The Sorcerer Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Me: Wait till you read it. It’s got everything—rock ’n’ roll and zombies and there’s this PIRATE!

  Him: {silence}

  Me: Um. So. Do you think it needs more cowbell?

  Thanks to Chris Lotts and his team for their foreign rights expertise. He has opened the door to incomprehensible French and German tax forms and fan mail in Turkish and Portuguese.

  Thank you to the legions of writers out there who share the joy and pain of this business. For better or worse, you make me feel in context.

  The entire editorial team at Hyperion has been stellar. I am so fortunate to have had a home here for so long. It all began when editor Arianne Lewin chose The Warrior Heir to be her first acquisition. She stayed with me through five-and-a-half books in all, almost unheard of amid the comings and goings of publishing.

  The wise Abby “Steamy Bits” Ranger took over when Ari left Hyperion for new opportunities. Abby has always been able to wring the very best writing out of me, and I have the bruises to prove it. She helped me find a road through a thicket of reader feedback when I returned to the Heir series with The Enchanter Heir.

  Editor Lisa Yoskowitz ignored the rumors that I drive editors away, and stepped bravely forward when Abby moved on to new challenges. She wrestled The Enchanter Heir into shape, putting up some guardrails to keep readers from plunging over the cliff at the end. Now she’s helped make The Sorcerer Heir the very best book it can be. Any errors, omissions, and em dashes are my own.

  And who presides over all that talent? Editorial Director Stephanie Lurie, a giant talent who still makes me feel tall.

  Elizabeth Clark designed the original Heir Trilogy cover brand, which has been called iconic. I call it GORGEOUS. These days, my covers just seem to get better and better, thanks to the talented Tyler Nevins and the genius of illustrator Larry Rostant. I can only hope that my books keep the promises the covers make.

  The publicity and marketing teams at Hyperion have helped keep this series alive in the reader hive over the years. One of my earliest publishing memories is Angus Killick doing the happy dance when The Warrior Heir made the Lone Star list. I’m all, What’s the Lone Star list? And he’s all, This is huge.

  Over the years, we’ve evolved from White Box mailings and postcards to digital advertising and social media outreach, most recently with Andrew Sansone, Holly Nagel, Seale Ballenger, the incredible, irrepressible Dina Sherman, and Mary Ann Zissimos. Thank you for building the platforms that allow me to interact with readers.

  Speaking of readers, thanks to the librarians, booksellers, and teachers who’ve put my books into the hands of readers. And thanks to the readers of all ages who’ve taken my characters into their hearts.

  I often say that readers and writers are partners in story. I have learned so much from all of you, and I appreciate your partnering with me. Thank you all.

  And don't miss The Seven Realms Series, also from Cinda Williams Chima! Keep reading for a preview of book one, The Demon King!

  C H A P T E R O N E

  THE HUNT

  Han Alister squatted next to the steaming mud spring, praying that the thermal crust would hold his weight. He’d tied a bandana over his mouth and nose, but his eyes still stung and teared from the sulfur fumes that boiled upward from the bubbling ooze. He extended his digging stick toward a patch of plants with bilious green flowers at the edge of the spring. Sliding the tip under the clump, he pried it from the mud and lifted it free, dropping it into the deerskin bag that hung from his shoulder. Then, placing his feet carefully, he stood and retreated to solid ground.

  He was nearly there when one foot broke through the fragile surface, sending him calf-deep into the gray, sticky, superheated mud.

  “Hanalea’s bloody bones!” he yelped, flinging himself backward and hoping he didn’t land flat on his back in another mudpot. Or worse, in one of the blue water springs that would boil the flesh from his bones in minutes.

  Fortunately, he landed on solid earth amid the lodgepole pines, the breath exploding from his body. Han heard Fire Dancer scrambling down the slope behind him, stifling laughter. Dancer gripped Han’s wrists and hauled him to safer ground, leaning back for leverage.

  “We’ll change your name, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, squatting next to Han. Dancer’s tawny face was solemn, the startling blue eyes widely innocent, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “How about ‘Wades in the Mudpot’? ‘Mudpot’ for short?”

