The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  He went to turn away, but Seph tightened his grip on his arm to keep him in place.

  “Let. Go. Of. Me.” Trevor kept his eyes averted, as if it might be dangerous to look at him.

  Seph kept hold. “What? What is it?”

  Trevor just shook his head.

  Seph carefully released a trace of power into Trevor. Feeling bad about it, but needing to know.

  He could tell Trevor didn’t want to answer, but the words poured out just the same. “You never said you were one of them.”

  “One of who?” Seph asked, though he already knew.

  Trevor cut his eyes toward Alumni House.

  “I’m not an alumnus,” Seph said, lamely. “I’m a junior. It’s just that I’m enrolling in a special program.” Trevor said nothing. “Ah ...why? What do you know about them?”

  Trevor shuddered. “I don’t want to know anything about them—you.” Now he did try and wrench free, and Seph let him. “You don’t care what happens to any of us. Some of us listened to Jason, and . . .”

  “Who’s Jason?”

  “He told us we should fight back, and we tried, and now Sam is dead and Peter and Jason are living at the Alumni House.”

  Trevor may as well have been speaking in Japanese. He’d left Seph back at the first sentence. “Fight back against what? Who’s dead? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Trevor had his hands over his ears, speaking loudly enough to drown Seph out. As if afraid Seph would seduce him with words. “I’ve gone six months without a disciplinary, and now . . .”

  “I’ll go to Dr. Leicester,” Seph offered, still bewildered by the emotion in play. “I’ll explain. Whatever it takes.”

  “No,” Trevor said. “Don’t do me any favors. You’ll make things worse. Just stay away from me.” He wheeled and walked away, back toward the dorm. Seph stood and watched him until he was lost in the shadows of the trees.

  Chapter Five

  Total Commitment

  The next evening, Seph dressed carefully in a cotton shirt, khakis, and a jacket (no tie), and gelled his hair, reasoning that there was a chance Dr. Leicester would be at dinner. He made his way to Alumni House at the appointed time, hoping that the evening would go better than the encounter of the day before.

  To be honest, he didn’t really care for any of the wizards he’d met so far.

  Mr. Hanlon, whom he’d met in the woods, greeted him at the door to the dining room.

  “Call me Aaron,” Hanlon said.

  Although Seph had been careful to arrive on time, service was already underway. The room was reminiscent of the dining hall in a very expensive ski lodge: soaring beamed ceilings, flagstone floors, a mammoth fireplace, and a wall of windows overlooking a waterfall.

  The alumni were gathered around a long table. There were fifteen in all, not counting Seph, a mixture of faculty members and “researchers” like Warren and Bruce. Leicester wasn’t there. Servers circulated unobtrusively, pouring beverages, passing platters of appetizers, clearing dishes, and taking orders from an upscale menu. To Seph’s surprise, beer, wine, and liquor flowed freely, but then, he guessed most of the alumni were of age.

  Aaron placed Seph in a position of honor, at the table center, then sat beside him, with Kenyon King, a phys. ed. teacher, on his other side, and Bruce and Warren across the table. Someone set a platter of spiced shrimp in front of him, a glass of wine by his right hand. The alumni up and down the table introduced themselves.

  At the far end of the table was a rumpled kid with glasses and a twitch, who introduced himself as Peter Conroy. It was the boy Seph had met in the woods two days before, on the way to swimming. He tried to catch Peter’s eye, but the other boy wouldn’t look at him. Seph shrugged. It seemed less important here, surrounded by wizards, than it had been the other day.

  Seph sipped cautiously at his wine, meaning to keep his wits about him. It had a distinct Gewurz nose. He smiled to himself. Genevieve had taken a typical French attitude toward wine, considering it less risky than water. So he’d had his share at her table and in Europe.

  “So tell us about yourself, Joseph,” Aaron suggested. Everyone leaned forward.

  The question he despised. “Um . . . I was born in Toronto, but I’ve moved around a lot. I was raised by a foster mother. A sorcerer.”

  “That must’ve been fun,” Bruce said, making a face. “Raised by a sorcerer. Did she have you hunting toadstools and grinding up frog’s tongues and like that?”

