The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Hastings smiled wolfishly. “There are lots of ways to get in. The challenge will be getting out.”

  That wasn’t reassuring. “Jason wants to come with you.”

  “I know Jason wants to come. But he has a hard time following orders. I want him here, under Nick’s supervision, and where he can help you. We’re spread very thin, especially where wizards are concerned.”

  “You could cut him some slack,” Seph said. “He saved my life, you know, at the Havens.”

  “I know that.” Hastings rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand like he had a headache of his own. “Jason will prove most useful to us if we can find a way to channel that passion of his, so he doesn’t go up in flames and take the rest of us with him.”

  Madison found Sara Mignon in her studio on the third floor of Saddlewood Hall. Her art teacher was clad in a paint-spattered denim shirt and jeans, flinging exuberant splashes of acrylic onto a rough board the size of a small barn. Two graduate students toiled away at the bottom corners, laying in lines that Sara gleefully ignored.

  When she saw Madison, Sara jumped down from her stepladder and set her paints on the bottom step. Using her sleeve, she wiped bright yellow from the tip of her nose. Her curly hair spiraled out every which way, a rich, blue-black color that came from a bottle. She looked like no teacher Madison had ever had before.

  “Hey, Maddie. What do you think?”

  “Well, it . . . it’s fine. I like it.” Madison was still startled when her professors asked her opinion. Not that she didn’t have opinions, she just wasn’t used to anybody wanting to hear them. She had gone to schools where you called the teachers sir and ma’am. As in, Yes, sir and Yes, ma’am.

  Madison liked everything Sara did, though her teacher’s work was really different from her own. Sara’s art was tropical in its heat. Madison’s painting was cool and smoky and subdued as dusk in the hollows.

  Sara (as she insisted on being called) studied the painting critically, hands on hips. “That yellow draws the eye, doesn’t it? It might be a little too assertive.” She turned to Madison. “Are you here to talk about your capstone?”

  “Well, ah . . .”

  “Let’s take a look at it, shall we?”

  The capstone projects were displayed in a sunlit studio on the third floor of the art building. Moody oils, languid watercolors, pushy acrylics. Madison’s painting was secluded in a corner, covered by a drape.

  Sara swept the cloth away and they stood, side by side. Sara studied the work while Madison stared at her toes.

  Why did I have to submit that one?

  “I like the layering you’ve done, the flames laid over the stone, the blood splattered on the floor, the arrangement of the bodies, and the way the architecture of the piece carries the eye. There’s a strong fantasy element here. Even horror.”

  Madison nodded mutely.

  “This is really different from your other work,” Sara said. “More abstract, more raw emotion, more hot shades. There’s a violence here I haven’t seen from you before. Can you tell me about it?”

  No, actually. There was a lack of censure in Sara that invited confidences, but Madison knew better than to share this particular secret.

  “It’s ...um ...from a dream I had.”

  More like a nightmare.

  “Well, it’s interesting to see you getting away from landscapes and exploring new subjects and styles. At your age, I think that’s important.” Sara redraped the painting. “So. Will you be able to help me out next Friday?”

  Madison stuffed her hands in her pockets. Saying it made it real. “I ...ah ...wanted to tell you I can’t be here for your opening next week. I—I have to drop out. I have to go home. Family emergency. I’m really sorry.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she turned away, mortified.

  Sara put a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No,” Madison said automatically. “Well, maybe. I think I can get it sorted out. But I’ll probably have to stay home from now through summer.”

  “Going back to those dreamy mountains, are you?” Sara grinned. “I’d call that a gift for an artist.”

  Sara had a knack of making you feel good about yourself. She was as sunny as her paintings. “I guess so,” Madison said, feeling a little better. “But I was hoping to get another eight credit hours this semester, what with the two courses I’m taking with you and the capstone. In the fall, I have to pay for it myself. And in the fall, you’ll be going back to Chicago.”

