The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  They were on Broad Sanctuary Street. This gave Jack an idea. “Does Westminster Abbey count as a church?” The Abbey was still some distance away.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Does it count as a church?”

  “Good idea,” Linda said.

  “Never mind. Let’s go in here.” A smaller church stood in front of the abbey itself. An elaborate maypole dance was in progress in the churchyard. Young girls and ladies in medieval gowns were weaving broad ribbons into an intricate pattern around the pole. Jack and Linda ducked under the ribbons and sprinted for the door of the church. Just as they reached the threshold, something struck Jack on the shoulder where his vest didn’t protect him, almost spinning him around. It stung badly, but he managed to stumble into the sanctuary.

  It was cool and quiet inside. Tourists clustered around the stained-glass windows and the marble memorials in the side aisles. Jack and Linda dropped into the nearest pew, glancing behind to see if anyone had followed them in. No one had.

  Jack’s shoulder was beginning to throb, but when he pulled his sweatshirt away, he could see neither a bruise nor a mark where the skin had been wounded.

  A woman in a sensible skirt and sweater approached them. “Welcome to St. Margaret’s. There will be a tour beginning in ten minutes up by the east window.” She gestured at an elaborate stained glass window at one end of the nave.

  “Can we just sit here for a few minutes?” Aunt Linda asked. “We’re in need of a little prayer.”

  The woman smiled and moved away. And Jack did say a few prayers once he’d caught his breath. Linda sat bolt upright, hands braced against the seat of the pew, eyes closed. Jack wasn’t sure if she was praying or not.

  He wondered how many wizards were waiting outside. Enough to cover all the exits? Maybe I’ll just stay here. Didn’t fugitives in medieval times take sanctuary in churches in order to avoid the law? There was something familiar about the vaulted ceilings, the worn stone floor, the quality of the light. As if he’d been here before.

  As they sat, his shoulder stiffened, became more and more painful, and drew his attention like the bite of a poisonous insect. When it was too much to ignore, he nudged Aunt Linda. “I think something hit me, outside the church. Maybe you should take a look.”

  She lifted his shirt away and touched his arm with the tips of her fingers. The area was bright red now; swollen, and hot to the touch.

  “Damn!” Linda released a long breath. “It must have been a wizard’s graffe,” she said. “It’s a kind of magical dagger.”

  “But it didn’t break the skin,” Jack pointed out.

  “It doesn’t have to. It’s really an enchantment. Very clever on their part, actually. Only a skilled wizard can treat it. They know we can’t stay in here.”

  “I thought . . . I thought magic wouldn’t work in a church.”

  “The damage is already done. Your body’s just responding to it.”

  “What happens if it isn’t treated?” This was another one of those questions that Jack had to ask, although he was sure he wouldn’t like the answer.

  “You’ll die.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. Linda bowed her head, dropping her clasped hands between her knees. Her shoulders shook, and he realized she was crying.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, awkwardly patting her arm. “It’s okay. I’ll think of something.”

  At this, Linda straightened, swiping away tears with the heel of her hand. “No, Jack,” she replied. “I will.” She pulled out her cell phone and slid to the far end of the pew and started punching in numbers.

  Jack’s shoulder reverberated with pain, a cold flame that spread into his neck. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. He tried speaking a few healing and soothing charms, but nothing seemed to make any difference. He’d read somewhere that wizards are unable to heal themselves. Let alone mongrels, as Dr. Longbranch put it.

  The shadows at the front of the nave organized themselves into a half dozen medieval ghost warriors who solemnly processed down the aisle to Jack’s pew, their helmets under their arms. They knelt in the aisle next to him, a semicircle of men who appeared to have come straight from battle. They ranged in age from about thirteen to middle age.

  Their leader was a red-bearded man in a bloodstained tunic, embroidered over with red roses. The hilt of his sword protruded over his shoulder. “Did we not tell ye to stay away, lad? Did we not warn you?”

  Jack licked his lips and looked about. No one else seemed to notice the invasion of Weirlind. “I had to come.”

