The Heir Chronicles Omnibus

by Cinda Williams Chima

  D’Orsay’s patrician features were clearly revealed in the light that leaked from the pavilion. The tall wizard stood in the midst of his enemies, seemingly at ease, expending bits of power to keep the rain off him. He wore rings on both hands—powerful sefas, if Jason was any judge. So D’Orsay had come well armed to this meeting.

  Devereaux stood next to his father, eyes wide, taking it all in.

  “We’ll begin immediately,” Wylie said. “The Anaweir are . . . er . . . unaware of the rebels’Weirwall, since they can pass freely through it. However, anyone leaving the sanctuary will be trapped inside our wall. You’ll capture them—Weir and Anaweir—and bring them to the retention area for processing and identification. As word gets out, panicked townspeople will no doubt come flooding through the inner wall. We’ll have hundreds of hostages, some of them with strong ties to the rebels.”

  “What are we going to do with them?” Hays asked.

  “When we go to breach the inner wall, we’ll pack the area between with immobilized hostages. That way, the rebels won’t be able to use their arsenal against us.”

  This was, apparently, Wylie’s plan, because Longbranch rolled her eyes. “Do you really think wizards will negotiate for Anaweir hostages?”

  Wylie shrugged. “Who knows? They’ve seemed unaccountably attached to them in the past.”

  “Strange.” Longbranch turned back to the soldiers. “You must immobilize the prisoners as quickly as possible, so there’s no outcry. Particularly the Weir.” She distributed leather pouches to the soldiers. “This is Gemynd bana. Mind-Slayer. It will knock them out without being detectable by those inside the walls. Just be careful with it, or you’ll end up flat on your back yourselves.”

  Jason stood frozen. Panic constricted his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  Crap, he thought. It’s beginning. It’s really happening. When you’re scared, why is it that your mouth goes dry while your hands get sweaty?

  “If there’s any question,” Longbranch went on, “use an immobilization charm. Try not to muck things up. Now, go.”

  The wizard soldiers dispersed, leaving the three wizards and the boy alone.

  “It would help if we knew more about the weapons you’ve supplied us, Claude,” Longbranch said.

  “Hmmm?” D’Orsay seemed distracted, gazing wistfully past Longbranch and Wylie to the sanctuary walls.

  Forget it, Jason thought. You’ll never get your hands on the Dragonheart.

  D’Orsay wrenched himself away from his study of the Sanctuary, turning to Longbranch. “You know as much as I do, Jessamine. We’ll have to take a bit of a chance.”

  “It appears to me that we’re taking the chance, since it’s our wizards who’ll be involved in the attack.”

  “I’d be more than happy to contribute,” D’Orsay replied, “but I’m afraid I’m a bit short on armies at the moment. I had to leave my guard behind to secure the ghyll.”

  “I can fight, Father,” Devereaux said eagerly. “I’m only one person, but . . .”

  “No, Dev,” D’Orsay said, scowling. “Not this time.” He turned to the Roses. “How do you propose to find the Dragonheart once we’re inside?”

  Longbranch and Wylie glanced at each other, then looked toward the sanctuary. “Do you really think it will be hard to find?” Wylie said.

  Jason studied the odds, considered and discarded several options. He might hear more if he stayed, but wizards already lay waiting for anyone who passed beyond the barrier. There was no time to lose.

  He backed away from the wizard pavilions, placing his feet carefully so as not to betray himself, though he felt like his heart was pounding loud enough to be heard on its own.

  As soon as he was away, Jason turned and ran back the way he’d come.

  As he neared the inner wall, his pace slowed. The moon had risen, and shafts of light penetrated the canopy of trees and bathed the trail in silvery light. The way seemed clear ahead.

  Jason left the path and cut through the trees, approaching the gate from the east. He scanned the smudged border of forest across the clearing and saw movement in the shadows there. Then, startlingly close at hand, someone slapped a mosquito. It was all Jason could do not to flail backward into the underbrush.

  The trap was already laid for the residents of Trinity. Jason was determined not to fall into it. Unnoticeable or not, Mick would still need to open the gate to let him in.

