The Sorcerer Heir (Heir Chronicles)

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Jonah stared at her. “No, he doesn’t. He blames wizards, just like everyone else. Except for wizards, who blame us.”

  He’s wrong, Lilith whispered, as if she hadn’t heard. He is all kinds of wrong. It’s no wonder he’s been unable to develop any kind of treatment. The only thing worse than not knowing is thinking you know when you don’t.

  Jonah decided to attack from a different angle. “You still haven’t told me—what did Gabriel hire you for? Why did he need the best sorcerer of the age?”

  I hate talking about Gabriel behind his back like this, Lilith said. I want to speak with him face-to-face. That’s my price. She frowned. You’d have to be there, of course, to interpret. Then you’ll have the information you need to make a judgment about me and him and Thorn Hill. Can you make that happen?

  “I can make it happen,” Jonah said. He had no doubt that he could. Somehow. “But how do I know you’re not setting a trap?”

  Lilith laughed. A trap for whom? I’ve been trying to arrange a collaboration, or at least a truce. I assumed it was a lack of communication. And now I come to find out that Gabriel has been trying to kill me ever since he learned I existed. I’m the one who should be worried. Then, maybe reading the suspicion on Jonah’s face, she said, Look, if I wanted the two of you dead, you would already be dead. You’re a lot more valuable to me alive. Right now, you’re the only means I have of communicating with the world, at least until I master physical speech. She said this as though it was only a matter of time.

  And maybe it was. That meant Jonah needed to make this meeting happen sooner rather than later if he wanted to sit in.

  “So. How do I get back in touch with you?” Jonah said.

  Lilith thought a moment. Remember the bridge where we first met?

  Jonah nodded. “The road bridge?”

  Lilith shook her head. The railroad bridge. Leave a message underneath, taped to the pillar, where nobody will see it. Tell me when and where you want to meet, and I will be there. It has to be on neutral ground. I can’t risk coming onto Gabriel’s turf. She paused. You think you can pull this off?

  “No problem,” Jonah said, his mind working furiously. “But it may take a while to make it happen. In the meantime, I’ll be spending a lot of time on the streets, walking around, acting as bait. Don’t make contact unless I message you first. I’ve got to convince Gabriel that you’ve lost interest in me in order to break him out of his fortress.” He stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

  All right. She hesitated, as if debating whether to go on. Just...be careful, Jonah.

  Jonah swung back to face her. “What do you mean by that?”

  For one thing, I don’t speak for all shades. Herding feral cats is easy compared to this. Many of them have been on the streets for ten years, doing their own thing, surviving any way they can. There’s a lot of hostility out there toward Gabriel and his slayers. They can’t understand why you’re targeting us and not mainliners. She paused. And you must know that it’s not just shades that you need to worry about.

  “I know that,” Jonah said, thinking of Rowan DeVries.

  I don’t know if you realize just how at risk you are, Lilith said. Think about it. Whoever was behind Thorn Hill, anyone with secrets to protect—they don’t want this meeting. I’ve proven hard to catch. So, what’s the next best thing to having me dead? She waited, and when Jonah shook his head, continued, Having you dead, since you’re the only one who can speak for us. You’re the only one who hears our screams when we die.

  Nobody was home when Emma returned from practice. Leesha had driven Aunt Millisandra to her weekly mah-jong party. Emma felt mingled guilt and relief. She should be helping out more with Aunt Millie, and earning her keep. But it seemed like a good chance to think things through in blessed solitude.

  Emma thought better on her feet, so she found herself prowling around the pink mansion. Worries prowled through her mind as well. Either Rowan DeVries was out there somewhere and might show up on her doorstep any time. Or he was dead, which raised a whole new set of questions. She liked Chief Childers; she was close to trusting him, but she couldn’t help thinking that she was going to end up being blamed for crimes she never committed.

  Eventually, her feet found their way back to her room, with nothing resolved. She spied Tyler’s notebook on the bookshelf and pulled it down, settling onto the broad window seat. A piece of lined notebook paper was shoved into the front pocket. She pulled it out. On the outside was written Open when I’m dead.