  Han was not amused. Swearing, he grabbed up a handful of leaves to wipe his boot with. He should have worn his beat-up old moccasins. His knee-high footwear had saved him a bad burn, but the right boot was caked with stinking mud, and he knew he’d hear about it when he got home.

  “Those boots were clan made,” his mother would say. “Do you know what they cost?”

  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t paid for them in the first place. Dancer’s mother, Willo, had traded them to Han for the rare deathmaster mushroom he’d found the previous spring. Mam hadn’t been happy when he’d brought them home.

  “Boots?” Mam had stared at him in disbelief. “Fancy boots? How long will it take you to grow out of those? You couldn’t have asked for money? Grain to fill our bellies? Or firewood or warm blankets for our beds?” She’d advanced on him with the switch she always seemed to have close to hand. Han backed away from her, knowing from experience that a lifetime of hard work had given his mother a powerful arm.

  She’d raised welts on his back and shoulders. But he kept the boots.

  They were worth far more than what he’d given in trade, and he knew it. Willo had always been generous to Han and Mam and Mari, his sister, because there was no man in the house. Unless you counted Han, and most people didn’t. Even though he was already sixteen and nearly grown.

  Dancer brought water from Firehole Spring and sloshed it over Han’s slimed boot. “Why is it that only nasty plants growing in nasty places are valuable?” Dancer said.

  “If they’d grow in a garden, who’d pay good money for them?” Han growled, wiping his hands on his leggings. The silver cuffs around his wrists were caked with mud as well, deeply embedded in the delicate engraving. He’d better take a brush to them before he got home, or he’d hear about that too.

  It was a fitting end to a frustrating day. They’d been out since dawn, and all he had to show for it were three sulfur lilies, a large bag of cinnamon bark, some razorleaf, and a handful of common snagwort that he could pass off as maidenweed at the Flatlander Market. His mother’s empty purse had sent him foraging in the mountains too early in the season.

  “This is a waste of time,” Han said, though it had been his idea in the first place. He snatched up a rock and flung it into the mudpot, where it disappeared with a viscous plop. “Let’s do something else.”

  Dancer cocked his head, his beaded braids swinging. “What would you…?”

  “Let’s go hunting,” Han said, touching the bow slung across his back.

  Dancer frowned, thinking. “We could try Burnt Tree Meadow. The fellsdeer are moving up from the flatlands. Bird saw them there day before yesterday.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Han didn’t have to think long about it. It was the hunger moon. The crocks of beans and cabbage and dried fish his mother had laid up for the long winter had evaporated. Even if he’d fancied sitting down to another meal of beans and cabbage, lately there’d been nothing but porridge and more porridge, with the odd bit of salt meat for flavor. Meat for the table would more than make up for today’s meager gleanings.

  They set off east, leaving the smoking springs behind. Dancer set a relentless, ground-eating pace down the valley of the Dyrnnewater. Han’s bad mood began to wear away with the friction of physical exertion.

  It was hard to stay angry on such a day. Signs of spring bloomed all around them. Skunk cabbages and maiden’s kiss and May apples covered the ground, and Han breathed in the scent of warm earth freed from its winter covering. T
he Dyrnnewater frothed over stones and roared over waterfalls, fed by melting snow on the upper slopes. The day warmed as they descended, and soon Han removed his deerskin jacket and pushed his sleeves past his elbows.

  Burnt Tree Meadow was the site of a recent fire. In a few short years it would be reclaimed by forest, but for now it was a sea of tall grasses and wildflowers, studded with the standing trunks of charred lodgepole pines. Other trunks lay scattered like a giant’s game of pitchsticks. Knee-high pine trees furred the ground, and blackberry and bramble basked in sunlight where there had once been deep pine-forest shade.

  A dozen fellsdeer stood, heads down, grazing on the tender spring grasses. Their large ears flicked away insects, and their red hides shone like spots of paint against the browns and greens of the meadow.

  Han’s pulse accelerated. Dancer was the better archer, more patient in choosing his shots, but Han saw no reason why they shouldn’t each take a deer. His always-empty stomach growled at the thought of fresh meat.

