Jack felt a trickle of fear, like a cold finger down his spine. There was something supernatural at work. Now that he was off Longbranch’s medicine, keeping his powers under wraps was going to be easier said than done. Instinctively, he scanned the crowd. It was sparse: a few parents and assorted girlfriends. Ellen Stephenson was sitting in the bleachers, leaning forward, intent on the field. Looking everywhere but at Jack.
“Nice going, Swift,” Coach Slansky said. “You’ve really improved since last year.” Jack was swapped out right after the goal. He stood miserably on the sidelines. How was he going to get through the season without drawing attention to himself?
“The first thing you need to do is work on your control.” The voice was practically in his ear. Jack jumped and spun around. It was Leander Hastings, wearing a red Harvard sweatshirt and khakis, hands thrust into his pockets. He was standing close enough so that he didn’t have to speak loudly to be heard. “I can help you with that.”
“Can you?” Jack spoke in the same code. “That would be great. What would you suggest?”
“Let’s see.” Hastings ran his hand through his hair. “You’ll have soccer practice every afternoon this week, three to five. Let’s plan on Wednesday afternoon, right after your regular practice. Tell your mom you’ll be home by eight.” Hastings had the manner of a man who was used to issuing commands and having them obeyed.
Jack nodded. “Will we practice here?”
“No,” the wizard replied. “I’ll find a place.”
Jack hesitated. “What about . . . will I need to bring anything?” He might have difficulty storing Shadowslayer in his locker. Besides, he was pretty sure swords were forbidden under Trinity’s zero tolerance weapons policy.
There was a trace of a smile on Hastings’s face, as if he’d read Jack’s thoughts. “No. Not this time.”
“Swift!” It was the coach. “You’re in!”
Jack nodded to Hastings, and ran back out onto the field. Well, for better or worse, he had a plan. He would have to hope for the best. Hastings made him uneasy. Still, his aunt had chosen him, and he had to assume she knew what she was doing.
But there was that other thing she’d said. She’d told him he could trust no one. And now he was putting himself into the hands of a stranger.
When he glanced back at the sidelines, Hastings was gone.
Many of Jessamine’s guests chose to come by water; not that it was necessary, but because it was reminiscent of a more elegant age. They disembarked at the Thameside docks and promenaded through the birch allee to the manor’s south terrace. It was lit by torchlight, bordered by beds of white roses: Glamis Castle, Honor, Penelope, Iceberg, and Fair Bianca, among others. Old roses, hybrid teas, floribundas, and shrub roses. The blossoms appeared as white smudges in the darkness, their fragrance a subtle reminder of who held power over the guilds.
Servants in White Rose livery circulated through the crowd, bearing trays of wine and canapés. Each of the gifted brought a party of servants: members of the lesser guilds to serve as a guard of sorts. A few of the very fortunate had enchanters on their arms. They were the focus of envious eyes and not a few malevolent gestures.
Jessamine Longbranch received her guests where the allee met the terrace. She had chosen them purposefully; entertaining was an essential element of wizard politics, meant to extract information, intimidate, even draw blood on occasion. One could risk coming, or one could risk staying away. Neither was a safe choice.
Jessamine’s hair flowed over her shoulders, confined by a net of seed pearls. Her gown was a confection of diaphanous silk, embroidered over with white roses in strategic locations. The hands she extended for kissing glittered with jewels.
Geoffrey Wylie bowed over her hand. He was dressed in subdued fashion, suitable to a declining House. His coat was a red so deep as to be almost black; he wore a ruby in one earlobe. “Jessamine.” A whisper of power touched her skin. A gesture, only, to let her know he was at home. He kept his head slightly turned so one side of his face was illuminated by torchlight, the other in shadow.
“Geoffrey! You poor thing! Whatever happened to your face?” She grasped his chin, turning his head so she could see better. His face looked to have been badly burned from chin line to brow on the right side. He’d applied a magical glamour that might have fooled someone less perceptive.
She tched. “Did you run into an angry Dragon?” That was the name taken by one of the rabble-rousing leaders of the Servant Guild.
The wizard’s breath hissed out. So he’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. She knew Wylie was vain. They’d been together once.
“It’s nothing. An accident.” But the fury in his eyes said he’d found someone else to blame, and that someone was not yet dead. Wylie was powerful, the procuror of warriors for the Red Rose. Not many would choose to cross him. She filed that away.
Jessamine looked over his shoulder. “Where’s that handsome Mr. Paige? I was looking forward to seeing him again.”
“Simon sends his regrets.” The fury had drained away, to be replaced by an impassive calm. Simon Paige was Master of Warriors for the Red Rose. A rather empty title, as he’d had little to do for several years.
He must have something rather important to do now, to have missed this affair. Could it be the Red Rose had finally found a warrior? If so, there was too much at stake to play at guessing.
She surveyed Wylie’s escort and found what she was looking for. A handsome young man in Red Rose livery who ducked his head when she looked at him. An apprentice sorcerer, perhaps (they were a penny a dozen.) A servant who knew enough to be afraid of her might know other secrets as well. Still smiling, Jess gestured to one of the bodyguards that stood unobtrusively along the wall.