  This must have been here all along, and she hadn’t noticed it. She unfolded it.

  Emma—

  Sonny Lee always said that good music always tells the truth. He was right about that. He was right about a lot of things, but I never listened. I haven’t been the father or the man I should’ve been. I wasn’t there when you needed me to be, but now that I know you, I realize that I was the one who lost out.

  When you were a little girl, I thought I loved you, but I didn’t even know what love was. You taught me, Emma Claire, when you came to stay with me. Not that I deserved it, but I thank you for that.

  And now here you are, almost grown. I’m in your life when you least need me to be, when all I can do is bring trouble your way. I have a feeling that trouble will come, since there is no way I deserve to be your father.

  I like to think that there’s a little bit of me in you: a love of music and a stubborn streak a mile wide. But we’re different, you and me, and I don’t forget it. You’re strong and you’re tough and you tell the truth. You’re a good person, Emma. I’m none of those things. I used to think that I was tough, but now I know that I’m the biggest coward that ever lived.

  So. I am so very sorry. The truth is hard, but I’m going to tell it, now that I’m dead. You’ll find it here if you want to look for it.

  —Your father, Tyler.

  Her mind spinning, Emma leafed through pages in plastic protectors, all written in Tyler’s surprisingly neat hand. She recognized many of the songs; others were unfamiliar. A few of them seemed to be way outside Tyler’s usual genre—bluegrass and ballads along with the blues.

  But then, Tyler had been in and out of a lot of bands. It was no wonder he had a mixed playlist.

  Music. Lyrics. Guitar tablature. Fetching the SG from its stand, she began working her way through the notebook, looking for the truth.

  Some of these songs she’d been playing nearly all her life. “Ball and Chain.” “I Just Wanna Make Love to You.” “Parchman Farm Blues.” “Malted Milk.” On those, she didn’t pay much attention to Tyler’s notation, just went with her own style. But that allowed her mind to wander where she didn’t want it to go.

  When Emma looked for songs that were new to her, she found a divider that was labeled No Lies: A Special Collection. First in line, “Emma (Emmaline),” an old song by Hot Chocolate. Some, like “Stagger Lee” and “Frankie and Johnnie” and “In the Pines,” she’d heard. Others were unfamiliar: “Rose Connelly.” “The Daemon Lover.” “The Banks of the Ohio.” “Pretty Polly.” “Lord Randall.” “Silver Dagger.” They weren’t alphabetical. There was no logic to the order that Emma could see.

  Another divider was labeled Go On Back to Memphis. It seemed to be a collection of songs with Memphis in their titles, or that referred to Memphis in the lyrics. “One Hundred Miles from Memphis.” “Eighteen Miles from Memphis.” “Mile Out of Memphis.” “Back to Memphis.” “That’s How I Got to Memphis.” “Walking in Memphis.” “Beale Street Blues.” “Low Down Dirty Mean.”

  “What are you up to, Tyler?” Emma murmured. “You said you would tell me the truth. So, what is it? What are you trying to tell me? What is it about these songs?”

  At least, working that problem took her mind off her worries.

  She wished she could show it to Sonny Lee. Even though he couldn’t read music, he was a genius when it came to gui
tar riffs, and he had forgotten more songs than Emma’d ever learned.

  Who else could she talk to? And then she thought of someone.

  Emma parked the van in a lot on Fourth Street, so nobody would see it and wonder where she was and what she was doing back at school so late at night.

  She’d already pretty much decided that this was a stupid plan. Kenzie likely wouldn’t even be able to talk to her. If she wanted to keep her mind off Thorn Hill, she shouldn’t be going to visit him.

  But sometimes you know you’re working a stupid plan, but you just keep on keeping on. Lifting the SG in one hand, cradling Tyler’s notebook in her other arm, she threaded her way down alleys and brick-paved streets, jogging past the busy restaurants on West Sixth. It was after ten, but there was still a line outside of the Keep. She hurried past Oxbow, her former home, and turned down St. Clair to the Steel Wool Building on West Tenth.