  Half-holding his breath, Jason crossed the open meadow toward the gate. The back of his neck prickled. At any moment, he expected to be slammed with an immobilization charm.

  When he reached the wall, he pressed his palm against the gate. “Mick,” he muttered. “Open up.”

  There was no response.

  “Mick,” Jason repeated, a little louder. “It’s Jase. Let me in. Get a move on.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw three wizards step out of the trees, peering toward the gate. Jason recognized Bruce Hays, packing his fancy staff.

  Jason pounded on the gate with the heel of his hand. “Come on, Mick. Open the fricking gate!”

  Finally, he heard movement within, the unfortunately loud rumble of Mick’s voice spewing Irish profanity from another age. “Can’t a man take a bluidy leak in the middle of the bluidy night athout you getting your bollocks in a bluidy . . .”

  Jason looked back at the wizards. Hays raised his staff and pointed it directly at Jason.

  “Aetywan!” Hays shouted. Mist spewed from the tip of the staff and enveloped Jason in a cloud of vapor.

  Unable to respond in his unnoticeable state, Jason held his breath to avoid breathing in the fumes, crouched to make a small target, and struggled to remember his sparse Anglo-Saxon.

  Aetywan. That would mean . . . reveal?

  “It’s Haley!” Shouts reverberated across the clearing.

  Jason looked down at himself. The formerly unnoticeable Jason was indeed revealed. It was like being stripped naked in the middle of Main Street during a block party thrown by your worst enemies.

  “Get him!” Hays shouted. “Grab him! Take him alive!” They charged toward him, baying like hounds on a scent. More wizards poured out of the woods.

  “Mick!” Jason threw up a pathetic shield, braced his feet against the wall, gripped the edge of the gate, and yanked. “Open up now or you might as well forget it!”

  He was surrounded by wizards, a kaleidoscope of excited faces, many flinging mind-slayer at him. Lame as it was, his shield repelled the powder. A wizard staggered and went down, a victim of friendly fire.

  The gate was moving now, excruciatingly slowly, with Mick’s litany of oaths continuing on the other side, though now with a certain sense of urgency. Jason heard running feet inside the double-gated barbican, a thud of bodies against the gate, and it slammed open, spilling Jason and a handful of warriors into the no-man’s-land between the barriers.

  Jason scrambled to his feet as Mick bolted past him, gleefully swinging his axe, bellowing a Gaelic battle cry. Jack and Ellen and Jeremiah followed, weapons blazing, driving the wizards back toward the outer wall. Wizard fire spewed into the air, setting the treetops ablaze.

  How long before the fireworks and sounds of battle drew Anaweir past the inner barrier and into the hands of the Roses?

  Weaponless, Jason sprinted after the warriors as two wizards closed in on them from behind. Jason tackled one of the wizards and disabled him by wizard’s grip, thrusting his fingers under his chin and applying power directly to that vulnerable place. Ellen leveled the other one with the flat of her blade.

  “What is going on?” Jack demanded, smashing back a bolt from Hays’s fancy staff. “It looks like all hell’s broken loose.”

  “Big trouble,” Jason gasped “There’s an army waiting out there. They’ve put up their own wall. They’re planning to trap people and take hostages. We’ve got to go back.”

  Reluctantly, the warriors left off chasing wizards and retreated, spraying flame in their wake to discourage pursuit.
Once inside the gate, Jason helped slam the locks into place while the walls shuddered under the wizards’ assault.

  “Where’s Seph?” Jason gasped. “We can’t wait any longer. We’ve got to do something about the Anaweir. Right now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A Deal with the Devil

  The radio in Min’s old pickup only got three stations. You could listen to whatever you wanted as long as it was country and western or classic rock and roll. Madison turned up the volume and sang along, making up the words she didn’t know.

  She rolled down the windows, and her hair whipped around her shoulders. Now spring peepers and the low growl of thunder competed with the radio. The taste of the air said it would rain before morning.

  As the hills crowded in on both sides, even the most powerful stations began to break up. So she switched off the radio and practiced her lines.

