Linda nodded. “There are other stones and other guilds, of which wizards are the most powerful. Wizards play warriors in tournaments called the Game. Only there aren’t many warriors left. So Jack is what you might call a rare find. Because of that, wizards are after him, trying to capture or kill him.”
“Hold on,” Will said, scowling. “Wizards? Like in a fairy tale?”
“Well, more like a nightmare, I suppose. They are crafters of magic, using spells and charms. Unlike warriors, wizards have no specific physical manifestation, but rather a powerful presence.”
Will slammed his hands down on the table. “Fine. If you’re not going to tell us the truth, just say so and quit wasting our time.”
“Will.” Fitch put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Remember the dude in the graveyard, and the flaming sword and all that?”
“That was a wizard. In fact…” Linda hesitated, then went on. “In fact, there are a number of wizards who live right in Trinity.”
“Like who?” Fitch demanded, searching her face for clues. Then his eyes widened behind his glasses. “Mr. Hastings, I’ll bet.”
Reluctantly, Linda nodded.
“Who else?” Fitch thrust his chin forward, clearly in interrogation mode.
“Well, there’s Nick Snowbeard. And Leesha Middleton.”
“Nick? And Leesha-frigging-Middleton? The princess?”
“Well, yes,” Linda said. “She was working with those men who tried to kidnap Jack from the high school.”
“No way!” Fitch shuddered.
“Don’t tell me Lobeck was involved, too?” Will said.
Linda shook her head. “A bully and a jerk, maybe, but not a wizard.”
“Not unless they come in stupid,” Fitch added. “Are we going to be able to see Jack while we’re here?”
Linda hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure where he is right now.”
Fitch tapped his folder with his fingertips. “What does this have to do with his grandmother and the graveyard?”
“Susannah had the same gift, the same stone as Jack. She was a warrior like he is. That was her sword you dug up. We were hoping he could use it to protect himself.”
“Can a Weirstone be stolen?”
“Not without killing the bearer.”
“But could it be stolen? Like, if you cut somebody open? Would someone have any reason for doing that, maybe to implant it in someone else? Like Jack?”
Linda thought a moment. “Weirstones have some magical power in themselves. Wizards sometimes buy them off traders and use them as talismans. Jack’s the only person I’ve heard of who had a stone implanted. That was because he was missing his.”
“I was thinking about Jack’s grandmother, Susannah Downey, and how she died. Whenever I see that star-shaped scar on Jack’s chest, I think of it.”
“What are you talking about?” Linda looked from one boy to the other. “She died in an accident. Didn’t you say she fell from a horse?”
Fitch nodded. He opened the folder. “But the cause of death was a hole in her chest. It said in the paper that maybe she fell onto a fence post or something. Look.” He pulled a microfilm printout from his folder. “I ended up with this when we went to the library. It sounded kind of far-fetched to me. I don’t imagine forensics were very sophisticated in those days.” He passed the paper to Linda. It was Susannah’s obituary.
Linda scanned it quickly, then read it again more slowly. “‘Lee Hastens, a visitor in the township, found her lying in the woods back of the family farm in the late evening. Although known to be a capable horsewoman, Mrs. Downey took a fall onto a fence post. She had a severe gash to the chest, which was the cause of death.’” A tiny flame of an idea kindled in the back of Linda’s mind. It burned with greater and greater intensity, no matter how hard she tried to put it out.
Fitch broke into her thoughts. “Maybe it’s because we’ve been talking about all these murders in the past few days. And now the Weirstones. Could Susannah have been murdered, and her stone stolen?” Fitch stopped, peering at Linda. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Jack,” Linda whispered. “I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Chapter Thirteen
Cumbria
Jack remembered little about his last hours in the church. He lay mortally wounded, the Weirlind keeping vigil around him. A vast darkness threatened to overtake him, but somehow was kept at bay by the music of women’s voices praying. He clung to the sound as to a lifeline, and then finally there was a new voice and a new prayer, and the darkness receded and the throbbing in his shoulder eased. Someone lifted him up, and there was fresh air and rain on his face. He was carried some distance through the rain, and then bundled into the backseat of a car. He remembered the scent and feel of leather against his face. Someone lifted his head and poured a burning liquid down his throat, and then he slept. He awoke once to darkness and the slamming of car doors and what might have been his mother’s voice. He tried to call to her, but it was impossible to stay awake.
