Free The Wizard Heir by Cinda Williams Chima Page B

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
    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