The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

  “So. Perhaps an ancestor then, who only resembles your mother. The mirror will try to tell you the things you need to know. But you have to interpret what you see.”

  “Look. I don’t need to see that, okay?”

  “All right, Jack. We’ll let it be for now.”

  Jack tried to follow Snowbeard’s advice in the days that followed, the part about focusing on the job he had to do. He didn’t see that he had much choice but to press on. The worst part was the dreams. Jack began to put off going to bed until he was absolutely exhausted. Every night he struggled through battles with traders and monsters, friends and family who turned on him and sold him to the highest bidder. His friends, his teachers, relatives, neighbors, all circulated through his nightmares, playing different roles. During the day he felt jumpy and irritable, always watching his back.

  His relationship with his neighbors had changed. He had begun to realize that all of Jefferson Street had a stake in him. When Mercedes waved at him from her front garden, he thought of the soft-spun vest next to his skin. When Iris brought snow peas to Becka, she smiled at him encouragingly, asked how he was doing, if he needed anything. Blaise made him a pair of gauntlets, trimmed in silver, engraved with the words STRENGTH THROUGH VIRTUE. He felt alternately safe and smothered in the fortress of Jefferson Street.

  Something peculiar was happening to Jack’s body. His shirts became tight across the chest and arms, and his jeans snug in the thighs. He told his mother he had begun a weightlifting program at school. She took him out to buy new clothes twice in as many months. Sometimes he would stare at himself in the mirror after his shower, transfixed. Jack had always been lean and physically fit, but now he was confronted with a muscular stranger.

  He took to wearing flannel shirts and baggy jeans to hide the metamorphosis, which worked as long as the weather was cool. It didn’t help when he was out on the soccer field, or in the locker room. It would have been funny if Jack weren’t so apprehensive. Here he was trying to hide what most boys his age would be happy to show off. I look like a poster boy for steroids, he thought. He considered all the potions he was taking and wondered if he could pass a urine test.

  Soccer, at least, was definitely going better, now that he didn’t have to worry about blowing anyone off the field. Not that it wasn’t tempting sometimes. Garrett Lobeck seemed to be regaining his old arrogance where Jack was concerned. He still blamed Jack for his failure to make varsity. And Leesha’s continuing interest in Jack didn’t help. Wary of losing control, Jack did his best to avoid a confrontation. Naturally, Lobeck saw this as a sign of weakness.

  Jack was playing better than he ever had. He was stronger, more aggressive, and quicker on his feet—more willing to take risks. It seemed the qualities that went into warrioring were just as useful in playing less deadly games. Jack’s success didn’t improve Lobeck’s mood any.

  Ironically, Jack’s star seemed to be tracking upward on the Trinity High School social chart. These days, his locker was decorated before every game, and Jack had his own private cheering section. Girls Jack had known all his life found him suddenly and totally fascinating.

  He was seeing a lot of Ellen, but always in a crowd. On the days he didn’t meet with Hastings, he often stopped in at Corcoran’s after practice. Ellen had become a regular there since she and Will began drilling the JV team.

  Will and Ellen were good foils for each other. Will was endlessly patient with the least competent players, while Ellen played an aggressive, European-style, in-your-face game. Under their tutelage, team play improved dramatically. Even some of the varsity players had begun participating.

  Will, Fitch, and Ellen had joined the Chaucerian Society, a medieval culture club Hastings had founded. They were planning a medieval banquet in an old theater downtown before school ended. Jack didn’t participate. He was spending enough time with Leander Hastings as it was.

  Jack was feeling more and more isolated by the burdens he carried and the secrets he kept, by mental and physical exhaustion and the unrelenting fear of exposure.

  One afternoon, Jack and Will and Fitch lingered at Corcoran’s after a win over McKinley. Ellen had been absent from school again, and Jack found himself worrying about her health. She’d seemed fine the day before.

  Leesha had just left, having distributed invitations to her birthday party.

