The Heir Chronicles Omnibus

by Cinda Williams Chima

  They brought him in a side entrance, which led into a long corridor paved in stone and lined with elaborate metal wall sconces and slitted windows. The interior was layered in velvets and hand-loomed tapestries depicting hunting scenes. They turned some corners and pushed open a door, ending in a large study lined with bookshelves, a stone fireplace at one end. Oriental rugs covered the floors. A desk and credenza anchored one side of the room, loaded with computer and communications equipment.

  “Dr. Leicester?” Hays cleared his throat. “We found him.”

  Leicester materialized from the shadows at the perimeter of the room like a predator with perfect camouflage.

  He surveyed Seph dispassionately. Seph hung between Hays and Eggars, soaked and slimed with blood, sand, and mud, an anomaly in the elegant room.

  “Release the charm and step away.”

  Hays disabled the charm and propped Seph up on his feet.

  Leicester opened a drawer in the desk and brought out a digital camera. He took several photographs of Seph from different angles, then set the camera down next to the computer. Retrieving a knife from the drawer, he extended it to Eggars, along with a small plastic bag.

  “Get me some of his hair. Then cut him free and remove his shirt.”

  Eggars carefully lifted a lock of Seph’s hair, sliced it away, and dropped it into the plastic bag. Then he cut Seph’s hands free.

  Seph rotated his shoulders and rubbed his chafed wrists.

  “I’m sorry, Joseph,” Eggars whispered, not moving his lips.

  He and Hays stripped off Seph’s filthy, blood-smeared T-shirt. Leicester held out a larger plastic bag, and they stuffed it in.

  “Get him something else to put on,” Leicester said, and Martin Hall left the room.

  Seph stood shivering while Leicester opened a small cabinet at one side of the fireplace, chose from the bottles clustered on a sideboard, and poured several inches of amber liquor into a glass.

  “Would you like something, Joseph?” he asked, without turning around.

  Seph said nothing.

  Leicester laughed. “Will you relax? Believe me, I plan on keeping you reasonably intact. For at least a few more days.”

  Martin returned with a worn navy sweatshirt and handed it to Seph. He pulled it on.

  “Wait outside,” Leicester said. The alumni obediently filed out.

  “So,” said the headmaster, in a way that suggested that matters were just as they should be, “welcome to Second Sister.” He paused, anticipating a reaction, and looking disappointed when it didn’t come. “Yes. The site of the Interguild Conference. We’re quite anxious to show it off.”

  “Why did you bring me here? I have nothing to do with this.”

  “You’ll be staying here a few days, at least until your father comes.”

  Father. A percussion began inside Seph’s chest, reverberating into his throat.

  Leicester misread his expression. “Really. How long did you expect to keep it a secret?”

  “My father is dead.” The old lie came back to him.

  Software engineer. Died in a fire....

  “He sent you to the Havens to spy on me, yes? And then sent Linda Downey to extricate you when you were about to be exposed.”

  “What?” It was just like when he was back in school and he was being accused of things. Except in those days he was always guilty.

  “Though I’m surprised the Dragon would put his own son in harm’s way. He must have considerable confidence in your abilities.” Leicester swirled the liquid in his glass. “I often wondered why you were so resistant to persuasion. You and Jason Haley were the only recruits who refused my offer. I should have known you were getting help.”

  “You think the Dragon is my father.”

  Leicester smiled, returned to the sideboard, refilled his glass.

  “Why? What makes you think so?” Seth said.

  “We launched an operation against the Dragon’s hideout in London. He escaped, unfortunately, but we found a file on you. Joseph McCauley. Correspondence to and from a law firm, admissions papers from a school in Scotland. Dunham’s Field, I believe it was.”

  Dunham’s Field. He’d lasted six months at Dunham’s Field.

  “When we looked into your background, we discovered certain . . . discrepancies.” Leicester sipped at his drink. “You see, we’ve developed considerable scientific capabilities that will make it easier to track the lesser guilds, to ferret them out of their burrows. We’ll come to power in a different world. You left a large quantity of blood behind in my office. We’ve made a DNA match.”