  Seph blinked at him. “Well, no. Can’t say that I ever did that.” He thought of saying, We used to go to markets in Chinatown and pick exotic roots and vegetables.

  But he didn’t.

  “Anyway, I haven’t had much training in wizardry. I was hoping you could tell me something about the program here.”

  “We have a great library, reserved for the use of the alumni,” Aaron said. “Thousands of volumes on charms, incantations, attack spells, and shields. Plus Weirbooks from famous families.”

  “So. Is it mostly independent study?” Seph asked.

  “Well. Kind of,” Bruce said. “Dr. Leicester has a magical shortcut system that allows all of us to share knowledge and power. So you’ll be in business in no time.”

  “Shortcut?” Leicester had mentioned something about that at their meeting. Seph looked down the table, and it seemed that there was a lot of foot shuffling and seat shifting going on.

  “Plus we’re involved in a lot of off-campus assignments,” Warren said. “Special operations.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, you know.” Warren looked uncomfortable. “I think Dr. Leicester told you something about his dream of uniting the wizard houses. So we work on that.”

  “It’s really cool. Getting out on our own,” Bruce said. “We’ve traveled all over the world. Thailand. London. Brazil.”

  Seph felt that somehow he still wasn’t getting it. It’s was like sex, the way people talked all around it but you could still end up not knowing the basics. “Who pays for all this?” he asked.

  “Dr. Leicester has backers,” Aaron said. “Trust me, money’s not a problem. We don’t pay a penny for tuition, clothing, room and board, or anything else.” He picked up a shrimp. “As you can see, everything’s top shelf.”

  “How long does the program last?” Seph asked, handing his plate to the server. “How long do most people stay?”

  Everyone just kind of stared at him as though it were a really hard question.

  He tried again. “I mean, by the time I graduate next year, will I know everything I need to know?”

  Aaron was the first to recover. “Yes,” he said, smiling. “By next year, you’ll know all you need to know.”

  Over the next two weeks, Seph settled into the cadence of life at the Havens. Schools were totally different; they were totally the same. The course work wasn’t as rigorous as he’d feared. In fact, it was rather superficial. It seemed that the administration at the Havens wasn’t focused on the Anaweir students who filled most of the seats.

  It was a small school, and because Seph and Trevor were both juniors, they had several classes together: algebra II/trig and physics, social studies, and English literature. But Trevor’s warm friendliness had morphed to a sullen and twitchy mistrust.

  Trevor must have told the others about what happened at Alumni House. Harrison and Troy and James were still chatty and cheerful, but it was the spun-sugar kind of speech about nothing, usually reserved for snitches and the rich, insufferable cousins you see once a year. Seph knew he could win them back if he tried, but he reined in his powers of persuasion. Friendship didn’t mean much if it was inflicted. Once or twice a week he ate dinner at the Alumni House. He wondered what they said when he was gone.

  At first glance the faculty seemed to be a mixed lot, from the charming Aaron Hanlon to gruff Elliott Richardson to the buff physical education teacher Kenyon King, to tiny, blue-blooded Ashton Rice. They were diverse, but there was something the
same about them, too, some shared experience.

  Like Harvard men. They all have the mark of the Havens upon them.

  One evening, Seph received a note at dinner, on the sailboat stationery. PLEASE BE AT THE ALUMNI HOUSE AT 9 P.M. G. LEICESTER.

  Nine o’clock was a funny time for a meeting, but maybe this meant his magical training was about to begin. Seph felt a rising excitement, mixed with apprehension. So far, he didn’t much care for Leicester or the alumni. But he would take what he needed from them and move on.

  That night, the fog rolled in off the Atlantic and condensed into rain—the cold, relentless drizzle that Genevieve called larmes d’ange. Angel’s tears. Seph pulled on a bulky sweater she’d knit for him, jeans, and a leather jacket. Thus armored, he walked through sopping leaves and dripping trees to his rendezvous.

  When he arrived at Alumni House, he was surprised to find the common room empty, except for Warren Barber, who leaned against the mantel, smoking and flicking ashes into the fireplace.

