The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

“Some people set it on fire,” Grace replied.

  Madison turned and stared at her. “Who?”

  Grace shrugged her narrow shoulders. “There were four or five of them, out here in the dark. It looked like they had torches or something,” she said.

  There was nobody better than Grace at keeping a secret. Which made Madison think she’d had too much practice. “And you and J.R. were all by yourselves?”

  Grace shrugged her shoulders again. She picked up a stick and poked it under a charred beam, coming up with a scrap of cloth that dissolved into ash.

  “Any idea who it was?” Madison asked.

  “No. They were wearing hoods.” She hesitated. “We tried to put it out, me and J.R. We poured water on it. But it wouldn’t go out.”

  Madison shivered. “Did you . . . did you find any marks or signs or anything?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Who would I tell? You were gone, and Mama, well . . .”

  “You could’ve told the police.”

  “They’d probably say we made it up. Or blame it on us.”

  Madison nodded. “Probably.” Grace was another old soul. She’d remember how little help the police had been over the past year, when Madison was the one accused.

  “Must’ve been kids, I guess,” Madison suggested. It could’ve been. Some people just liked to see things burn. And kids from the high school liked to drive up Booker Mountain Road when they needed to escape all the spying eyes in a small town.

  It didn’t have to mean the fires were starting up again.

  Impulsively, Madison wrapped an arm around Grace’s shoulders and pulled her in close. Grace resisted at first, then gave in, laying her head on Madison’s shoulder. Grace had taken a shower as soon as she got home, and her hair smelled like the kind of shampoo you could get a quart of for ninety-nine cents.

  It smelled like home.

  “Are you going to stay with us all summer?” The words came out in a rush, like Grace had been dying to ask the question all night.

  “I don’t know about all summer. Till school’s out, anyway.”

  “Will you have your truck? Can you take us places?”

  “Well. I’ll be working at home. Painting for school.”

  “Great.” Grace scraped at the frozen dirt with the toe of her sneaker.

  Madison thought of Grace, stuck on the mountain with no phone, no computer, and only John Robert to hang out with. Even the TV reception was chancy.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get out. We’ll go down to town a couple times a week at least.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “As if that’s a thrill.” But Madison could tell she was pleased.

  Chapter Eleven

  Painted Poison

  Seph sprawled among the pillows on the wicker swing. The solarium at Stone Cottage was one of his favorite retreats in all seasons. His textbook was propped against his knees— Problems in Democracy: A World View—but it had been a long time since he’d turned a page. The text might as well have been written in Old English.

  With another part of his mind, he monitored the sanctuary. Its energy hummed all around him, like a map splashed with an occasional spot of color where wizards and the other gifted moved through it. It was not the heavy-handed smooshing down of power like before. It was like navigating an elaborate video game grid, exerting subtle control over events. His father had taught him the technique.

  Here and there a flareup indicated that magic was in play—the greens and browns of earth magic in Mercedes’s garden, the silvers and golds of wizardry, the reds and purples that signified enchanters. Nowhere the angry orange that meant attack magic. In some essential way, he became the town of Trinity—its magical framework, at least. The day and its pleasures receded.

  Something nibbled at the fringes of his consciousness. A voice.

  “Seph.”

  All at once, the magical schematic disappeared from his frame of vision, and power flooded back into his body, heating him down to his fingers and toes. He opened his eyes to see Nick Snowbeard looking down at him, his expression severe.

  “Seph. You extend yourself too much. I’ve warned you about this before. It makes you vulnerable.” Nick was well into his scruffy old man persona, clad in canvas work pants, a flannel shirt, and work boots.

  Seph licked his lips and turned his head slightly to look out toward the frosted lake. It had disappeared into the dark. It was late—later than he’d thought. Where had the time gone?

  He managed to sit up on his second try. He felt stiff from long immobility. “What’s up?”

  “Your phone was ringing when I came in.” Nick dropped a cell phone into Seph’s lap. “It was Rachel Booker. She wants you to meet her at the inn.”