When he finally awoke again, it was to a soft daylight that intruded into sleep. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow to force the light away. He was in a large bed that was made up with rather coarse linens with a light coverlet over the top. He was dressed in unfamiliar clothing: shorts and a T-shirt. Memory began to overtake him, and he sat up quickly, too quickly, became dizzy, and lay back against his pillows.
The chamber was virtually bare, as if carved from rock, with stone walls and a stone floor, a fireplace, and a single, unadorned window. There was an arched wooden door at the far end of the room. Apart from the bed, the only furnishings were a stand with a basin and pitcher on it, a small bedside table with sorcerer’s bottles lined up on it, two plain wooden chairs, and a rocker drawn up next to the bed. A jeweled case stood propped against the hearth. It was Shadowslayer, his sword, and next to it, on the hearthstone, lay Blaise’s mirror in its leather wrapping. How did those get here? He’d left them at the hotel, under charms of protection.
He desperately tried to remember what had happened at the end of the long afternoon in the church. There was no twinge or tenderness in his shoulder, no remnant of the wizard’s graffe. Had Hastings arrived in time, or was he in the hands of the White Rose? That thought made him get up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He meant to retrieve his sword. If they were foolish enough to leave him a weapon, he intended to take advantage of it.
Just then, the door opened, and his mother came in. Becka was wearing jeans and a bulky sweater, barefoot despite the chill of the stone floor. She carried a tray with a pot of tea and a generous breakfast.
“Mom!” Jack was amazed and overjoyed to see her. Becka carefully set the tray down on the bedside table and then pulled him into her arms. They sat there on the edge of the bed for a long minute.
Finally Becka sat down and looked at him. “You seem much better, Jack. I was so worried when Leander came to get me. You looked terrible.”
There was toast and marmalade, bacon and eggs, and some kind of smoked fish. Jack spread the marmalade onto his toast, stalling for time while he conjured up a question. Jack wasn’t sure how his condition would have been explained.
“Did Mr. Hastings tell you what happened?”
She frowned, as if she were trying hard to remember. “He said you had caught a . . . a virus, and what you needed was some rest and peace and quiet. So we came up here.” She stroked the hair away from his forehead. “Would you like me to get you something to read? There’s a wonderful library downstairs.”
Jack stopped chewing and stared at his mother. This was not at all the response he had anticipated. He expected a thousand questions he couldn’t answer. He wondered how Hastings had handled her, why she had not insisted on his going to a hospital. Though, perhaps he already knew the answer to that question.
“Where are we?” he asked, looking about the room. “And how long have I been . . . sick?”
“This
is Leander’s house. We’ve been here three days.”
Jack glanced around the room again. It was as spare as the man himself. The only color was from the sorcerer’s bottles on the table. Hastings had never mentioned any connection to England, let alone that he had a house here. But it made sense, if Hastings knew Aunt Linda. “Are we still in London?” Something about the quality of the light and the stillness outside told him they were not.
“This is Cumbria. In the north of England. We’re in the mountains, actually, not far from Scotland.”
Jack wondered how recent events would affect the rest of their time in England, wondered if wizards would soon be chasing him all over Britain. “What about Oxford? Aren’t they expecting you?”
“I have all summer to get to Oxford.” She spoke languidly, as if there were no longer any urgency about getting there. She sat down in the rocker. “Jack, eat your breakfast before it gets cold. You haven’t eaten for three days, and you need to get your strength back.”
