The Wizard of Seattle (11 page)

Hardly something anyone wanted to happen.

The remainder of the drive out of the city and into the suburbs was spent in silence. Almost an hour after leaving the airport, Jordan turned the big car into the driveway of a secluded mansion. The gates opened to admit them, and moments later the car drew to a stop near the bottom of wide brick steps leading to a front door.

“They’re already waiting for you in the study,” Jordan said as the two men got out of the car. “I’ll see that your bag is taken up to your room.”

In the short time it took Merlin to mount the steps, the massive front door opened to reveal a soberly dressed elderly man, the very image of an old-world butler.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Charles.” He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the butler, then half consciously straightened his tie and shot his cuffs. Not because he was vain, but because a neat appearance was essential. A meeting of the Council of Elders demanded the semiformality of a suit; Merlin, at a much younger age, had once shown up in jeans, and it had been two years before he’d been allowed to forget that breach.

He wasn’t nervous, but he did pause in the foyer for a moment to collect himself.

“The study, sir.”

“Yes. Thank you, Charles.”

With a deliberate tread Merlin crossed the seeming acres of polished marble floor to the big double doors of the study. He knocked once, purely as a matter of form, and entered the room.

It was quite a room. Sixty feet long and forty wide with a fifteen-foot ceiling, it held two fireplaces large enough to roast whole steers without crowding, a row of enormous Palladian windows, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either side of both fireplaces, and a marble floor. A huge, very old and beautiful Persian rug lay beneath the long table and dozen chairs placed squarely in the center of the room, and two chandeliers were suspended above the table. The remainder of the room was furnished with groups of chairs and small tables and reading lamps scattered about as if to invite intimate conversation, but nothing would ever make that room appear cozy.

It practically echoed.

The six men who made up the Council of Elders were seated at the end of the table opposite the door. The judge was at the head; on his right were a senator, a financier, and a diplomat; on his left were a world-famous actor and a scientist. All the men were middle-aged to elderly, with the scientist being the oldest, and all possessed that indefinable look of powerful, successful men. Which they were.

They were the eldest practicing wizards—hence their name. Though from various parts of the world, they all
spoke English so well, their national origins weren’t obvious. Each had been selected for his position on the Council by an ancient process that clearly and precisely determined the necessary qualities of wisdom and leadership, and which allowed absolutely no chance that personal ambition could influence results.

Though all were powerful men and powerful wizards, only two had achieved the level of Master wizard. That distinction was rare because it meant, by definition, an individual with total mastery over his powers, and that demanded a strength of will so great, few were able to attain it. In actuality, fewer than one-tenth of one percent of all the wizards who had ever lived had been able to reach that stature.

And even among that exceptional company, Merlin stood out as a unique being, because no wizard in all of history had achieved the level of Master at so young an age.

Which, at the moment, mattered not one iota. The Council of Elders was grim, individually and collectively, and all they saw before them was a wizard who had broken the law.

Merlin walked to his end of the table and sat down. He was wary but not unduly nervous; this wasn’t the first time he had been caught in some rebellion—he and the Council seldom saw eye to eye on even minor matters—and he had every expectation of being able to defend himself. He folded his hands on the table and waited, knowing from experience that he could shape his defense only after he had heard whatever they had to say.

It wasn’t long in coming.

The judge, his expression dispassionate and his voice flat, said, “Is she a woman of power?”

“She is.” Hiding Serena’s existence from these men for nine years was one thing, but Merlin wasn’t about to lie to them now. Defiance could be explained and perhaps understood; stupidity was something else entirely. He felt as well as heard the Council’s collective indrawn breath, and realized that each man had hoped he would tell them it wasn’t true.

The actor, his trained voice particularly effective in the huge room, said, “You know the law. How do you justify breaking it?”