  Warren tossed his cigarette into the hearth and scooped up an armload of clothing from the nearest chair. “Everyone else is meeting us at the chapel,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Seph hesitated. “We’re meeting outside?” Was this some kind of hazing event?

  “Brilliant, ain’t it?”

  Seph had no choice but to follow. Warren led the way into the woods, following a wood-chip path that bridged a little stream in several places. Mist clung to the ground, waist-deep in places, beaten down by the rain. Seph swiped water from his face, looking from side to side, wary of an ambush.

  About a mile into the woods, the trees thinned into a clearing, revealing a rude amphitheater. Rows of stone benches faced a raised platform with an altar in the center, framed by standing stones and lit by torches, the light smeared by the mist.

  It reminded Seph of places he’d seen in Britain— Celtic temples of druidic magic. “What’s this all about?” he muttered, shivering.

  Warren led the way up the center aisle toward the platform. When they reached the front, he tossed Seph a wad of cloth. “Put this on,” he said.

  It was a rough-woven wool cowled robe, bleached white. Seph pulled it on over his damp clothes. Warren shrugged his way into a robe of his own, his a deep gray color. The gloom under the trees eddied and shifted, and other gray-robed persons appeared, moving silently onto the platform, behind the altar.

  “You. Stand here.” Warren tugged Seph to a spot in front of the benches, facing the platform, then joined the others on the stage.

  And then, finally, a black-robed figure, tall and spare, materialized on the platform. His face was hidden in shadow, backlit by the torches along the perimeter, but Seph knew beyond a doubt that this was Gregory Leicester.

  Leicester carried a staff, a tall column of metal— bronze and gold layered together, topped by a faceted crystal. Embedded in the crystal was something dark, like a shadow or a flaw. An amulet. Seph’s eyes were drawn to it; he had to force himself to look away.

  It was, perhaps, a show—some kind of initiation ceremony meant to establish solidarity. Like joining a lodge. It should have been amusing, what with all the pageantry and costume, but Leicester didn’t come off as much of a showman. Seph didn’t like being singled out, placed before the altar, dressed like a sacrifice. His skin prickled and his mouth went dust dry.

  “Joseph McCauley has come before us, with a request to join our order of wizards,” Leicester intoned, his voice emerging from his black hood. “Is this, indeed, your intention, Joseph?”

  Seph cleared his throat, feeling an intense pressure to respond. “I . . . ah . . . guess so,” he replied.

  Seemingly undeterred by this lukewarm reply, Leicester continued. “We have agreed to consider this request. Does the petitioner understand what is required of him?”

  Again, the feeling of focused pressure, the pressure to say yes. Instinctively, Seph pushed back. “No, not really,” he said. “Can you tell me?”

  Leicester paused, as if this answer were unexpected, then responded awkwardly. “You are required to link your Weirstone to mine.”

  Reflexively, Seph pressed his fingers into the skin of his chest, through the folds of the robe. His eyes fastened on a shallow stone bowl that sat atop the altar. And the knife that lay next to it. He licked his lips and swallowed. “What?”

  Leicester shoved back the hood of his robe. “Through the speaking of charms, and the letting of blood.”

  “Is that necessary?” Seph asked, struggling to maintain an expression of polite inquiry. “I just want to be trained in wizardry.”

  Leicester rolled back the sleeves of his robe like a surgeon preparing for a procedure. “Wizardry manifests early,” he replied. “Most begin their training very young. You are far behind your peers. This system is a shortcut. It allows your powers to be used safely without extensive remedial training. We haven’t the time for that.”

  Seph had the sense that Leicester was choosing his words carefully. As if what he said might be technically true, but intentionally misleading. Seph felt a more subtle pressure, like an undercurrent of magic at work. His muscles loosened and his head swirled with inarticulate thought.

  He mounted a faint protest. “So you’re saying that if I don’t go through with this . . . um . . . ceremony, you won’t train me in wizardry?”

  “I’m saying it takes years to develop skills enough to practice wizardry safely. I’m saying you are getting a very late start. I’m saying this is the way we do things at the Havens.” Leicester picked up the knife and nodded to someone behind Seph. “Bring the supplicant.”