  The warrior looked back at his companions. “He had to come,” he repeated, lifting his hands in exasperation.

  “He had to come,” the Weirlind whispered, their voices like the wind through icy branches.

  Turning back to Jack, the warrior said, “And where is Shadowslayer?”

  “I . . . I left it back in my room,” Jack admitted, feeling besieged.

  The red-bearded man raised an eyebrow. “So ye went abroad among wizards with naught but your hands?” He turned to the guard and added, “Leaving his blade behind.”

  “Leaving his blade behind” came the echo, like a kind of Greek chorus.

  “Ah, well,” the warrior said. “Now ye’ve taken a mortal wound.” He rested a gloved hand on Jack’s knee. “Don’t worry, lad. We’ll keep vigil with the lady until the end. Vigil for the Warrior Heir!” he said to the others.

  “Vigil for the Heir!”

  “Jack!”

  The warriors drew back, but did not disperse. Jack turned to see Linda beside him.

  She took his hand between hers. “Don’t worry. I reached Hastings. He’s coming from Canterbury. It’s about sixty miles away.”

  “How long does it take?”

  Whether Jack meant the graffe or the trip from Canterbury, the answer was the same.

  “I don’t know,” his aunt said.

  Groups of tourists came and went. Jack felt worse and worse. He propped himself in the corner of the pew to keep from falling over. He was alternately chilled and overheated. Even worse, he was beginning to see things, dark shadowy things like demons crouched in the corners of the church. The walls writhed and quaked, advanced and receded. The Weirlind huddled disconsolately in the aisle, whispering among themselves.

  Linda found a drinking fountain in the entrance to the sanctuary and brought him some water in a paper cup, which he drank greedily. She brought him two more cups.

  Then someone slipped into the pew in front of him. It was Jessamine Longbranch. She looked shimmery and monstrous to Jack, who was having trouble focusing his eyes. He raised both hands, feebly, to keep her away. The Weirlind stirred and muttered.

  “Jack, you don’t look well. Not nearly as well as you looked in my office this morning.”

  “Get out of this church, Jessamine, before God finds out you’re in here,” Linda whispered fiercely.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with you, Jack?” The doctor’s voice was probably meant to be soothing, but without its usual overlay of wizardry, it only sounded thick and sinister.

  “Wizard’s graffe,” Jack tried to reply, but it was difficult to say with his tongue so thick in his mouth.

  “Come outside, Jack, and we’ll take care of you. Otherwise, you’ll be dead before the day is over.” She turned to Linda. “You at least should know better than to try this kind of a stunt.”

  “Get out of here, Jessamine,” Linda repeated.

  Dr. Longbranch shrugged. “We’ll be outside. Let us know when you’re ready to give him up.” She raked back her dark fall of hair. “I can see already that Jack is very talented. I would hate to see him go to waste.” She reached out her hand to him, and he shrank back into the pew like a cornered animal. She tucked a strand of damp hair behind his ear. Then she stood and walked out of the church, the heels of her shoes clicking on the stone floor.

  Did the end of the day mean sundown or midnight? Could be important, he thought, but then he couldn’t r
emember why. He knew there was something he desperately needed to say. “Aunt Linda.” It came out as a scratchy whisper. She slid close to him and cradled his head in her arms, being careful of his shoulder, leaning in so she could hear him. “Aunt Linda, please don’t let her take me. Please. I don’t care . . . what happens. Promise.”

  Linda promised, tears dripping down her face.

  * * *

  The woman who had greeted them when they entered the church had returned. She looked concerned. “Is your son ill?” she asked Linda.

  “Nephew,” Linda corrected her automatically. “He is ill, but it’s a spiritual kind of sickness,” she explained.

  “Is it?” The woman raised her eyebrows. Jack was stretched out full length on the hard pew, his head in Linda’s lap. He was shivering, delirious, muttering to himself. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to hospital?”

  “Please. He needs to stay in here,” Linda said desperately. “Or he’ll be lost.”

