“Which means she will be at the mercy of any wizard from either house who tracks her down. Your father, Will, and Fitch: no one will be safe. How many of them are you willing to sacrifice?” Hastings joined Jack at the window. His voice grew softer. “Trust me, I know. Even if you sleep with one eye open, I give you six months to a year. And even if you survive, you’ll end up alone. You see, there are no rules out there.”
Jack rested his face against the cool stone surrounding the window. He thought of Trinity, of its quiet tree-lined avenues, the stone buildings of the university, the gaudy gingerbread of Jefferson Street. And then he imagined a barren ruin in its place. “Why do they do it? These tournaments, I mean?”
Hastings spoke patiently, as if delivering a history lesson. “These are ruthless, powerful people with time on their hands and the means to destroy each other. This system meets a lot of needs. It allows the settling of disputes with minimal bloodshed. Wizards claim to be heir to the legacy of the Dragon of Dungeon Ghyll. By contract, we own you. By that point of view, warriors are considered property. And are therefore . . . expendable.”
Jack thought of Jessamine Longbranch and how she had treated him. Like he was some animal that could be used and then put out to stud. Jack’s hand stole to where the star-shaped scar lay under his shirt. “They should have let me die, back then,” he whispered. “I’d be better off.”
“Well, they didn’t. And now we have to deal with what is.” He touched Jack’s arm, and Jack flinched.
“What do you know about it? You’re a . . . a . . .”
“I know all about it.” Hastings voice was so soft, Jack might have missed it.
I could kill myself, Jack thought. He looked over the stone sill of the window, judged the drop to the courtyard below. It would probably be enough. Of course, he could end up paralyzed. Then they couldn’t make him fight. He sighed and pressed his palms into his eyelids. Even his hands were callused from swordplay. He was sixteen years old. He didn’t want to be dead or crippled. He wanted to graduate from high school and go to college and fall in love. None of which seemed very likely now.
“What happens if I fight?” Jack realized he had crossed a line.
“All warriors in the Game are associated with a sponsor. There is some protection in that, for you and your family, once you are declared. If you win: fame, fortune. And, based on the current shortage of warriors, probably a considerable respite before you have to fight again.”
Hastings cleared his throat. “Until I heard that the Red Rose was fielding a champion, I had hoped no one would be able to meet your challenge. If the challenge isn’t answered, the Game is forfeited. As good as a win, and not so bloody.” Hastings almost smiled. “You don’t have much experience, but your weapon may make the difference.”
“Will I be able to go home again? Afterward?” If I win, he thought. After I kill somebody. Jack knew he could have killed Garrett Lobeck. But he wouldn’t be facing Garrett Lobeck. Jack thrust the thought from his mind.
Hastings thought a moment. “I don’t know, Jack. That’s probably a question for you to answer. You are already quite different from the boy who went to Coal Grove.” He ran his hand through his hair and leaned against the wall. “It is not fair, and these are not attractive choices. Look at it this way: even if you lose the tournament, your family and friends will be safe.” He paused, a heartbeat. “But I don’t intend for you to lose.”
“What happens at the tournament?”
“It’s a celebration over several days: ceremony, wagering, and posturing on both sides. Then the champions fight each other in one-to-one combat. Everything is regulated by the Rules of Engagement.”
“Where is it held?”
“Here in Cumbria, traditionally; though it’s a movable feast. The last one was held in Australia.”
“What do you get out of it?”
“Perhaps a chance to change the system. Perhaps a chance to save your life. No guarantees, either way.”
Did he really have a choice? Jack had no doubt Hastings could force him to participate, whether he wanted to or not. He was just like any other wizard when it came to pushing people around. Hastings acted like he had some kind of personal rule book he played by. If so, it was indecipherable to Jack.
It was all pretty hopeless. The best he could do was to try to limit the risk to his family. Perhaps this would be easier than throwing himself out a window.
The soft breath of the mountains cooled his flushed skin, whispered a warning. “I’ll play,” he said, without turning away from the window.
