The Sorcerer Heir (Heir Chronicles)

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Since when have wizards ever followed the rules?” Ellen said.

  Burroughs considered this. “You know, you are right,” he said. “What was I thinking?” Sliding his hand inside his jacket, he pulled out a gun and pointed it at Ellen. “Drop the sword. Now.”

  It took Ellen a minute to find her voice. “A wizard? Packing a gun? Is this the end of civilization or what?”

  “Don’t try my patience. Ms. Moss is a valuable asset. You, on the other hand, are expendable.”

  Ellen released her grip on Waymaker, and the sword clattered to the ground. She flexed her hand, gazing longingly at the gun. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get your hands dirty?”

  “We in the Black Rose have always been practical when it comes to weapons,” Burroughs said, with a twisted smile. “It’s one of the things that makes us so very effective. Our strength is in tactics.”

  “The Black Rose,” Ellen said. “Then the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?” Madison said.

  “That he’s part of an international syndicate of wizard assassins. That it’s still around.”

  “Ah,” Madison said. “Well, I don’t get it. What’s the point in this? Aren’t we on the same side? Otherwise, why are you here?”

  “How presumptuous, to think that we would align ourselves with you,” Burroughs said. “The strong have always ruled over the weak, and the weak have always complained. We are predators, Ms. Moss, and you, my dear, are—what?—an art student?”

  Madison was beginning to shimmer, a sure sign that she was losing her temper. “You must be a deaf predator, then, because I asked you a question. Why are you here?”

  “Because it was too good an opportunity to pass up.” He double-gripped the gun and broadened his stance as Madison spread her burning wings. “Don’t try your Dragon routine on me. I’ll shoot you in the leg if I have to.”

  “You know what,” Ellen said, “that’s a misconception. There’s really no safe place to shoot somebody. Even a flesh wound can be fatal. The femoral artery—”

  “I’ll shoot you in the head if you don’t shut up,” Burroughs said. “That’s bound to be fatal.”

  “I don’t know what you think this will accomplish,” Madison said, subsiding a little. “I won’t let this slide—I can tell you that. I will come after you. And if I can’t, the council will.”

  Burroughs rolled his eyes. “Do you think we didn’t anticipate that? Our theory is, as long as you remain technically alive, you can continue to be the vessel for the Dragonheart. The Black Rose has some amazing poisons and potions at our disposal. We’re thinking a chronic vegetative state or a twilight sleep will buy us considerable time in which to figure out how to free the stone safely.”

  As the wizard spoke, the blood drained from Madison’s face until her freckles stood out against her skin.

  “As for the council, our assassins are finishing them off as we speak. It was so helpful of you to split up. The best part is, we’re using guns and daggers and other crude weapons, so the labrats will get the blame. What a tragedy: the entire council massacred by mutants, the Dragon Heir left comatose.”

  “You were the ones behind the killings on Halloween,” Madison said, her blue eyes bright with tears and fury. “You murdered my little sister.”

  Burroughs shook his head. “Actually, no. Haven’t you heard? It was Jonah Kinlock. If it had been me, DeVries would have stayed dead.”

  “What?” Ellen felt double-ambushed. “Isn’t DeVries in on this? I thought you all were partners.”

  “DeVries? Please. Don’t give him credit for this. He was never well-suited to take over his father’s business. He’s never been the man his father was.” Burroughs’s voice hardened. “He goes down, along with everyone else. Now, sit down, relax, and we’ll wait to hear from my colleagues.”

  That’s when Madison made her move, extending her hand toward Burroughs, marshaling her power. Calmly, Burroughs shifted his aim and shot her in the left leg. Madison screamed and went down, clutching at her thigh, blood streaming through her fingers.

  Ellen dove sideways, coming up with Waymaker. “See that she doesn’t bleed to death,” Burroughs said curtly, waving at her with the gun.

