The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Are you crazy? The dude is shooting flames, Jack. If we know they won’t come in here, let’s just wait it out. They can’t hang around forever.”

  He won’t wait forever, Jack thought. And if he gets his hands on us ...

  Hadley had lurched to his feet and was moving closer, driven by the wizard behind him. Now Jack had no inclination to hurt Hadley. He felt sorry for him.

  “Don’t you see?” The wizard was speaking to Jack. “The enchanter has bewitched you, and you’re the ones who will pay the price. She doesn’t mind sacrificing you to get what she wants.”

  Just then the cell phone buzzed, startlingly loud. With one hand, Jack fished it out of his pocket, keeping the sword pointed through the doorway.

  It was Aunt Linda. “Where are you?”

  “We’re in the church at the old Methodist cemetery on Methodist Chapel Road. I have the sword, but we’re under attack.”

  Linda was silent for a moment. “I’m close,” she said. “Hold them off for five minutes. Keep the phone on.”

  The cowboy had advanced to the second step. Jack stepped over the threshold to free his swing, and swept the blade from left to right, bleeding flames, enough to move the man away without cutting him. Hadley leaped backward, nearly falling. The magic of the sword flooded into Jack like a drug. Exultant, he descended another step. The cowboy disappeared into the dark, and there was only the wizard, launching volley after volley of fireballs, as in some kind of frenzied video game. Jack sent flames spiraling back at him, and his adversary retreated. Jack moved forward, into the duel, pursuing. He was on the last step and ready to step off, when he heard someone shouting behind him.

  “Jack! Are you crazy? Get in here!” It was Will, and the spell was somehow broken. He launched himself backward as a thick wall of wizard flame roared toward him, too broad to stop with a sword. Will grasped his shoulders and half lifted him inside, away from the dreadful heat. His face was burning, vision blurred by tears, his lungs scorched from the near miss. He leaned on his sword, gasping, Will still supporting him on the other side.

  “I am an idiot,” he whispered. “An idiot.”

  He heard his aunt’s voice over the cell phone. “I’m in the parking lot. Come out the front doors. Hurry!”

  Jack straightened, lifted his weight off Will and Shadowslayer, and took a painful breath that told him he was still alive. “Aunt Linda’s outside,” he said. “Time to go.” They stampeded to the rear of the church.

  “Look out!” Linda cried as Will and Fitch threw open the front door and came face-to-face with the cowboy. It was hard to say who was more surprised. He made a grab for Will, which turned out to be a mistake. Will had been spending considerable time in the gym. He peeled Hadley off him and, despite the man’s size, lifted him off the porch and flung him into the parking lot. Hadley slid on his stomach, arms and legs splayed like a jellyfish. Fitch retrieved the case that Will had dropped.

  The Land Rover was pulled up alongside the Mercedes. They sprinted for it. Will skidded to a stop next to the Mercedes, reached through the open window, and yanked the keys from the ignition. He hurled them as far as he could out into the darkness.

  They flung themselves into the backseat of the Rover, Jack with the sword, and Fitch with the case. The Rover kicked up gravel as they pulled out of the lot. Behind them, the cowboy had risen to his hands and knees. And then the church was out of sight, and they were speeding down Methodist Chapel Road.

  Chapter Five

  The Warrior Heir

  Linda was calm, businesslike, even, handing the phone to Fitch to make reservations at a hotel in Columbus under a new name, asking Will to find the map in the glove compartment and navigate, even though she knew the county well. Her voice washed over them, soothed and relaxed them, blunted their terror and curiosity. As if flaming swords and wizards were everyday events. She spoke no charms aloud, but now Jack could hear the sorcery in her voice. Why had he never noticed it before?

  She gave no tasks to Jack. Once she had wrung every detail about the cemetery from him, she let him be. He sat slumped in the seat, head thrown back, eyes half closed. His entire body ached, and the whole front of him burned, save under the vest. Shadowslayer was back in its case, resting comfortably under his feet.

  Sometimes he caught Linda watching him in the rearview mirror.

