“Help!” he screamed, his shouts faint and ineffective. “I'm locked in the boathouse! Help! I'm drowning!”
While standing on the table, he could just reach one of the small windows if he stretched far to one side. Grabbing a large landing net that hung on the wall, he slammed it against the glass. The net was lightweight, and he was working at such an angle that he couldn't produce much force against it. Finally he lost his footing, flailed wildly for a moment, and went under again.
He surfaced, spluttering, treading water. Then he gasped as something slid past him, roiling the surface of the black water like a great serpent, its rough hide scraping him as it went by.
Seph sucked in a breath and went absolutely still, save the rough pounding of his pulse. For a moment, the water was quiet. Then a thick, muscular tentacle searched along his leg, slid upward, and tightened around his waist.
He pushed at the creature, pounded on it, tried to push himself out of its grasp using both hands, getting a mouthful of water as he did so. His fists made no impression on its leathery hide. His flailing foot encountered something soft and yielding, and the monster's grip relaxed fractionally. Launching himself upward, Seph wrapped his arms around one of the rough wooden beams that supported the roof.
He clung there, gasping for breath, but he could not lift himself completely out of the water. Ripples spread from the far corner as the creature surfaced, its pale, dispassionate eyes and razor teeth revealed in the light from the window. A squid? An octopus? Some unknown monster that had lain hidden in the ocean's depths until now?
Once again, a tentacle quested forward, sliding beneath the water like a great snake. It explored along his thigh, then wrapped about his hips.
Slowly, inexorably, it dragged at him. Desperate, he tightened his hold on the ceiling beam, turning his face upward so he could gulp some air. He no longer tried to dislodge his attacker, but held on for dear life. His joints cracked as a relentless strength threatened to pull him apart.
Suddenly, the monster rocketed forward in an explosion of spray and fastened its teeth into his right leg. Seph screamed and tried to pull it off, losing his grip on the beam. He managed one last breath, sucking in a mixture of seawater and air, before he was pulled beneath the water and into black despair.
Light awoke Seph a second time, painful light that caused him to roll onto his face to exclude it. He was in bed. Something terrible lurked in memory, a beast kept leashed in the back room of his mind.
He swallowed; his throat was so raw it brought tears to his eyes. He felt like he'd been beaten. Every muscle in his body ached. He struggled to his knees, and then the full recollection of the night before flooded back. He vomited over the side of the bed and onto the floor. His throat felt worse than ever.
He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. It gradually came to him that he was in a bed, back in his room in the dormitory. He was soaked in sweat, not in seawater, and he was alive. He ran his hand tentatively down his right leg, then his left, and could find no evidence of injury. He checked twice, to make sure. Hot tears of relief filled his eyes, slid from the corners and onto his pillow.
The monster had ripped him apart. He'd gazed hopelessly up at the undersurface of the ocean as his own blood clouded the water, had tasted it in his mouth, had felt the great jaws close on his flesh, tearing it away in pieces. His struggles had grown weaker as he succumbed to oxygen starvation and loss of blood.
Still, it had taken a long time to die.
He sat up, drew his knees up into a protective position, and leaned his chin on his hands, shivering. Had it been a dream, then? If so, it was like no dream he'd ever had before. It was the three-dimensional, surround-sound, full-color mother-of-all dreams.
His bedding was completely mangled, evidence of a struggle that had lasted most of the night. The ceiling and walls were pocked with scorch marks, as if he'd been flinging out sparks. Good thing they hadn't caught or he'd have burned to death.
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.”