  The woman hesitated. “Perhaps we can make him more comfortable.” She disappeared for a few moments and reappeared with a thin bedroll and blankets. “I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Sarah Barham. I am one of the church docents, but I also run a ministry for the homeless,” she explained. “We accept donations here at the church. So we have some bedding here.”

  “My name is Linda Downey,” Linda replied. “And this is Jack. We really appreciate your help.”

  When Leander Hastings arrived half an hour later, Jack lay on a mattress in a corner of the church. Linda and Sarah Barham knelt next to him, praying. They were ringed by kneeling ghost warriors, in vigil. Jack looked near death, his freckles standing out against the pallor of his skin, his breathing a shallow and ineffective rasp. The warriors faded back as Hastings approached, muttering unhappily.

  Linda leaped to her feet when she saw him. “Hurry, Leander. I’d almost given him up.” When the wizard hesitated, she said, “Come on! There couldn’t possibly be any problem with healing a person in a church!”

  Hastings knelt next to Jack and rested his hand on the injured shoulder. It was red and shiny and swollen, with long red streaks that extended all the way from his arm to his chest. Jack moaned and tried to twist away.

  “Hold him down.”

  Linda and Sarah each pinned one of Jack’s wrists to the floor. Hastings placed his hands over the wound, speaking a charm slowly and distinctly. The skin immediately blistered up, turning a nasty green and yellow, as if the poison had risen and collected just under the skin.

  Sarah Barham cleared her throat. “What is he, a priest?” she asked Linda.

  “Not exactly,” Linda replied.

  Hastings waited a minute, keeping his hands in place, then spoke a different charm. Minutes passed, and there was no change. Then, slowly, Jack’s complexion lost its waxy appearance. His breathing grew less ragged and his whole body relaxed. Hastings smiled up at the two women. He was pale and perspiring, his green eyes muddy with exhaustion. He removed his hands; the blistering had subsided.

  The church docent looked from Jack to Hastings. “Well. I thought he was going to die,” she admitted.

  “Me, too,” Hastings said shortly. He stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Is there any other way out of this church?” he asked softly. “Besides the obvious?”

  “There is another door,” Sarah said. “At the southeast end. But it’s usually not open to the public,” she added.

  “Could we use it?” Hastings smiled at the woman. “Please? The boy’s in danger.”

  “Well.” She looked at Jack, and back at Hastings. “I suppose so. I’ll show you where it is.”

  Hastings turned to Linda. “I need you to stall those wizards outside as long as possible. Don’t let them know that he’s gone. Better yet, see if you can convince them he’s dead.” He reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Be careful. I think we can assume they’ll be angry.”

  “Wizards!” Sarah took a step back, her hand flying to her mouth as if she had suddenly realized that the tall stranger did have a certain supernatural look about him.

  “So to speak,” said Hastings, smiling in a disarming fashion. “The boy’s involved himself with a cult.” He bent and lifted Jack again. Jack frowned and muttered something. “One more thing: Linda, can you get to Canterbury and take over my Chaucerian Society? They’re at Dovecote Hostelry in the old city. We’re visiting all the scenes of the great murders. Tomorrow they want to see where Becket was killed. They’re a bloodthirsty lot, it seems.”

  Linda nodded, without speaking.

  Hastings followed the bewildered Sarah Barham to the rear of the church and disappeared. Linda arranged the bedclothes to look like a recumbent form. Then she stationed herself next to the pallet to wait.

  Sarah Barham allowed Linda to stay beyond the official church closing time of four-thirty. The enchanter kept her vigil, seated on the floor, her back against the wall. Daylight faded behind the stained-glass windows as the interior lights kindled. It was after nine P.M. when Jessamine Longbranch reentered the church to find Linda dozing at her post. The wizard stood, hands on hips, gazing down at Linda.

  “I suppose the boy’s dead?” She motioned at Linda’s arrangement of bedclothes on the floor.

  “Yes,” Linda replied.

  “You little fool!” The words were full of venom. “I can’t believe you would sacrifice your nephew like this. Why not let him fight, and at least give him a chance?”