* * *
The sun was up before she finished with the boy. Not because he’d had that much to say, but because the work was so appealing. He’d been very eager to please, at the end. She was confident she’d wrung every scrap of truth from him, the little hints and clues that suggested the Red Rose might issue a challenge one day soon.
Jess showered and changed clothes and carried her tea out onto the terrace. The morning was cool and clear. The river rolled by, ancient roadway of the Britons.
Wylie had threatened and blustered, of course, when his servant turned up missing. But that was the risk one took in bringing an entourage to a gathering of wizards. If the Houses couldn’t attack each other directly, servants could be picked off at need. Could she help it if Wylie’s young man had drunk too much and fallen unseen into the Thames, where his body would be found one day soon, dreadfully decomposed?
She thought of the young warrior she’d left in America. Her most closely held secret. She’d been extraordinarily careful, had minimized her contact with him. But she had planted eyes and ears in that drab little town to watch the boy, though they didn’t know why he was important. They could not betray what they didn’t know.
He was old enough to manifest, but she’d kept him suppressed. She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. She had to weigh the boy’s need for training against her desire to keep him alive a little longer. Perhaps it was time to claim him, to contact the Warriormasters and tell them to ready their tools.
* * *
That night after supper, Jack couldn’t seem to focus on his math homework. After struggling for half an hour, he packed up his papers and supplies and headed for the garage.
Nick was busy painting a bluebird house when Jack knocked, but he pushed the project to one side to make room on the table for Jack’s homework. It was a familiar pattern. Somehow it was always easier to concentrate in Nick’s kitchen. But today, Jack meant to pick a fight.
Nick removed a paint-splattered green apron and slung it over the back of a chair. Jack refused his offer of a beverage and sat glaring at the battered tabletop while Nick made himself a cup of tea.
“So,” Nick said, settling himself into the chair across the table from Jack. He glanced down at the untouched h
omework. “You look like a boy who has eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge and doesn’t like the taste.”
Jack studied the old man, hunting for any sign of wizardry. He was aware of a bright intelligence, nothing more.
Nick was watching him keenly. “How are you, Jack?”
“Just great,” Jack snapped. “I’m lying to my mother, going against doctor’s orders, and being hunted by wizards. Matter of fact, when I’m not being hunted by wizards, I’m hanging out with them.”
Nick sat back in his chair. “But you have the sword.”
Jack nodded sullenly. “Yes.”
“You should be pleased, considering what you came up against,” the old man said. “In a contest between warriors and wizards, it usually goes the other way.”
“What’s to keep them from taking it back?”
“They cannot sense its presence, and they will not breach these walls. I’ve seen to that.” For a moment, he looked scary again, and then his face settled into its usual pattern of laugh lines and history. “Before, wizards were hunting you and you had no clue. Not only that, you were unarmed. You are better off than before.”
“I think I was better off not knowing.”
“Don’t be foolish!” Nick’s tone was brusque. “Ignorance can get you killed. Or worse.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me all this before? You’ve kept me in the dark for years, watching me, dosing me with potions, talking behind my back. The whole neighborhood, practically. You must’ve thought I was pretty stupid.”
“You were a child, Jack,” Nick said gently. “It wasn’t necessary for you to know. The situation was stable, and there wasn’t any reason for you to worry about such things. Children have enough to be afraid of, what with monsters under the bed and so on.”
Jack had to admit his childhood had been relatively carefree. Worrying about wizards would not have improved it. But he wasn’t feeling charitable just then. “Well, now I’m worried. And even Aunt Linda hasn’t really explained what’s going on.”
Nick sighed, looking unaccountably sad. “I don’t know how this will all turn out. Just remember that your Aunt Linda has done everything in her power to protect you, from the time you were born. She is absolutely committed to you. Never doubt that.”
“I still don’t get it. If you’re a wizard, how come you took on this job?” Jack indicated their surroundings with a wave of his hand. “This can’t be too exciting next to the world of spells and incantations.”
Nick smiled. “Sometimes, as you get older, excitement loses its appeal. Let’s just say I have a special interest in you and your aunt. You are important. That makes this important work. Besides, now that you know who and what you are, it opens many doors. So much material has been off-limits up to now. I’ve been putting stuff by for years against this day.” Nick stood, leaning on his staff, and then disappeared into the room Jack thought of as the library. A moment later he returned with a thick leather-bound book. “You can start with this,” the old wizard suggested, handing it to him.
The cover was embossed with gold. “Weir Hale,” and underneath, “Jackson Downey Swift.” He opened it.
A large part of the book was taken up with a genealogy: pages and pages of names of people joined together and their children. Some of the names in the family tree were outlined in bright, metallic colors: blue, red, gold, green, and purple. The rest were in plain black text.
He looked up at Snowbeard. “What is this?”
“This is your Weirbook, Jack. It was created when you were born. All of the Weir have them. Look on the back page.” There Jack saw his own name, Jackson Downey Swift, and the names of his parents, Thomas Swift and Rebecca Downey. All of it written in the same flowing hand.