  The tempo of Seph’s pulse quickened. “A match with who?”

  “Now I suppose we’ll see whether your father feels any sort of obligation toward you.”

  “A match with who?”

  “Since you and the Dragon have been working together, perhaps you can tell us where to find the others involved in your organization. Those who won’t be attending the conference.”

  “Right. Well, you know, I don’t think the Dragon really exists. I think you all use him as an excuse. Someone to blame things on.”

  “I had hoped that by now you understood the price of resistance. That you would want to cooperate.” Leicester didn’t look disappointed, though. His expression was that of a man sitting down to a feast.

  Leicester set his empty glass on the table and came toward him. Seph took one step back, another, then held his ground, his body tensing with remembered pain. He searched his memory of the lessons with Snowbeard. Countercharms. Focus.

  Leicester gripped his shoulders. His lips were moving, speaking the charm, but Seph wasn’t listening. He was shaping the counter. Flames coalesced on Leicester’s fingertips, but when he launched them, Seph gathered them up and sent them roaring back.

  Leicester screamed and released him as though he’d been scalded. He managed to throw up a shield—a hardened wall of air—in time to turn Seph’s following volley of flame. Seph assembled his shield, hardened it, pressed against Leicester’s barrier, forced the headmaster back; back to the wall, flat against the wall; pressed harder. They stood face-to-face, the clear shields between them. Leicester’s eyes stretched open in surprise, the white visible around the ball-bearing centers. Sweat rolled down the headmaster’s face, his jaw clenched with effort. His hands came up, palms pressing against the shield, trying to force Seph back. Flame ran in rivulets on both sides, like rainwater down a window, eagerly seeking a way through.

  Jason, Seph thought. Jason, Trevor, Jason’s father, and me. How many tortured, how many lives destroyed? The alumni, once students like him, made into monsters. He pushed harder, trying to squeeze the life out of Leicester, to press him like a grape.

  The alumni poured into the room and dragged him back, beating him to the floor with their charms until he lay helpless on the cold stones. They gripped him by the hair, raised his head, and poured a thick, sweet liquid down his throat. It must be Weirsbane, he thought, recognizing it from Mercedes’s array of potions. Disables the Weirstone. He coughed, spat, and rolled his head from side to side, but they managed to get most of it down.

  “Why won’t you let me kill him?” he whispered. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He heard Leicester’s voice issuing orders. They lifted him, carried him out of the study. Down a narrow stairway, around turns, with scarcely room to manipulate his uncooperative body. The air cooled, smelling of damp stone. Lights flared ahead of them, driving away the dark. They passed through an arched doorway into a small, rough chamber. Now the air smelled of damp and yeast and fermentation. Barrels lined the wall.

  It was an old winery. That was it.

  They laid him on a table, immobilized him, and disappeared. He lay flat on his back, squinting into the glare of a bare lightbulb in a metal cage. The Weirsbane was taking effect. His thoughts moped about, colliding randomly, to little purpose.

  Madison. Where was Madison Moss? No one had mentioned her. Was she dead? Held capti
ve? Or had she escaped? If she’d escaped, where could she go? How big was Second Sister? Would there be places to hide?

  Come back to me, Witch Boy. Or I’ll come after you.

  He willed her to stay away.

  Leicester said the Dragon was his father. And said there was proof. If it was true, why had he never claimed him?

  He heard a sound, the door opening and closing, footsteps. Leicester appeared within his field of vision and leaned over him. The headmaster’s left hand was wrapped in gauze midway up to his forearm. Above the wrapping, the skin was angry red and blistered. Seph’s work.

  The gray eyes had changed, too. They were no longer flat, opaque, metallic. Now they burned with hate.

  He set a leather bag on the table next to Seph. Brushed Seph’s hair back from his forehead, an intimate gesture that made Seph’s skin crawl.