  Seph palmed the phone and squinted at Nick. “Rachel?” Rachel Booker was Madison’s older cousin who owned the Legends Inn. He hadn’t seen her since Madison left for Coalton County. As self-appointed protector of Madison’s virtue, she’d always treated Seph with cool and cynical suspicion.

  Not that he was any threat lately.

  His heart accelerated. “Why? Did she hear from Madison?”

  “I suggest we walk over to the Legends and find out.”

  Seph unfolded to his feet, grabbing the swing for support, still shaking off the effects of the mindquest.

  “Are you all right?” Nick asked gruffly.

  “I’m fine.” And, really, it seemed like he was handling his magical assignments better, lately. The raging headaches had eased, he was less tired, less out of it, and he’d put on a little weight. Linda’s milkshakes must be working, he thought.

  He and the old wizard left Stone Cottage behind and headed west along Lake Road, an avenue lined with an eclectic mixture of old summer cottages and modern mansions. Streetlights bloomed under the skeletons of trees, and the wind off the lake was bitingly cold.

  Nick navigated the uneven cobblestones without the help of his staff, as Mercedes had proclaimed it beyond repair. He seemed incomplete without it. Seph grabbed the old wizard’s arm a couple of times to steady him on the icy street.

  “You’re not getting out among people enough,” Nick said. “Madison’s absence has not been good for you.”

  Seph rubbed his forehead irritably. “I feel like I’m out among people all day long.”

  “I don’t mean in the virtual sense.” Nick paused. “I think you should talk to Jason.”

  Seph rolled his eyes. “Why? Is he lonely, or something?”

  “I’m worried about him. Hastings hoped I could involve him in the testing of the sefas he brought back from the ghyll. Jason has considerable knowledge about magical objects, but archival work doesn’t suit him, I’m afraid. He’s taut as a crossbow.”

  “Jason’s okay,” Seph said, feeling guilty. It wasn’t his fault things had worked out this way. In fact, he’d gladly hand off the boundary if he could. Even when he was healthy, it seemed like he just barely had it under control. The pressure was intense. Everyone was counting on him, and that was just what Jason craved. “It’s just ... I wish he could help with ... something more important.”

  Nick snorted. “He is doing something important, he just doesn’t see it that way. I’m afraid he may do something rash.”

  “Like?”

  “He may go back to Britain on his own. He knows Hastings is planning something, and he’s determined to be a part of it. And he wants to take some of the objects from the church back with him.”

  “I don’t see how we can stop him.”

  “I can stop him, if I choose.” Snowbeard was matter-of-fact. “I would prefer not to, however. I was hoping that, as a friend, you might be able to . . . redirect him.”

  “I can try,” Seph said, again feeling guilty about talking behind Jason’s back. “I don’t feel like I should be telling him what to do.”

  “He may not be strong enough to handle the boundary, but there’s more than enough other
work to do. You need to delegate more,” Snowbeard said.

  Right, Seph thought. Delegate more. Fine. He had plans that would require more wizardry than ever.

  “What do you hear from Madison?” Nick abruptly changed the subject again. The old wizard was on a mission, too, and Seph was somehow the vehicle.

  “Not much. Their landline’s disconnected, and cell phone reception isn’t good down there. She e-mails me from the library sometimes. She’s not coming back any time soon. Her brother and sister got released from foster care, since she’s there to watch them.”

  Those e-mails were totally unsatisfactory: I’m painting. I’m doing fine. The kids are a handful. It’s been cold and rainy. Bright and sunny. Saw a wild turkey and a bald eagle yesterday. She e-mailed photos of Booker Mountain and the paintings she made, landscapes seen through a smoky blue filter.

  Seph hunched his shoulders in frustration. He did not want her to do fine in Coalton County; he wanted her to come home. It’s just as well, he told himself. If we ever got to see each other, we’d just end up fighting.

  But it might be worth it if he could just see her again.