Merlin’s previous offenses had been relatively minor. This time, as he studied the somber faces at the other end of the long table, he realized there was nothing minor about his latest infraction. And the power of the Council was nothing to underestimate. If the Elders felt his offense warranted it, they could destroy him. So he gave himself a moment to think before answering, and when he spoke, he kept his voice calm and reasonable.

“It’s a senseless law, and I could find no reason for it. Why should I turn away from the potential Serena represents simply because she’s female?”

Merlin felt a slight ripple in the room, as if every man present had shuddered inwardly. They were nervous, all of them, tense to the point of being stiff. The reaction baffled him—and yet some part of him
understood
.

The diplomat, his voice unusually quavery, said, “It’s forbidden to teach any woman. Forbidden for any woman to even
know
about us. You must stop.”

“Why?” He looked at each of them in turn. “Someone tell me
why
it’s forbidden.”

“It’s the law,” the scientist said, as if stating an incontrovertible and absolute truth in his universe.

“It’s a bad law,” Merlin snapped, beginning to lose his composure in the face of their inflexible conviction. He had the odd feeling that no one at the table was listening to him, that they wouldn’t—or couldn’t—hear any part of his defense. “We’re hardly rich enough in power to be so eager to squander it,” he added more quietly.

The senator’s voice was grave. “You’re obviously too close to the subject to be able to see it clearly—”

“Her. See
her
clearly. The subject is a woman, Senator. And I see her clearly enough.”

Several of the men began to speak at once, their voices high and agitated, and the judge held up a hand for silence. Gazing unwaveringly at Merlin, he spoke in a steady voice.

“We’ve lived by our laws for thousands of years, and
in all that time no law has ever been renounced by a practicing wizard: You must not be the first. Our ancestors devised the laws because they saw an overwhelming need for us to control our powers, not
be
controlled by them. If we’re to survive as a race, we must all respect and obey the rules we live by.”

“Except this one,” Merlin retorted. “It’s a
senseless
law. Why should learning be denied to a female born with power? Why do you—all of you—see that as a threat? Why are you afraid of Serena?”

Very softly the judge said, “Why are you?”

Merlin stared down the table into a pair of eyes as black as his own. “I’m not afraid of her.” Despite his effort, his voice lacked conviction.

“No? I think you are. Apprehensive at least. Can you honestly say you haven’t felt yourself drawing away from her? That you haven’t felt wariness, an uneasiness, a sense almost of panic as she has matured in her abilities and as a woman?”

Of all the Council, only the judge had married—only he had even lived with a woman, for that matter—so he was really the only one who could have imagined what Merlin might feel toward his Apprentice. Unfortunately, though that might have made him an ally, Merlin knew better. The judge had been married to a powerless woman, not an Apprentice wizard, and while that was frowned upon and discouraged, it was not forbidden.

“Whatever I’ve felt is beside the point,” Merlin said at last.

“Hardly,” the judge said. “It is the point. That a woman is forbidden to know our craft isn’t simply a moldy old law written in ancient books; it’s written in
us
. Stamped in the deepest part of us. And
we must obey.”

“You must stop teaching the woman,” the actor said inexorably.

“It’s the law,” the scientist agreed.

“Be reasonable,” the financier begged. “Stop this before it’s too late. Don’t force us to do it.”

Merlin stiffened, his gaze again flying to the head of
the table. There was a long silence, and then the judge sighed.

“According to the newspaper article, she’s lived with you for years. How many?”

“Nine.”

“Then she’s barely into the training?”

Merlin hesitated, then shrugged. “I accelerated in several areas because of her innate power.” Again there was that odd ripple through the room, and this time the men sat back in their chairs or moved restlessly.

“But her control
is
imperfect?” the judge demanded.

“Yes. But she’s young and she did begin the training later than usual. I have every reason to believe she can one day achieve the level of Master.”

If Merlin had hoped that his clear vote of confidence in Serena’s potential might persuade the Council, he knew instantly that he’d been wrong. To a man, the faces across the table actually paled, and even the judge, normally impassive, was clearly appalled.

