The Warrior Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  A cheer went up from the crowd, at least from those wearing the livery of the Red Rose. It had been three years since the last tournament.

  D’Orsay was speaking again. “The tournament is declared by the Red Rose. Are there any challengers?”

  There was a long pause. The crowd was silent, everyone looking around for someone to step forward.

  “From the White Rose?” D’Orsay prompted, looking at Longbranch.

  “The White Rose can put forward no champion at this time,” Dr. Longbranch said reluctantly.

  A murmur of disappointment ran through the crowd. It appeared there would be no tournament after all.

  “What happened to their last champion?” Jack whispered to Hastings.

  “Killed himself,” he whispered back. He rested a hand on Jack’s shoulder a moment, tightening his grip. “Now we’re for it. Remember what we talked about.”

  He moved away from Jack, closer to the judges’ box. “We will challenge the Red Rose,” he announced in a clear voice.

  D’Orsay scanned the crowd, trying to determine who had spoken. “Is it the White Rose after all?” he asked.

  Hastings stepped onto the field, into the sunlight. “I am the player’s sponsor,” he said. “Neither the White Rose nor the Red.” And he ripped back his hood.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, “Hastings!” D’Orsay exclaimed in disbelief, the name spoken as an epithet. The other judges of the field stood to get a better look. “What are you doing here?” the Master demanded angrily.

  A ripple ran through the crowd, seated spectators standing to see better, turning to one another. Some seemed to know the identity of the tall stranger, and were being kept busy explaining.

  Hastings shrugged as if it were obvious. “I’m here to play,” he said, smiling.

  GeoffreyWylie was smiling also, but his grin was nasty. “We’re so glad you’ve come, Leander. This is most convenient. The Red Rose has unfinished business with you.” He turned to his colleagues on the field. “Take him!” Four red-clad wizards advanced on Hastings, hands outstretched, wizard fire leaping from their fingers like Roman candles.

  It happened so fast that Jack stood frozen, unsure whether to try to intervene. Hastings had told him to stay put. But the wizard didn’t seem to need his help. He threw out his right arm, and the air between him and the Red Rose shimmered, solidified, a barrier that turned the wizard attack for the moment, sending the flames careening out over the cowering crowd. With his left hand, he pulled a small book from under his cloak.

  “What about the rules, Claude?” Hastings thrust the book into the air. “As a wizard and potential sponsor, I am protected. Call them off.”

  “This man has incited the servant guilds,” Wylie argued. “He’s a traitor who has spilled wizard blood in defiance of the rules. He doesn’t deserve their protection.”

  “Prove it.” Hastings swiveled, still holding the rules aloft so everyone in the crowd could see. “Of course, I’ve always believed that blood is blood: wizard or warrior, enchanter or sorcerer or seer.”

  “That’s not what the rules say,” Wylie snapped. “Why don’t you read them for a change?”

  “Give over!” D’Orsay said reluctantly, shaking his head at Wylie. “Desist, or you’ll be disqualified.”

  Wylie gestured, and the wizard posse stopped. “I should have cut your throat when I had the chance.” He turned to D’Orsay. “This is preposterous. He cannot be a sponsor. This can’t be allowed! The tournament holds between the Roses.”

  “Where is it written?” Hastings asked coolly. He extended the rules towardWylie. “Show me.”

  But Wylie persisted. He had just seen an obvious forfeit turn into a possible contest. “This game is based on centuries of tradition! No one else has ever been allowed to play.”

  “Has anyone else ever tried to field a candidate?” Hastings looked from one to the other. Wylie and D’Orsay were speechless for a moment.

  “What house do you represent?” D’Orsay asked warily.

  “The Silver Dragon.” Hastings shed his plain cloak completely and folded it over his arm, revealing the blue cloak with the dragon device beneath. A rumble went through the crowd again. The Silver Dragon? Whoever had heard of the Silver Dragon?

  Jack glanced into the gallery, at Jessamine Longbranch. She was watching the proceedings, frowning, tapping her chin with her bloodred nails. Apparently she hadn’t yet made up her mind what this turn of events meant to the White Rose.