  Han and Dancer circled the meadow to the downwind side, downslope from the herd. Crouching behind a large rock, Han slid his bow free and tightened the slack bowstring, trying it with his callused thumb. The bow was new, made to match his recent growth. It was clan made, like everything in his life that married beauty and function.

  Han eased to his feet and drew the bowstring back to his ear. Then he paused, sniffing the air. The breeze carried the distinct scent of wood smoke. His gaze traveled up the mountain and found a thin line of smoke cutting across the slope. He looked at Dancer and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. Dancer shrugged. The ground was soaked and the spring foliage green and lush. Nothing should burn in this season.

  The deer in the meadow caught the scent too. They raised their heads, snorting and stamping their feet nervously, the whites showing in their liquid brown eyes. Han looked up the mountain again. Now he could see orange, purple, and green flames at the base of the fire line, and the wind blowing downslope grew hot and thick with smoke.

  Purple and green? Han thought. Were there plants that burned with colors like those?

  The herd milled anxiously for a moment, as if not sure which way to go, then turned as one and charged straight toward them.

  Han hastily raised his bow and managed to get off a shot as the deer bounded past. He missed completely. Dancer’s luck was no better.

  Han sprinted after the herd, leaping over obstacles, hoping to try again, but it was no use. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of the white flags of their tails before the deer vanished into the pines. Muttering to himself, he trudged back to where Dancer stood, staring up the mountain. The line of garish flame rolled toward them, picking up speed, leaving a charred and desolate landscape in its wake.

  “What is going on?” Dancer shook his head. “There’s no burns this time of year.”

  As they watched, the fire gathered momentum, leaping small ravines. Glittering embers landed on all sides, driven by the downslope wind. The heat seared the skin on Han’s exposed face and hands. He shook ash from his hair and slapped sparks off his coat, beginning to realize their danger. “Come on. We’d better get out of the way!”

  They ran across the ridge, slipping and sliding on the shale and wet leaves, knowing a fall could mean disaster. They took refuge behind a rocky prominence that pierced the thin vegetative skin of the mountain. Rabbits, foxes, and other small animals galloped past, just ahead of the flames. The fire line swept by, hissing and snapping, greedily consuming everything in its path.

  And after came three riders, like shepherds driving the flames before them.

  Han stared, mesmerized. They were boys no older than Han and Dancer, but they wore fine cloaks of silk and summer wool that grazed their stirrups, and long stoles glittering with exotic emblems. The horses they rode were not compact, shaggy mountain ponies, but flatlander horses, with long delicate legs and proudly arched necks, their saddles and bridles embellished with silver fittings. Han knew horseflesh, and these horses would cost a year’s pay for a common person.

  A lifetime’s earnings for him.

  The boys rode with a loose and easy arrogance, as if oblivious to the breathtaking landscape around them.

  Dancer went still, his bronze face hardening and his blue eyes going flat and opaque. “Charmcasters,” he breathed, using the clan term for wizards. “I should have known.”

  Charmcasters, Han thought, fear and excitement thrilling through him. He’d never seen one up close. Wizards did not consort with people like him. They lived in the elaborate palaces surrounding Fellsmarch Castle, and attended the queen at court. Many served as ambassadors to foreign countries–purposefully so. Rumors of their powers of sorcery kept foreign invaders away.

  The most powerful among them was named the High Wizard, adviser and magical enforcer of the queen of the Fells.

  “Stay away from wizards,” Mam always said. “You don’t want to be noticed by such as them. Get too close, and you might get burnt alive or turned into something foul and unholy. Common folk are like dirt under their feet.”

  Like anything forbidden, wizards fascinated Han, but this was one rule he’d never had a chance to break. Charmcasters weren’t allowed in the Spirit Mountains, except to their council house on Gray Lady, overlooking the Vale. Nor would they venture into Ragmarket, the gritty Fellsmarch neighborhood Han called home. If they needed something from the markets, they sent servants to purchase it.

  In this way, the three peoples of the Fells achieved a tenuous peace: the wizards of the Northern Isles, the Valefolk of the valley, and upland clan.

