Everything had changed. She’d lost the raw craving in her belly that she hadn’t recognized until it eased. Seemed like an elicitor is just an empty vessel, always hungry for power. Raggedy mad, she’d called it. She couldn’t help wondering if it was Seph’s gift that had attracted her to him in the first place.
She and Seph were still circling each other, wary as stranger dogs. She felt a connection with him that hadn’t existed before. His power was linked, entwined with hers. No one who hadn’t experienced the flow of power from within could understand its intoxication. But she was like a child with a powerful weapon, the safety off: all crammed up with power and no idea how to use it, which Seph immediately pointed out.
“Try to settle,” he said, resting his hand on her knee, forcing a smile. “You’re sparking. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way, if you short out the electrical system.”
“You should talk.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Then teach me.” She couldn’t help herself. Madison was desperate for knowledge in a way she’d never been about anything except painting.
Seph removed his hand from her knee. “I told you. I will. But you can’t learn it overnight. I was a disaster before I was taught. You’re a lot more powerful than me, so more can go wrong.”
Seeing his pale, haggard face, she felt a rush of guilt. “You should be going after your parents.”
“I will. When this is done.” He paused, groping for the right words. “At least they’re grown-ups. They can defend themselves.”
Truth be told, she was glad he’d insisted on coming. She would have welcomed an army at her back. Anything to bring the kids home safe.
If she was really any kind of dragon, she would soar over the blunted hills of home and swoop down on Warren Barber, lift him high in the air, then drop him off the nearest cliff after she’d wrung from him the whereabouts of Grace and J.R.
But she couldn’t control that metamorphosis, any more than she could control anything else. Her dragon self was like someone else’s memory that surfaced unsummoned and unannounced.
And then she saw it, the yellow ribbon fluttering from the branches of a twisted pine. “Here! Turn here!”
Seph made a hard right, skidding a bit, fighting to keep the car on the pavement. “You have to give me a little notice.”
“This is Booker Mountain Road,” Madison said, wondering if Barber meant to meet her on her home ground. “Where could he be keeping them? There’s just my place. And the Ropers’.” She would not—could not—entertain the idea that they were already dead.
“What did he say when you called him?”
“He said to follow the yellow ribbons. He’d make contact.”
It was nearly dark. The light from the dashboard illuminated Seph’s features and glittered off the amulets he wore around his neck. The air from the open window tumbled his hair into thick slices of dark that sluiced against his pale skin.
Time was she had thought she’d die of embarrassment if Seph saw where she came from—the Booker house, all shabby grand and fading; her mother, Carlene, much the same. Her brother and sister living like young savages on the mountain—resistant to their big sister’s notion of civilization. Now she wanted to breathe them in like the scent of wildflowers rising off a sunny field.
Seph felt the intensity of her gaze and glanced at her questioningly, then looked back at the road—which was no longer there, just open space where the bridge used to be. Seph stomped on the brake and twisted the wheel. The car careened sideways, rolling once before it landed heavily on its wheels in Booker Creek. For an instant, Madison was fighting with the side airbag, and then it was gone, and her right arm that she’d flung out in front to keep from going into the dashboard was gashed deep and dripping blood.
She looked over at Seph, who lay unconscious, draped across the steering wheel, a purple swelling rising over his right eye. She pressed her fingers against the side of his neck. His pulse thudded against her skin, and she knew the key to keeping him alive was getting away from the car.
She squirmed out of her seat belt, forced open the door with her good arm, and slid out into the creek, which fortunately was just knee deep in this spot.
“That’s the thing about wizards,” Warren Barber said from the bank. “They’re not used to having to be clever. All you ever need is one trick.”
And all Madison had was one trick, the one Nick had taught her at the church. It would have to be enough. “You idiot,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You could have killed me. Then you’d never get your hands on the Dragonheart.”
The pale brows drew together. “I told you to come alone.”
“I needed a ride.”
“So you asked McCauley.”
Madison took a deep breath, fighting for control. It wouldn’t do to play her puny hand too soon. “Who else do you think would be willing to drive me all the way down here?”
“You think he’d let you hand the Dragonheart over to me?”
“He doesn’t know I have it. I was going to split away before we met.”
“So where is it?”
“I’ll show you once I’ve seen Grace and J.R.”
He shaded his eyes as if she were too bright to look at. “Show me the stone first.”
“I don’t have it on my person.”
