The Wizard Heir (8 page)

It was all just a pretty construct with no truth
behind it.

He'd broken into the administrative offices of the
school he'd attended at the time, in Philadelphia. He'd hoped there would be
some record of his parents, or a money trail that might lead to some answers.
All he'd found in his file was copies of tuition payments and vouchers for
living expenses from Sloane's. He had trashed the office in frustration. For
that, he'd been expelled once again.

“Then there was the warehouse fire, of
course.” Leicester opened the folder again and scanned a document inside.
“You've quite a record with the police. Pity about that girl.”

A prickly heat collected in Seph's hands and arms,
symptoms that often portended a release. He struggled to control his anger.
“Houghton doesn't know anything about … about magic. Why would he blame
me?”

“Mr. Houghton doesn't think you're a wizard. Mr.
Houghton thinks you're a violent young hoodlum who likes to set fires and blow
things up.”

Seph recalled that last meeting in Toronto, Houghton's
tweeded arm about his shoulders. But who knew what Houghton might do? Sloane's
had been devoting some very expensive partner time to Seph McCauley's problems.

“If Houghton had me committed, I want to hear it
from him,” Seph said finally. His face was hot, his arms heavy, as if
laden with power. And just then, he didn't care to restrain it.

Leicester shrugged. “Write to him, if you like.
You will not be allowed phone calls in your current … unstable condition.”

“Let me e-mail him, then.”

“Joseph. You must understand. I can't risk having
the Havens come to the attention of our enemies. And given your history, I
cannot safely teach you wizardry without some element of control. It would be
like putting a gun into the hand of a lunatic.”

As if to underscore the headmaster's words, the fax
machine exploded, sending shards of metal flying and clouds of toner rolling
toward them.

Leicester looked a little rattled. “Joseph
…”

A row of Chinese vases lined a shelf over Leicester's
desk. They began to vibrate—then, one by one, imploded like targets in a
shooting gallery.

The headmaster spoke in his psychiatrist voice.
“Joseph. You're out of control.”

The track light flickered, and the fixtures exploded.
The front window bowed outward, then shattered, bits of glass glittering in the
sunlight as they fell into the harbor.

“I'll go to the Roses,” Seph said.
“They'll give me the training I need.”

Leicester extended his hand and spoke a charm.
Something slammed into Seph, like a missile from a compressed air weapon, and
he was down on his back on the floor, unable to move.

Leicester spoke from above him. “We call that a subduen
charm.”

Seph said nothing.

“Given the current political situation, I can't
risk your alerting the Roses to what's going on here. They would murder us
all.” Leicester paused. Seph still didn't respond. “I'll let you up
when you can control yourself.”

Seph lay there a moment, breathing hard, then said,
“Okay.” Leicester muttered a few Latinesque words and Seph was able
to sit up and drag himself to his feet. “So you're going to hold me
prisoner here.”

Leicester twisted the ring on his right hand.
“Write a letter, Joseph, if you must, and we will mail it. And carefully consider
the choice before you. If you don't learn to manage your power, it will destroy
you. I will not waste time on anyone who is unwilling to commit to our cause
and submit to my leadership. It's unfortunate, but that's the way it is. Until
you complete the ceremony, nothing happens.”

“There are plenty of lawyers in the world. If
Denis Houghton committed me without a proper evaluation, I'll sue both your
asses.” Seph stalked out, slamming the door and clattering down the
stairs.

When he was sure the boy had gone. Gregory Leicester
picked up the phone and pressed an extension. “Joseph McCauley may attempt
to call off-property,” he said. “See that he's unsuccessful.” He
thought a moment, then added, “Meet me in my office in ten minutes. All of
you.” When he replaced the receiver in its cradle, he was smiling again.

He walked to the window. It was a beautiful autumn
day. The sun glinted off the waves in the harbor, and the trees on the point
were all in high color, the reds and golds that brought the tourists out. He
sighed, flexing his hands. He must find the time to go sailing again before the
weather turned.