  “You must field a warrior, Hastings,” D’Orsay said, then condescendingly, confident this condition could not be met, “or you can’t play.”

  “I have a player who qualifies,” Hastings replied. He was still alert, like an arrow drawn back and ready to fly, keeping his back to the open field, his face to the Red and White Roses in the gallery.

  The crowd reacted to this with loud approval. Suddenly, it looked as if the tournament might actually go forward.

  Wylie turned to D’Orsay for help. “We need a ruling,” he said plaintively. “This is ridiculous.”

  D’Orsay sighed. “There’s nothing in the rules to exclude the Silver Dragon. I don’t know why he can’t present his player. Perhaps he doesn’t even qualify.” He nodded to Hastings. “Proceed.” Wylie stood fuming at the edge of the field.

  Hastings opened Jack’s book, found his place. “Jackson Thomas Swift, son of Rebecca Downey and Thomas Swift—”

  Now Jessamine Longbranch surged to her feet. “That is impossible!” she shouted. “Jack Swift is dead!” She leaned forward out of the box, and almost out of her dress, to the delight of the crowd in the stands.

  Hastings frowned at her. “Dr. Longbranch, isn’t it? Despite all your best efforts . . . and yours, too,” he said, nodding at Wylie, “Jack Swift is very much alive.”

  Longbranch scanned the gallery, fists clenched, spinning off white-hot sparks into the crowd around her. Jack shrank further back into his cloak, acutely conscious of his missing vest.

  “May I continue?” Hastings asked D’Orsay mildly. The Master nodded, speechless. Hastings continued to read through generations of Downeys, Hales, and other names less familiar. The genealogy was liberally sprinkled with Heirs, warriors and wizards mostly. It was twenty minutes before they found themselves back in the twelfth century, and came to a stopping place.

  The judges conversed for a longer time, this time, and there was some loud arguing and dramatic gesturing involved. Finally, D’Orsay nodded and turned back to the field. He didn’t look happy. “The genealogy is in order. There is nothing in the Rules of Engagement that precludes his participation. The warrior appears to qualify, pending documentation of the same, and assuming he passes the physical test.”

  The crowd exploded in cheers. They had come for a spectacle, and now they would have one. Longbranch and Wylie mounted a vigorous protest. Wylie wanted to set aside the genealogy altogether, while Longbranch was willing to accept the genealogy, but was protesting Hastings’s sponsorship. D’Orsay was becoming more and more annoyed, although Jack suspected it was rooted in his inability to find a reason to disqualify Hastings or his player. Any excuse would have to be convincing, given the mood of the crowd. Finally, he held up a hand.

  “Dr. Longbranch, you can file a grievance after the fact, if you would like. Mr. Wylie, we have already ruled on the genealogy. Please be quiet or there will be a forfeit.”

  That possibility appealed to Jack, but Wylie shut up immediately.

  D’Orsay sighed. There was one more chance to keep Hastings out of the tournament. “The physical test. Produce your warrior.”

  Jack looked quickly at Hastings, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Jack strode out onto the field, shedding his cloak as he came. The crowd leaped up to get a first look at the challenger. Jack could feel the wizard heat behind him. It was almost enough to blow him off his feet.

  One of the field judges climbed down out of the box, carrying a stethoscope similar to the one Dr. Longb
ranch used. He lifted Jack’s tunic and pressed the silver cone against the skin of his chest. After a moment, he removed it and stepped away, surveying Jack with interest. He turned to D’Orsay and announced, “There is a warrior stone. He qualifies.”

  There was pandemonium. It was several minutes before order could be restored.

  Jessamine Longbranch stood again. Jack looked up into those black eyes, remembered the last “examination” in her office, and shuddered. “I own this boy, Claude. He was stolen from me by trickery. Now that he’s turned up alive, you must return my property to me.”

  D’Orsay shook his head. “Jess, we can’t decide that right now. As I said, file your grievance, and we’ll see. Mr. Wylie, your candidate?”