  “Now,” the headmaster said. “We’ll talk.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Old Stories

  Being at home was unbearable, Jack thought. The house on Jefferson Street had turned into a dismal place, where people snapped at each other and blame hung in the air, unassigned.

  It had been three days since Seph and Madison disappeared. That first day, Coast Guard helicopters had searched until dark, but could find no sign of the raft. The search resumed on subsequent days, in wider and wider circles from the point at which they’d disappeared. It was hard to remain optimistic as the hours dragged by.

  After the storm passed, Jack tried the engine again, and it worked fine, the radio too. When he radioed the Coast Guard, he’d had to tell them that Seph and Madison had gone over the side during the storm, a few miles offshore. He and Ellen had been interrogated and tested for drugs and alcohol by law enforcement staff, who seemed to suspect that the accident had a more mundane explanation than the one they offered.

  The Coast Guard referred to the storm itself as a “squall line.” At least it had shown up on radar. Everyone agreed that Lake Erie in autumn could be treacherous. But no other boats had been trapped by the storm. Only theirs.

  If the Coast Guard and the police were bad, Linda and Hastings questioned them even more relentlessly. They used Snowbeard’s apartment over the garage as a command post. Linda sat, still and focused, her face pale as porcelain. Hastings paced back and forth like a tiger in a cage.

  “It’s Leicester. You know it is,” Linda said. Jack had never seen his aunt so desolate. She looked . . . extinguished.

  Hastings shook his head. “No wizard is strong enough to control the weather.” He turned to Jack. “Is it possible that it was a natural storm and Seph just panicked, thinking it was wizardry?”

  Jack looked at Ellen, raised his eyebrows. She shrugged and looked away. “Anything’s possible on Lake Erie,” he said. “But I’ve been sailing for years, and I’ve never seen anything like this. We were literally flying backward through the water under no canvas at all. As soon as Seph and Madison jumped, it stopped.”

  Ellen leaned against the counter. “What I’m wondering is, if it’s Leicester, why did he want Seph back so much? I mean, first, the thing at the park, and then . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked a little confused.

  “What thing at the park?” Jack asked.

  Ellen frowned. “I don’t know. There was something that had to do with Seph and Leicester and the park . . . and I kind of forgot it.” She pressed her fingertips to her forehead as if she could rearrange thoughts from the outside. “Wizards attacked Seph at the Vermilion River,” she said haltingly. “They said they were going to take him back to the Havens.” She looked up, wide-eyed. “I killed one.”

  “And you forgot?” Linda demanded.

  Ellen looked totally lost. “I don’t know, I . . .”

  Hastings swore softly, pounding his fist into his open palm. “Seph. He must have used mind magic on you. Leicester said something to him at the Legends about the park. Seph told Leicester to stay away from him. Leicester blew him off and Seph tried to jump him.”

  Ellen shook her head, muttering to herself. Jack took her hand and pressed it between his two.

  “If we find Leicester, we’ll find Seph,” Linda said.

  “Where else should we look?” Hastings said, crackling with power and impatience. “We know they’re not in Maine. Leicester and his apprentices are gone and the school is locked up. He’s not at his place in Cornwall and they’re not at Raven’s Ghyll. That’s three places they’re not.”

  “We’ll see him at the conference in ten days,” Jack said dryly.

  The subcommittee had met and the selections had been made. Ellen Stephenson and Jack Swift would represent the Warrior Guild; Linda Downey, the enchanters; Blaise Highbourne, the seers; and Mercedes Foster, the sorcerers. There were others Jack didn’t know. The meet-ings would be held over a weekend at Second Sister.

  “Something bothers me,” Jack continued. “Leicester and D’Orsay approved each and every one of us to come. You said as much.”

  “So it seems.” Hastings said.

  “Why would they do that?” Jack demanded as though it was somehow Hastings’s fault. “They hate us. Ellen and I started this whole thing, when we refused to kill each other in the tournament.”

  “Well, in your case, they probably didn’t have much choice.”