Hastings released a long breath. Jack wondered if it was a sigh of relief.
“I thought you would.” Hastings said.
“What about Aunt Linda?” She would be furious with him, but there was nothing he could do about that. My choice. My life and my death.
“I’m hoping the tournament will be over before she knows you’re playing.” Hastings shook his head. “She is going to be very angry with me. Perhaps angry is not so bad as indifferent.” He gazed out of the window.
Jack couldn’t stop himself. “But how could you . . . weren’t you . . ?” His voice trailed away under Hastings’s clear-eyed scrutiny.
“Yes. We were together once.” He half smiled. “You know, Jack, all of the women in your family are full of magic, whether they inherit the stone or not. They are among the casualties of this war.” With some effort, Hastings shook off his melancholy. “I will make arrangements for us to attend the tournament, then.” He turned to go.
But Jack still had a question. “So if the Red Rose already has a champion, I assume that I will be fighting for the White Rose?”
The wizard stopped and turned back, looking surprised and almost amused.
“No, Jack. I thought you understood. You will be playing for me.”
Chapter Fourteen
When Lovers Meet
Jack went back into training the day following his conversation with Hastings. The routine of it was almost soothing. The idea of a deadline was also appealing compared to the cat-and-mouse game that had been going on for months. Every morning he ran for miles through the mists, up and down the treacherous hills surrounding the stone house. Hastings ran with him.
They would return to the house and have breakfast with Becka. The stone house was almost a castle, with sheer, fortresslike walls that dropped to a grassy plain surrounded by hills. Informal gardens stretched from the back door to the wooded area at the foot of the fells. The first floor of the house included a great hall, a library, and kitchen and dining areas. There were at least six bedrooms upstairs. Jack never saw any staff around, although there always seemed to be food and drink available whenever they were hungry. Perhaps it was all done through sorcery.
After breakfast, they worked with their foils in the meadow behind the house. Now the focus was no longer on defense but on offense, on penetrating his opponent’s defenses, the delivery of a killing stroke. And every afternoon Hastings sent warriors against Jack. Some were new to him, while others were familiar from his previous bouts.
Now there was no need to put up a barrier when he fought, to keep away prying eyes. No one came anywhere near, except for the occasional sheep that wandered down the hillsides. Somehow, Hastings kept Becka away from the bouts, though whether through personal charm or wizardry, Jack didn’t know.
Jack realized Hastings was concerned about his lack of experience. Despite relentless coaching and the quality of his weapon, it was hard to get around the fact that Jack had been in training for only a few months. The same could be true of his opponent, but he couldn’t count on that.
Jack wished he knew more about the warriors he fought against in practice; about their previous lives, how they’d come to be warriors, how many tournaments they’d fought in, how they’d died. Well, maybe not that last part.
On his third afternoon of training, a young man exploded into the meadow, Jack’s fifth opponent of the afternoon. The man’s brown hair was dr
awn into a queue decorated with feathers, and he wore fringed buckskins. He carried a hatchet in one hand, a curved sword in the other, and a knife was belted at his waist. He appeared to be a New World frontiersman of the seventeenth or eighteenth century. He charged at Jack with a bloodcurdling howl.
Jack put up his hand. “Wait a minute!”
For a moment, Jack didn’t think the man had heard him. He kept coming, full speed, like he meant to take Jack’s head off without breaking stride. But finally, at the last minute, the man slowed and skidded to a stop just outside the reach of Jack’s sword.
“What d’you mean, wait a minute?” The man scowled indignantly. “You called me to a bout, and I came as ordered. Now, go to.” He spread his arms wide, a weapon in each hand, ready to receive Jack’s charge.
“Well,” Jack said uncertainly. “I thought perhaps we could talk a little first.”
“Talk a little?” The warrior snorted, then spat on the ground. “What the devil for? We’re fighting, not making love.”