Barber kind of rocked back on his heels. She could tell he wasn’t used to being said no to. “You’d better not be lying to me.” He slid down the bank, landing lightly on his feet, and walked toward the car.
“Leave him alone,” Madison said sharply. “He’s out cold.”
When Barber leaned into the window, she added, “You so much as breathe on him, and the deal’s off.”
Barber straightened and squinted at her uncertainly. “What’s up? You seem different.”
“I just want to get this over with. Come on. Let’s go.”
Barber’s Jeep was parked at the foot of a gravel road that snaked over the shoulder of the mountain above the Roper place. They hairpinned up the slope on a road better suited for the plodding gait of oxen hauling overburden and pig iron. Madison knew then where they must be headed.
Coalton Furnace was a short-lived enterprise of her great-grandfather’s. He’d built the stack of sandstone lined with firebrick and dug iron ore from the mountain and made charcoal from the groves of hardwood trees. The furnace produced ingots of iron that were floated down Booker Creek and eventually to the Scioto and the Ohio River.
The furnace stack remained against the shoulder of the mountain, though the company store, church, and school had long since slid away, victims of erosion and the cutting of trees. Brice Roper knew about the furnace. He must have suggested it to Barber as a place to keep his young captives.
They had to hike the last few hundred yards over rubble and rock, since the wagon track was too treacherous and unstable for them to proceed farther.
The retaining wall that kept the mountain at bay had collapsed, so the stack was half buried on three sides. Saplings sprouted out of the chimney where they’d found a little dirt between the stones. Someone had affixed a cast iron door to the stack to keep vandals from getting inside and damaging the historical ruins. The door was still firmly in place, padlocked and half buried in slag.
Madison swung around to look at Barber. “Where are they?”
He shrugged and pointed to the top of the chimney. “I dropped them in from the top.”
“You what?” Madison scrambled up the unstable slope next to the chimney, rocks sliding away from beneath her feet, gripping the chimney with one hand to keep from sliding down herself. At the top, she could look down into the black interior of the stack. “Grace? John Robert?”
For a moment, nothing, and then she heard movement down below. She caught a whiff of foul air, what you might expect when two kids had been penned up together for days.
“M-Madison?” It was Grace, her voice uncharacteristically reedy and thin.
; “Gracie? Is John Robert with you?”
And then they were both shouting and crying and calling her name, as if they thought she’d forget about them and go away if they let up.
“You just hold on, I’m getting you out of there.”
She looked down at Warren Barber from her perch high on the slope, thinking she’d like to throw the mountain down on top of him and wondering if she could. But first she needed him to do something she hadn’t the skill to do.
“You open up that door,” she said, fury overcoming whatever fears she had. “Do it now.”
“First the Dragonheart.”
“I haven’t seen those kids yet. I don’t know that they’re all right.” She fetched up a first-sized piece of slag and winged it down at him, striking him in the shoulder. Stupid but satisfying.
He rubbed his shoulder, his lips pulling away from his teeth in a snarl. “You’re going to pay for that.”
And she knew that she might, but she didn’t care.
Madison slid down the slope, landing next to him in a shower of stones. “I want to see for myself that they’re not hurt.” She wished she knew how to focus her mind the way the wizards did to make him do what she wanted. Instead, the force of her will slammed against him in an indiscriminate way.
Barber squinted at her, fisting his hands at his sides, twitching with frustration. It was almost as if she could tease out the gist of his thoughts. She was proving unexpectedly stubborn, and right now neither one of them could get at the kids, so he couldn’t use them to get her to do what he wanted. So.
“All right,” he said, with a smile that froze the blood in her veins. “Whatever you say.” He thrust his hand forward, palm out, and a concussion of air struck the cast iron door, bowing it inward. Rocks bounced down the unstable slope and landed at their feet.
“Will you be careful?” Madison hissed.
Barber stared at her. “What’s with your eyes?”
She realized she was sparking again, as Seph put it. Settle, Maddie, she said to herself.
“Hurry up!” she said aloud.
This time, Barber ran a line of flame around the outside of the door like a cutting torch. He poked it with a fistful of air, and the door fell in with a clang.
Again, a rush of stinking air. Followed by Grace, blinking in the moonlight, her face streaked with soot and tears. She ducked through the doorway and stepped over the jagged metal threshold, lifting John Robert after her.
