The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

  If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would have collapsed. “J-J-Jason’s back? He’s alive? He’s okay?” She practically screamed it.

  “Well, yes, to all three.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Impulsively, Leesha hugged the old man (not the kind of thing she normally did), then drew back and eyed him suspiciously. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “No. I wouldn’t.” Snowbeard studied her shrewdly. “Though Jason did have a rather nasty encounter with Warren Barber.”

  There was a long pause. He knows, Leesha thought. The geezer knows. But she was too happy to care. “Well. Did Jason . . . say anything about me?”

  “I think you two will need to talk between yourselves,” Snowbeard said.

  Even that prospect failed to dampen her spirits. In the end, it might do her little good that Jason was still alive, yet it totally cheered her.

  In the back of her mind, a voice crowed, Do-over.

  Maybe.

  “Should you decide to stay, I should point out that you can’t change your mind later,” Snowbeard said. “Once they lay siege to the city, it will be difficult to get out.”

  It was ludicrous, the notion that they’d soon be under siege. She felt the gathering presence of hundreds of wizards, like a noose tightening around the town. Yet, she was strangely reluctant to leave, like those idiots who elect to ride out the hurricane in a trailer park.

  There was a power in this town, like some great thrumming heart that drew you into its rhythm until you matched it, beat for beat. To turn away from it was like walking away from the hearth and out into a winter’s cold.

  It was the Dragonheart. It must be. But maybe there was more to it than that. And if she stayed, maybe she could find a way to win Jason back.

  “What are you going to do about the Anaweir?” she found herself asking.

  “God knows,” Snowbeard said, rolling his eyes. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  Well, she thought, at least the Anaweir were malleable. Perhaps they could all be sent to Cedar Point for a few weeks on holiday. Or loaded onto boats and ferried across the lake. Good thing the college wasn’t . . .

  She looked up abruptly. “What are you doing to me?” she demanded.

  “Doing to you? What do you mean?”

  She and Snowbeard both reached for the last brownie and their hands collided. The old man broke it in two, and gave her half.

  “You’re spelling me or something. Using Persuasion. You’ve got me worrying about the fricking Anaweir when I should be thinking about saving my own skin.”

  “My dear, I assure you, if you are worrying about the Anaweir, you are doing it on your own.” He rose and carried the plate to the sink, then turned and leaned back against the drainboard. “I am a very old man, Alicia, and have made many mistakes over a very long life, some of them unforgiveable. I have to believe that people can change. That people deserve a second chance.”

  “I could really stay here?” Leesha asked humbly.

  “So I said. Would you like to?” There was all knowledge, yet no hint of judgment, in the old man’s face.

  “I would like to,” she said simply. And said to herself, “Fool.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sightings

  Warren Barber was hungry for news, stuck on the periphery, and running out of options. After lying low for a while, he’d returned to Trinity, hoping he could get word on the outcome of the fire at the waterfront tavern. To his surprise, the town was surrounded by a forty-foot Weirwall much more elaborate than anything he’d ever built. And who was guarding the gate? Jack Swift and Ellen Stephenson, who’d somehow escaped the trap he’d put them in.

  Leesha was certainly dead. No one but him could’ve taken off that collar. But Leesha dead was not necessarily a good thing. Because there was no way he’d get past the guards at the gate on his own.

  He felt like a kid locked out of the circus—convinced it was all happening inside. He wandered back to the perimeter, again and again. Ripples of power emanated from the town—like someone had thrown a rock into the center of a magical pool. The whole town was juiced and he just wanted to soak in it.

  Well, he never claimed to be a poet.

  Warren wasn’t the only one killing time on the wrong side of the wall. There was a virtual encampment of wizards in the countryside and lake resorts surrounding the town. He’d had to duck out of sight when he spotted his erstwhile ally Claude D’Orsay with Geoffrey Wylie of the Red Rose. They were inspecting the wall, testing it with cautious bits of magic. Looking for weaknesses, no doubt.