  They turned up the walkway, passing through the winter-scorched gardens that surrounded the inn, and mounted the steps to the porch. The receptionist at the desk in the foyer went to fetch Rachel. Seph ran his hand over the newel post of the elaborate oak staircase. Here he and Madison had planned their first date—the ill-fated picnic on the river.

  Rachel appeared from the kitchen hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her hair was stick straight and black, unlike Madison’s gilded waves, but she shared Madison’s fair complexion, sprinkling of freckles, and slightly crooked nose.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, nodding curtly to Seph and Nick. “I want to show you something.” She turned and climbed the curved staircase, obviously intending them to follow. They wound up and up, crossing the landing at the second floor and continuing up the narrower staircase to the third, where Madison stayed.

  “We were just talking about Madison,” Seph said, easily keeping pace up the steep stairs while Nick lagged behind. “Have you heard from her?”

  “No,” Rachel said, eying him with a peculiar expression. “Haven’t heard a word.” As they turned down the familiar hallway to Madison’s tiny room tucked under the back staircase, Seph smelled wood smoke. Rachel stood aside at the entry to Madison’s quarters.

  The door was gone, or most of it, leaving a ragged hole. The wood around the doorframe was charred, and the floorboards dusted with a fine gray ash, smeared now with footprints.

  Seph looked up at Rachel, who was glaring at him as if it were somehow his fault. And it probably was. “What . . . when did this happen?”

  “Yesterday. That’s when I noticed it, anyway. Go on in,” she said.

  Seph hesitated, unsure whether to open the ruined door or step through the gap. In the end, he did the latter, stepping carefully over the splintered threshold.

  The room was totally trashed, the contents of drawers strewn on the floor, cupboards standing open, the mattress yanked from the bed and cut to ribbons, trunks rifled through, wastebaskets upended. The doors to the wardrobe had been broken open and hung slantwise on their hinges. Even her tiny refrigerator had been emptied onto the tile.

  Though it had been a while since he’d been invited to Madison’s room, it was a jarring contrast to what Seph was used to. Madison was a naturally tidy person.

  He turned to Rachel, who had followed him in. “Who did this? What were they looking for?”

  She folded her arms, tapping her foot in a familiar way. “I hoped maybe you could tell me.”

  “How would I know?” Seph said, knowing that the ruined door was wizard’s work.

  Nick stood framed in the doorway. “My word,” he said. “What kind of devilry is this?”

  “I can’t make sense of it,” Rachel said. “I mean, her room is way up here on the third floor, so it doesn’t seem like a random break-in. A guest would be more likely to have valuables than a server.”

  “Depending on what you think is valuable,” Seph muttered. “Did they take anything?”

  “Not that I could tell. But it could’ve been. She didn’t have a lot to begin with. She took her art supplies and her computer home with her. But she left her winter clothes and furniture and other school things.”

  Shrugging, Seph scanned the room—the Impressionist prints that lined the walls, the hat collection over the bed, the paint-splashed headboard. Her desk had been emptied, but there was no way to tell if anything was missing.

  He hadn’t noticed any unusual magical activity in the past two days. But it wouldn’t take much to blow out a door.

  What would a wizard be looking for? Magical objects? A home address? Phone records?

  Apprehension flared under Seph’s breastbone, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “Does she know?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I e-mailed her, but she hasn’t replied.”

  “Did you call the police?” Seph asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “Maybe I did wrong, but I didn’t. Didn’t seem like your usual burglary. Like I said, why target a girl who’s got nothing to begin with?” She gave Seph a narrow-eyed look. “You sure you don’t know anything about this?”

  He returned her gaze. “What would I know about it?”

  “Well, all I know is there’s something wrong between you and her. You were all lovey-dovey until about six months ago, and since then, well, you tell me.”

  Taken by surprise, Seph stammered, “We’re okay. I mean, great.”

  “Really? Well, it occurred to me that maybe you came and tore this place up to—you know—get revenge. Because she left.”

  Seph was stung by the accusation. “I wouldn’t do that,” he whispered.