  Sara frowned and tilted her head. “I don’t know why we can’t still work together. These aren’t lecture courses. It’s not like I’d be looking over your shoulder even if you were here. You can paint as well in—what is it—Coalville?—as you can here. Maybe we can meet once a month and I can look over your work and give you a grade at the end of the semester. Can you manage that?”

  “I . . . well . . . it sounds great. But . . . would we still work through Trinity High School, or would we . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Sara said, reading her mind. “I’ll handle Penworthy.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Madison felt the burn in her face that said she was blushing.

  Sara studied her appraisingly. “You know, Trinity’s a good school, but fine art is not their specialty. Have you ever thought of coming to Chicago?”

  “To the Art Institute? Oh, no. I . . . ah . . . I couldn’t afford that.” Madison swallowed down her hopes. It wouldn’t do to let them get the best of her.

  Sara gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Madison. Your landscapes are unique, totally refreshing, and you’re not even a college student yet. Your voice is much older than your years. Your work is Appalachian, but it doesn’t have a breath of folk art about it. You see the supernatural in common things. I would call it ethereal.”

  “Look, I really appreciate ...everything. But I can’t afford to live in Chicago, let alone pay tuition at AIC. The free ride is over after this year. I don’t want to graduate a million dollars in debt when I don’t know how I’m going to make a living.”

  Sara dropped her hands from her shoulders. “You let me worry about that. You just keep painting. I’d like to see more figure drawings and portraits, too. Not just landscapes. Then we’ll put together a portfolio for you and see what happens. Deal?”

  Madison could only nod.

  Sara smiled. “Now, let’s make sure you’ll have everything you need. We’ll just say it came out of course fees.”

  Madison left Sara’s studio with a backpack full of books, paints, and other supplies. She wandered across Trinity Square, stopping in shops and galleries and using her tip money to buy little presents for J.R. and Grace and Carlene.

  Without really meaning to, she found herself walking through the gate at St. Catherine’s, crossing the snowy churchyard to the side door of the church. I’ll just take one more look, she said to herself. I don’t know when I’ll be back here again.

  It was a Tuesday morning, and the sanctuary echoed with her footsteps, empty of people save an elderly lady kneeling in the front pew, her head bent over her folded hands. Madison slipped quietly to the stairs in the front of the sanctuary that led down to the Mourner’s Chapel, walking right through the wards and confusion charms Seph had built to distract anyone snooping around.

  At the foot of the stairs, she turned to the left, entering the crypt itself. They’d left the Swift tomb open, trusting to Seph’s barriers to keep the curious at bay.

  The sorcerer Mercedes Foster and her small committee had obviously been at work. Magical artifacts were laid out in rows, sorted by probable function. Those that had been identified were labeled in Mercedes’s neat hand. Symbols and diagrams had been sketched onto the walls, some sort of tally system.

  The stone that Jason called the Dragonheart sat off by itself on its dragon stand, a jewel in an elaborate setting. The flames smoldering at its center sent shadows like haunts skulking along the walls.

  What are
you doing here? Madison asked herself, and got no answer.

  She felt the tug of the stone from across the room, dragging her forward. As it had before, the Dragonheart seemed to react to her presence, brightening, colors sliding over each other like brilliant paints sloshing in a jar.

  She stood over the stone. As she extended her hand, the light from the stone stained her skin. Her breathing slowed, her eyelids drooped. A rush of brilliant images coursed through her mind: a castle built of stone, a jewellike valley ringed by rugged mountains, a procession of courtiers bearing gifts. She heard the whisper of a half-remembered song, lines of poetry that broke her heart. She heard someone calling a name she wanted to answer to.

  Within her, she felt the hex magic uncoil and quest forward like a serpent.

  Without warning, flame rocketed between her and the Dragonheart, sizzling up her arms and into her collarbone. The magics collided inside her. She toppled backward, breaking the connection, landing on her back on the floor, striking her head hard on the stone threshold. She lay stunned for a moment, colors exploding in her head like fireworks in the night sky.

  Voices whispered in her head, mingling and competing— pretty promises, endearments, enticements, curses, and warnings. Like spirits battling inside a bell jar until finally they died away.