  He half turned, as somebody pounded at the door. “Ah. Here we are,” he said, checking his watch. “All finished. Early, even. The Interguild Council is permanently adjourned.” He backed toward the door, keeping his gun trained on Ellen. Sliding back the bolt, he hauled open the door.

  And was buried under hundreds of decaying bodies.

  Fitch stared at the phone, as if it might offer some clue, but the display read Blocked.

  “Oka-ay,” Fitch said. “What makes you think it’s a trap?”

  “They’ve been rebuilding the security system to keep me out. They’ve taken my building off-network entirely.” It was hard to understand him through the considerable background noise.

  “Where are you? Why is it so noisy?”

  “I’m on the roof of the infirmary,” Kenzie said. “It’s the only place I could get a signal. What you’re hearing is the wind. I’m freezing my ass off up here.”

  Fitch thought of the coffee waiting for him inside, said good-bye to it, and began walking toward campus. “Can you come down and meet me somewhere?”

  “No can do,” Kenzie said. “Gabriel’s put a lot of physical barriers in my way. The bastard. The only way I could go was up.”

  “Why are they so intent on shutting you out? Are you really important or really dangerous?”

  Kenzie snorted. “Both, I hope. It’s kind of a dream of mine. Now, back on topic: where’s Leesha? You’ve got to warn the mainliners not to come anywhere near here.”

  “Mainliners?”

  “You know, the standard magical guilds.”

  “Oh. Right. But how do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “Hang on.” After a moment, he said, “Look at your phone.”

  A young boy’s face had appeared on the screen, red-brown hair spilling out from under his knit cap. He looked like a pale, hollow-cheeked, younger version of Jonah Kinlock.

  “How old are you?” Fitch blurted.

  “I’m fifteen,” Kenzie said defensively.

  “I would’ve said thirteen.”

  “Look, we don’t have time for this.” Kenzie swiveled the webcam so that Fitch could see that he was, indeed, up on a roof, snowflakes swirling around him.

  “That’s pretty thin evidence,” Fitch said, “the fact that they’ve changed the security on their system. Maybe they just don’t want you hacking in, changing your grades or whatever.”

  “If you don’t believe me, then why are you heading my way?”

  Fitch looked at his phone, which displayed a map, pinpointing his position on it.

  How is he doing that? Fitch wondered.

  “Anyway, it’s not just that. More important, there’s something wrong with my brother.”

  “Something wrong? Like what?”

  “Something’s missing,” Kenzie said. “Something’s different. He’s not the same person. When you look in his eyes...” Kenzie’s voice faltered. “Have you met my brother, Jonah?”

  “Briefly,” Fitch said, “when he saved my life. I can’t say I know him very well.”

  “In addition to being an enchanter with a killing touch, he—”

  “What?” Fitch felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know him very well, do you?” Kenzie said. “So in addition to all that, he’s an empath, meaning he’s hypersensitive to other people’s feelings, he can always see both sides of a story, he has the unlimited capacity to feel guilty about stuff he’s not even responsible for. As you can imagine, that’s a real handicap for an assassin, so—”

  “An assassin? Are you saying that Rowa
n DeVries is telling the truth?”

  “Will you shut up and listen to me?” Kenzie said. “Everyone Jonah kills is already dead. By most standards, anyway. Long story short, I’ve never looked into Jonah’s eyes and not seen guilt, regret, empathy, and sorrow. What my friend Emma calls the blues. Until now.”

  “What do you see now?”

  “Nothing,” Kenzie said.

  “Nothing?”

  “I see nothing at all. Now will you warn the mainliners?”

  “They’re already there,” Fitch whispered.

  “Where?”

  “They’re in the Keep, meeting with Gabriel Mandrake, Jonah, and the others.”

  The theater was set up like a nightclub, with comfortable plush seating around small tables. Sound and lighting equipment had been pushed into a corner to free up more floor space, and the chairs brought in close together. Gabriel Mandrake had done everything possible to make it less like an interrogation and more like a conversation.