  She is the enchanter. She is the one the wizard was talking about. Maybe what he said was true. Maybe she was just using me to get the sword.

  She said it was mine, didn’t she?

  What would he do if she tried to take it away? That was a question he couldn’t answer. It seemed to fill a need in him that he didn’t know was there before.

  He squirmed uncomfortably, then turned and leaned over the backseat to see if there was something he could use for a pillow. He saw his duffle bag and remembered. His medicine! He tugged open the zipper and slid his hand inside, feeling for the familiar shape, the cool glass amid the clothing.

  I don’t want to take it, he thought. Ever again.

  He pulled it out anyway, turning the blue bottle between his hands. He looked up, saw Aunt Linda watching him again.

  “Never mind, Jack,” she said softly. “You don’t have to anymore. We’ll talk about that later.”

  They stayed at a chain hotel north of Columbus, complete with the promised swimming pool and hot tub. She ordered several platters of room-service sandwiches and appetizers, and talked the fitness club manager into allowing them to use the facilities until midnight. The man returned at intervals during the evening to see if they needed anything and to let Linda know he got off at eleven if she would like to have a drink. She declined. Several times.

  He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, Jack thought. Just like the wizard said.

  Jack looked and felt like he’d laid out too long in the sun. The pool was soothing, but he couldn’t tolerate the hot tub. He lay on his back, dozing by the pool, half awakening to hear the others talking.

  “Do you think those men will try to find us?” Fitch was asking. “Do you think they’ll try to get the sword back?”

  “He’s looking for us now,” Linda said.

  Jack noticed she used the singular. The cowboy doesn’t count. He’s probably dead.

  Linda’s voice continued to wind through his thoughts. “If we’re lucky, he has no idea who we are or where we’re from. Nothing is in my name: the car, the hotel, nothing can be connected to me. He’ll assume I have the sword. That’s your best protection. And this.” As Jack watched through slitted eyes, she reached out and seized Will and Fitch each by a hand.

  “You mustn’t say anything about what happened this weekend to anyone, do you understand? Not a hint, not a whisper, not a boast or complaint.” She looked from one to the other, looked them in the eyes. “It’s over and done. It will be our secret, a memory shared among the four of us alone. Do you understand?”

  They nodded solemnly, eyes stretched open, like acolytes of a new religion.

  Great, Jack said to himself. My aunt’s a witch. What am I going to do? He abandoned his friends to her tender mercies, knowing they were beyond his help. He stood and stumbled his way to his room and fell exhausted into bed, welcoming the temporary escape of sleep. The sword lay in its case under his arm.

  Jack slept late, and when he awoke, Will and Fitch seemed normal enough. Too normal to be normal, in fact, because they were relaxed and joking about the chores awaiting them at home. They didn’t say a word about the events in the graveyard.

  Linda didn’t check out until after lunch, and when they carried their duffles outside, Jack was surprised to find her loading her things into a different car, a rather nondescript sedan. It seemed routine for her: using fake IDs, swapping cars.

  It was nearly four P.M. when they pulled up in front of the Fitch house. Fitch lived in a tired-looking shotgun ranch that didn’t seem nearly large enough to accommodate all the Fitch children. When Aunt Linda tapped the horn, it was like stirrin
g an anthill. He was quickly immersed, waist-deep, in a sea of younger Fitches. Fitch waved ruefully and disappeared into the house with his retinue.

  At the Childers house, a fair-sized pile of mulch still remained on the driveway apron. “Can you drive around the block a few times?” Will pleaded with mock desperation. He reluctantly exited the car, pulling his bag after him. “See you tomorrow.”

  And then it was just the two of them. When Will was well away, Aunt Linda turned her car back toward downtown.

  “Where are we going?” Jack asked warily.

  “I think we should talk before I take you home,” his aunt replied, not looking at him. “I hope you have a little time.”

  The Legends Coffeehouse occupied the first floor of a Victorian mansion that stood next to the lake a block from the university. Linda chose a table in the solarium with a view of the water. The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the windows. She sat with her back to the lake, facing the door.

