The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  As for Hastings, the wizard seemed more vulnerable than before, flawed, somehow eminently human. A man who considered himself a failure at his life’s work. Who was, perhaps, heading to his death in Raven’s Ghyll, and bringing Jack along.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Raven’s Ghyll

  Fells. It was a fit name for these mountains, Jack decided. They were full of old magic, lost souls, and melancholy. And on this day they were full of rain and mist as well. He and Hastings had left their car in a parking lot some distance outside of Keswick. As they climbed higher and higher, the weather grew more brutal. Summer in the Lake District felt like November in Ohio. Jack wore a heavy jacket he had borrowed from Hastings, climbing pants, a thick sweater, and sturdy hiking boots. He carried his other clothes in a backpack, and his sword was slung across his back to leave his hands free for scrambling over the unforgiving terrain.

  Hastings set an unrelenting pace, always upward, following a path that Jack could barely pick out on the treacherous rock.

  The peak loomed up before them. Ravenshead, Hastings called it. But its stark melancholy suited Jack in his present mood.

  They climbed farther into the ravine, keeping the peak on their left-hand side. Their route coincided with a stream that leaped and tumbled among the broken stones. The rocks along the streambed were wet and slippery underfoot. They climbed almost vertically the last hundred yards until they came to a place where the water seemed to explode from a cliff face.

  “This is the water gate to Raven’s Ghyll.” Hastings had to shout over the roar of the falls. This left Jack as clueless as before. But he knew that Raven’s Ghyll was their destination, the traditional site of the tournament. Hastings had suggested they enter the back way, for safety reasons.

  “The Rules of Engagement are not in force until you are officially registered for the tournament,” Hastings had said. “I don’t want to risk an ambush along the way.” Jack remembered what Linda had said about the members of the council wanting to cut Hastings’s throat, and assumed that the wizard might have personal reasons for slipping in unnoticed. As if the terrain and weather were not bad enough, the idea of an ambush had infused their journey with just that extra element of suspense. Jack found himself reacting to every little noise and flicker of movement.

  Hastings boosted himself easily onto a small platform of rock next to the falls and extended a hand to Jack so he could climb up after him. All of the stones and handholds were slippery with spray. Hastings pointed into the falls. “We’re going in there.”

  There was a scant eight inches of ledge along the side of the gorge. By flattening themselves against the cliff and hugging the cold rock face, they were able to slide past the falls and into a rock chamber that lay beyond. It was cold and shrouded in vapor from the thundering falls. Jack could look out past the cascading water and see how far they had climbed.

  At the back of the vault a narrow path snaked up between two massive blocks of stone. That was their road. They were hardly hiking anymore, but climbing. Any steeper and they would have needed ropes, Jack thought, tightening his fingers around stones above his head and hauling himself upward, trying not to think about what would happen if he slipped.

  His thoughts wandered to his opponent, putting flesh on the bones of speculation. Hastings had guessed that Jack’s opponent must be young, or the Red Rose would have called a tournament before now. The White Rose had held the cup for years, a situation that rankled the other House. Since most warriors were taken as young children, he’d probably been in training for years. Perhaps he looked forward to this fight with anticipation instead of dread.

  Another half hour of hard climbing, and they were over the rim and looking down on Raven’s Ghyll.

  They couldn’t see much. The valley was shrouded by a shimmering cloud that might have been mist, but which even Jack’s uneducated eyes recognized as a wizard’s barrier.

  “How did you know how to get through here?” Jack asked, struggling to catch his breath and hoping to delay the wizard long enough to do so.

  “I’ve had to get in and out of Raven’s Ghyll unseen in the past,” Hastings replied. The wizard wasn’t even breathing hard. Hastings unslung his backpack and produced two lightweight cloaks. He pulled one on over his clothes and handed the other to Jack. “Put this on,” he directed. Jack put his cloak on and pulled up the hood.

  “Have you ever been in a tournament before?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve never actually participated, but I’ve disrupted a few.” Hastings reached into his pack and drew from it a small object, which he handed to Jack. It was a roughly-hewn gray stone, oval, about the size of the palm of his hand. It was covered with unfamiliar runes and symbols, and hung from a finely-wrought silver chain. It seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

  Jack looked up at Hastings. “Put it on,” the wizard said. “I’d like to surprise them, if I can.” He didn’t offer any further explanation.

  Jack slipped the chain over his head and pushed the stone into the neckline of his sweatshirt. It lay against the skin of his chest, creating a slight tingling sensation. The wizard laid a hand on his arm, spoke a few words of Latin, and disappeared.

  “Hastings!” Jack could still feel the burn of the wizard’s hand.

  “We’re both invisible, Jack. The stone is called a dyrne sefa. Created by sorcerers. It allows us powers uncommon even to wizards. Now, stay close so I don’t lose you.” And he pressed ahead, more slowly now, descending the inner side of the hills that enclosed the Ghyll. The footing was tricky, and Jack had to concentrate to keep from stumbling and to stay within reach of Hastings.