  She buzzed up to Kenzie, and his voice came through the speaker, sharp and anxious. “Emma? What happened? Is everything all right?”

  He sounds wide-awake, she thought. “Um. Yeah, everything’s fine. I—ah—I just wondered if you had a few minutes to look at some songs.”

  After a silence that sounded like surprise, Kenzie said, “You know my door is always open to you.” Emma could hear the smile in his voice. “Harry, open the east door, ground level.” There was a soft click as the lock disengaged.

  Emma climbed the battered wooden stairs to the fourth floor and tiptoed down the dimly lit hallway to Kenzie’s door. “I’m here,” she said to the display outside.

  “Harry, open the door.”

  Kenzie was sitting at his desk, headphones slid down around his neck, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Clearly, he was still up working. In fact, he looked better than he ever had, since Emma had come to the Anchorage.

  “Emma?”

  That was when she realized she’d been standing there, guitar case in one hand, staring at him. “Oh! I’m—I thought you might already be in bed.”

  “You thought I might be in bed, so you dropped in?” Kenzie grinned.

  Emma took a step back, her face heating with embarrassment. “Well, not exactly, I mean, I heard you were going to bed earlier and earlier....”

  “Clearly, my reputation is in tatters, if you expected me to be in bed at”—Kenzie glanced at the display—“at ten fifteen.” He waved her forward. “It’s all right, even if I had been in bed, you are among the few people I am always willing to wake up for. As opposed to the legions of people I pretend to be asleep for.”

  She crossed to the desk, set the guitar on the floor, and pulled up a chair while Kenzie finished whatever he was working on. “I’m sorry, Kenzie, it’s rude to just show up like you have nothing better to be—” She sucked in a breath of surprise. “You’re using the keyboard!” she blurted.

  Kenzie looked down at his hands and did a double-take. “It appears that I am.” Lifting his hands, he examined them in mock amazement. “It’s—it’s like magic.” There was new color in his cheeks, and his eyes were clear and focused.

  “Don’t you make fun of me,” Emma said. “It’s just—you look amazing.”

  “I am amazing,” Kenzie said. Then he grew serious. “We tried a new medicine, and it seems to be working. For now, anyway.” He paused a little awkwardly. “I’m glad you came. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

  It had been a while, she realized, and despite his bright-eyed appearance, there had been negative changes as well. Kenzie’d lost weight. The wall behind his bed was covered with padding, the floor with a thick rubber mat. A notebook computer was bolted to a desk designed to swing over the bed.

  Kenzie followed her gaze. “Always knew I’d end up in a padded room sooner or later. It’s to keep me from banging my head against the wall if I have a seizure. The price I pay for refusing to wear one of those helmets.”

  “They want you to wear a helmet?”

  He snorted. “I refused. Interferes with the headphones. Anyway, have you ever had to deal with helmet hair? It’s not pretty.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been here lately. Now that I’m living in Trinity, it’s just harder to get back here.”

  “Sounds inconvenient. I still don’t get it. Were you tired of the shabby digs at Oxbow?”

  “What? It’s not—no,” Emma said. “That’s not it.”

  “Or were you tired of living under Gabriel’s thumb?” Kenzie shook his head, answering his own question. “No. Wait, don’t tell me—could it have to do with my brother?”

  “I can’t talk about Jonah,” Emma said. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Kenzie said briskly. “People aren’t talking to each other. Keeping secrets. Could you get me a bottle of tea from the fridge? If there’s anything there you want, help yourself. There’s some chips and like that in the cabinet.”

  Emma returned with the bottle of tea, an orange soda, and a large bag of barbecue chips. When she handed him the bag, he ripped it open and shook a few into his hand.

  “Looks like you’re off your special diet.”

  “Yeah,” Kenzie said. “People don’t much care what I eat these days. It’s great.” He paused. “Where are you staying in Trinity?”

  “I’m staying with this girl. Leesha Middleton. She’s a wizard.”

  “How’d you meet her?”