  Wylie looked across the field. The warrior of the Red Rose was already approaching them. Jack squinted, shading his eyes. He appeared young, not more than Jack’s age and perhaps not as tall. He wore a white tunic with red trim and a red rose emblazoned on the front, knee-length leather boots, and a close-fitting hood covering his hair and most of his face. Jack was transfixed. There was something familiar about the stranger, in the graceful way he moved and carried himself. The warrior faced the judges, and the stethoscope was applied. The judge wielding it stepped back, startled, for a moment. Then he turned to D’Orsay. “There is a warrior stone. She qualifies,” he said.

  The warrior turned to Jack and pulled off the hood. Brown shoulder-length hair tumbled down. The face was unmistakable. It was Ellen Stephenson.

  “Hullo, Jack,” she said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Summons to Court

  Jack lay on his back in his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was still early evening, but the drapes had been drawn to keep people from peering in the windows. He could hear the noise of the crowd outside, waxing and waning. More and more spectators were arriving all the time as news spread that the tournament would actually go forward. It seemed certain that the Ghyll would be full to capacity before long, if it weren’t already. It was a feast, a festival, a celebration of the ancient sacrament of violence and death.

  Every so often there would be a pounding at the door. Groups of newcomers were anxious to meet the Silver Dragon’s player. Hastings quickly sent them on their way. He had already spent considerable time laying traps and putting up barriers along the perimeter of the cottage, not trusting that his many enemies would play by the rules. Now it had the embattled feeling of a fortress.

  The sounds of music and gaeity came faintly to Jack’s ears. Tavern tents had sprung up everywhere, selling high-potency wizard’s brews of various kinds. There seemed to be a great deal of serious drinking going on.

  Ellen Stephenson. Waves of self-doubt rolled over him. Stupid. He was stupid. He was so tired of being stupid. How could he have missed it?

  Little clues came back to him. The fact that he never seemed to have to explain anything to Ellen. Her mysterious past and home life. He’d never met her parents, nor had anyone else that he could recall. How had she managed that in the small town of Trinity? Another stupid question. With a little wizardry, anything was possible.

  She was always going to lessons. Piano lessons, he’d been told. Or she had relatives visiting. He’d admired her sleek, muscular body, her athletic moves. From working in the garden, she’d said. No wonder she hadn’t been afraid of Garrett Lobeck or his friends. She could have turned them into hamburger.

  Jack glanced over at Shadowslayer propped against the wall. He’d heard of people in tight places killing themselves by falling on their swords. The idea was appealing, but he didn’t think he could manage it.

  Hastings appeared in the doorway. “Come and have some supper,” he said.

  “No, thanks,” Jack said listlessly.

  The wizard stared at him for a moment, then snapped, “Get up and get in here.” He stalked back into the main room.

  Jack lay there for a moment, then sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Hastings had put out a supper of cold roast beef, cheese, hard rolls, horseradish sauce, potato salad, fruit, and cake. Jack was actually hungry, despite his black mood. He hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since they’d hiked up the mountain. That seemed like a long time ago. Jack sat down at the table and filled his plate. Hastings set a glass of cider in front of him.

  Hastings sat across the table from Jack, picking at his food, the look on his face unreadable. He was drinking a tall glass of dark English beer, quite rapidly. The two said little until Jack was finishing his second piece of cake. Then Hastings set his empty glass on the table, leaned back a bit, and said, “You knew going into this that it would come to a fight, and that one of you would end up dead.”

  Jack put his fork down. “I didn’t know it would be her.” He paused. “Did you?”

  Hastings shook his head. “No. Something about her caught my attention at the high school, but I never pursued it. She must be very disciplined.”

  “I can’t kill Ellen Stephenson,” Jack muttered.

  “You don’t even know Ellen Stephenson.” Hastings tilted his head back and surveyed Jack from under his heavy brows. “The girl you thought you knew does not exist. She is not the person you’ll be fighting. From what I understand, she’s been in training for years. She’s a killer, Jack. She’ll cut your heart out.”