  As they approached the barrier, the wizard spoke a charm, and a ragged rent appeared in the mist before them. They stepped through, and it closed behind them. Now they could see clearly.

  Raven’s Ghyll was a broad, shallow valley surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs and frowning fells. Snow-fed streams tumbled from the flanks of Ravenshead and meandered across the valley floor, cutting it into meadows and parks quilted with trees, and finally escaping through the ravine they’d just climbed. At the far end of the basin, halfway up the slope, a large castle was built into the hill. It had been constructed of the native rock, and resembled an outcropping, part of the landscape. It was surrounded on three sides by terraced gardens that sloped down to the floor of the Ghyll.

  Far above their heads, halfway up the slope of Ravenshead, something caught the light, reflecting it into Jack’s eyes. He squinted, shading his eyes. A crystalline boulder protruded from the granite, as if trying to escape its drab prison. It must be huge, tons of stone, he thought, to appear so prominent from this distance. It had several shining faces, and was bluntly pointed at the end. The brilliance he was seeing was not reflected sunlight, but rather came from the heart of the stone itself.

  “What’s that?” he asked Hastings, pointing, then remembering that Hastings couldn’t see him. “That shiny rock up there?”

  He could hear amusement in Hastings’s voice. “Hardly a rock, Jack. That’s Ravenshead, soul of the mountain, otherwise called the Weirstone, the Dragon’s Tooth. It is said that the crystals we carry originated from that stone, freed and shaped by a magic more powerful than any known today.” He paused. “It is the stone that keeps us imprisoned,” he added softly.

  Jack didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  “The Rules of Engagement are part of the covenant that keeps the dragon sleeping in the mountain. If the rules are broken, the dragon will awake.”

  “Is that true?” Jack shivered, gazing up at the stone that shimmered like a beacon on the hillside, while the top of the mountain was still shrouded in mist.

  Hastings shrugged—Jack was sure he did, though he couldn’t see it. “That’s what they say,” he repeated.

  The weather was better in the valley than it had been on the fells, though everything dripped with moisture from the recent rain. The wall of stone around them diverted the relentl
ess wind, which made it noticeably warmer. The grasses of the meadow were lush, deep greens and yellows where the buttercups bloomed. It was almost sunny, although the light had an odd, incandescent quality from the wizard’s mist.

  Between them and the castle, the Ghyll boiled with activity. Buildings and tents and trailers were scattered along both sides of the vale, as if tossed there randomly by a giant hand. People swarmed across the meadows, all seemingly in a hurry. Bright pennants flew from many of the temporary structures. Some bore a white rose, and others red. The smell of food came faintly to them. It reminded Jack of a Renaissance fair he had attended years ago. Or how he imagined a gypsy encampment might look.

  A large space had been left free of buildings on the valley floor just before the castle walls. Teams of workers were constructing reviewing stands on either side. He assumed that was to be the site of the tournament. The thought left him numb.

  “Who organizes all this?” he asked Hastings.

  “His name is Claude D’Orsay,” Hastings said shortly. “He is a wizard, and the lineal Master of Games of the Weir. The Ghyll is the seat of the Wizard Guild, the legendary source of their power. For centuries, his family has had the job of keeping peace among the heirs. Under the rules, the Master is a chancellor who works with the head of the Wizard Council, the Holder of the Tournament Cup.”

  He paused. “The Master of Games is supposed to be neutral in these affairs, but D’Orsay has always been a political player, more powerful than he should be. He administers the rules—for example—the one that says that wizards are not allowed to attack each other except through the warriors. Only, he overlooks a lot when it suits him,” he said dryly.

  Jack had wondered why Linda seemed to think Hastings was in danger, despite the protection of the rules. “Where did all this come from?” He waved a hand, then remembered again he was invisible. “All these buildings. How did they get here?”

  Hastings laughed. “We are wizards, after all. What with servants and so on, we can set up rather quickly. It will all be gone the day after the bout.”

  The two picked their way down a stony path to the valley floor. Soon they were fighting their way through crowds of people who seemed startled at their touch.

  Jack’s head was spinning, filled with a cacophony of voices, living wizards and dead warriors, an overwhelming din that grew as he approached the keep. The dead voices were warning him. Away the warrior, they pleaded. For this is where they spill your blood. The floor of the valley was a killing ground, watered with blood, salted with bones, the resting place of hundreds of warriors. It was brutally familiar, courtesy of Jeremiah Brooks. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was dry. He remembered coming there a captive, in full knowledge of what lay ahead.

  Hastings disabled the invisibility charm as they approached the festival grounds. They were assigned quarters in a permanent structure, a cottage in the manor garden. It was small and comfortable, with two bedrooms and a large room that served as living room, kitchen, and parlor, centered around a large stone fireplace. Jack was cold and tired and grimy after his trip up the mountain. Fortunately, the place had a shower. He spent considerable time under the hot spray, and emerged to find new clothes piled on his bed: heavy canvas pants; a white shirt with full sleeves; and a long tunic, navy blue with a device embroidered on the back and down the sleeves. It was a silver dragon rampant, if Jack recalled his heraldic terminology correctly. He and Nick had spent time studying heraldry a year or two ago. He never thought it would have any practical application. His old clothes, including Mercedes’s vest, were gone.