  Gripping the edge of Thomas Swift’s crypt, Madison dragged herself to her feet, remembering Min’s words.

  Do not mess with magic. That’s not our business.

  But it seemed like magic never tired of messing with her.

  The Dragonheart kindled, sending long tongues of flame and shadow reaching toward her like clutching fingers. She had to fight the urge to rush into their embrace.

  Madison backed away from the stone, stepped carefully over the threshold, turned, and fled up the stairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Terror in the Crypt

  The next morning, Mercedes Foster sat back on her heels and studied the pentagrams she’d chalked onto the stone floor of the crypt. Scrubbing a smudge from her nose with the back of her hand, she looked up at Snowbeard. “What do you think, Nicodemus?”

  The old wizard nodded. “It looks perfect to me, Mercedes.”

  The sorceress planted her fists on her bony hips and grinned at Jason. “Come on, then. Let’s try again.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Jason reluctantly took his place within the inner pentagon of one of the pentagrams. The other two took refuge within diagrams of their own. The battered wooden box from Raven’s Ghyll sat on the floor in the fourth pentacle.

  Mercedes began to speak, a high, singsong chant. Pointing, Nick kindled a bright, hot flame where the four pentagrams came together. Careful not to lean out of the pentagram, Jason gripped the case with a pair of iron tongs and thrust it into the flames.

  They waited. And waited. Flames licked across the surface of the box with no apparent effect. The wood was so impregnated with charms that it was impervious even to wizard flame.

  They continued until Jason’s arm trembled with the weight of the box and he had to support his elbow with his other hand. The tongs grew warm and then hotter and hotter so that he had to concentrate to keep his fingers from blistering.

  Finally, Mercedes let her song trail away. “All right,” she said, her long face settling into disappointed lines. “It’s not working. I’m afraid we’ll never get it open.” She removed a silk scarf from her head and her wiry hair exploded free. She mopped sweat from her face with the scarf. “That’s enough for today.”

  Gingerly, Jason set the box back on the floor, dropped the tongs, and wiped his seared hands on his jeans.

  Rows of artifacts were lined up on one of the crypts, sorted by function and tagged with their magical names. There were heartstones of all kinds: pendants, scrying stones, amulets that strengthened the bearer, talismans of protection, lovestones that muddled the mind. Enchanted mirrors that displayed bewitching and confusing images of past, present, and future. Jeweled daggers that made wounds that would not heal. Belts and collars for holding magical captives. Recalling his escape from the ghyll, Jason was amazed that it had all fit in his backpack.

  “We’ve done a lot already,” he said, gesturing toward the catalogued items.

  Mercedes nodded grudgingly. “Perhaps, but I can’t help thinking that the most powerful sefas are resisting us.”

  The remaining pieces were grouped forlornly in one corner: the small wooden box that could not be opened, a worn cloak carefully mended with glittering thread, a silver hammer inscribed with runes, faceted bottles filled with unknown potions, their stoppers larded with time-darkened wax. And, of course, the Dragonheart on its ornate metal stand.

  Except for the opal, Jason couldn’t remember why he’d chosen any of them. “Maybe this is just junk,” he suggested. “Maybe I stumbled onto the magical landfill of Raven’s Ghyll.” Mercedes mashed her lips tight together, but he persisted. “There were tons of loose gemstones in the cave. I took a few, but I mostly focused on the magical pieces. Maybe the opal is just another gemstone in the pile.”

  As if to contradict him, the Dragonheart sent light spiraling around the crypt. It looked different from before, almost agitated. Power washed over him, warming the Weirstone under Jason’s breastbone like a banked fire.

  The three of them stood frozen, staring at it.

  Snowbeard cleared his throat. “I think the stone is important,” he said. “Else I wouldn’t spend so much time on it.”

  Jason shrugged, struggling to hide his annoyance. “Whatever. Anyway, it’s a waste of time to keep working on this. I’m thinking I should collect some of the most powerful pieces and take them back to Hastings in Britain. I hear he’s planning a major attack on the ghyll. These could help.”