  Emma tried to remember. “I think I first met her at that gig we did at McCauley’s. She was flirting with your brother.”

  “As one does,” Kenzie said.

  “I ran into her again at Grace Moss’s memorial service. I told her I wanted to try living in Trinity. Leesha offered to let me stay with her and help out with her aunt. I—to be honest, I wanted to spend some time with mainliners and see what they’re like.”

  “So what did you learn?” Kenzie took a swig of tea. “Are they the low-down scum you imagined?”

  “Worse than that, some of them.” Emma rolled her eyes. “But Leesha’s one of the good ones, I think. She lost someone she loved the last time mainliners went to war against each other. She really, really wants to prevent that from happening again. She’s involved in the investigation into the murders at McCauley’s, and I think that’s a good thing. I think she really wants to get at the truth, whatever it is.”

  “Interesting,” Kenzie said, as if filing that information away. “Now. You said you had some songs you wanted me to look over? Let’s see what you got.”

  “My father left me this notebook full of songs, with lyrics, music, and guitar tablature. He really went to a lot of trouble to handwrite everything out. But the time signatures are messed up. Maybe he did it in a hurry, and it’s just mistakes.” She opened the binder to the No Lies section, pulled out “In the Pines,” and held it out it to Kenzie. “Like this one. He knows how to read music—and write it, I guess. I just can’t figure this thing out. It’s a real mix of genres, everything from Delta blues—which I would expect—to traditional folk ballads to rock and roll.”

  Kenzie took the sheet and snapped it into a clipboard next to his monitor. “Harry,” Kenzie said. “Task lighting.” The light over his desk gradually brightened. He scanned the page, eyes moving rapidly. “Well, that’s cheerful,” he said. “Hmm. It would be easier for me to look for patterns if I scan it in. It doesn’t have to be digitally readable. It’s just easier for me to analyze that way. Harry can help.”

  “I guess I can do that,” Emma said. “If I can find a scanner that will—”

  “My aide can do it,” Kenzie said, “if you’re willing to leave it here for a few days. No charge. It’ll give him something to do.”

  Emma fingered the cover of the binder. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “In the meantime, let’s have us some music. Sing me some songs from the special collection.”

  “All right. What are y
ou in the mood for?”

  “Player’s choice,” Kenzie said. “Play me something you wouldn’t expect to be in your father’s repertoire.”

  “All right.” Emma pulled her guitar onto her lap and riffled through the binder. “Um. This is called ‘Lord Randall.’” Quickly, she scanned down through the lyrics. “Oh. Not this one.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a cheerful little ballad about this guy, Lord Randall, whose true love poisons him.”

  “Sing it,” Kenzie said. “I don’t mind. I’ve grown a really thick skin since Thorn Hill. To go with my scaly tail.”

  Emma blew out her breath and adjusted her capo.

  “O, where ha’ you been, Lord Randall, my son?

  And where ha’ you been, my handsome young man?”

  “I have been at the greenwood; Mother, make my bed soon,

  For I’m wearied wi’ hunting, and fain wad lie down.”

  She sang it through to the end, then quieted the strings with her hand. “So, why would Tyler leave me a song like that? One that isn’t even on his usual playlist. He even wrote me this note to go with it, like he didn’t plan to be there to explain. But the note was really confusing, too. Was he trying to torment me or what?”

  “Was he the type who would do that?”

  “I would have said no,” Emma said slowly. Tyler had wanted her to stay there, he’d seemed happy to have this second chance to be a father. During their brief time together, she’d genuinely come to like him, and she’d thought the feeling was mutual. “But then, I don’t really know. I just met him back in the summer, and he was dead by October.”

  “Are they all about poisonings?”

  Emma shook her head. “Here’s one that’s more up Tyler’s alley—it’s a blues song called ‘Stagger Lee.’”

  Stagger Lee was a bully man, and everybody knowed

  When they saw Stagger Lee coming to give Stagger Lee the road.

  Oh, that man, bad man, Stagger Lee.

  Stagger Lee started out, he gave his wife his hand,