Seph went, hoping to glean information that might prove useful. But the alumni were more resistant to mind magic than the Anaweir.
Now that he knew the stakes in the game they were playing, Seph was extraordinarily careful about using magic in the open. He kept his distance from Leicester for fear the headmaster would see the truth in his eyes. He and Jason spent as much time as possible in the alumni library. Jason tapped volumes of notes into a tiny electronic organizer, while Seph used his knowledge of Latin to decipher the Middle English manuscripts.
They spent hours trying out incantations in the hidden corners of campus, mostly attack charms and charms of protection and influence. As Seph became more self-aware, he emitted fewer “sparks,” as Jason called them, that is, unintentional releases of power. When Seph noticed the magical tension building up in his body, he found ways to use or dissipate it.
Jason proved to be reckless, a risk taker when it came to magical experiments. He would launch powerful combinations of charms without a clear notion of the consequences. Sometimes Seph wondered if he had a death wish.
Seph tried to fit the concept of magic into math and physics: the teleology that he had always taken as the truth. As far as he could tell, physical magic was most useful in generating energy: light and heat and air currents, the movement of molecules that were loosely packed to begin with.
The other important role of magic was in influencing others. As Jason said: the Anaweir had little protection against wizards in that regard.
“Anaweir women can't resist wizards,” he said. “All that barely controlled power. They can sense it, you know. The touch of a wizard drives women wild. That kind of direct physical magic is called persuasion” He grinned and laced his fingers behind his head. “It can get very complicated.” Jason apparently thrived on those kinds of complications.
Seph thought of the way girls responded to his touch, the power that spilled from his fingers. He hadn't used it inappropriately—had he?
He was more comfortable with spoken charms, because he could better control the outcome. Seph loved the cadence of magical language. He rolled the ancient charms off his tongue, conjuring words from the ancient magi. Sometimes the words came from within, like a spring bubbling up from a deeper pool. He had never been more convinced of the power of language, the leap from symbol to reality.
He noticed Jason watching him as he drew the spells off the page and spun them out, like shimmering flames in the air. “You really have a gift, Seph,” Jason said once. “You're more powerful than I'll ever be. If you could find a teacher, I bet you could blow Leicester away.”
Jason's strength lay in the area of glamours: deceptive images and visions that carried no firepower, save their ability to confuse, distract, startle, and scare. And that was enough. Sometimes, out in the woods, Seph would walk into one of Jason Haley's fever dreams. He'd encounter a gryphon grazing on ferns or a satyr or a phoenix perched in the branches of an oak, or a great ship sailing through the trees crewed by impossibly beautiful mermaids.
Seph asked about Weirbooks.
“You have one somewhere,” Jason said. "It was created by the Sorcerers' Guild when you were born, and it can't be destroyed. If you could find it, it would tell you all you want to know about your family.
Jason showed Seph his own Weirbook. Jason's name was recorded on the last page, along with his parents and grandparents. The genealogy went back to the tenth century. He kept it locked up, protected by a series of complicated charms. “You don't want your Weirbook to fall into your enemies' hands. Then they have your history, and they know your weaknesses and strengths.”
Seph was fascinated by the idea that, somewhere out there, his history lay between the covers of a book, if he could only lay his hands on it.
By the end of April, spring was visiting the Havens in frustrating fits and starts. The snow melted away to patches where the heavy drifts had been, and daffodils glittered among the trees. Gregory Leicester had visitors, also. Rental cars and cars with out-of-state plates appeared in the parking lot, feeding what appeared to be a series of small meetings. One morning, Jason intercepted Seph on his way to class, pulling him into a stairwell.
“D'Orsay's here,” he whispered. “Gamemaster of the Council. Let's go.” Within seconds, they were both unnoticeable, loping across the grounds, heading for the administration building.
This was a very private meeting, just Leicester and D'Orsay, held in Leicester's office on the third floor, with Hays and Barber stationed in front of the door like bouncers at an exclusive club. Seph and Jason had to wait in the hallway for two hours until Martin Hall arrived with lunch. They managed to slip through the doorway behind him when he rolled the cart in.
D'Orsay and Leicester sat at the table by the window, bodies rigid, faces stony, like a quarreling couple interrupted midspat. Papers were spread out across the table and a notebook computer sat between them.
Claude D'Orsay was a tall wizard with close-cropped gray hair and custom-tailored clothes. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, the emblem of his wizardry office.