Why had Hastings brought his mother up here? Perhaps to help care for him, but it certainly made matters awkward. He didn’t see how they could hope to keep his problems secret much longer anyway. He felt like his whole life was unraveling, and threatening to shred his family in the bargain.
He pushed his breakfast aside for the moment and slid out of bed. It was unexpectedly high, and his feet hit the stone floor with a smack. The shutters over the window stood open, and the morning air was chilly. His clothes were nowhere in sight.
The view through the window caught his eye. They were perhaps three stories up, looking out to a beautiful landscape of mountains and green hillsides, the foothills shrouded in mist.
And then the door opened and Leander Hastings walked in. He too was dressed in a heavy sweater against the cool morning. He seemed surprised to see Jack up and walking around. “Becka!” he said, smiling. “It looks like your son is definitely on the mend.” He came and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. There was an ownership about the gesture that set Jack’s teeth on edge.
“He looks much better,” Becka agreed, half turning to look up into the wizard’s face. “But I can’t get him to eat much breakfast.”
Hastings crossed to the window and looked over Jack’s shoulder. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I feel renewed each time I come here.”
Jack turned away rudely. “Mom, I think I’d like to do some reading after breakfast after all. Do you think you could go down and find me a couple of books?”
Becka actually looked at Hastings for an answer. The wizard nodded. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Jack and I need to talk anyway. I’ll come get you in a little while.”
Becka rose from the rocker and kissed Jack on his forehead. “Try and eat a little more,” she said, and left the room. Hastings gazed after her until the door shut behind her.
Jack broadened his stance, resting his fists on his hips. “What’s wrong with her?”
Hastings sat down in the rocker next to the bed. “There’s nothing wrong with your mother. She’s fine.” He might have smiled, but didn’t when he saw the expression on Jack’s face.
“You’ve put a spell on her,” Jack persisted. “She’s not acting like herself.”
“I haven’t used any charms on her unnecessarily,” Hastings replied, shrugging like an innocent man. “Though I may have to . . . direct her a bit more now that you’re up and about.”
“You should never have brought her up here.”
“I see.” Hastings toyed with an unusual ring on his left ring finger. It was a beautifully faceted stone set in an ornate gold setting, and it spun out light in a thousand colors. “I’ve kept your mother safe,” he said. “By now, the Roses are certainly looking for her. I don’t know what more you want from me.”
Jack didn’t know what else to say to the man who had once again saved his life. So he said nothing.
“Sit down, Jack.” Hastings motioned to the other chair, looking like a man with an unpleasant job to do. Reluctantly, Jack sat. Hastings waved a hand at the breakfast tray. “Better eat.” Jack surveyed the tray, then grudgingly picked up a piece of toast. “How are you feeling?” the wizard asked.
“I’m feeling good,” Jack admitted. “It’s like I had a bad dream.”
“A very bad dream,” Hastings agreed. “Your shoulder should be fine, with no stiffness at all. As long as the charm is destroyed in time, all is mended.”
“I don’t really remember what happened.” He finished the slice of toast and started in on his eggs.
“After the charm was broken, I carried you to my car. Linda stayed behind to distract Dr. Longbranch and the others. I thought it best to stop and retrieve your mother. I knew she would be worried about you when you and Linda didn’t return, and I was afraid she might go to see Dr. Longbranch. So I brought her up here.”
“I didn’t know you had a house here.”
“This house is the ancestral home of my family, though I acquired it only a few years ago. This is the Lake District, the land of the poets, one of the magical places in Britain.” Jack looked up to see Hastings still watching him, as if sizing him up. It made him uneasy.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” Jack sat back a bit from his breakfast. “What do you want from me?”
“Had you heard that there is a tournament scheduled for Midsummer’s Day?” Hastings’s face was expressionless.
“Dr. Longbranch told us about it.” Jack thought hard. A lot had happened since his visit to Longbranch’s office. “She said the Red Rose had issued a challenge, that they had a champion. She wants me to fight.”