  Jack snorted. “What about Aunt Linda?” He gestured toward her with his chin. “She’s caused them a lot of trouble already. You think they couldn’t find another enchanter to nominate? Someone easier to handle?”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “They let us choose our own representatives to the meeting because they’re bringing all their enemies together in one place,” Jack said. “It’s a trap.”

  Linda nodded. “Probably. But either way, they have us. If we stay away, they win. If we go . . .”

  “If we go, we’ll find out what they’re planning,” Hastings said bluntly. “The trick will be to do that and survive.”

  Jack tried again. “If each guild has one vote, then we really only need one representative from a guild. I could go, and Ellen could stay here.”

  “What?” Ellen sat up straight, bracing her hands on her knees. “Why? Don’t you think I can handle it?”

  “You said you didn’t want to sit down and negotiate with a bunch of wizards,” Jack pointed out. “At least if there’s an attack of some kind, I can use wizardry. Maybe that would be some protection.”

  Ellen rose gracefully to her full height. Her T-shirt and jeans didn’t show it off, but Jack knew she was in fighting condition. They’d fought a match three days ago, and he was still feeling it.

  Ellen’s cheeks were flaming. “If you think I’m going to stay here in Trinity while you go off to put your neck in a noose, you’re crazy. Who was flat on his back at the point of my sword last summer, tell me that?” Ellen almost never brought that up. Except once or twice a week.

  Jack turned to his aunt, hoping for an ally. “Do you have to be the one to go, Aunt Linda? Aren’t there lots of enchanters to choose from?”

  “I have to go, Jack, trust me.” She looked as if she would say more, but then caught herself, and said quietly, “We’re the ones who started this, and we have to finish it. Besides, would you have me send someone else into a trap?”

  Ellen rolled her eyes. “You notice he always wants to leave the women at home?”

  Now Jack stood up and faced her. “I would like to keep two people I care about out of danger,” he said bluntly. “It’s not my fault that they both happen to be women.”

  Jack and Ellen stood, toe to toe and eye to eye, power spiraling around them. Then Jack reached out and put a hand on the back of Ellen’s head and pulled her into his arms. They stood holding each other for a long time.

  The following evening, Linda went to the new house after the contractors had gone. They’d finished most of the exterior work and had shifted to the inside. Rolls of paper and cans of paint were stacked in the utility room. Seph had selected most
of it.

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor and went into Seph’s room. It already had a hollow, abandoned feeling. All the dreams she’d had were ending in this nightmare. She had been a fool to think she could protect him, sanctuary or no. She’d been greedy, and this was the result.

  If only Seph had never gone to the Havens. If only she’d allowed him to leave the Sanctuary, to hide somewhere else. She pictured him and Madison huddled in the raft, flying through the darkness.

  Linda sat on the floor in a corner of the room, wrapped her arms around her knees, and wept as the light faded.

  After a time, she looked up, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone. Leander Hastings stood in the doorway, his face shrouded in shadow.

  “So here you are,” he said.

  He crossed the room until he stood over her. He put out his hand and dropped something into her lap. It was a plastic bag containing two pictures, some wadded up cloth, and a lock of hair, dark, with a little curl to it. Hair that could have belonged to Leander Hastings, but didn’t.

  She looked at the pictures first. They had come off a computer printer. It was Seph in a filthy green shirt and blue jeans, looking warily at the camera. In one view she could see that his hands were tied behind his back. She pulled the cloth from the bag. It was the shirt he was wearing in the photograph, smeared with blood and dirt.

  She looked up at Hastings, waited for him to explain.

  “Gregory Leicester contacted me. He’s holding Seph. He wants to meet and make a deal.” His voice. Something in his voice. But Linda’s thoughts were already swirling madly.

  Seph was alive! Panic and hope and fear flooded through her by turns. And then, Why did Leicester contact Hastings?

  Hastings squatted so that his face was almost on a level with hers. Close. She pressed herself back against the wall, but could put no more distance between them.

  “Now here’s the strange part. He told me he was holding my son.” He paused. “And I was confused, because I don’t have a son.”