The Wizard Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  He slid out of bed, avoiding the mess on the floor, went into the bathroom and rinsed out his mouth. His face stared back at him from the mirror, pale and haggard. Gingerly, he fingered the broken blood vessels around his eyes. Half-moon welts marched across his palms, the prints of his nails.

  Grabbing a towel, he mopped up the floor as best he could. He carried it into the hall and threw it into a laundry bag, then helped himself to fresh towels from the linen cart, working automatically. He lay back down in bed and turned his face to the wall, afraid to sleep, too tired and heartsick to do anything else.

  Leicester’s words came back to him.

  It’s not unusual for untrained wizards to go insane.

  * * *

  The next morning was Monday. Seph didn’t go to breakfast, or attend his first class in the morning. Around 10 a.m., when Dr. Leicester returned to his office, Seph was waiting outside, seated on the floor, arms clasped around his knees.

  “Joseph,” the headmaster said, looking down at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Seph said. It was more of a whisper. It hurt to speak.

  “Why don’t you come back this afternoon, after classes are over? You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”

  “I’m already off on the wrong foot. I need to talk to you now.”

  “Of course. Come in.” He stood aside so Seph could enter his office. Seph moved carefully, because every part of him hurt, body and soul.

  For his part, the headmaster looked almost cheerful.

  “Sit down,” Leicester said, closing the door behind him and gesturing toward the table by the window.

  “I’ll stand. This won’t take long.” Seph gathered his thoughts. “I came to tell you that this isn’t working out, this placement, I mean. Since I can’t be trained in wizardry here, I’m going to contact my guardian and make arrangements for a transfer.”

  Leicester raised his hands to stop the speech. “Joseph, sit down.” When Seph didn’t respond, he added, “Sit down, I said.”

  Seph sat. Leicester sat across from him, steepling his hands and resting his chin on his fingertips. “I’d hoped perhaps you’d come to tell me you’d changed your mind.”

  “I have. I’ve realized that coming here was a mistake.”

  “Are you so sure of that? Where else are you going to get the help you need?”

  “I’ll find someone else to teach me.”

  “Really? Who? You told me yourself you’ve been looking for a teacher for two years. I believe you’re running out of time.”

  “I’ve done all right so far.”

  “Have you?” The headmaster studied him. “You’re having symptoms, aren’t you?”

  Seph looked him in the eyes. “No.” He’d been lying for a lifetime and was really good at it.

  Leicester wasn’t impressed. “What is it? Hallucinations? Voices? Dreams? Paranoia?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If you are hallucinating, it is your own fault. You have to give us the chance to help you.” Leicester leaned back and folded his arms. “Cooperate with us, Joseph. That’s all we ask.” He smiled.

  Seph remembered the scene at the chapel: the flickering torchlight, the altar, his blood flowing into the stone cup, the staff blazing up.

  The warning on Peter’s face.

  Seph leaned forward. “If you want to help me, then teach me. But I’m not joining your cult or club or whatever.”

  The smile froze on Leicester’s face. Then withered. “Let me be plain. Our enemies are gathering. My House—the White Rose—is the current holder of the Hoard. That is the collection of magical artifacts handed down over the centuries through the tournament system.

  “Last week, operatives believed to be working for the Dragon launched an attack against a magical repository in the southwest of Britain. They carried off weapons of unimaginable power.

  “However, some believe the thieves were actually working for the Red Rose. There is talk of retaliatory action. As you can see, the stakes are incredibly high. The tiniest spark could set off a conflagration like the world has never known. I believe my initiative may be the last great hope for peace. Can you understand why I can’t risk training someone as powerful as you whose loyalty is questionable?”

  It made sense. It made total sense. And yet Seph had been on his own long enough to learn to trust his instincts. And his instincts said that Leicester and Barber and Hays were not peacemakers. Maybe he was crazy, but he had nothing else.

  He smiled his best smile. “Dr. Leicester. I wish you and the alumni the best of luck in preventing a Wizard World War.” If that’s what you’re really about. “But I’m really—you know—apolitical. I have a lot of personal issues to work through. I can’t be joining a movement. I’ll find someone to train me on the outside. And maybe when I’m older I’ll feel differently.” It was a pretty speech.

  Seph stood. “I’m going to call Sloane’s in London. They’ll get me a flight, but I’ll need a way to the airport. I tried my calling card on the phone in my dorm, but couldn’t get through. I need to call this morning, during business hours.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Gregory Leicester.

  Seph was sure he’d misheard. “You’re not going to let me make a phone call?”

  Leicester stood and leaned his hips back against the table. “It’s time to grow up, Joseph, and understand a few facts. Your guardian committed you. You are a minor, and he signed papers. Do you know what that means?”

  “Committed me? Like I’m mentally incompetent or something?”

  The headmaster sighed. “It looks like Mr. Houghton has not been completely straightforward with you. This is, in fact, a school for wayward and emotionally disturbed adolescents. I am, in fact, a psychologist.”

  “What?” Seph thought of the glossy brochure with the sailboat on the front. “Houghton never said anything about psychiatric treatment.”

  “The fact is, Mr. Houghton doesn’t want any more catastrophes. He only wants to know that you’re in recovery.”

  The headmaster returned to the table and sat down, dropping the file onto the polished wood in front of him. Retrieving a pen from his pocket, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the folder and scratched out a few notes.

  “I don’t believe you,” Seph said. Leicester kept scratching away. “I don’t drink or use drugs. No one ever said that I am a danger to myself or anyone else.”

  Leicester glanced down at his folder. “Didn’t a student in Switzerland file assault charges against you?”

  Perspiration trickled between Seph’s shoulder blades.

  He wiped his damp palms on his jeans. “It was a misunderstanding. They dropped the charges.”

  The headmaster tapped his pen on the papers in front of him. “There was also an . . . incident in Philadelphia.”

  Seph stared at him wordlessly. How could Leicester possibly know about Philadelphia?

  Unless Denis Houghton had told him.

  After Genevieve died, Seph had been determined to find out more about his parents. Sloane’s had stonewalled him, so Seph had begun a search online, using the resources of adoptive children’s networks, the genealogy Web sites and mail lists, and electronic vital records. He’d finally found his birth record, showing he’d been born in Toronto to Helen Jacoby and Jared McCauley. When he’d tried to dig further, he’d found no birth records for them, no grandparents, aunts or uncles, no listings in city directories in California or Toronto, no news stories about the fire, no real estate records, nothing.

  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. F
or 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.