Joseph was incredibly powerful. As soon as Leicester
had reviewed the boy's carefully worded recommendations, he'd known. He had an
instinct, after all these years. But he'd been overeager. He'd tried to move
too fast, and the boy had balked. He should have laid the groundwork, should
have softened him up before he asked him to commit.

Still, Leicester thought he could be managed,
untrained as he was. Right now he was more angry than frightened. But that
would change. Leicester would break him, he would rein in that wild power and
put it to use. He closed his eyes, and his breath came a little faster.

It would have been easier if McCauley were younger. Twelve
was ideal, but sixteen would work. He'd never known his system to fail, save
once. Last year, he'd accepted an older student who had received some training
elsewhere. It had been a mistake. The boy was still at the Havens, but perhaps
not for much longer.

There was a knock at the door. “Come!”
Leicester said. The alumni filed in, fifteen of them, all talented wizards. But
none so powerful as Joseph McCauley. Leicester surveyed them, sorting through
his mental notes. Being linked to them, he knew more about them than they ever
suspected.

Warren Barber hated serving anyone. That, and the fact
that he was the most powerful of this lot, made him dangerous. But his cruelty
and his lack of a moral compass made him useful.

Bruce Hays loved having power over others. He would
serve, if in turn, others served him.

Aaron Hanlon was smooth and articulate, a master of
mind magic. Kenyon King was reasonably powerful, physically strong, and skilled
at covert operations. John Hughes was invaluable as a systems expert. They were
the core.

Wayne Eggars had accepted his role as physician.
Ashton Rice and Elliott Richardson would serve, if reluctantly. They were
reasonable men. They had accomplished much already.

Martin Hall and Peter Conroy were weaklings. It was
not a matter of lack of power, but a reluctance to take ruthless action when
required. Conroy in particular was a loose cannon, but they both contributed
power to the mix.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
“Joseph McCauley still declines to link to us.”

A mutter of surprise rolled through the alumni, but
was quickly stifled.

"He has threatened to go to the Roses. This is
unacceptable. I believe a peer-to-peer approach may be effective. I make it
your charge to convince him to join us, through whatever means necessary.

“When he links with us, you will be richly
rewarded. If he continues to resist, well, I think you all understand that
there will be consequences.” Now they all looked down at their feet,
afraid he'd use one of them as an example. He'd done it before.

“Give him to me,” Warren suggested.
“I'll turn him around in a day.”

Leicester sighed. “If it were a matter of brute
force, Warren, I'd have settled the matter already. This requires subtlety.
Creativity. Seduction. Not your long suit, I'm afraid.” He rubbed his
palms together. “We'll meet again on the subject in two weeks. Are there
any questions?”

There were none.

The next day, after another night of excruciating
dreams, Seph walked over to the art and music building and found a house phone
back in the vending area in the basement. He picked it up and dialed 0. When
the secretary in the admin, building answered, he said, “I'd like to place
an outside call, using a calling card.” He gave her the calling card
information and the phone number, including the country code.

There was a brief pause. “Your name,
please?”

“Joseph McCauley” Seph replied, hope
evaporating.

“You'll need to get administrative
approval,” she said briskly. “Shall I put you through to Dr.
Leicester?”

“No, thank you,” Seph said, and hung up the
phone.

The classroom routine was soothingly familiar, a
little eddy in the madness of life at the Havens. Lecture, discussion,
homework, examinations. All of the usual tools were in evidence: wood-and-metal
desks lined up in rows, chalkboards, sinks and burners and hoods in chemistry
lab. New textbooks that smelled of ink, with spines that crackled when you
opened them. Like students everywhere, the students at the Havens whined about
homework.

Seph sat in math class, chin propped on his fist,
watching Mr. Richardson scribble equations on the board. Richardson would have
been at the outdoor chapel, garbed in long gray robes, helping preside over
that magical sacrifice. In retrospect, it seemed like a bad dream. What had
spooked him? Rain and mist and bats and mummery.

