machine. Fortunately,
there was no one else in there.

“What are you doing in here?” Barber
demanded, scanning the room, his pale brows drawn together suspiciously.

Seph locked the weights in place and looked up at
Barber, lifting an eyebrow. “I'm … um … working out?”

Barber leaned against the doorframe and lit a
cigarette. “Yeah? Well, it ain't helping. You look like a bag of
bones.”

Seph shrugged. “It helps me sleep.”

“I've got stuff that'll help you sleep. What do
you need?”

“No, thanks.”

Barber blew out a stream of smoke. “What are you
trying to prove?”

Seph stopped wrestling with the machine and turned and
faced Barber. “I don't get it. Why does it matter to you so much? Do you
get a bonus if I link with Leicester?”

“More like, he'll make us miserable until you
do.”

Careful. You don't know anything. “Why does he want this so much?” Seph asked.
When Barber rolled his eyes, he added, “No, really. I want to know.”

“You're just a blue-blood rich kid. You think you
can just decline Dr. Leicester's invitation like he asked you to a fricking
soiree. He won't take no for an answer. If he can't use you, he'll destroy
you.” Barber stubbed out his cigarette, turned on his heel, and walked
out.