  What was up with that? Since when were they all chummy? D’Orsay was supposed to be working with him, against the Roses. Of course, there’d been no communication between them except through Leesha, and D’Orsay wasn’t supposed to know who her partner was. Like Leesha hadn’t betrayed him immediately.

  Warren was beginning to feel irrelevant. It had been weeks since anyone had even tried to kill him. As long as someone was trying to kill you, you knew you were important.

  He had the Covenant, but it was seeming more and more like a worthless piece of paper, since he didn’t have the means to consecrate it. It hadn’t drawn anyone useful to him.

  It was a class thing. Warren might be a wizard, ruler over the Anaweir and the servant guilds, but the aristocrats who lorded over the Houses would never give him a seat at the table.

  After a few days, he grew tired of basking in reflected rays. What he needed was a new partner. Or, preferably, a servant. He could have his pick of the Anaweir, but he wanted someone who could contribute more.

  Someone like Madison Moss.

  As far as he knew, Madison had left Trinity. He’d found no clues as to where she’d gone when he searched her room. But if she wasn’t in Trinity, she was somewhere.

  It was pathetically easy. He grabbed a car from a nearby parking lot and drove into Cleveland, found a public library branch and got online. His search on Madison Moss turned up a number of hits from art shows in Coalton County, Ohio.

  Coalton County. He’d followed Jason Haley south to Coalton County. Warren had never been able to find out why he was down there.

  Now he knew. And now that he had a name and a place, it shouldn’t be hard to find her.

  Brice Roper was beginning to think that being a wizard was overrated. Yes, he could have almost any girl, get almost anything, burn up almost anything he wanted.

  But it had been that way all his life. He was rich, he was spoiled, and ever since he could remember, he’d focused on what he didn’t have. And what he didn’t have was the ability to get what he wanted from Madison Moss. That was linked to a lot of other things, like impressing his father, which was important because he couldn’t recall that ever happening. Those were his goals—impressing his old man and then getting out of Coalton County for good.

  It gnawed at him, even though he knew he should just leave and forget about Roper Coal and his father and being humiliated on Booker Mountain.

  It was on his mind when he woke up, and it was on his mind when he went to bed, and it contaminated his dreams. He brooded on it in class, and snapped at those brave enough to sit down at his lunch table. All the charms of being king to a court of high-school seniors were wearing thin.

  It didn’t help that his father became more and more of a pain as he traveled further down the road to financial ruin. Bryson Roper, Sr. had formally approached Madison Moss about selling Booker Mountain, and she’d formally refused. The only good thing was, Bryson, Sr. was out of town a lot, trying to line up financing, cut some deals, find a partner, something.

  Carlene was no help. She claimed she’d talked to Madison until she was blue in the face, and it made no difference.

  Brice still couldn’t figure out where Madison fit into the magical scheme of things. He’d asked around, and nobody had heard of a Witch Guild. Nobody but wizards ever displayed that kind of power.

  What he wouldn’t admit was that his insid
es turned to water at the thought of confronting her again.

  So he spent his days sleepwalking through classes, avoiding his father, and dreaming of revenge.

  One Saturday he’d just finished a long ride and handed his horse off to Mike. He was walking up to the house to take a much-needed shower when someone rattled up the drive in a Jeep and pulled up in front of the barn.

  They didn’t get many unannounced visitors, so Brice waited, leaning against the split-rail fence that enclosed the paddock.

  It was a boy, a stranger of medium height, maybe a little older than Brice, with shaggy white-blond hair and pale blue eyes that were somehow startling. He walked with a smooth gait, flowing across the ground like a predator. Brice felt both intense interest and prickling unease. He glanced back to see whether Mike was still in sight, but he had led Annie into the barn.

  “Can I help you?” Brice asked, aiming for a nonchalance he didn’t feel.

  “Maybe,” the boy said, smiling. “I guess I’m lost. I’m looking for Madison Moss.” His voice was soft, but, like his gait, it got your attention. “I heard she lived up this road. Is this the place?”

  No, Brice wanted to say. It’s not. Now get the hell out of here.