  As the riders drew closer to their hiding place, Han studied them avidly. The charmcaster in the lead had straight black hair that swept back from a widow’s peak and hung to his shoulders. He wore multiple rings on his long fingers, and an intricately carved pendant hung from a heavy chain around his neck. No doubt it was some kind of powerful amulet.

  His stoles were emblazoned with silver falcons, claws extended in attack. Silver falcons, Han thought. That must be the emblem of his wizard house.

  The other two were ginger-haired, with identical broad flat noses and snarling fellscats on their stoles. Han assumed they were brothers or cousins. They rode a little behind the black-haired wizard, and seemed to defer to him. They wore no amulets that Han could see.

  Han would have been content to remain hidden and watch them ride by, but Dancer had other ideas. He erupted from the shadow of the rocks, practically under the hooves of the horses, spooking them so the three riders had to fight to keep their seats.

  “I am Fire Dancer,” Dancer proclaimed loudly in the Common speech, “of Marisa Pines Camp.” He skipped right over the ritual welcome of the traveler and cut into the meat. “This camp demands to know who you are and what wizards are doing on Hanalea, as is forbidden by the Naéming.” Dancer stood tall, his hands fisted at his sides, but he seemed small next to the three strangers on their horses.

  What’s come over Dancer? Han wondered, reluctantly emerging from his hiding place to stand beside his friend. He didn’t like that the charmcasters were trespassing on their hunting ground either, but he was savvy enough not to go up against hex magic.

  The black-haired boy glared down at Dancer, then flinched, his black eyes widening in surprise before he resumed his cool disdainful expression.

  Does he know Dancer? Han looked from one to the other. Dancer didn’t seem to know him.

  Even though Han was taller than Dancer, the wizards’ gazes seemed to flow over him like water over a rock, and then back to his friend. Han looked down at his mud-stained deerskin leggings and Ragmarket shirt, envying the strangers’ finery. He felt invisible. Insignificant.

  Dancer wasn’t cowed by charmcasters. “I asked your names,” he said. He gestured toward the retreating flames. “That looks like wizard flame to me.”

  How does Dancer know what wizard flame looks like? Han wondered. Or is he just bluffing?

  The boy with the falcon signet glanced a
t the others, as if debating whether to respond. Getting no help from his friends, he turned back to Dancer. “I’m Micah Bayar, of Aerie House,” he said, as if his very name would put them on their knees. “We’re here on the queen’s orders. Queen Marianna and the Princesses Raisa and Mellony are hunting in the Vale below. We’re driving the deer down to meet them.”

  “The queen ordered you to set fire to the mountain so she could have a good day’s hunting?” Dancer shook his head in disbelief.

  “I said so, didn’t I?” Something in the wizard’s expression told Han he wasn’t being exactly truthful.

  “The deer don’t belong to the queen,” Han said. “We’ve as much right to hunt them as she does.”

  “Anyway, you’re underage,” Dancer said. “You’re not allowed to use magic. Nor carry an amulet.” He pointed to the jewel at Bayar’s neck.

  How does Dancer know that? Han thought. He himself knew nothing of wizards’ rules.

  Dancer must’ve struck a nerve, because Bayar glared at him. “That’s wizard business,” the charmcaster said. “And no concern of yours.”

  “Well, Micah Jinxflinger,” Dancer said, now resorting to the clan insult for wizards, “if Queen Marianna wants to hunt deer in summer, she can come up into the high country after them. As she always has.”

  Bayar raised black eyebrows. “Where she can sleep on a dirt floor shoulder to shoulder with a dozen filthy kinsmen and go a week without a hot bath and come home stinking of wood smoke and sweat with a case of the night itches?” He snorted with laughter, and his friends followed suit. “I don’t blame her for preferring the accommodations in the Vale.”

  He doesn’t know anything, Han thought, recalling the cozy lodges with their sleeping benches, the songs and stories told around the fire, the shared feasts from the common pot. So many nights he’d fallen asleep under furs and clan-made blankets with the thread of the old songs winding through his dreams. Han wasn’t clan, but he often wished he was. It was the one place he’d ever felt at home. The one place he didn’t feel like he was clinging on by his fingernails.