The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Was this the legendary hoard of weapons? It seemed unlikely. The hoard was said to be a living arsenal, regularly added to and used by the D’Orsays. These things looked like they’d lain untouched for centuries. While some of the sefas could be used as weapons, this was mostly fancy work— jewelry, books, art, gemstones.

  Was it possible that D’Orsay didn’t know this was here? Totally possible.

  Jason leaned against the wall, rubbing his chin. Well, now. It wouldn’t do for the Roses or D’Orsay to get hold of it.

  He couldn’t haul everything out in one trip, but he couldn’t count on coming back, either. He might not make it out alive this time. And if he were caught, they’d quickly force the cave’s location out of him.

  He’d have to focus on smaller items, and choose carefully. He zipped open his backpack and set it on the cave floor.

  The magical artifacts were the first priority. He and Hastings and the rest of the Dragon House were in this war for survival. Anything that kept the other Wizard Houses away from the sanctuary at Trinity was golden. The rebels could use these amulets to make the price of conquest too high for Claude D’Orsay or the Roses.

  Jason methodically worked his way through the vault, torn between a growing claustrophobia and the fear he’d overlook something critical. He wrapped some of the more fragile and dangerous-looking pieces in strips of cloth he ripped from the bolts of fabric. Then he shoveled magical jewelry, crystals, mirrors, and scrying stones into the backpack, trying to be careful, hoping he wouldn’t break anything or inadvertently set something off. It was like loading pipe bombs into a shopping cart.

  At the back of the cave, a sword in a jeweled scabbard stood alone, as if its owner had leaned it against the wall, meaning to come back and retrieve it. He gripped the hilt gingerly. The metal tingled in his hand, a kind of magical greeting.

  “What have we here?” Jason muttered, feeling a rising excitement.

  The hilt and crosspiece were of rather plain make, embellished with a Celtic cross on the pommel, centered with a flat-petaled rose. It was somehow more beautiful for its simplicity. Jason was no warrior, but he recognized quality when he saw it. As he drew the blade from its covering, it seemed to ignite, driving the shadows from the corners.

  Could this be one of the seven great blades?

  Of the seven, only one other was known to exist: Shadowslayer, the blade carried by Jason’s friend, the warrior Jack Swift, of Trinity. Stroking the glittering metal, Jason wished he could marry himself to a weapon the way Jack did.

  But, no. Always better to be a wizard than a warrior in the hierarchy of the magical guilds.

  Sliding the blade back into its scabbard, he carried it forward and set it next to the bulging backpack. Now what else? he queried the room.

  Niches lined the back wall, in the blue shadow of the Dragon’s Tooth. Some were empty, some displayed treasures, some were mortared shut. Reasoning that the closed niches might contain the most valuable contents, he took the time to break them open with cautious bits of magic. The mountain shuddered uneasily under the assault. Dirt from above trickled onto his head and shoulders.

  A battered wooden chest covered with a tracery of runes stood in an open niche just under the Weirstone. Jason lifted it down to the floor of the cave and pried at the lid. Inside was a collection of scrolls, bound together with linen twine, covered with writing he couldn’t decipher. And a large book secured with a jeweled lock.

  Jason wasn’t much for books, and this one looked awkward and heavy, and who knew if it was worth carrying back with him? Then again, someone had taken the trouble to lock it.

  The lock fell apart in his hands, and the ancient binding protested with a crackling sound as he opened it. This was almost too easy. The text was written in a flowing hand by a scribe or scholar. On the title page was scribbled, Of the Last Days of the Glorious Kingdom and How it Passed Into Memory: A Tragedie.

  Spinning light off his fingers, Jason scanned the first few pages.

  It was a journal, kept by the attendant to some ancient ruler, written in the Language of Magic. He almost closed the book and set it aside, but something kept him reading.

  My Lady Queen Aidan Ladhra greeted the kings of Gaul in the great keep! How she glittered in the firelight, her jeweled armor burnished bright by my hand. Her terrible beauty transfixed our guests and struck them dumb with awe. They fell on their faces, and only rose when she begged them to do so in the most gentle voice.