  But he didn’t. This guy was looking for Madison. Could he be a witch, too? Was that why he was so intimidating?

  “You are lost,” Brice said, forcing a smile. “What do you want with Madison?”

  “We met last summer and I’ve been looking for her ever since,” the stranger said. “I wanted to surprise her.”

  It was an odd thing to say—kind of stalkerish—but Brice had the sense this guy didn’t care what Brice made of it. Like what he thought didn’t matter.

  “Maybe she’s mentioned you,” Brice said, again looking over his shoulder for Mike, who had not reappeared. “What’s your name?”

  “That’s not important,” the pale-haired boy said. “How do I get to her house?”

  “Well,” Brice said, aiming for dismissive. “I don’t want to send you up there if I don’t know who you are.”

  The stranger struck quick as a snake, shoving Brice back against the fence. He gripped Brice by the shoulders and sent a flood of Persuasion into him. Brice’s reflexive magical defense was feeble by comparison, but it got the other boy’s attention.

  “You’re a wizard!” he said, letting go of Brice. He sounded surprised and looked a little wary, but not particularly impressed.

  “Y-you, too?” Brice stammered.

  The wizard kept his hands raised to waist level, as if ready to defend himself. “Well, well,” the boy said. “Who knew?” He studied Brice, then looked around, as if other, more powerful wizards might come out of the woodwork. “What House are you with?”

  “Um,” Brice said, feeling an unaccustomed social inferiority, “I’m ...um ...unaffiliated at present.”

  “What do you know? Me, too,” the other boy said. “What’s your name?”

  “Brice Roper.”

  “You a friend of Madison’s or what?”

  “Not really,” Brice said, assuming that was the safest answer. The other wizard still hadn’t supplied his own name. It was more like an interrogation than a conversation. “I know her, is all. I went to school with her.”

  “You’re not going out, then, or anything?” The boy’s tone was faintly mocking.

  “Not hardly!” Brice couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  The boy smiled. “Then you won’t mind if I pay her a visit, will you?”

  Brice felt flattered. It was a kind of wizard-to-wizard thing, like the boy was seeking his permission to come into his territory.

  “Well, I guess I’d like to know what you want with her.” Not that Brice was worried about Madison, but by now his curiosity was aroused.

  “Don’t worry,” the boy said. “I don’t mean her any harm.” He smiled, eyes glittering. “Not if she cooperates.”

  Brice stared at the other wizard. Hope crowded out surprise. Maybe he’d found the solution to his problem. A way to get back at Madison.

  But then he thought of the episode on Booker Mountain. Did this arrogant wizard know what she could do?

  “Well,” Brice said. “She’s ...um ...not been that cooperative in the past,” he said. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

  “Really?” the boy said, appraising him with sudden intensity. “Tell me more.”

  “Why don’t we go on up to the house,” Brice suggested. “And I’ll tell you all about her.” He turned toward the house, then paused, recovering a little confidence. “What did you say your name was?”

  Annoyance flashed across the boy’s face, and Brice thought he’d made a mistake. Then the wizard smiled and extended his hand. “Actually, I didn’t. I’m Warren Barber.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  No-man’s-land

  Jason spoke the unnoticeable charm and slipped through the Weirgate, hearing the whisper of magical locks as one of the ghost warriors, Mick, pulled it shut behind him. It was after midnight, but the moon had not risen. Beyond the wall, the dark pressed down, and a steady rain swallowed the light. But Jason walked this path nearly every night in his role as spy. He’d had plenty of practice, slipping around unnoticed back at the Havens. Now he slid between the trees like a vapor.

  He was well-suited to the role of spy, since it required little in the way of magical power. Still, the perimeter was difficult to navigate these days. You could hardly move without tripping over wizards. Everywhere he looked, wizard fire sparkled in the darkness like stars fallen to earth. Wizard voices in multiple languages collided under the canopy of trees.

  They’d come from all over, more and more every day.

  The Red Rose. The White Rose. Traders. The unaffiliated. Drawn to Trinity by the thrum of power within its walls.

