The Wizard Heir (32 page)

Hastings shrugged. “It drains power.”

“Oh. They gave me Weirsbane.”

“It seems we are a dangerous pair.”

Seph liked the notion of being dangerous, in league
with his father.

Hastings returned to the topic of relationships.
“Your mother cares for you very much. She's been beside herself these last
few days.”

“If you say so.”

“She was only trying to protect you, Seph.”

“Right. It was for my own good. Now I understand why
I've been an orphan my whole life.” They'd lied to him. They'd all lied to
him. Genevieve. His own mother.

Hastings closed his eyes, as if trying to summon the
right words. “She wasn't much older than you when we met. But she'd been
through a lot, at the hands of wizards. Have you ever heard of the Trade?”

Seph shook his head.

"It's an underground slave market, run by
wizards, dealing in the gifted. Warriors and enchanters, mostly. Linda was
ensnared in it, for a time. That's how we met. I was already fighting the
Trade. She joined me.

"It was a dangerous business. We were always on
the move, working our network of spies, living under assumed names. Linda was
especially good at it, because wizards tend to underestimate enchanters

"It's likely we would have been caught,
eventually. But when you're young, you think you're immortal. And in wartime,
you don't really think about the future.

“Then she disappeared. I was sure she'd been
taken back to the Trade. But in fact, she'd discovered she was expecting you.”

Seph tried to imagine a very young Linda Downey, what
it must have been like.

“She knew you'd be a target if our enemies ever
discovered your existence. So she gave you up.”

“Why didn't she tell you?”

Hastings shrugged. "She didn't trust me to
support that decision, and she was right. My family—your family —my father and
brother and sister were all murdered by the Roses. No one's left. I would have
refused to give up the only family I have. My son.

“She couldn't entirely give you up, either. She
watched over you, arranged for your schooling, received progress reports.
That's how Leicester and D'Orsay found out about you.”

Seph leaned his head back against the wall. “All
my life, I've dreamed of this. I've finally found my parents, and now…Leicester
is going to torture me until I agree to link to him. When I do, he'll force me
to murder you, and everyone else I care about.”

Hastings touched his arm. “Courage, Seph.”

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
underguilds 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.

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
minutes, 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 countercharms 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.

“Not so tender after all, are we, Hastings?”The
wizard spat the words out, and stood.

“I thought he was restrained,” Warren Barber
said, his voice rising. “I thought he couldn't do anything.”

“It's not that hard to kill a boy,” Hastings
said, as if from experience. “Restrained or not.”

“I would have expected you would find it hard to
kill this boy,” Leicester said. “I guess I was wrong.”
There was a grudging admiration in the flat gray eyes. “Now your Achilles
heel is gone, much good it will do you now. But why come all this way to kill
your son, when we would have done it for you?”

Hastings shook his head. “No. I came to ransom
him, remember? And you reneged on the deal. He was frightened of what lay ahead
of him. He asked me to save him from it and I did.” He met Leicester's
eyes without remorse. “I spoke a few words over him, but could we get him
a priest?”

Leicester shook his head. “His immortal soul is
your problem, Hastings, since you saw fit to free it.”

“Then let me take care of the body, at
least,” Hastings countered.

Leicester hesitated, shaken by the loss of his
hostage. Martin wondered if the headmaster would decide that now was the time
to kill Hastings, before the conference started. No matter how powerful
Hastings was, he knew they could do it, all of them together, the way Leicester
used them before.

But no. Dr. Leicester had other plans. He looked at
Hastings, but spoke to the others in the room. “Hastings has proven
himself to be dangerous, despite his restraints. Now that the boy is dead, I
think we'd better chain him to the wall. Bruce and I will see to it. Warren,
you and Martin and Peter take the body, weight it down, and throw it in the
lake. We don't want it resurfacing while our guests are here.”