The Warrior Heir

  “Jack Swift would be dead if not for me,” Leander Hastings announced.

  Longbranch’s head snapped up. “Leander Hastings has been a thorn in our sides for years. He has done everything in his power to sabotage the Game. Why would he try to field a player if he didn’t have an ulterior motive?”

  Hastings stood. “Dr. Longbranch has told you it was her intent to play Jack in the Game. How do we know what was intended, or agreed upon seventeen years ago? There was no contract. The stone was placed under false pretenses. The White Rose has had minimal contact with Jack ever since. Whatever training he has received, I have provided. Two weeks ago, Dr. Longbranch tried to murder him with a graffe, and almost succeeded. It is through my efforts that he is still alive. If only for that reason, I say the boy is mine.

  “I brought Jack to the Game as his sponsor. I presented his genealogy and secured his approval as a player. Now your petitioner proposes to strip him from me. In matters of the Game, possession has always been the law. Who will bring a warrior to play in future knowing he might well be stolen? If Jack is deemed fit to play, he should play for me.” Hastings remained standing.

  He must know he can’t win this, Jack thought. He’s nobody’s fool.

  D’Orsay conversed briefly with the other judges, then turned to face the court. “Here is my ruling,” he said. “On the first issue, whether Jack Swift is warrior or wizard, I rule against the petitioner. It is the stone that determines what he is, and nothing else.”

  Jack released his breath and looked over at Aunt Linda. She had her eyes closed, chin resting on her clasped hands as if praying. The hope of a reprieve was over.

  Hastings was still standing, and now he spoke quickly, before D’Orsay could continue. “If Jack remains under my sponsorship, I’m willing to sweeten the deal.”

  D’Orsay and the other judges looked up with interest. Longbranch looked wary. Hastings stood calmly, one hand grasping the other forearm. “If Jack wins, I’ll expect the usual award. I will be Holder of the Cup and Master of Council. If Jack loses, I will submit to whatever justice the council deems appropriate for past crimes. After the Game and outside of the rules.”

  There was a shocked silence. Again, Jack tried to rise, but now Hastings’s hand was on his shoulder, full of power, keeping him in his seat.

  “What makes you think you can trust him?” Jessamine Longbranch demanded, her voice going shrill.

  “What’s trust got to do with it?” Hastings asked, smiling. “You can do as you like. I am here, outnumbered, in the Ghyll. You have plenty of witnesses to the agreement. If you would like me to sign something . . .” He shrugged.

  D’Orsay regarded Hastings thoughtfully, his lower lip caught behind his upper teeth. Then he studied Jack, no doubt evaluating his chances against the player for the Red Rose. He turned to the other judges, and there was another brief conference. When he turned back to the petitioners, he was smiling.

  “On this issue of sponsorship, we will leave matters as they are. It appears the Silver Dragon has more invested in this boy than the White Rose, despite their early involvement. And we accept Mr. Hastings’s proposal. We will prepare the appropriate documents for his signature.” He rubbed his hands together, once, twice, like a man at table anticipating a feast. He nodded to the assembly. “You may go.”

  Thus, the judges had managed to issue a ruling that made nobody happy. The crowd cleared quickly, except for Jack’s small group of supporters. Longbranch and Leesha left Will and Fitch sitting alone on the steps, discarded.

  As soon as Hastings released him, Jack turned on him angrily. “Why’d you have to do that? You don’t think there’s enough pressure on me already? Now if I lose, you put your head in a noose.”

  “Most likely not a noose, Jack,” Hastings replied. “I’m sure they’ll think of something more ...creative.” At Jack’s stricken expression, he sobered. “Look, did you want to play for the White Rose tomorrow? I had to give them a reason to rule my way. Claude D’Orsay would never have left you under my control otherwise. He has too many reasons not to. Don’t ever expect fair play from wizards.”

  And suddenly, Linda Downey stood in front of them, chin thrust forward. “Damn you, Leander.” She was pale, her blue eyes bright with heat.