  They dined with us, and I must say, my Lady was most disappointed in their conversation. She was gracious as always, but her guests were impossible! She brought in musicians, and they ignored them, eating and belching and singing bawdy songs and slipping silver into their pockets. She spoke of art and sorcerie, and they were only confused. They know nothing of magic. . . .

  Jason jumped ahead in the text.

  My Lady Aidan sent a kind invitation to the Kings of Britain, inviting them to attend her at her winter court. But they came with armies, and with battle machines of all kinds, and sent an envoy demanding her surrender. It was a patronizing message; clearly they thought her to be stupid and incapable of negotiation. I am afraid my Lady was so nettled that she killed the messenger on the spot and ate him for supper. Then destroyed the armies that came after.

  Whoa.

  Jason skipped forward again.

  Failing in her attempt to find friends among the existing kingdoms, and discouraged by their responses to her friendly overtures, my Lady Aidan has decided to create her own community of peers, artists and scholars gifted with the use of magic, a talent that will pass to their children. I have seen the future in my glass, and I’ve told her this is risky, but my Lady is lonely with only my poor self for companionship. As for me, I require no gift other than her presence.

  The mountain groaned and shifted overhead. Although it was cool in the cave, Jason blotted sweat from his face with his sleeve. Conscious of passing time, he hurriedly turned over the fragile pages, his damp fingers leaving spots.

  My Lady Aidan tires of the constant disputes among those she has gifted with power. Where she sought companionship, she has gained only troubles. Priceless talents she has given to all, yet they each are jealous of the others. I fear they are conspiring against her, particularly the wizard Demus, who shapes magic with words. I see them cast envious eyes on the treasure she has accumulated. But she will have none of my warnings. She considers these squabblers her children, rightly or wrongly, and will hear no evil about them.

  Somewhere along the underground passage, Jason heard rock crash against rock. It was time to go, and he still didn’t know if the book was worth taking. He flipped to the back, looking for the last entry. It appeared to have been scrawled in haste, the pages stained and blurred, as if spotted with tears.

  It has happened, as I predicted. Demus and the other ungrateful vipers have poisoned us. My Lady retreated to the great hall in Dragon’s Ghyll to die. I tended her as best I could, but there was nothing I could do. She expired a few hours ago.

  She dies childless. Before she passed into sleep, she gave into my hands the Dragonheart, which is now the source of power for all the magical guilds. Despite all, she still has hopes for them. Over my objections, she named me Dragon Heir, and charged me and my descendants to hold the guilds in check and prevent them from visiting destruction on each other and the world. I promised I would to ease her passing, though I am dying myself. I have no love for this task. I would wish that my children have nothing to do with the gifted.

  When I hold the Dragonheart stone in my hands, it is as if my mistress still lives. The flame of her spirit burns at its center, safer in this vessel than in any fleshly home, powerful enough to destroy all of her enemies. I only wish I were strong enough to use it.

  The dragonhold is surrounded. My children have scattered to the four winds. I dare not send a message to them lest it be intercepted, tho’ I have sent along some small items of value by trusted courier.

&n
bsp; Truly, I harbor the bitter and rebellious hope that they thrive and prosper in ignorance of their charge.

  Before I die beside my mistress, I will bury the Dragonheart stone in the mountain with such protections as I can lend it. Perhaps chance will put it into the possession of one with the heart and desire to release its full power. That person will seize control of the gifts that have been given. That person will once again reign over the guilds. Or destroy them, as they deserve.

  Jason rested the book on his knees. Was this just another of the fantastical legends created to explain a rather twisted heritage?

  He set the book aside and peered again into the hollow in the rock, illuminating the niche with the light at his fingertips.

  At the back of the niche stood an elaborate pedestal of intricately worked metal, topped by an opal the size of a softball. Gingerly, Jason reached into the niche and lifted the stone off its base.