“I was just wondering where you were from, how you became a warrior, things like that.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see Hastings standing by, hands on hips, shaking his head. Probably rolling his eyes, too, but he was too far away to see.
“Why do you care about that?” the warrior demanded.
“I thought we probably have something in common,” Jack persisted. “Being as we’re both warriors, you know.”
The warrior looked him up and down, at Jack’s sweatshirt and athletic shoes. “You don’t look like any warrior I’ve ever seen. If you must know, I started out fighting against the French when I was fourteen. When I tired of that, I went and lived with the Shawnee. Then I was captured by wizards. They chained me up and put me on board a ship back to the Old Country. Put me into the hands of the Warriormasters. I would’ve cut my own mother’s throat by the time they finished wi’ me.
“I probably fought eight or ten bouts over here before I bought it. And I think what we have in common is that a bloody wizard has us by the privates.” He jerked a thumb at Hastings. “Now, go to, before he does something neither one of us will like.”
Reluctantly, Jack brought the tip of his blade up and assumed a ready stance.
“Wait a minute!” This time it was Hastings. The wizard was striding purposefully across the field.
“Now you’ve done it,” the other warrior muttered to Jack, swearing softly. He swung around to face Hastings. “It’s not my fault!” he shouted, when Hastings was still twenty feet away. “I wanted to fight ’im, but he’d ruther talk. But give me a chance, and I promise I’ll give him a game.” He wiped the sweat from his face with his grimy sleeve and shifted his feet nervously.
“What’s your name?” Hastings asked the warrior.
“Brooks, m’lord,” the warrior replied, licking his lips. “Jeremiah’s my Christian name, m’lord.”
“Did I hear you say you’d fought in a number of tournaments?” As Hastings drew close, the warrior backed away.
“I did say that, sir.” Jeremiah Brooks spoke reluctantly, as if unsure whether to admit it or not. Hastings nodded. “Good. I need you to help my student, here.” “That’s just what I was about, m’lord,” the warrior said, turning back to Jack and crouching as if to spring. “No!” Hastings said quickly. “I had something else in mind. Something a bit more . . . direct.” Brooks began to backpedal. “Please, m’lord. I came to fight a bout, and I’m willing. Don’t spell me.”
“I won’t hurt you,” Hastings assured him.
Not reassured, Brooks turned to run, but Hastings extended his hands and the air shimmered around the frontiersman. He was bound tightly, his hands at his sides, his weapons useless. He tried to squirm free, unsuccessfully. His eyes were fixed on Hastings, wide with fear.
Now it was Jack’s turn. “Don’t hurt him,” he protested.
“Don’t you start,” Hastings snapped. “I’m not going to hurt him. I’m just going to borrow what he knows on your behalf. Come here, Jack.”
“What are you going to do?” Jack asked warily.
“If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to trust me now and then,” Hastings growled. “I said come here.”
Angrily, Jack slammed Shadowslayer into his scabbard and crossed the distance between them, and stood next to Brooks. Hastings shoved them both to their knees and squatted, facing them. He placed his hands on their heads. Brooks was muttering softly to himself, swearing or praying. Swearing, Jack guessed, based on what he’d heard so far.
“I’m going to try to edit this, Jack, but it’s an art and not a science, so bear with me,” Hastings said, which made no sense at all. The wizard closed his eyes, concentrating, speaking a charm, and then the power begin to flow through his fingers. Jack felt as if his scalp were being stretched away from his skull, heat and light pouring into his mind, an invasion. He wanted to twist away from the wizard’s hand, but found he couldn’t move.
His breath came quick and shallow, in ineffective gasps. He thought he cried out, and then images began to slide across his consciousness, slowly at first, and then faster, like bright frames in a jumbled videotape. There were landscapes: dense green forests, never touched by an axe, the ground open under a canopy of trees, an Indian trail that twisted and turned, following a creek with a Shawnee name that sang over the rocks as it descended to the Ohio. A broad valley, shrouded in mist, surrounded by mountains, filled with bones, where warriors were brought to fight.