  Hastings looked at her, startled. “What did I do?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “You really don’t care, do you? You’re just as reckless as always. You are bound and determined to end up dead before this is over. Damn you,” she repeated with feeling.

  Hastings glanced at Jack, then back at her. “And I suppose you weren’t taking a chance, coming in here? He shook his head, smiled a little. “Cheer up. Jack will think you have no confidence in him.”

  “I believe in Jack. It’s you I wonder about, Leander.” She turned back to Jack. “We’ll be here for you, Jack,” she said, nodding at the neighbors. “We’ll think of something,” she promised.

  Will and Fitch still sat on the steps, afraid to move, like parishioners in an unforgiving church. “Hey, Will. Hey, Fitch,” Jack said, crossing to where they sat. “I can’t say I’m glad to see you. Are you all right?”

  Will’s eye socket was going purple from when his face had hit the stone floor, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear.

  “Hey, Jack,” Fitch said morosely. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better with answering those questions. But when she . . . It was like I couldn’t help myself.”

  “It was like I was drugged or something,” Will added.

  “You did fine,” Jack said, raising his hands to stop the apologies. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. How’d you get here, anyway?”

  “It was Leesha,” Will said, opening and closing his hands as if throttling her. “She set a trap for us in Carlisle and we walked right in.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” Jack began.

  Fitch twitched impatiently. “Right, let’s all agree straight off we’re all sorry to be here. Now what?”

  Jack was at a loss for what to do with his friends now that they were here. This was not a safe place for Anaweir.

  “Why don’t you come back to the cottage with us until we decide what to do?” Hastings suggested. “I think it’s best if we keep you out of traffic.”

  As it turned out, someone was happy with the verdict. Word had leaked to the crowd outside, and a great cheer erupted when Jack appeared. Once again, there were long lines at the betting parlors. The spectators tossed tiny gold and silver balls that exploded into flowers and miniature fireworks that rained down on their heads. Jack had seen them for sale in several of the booths that lined the Ghyll.

  Despite Hastings’s efforts to keep them at bay, women crowded forward, trying to embrace Jack, thrusting favors into his hands. Will and Fitch were jostled and pushed this way and that by the mob trying to get to Jack. All in all, he was glad to reach the refuge of the cottage and shake the flower petals from his hair.

  “They act like you’re a rock star or something,” Fitch said in amazement.

  “More like a gladiator, I guess.” Jack shrugged, still distracted by the events in the courtroom.

  While Hastings went out in search of lunch, Jack brought his friends up to date on all that had happened. The one piece Will found hard to accept was Ellen Stephenson.

  “It can’t be true,” he said, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t. She’s our friend. Plus, you’re all she ever talked about. Well, you and soccer,” he amended.

  “That was before she knew who I am. Or what I am, rather.” Jack spread a chamois over the table and laid out his weapons, oil, and honing tools. All except Shadowslayer, who never lost her edge.

  “Well, she had a hundred chances to kill you in Trinity,” Will persisted. “Why didn’t she?”

  Jack shook his head. “I have no idea.” Methodically, he tried the edges, used the polishing stone, applied a thin coating of oil.

  “Is she any good?” Will asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “How
should I know? I’ve never even seen her play a video game.” He took a deep breath, released it. “I hear she’s been training for years.”

  “Maybe it’s magic,” Fitch suggested. “Maybe it just looks like Ellen Stephenson. Maybe they figured it would be hard for you to . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Jack rather liked that idea. “I guess anything is possible,” he said slowly.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Hastings is making you do this,” Will said angrily. “Fight in this tournament, I mean.”

  “Well,” said Jack, “We don’t have much choice.” He thought of what Jessamine Longbranch had said about Will and Fitch. At least Hastings had saved them from their intended role as hostages. Small blessings. That was what he had to focus on. “They would’ve caught up to me sooner or later. At least this way, it’s on our terms.”