  Whatever. He was beyond having an opinion about fashion. The clothes fit perfectly, and were lightweight and comfortable. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like a young knight or squire dressed for a feast day. His mind flashed back to the golden-haired warrior from his dream.

  When he returned to the front room, Hastings was just hanging up the telephone. The wizard nodded approvingly when he saw Jack. “You look fit to play a part,” he said. Hastings was dressed in his usual dark colors, but he wore a short cloak in the same midnight blue color as Jack’s tunic, fastened at one shoulder with a silver clasp in the shape of a dragon.

  “Well, the Game is going forward,” Hastings said. “The Red Rose must have managed to get their champion here in one piece, because they are declaring the tournament as we speak, down at the lists. All interested parties are expected to be present. Are you ready?”

  Jack nodded, hoping it was true. “What will happen today?”

  “The bans, or announcement of the tournament, is made by the sponsor putting forward a champion. Any challengers declare themselves. Then the contestants are qualified. Lots of pageantry.” Hastings tossed Jack his cloak, which was still damp, and pulled on his own. “Let’s maintain our anonymity for as long as possible, shall we?” Jack pulled the cloak on over his clothes and tugged the hood up over his damp hair. Hastings carried a large, leather-bound book under his arm. Jack realized with a start that it was his Weirbook.

  Events were moving forward briskly, giving him little time to think. Maybe that’s how they convince young men to go to war, Jack thought. You’re just swept along until you find yourself looking death in the face, and you wonder how it ever happened.

  One of the galleries had been completed alongside the playing field, and a large crowd was already seated there. Many sported devices carrying the white or red rose. Some were in contemporary clothes, but most had dressed in medieval style for the occasion. There were more men than women, and appeared to be mostly young to middle age, but then you could never tell with wizards. He saw no children, and he was glad of that. He was sure it was entirely wizards in the crowd. He could feel the hard push of power from the stands.

  And still, the voices clamored inside his head. Away the warrior. He forced himself to ignore them. You’re going to kill somebody here, or be killed. It was as simple as that.

  Front and center in the stands, there was a small area of box seats roped off for dignitaries. Several finely dressed wizards were seated there. Jessamine Longbranch sat above the judges’ box, surrounded by a crowd in White Rose livery. She was dressed in a green velvet riding dress, cut very low in front, with embroidered white roses and thorns emphasizing the neckline. Her shining black hair was pulled away from her face with a green velvet band. She held something that looked like a baton or a riding crop in her right hand, slapping it absently across her other palm. She didn’t look happy. Jack was glad of the cover of the cloak, given his last encounter with the wizard. He pulled the hood forward to further cover his face. He had to admit, the woman intimidated him.

  Hastings pointed to a man with aristocratic features and dark, close-cropped hair who was leaning back in his seat, gesturing with fine-boned hands, talking to the man next to him. “Claude D’Orsay,” Hastings said. “The others are members of the Wizard Council, who are judges of the field. Dr. Longbranch is representing the White Rose. She is current Holder of the Tournament Cup.”

  Hastings and Jack joined the crowd milling at the edge of the gallery. Several wizards in livery of the Red Rose were clustered together on the field. Jack recognized the gray-bearded wizard from the graveyard, the one with the burned face.

  “Geoffrey Wylie,” Hastings murmured. “Premier wizard of the Red Rose.” There was an intensity about Hastings that hadn’t been there before, like that of a wolf who has caught the scent of blood. Jack recalled what Linda had said, that Wylie had killed Hastings’s sister. “Pity,” Hastings added. “Looks like he’s had some sort of magical accident.” Wylie was reading from a thick, leather-bound book.

  “What are they doing?” Jack whispered to Hastings.

  “They are reading their contestant’s ancestry, proving that he is a legitimate warrior heir to the Weir. That is a first step to qualifying for the tournament.” Hastings broadened his stance and folded his arms under the cloak. “This could take a while.”

  Jack l
ooked around to see if he could spot the other warrior, but couldn’t pick anyone out. Obviously, the Red Rose sponsors were maintaining their own sense of mystery.

  Wylie was fairly far along in the family tree, and it took only ten or fifteen minutes to wrap things up somewhere in the tenth century. He took a few more minutes to outline plans for the tournament, should a challenger appear. It was to be held on Midsummer’s Day, two days hence, two P.M., Raven’s Ghyll Field, under the Rules of Engagement.

  D’Orsay, who was obviously bored with the proceedings, returned his attention to the field when the announcements were finished. The five wizards seated in the boxes held a brief discussion, and then D’Orsay said, “Contingent on documentation of the same, the genealogy is accepted. The Red Rose shall submit said documentation. Contingent on verification of the stone, the warrior appears to qualify.”

  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.”