When the door closed behind Martin, Leicester hissed, “I can't believe the Dragon's that difficult to find. He puts up new messages every day. Listen to this.” Leicester pulled his laptop toward him and read from the screen. “'One wonders what games the Gamemaster is playing. Sources tell the Dragon that D'Orsay has scheduled a series of secret meetings leading up to the Interguild Conference. If you've not received an invitation, I suggest you watch your back.' Where the hell does he set his information?”
“Guesswork and speculation,” D'Orsay suggested, sipping at his wine.
“Really? He goes on to list the dates, participants, and locations of three of the meetings.”
“Let me see that.” D'Orsay turned the screen so it faced him. Then swore softly and pulled out a cell phone. He punched in a number and spoke into it, low and urgently. Jason nudged Seph with his elbow.When D'Orsay put the phone away, Leicester said, “We're running out of time, Claude. He's got the Roses murdering each other in the streets. How long before they come after us? He knows we're meeting outside of the usual channels. You promised you'd run him in to ground before the conference.”
“We almost had him in London. We'll get him the next time. Nora Whitehead's working on it.”
Leicester frowned. “Nora? This is too important to hand off to her. Why aren't you handling it yourself?”
“I am handling it. Nora's working for me.”
“She doesn't stand a chance, if it comes to a duel. If it's who we think it is, he'll cut her to pieces and then where will we be?” Leicester didn't seem to be as concerned about Nora as worried his quarry might get away.
D'Orsay flicked imaginary lint off his trousers. “Don't be theatrical. I'm not planning on a duel. There's no one we could send against him, one on one.”
“Doesn't the man have a family? Someone we could use to draw him out of hiding?”
“I was told they were all murdered back in the day,” D'Orsay said, frowning, as if this was most inconvenient. “Apparently that's the source of his fanaticism. But we think we may have found a vulnerability.”
“A vulnerability?” Leicester raised an eyebrow skeptically. “What?”
D'Orsay glanced about, as if there might be spies behind the stonework. The outing of his meeting had clearly rattled him. “Ah … let's see what comes of it. We should know, fairly soon.”
“Fairly soon?” Leicester rolled his eyes. “We've spent years on this project. They're too close to you as it stands. If they trace us back here …”
D'Orsay's expression morphed from disappointed to annoyed. “Unlike you, I have other responsibilities. While you're playing schoolmaster, I'm courting seven different sides, trying to keep this whole scheme from unraveling. Keep in mind that there are advantages to having the Dragon at large. When items disappear from the Hoard, he always gets the blame.”
He stood and dropped his napkin on the table. “No one wants to catch the Dragon more than I do. But just now I have to go and reschedule three meetings before our colleagues walk into a trap.”
The two wizards glared at each other, emitting faint showers of sparks.
“I'll call you when the roster is finalized,” D'Orsay said, stuffing a sheaf of papers into a briefcase.
Seph and Jason managed to slide out after him when he went out the door.
Back in Jason's room, Jason fizzed with excitement and worry, pacing back and forth. “Did you hear that? 'If you've not received your invitation, watch your back.' And did you hear D'Orsay? They don't know who they'd send against him—he's that powerful. The Dragon's got this network of spies all over the world that he works constantly …”
“Do you think they really know who it is?” Seph asked. “They seemed pretty confident.”
“I've heard rumors.” Jason shrugged. “Seems to me the Dragon would be dead by now if they did know.”
“So Leicester's online,” Seph muttered to himself, sorting through a pile of CDs. “He must have a wireless network in his office, at least.”
“But they think they've got something on him,” Jason leaned against the doorframe. “I wish there was some way to warn him.”
Seph chose a CD and slid it into the player. “If I could just get into Leicester's office, I bet I could break into his system.”
“To warn the Dragon?”
“No. To e-mail Sloane's. So I can get out of here. And don't give me that look. I don't really want to get involved with the, um, wizard politics, as you call it. You don't have enough information to warn the Dragon, anyway. What are you going to say? 'Be careful, they're on your trail? Watch your back?'”
Jason wasn't really listening. “Maybe it is time to leave. Maybe I should get out and try and find him. Tell him about the meeting here, the alumni, and all that. See what he makes of it.” He tugged at his earlobe. “Then again, I could hang around, see what else I can find out. I wish I knew when this Interguild Conference they're talking about is.”