  They stood glaring at each other. Then Seph said, “Did she leave any of her paintings here? If somebody wanted to wreck something that meant a lot to her, he’d start there.”

  “Well, there’s just this one.” Rachel reached behind the loveseat and pulled out a canvas. “It looked like someone drug this out of the wardrobe.” She turned it so Seph could see it.

  The paint seemed to swim on the canvas, nauseating swirls of brown and green. No. It was the figures in the painting itself. They were moving. He recognized the scene with a sickening jolt: it was the conference room at Second Sister. His father, Hastings, lay next to Gregory Leicester’s altar, cradled by his weeping mother. Leicester was looking right at Seph, eyes glittering, his arm extended. Behind him the alumni stood, their power joined to his. Flame erupted from Leicester’s hands, slamming into Seph’s body. He screamed and stumbled backward, raising his hands to defend himself.

  He awoke to find himself lying on Madison’s bed with Nick sitting next to him, hands pressed to Seph’s chest, muttering a healing charm under his breath. When Seph opened his eyes, Snowbeard released a sigh of relief and hissed, “Let me do the talking,” in an odd, terse voice.

  Seph struggled into a sitting position, and immediately vomited something black and nasty into a basin that Nick had at the ready. Nick wiped his face off with a washcloth.

  “Nick,” Seph whispered. “What did Rachel ...”

  “Stay down,” Nick ordered, and went to dump the basin.

  Rachel appeared in the doorway with a glass of water. “How’s he doing?” Her usual cynical suspicion of Seph had been replaced with solicitous concern.

  “Sorry for the trouble,” Nick called from the lavatory. “He’s had a touch of flu these past few days. When I gave him your message, he insisted on rising from his sickbed and coming over.”

  “I didn’t know he was sick,” Rachel said, twisting her hair between her fingers. “You should have said.”

  Snowbeard returned with the empty basin. Seph rinsed his mouth and spit into it. He felt awful, like the time he’d come down with mono at that prep school in Scotland and had ended up in the hospital. His entire body itched and burned like
he was breaking out in hives. Hallucinations swam through his head.

  “What did you do with the painting, Rachel?” the old man asked calmly.

  “I put it down cellar,” she said, shrugging, “but I still don’t see why ...”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Snowbeard said. “It’s probably just the flu, but perhaps something in the painting triggered a synaptic shock to the brain, much like strobe lights trigger seizures in susceptible people.”

  Woozy as he was, Seph couldn’t help thinking that Snowbeard was a remarkably good liar for one of the good guys.

  “Would you like something to eat, honey?” Rachel asked. “I could whip you up an omelet, or some soup,” she offered. “There’s chocolate cake, and burnt-sugar custard.”

  Seph shuddered at the thought of confronting food. Snowbeard creakily rose to his feet and took Rachel’s elbow. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said. “I know how very busy you are. I’ll stay here with Seph and we’ll let him rest a bit, then I’ll take him on home. You’re sure there are no more of Maddie’s paintings in the inn?”

  “That’s the only one I found. Either she took them all back with her, or the burglar stole them.”

  “Let’s hope nothing was stolen.” Effortlessly, Snowbeard ushered Rachel from the room. Moments later, Seph heard her descending the stairs. Snowbeard shut the door behind her and pulled a chair over to sit beside Seph.

  “How are you feeling?” The old man’s face was set in hard, angry lines.

  “Terrible.” And confused and embarrassed. “I don’t know what I ...”

  “What did you see in the painting?” Snowbeard demanded, gripping his arm.

  He’s using Persuasion, Seph realized, feeling the hot flow of power. He immediately resisted, reverting to the habits of a lifetime. “The painting? I didn’t get much of a look at it. I was kind of dizzy on the way over here, from the mindquest, I guess, and I just . . . why do you ask?”

  Snowbeard studied him suspiciously. “You took one look at Madison’s painting and collapsed. I want to know why.”

  “I don’t even remember.” Seph closed his eyes as if searching his brain, but mainly to avoid Snowbeard’s keen gaze. What was the old man thinking, anyway? “What did it look like?”