  Wizards fricking camping. Roughing it in the forest. Like a Wizard Woodstock. It was almost funny.

  But not quite.

  And all the while, the Anaweir came and went, oblivious to the gathering horde, unaware of the growing tension on either side of Mercedes’s wall.

  Dodging around several warded campsites, Jason crossed a rocky streambed and climbed the ridge beyond. From there he could monitor the comings and goings from the wizard camps and take a rough count of the Weir on the perimeter. But this time, as he crested the rise, he saw that the view had changed dramatically. The landscape was obscured by an ominous shadow that extended as far as he could see in both directions. It took him a moment to fathom what it was. And when he did, he swore and pounded his fist into his open palm.

  The Roses were building their own wall, a few hundred yards from Mercedes’s fortification. It was tall and slick and menacing, iced with razorwire, lacking the grace and style of Mercedes’s barrier. A poisonous green light reflected back from it, like an oil slick on black water.

  It was a nightmarish kind of wall—the kind the witch builds to keep the prince out. Or in. The kind that surrounds the dark lord’s castle. It was a wall that would trap both Weir and Anaweir. And from the looks of things, it was nearly finished.

  They must’ve used glamours to hide their progress. Even if they’d waited to begin construction until after dark, they would have had more hands to share in the work than Mercedes and her crews. Not to mention unlimited magical firepower. It was a testament to the forces arrayed against them.

  Jason descended the ridge on the far side, slipping and sliding on the loose shale. He knew who to credit for this latest play.

  Wylie and Longbranch and D’Orsay’s elaborate, heavily warded pavilions now stood just outside the half-built wall. There they hatched schemes and fought with each other, from what Jason had gleaned over the previous days.

  As he approached the pavilions, Jason moved with exquisite caution, alert for traps and alarms. He’d be way better off dead than to be caught out here on his own. Ahead he could see the glowing silk walls of the tents, enchanted to turn the rain. Above the peaks flew the ban
ners of the Red and White Rose, and a black raven on white that was D’Orsay’s new signia.

  Geoffrey Wylie stood outside the tents, issuing orders to a huge crowd of eager young wizards clad in damp camouflage. Among them was Bruce Hays, an alumnus of the Havens, holding Gregory Leicester’s glass and metal wizard staff, and looking damn proud of it.

  With Wylie were Jessamine Longbranch, dressed in couture camoflage. And Claude D’Orsay.

  D’Orsay’s patrician features were clearly revealed in the light that leaked from the pavilion. The tall wizard stood in the midst of his enemies, seemingly at ease, expending bits of power to keep the rain off him. He wore rings on both hands—powerful sefas, if Jason was any judge. So D’Orsay had come well armed to this meeting.

  Devereaux stood next to his father, eyes wide, taking it all in.

  “We’ll begin immediately,” Wylie said. “The Anaweir are . . . er . . . unaware of the rebels’Weirwall, since they can pass freely through it. However, anyone leaving the sanctuary will be trapped inside our wall. You’ll capture them—Weir and Anaweir—and bring them to the retention area for processing and identification. As word gets out, panicked townspeople will no doubt come flooding through the inner wall. We’ll have hundreds of hostages, some of them with strong ties to the rebels.”

  “What are we going to do with them?” Hays asked.

  “When we go to breach the inner wall, we’ll pack the area between with immobilized hostages. That way, the rebels won’t be able to use their arsenal against us.”

  This was, apparently, Wylie’s plan, because Longbranch rolled her eyes. “Do you really think wizards will negotiate for Anaweir hostages?”

  Wylie shrugged. “Who knows? They’ve seemed unaccountably attached to them in the past.”

  “Strange.” Longbranch turned back to the soldiers. “You must immobilize the prisoners as quickly as possible, so there’s no outcry. Particularly the Weir.” She distributed leather pouches to the soldiers. “This is Gemynd bana. Mind-Slayer. It will knock them out without being detectable by those inside the walls. Just be careful with it, or you’ll end up flat on your back yourselves.”