  Jason sat back on his heels, cradling the stone between his hands. It was ovoid in shape, glittering with broad flashes of green and blue and purple fire. It was perfect, crystalline, no flaws in it that he could see. It warmed his fingers, as if flames actually burned at its center, and seemed to hum with power. Long minutes passed while he gazed into its heart, mesmerized. A pulsing current seemed to flow between the stone in his hands and the Weirstone in his chest, reinforcing it. Like the Dragon’s Tooth set into the mountain, only . . . portable.

  A performance enhancer? Exactly what he needed.

  Leaning forward again, he pulled the metal base from the niche. It was a tangle of mythical beasts, or maybe one mythical beast with multiple heads. Dragons.

  Feeling a little giddy, Jason dumped agates from a velvet bag and dropped the stone inside. Ripping a piece of crimson velvet from a bolt, he wrapped the stand carefully. He stuffed them into his backpack. This is mine, he thought.

  Sorting quickly through the jewelry, he chose several interesting pieces, including a large gold earring for himself; a Celtic star. He poked loose jewels and jewelry into the empty corners of the bag, then zipped the pack shut. He slung the backpack over one shoulder, listing a little under the weight. He hung the sword in its scabbard over the other shoulder and slid the massive book under one arm. He wished he could carry more.

  Around him, the mountain grew increasingly restless, groaning as rock slid against rock, sifting sand and pebbles onto the stone floor. It was as if the Ravenshead recognized the thief at its heart and meant to stop him. Jason was overcome by the notion that he had stayed too long.

  He stepped out between the double doors, and they slammed shut behind him.

  Great cracks fissured the stone vault overhead, spidering out ahead of him.

  Uh-oh.

  He charged back toward the entrance to the cave, leaping over debris, dodging falling rock and gravel, twisting and turning down the narrow passageway, feeling the pitch and shudder of the rock beneath his feet. Ahead he saw light, meaning he was almost through.

  The mountain shimmied, shivered and quaked. Slivers of stone stung his face. Up ahead, he was horrified to see that the two great slabs of rock that had split to open the cave were sliding, slumping toward one another. The wedge of light was disappearing. He’d be trapped inside the Ravenshead.

  He squeezed himself through the collapsing entrance, sliding like an eel, clutching the book close to his body, scraping his elbows and knees, smashing his hands, twisting to free the loaded backpack, dragging the sword after him, metal fittings sparking against stone.

  And then he was out, clinging to the icy ledge at the entrance to the cave as the mountain snapped shut behind him.

  Jason lay on his face on the rock—the sword, the book, and the backpack beside him, his battered hands leaving bloody smears in the snow.

  He allowed himself a few more minutes rest before he levered himself into a sitting position and snuck a look over the edge.

  The one-sided battle seemed to be over. The greenish mist was dissipating, shredding into long streamers that swirled away on the wind. The forest still smoldered on the slopes of the ghyll. Wizard fire was notoriously hard to put out.

  Jason leaned back against Ravenshead and pulled out another cigarette. He had trouble lighting it. His hands were shaking, and not from the cold. The stone in his backpack provided all the warmth he needed. Somehow, he had to get it out of the ghyll.

  Using bungee cords, he bound the book to the outside of the backpack, distributing the weight as best he could. Then he lay down and slept restlessly, the magical stone illuminating his dreams.

  * * *

  Jason waited until the darkest hour before morning, giving the deadly mist more time to clear. Then he crept down the rockface, fighting the weight of his awkward burden, the sword catching in underbrush and crevices. He breathed out a long sigh of relief when he reached the valley floor.

  Raven’s Ghyll Castle was still brilliantly lit, and Jason could see dark figures moving along the walls, no doubt on the alert for a possible attack. Jason weighed the risk of going back the way he came against finding a new way out. He decided to take his chances on the path he knew.

  Jason made himself unnoticeable and picked his way up the valley, the weight of the backpack becoming more and more apparent as he struggled along. Every so often the sound of quiet conversation or a faint light through the trees told him there were wizards keeping watch in the woods around him. When he reached the base of the trail, he turned upslope, walking even more carefully. He squinted against the wind, searching the inky shadows under the canopy of pines.