  Jack ordered a cinnamon roll and hot cocoa. Linda ordered orange spiced tea. She said little until the waitress had served them and disappeared. Then she turned to Jack.

  “So what do you think of the sword?”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .” Jack recalled the rush of power, searched for the appropriate adjective. “I’ve never seen ... felt . . . anything like it.” He’d brought it into the restaurant and leaned it against the wall, unwilling to leave it in the car.

  “I didn’t think you’d have to try it out.” Linda smiled ruefully. “You did well. I don’t think our friend knew what hit him. At least I hope he didn’t.”

  “If you’re going to keep talking in riddles, just forget it,” Jack snapped. “Why’d you involve us in this, anyway? Either I’m going crazy, or I’m not, and either way I don’t like it. We could have been killed. And now you’ve done something to my friends, bewitched them so they don’t even know enough to be scared.”

  “I’m an enchanter, Jack. Not a witch.” Linda’s face held not a trace of humor. “What most people think of as witches are usually sorcerers. They specialize in material magic: poisons, potions, amulets. Unfortunately, they’re not very good with people, so . . .”

  “Okay, you enchanted them,” Jack broke in. He felt like putting his hands over his ears. “Just stop it. The less I know about this, the better. That guy in the graveyard scared the hell out of me.”

  “They scare me, too, Jack,” Linda said quietly. She regarded him with a sympathy that was altogether too inclusive.

  “Who are they?” he asked, after a minute. He couldn’t help himself.

  Linda frowned and tapped her fingernails on the teacup. “I can’t tell you everything. And you’re going to have to be satisfied for the time being with what I can tell you.”

  Jack licked icing off his fingers and pulled another section away from the cinnamon roll. “What if I’m not satisfied?”

  “Then you’ll still have to wait.” When Jack looked up, she was gazing out over the water, her jaw set firmly.

  “Whatever,” he said grudgingly.

  Linda studied him for a moment. “There is something that you should know about our family. The Downeys and Hales have a history of magical gifts that goes back hundreds of years. Had you heard that?”

  Jack thought about it. “Well, there’s Susannah.”

  Linda nodded. “She had the gift of reading the future in the cards. That talent is common in our family. But it is not the only gift. Originally the line was very pure. People of our kind tended to marry each other and bear children who were true to their lineage. Our ancestors came from Britain, which at one time was heavily peopled with the Weir.”

  “The Weir?” It sounded like she was saying ware.

  “The magical guilds. Our ancestors.” Aunt Linda picked up her teacup, then set it down again without drinking from it. “We include our share of poets, writers, revolutionaries, and visionaries. But the Weir inherit unusual abilities.”

  Jack shrugged. “Such as . . . ?”

  Linda reached across the table, gripped his hands, and looked him in the eyes. “We inherit a gift of power. Our ancestors include wizards, enchanters, soothsayers, sorcerers, and warriors.”

  Jack sat without moving, waiting for the punchline. It never came. Linda watched him as if he were a bomb that might go off at any minute.

  She really believes this stuff, he thought. His mother and his aunt had always been interested in what Linda called “hedge magic”: astrology, card reading, palmistry, and the like. But he’d always been under the impression it was more entertainment than anything else.

  Jack licked his lips. “So. Wizardry in the family. What does that have to do with us?”

  “We are heirs, you and I,” replied Aunt Linda. “As I said, I am an enchanter.”

  “An enchanter,” Jack repeated. He remembered what the wizard in the graveyard had said. The enchanter has bewitched you, and you’re going to pay the price. “And what . . . is your gift . . . supposed to be?” he asked.

  She colored a little, twisted a napkin in her hands. “We, uh, we have personal power over people,” she said finally. “We are persuasive. People are drawn to us, whether they like it or not. We are . . . irresistible, I guess you might say.” She slid a look at him as if to assess his reaction.

  It was true. He’d never in his life been able to resist her, but he’d always assumed it was just . . . the way she was. He remembered Will and Fitch back at the hotel. “Okay. What about me?”