  Leesha was surprised to find a small group waiting for them. Gabriel Mandrake, of course. She also recognized several members of Fault Tolerant—Rudy Severino, Natalie Diaz, and Alison Shaw. There were four more people she didn’t know. But no Jonah Kinlock.

  “Welcome back to the Keep,” Mandrake said. He embraced Mercedes; Mercedes hugged Natalie, and then introduced Leesha and the rest of them.

  Leesha relaxed fractionally. It was all kumbaya so far. Maybe she’d worried for nothing.

  “I was disappointed to learn that Madison Moss isn’t with you,” Mandrake said. “I understood that she would be coming.”

  “She won’t be participating in the interview,” Seph said. “The Halloween murders are still hard for her to talk about. But she’s very much interested in the outcome of this, so she’s supervising the campus search.”

  Mandrake’s lips tightened. “Patrick tells me that a number of you have already deployed to the other buildings.” He paused. “Actually, this may work out well.” He motioned Patrick closer, they exchanged a few quiet words, and the assistant took his leave.

  “What about Kinlock?” DeVries asked. “Will he be joining us?”

  “Not immediately,” Mandrake said.

  “And Emma?” DeVries persisted.

  “As I’ve said before, I don’t have any idea where she is,” Mandrake said. “For now, it’s just us.” Their eyes locked briefly.

  “Who’s Emma?” a woman asked, touching Mandrake’s arm.

  “Emma was a student here for a brief time,” Mandrake said. “She may or may not have been a witness to the murders at McCauley’s.”

  That’s odd, Leesha thought. You’d think everybody here would already know that whole story. And the woman—she looked too old to be a student. Her voice was hard to understand, like someone who’s had a head injury, an impression reinforced by the fact that her face was oddly devoid of expression. The hairs on the back of Leesha’s neck stood up. If Fitch were there, she would have said, Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

  “Let me introduce those who are here,” Mandrake said. “All of them are Thorn Hill survivors. This is Lilith Greaves,” he said, touching the shoulder of the woman who’d asked about Emma. He introduced Natalie, Rudy, and Alison; then the ones Leesha hadn’t met before: Mike Joplin, Charlie Dugard, Thérèse Fortenay, and Brendan Wu.

  Charlie Dugard looked familiar. Where had she seen him before? And Brendan Wu was also older than the others, maybe middle-aged. If he had any Asian blood, Leesha couldn’t see it. What an odd mix of people, she thought. She’d also been told that none of the Thorn Hill survivors had made it to adulthood. Mandrake hadn’t said a word about their roles at the Anchorage.

  It was also odd that Mandrake would want so many people present for this kind of conversation. Leesha guessed they knew what topic was on the agenda. Maybe. They seemed tense, on edge, especially the members of Fault Tolerant, who’d been present the night of the murders.

  Alison, for example. She looked stylish in jeans, boots, and a brilliant teal sweater, her hair streaked with the same color. But she twitched and fidgeted, not meeting anyone’s eyes, as if she wished she were someplace else.

  “Please,” Mandrake said, gesturing toward an array of food on the sideboard. “Help yourself to refreshments and then have a seat. We’ll be here a while, so you may as well make yourselves comfortable. When your colleagues arrive, they’ll be welcome to join us.”

  When everyone was settled, Leesha woke her tablet to bring up her list of questions. Odd. There was no Internet—no signal at all. She would have thought that this place, of all places, would have been totally connected.

  “We’ve developed a list of questions as a starting point,” Leesha said. “I’ll start, but some of the others may—” She looked up to find Mandrake shaking his head. “What? Is there a problem?”

  “Let’s hold off on questions for now,” Mandrake said. “In the interest of efficiency, we’re going to share with you the history of Thorn Hill, and how it relates to what we do here at the Keep.”

  Mercedes and Leesha looked at each other. “Would you care to explain?” Mercedes said.

  Mandrake sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Have you heard of a process known as Truth and Reconciliation?”

  Seph cleared his throat. “Isn’t that what was used in South Africa after the end of apartheid?”