  Bruce Hays and Warren Barber materialized behind Seph and gripped his elbows. They dragged him forward, half lifting him up the steps and then pushing him to his knees in front of the altar. They stripped back his sleeve and pressed his arm against the cold, rough stone, exposing the inside of his wrist.

  It was like a dream. Almost as if he were watching it happen to someone else. He barely felt the blade as it bit into his flesh, and his blood flowed into the stone bowl. He should have been horrified as Leicester spoke words over the bowl in some language of magic, dipped the crystalline head of the staff into the blood, and then lifted it to drink.

  This is wrong, Seph thought. But he felt muddled and lethargic, limp and passive, carried along through the ceremony like a leaf in the current.

  “Now, rise,” Leicester said to Seph, “and speak the words after me.” Barber and Hays lifted Seph to his feet and held him upright. Their hands burned through the rough fabric of his robe as a thought burned itself into his mind.

  This was clearly some kind of pagan ritual. What, exactly, was he being asked to deliver into Leicester’s hands?

  He pressed his bleeding arm into his side. The crystalline head of the staff blazed, casting a greenish light over the participants. Something fluttered at the edge of his vision, like a scrap of black fabric. And again, and more, blotting out the torchlight. Bats. Clouds of bats, swooping about the heads of the alumni, silently dive-bombing the proceedings. Several of the celebrants covered their heads with their arms.

  A sign.

  Seph looked across the altar, to where one of the alumni stood watching. Peter Conroy. His face was a mask of dismay. When he saw Seph looking, his eyes widened behind his glasses. He shook his head, ever so slightly.

  A warning.

  Leicester spoke his magical phrase, then paused expectantly, waiting for him to echo it, like a vow in a devilish wedding ceremony. The hooded figures leaned forward in anticipation.

  “No,” Seph said. “I can’t.”

  “Would you like me to repeat it, Joseph?” Leicester asked softly, encouragingly.

  “No. I mean I changed my mind.”

  For a moment, Leicester seemed too astonished to speak. “What?” The word seemed to spatter out into the mist.

  “I refuse.”

  A rumble of surprise rolled through the alumni, quickly stifled. Peter closed his ey
es and breathed out, as if relieved.

  Leicester’s voice was calm and reassuring. “What’s bothering you, Joseph? The painful part is over. When we’re finished, we’ll go back to the Alumni House and dress that scratch and make arrangements to move you in. Your training will begin immediately.”

  “What’s bothering me?” Seph shivered. It was raining harder now, plastering his hair against his forehead and soaking him nearly through. Somehow, it seemed to clear his head.

  His arm still streamed blood, and he pressed it tight against his side. “You’re drinking my blood. Asking me to swear some kind of oath I don’t really understand. I can’t be involved in a ritual like this. It’s like, out of a screamer movie. To be honest, this is really freaking me out.”

  Leicester’s breath hissed out impatiently. “You said you wanted to learn about wizardry.”

  “I do.” Seph looked around the circle of robed wizards, hoping someone would speak up in his defense.

  “That can’t happen unless we finish.”

  Seph took a breath. “Then it can’t happen.”

  “Two weeks ago, I asked if you were willing to make a total commitment. You assured me that you were.”

  Seph jerked free of Hays and Barber. “I think you need to tell me exactly what I’d be committing myself to.”

  A muscle twitched in the headmaster’s jaw. Leicester’s voice was still soft, but there was a thread of steel in it. “You’d do better to ask about the consequences if you refuse.”

  It sounded very much like a threat. “What consequences?”

  “There’s a reason wizardry training starts early,” Leicester said. “When untrained wizards reach adolescence, they . . . self-destruct.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps it’s hormonal,” Leicester said delicately. “Perhaps developmental. It begins with uncontrolled releases of power. Then the magic turns inward and destroys the mind, resulting in depression and hallucinations. It’s not unusual for untrained wizards to go insane.”

  Seph thought of the warehouse. The destruction of the bell tower. It seemed that he’d had uncontrolled spasms of power all his life. And they seemed to be getting worse—more frequent. He scanned himself for symptoms. Since the warehouse fire, he’d been depressed. He’d found it difficult to concentrate. But wasn’t that normal for a person with innocent blood on his hands?