  He was so numb with cold, he scarcely felt the trip wire when he brushed it. He was immediately engulfed in a bright, glittering cloud, his formerly unnoticeable self totally revealed, in brilliant outline.

  “Ha!” The voice came from behind him.

  Acting totally on instinct, Jason dropped the unnoticeable charm and threw up a shield in time to turn a gout of blistering wizard flame. He swung round to confront his attacker.

  It was a boy, younger than him, thirteen, maybe, almost pretty, pale blue eyes behind wire rim glasses, snow powdering his blond curls.

  Well, crap, Jason thought. The plan was to get out without being spotted.

  “I knew you must’ve gone unnoticeable,” the boy crowed. “There’s no way you’d have got through Father’s guards otherwise.”

  Jason had stepped off-trail to circle around this new obstacle, but the boy’s words stopped him. “Father’s guards,” Jason repeated. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Devereaux D’Orsay,” the boy said. “I live here. Who are you?”

  “Geoffrey Wylie,” Jason said, producing the first wizard name that came to mind. The Red Rose wizard could use a little street cred, anyway.

  “You are trespassing, Mr. Wylie,” Devereaux D’Orsay said. He extended his hand imperiously. “Hand over the sword and the backpack.”

  “Ri-ight,” Jason said. He went to turn away and Devereaux flung out an immobilization charm that Jason managed to deflect, though it left him stunned and reeling. The kid had talent. Unfortunately.

  The boy frowned, drawing himself up to his puny height. “You. Come with me. I’m taking you down to the hold. Father and I will interrogate you and find out what you are doing here and for whom you’re working.”

  Jason sighed, releasing a plume of vapor. He and Seph McCauley had killed Gregory Leicester in self defense. He figured he could kill Claude D’Orsay without losing any sleep over it. But not a thirteen-year-old kid. And that meant he’d be leaving a witness behind.

  “Just go away, okay?” Jason said, wearily, “and let’s forget this ever happened.”

  This seemed to enrage Devereaux D’Orsay. He flung himself at Jason, managing to penetrate his shield and knock him off his feet. They rolled together into a small ravine, a cartoon tangle of arms and legs. Devereaux ripped at him, pulling on the cords around the backpack until the book came free and tumbled loose into the snow.

  Jason punched
the kid in the nose and blood poured out, distracting little D’Orsay enough so Jason could lay an immobilization charm on him. He managed to extricate himself and stood, looking down at Claude D’Orsay’s immobilized son, wishing he could make him disappear.

  “Say hi to Claude for me,” he muttered. “Tell him I’ll stop by again.” There was no time to look for the lost book. Their magical fracas wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Energized by the desire to stay alive, Jason loped up the trail, heading for the road back to Keswick, conscious of the mysterious stone in his backpack.

  Behind him, the great shoulder of the mountain lay shrouded in unbroken darkness. The flame at the heart of the Dragon’s Tooth had gone out.

  Chapter Two

  Sanctuary

  Madison Moss picked her way across the icy street, clutching her portfolio close to her body so it wouldn’t catch the wind. The “uniform” she wore for her waitress job at the Legends Inn—a long swishy skirt and lacy Victorian blouse—was impractical for navigating small town sidewalks in a northeastern Ohio winter.

  Over top, she wore a fleece-lined barn coat she’d found at the Salvation Army, and on her feet were a pair of tooled red leather boots she’d bought at a sidewalk sale downtown. That was in September, when she’d felt rich.

  Now she had $10.55 in her coat pocket. Her book and supply list for spring semester totaled $455.79 plus tax. She could’ve probably ordered online for less, but her credit card was still maxed out from fall.

  Back in her room was a bill for health insurance— $150—required by Trinity College. The kinds of jobs her mother, Carlene, could find didn’t offer benefits.

  What else? The transmission in Madison’s old pickup was going. She could still get it moving by gunning the engine and shifting directly into second gear from a dead stop.

  If she was at home, she’d talk some shade-tree mechanic into fixing it. He’d be afraid to say no. Afraid his shop or house might burn down with his family inside of it.