“Now,” Barber said, reaching for Gracie. “Playtime’s over.”
“Run!” Madison shouted, slamming her shoulder into Barber’s midsection. They tumbled downslope, Madison groping for his Weirstone as Nick had taught her; but then her head struck a rock and she saw stars for a moment, and when she regained her wits, Barber was gone, charging across the side of the mountain after Grace and John Robert. If he got hold of them, he’d have control of her, and he knew it.
Madison stood and almost fell again, her head spinning, then staggered after them.
John Robert’s feet slid in the shale and he fell, and Barber had him, dangling him in space, his arms and legs pinwheeling as he struggled to get free. Grace went to turn back, and Madison, coming on, yelled, “No, Grace! Run!” and Grace turned to run.
Barber extended his arm, and Madison knew he wouldn’t miss as flame streaked from his outstretched hand. Madison screamed as it slammed into Grace and kept coming and coming, an unrelenting river of flame squeezing out of his body.
Understanding and then horror flooded into Barber’s face. “No!” he screamed, dropping John Robert and trying to rip free of Grace.
J.R. scrambled on all fours toward Grace, who stood like some kind of avenging goddess, her dark hair flying in the wind, until Barber wilted and toppled off the mountain into space.
It was almost as good as dropping him off a cliff. It probably never occurred to Barber that if magical gifts run in families, then so must the ability to suck magic out of a Weirstone.
Nicodemus Snowbeard died the day after the siege at Trinity ended, at an age variously estimated to be 600 to 1000 years old. They buried him at Dragon’s Ghyll (which had reverted to its original name), before the cave and under the Dragon’s Tooth, where he would be close to the Lady he had loved and betrayed.
With the end of the D’Orsay line, Leander Hastings and Linda Downey moved into Dragon’s Ghyll Castle. No one seemed interested in contesting their claim.
Jason never went back to Britain. They buried him in the churchyard at St. Catherine’s, his mother’s amulet in his hands. They raised a stone, and on it was engraved Draca Heorte, Dragonheart. Mercedes and Leesha planted rosemary, for remembrance, and vines climbed over his stone, and flowers bloomed summer and winter over his grave.
Trinity suffered through a siege of confusion and investigations, invasions by government agents, and talk of terrorist plots. But it is difficult to get at the truth when a whole range of possibilities is off the table and those few who know something aren’t talking.
Ellen was a terrible patient but fully recovered, except she had a new set of scars like a soldier’s tattoos. Jack and Ellen and even Leesha Middleton threw themselves into the rebuilding of the town, an effort led by Jack’s mother, Becka, who knew how to get things done and would make sure they were done right. Leesha’s aunt Millisandra was a major donor.
When summer finally came, Madison Moss went home to claim her inheritance.
She could sit on her front porch and hear Booker Creek and look down the long slopes to the river, glinting in the slanted sunlight. And in those hills she saw the reflection of other hills, slashed by ghylls, set with jeweled meres and standing stones.
She could paint if she liked and sleep in the sun if she liked, something for which dragons are well suited. But what she liked most was tromping along Booker Creek with Seph McCauley, who seemed as at home there as anywhere.
People in the county said Madison Moss was different— somehow changed by her time up by the lake. She looked you in the eye more, and her eyes were different, too, almost mesmerizing. And sometimes her skin seemed to glitter and spark when the sunlight struck it just so. Everyone knew you didn’t mess with Madison Moss. You never could tell what that girl would end up to be.
Brice Roper’s murderer was never identified. The Roper mine eventually played out and closed, and Bryson Roper, Sr., went off someplace where there were other fortunes to be made.
Seph didn’t know the ways of dragons, but he knew the ways of magic, and so he and Madison sorted some things out together and left others alone. And if sometimes they drifted on to other, more interesting topics, they could scarcely be blamed.
They’d lie in the hammock that swayed over Booker Creek and stare up at the canopy of leaves and dream dreams that they hoped would come true.
Among the Weir, legends about the Dragon Heir that appeared in Trinity spread, becoming more and more elaborate, fanned by certain storytelling factions among the various guilds. No one knew where the Lady had gone or when she might reappear. Wizards pressed their hands anxiously against their breasts and tossed and turned in their beds and wondered what it would be like to be Anaweir. And behaved; temporarily, at least.
Around the world, the magical guilds celebrated—all the while knowing that fear of dragons can’t last forever.
The Dragon Heir Page 41