  “Has Hastings asked you to bring any of the items back to Raven’s Ghyll?” Nick asked.

  “No, but ...”

  “Didn’t he say to keep them within the sanctuary?”

  “They don’t do us any good here!” Jason paced back and forth, making tight turns within the confines of the crypt. “I might as well have left them in the cave.”

  “I think the fact that they’re not in our enemies’ hands is a good thing,” Nick said, his black eyes tunneling all the way to Jason’s spine.

  “When you think about it, this stuff belongs to me,” Jason said. “I found it. I carried it out of the ghyll. I should be able to do what I want with it.”

  “Jason Haley!” The wizard’s voice reverberated against the stone walls of the crypt, although he wasn’t speaking particularly loudly. Snowbeard seemed to grow until his head nearly touched the ceiling. Flame flickered about his angular frame. “You know better than that. You are not a child who can demand your toys back. The future of the magical guilds may depend on how we use what’s fallen into our hands. I will not allow you to recklessly endanger all of us with their ill-considered use.”

  Jason knew he should just shut up, but he couldn’t help himself. “So you think we should just hole up here and wait to be attacked?”

  “I think we don’t know enough yet to see who our most dangerous adversary will be. If D’Orsay holds the Covenant, the hoard, and the ghyll, then why hasn’t he acted? Why hasn’t he consecrated the document and brought us all under his heel?”

  “How would I know?” Jason stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Hastings seems to think he’s worth going after, now that I’m stuck back here.”

  Nick’s voice softened. “Jason. This work we’re doing is important, even if you don’t think so. I believe we’ve been given a rare gift, if we can just figure out how to use it.”

  Jason wasn’t buying it. “You sound like Hastings.”

  “Indeed?” Nick lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps there’s a reason.”

  “I’ll just take the opal, then,” Jason said. “You can keep the rest.” Impulsively, he reached for the Dragonheart.

  And was slammed back against the wall with stunning force. He seemed t
o stick for a moment, then slid down the wall until his butt hit the floor.

  “Jason!”

  Mercedes and Nick leaned over him, both talking at once, checking him for missing parts. Once they figured out that he was okay, the interrogation began.

  “Jason! What did you do?” Nick gripped his arm hard.

  “I didn’t do anything. Jeez. I just reached for it.”

  “Did you speak a charm of any kind?” Mercedes grabbed his hands, turning them palm up, as if to examine them for contraband. “Did you apply anything to the stone? Did you use a sefa?”

  He shook his head, ripping his hands free. “I just went to pick it up.” He felt humiliated and frustrated. Rejected by a rock.

  Being a sorcerer healer, Mercedes was an empath, too. So she began to try and soothe him, which only irritated him more. “Don’t worry. We’ve probably destabilized it with our poking and prodding,” she suggested.

  “I never had any trouble with it before,” Jason said, remembering how he’d handled the stone in the ghyll, caressing its crystalline surface, the flames percolating gently under his fingers. He stood, rubbing his elbows where they’d hit the wall.

  “We’ve been whacking at it for weeks,” Mercedes said. “It might be time to give it a rest. Sefas are temperamental, you know.” She grabbed up the velvet bag. “I’ll just put it back in the crypt.”

  “Mercedes—” Snowbeard began what sounded like a warning. But the sorcerer reached for the Dragonheart and the stone responded with an eruption of flame that sent her staggering back on her long bird legs. She would have gone down had Snowbeard not caught her arm.

  “Well!” Mercedes gasped. “Well, well.”

  “You want to try?” Jason said to Snowbeard, feeling somewhat redeemed.

  Snowbeard eyed the stone. Not being a fool, he snatched up his staff from where it leaned against the wall and extended the bear’s-head tip gingerly toward the Dragonheart until they almost touched.

  The stone seemed to explode, spinning the staff from Snowbeard’s hands, shattering it into three pieces that clattered onto the stone floor.