“The illuminated names are heirs, and the colors indicate what kind—wizards, warriors, and so on. Wizards are in gold.”
Jack noted that his own name was in gold. The warrior who was meant to be a wizard.
“Traditionally, the book is commissioned from the Sorcerer Guild by the child’s parents, using the family Weirbook as a template. In this country, things have become rather muddled due to the mixing of blood. The nearest Weir relation stands as godparent. That’s your Aunt Linda, as you know. She asked Mercedes Foster to do the work.”
“I don’t get it,” Jack said slowly. “Why are wizards so much more powerful than the other guilds?”
“Wizards are singular among the Weir because they shape magic with words. They can do much more powerful and sophisticated tasks through charms. They are limited only by the extent of this knowledge of magical language, and the power of the stone they carry.”
He waved his hand at the book in Jack’s hands. “Spend some time reading through this. Study it. Especially the part about charms and incantations. Then we’ll try a few things.” He gave Jack an appraising look. “I think it’s worth testing you to see if you have any talent for wizardry. Despite your warrior stone.”
Great. He didn’t know how to be a warrior, and now Nick Snowbeard was going to teach him to be a wizard, too.
“But right now you’d better finish up your homework,” Nick added.
Wizardry and calculus. Jack sighed, stood, and picked up the book and his homework. “I can do the math in study hall,” he said. “I’ll look this over. Thanks, Nick.”
Later, in his room, Jack switched on the reading light over his bed. It was already getting late. He pulled the heavy volume onto his lap and flipped to the first page—heavy stock embossed with the stylized figure of a bear.
Jackson Downey Swift
A Wizard Heir
A Warrior Mayde
Under Founding of the Guilds, he read:
The Guilds were founded by five cousins who wandered into an enchanted valley in the North of England. There dwelt an immense dragon. The dragon slept atop a mountain made of precious jewels. The wanderers, upon discovering the treasure, and being unaware of the dragon, began chipping pieces from it to carry away with them. The dragon awakened with a roar, demanding to know who dared steal his treasure. To save themselves, the cousins swallowed the stones they’d stolen. They were magical stones that conferred on them amazing powers, but also made them slaves to the dragon and tied them to the high valley known as Raven’s Ghyll.
The cousins served the dragon for seven long years. At night, they conspired together, even though the dragon slept with one eye open. The wizard wrote a covenant of mutual protection that they all signed in blood. The soothsayer warned them that they must not kill the dragon, but only put it to sleep, or they would lose the powers they had acquired from the magical stones. The enchanter sang to the dragon, distracting it while the sorcerer brewed a powerful sleeping potion. To the warrior fell the task of pouring it in the dragon’s ear.
The plan worked perfectly. It wasn’t until the cousins were celebrating their victory over their erstwhile master that the wizard revealed that the covenant they had signed made wizards masters over the other guilds. If the covenant were broken, the dragon would wake and exact terrible vengeance on all of them.
Thus were founded the Five Guilds.
Jack felt as though he’d wandered into a fairy tale. He opened to the middle of the book and read the following verse:
In heighe midsummer Gareth came forth in faire array
For werre, with horse and horsemen, all verray,
His lust for battle was his fortune and his bane,
For a thousand spears rode out against the Weirlind
His haire shown brilliant as the dying sun
His cause was lost before he’d e’er begun
Forever bound to do a wizard’s will
His sweet blood would water Raven’s Ghyll.
Well. That was clear enough. In the back of the book was a compendium of charms, recipes, and incantations. He settled back to read.
It was after two A.M. when he finally turned off the light, his head filled with the spark and mystery of his ancestry. And when he slept, a war
rior with red-gold hair charged through his dreams.
The next morning in homeroom, Jack was more lethargic than usual. He felt as if he had been up and fighting all night. He drowsed, waiting for morning announcements. High school is incompatible with a secret life, he thought as he shook himself awake for the third or fourth time.
He looked up to see Ellen Stephenson twisted around in her seat watching him. His stomach did a kind of complicated gymnastic backflip, and he sat up straighter, trying to look alive, if not alert.
“You look beat,” she said.
She, in fact, looked great in a white tank top and jeans.
“Were you up late last night working on that math homework?”
“Math homework!” He groaned. “Right. I need to finish that!” Start it, more like. He pulled out his math folder. Maybe he could get a few problems done before homeroom was over.
“Would it help to look over what I’ve done?” Ellen extended her math folder.
“That’s okay. I guess I’d better figure it out on my own. But, thanks.”
“Okay.” She returned the folder to her book bag and rested her arms on the back of her chair. She’d been out in the sun; the skin on her arms had turned pale gold, and a few freckles had surfaced on her shoulders. “So you weren’t working on math, then. You have a part-time job or something?”
“No.” Jack shook his head. “I’ve had some other things I’ve been working on. Special projects,” he added, when Ellen frowned. She was an honors student, so she was in most of his classes. All of his classes, he realized suddenly.
“I’ve been watching you in soccer practice,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. “I mean, watching the team. You’re pretty good, especially at midfield. But don’t let them put you in at fullback, is my advice.”
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 12