And the fact that it seemed so important to Leicester.

In music, Mr. Rice told Seph he could schedule private
lessons outside of class to work on piano or saxophone or another instrument.
He encouraged Seph to consider joining the wind ensemble.

The bloody wind ensemble. It was so normal. So
hard to reconcile with his fear of sleep, his dread of getting into bed.

After his last class, and before dinner, Seph went
back to his room and booted up his computer. He'd decided to go ahead and write
his letter.

TO: Denis Houghton, Esq., Guardian of Joseph McCauley

FROM: Joseph McCauley

RE: School placement at the Havens

When I arrived at the Havens, I was told that I'd been
committed here for psychiatric treatment. I'm not sure what your intentions
were, but the staff is unqualified and the methods used are cruel, arbitrary,
and inconsistent, thus unlikely to prove effective.

This placement is not meeting my needs. I would like
to request an immediate move so that I miss as little school as possible. I
would consider a public school placement with private therapy if that is
easier, in any geographic location. I will do everything I can to make it work
out.

It is critical that this request be acted on right
away. At the very least we need to meet to discuss my situation and arrange to
get a second opinion. If you believe I would benefit from therapy, I have to
think that there are better options.

He read it over again and bolded the part about doing
everything to make it work out. He thought it sounded, well, sane. And
non-accusing. He got it ready to mail and dropped it in the mail chute at the
admin, building when he went in for supper.

The dreams came like heat lightning in summer,
terrible dreams that illuminated those places in Seph's soul that were better
left in the dark. The violence was sometimes physical, sometimes emotional, or
both. All of his fears and insecurities surfaced and became weapons against him.
The worst of it was that he never knew what to expect. Sometimes he would
struggle to stay awake, then fall asleep in the early hours and sleep
untroubled until his alarm sounded. Sometimes he dreamed three nights in a row,
then nothing for three days.

The bizarre occurrences that had always dogged Seph
seemed to intensify. He touched a light switch in his room and the electrical
power in three buildings went out. Cakes fell and milk went sour in his
presence. Hawks and ospreys collected on the roof of his dormitory and escorted
him to his classes, swooping down on faculty along the way. The water froze in
the pipes of the administration building, and trees bloomed out of season. A
pack of wolves haunted the campus for a time, gray shadows lurking among the
trees.

Seph constantly second-guessed his decision. He knew
there was no guarantee he could find help outside of the Havens. Maybe
Leicester's offer was his only option. Maybe his magical outbursts would
increase until he had to be shot like a rabid beast.

The leaves on the aspens had been turning when Seph
mailed his first letter to Sloane's. They lay like gold dust on the ground when
he posted his second. He began to write several times a week so he could feel
that he was really doing something. He gave up on sane and nonaccusing and
resorted to desperate and threatening. There was never any response.

He tried to phone off-campus a half dozen times, from
various phones and under assumed names. He was always intercepted by polite
staff members who referred him to Dr. Leicester.

He continued to eat dinner at the Alumni House. They
were his only potential sources of information, his only avenue of hope. They'd
been trained in wizardry; they already knew how to manage their power. He
reasoned that if he could win some of them over, they might share the secret
that would prevent the dreams.

He focused especially on Peter Conroy. That first day,
Peter had been eager to talk with him, obviously had information he wanted to
share. But now Peter practically ran the other way when Seph approached. If he
managed to corner him, some of the other alumni would intervene. Something had
happened to frighten him away.

Others of the alumni worked hard to win him over. They
shared no useful magical secrets with him, but plied him with offers of food,
liquor, and illicit drugs. Faculty and alumni mingled at parties where he
seemed to be the unwilling guest of honor. Maybe, he thought, drugs and alcohol
would help.

But something told him they wouldn't.

Bruce Hays whispered to Seph about the unlimited power
that lay within his grasp. “Maybe you report to Dr. Leicester,” Hays
explained. “But when you think about it, the rest of the world reports to
you.”