  Will was not impressed. “Right. Our terms. And either you or Ellen end up dead. Why can’t the four of us just slip out of here?” He gestured at Shadowslayer. “We’ll be like the Four Musketeers. With two swords.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. He was beginning to realize how terribly expendable they were, warriors and Anaweir alike. All Will and Fitch had to do was get between a wizard and something he wanted, and they would be history.

  Hastings returned with two roasted chickens, bread and salad, and bottles of cider and soda.

  “I have been trying to find an escort for you two,” Hastings said after a while, passing Will another quarter chicken. “But Linda and the neighbors won’t leave before the tournament. They’re hoping to prevent it,” he said. “You’ll need help to get through the wizard’s mist, and a guide to get back to Keswick.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without Jack,” Will said stubbornly. “Forget it.”

  “Me neither.” Fitch delicately separated chicken from the bone.

  Hastings sighed. “You’re both in danger here.”

  “And Jack isn’t?” Will said meanly. He licked his fingers and took a swig of soda.

  “I don’t want you at the tournament tomorrow, either of you,” Jack said suddenly. “Promise me you won’t come.”

  “I won’t promise anything,” Will said. He looked up at Hastings. “Only, my parents are probably going out of their minds.”

  “All right,” Hastings said, putting up a hand. “You have to stay anyway until I can devise a safe way to get you out of here. I’ll get some kind of message to your parents. God knows what.”

  Jack and Hastings spent much of the rest of that day surveying the field and talking strategy. He had a strong sense of déjà vu as he walked up and down between the galleries, reliving Brooks’s memories of slaughter. Ellen and her trainer walked the field on the other side. There might as well have been an ocean between them.

  A banquet was held that evening in the hall of the castle for players and sponsors and invited guests. The dais had been removed, and a table set up in a large U shape extending halfway down the length of the hall. The White Rose was well represented, despite the fact that they were not fielding a player. Jessamine Longbranch was, after all, still Master of the Council, at least until after the tournament. Leesha Middleton was resplendent, dressed all in black, like the spider she was, her hair entwined with white roses.

  The Silver Dragon delegation occupied only a small part of one arm of the table. Linda, Iris, Mercedes, and Blaise were there, in addition to Jack and Hastings. Will and Fitch came also, since they were safer in company. There was always the chance that Ellen’s handlers would decide to take hostages of their own. Besides, Hastings suggested they might as well see as much of the spectacle as they could.

  Intimidation seemed to be the order of the evening. Jack was dressed in a new tunic in the Silver Dragon colors, even more elaborate than the one he’d worn earlier in the day. Shadowslayer was belted at his waist. Jack quickly discovered that it was highly inconvenient to sit at a table wearing a sword. Hastings wore black and silver. Although he claimed he had never fielded a player, he seemed at home amidst the pageantry associated with the Game.

  D’Orsay, Longbranch, and other high officials were seated at a table that connected the two arms of the U-shaped table. Red Rose representatives occupied almost the entire other arm of the table. Ellen entered between Geoffrey Wylie and Simon Paige. She wore a ceremonial white battle tunic with sprigs of red roses and a pure gold-mail bishop’s mantle over her shoulders. A short dagger was sheathed at her waist. Much more practical for dining than a sword. Her hair was done up in a thick braid that circled her head. She looked beautiful. And dangerous.

  They seated Ellen as far away from Jack as she could be, and still be at the same table. He supposed that was to prevent any early skirmishes. Not that he planned on starting anything, but he wanted desperately to talk to her. He spun mental messages out to that effect, but she was very careful never to meet his eyes.

  The food was elaborate and beautifully displayed, including thirty-five courses, many of which Jack didn’t recognize, along with potent wines and liqueurs. Even tasting some of them was enough to set his head to spinning. Several times Hastings had to intercept Will or Fitch before they tried something particularly exotic. “That will most likely kill you,” he explained. After that, they became considerably less adventurous.