Hastings nodded. “She does. And so do I.” The words hung heavily in the air between them.
Understanding came slowly, like the change in light that comes with the onset of bad weather. Their eyes locked briefly, and Jack’s breath was stolen from him. So many puzzles, so many inconsistencies, and now it all made sense. And then he was angry, at Hastings and at his own stupidity.
“That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” His voice trembled, despite his efforts to keep it steady. He shoved his breakfast tray away and leaned forward. “That’s what you were preparing me for, all the formal training, the bouts in the meadow, everything!”
Hastings nodded. “Yes.” He didn’t look up, still focused on the ring.
“This trip to England: was that your idea also?” His mother had decided this on her own, hadn’t she? He tried to remember.
The wizard spread his fingers in a gesture of confession. “I would have arranged for you to come to England this summer one way or another. I thought perhaps with the Chaucerian Society, but as it happened, you traveled with Becka.”
“So you lied to Aunt Linda,” Jack continued. “Making her think she could keep me out of this.”
“Yes. I lied.” Hastings was unapologetic. “Your aunt handed me the rather challenging task of keeping you alive. We simply disagree on strategy.”
“Well, you’ve chosen the wrong person. You can’t make me fight for you. If it comes to that, I’ll throw the match.”
“There is no ‘throwing’ of the tournament. It’s a fight to the death.”
“Then you’ll have to find someone else to sacrifice.”
“Make no mistake. Either way, you will be sacrificed.”
Jack looked up, thinking he heard a threat. But Hastings’s expression was a mixture of sympathy and impatience.
The wizard leaned back and closed his eyes. “Face the facts, Jack. As far as you are concerned, this all started maybe three or four months ago, with the trip to the graveyard, right? In the past three weeks, you have been attacked three times. That’s just a taste of things to come.”
Hastings opened his eyes, fixed Jack with his green-eyed gaze. “Remember, the White Rose has left you entirely alone up until now. As soon as they realize you’re alive, they’ll come after you again, too. Perhaps the Red Rose tried to poison you. If not, they certainly know who you are now
, since the incident at school. And then there are the traders to consider. You’re worth a bloody fortune. And the world is full of adventurers who will try to claim it.”
Jack could stay in his seat no longer. He rose and walked back to the window. The mists were burning off in the low places, disintegrating into ragged streamers in the still air. Some sheep had wandered into view on one of the far hills. He wished he could just fly away from this place, from who he was, from his past and his future.
Hastings was relentless. “Assuming you make it home from here, what do you think you’ll go back to? Trinity will become a battleground for wizards. Your friends, each person in your family will be a point of vulnerability, particularly Anaweir.” He paused. “You’ve seen your mother. I brought her here as an example to you. All I have to do is speak a charm, and she’ll do anything I tell her to do. I can demonstrate if you’d like.”
“Go to hell,” Jack muttered into the crystalline air.
“Which means she will be at the mercy of any wizard from either house who tracks her down. Your father, Will, and Fitch: no one will be safe. How many of them are you willing to sacrifice?” Hastings joined Jack at the window. His voice grew softer. “Trust me, I know. Even if you sleep with one eye open, I give you six months to a year. And even if you survive, you’ll end up alone. You see, there are no rules out there.”
Jack rested his face against the cool stone surrounding the window. He thought of Trinity, of its quiet tree-lined avenues, the stone buildings of the university, the gaudy gingerbread of Jefferson Street. And then he imagined a barren ruin in its place. “Why do they do it? These tournaments, I mean?”
Hastings spoke patiently, as if delivering a history lesson. “These are ruthless, powerful people with time on their hands and the means to destroy each other. This system meets a lot of needs. It allows the settling of disputes with minimal bloodshed. Wizards claim to be heir to the legacy of the Dragon of Dungeon Ghyll. By contract, we own you. By that point of view, warriors are considered property. And are therefore . . . expendable.”
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 23