Arts MagicaKay Hooper
For all the readers who asked for another Wizard story.1
Seattle
December 31, 1999Felicity Grant circled the artifact slowly, studying it from every angle. It resembled nothing so much as a doorway, minus surrounding walls and a door itself. Just a thin frame of some kind of metal, fastened to an oval base that seemed to be made of smooth, polished stone. The metal had a greenish patina.
"It's obviously a gate," she announced with the confidence of the young and untried.
Richard Merlin, who was sitting on the edge of his desk looking through a very old and heavy book, lifted his gaze to his Apprentice. "Thank you," he said dryly.
Felicity had the grace to blush, but kept her chin high. "Well, isn't it?"
His black, curiously brilliant eyes held a slight amusement. "Touch it," he instructed.
She obeyed, and almost immediately jerked her hand away. After a moment, she touched it again, her fingertips resting gently against the metal. "Power," she whispered. "It feels . . . There's almost a heartbeat."
"Yes. After at least a hundred years."
Felicity turned quickly to stare at him. "You said it was uncovered just a few months ago, but couldn't someone else have found it--used it--in the last century?"
"I think not," Richard replied. "It was discovered in a sealed room within Sinclair's house in London. Until the present owner began to remodel and knocked down a wall, this artifact had been entombed since the turn of the century."
"And they notified you?"
He smiled. "The present owner is on the Council of Elders, and knew very well my interest in Sinclair. He thought I'd be the best person to investigate."
"Did the Elder touch this? Did he feel the power?"
"Of course. His opinion is that this artifact is partially wizard-made."
"But you believe Sinclair built it."
"Yes."
Felicity cast herself into a chair near the artifact and frowned at it. "Well, that doesn't make any sense. John Sinclair was an inventor, yes, even a visionary and an undoubtedly brilliant man ahead of his time, but he wasn't a wizard. Was he?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure."
"And a hundred years ago," Felicity mused, "it was more or less the way it is now, with people of power hiding their abilities from powerless people. So it isn't likely he knew a wizard--or was aware that he knew one."
"According to our records," Merlin said, "Sinclair was never approached by a man or woman of power. He was known to the Council during his time because of his fine intellect and remarkably forward-thinking views, but his power was totally of the mind and quite human. Interesting to us, but hardly something we would have interfered with in any way."
"Then how was this artifact influenced by someone with a wizard's power?"
"That is the puzzle, isn't it?"
Felicity steepled her fingers together and stared at the artifact over them. "Hmmm."
Merlin studied her as she studied the artifact. A young woman with an unusual beauty, she had long hair so fair it was nearly silver, catlike green eyes so vivid they were almost iridescent, and an expression of such life and vitality that even strangers couldn't help but smile at her.
For the past five years, since her eighteenth birthday, she had lived in this house as the Apprentice of Merlin and his wife Serena, both Master Wizards. She'd been a late bloomer as a wizard, coming into her full powers in her late teens rather than years earlier as was the norm, and because of that and her few years training, she was still lacking in control. She was as apt to destroy with her powers as to create, and had to be monitored carefully, especially since those newly unleashed powers were rather remarkable.
If she didn't learn complete control soon, it was possible her own raw ability could destroy her. But both Merlin and Serena believed in her, and they were committed to teaching her.
As he watched, Felicity pulled herself from the chair and went over to a small wooden crate near the artifact. "All this stuff, these books and papers, belonged to Sinclair?"
"They were found with the artifact."
"Then they might tell us if it is a gate, and what he used it for--or intended to use it for?"
Merlin nodded. "Possibly, although we won't know until everything is studied. I thought you might wish to be the first to go through the box."
"Yes. Yes, I would." Felicity felt heat rise in her face. She was more than a little disconcerted to realize that her Master was aware of what she had believed was her secret obsession. She'd thought herself able to hide her own feelings from even a Master Wizard. She had been wrong, obviously.
If her blush betrayed her further, Merlin gave no sign of seeing it. His voice was calm with self-possession, which came from an absolute mastery of his incredible powers. "I know you weren't looking forward to the party tonight, so if you'd rather, you may remain here and go through the box."
"Serena won't be upset with me?"
"No, of course not." He closed the book and set it aside on his desk as he got to his feet. "But keep everything here in the study, understand?"
Felicity did understand. This room was insulated, protected by Merlin's own power; like the workroom upstairs, it would contain any uncontrolled surges of energy. "You mean you think something in this box may hold power just as the artifact does?"
"I think it's best to be safe," he said, moving toward the door with easy grace, the deceptively lazy movements almost concealing the astonishing strength that helped make him the most powerful wizard to walk the face of modern-day Earth. "Treat anything you don't understand with respect, Felicity."
Alone in the quiet room, Felicity stood for a moment just gazing toward the wooden crate. Then she drew a breath and went to a particular section of the bookshelves. Most of the shelves were filled with books and scrolls that were literally ancient and virtually pulsed with power, containing as they did the history and wisdom of an ancient and powerful people. But this particular section held more recent books, on subjects other than wizards and wizardry.
The book Felicity chose was clearly well read, a biography of a remarkable man named John Sinclair. Born in London in 1865 to wealthy, unusually learned parents, he had demonstrated his own precociousness by mastering several languages, higher mathematics, and at least three sciences before he reached his teens. By his mid-twenties, he had invented half a dozen gadgets that had made factory production more efficient, had written and published five books--three of them novels with astoundingly accurate predictions of what the world would be like in the coming century--and was well known as a passionate and outspoken advocate for reforms designed to improve the lot of the common man.
And woman. A man definitely ahead of his time, he had also championed women's rights, and worked to change both laws and attitudes to give women more rights and freedoms.
Despite that--or perhaps because of it--he had never married. His biographer had found evidence of many friendships with women, and a few more intimate relationships, but either John Sinclair had never met the right woman, or his energy and attention had been taken up with his scientific, creative, and political pursuits.
The book Felicity was holding opened naturally to a page that had often held her attention. Her fascination, if she were honest about the matter.
On the left-hand page was a painting of Sinclair at twenty-one; on the right-hand page, a photograph taken of him before his thirty-fifth birthday in 1900. Not long before he vanished without a trace.
The younger Sinclair was smiling, his eyes bright and direct with confidence, almost arrogance. He was dark; his hair was black and his skin unusually swarthy for an Englishman of the last century. Broad shoulders spoke of physical power just beginning, and his relaxed, easy stance indicated an uncommon grace. His hands were beautiful, strong and long-fingered, while his face . . .
Felicity loved his face. It was not conventionally handsome; there was too much strength of character in it for that. His black brows slanted upward toward his temples, flying above eyes a clear, pale gray. His nose was strong and clearly defined, his mouth just hinting at sensitivity in the curve of the fuller lower lip, and his jaw was determined.
It was a face of a brilliant, complex man.
But it was the photograph that had haunted her dreams since she'd first seen it months ago. Taken more than a dozen years after the painting was done, this picture was of a mature man, broad shoulders heavy with physical power realized, still graceful in stance, still confident in attitude.
But there was something different about him. Whereas the painting showed a confident young idealist, this picture was more ambiguous. The confidence was there, yes, but the idealism seemed worn, partially eroded by the years and the inevitable failed attempts to change the things that were wrong in his life and his world.
Still, though his optimism might have taken a bruising, his brilliance was, if anything, stronger and more acute. It burned in his eyes, an intellect so dynamic it had a life all its own. His face was harder, the planes of it smooth, the angles sharp, and that sensitive mouth was held more rigid in a control earned over years.
And the expression on that face . . . It always caught at Felicity's heart and stopped her breath. Sh...