  “Leesha still lusts after you, Jack,” Fitch commented. “The princess wants whatever she can’t have.”

  “Well, she’ll have to get in line if she wants to make time with our Jack,” Will drawled. “I can’t count the girls who have come to me asking who he likes. And I just don’t know what to tell them.” He was sprawled back in his chair, long legs extended out in front of him. “You know Ellen’s crazy about you.”

  Jack sat up straighter. “What do you mean? Did she say something? She hasn’t said anything to me. Seems like I never even get to talk to her.”

  Will rolled his eyes. “She just can’t deal with the competition. But seriously, Jack, we’re just wondering what’s going on.” He leaned forward. “There’s something really different about you. Physically, you look great. You’ve put on a lot of muscle. And you’re playing great— better than I can ever remember.”

  Jack flinched and glanced around the restaurant. It was getting late, and the place was nearly empty. No one was sitting in a position to overhear.

  “But it’s like you’re on another planet,” Will continued. “You don’t even hear us half the time. And you’re constantly studying or working out.”

  Fitch had his pencil out and was sketching on a napkin. “You’re never online at night anymore. One minute you’re wired and the next you’re falling asleep in class. I’d say you were in love, but girls throw themselves at you and you hardly notice. I wish you’d send some my way,” he added. Apparently he and Alison were on the outs again, and Jack hadn’t known.

  “We’re wondering if this has anything to do with the graveyard thing,” Will said quietly.

  Jack slumped down in his seat, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. He’d underestimated his two friends and their ability to strike so near the truth. Don’t trust anybody, Aunt Linda had said. But she was the one who had involved Will and Fitch in the first place. As it turned out, he didn’t have to say much.

  Fitch nodded at Jack’s lack of response, as if he’d confirmed it. He leaned back in his chair. “Has your aunt been back?”

  Jack shook his head, not speaking.

  “And you’re not sleeping very well, I bet,” Will said.

  “I guess this isn’t something you can talk to your mother about,” Fitch said slowly.

  Jack looked up sharply. Fitch’s face was expressionless. Jack’s friends were already in danger because of the episode at the graveyard and their relationship with him. And they had inherited no special gift. They had no magical weapons at their disposal. The less they knew, the better—for his sake as well as theirs.

  “Look,” he said wearily. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But it’s a problem I’m going to have to work out on my own.”

  “I can’t understand why we can’t help you out with this,” Will said stubbornly. He was always confident that his size and good will and skills of diplomacy could solve any problem.

  Fitch pulled out a handful of dollars and scooped up his check. “We’re not matchmakers, and I have my own love life to worry about. But seems to me you’re not particularly happy. Why don’t you try to have a little fun for a change?” He pushed his chair back. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Bout

  The next night Hastings drove Jack home from soccer practice to pick up his sword. He had the feeling that all of Jefferson Street was watching as they pulled up in the Volvo. To his surprise, Hastings turned off the ignition and followed Jack into the house. Becka looked up from her desk in the front parlor as they came in. She was barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair twisted into a clip on t
op of her head. She was working on her laptop with piles of papers all over the floor. She rose and came into the front hallway. “Hi, sweetheart. I didn’t think you would be home so soon.” She gave Jack a quick kiss, looking over his shoulder at his tall companion.

  Jack had hoped to be in and out of the house without being noticed. “Uh, this is Mr. Hastings. He is the new assistant principal I was telling you about. He’s the one who’s been helping me out with soccer.”

  “Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” Becka said graciously. “It has been kind of you to spend so much time working with Jack. I’ve been to some of the games, and I can see how much progress he’s made.” She extended her hand.

  Hastings took it in both of his and held on to it a few seconds too long. “Your son has a great deal of natural talent.” He took in every detail of Becka’s appearance in his intense fashion, and then swept his gaze around the room. “I’ve enjoyed working with him,” he added.