  “Well, maybe you wouldn’t understand. I’m just not into killing women,” Jack snapped. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. But by then he was flat on the floor and the wizard was towering over him. After a moment, Hastings extended his hand and helped him to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Hastings said stiffly. “Like you, it appears I have a control problem.” The two sat down again. After a pause, he said, “I once asked you what you would do if someone tried to kill you.”

  “I said I would kill them first,” Jack said, remembering.

  “She’ll kill you if she can,” the wizard said. “I didn’t bring you here to have you slaughtered.”

  What he didn’t say was that maybe Jack wouldn’t have a chance against her, even if he made his best effort. Not the thing to say to your player before a bout.

  There came another pounding at the door. Hastings answered. Jack could hear voices, but it didn’t sound like the fan club this time. When the wizard returned, he dropped an envelope on the table. “It seems there have been some grievances filed concerning your participation in the tournament,” he said. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the paper quickly, then tossed it onto the table. “There’s a suit by one Linda Downey claiming that you are not a warrior born at all, but a wizard. That a warrior’s stone was fraudulently implanted in you by one Jessamine Longbranch. Creative,” he said. “I wonder if they’ll buy it. The other is a suit by Jessamine Longbranch claiming that you are her property fraudulently stolen from her by one Leander Hastings. The remedy suggested is that you play in the tournament as the champion of the White Rose.”

  “I’ll never do that,” Jack said with conviction. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ll never do that.”

  “Well.” Hastings drummed his fingers on the table. “You may find that she can be very persuasive. And considering who is making the ruling, it might not go our way.”

  And Jack couldn’t help but wonder what outcome Hastings hoped for. If Aunt Linda won her suit, he would be out a warrior.

  Fitch peered up at the frowning façade of the Carlisle Citadel Railway station, blinking against the falling raindrops, then he returned to at his guidebook.

  The station dates to 1847. It was designed by Sir William Tite, who also designed The Bank of England and the Royal Exchange in London. Tite used a Tudor Gothic style to harmonise with the crenellated towers of the nearby Citadel. Carlisle Castle was once the prison of Mary, Queen of Scots. It was captured by Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745.

  If the railway stations look like castles, what must the castles be like?

  “Fitch! Will you come o
n? We only have an hour. If we don’t find something for lunch, we’re going to starve all the way to Edinburgh!” From the expression on Will’s face, this would be a completely preventable tragedy.

  “There’ll probably be a food car on the Edinburgh train,” Fitch suggested.

  “Cadbury Dairy won’t do it. And I don’t want to miss the train.”

  “Chill, Will. In a minute.” Fitch pulled out a digital camera and snapped several photographs, including one of Will looking annoyed. The camera was borrowed from the media center at school. Officially, Fitch was covering the tour for the school Web site. He zipped it back into the pocket of his rain jacket. “I wish we had time to tour the castle.”

  “Right.” Will squinted out at the dismal scene. “Aren’t you castled out?”

  Fitch scanned the map in his guidebook and made a quick calculation. “Look, the Citadel and cathedral are just over there. I can be up and back in an hour. Buy me something for lunch, a meat pie, maybe. I’ll pay you back.”

  “My parents will be pissed if you miss the train,” Will warned.

  “I won’t.” Fitch hunched his shoulders against the weather and Will’s disapproval, and crossed the court between the train station and the Citadel, skirting the sodden flower gardens. He had time for a quick look around, at least.

  After circling and photographing the Citadel towers, Fitch turned on to English Street, heading for the cathedral, whose spires poked above the surrounding buildings. He jostled through crowds of tourists driven from the lakes into town by the weather. Ahead of him, a girl in a bright red slicker stepped from a doorway, catching a fistful of her dark curls to keep them from flying in the wind. As she turned, Fitch caught a full view of her face.

  It was Leesha Middleton, recent high-school student. And wizard.

  He ducked his head and thrust himself backward into an entryway, colliding with a woman overburdened with packages.