“It must stop,” the diplomat whispered.

“There’s no time to be lost,” the actor said nervously.

Quietly the judge asked, “We’re agreed, then?”

Without exception, the Council members nodded, looking away from Merlin. The judge nodded, as well, then stared down the table at his son and spoke heavily.

“The Council has decided. This woman must be rendered powerless. Because she is female and not yet in full control of her abilities, it will be possible for you to strip her of all levels of power.”

“What?” Merlin whispered.

The judge went on as if nothing extraordinary had been said. “The process is an ancient one, not commonly known, requiring several weeks to complete. I’ll give you the reference material before you return to Seattle. The woman will not be harmed by this, merely rendered powerless.”

“Merely.” Merlin’s voice was still hardly louder than a whisper. “Merely rendered powerless.”

“It’s the only way,” the senator told Merlin. “The
law must be obeyed. We have no choice. Don’t you see that?”

The judge again waved a hand for silence. “The decision of the Council is final. Your punishment for breaking the law will be determined at a later time; the severity of that penalty will depend on your obedience now. You will render this woman powerless.”

“Or?” Merlin asked flatly. They were all staring at him with shuttered eyes and impassive faces, and in that moment he thought he could hate them.

“Or we will do it,” the judge replied calmly. “And you’ll pay a very high price for disobeying the Council.”

Ironically, Merlin was the most powerful wizard in the room in terms of raw force, and all of them knew it. But the simple fact was that he was under their control—not because he wanted to be, but because he
had
to be. No society of powerful beings could exist without a governing body; for wizards that body was the Council, and their decisions
were
final.

If he disobeyed, the punishment could be anything from the curtailing of his freedom to the reduction or even total removal of his powers.

That last would literally kill him, but it had been done more than once in the history of wizards when an individual had committed an unpardonable offense. It was not something he could fight with any possibility of success; power against power simply canceled itself out. So if the Council voted to take his powers and he struggled against it, there would be two dead wizards instead of one. Himself … and the Elder closest to him in raw force, the natural choice to be the one to seize his powers: his father.

They had him in a neat, bitterly effective vise, and he knew it. If he obeyed the Council, Serena would be stripped of her powers, and no matter how little the process harmed her physically, Merlin knew she would be destroyed by it. If he disobeyed the Council and they voted on the ultimate punishment for him—which was highly likely—he would be destroyed, and Serena’s powers would be stolen from her anyway.

Merlin didn’t realize the meeting was over until he
felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the judge standing beside his chair. The others had gone.

“Come into the den,” the judge said.

Merlin rose and followed the older man across the hall to a smaller and much more intimate room of the big house. The fireplace in here boasted a roaring fire, and Merlin was drawn to it instantly. He felt cold. He stood at the hearth, watching the leaping flames.

“Have you slept with her?”

Merlin stirred impatiently but didn’t answer.

“Have you slept with her?”

“No, of course not.” He turned then and stared at the still handsome, white-haired man who was sitting a few feet away from him. “She was a child when she came to me—and that’s the way I saw her.”

“What about now?”

Merlin hesitated, images from recent years flashing through his mind. Serena in a clingy evening gown dancing gracefully; her long legs bared by shorts as she worked in the garden in summer; regal and beautiful in her Apprentice’s robe, green eyes flashing with humor and challenge….

Almost inaudibly Eric Merlin said, “I see she’s no child to you now.”

“Isn’t that my business?”

His father shook his head. “It would be bad enough if you had told any woman what you are—but a woman of power?”

“I didn’t have to tell her what I was. She recognized me the way I recognized her.” Merlin kept his voice calm. “The way beings of power have always known each other. She knew what I was, and she knew I could teach her. She was drawn across three thousand miles to find me.”

The judge frowned. “Then her instincts are strong. But it makes no difference. There is no place in your life for a woman of power, you know that. There’s no place in our
world
for her.”