  Jack was anxious to get Hastings out of the house as quickly as possible. “I came back to pick up some stuff for practice,” he explained, though no one seemed to be listening. He took the stairs two at a time. He could hear Hastings’s voice behind him.

  “I can see that your son takes after you,” he was saying.

  Jack removed the sword and scabbard from its box and managed to get it into the duffle bag from his closet. He added several towels from the linen closet for padding, and zipped it closed. When he came downstairs, Becka was leaning against the door frame, laughing at something Hastings had said, twisting a tendril of hair around her finger. The wizard was smiling, but Jack couldn’t help but think there was something predatory in his posture.

  “All set,” Jack said, rather loudly.

  “How late will you be?” Becka looked from one to the other.

  “Is eight-thirty all right?” Hastings asked. “We’re getting a bit of a late start.”

  “That’s fine,” Becka said. “Jack and I are flexible.” And then they were finally out the door.

  Jack put the duffle bag in the backseat and climbed into the front. “Where are we going?” he asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

  Hastings didn’t respond. He appeared to be lost in thought. Jack repeated his question.

  “I thought we’d practice outside this time.” As usual, Hastings didn’t provide a complete answer. Jack soon realized they were headed for Perry Park. He had been there hundreds of times through his childhood. It was the largest and least developed of Trinity’s municipal parks, heavily wooded and remote, with few hiking trails. It was an inland park, and the parks along the lakeshore always received the heaviest use, especially in the spring and summer.

  Hastings seemed to know where he was going. After traveling several miles along the road, he pulled into a parking lot at one of the trailheads. There were no other cars in the lot. Hastings slung a small backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s go. Bring the sword.”

  They hiked for perhaps a mile and half into the woods. Hastings maintained a rapid pace, offering little but directions. When a stream intersected the trail, Hastings walked up along the streambed for a few hundred yards, then struck off to the right through the woods again until they came to a small clearing. It appeared as if the trees had been felled some years ago. Small shrubs were beginning to fill in here and there, but it was mostly tall grasses and some brambles, as Jack quickly discovered. The late-day sunlight streamed down into the meadow. This, then, was their destination.

  Jack set the duffle bag on the ground and unzipped it. He delivered his sword from its nest of towels, strapped the scabbard around his waist, and cinched it tight. He drew his weapon. It felt good to have it in his hand again. He turned it this way and that so it caught the light, then moved gracefully through his stances, adjusting to the larger blade. As before, it felt light in his hand, weightless. Hastings watched this for some time, occasionally making a suggestion.

  “We’re going to have to handle your training differently now that you’re using the Shadowslayer,” he said finally. “I cannot serve as your opponent. We’ll do the best we can with the tools we have.” There was a brief flash of a smile. He opened his backpack and pulled out some metal stakes and a hammer. He walked the perimeter of the clearing, pounding in nine stakes in all. Then he stood at the center of the meadow and spoke some words in the now-familiar language of wizardry. Jack tried his best to commit the words to memory. An eerie silence descended. Jack realized that he could no longer hear the sounds from the surrounding forest. The area outside the boundaries marked by the stakes became smudged and surreal.

  Nick had said that Hastings was a powerful wizard, but his teacher had never displayed his abilities until now.

  Hastings walked back to Jack. “That will keep anyone from interfering with us,” he explained. “I will be sending some warriors against you. Your job is to defend yourself against them, and kill them if you can.”

  Jack was bewildered. “Warriors? What are you talking about?” He looked wildly around the empty clearing.

  “Don’t worry. Think of it as a kind of video game, but on a rather . . . larger scale.” The wizard stepped to the side of the clearing, leaving Jack alone in the center. Moments later, a massive man in a tunic and leggings punched through the smudged boundary at the far end of the meadow. His fair hair was plaited into braids that hung to his broad shoulders, and he sported a robust red beard. He carried a large axe in one hand and a sword in the other. He wore neither armor nor helmet. He looked a bit disoriented at first, but then his eyes lit on Jack.