There were people: red-coated British regulars, scruffy colonials who could slide through the forest as well as any Shawnee, a girl in a tavern with hair the color of buttercups and a blouse that slid softly from her shoulders. Wizards, hard-faced and ruthless, with their black arts, with their metal collars and chains, who tortured him until he begged for the chance to kill somebody, who put fear into him for the first time in his life. The warriors who came to him, tall and short, some of them very young, but none of them very old. He read their faces, could see hope and then death in their eyes.
And sensations: the scent of rain racing across the lakes. The ring and spark of steel on steel. The stench of too many unwashed men, too long together. The quick and deadly dance of the Game. The yielding of flesh and bone to his blade, and the wet sucking sound as he freed it. And in the end, that soft slipping away of life as he lay flat on his back staring up at the sky, the blood pumping from his body, knowing that someone else would fight the next time.
When Hastings released him, Jack fell forward onto his face and lay there, trembling, for a long time. He didn’t want to look at the other two, because he didn’t want them to see him crying. He could hear Hastings speaking softly, to Brooks, he assumed. When he finally lifted his head, the warrior was gone.
From then on, Jack knew all about Brooks—too much. For all intents and purposes, he was the heir of the warrior’s experiences, but whether that boded well or ill for him, he didn’t know. He had a body memory of bloodshed, in the New World and the Old. He could tell which way a man would go in a fight by a shift in his weight, or the look in his eyes. He could throw a hatchet and hit a tree a hundred paces off. He didn’t have to try it, he just knew he could. He feared wizards and their burning hands the way some men feared snakes and flying things: with an irrational and paralyzing terror.
There were other things. He knew the taste of pemmican, and venison, and squirrel. It wasn’t until Becka commented on it that he realized he’d acquired a colorful new vocabulary. After that, he tried his best to keep his tongue in check.
Be careful what you wish for. Once again, he was angry with Hastings, who had given him a history he’d never asked for. At the same time he knew it for the gift it was.
He won the next ten bouts he fought.
The days went by, more than the few Becka had promised, and still she stayed. She was an almost ethereal presence, drifting through the corridors and gardens, reading in the courtyard, writing poetry. Because Jack and Hastings sp
ent a lot of time in practice, she spent considerable time alone. But she never complained.
The three of them always had dinner together. In the evenings after supper, Becka and Hastings would go for long walks in the hills. It was during those times that Jack took advantage of the library. It was a wonderful collection of books, some rare and valuable: English literature, studies of the great philosophers, scientific works, volumes about Eastern mysticism. The contents of a glass case in one corner held a particular fascination for Jack. It was a collection of books on wizardry. Although it was protected by a locking charm, it was one that Jack could easily disable. So he spent hours reading through ancient texts, some in Latin, some in Middle English, some in French (which he had taken in school, but there wasn’t much overlap in vocabulary). He wished Nick were there to translate. He could use some advice anyway.
Jack had been careful not to reveal anything about his training in wizardry to Hastings. He figured that keeping it a secret might be an advantage in a game where he had few advantages to claim.
After fighting most of the day, Jack was always exhausted by early evening, and fell into bed early. Not even his reluctance to leave his mother alone with Leander Hastings could keep him awake.
Jack was ambivalent over Becka’s continuing presence. He was well aware that his mother would never approve of his decision to fight in the tournament, but he welcomed the chance to spend what might be his last days with her before Midsummer’s Day.
Sometimes he gazed into Blaise’s mirror, hoping it would reveal something. But a mist lay over the silver surface like the fog that shrouded the mountains at sunset.
Then came an evening ten days into his stay in Cumbria and four days prior to Midsummer’s Day. Becka and Hastings had gone out walking as usual. Jack was deep in a book on convertere, that is, the art of transforming one thing into another. He heard a sound as of a door closing elsewhere in the house. He thought perhaps that his mother and Hastings had returned early. Quickly he returned the book to its shelf, closed the cabinet, and reapplied the locking charm.
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