  Linda hesitated. “You are a warrior, one of the Weirlind, they’re called.”

  “Warrior?” If Linda’s gift seemed appropriate, his wasn’t a good fit at all, he decided. “That doesn’t sound magical to me.”

  Aunt Linda sighed. “Relations have never been peaceful among the different branches of the Weir. Wars have broken out periodically as one faction tries to win supremacy over the others. Wars require warriors, who have . . . appropriate gifts.” She paused. “There are really wars among wizards. Because they are the most powerful of the guilds, they control the others. Many of the wars through British history originated with our family disputes. In recent years, the battles have continued, virtually unnoticed by those outside the family.”

  “They’re still fighting in Britain,” Jack said. “What about over here?”

  “One of our ancestors, a Hale, came to this country in the 1600s to avoid the European wars. He brought several hundred gifted emigrants with him who sought peace in the New World. We were forgotten. For a while.” She looked away.

  Jack was spinning between past and present. He thought of his mother, so different from Linda. “If you’re an enchanter, does that mean Mom . . .”

  “Becka is not an heir. She and your father know nothing about this. The Weir in the New World have intermarried with Anaweir, those without the gift. Not everyone inherits.”

  Anaweir. The wizard in the graveyard had called him that. But unaware was certainly appropriate, too. “Why haven’t you told my mother about this talent of yours?” He stared out at the sunset.

  “Jack, believe it or not, when I was your age, I thought I knew everything. But I didn’t understand about my gift. So I was unprepared when I encountered my first wizard.”

  He couldn’t help it. He turned to look at her. But she looked away. “I was sixteen. My parents couldn’t help me. Becka couldn’t help me. The Anaweir have no chance against the gifted. But they would have thrown their lives away trying. So it’s better if they don’t know.” She half smiled. “You’ll see. Telling this secret to Anaweir is like pulling on a loose thread. Everything comes unraveled.”

  “What does Susannah have to do with this?” Jack asked.

  “She was a warrior. Like you.”

  “A woman warrior?”

  Aunt Linda shrugged. “Men and women can be warriors, wizards, or enchanters. They say she had the gift. I don’t know if she used it.”

  “If I have some kind of special power, why haven’t I noticed anyth
ing?” Jack did a quick personal survey just to be sure. He ached as though he’d been beaten, and he was conscious of the weight of his clothing on his burned skin. Beyond that, he felt different than before: edgy, impatient, euphoric, alive. A mercurial stranger now lived under his skin. What was going on?

  “Your powers have been suppressed. That medication you’ve been taking since your surgery keeps your powers from becoming manifest.”

  It took him a moment to realize what it meant. “Dr. Longbranch knows about this?” He was beginning to wonder if he were the only one in the dark.

  Linda leaned forward. “The gift is passed from generation to generation in a kind of stone or crystal that sits behind the heart. Wizards carry wizard stones, enchanters enchanter stones. You were Weirflesh, a designated heir, but . . . something went wrong. There was no crystal. Without it, you were dying.”

  “Why didn’t I have a crystal?”

  “Maybe it has to do with the mixing of blood. I don’t know. But you were dying. So I contacted Dr. Longbranch. I . . . I had met her through some people I knew in England.”

  “What did you tell Mom?”

  “As far as she and Thomas know, you were born with a heart defect, and Dr. Longbranch was your heart surgeon. Which she is,” Linda added.

  “A heart surgeon,” Jack repeated. “And?” He leaned back, waiting for the rest.

  “Jessamine Longbranch is a wizard. She brought a stone and implanted it. You recovered. Only . . .” She looked away. “Only, you were meant to be a wizard.”

  Jack pressed his fingers against his temples. “I was born a wizard, and she put in a warrior stone?” Linda nodded. “Why would she do that?”

  Linda stared down at the table, a muscle working in her jaw. “It . . . it was an experiment. She wanted to see what would happen.”

  She’s angry, Jack thought, but she doesn’t want me to know it. “So where does that leave me? Wizard or warrior?”