  “You cast the graffe, Jessamine, I didn’t. You can explain it to the rest of your House. Jack said he’d rather die than end up in your hands. I honored his choice.”

  “I’m most displeased. I think I’ll pay your sister Becka a visit. She’s staying on Thurloe Place, isn’t she?” Dr. Longbranch stalked from the church.

  Linda rang Becka repeatedly, but there was no answer. She lounged at the church until about midnight, then slipped out the back door.

  The Chaucerian Society was a flexible group. When Linda introduced herself as an expert in medieval myth and magic who would be replacing Leander Hastings for a few days, there was hardly a ripple of concern. The boys in particular were pleased with the change. The notable exceptions were Will and Fitch, who knew that Linda Downey surfacing unexpectedly meant that trouble would follow.

  Linda was a good choice for the assignment. She was an ardent Anglophile, and shared her family’s interest in English literature and medieval studies. She had lived much of her life in England, and was able to add detail and color to the information provided by the official cathedral guide. They were all suitably impressed with the sheer nastiness of a murder in church. We weren’t far from that last night, Linda thought. She wondered where Jack and Hastings had gotten to. She’d heard he had a house in Cumbria, perhaps they’d gone there.

  She tried to call Becka several times during the day, but there was no answer in the hotel room in London. Becka surely wouldn’t leave for Oxford without Jack. She left a message at Devon House for Becka to call her in Canterbury. The story she had devised was that they had spotted the kidnappers in London, and although Hastings had taken Jack to a safe place, they were all in danger.

  There were no messages when Linda returned to Hastings’s room. There was sparse evidence of his presence: a book on the table, a leather shaving kit in the washroom, a sweater draped across the foot of the bed. Impulsively, she pressed the wool to her face, breathing in his scent. Embarrassed, she dropped it on the bed.

  By now, Becka might be frantic. What if she called Dr. Longbranch? Surely now that the wizard thought Jack was dead, she would leave Becka alone, despite her threat in the church. Unless Longbranch decided to use Becka to take revenge on Linda for the double cross.

  And where were Jack and Hastings? Hastings owned property somewhere in Cumbria. Perhaps they had gone up there. Maybe Hastings had called Becka and told her some story on his own. Anything was possible.

  There was a knock at the door. W
hen she pulled it open, Will and Fitch stood in the hallway, Fitch with a folder under his arm. They looked to be on a mission.

  “Hello, Ms. Downey. We need to talk to you. If . . . are you busy?” Will shifted from foot to foot.

  “Not at all. Please, come in! Would you like some tea or something?” Linda looked from one to the other.

  Fitch shook his head. “We came because we want to know why you’re here and what it has to do with Jack,” he said bluntly.

  “I see. Well, won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward a little table next to a window that overlooked the narrow street below.

  They arranged themselves as best they could, seeming overlarge for the delicate table, all elbows and knees and long legs and wary determination.

  Fitch dropped his folder on the table and said, “So where’s Jack? And why are you filling in for Mr. Hastings?”

  Linda steepled her hands and rested her chin on her fingertips, studying them. They had earned the right to information. Without them, Jack would no doubt be dead or worse. “Jack’s had trouble again since coming to London. He had to leave with Mr. Hastings. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Listen, we’re tired of being clueless.” Will placed his palms flat against the table. “Jack won’t tell us anything. He just says not to worry, there’s nothing we can do. Crap like that. We think you can tell us what’s going on.”

  “I can do that. It’s up to you to decide what you want to believe.” Linda could make them believe Jack had been kidnapped by aliens if she wanted to. But, this time, she preferred to convince them by non-magical means. She took a deep breath.

  “Jack should have been a wizard, but he was implanted with a warrior stone when he was a baby.”

  Fitch squinted at her doubtfully, as if trying to decide if she were joking. “Implanted with a . . . what?”

  “A Weirstone. Those who carry a warrior stone have certain magical attributes that manifest when they come of age—”

  “Right.” Fitch rolled his eyes. “Jack Swift is . . . is some kind of gladiator with superpowers. Is that what you’re saying?”