  After dinner, thousands of bubbles were released into the hall. They burst open, releasing tiny birds, or butterflies, or showers of precious stones. This seemed to be routine entertainment to most of the people in attendance.

  Geoffrey Wylie was invited to propose a toast on behalf of the tournament sponsor, so to speak. He launched into a long and bloodthirsty history of the Red Rose, finishing with a prediction of what he expected to happen to Jack on the field the next day.

  “Thousands of warriors have been sacrificed to hallow this ground. Tomorrow we will continue that tradition. The warrior of the Red Rose will rip out the still-beating heart of the Silver Dragon and water the Ghyll with his blood.”

  Will put his hands over his ears, which some of the wizards seemed to find amusing. Fitch sat, pale and silent, folding and refolding his napkin. Ellen stared straight ahead, chin up, looking capable of most anything. Jack sat impassively. He was learning to just skip over the next day and land softly in the nothingness beyond. When the toast was concluded, there was enthusiastic clapping and cheering from the Red Rose contingent, except for Ellen. Bad form, Jack guessed.

  Afterward, Hastings got up and proposed his own toast, which was considerably briefer. “I would like to propose a toast in memory of all who have given their lives over the centuries to make this bloody tradition possible.” At this, the Silver Dragon representatives raised their goblets, but many of the guests said later that the toast was in poor taste.

  After dinner, Jack tried to get close to Ellen, but her handlers hustled her off quickly. He kept close enough to see them head into the west wing, rather than out the front door. So he knew she was staying in the castle itself.

  Hastings remained after, for a briefing on plans for the Game the next day. Linda and Iris stayed with him. Jack and his friends walked back to their cottage, running the gauntlet of fans once again, some reaching out to touch him, others asking for autographs. When they were back inside, Will flopped miserably on Jack’s bed. “I ate that big dinner, and then I wanted to throw up during the toast,” he said.

  “Ellen looked really different,” Fitch said. “Sort of cold and fierce and unfamiliar.” He studied Jack. “What are you going to do tomorrow? Do you have a plan?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jack said shortly. “Won’t do any good anyway.” He removed his sword and tunic and replaced them with a sweatshirt. The dyrne sefa was still lying on the wardrobe where he’d left it when he’d showered that first day. Was it just a day ago that he had arrived in the Ghyll? He hung the stone around his neck, found Blaise’s mirror in his duffle bag, and tucked it into his waistband. Then he unlatched the window.

  “What are you doing?” Wi
ll demanded.

  “I’m going out for a while. See if you can keep Hastings from finding out I’m gone.” Jack lifted himself to the stone sill, swung his legs over, and dropped to the ground. He leaned back through the window. “Better close up after me. I’ll tap when I’m ready to come in. Don’t sleep so sound you don’t hear me.”

  Will reached through the open window and grabbed a fistful of Jack’s sweatshirt. “You’re going to go out walking through that mob? You’ll probably come home with a knife in your back.”

  “They’ll have to find me first.” Jack spoke the invisibility charm he’d made sure to memorize when Hastings used it. Will let go quickly, swearing, when Jack disappeared.

  He was the champion of the Silver Dragon, the talk of the ghyll, the one whose name was on everyone’s lips and tournament garb. Customers spilled from the tavern tents, danced in the pavilions under the trees, laid down their coin in the betting parlors. Private parties were just getting under way. But no one noticed as he made his way in the shadows between the cottage and the keep.

  The young maid didn’t see him slip inside the castle as she stood, smoking, outside the kitchen door. He moved quickly along the corridors in the service part of the building, working his way to the west wing, always turning left when he had the chance. At first he could smell the cooking from the feast, then that faded, and he passed through laundry and storage areas. He encountered a number of servants, mostly Anaweir. Eventually he found himself in what looked like the family quarters. Now wizards passed him in the corridors. He said nothing, and fortunately they didn’t seem to mark his presence.