  “I’m Madison Moss. I go to the Art Institute of Chicago.” And then her stomach did that little flip again—half fear, half joy.

  Sara had found the money through a scholarship program for disadvantaged students. Who would’ve thought that living on nothing but dreams all her life would pay off? But Sara said it wasn’t just based on need.

  “The scholarship committee loved your work, Maddie,” Sara had said. “They said you had a unique perspective that appeals to those who like both primitive and high-concept art. They can’t wait to meet you.”

  That part made her nervous. What if they saw her wild mane of hair and thrift-shop clothes, and heard the way she talked and decided they’d made a mistake? What if they treated her like some kind of awkward, backwoodsy charity case?

  Never mind. The work was what was important. She’d find a way to survive the committee. And attend the Chicago Art Institute in the fall on scholarship.

  Her portfolio rode alongside her in the passenger seat. Sara had been a bit bewildered by some of the more exotic images. But she thought they would play well in Chicago.

  Chicago. Madison had never been there. There would be libraries and museums and theaters. She could sit in cafés and talk about books and art and music. Things nobody ever talked about in Coal Grove. Every day she’d see thousands of people who knew nothing about her. Who hadn’t already made up their minds about Madison Moss.

  She could hardly wait.

  She was scared to death.

  One dream could lead to another. Maybe she could still convince Seph to attend Northwestern. If it was too late for fall, he could come as a transfer student in the spring. It could work. He was at home anywhere. Plus he was comfortable in cities. He had a way of organizing the world around him so it fit him like a skin. Knowing that she had one friend would make all the difference. Knowing it was Seph . . .

  She was ambushed by the image of his face: his gray-green eyes, like smoke layered on still water, hiding secrets. His rangy frame filling a doorway. His smile: so worldly-wise, yet not full of himself. The way he switched into French when English just wouldn’t do.

  His kisses.

  She had to stomp on the brake and wrench the wheel around to make the turn-off to Booker Mountain.

  You’re hopeless. Just like Carlene. Seph will never come to Chicago. Not on your account. Not while the fate of the world hangs in the balance. And who knew what would happen if he did? She let go of the wheel and examined her hands. Since the day she’d touched the Dragonheart, there had been no sign of the hex magic she’d absorbed at Second Sister. Was it really and truly gone, or was it just that she’d been away from Seph?

  Falling in love was like falling off a cliff. It felt pretty much like flying until you hit the ground.

  The road plunged back into dense forest and rippled through several hairpin turns, crossing Booker Creek on the stone bridges her great-grandfather had built.

  The first big splats of rain hit the roof of the pickup as she pulled into the yard. It was pitch dark by now and Carlene hadn’t even turned on the porch light.

  Madison pushed open the driver’s door and slid to the ground. She grabbed a bag of groceries from the seat, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and shoved her portfolio under her arm, meaning to make one trip to the house before the deluge.

  By the time she made it up the steps, it was pouring. She hesitated under the imperfect shelter of the porch roof, thinking Hamlet and Ophelia might come to greet her. But no enthusiastic wet dogs came splashing onto the porch. No Grace or John Robert, either.

  Guess they know enough to stay in out of the rain.

  As soon as she shouldered open the front door, she could hear the television going in the front room. She set her portfolio and backpack down next to the door.

  “Mama?” she said. “Grace? J.R.? I have the best news. Just wait till you hear.”

  “Hi, honey,” Carlene said from the other room. “I’m watching my shows.”

  Madison put the eggs, milk, juice, lunchmeat, and cheese into the refrigerator to join a jar of Miracle Whip, moldy bacon, four bottles of beer, and a pitcher of Kool-Aid.

  She threw out the bacon.

  It was dark in the living room, too. Carlene was slumped in a corner of the couch, her face illuminated by the changing images on the television screen.

  Madison switched on the table lamp. “You sitting here in the dark, Mama?”

  “Hmmm?” Carlene blinked up at her. “I guess so.” She looked kind of sleepy and out of it.

  “Where are the kids?”