  Mandrake nodded. “It involves allowing the victims of genocide to confront those responsible and have an honest dialogue about reconciliation—which is the only way to find a way forward.”

  “We came here to find out the truth about what happened on Halloween,” DeVries said, “and to determine who is responsible for a decade of killings. We didn’t come here to talk about Thorn Hill.”

  “Maybe not,” Greaves said, “but we did.”

  “I’m a little confused, Gabriel,” Mercedes said. “Are you suggesting that someone here is responsible for what happened in Brazil?”

  “Not directly,” Gabriel said. “But indirectly, perhaps.” His gaze singled out DeVries. “And in a global sense? Definitely.”

  “This is a waste of time,” DeVries said, his voice low and furious, flame flickering over his skin. “I agreed to this because I hoped for an honest effort to resolve this and bring the guilty parties to justice.”

  “We share that goal,” Greaves said. Her voice was thick, and somewhat difficult to understand.

  “If you think you’re going to be able to use what happened at Thorn Hill to excuse the murders on Halloween, you are mistaken,” DeVries said. “Madison Moss’s twelve-year-old sister should not pay the price for a tragedy that was likely the result of carelessness and hubris.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Mandrake said. “It’s really a very interesting story. Please.” He motioned toward DeVries’s seat. “Sit down.”

  Leesha could almost see the wheels turning in the other wizard’s head. If he stayed, he might learn something, and at the end of it, he’d take action, depending on what he heard.

  DeVries slowly sank back down into his seat, his eyes wary.

  Leesha looked at Seph, who’d been gripping the arms of his chair like he might spring out of it. She saw him relax fractionally, and guessed he might have reached a similar conclusion—that there was no harm in listening, and they might learn something.

  “We’ll begin with the premise that appearances can be deceiving,” Mandrake said. “I introduced the others as Thorn Hill survivors—and they are. But there are differences among them. Let me explain.”

  Jack found what was left of his team on the fourth floor, huddled together in a laundry room—they were down to three—Morrison, Highbourne, and Hudson. Two wizards and a seer. Morrison almost brained Jack with a mop handle before they got things sorted out.

  “Somebody in a ski mask shot at us d
own on the third floor,” the wizard explained. “We’ve been trying to reach the command post, but it doesn’t seem to be getting through. I thought we had permission to search in here.” She looked betrayed.

  “I thought we did, too,” Jack said. “Either somebody didn’t get the memo, or we’ve got freelancers joining in. Scavuzzo and Hackleford are both dead.”

  “Dead?” Morrison said, looking like this was not the operation she’d signed up for.

  “I don’t exactly know what’s going on, but Hackleford killed Scavuzzo, and I killed Hackleford.” He told the others what had happened.

  “Wizards were trying to kill you?” Highbourne looked baffled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What about the person who shot at you?” Jack asked. “Was he or she gifted?”

  “We didn’t get a good look,” Highbourne said, looking embarrassed. “We ran. We came up here and hid.”

  “Smart move,” Jack said, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t pick a fight you can’t win. I don’t want to lose anybody else. I’m going to pass out a few weapons that might even the odds, depending on who we’re up against.” He distributed the weapons he’d taken from Hackleford.

  Morrison held the gun flat-handed, like it was a grenade. “I don’t know anything about guns,” she said. “Can’t I just flame them or use a killing charm?”

  “If it works, have at it,” Jack said. “Should work fine on wizards. Not too sure about savants.”

  Morrison looked at Jack. At the gun. Lifted her chin and said grimly, “Show me.”

  “Short course,” Jack said. “Don’t point your gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot. Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot. Make sure of your target and what’s beyond it. Shoot two-handed—one hand steadying the other.” He watched as she demoed it back to him. She did reasonably well. “Okay, this is the safety. Leave it on unless you’re ready to shoot. And don’t shoot if any of the rest of us are in front of you.” Morrison nodded, flicked the safety on, and tucked the gun into her waistband.