  “What is this? They send a mere child against me? Go back to your mother, boy, until you’ve grown!” he shouted. Jack glanced helplessly over at Hastings, who stood calmly, feet apart, arms folded, at the edge of the trees.

  Receiving no answer from Jack, the man strode toward him, swinging his axe as he came. It seemed light in his hands, like a toy. The insults grew louder and more colorful. “Go back to she that whelped you, before I send you to hell!” the man shouted.

  “Is he real?” Jack shouted to Hastings. Hastings said nothing.

  The man was now close enough that Jack could see the beads that decorated the plaits in his hair and the broad metal bands that enclosed his massive arms. His stench was overpowering, a reek of sweat and steel and raw physical power.

  “Is he real?” Jack shouted again desperately. There was no answer.

  And then the man was upon him. In a sudden panic, Jack raised his sword to block the blow, but it was too late. The man had his axe up, it was descending. Jack felt a cold pain at his shoulder, and there was a darkness before his eyes. When his vision cleared, he was flat on his face in the grass. He’d landed in a patch of brambles, and thorns pierced his palms and forearms. When he lifted his head, he saw that the man was gone.

  “Well now, Jack,” Hastings said from the sidelines. “I’m afraid you’ve been beheaded. Not a good start.” He sounded amused.

  Jack scrambled to his feet, picking briars out of his skin, his clothes. “It would have been nice to know the rules of the game before we started!” he fumed.

  “But you know the rules of the game,” Hastings replied. “We’ve been studying them all along. The Rules of Engagement. Now you just have to apply them.”

  “He cut off my head, but I’m still alive,” Jack pointed out.

  Hastings shrugged. “Those are the rules of this particular game, under the charm I used to call him up. We can’t afford to lose you in practice. Let’s try again.”

  He nodded to the end of the clearing again. This time a man on horseback entered the clearing, wearing chain mail and carrying a lance.

  “Give way!” the man roared. “Or die today!”

  Somehow, Jack knew that he was not expected to give way. He searched for his sword in the tall grass and retrieved it. “Dismount!” he shouted back. “As you can see, I’m on foot!” He hoped the other man would see that there was no honor in trampling him.

 
The knight clambered down from his warhorse. He wore a helm and hauberk, but his face was uncovered. He appeared to be in his twenties or thirties, clean shaven and quite handsome. The man approached with his blade drawn, a mace swinging from his other hand. Jack raised his sword and flowed into a fighting stance. Shadowslayer flamed up, eager for blood, and Jack was astounded to see that his opponent looked a little frightened.

  His words were bold, however. “Give way, boy. I think ye must be squire to some brave knight who comes behind you.”

  “There’s just me,” Jack replied, wishing devoutly that he did have a backup.

  “Well then, prepare to defend yourself!” The man charged forward, sword extended, but Jack was ready this time, and parried the blow. There was a tremendous strength behind it, and the blow shook Jack’s arm to the shoulder. He ducked, and the mace sang as it cleaved the air where his head had been. He spun flames from his own sword, and the man blocked them with his blade. Jack thrust him backward with a concussion of air.

  Jack felt more confident now. Although the man was definitely stronger, Jack was quick on his feet, and the routine was familiar from the bouts at the fitness center. After several minutes of well-matched swordplay, Jack put a bolt through his blade that sent the knight’s sword flying and knocked him to the ground. The man sat up, looking dazed, his sword arm hanging useless. No one was more surprised than Jack, who glanced over at Hastings for further instructions.

  “Finish him,” his teacher said.

  “No,” said Jack, lowering his sword and backing away.

  It was the knight’s turn to be surprised. After a few seconds, the knight dissolved and was gone. His horse, too.

  Hastings strode onto the field, eyes glittering. “You did an excellent job in that last bout,” he said. “An excellent job. Now, why couldn’t you follow through?”

  “I don’t want to kill anybody,” Jack explained, shrugging his shoulders. He’d never expected to be apologizing for it.