  Carlene shrugged and looked around, as if she hadn’t missed them. “Oh. Right. They went to the Ropers.”

  “To the Ropers!” Dreams of Chicago evaporated. Madison stared at Carlene. “What for?”

  “I guess they went riding.”

  Madison looked out through the streaming windows. “Well, they’re not riding now. It’s pouring down rain. When did they go?”

  “This morning.” A crease appeared between Carlene’s penciled brows. “I think.”

  Madison was tempted to grab her mother’s shoulders and shake her. But something stopped her. Carlene seemed almost . . . spelled.

  “Mama.” She sat down next to Carlene and took her hands. “How did they happen to go riding at the Ropers?”

  “Brice Roper come by. With another boy. Never saw him before.” Her mind seemed to drift.

  “What did the other boy look like?”

  “He had long hair paler’n John Robert’s.”

  Min’s words came back to her from long ago.

  I see four pretty men coming. Two will claim your heart in different ways. Two are deceivers. Two will come to your door, one dark, one fair. All of these men have magic....

  But they have no power that you don’t give away.

  Madison stood, put her shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Crossing to the hearth, she dug her father’s gun out of the wood box and stuffed it into her backpack. Snatching up her keys, she returned to the living room.

  “You stay here, Mama,” she said, though Carlene wasn’t making any move to go anywhere.

  Carlene nodded absently, already lost in the flickering screen.

  Maddie’s truck with its nearly bald tires slipped and slid on the rain-slick road. It seemed to take forever to get to the turn-off. She swung into the Ropers’ drive between the fancy brick pillars, and the house and barn came into sight through the smeared windshield. Brice’s fancy sports car was parked in the middle of the drive in front of the house. She pulled next to Brice’s car, banged open the truck door, and jumped to the ground. Turning, she thrust her hand into the backpack and closed it on Jordan Moss’s pistol.

  She climbed the broad steps onto the porch and would have pounded on the massive walnut door, but it swung open under her fist.

  The house yawned empty before her, seeming to echo with her footsteps. She walked across shining hardwood, through the foyer and into the hall, looking into richly furnished rooms on either side. At the back of the house, a fire blazed on the hearth in the two-story family room, providing
the only light. To the right, a doorway led into what must be the dining room.

  A body lay in the doorway, booted feet sticking out into the kitchen. The boots were familiar—expensive black leather.

  Stifling a scream, Madison stumbled toward Brice Roper’s body.

  “I wouldn’t get too close,” a voice said behind her. “It’s kind of messy. Not my best work.”

  She swung around. Her keys clattered as they hit the stone-tile floor.

  He stood between her and the hall like a candle in the dark, glittery bright with power, steaming as he drove the rain from his clothing. He was dressed all in black, but his hair was so pale as to seem translucent.

  It was Warren Barber.

  He smiled. “You’re not easy to find.”

  Though her heart was pounding, she managed to speak in a clear, steady voice. “Where are they?”

  “What? No tears for poor Brice?”

  “I want to know what you’ve done with my brother and sister.”

  “You know, Madison, you really had him going. What’d you tell him—that you were a witch?”

  Madison said nothing.

  “But you’re not a witch, are you? You’re something else entirely.” He paused, inviting her to speak, but she still said nothing. “Anyway, he was sure convinced. Poor Brice was so happy to have a little more firepower on his side. He hated your guts, you know. You should thank me.”

  Thoughts stumbled through her mind. How had he found her? How much did he know? Could she make him try and spell her?

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I need your help, Madison.” He seemed to like saying her name, as if he owned it. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  Barber laughed. “We’ll see. I think you’re going to do whatever I ask.”

  Maybe he knew less than she thought. He seemed almost too confident. Maybe if she charged him, he’d send power into her.

  His pale eyes glittered with malice. “I haven’t forgotten what you did on Second Sister.” He took a step toward her. “Big mistake. No one comes after me with a knife. I should teach you a lesson.” He raised his hands, raising Madison’s hopes, then dropped them again, smiling. “But I’m willing to forgive and forget.”