My Lady Queen Aidan Ladhra greeted the kings of Gaul in the great keep! How she glittered in the firelight, her jeweled armor burnished bright by my hand. Her terrible beauty transfixed our guests and struck them dumb with awe. They fell on their faces, and only rose when she begged them to do so in the most gentle voice.
They dined with us, and I must say, my Lady was most disappointed in their conversation. She was gracious as always, but her guests were impossible! She brought in musicians, and they ignored them, eating and belching and singing bawdy songs and slipping silver into their pockets. She spoke of art and sorcerie, and they were only confused. They know nothing of magic. . . .
Jason jumped ahead in the text.
My Lady Aidan sent a kind invitation to the Kings of Britain, inviting them to attend her at her winter court. But they came with armies, and with battle machines of all kinds, and sent an envoy demanding her surrender. It was a patronizing message; clearly they thought her to be stupid and incapable of negotiation. I am afraid my Lady was so nettled that she killed the messenger on the spot and ate him for supper. Then destroyed the armies that came after.
Whoa.
Jason skipped forward again.
Failing in her attempt to find friends among the existing kingdoms, and discouraged by their responses to her friendly overtures, my Lady Aidan has decided to create her own community of peers, artists and scholars gifted with the use of magic, a talent that will pass to their children. I have seen the future in my glass, and I’ve told her this is risky, but my Lady is lonely with only my poor self for companionship. As for me, I require no gift other than her presence.
The mountain groaned and shifted overhead. Although it was cool in the cave, Jason blotted sweat from his face with his sleeve. Conscious of passing time, he hurriedly turned over the fragile pages, his damp fingers leaving spots.
My Lady Aidan tires of the constant disputes among those she has gifted with power. Where she sought companionship, she has gained only troubles. Priceless talents she has given to all, yet they each are jealous of the others. I fear they are conspiring against her, particularly the wizard Demus, who shapes magic with words. I see them cast envious eyes on the treasure she has accumulated. But she will have none of my warnings. She considers these squabblers her children, rightly or wrongly, and will hear no evil about them.
Somewhere along the underground passage, Jason heard rock crash against rock. It was time to go, and he still didn’t know if the book was worth taking. He flipped to the back, looking for the last entry. It appeared to have been scrawled in haste, the pages stained and blurred, as if spotted with tears.
It has happened, as I predicted. Demus and the other ungrateful vipers have poisoned us. My Lady retreated to the great hall in Dragon’s Ghyll to die. I tended her as best I could, but there was nothing I could do. She expired a few hours ago.
She dies childless. Before she passed into sleep, she gave into my hands the Dragonheart, which is now the source of power for all the magical guilds. Despite all, she still has hopes for them. Over my objections, she named me Dragon Heir, and charged me and my descendants to hold the guilds in check and prevent them from visiting destruction on each other and the world. I promised I would to ease her passing, though I am dying myself. I have no love for this task. I would wish that my children have nothing to do with the gifted.
When I hold the Dragonheart stone in my hands, it is as if my mistress still lives. The flame of her spirit burns at its center, safer in this vessel than in any fleshly home, powerful enough to destroy all of her enemies. I only wish I were strong enough to use it.
The dragonhold is surrounded. My children have scattered to the four winds. I dare not send a message to them lest it be intercepted, tho’ I have sent along some small items of value by trusted courier.
Truly, I harbor the bitter and rebellious hope that they thrive and prosper in ignorance of their charge.
Before I die beside my mistress, I will bury the Dragonheart stone in the mountain with such protections as I can lend it. Perhaps chance will put it into the possession of one with the heart and desire to release its full power. That person will seize control of the gifts that have been given. That person will once again reign over the guilds. Or destroy them, as they deserve.
Jason rested the book on his knees. Was this just another of the fantastical legends created to explain a rather twisted heritage?
He set the book aside and peered again into the hollow in the rock, illuminating the niche with the light at his fingertips.
At the back of the niche stood an elaborate pedestal of intricately worked metal, topped by an opal the size of a softball. Gingerly, Jason reached into the niche and lifted the stone off its base.
Jason sat back on his heels, cradling the stone between his hands. It was ovoid in shape, glittering with broad flashes of green and blue and purple fire. It was perfect, crystalline, no flaws in it that he could see. It warmed his fingers, as if flames actually burned at its center, and seemed to hum with power. Long minutes passed while he gazed into its heart, mesmerized. A pulsing current seemed to flow between the stone in his hands and the Weirstone in his chest, reinforcing it. Like the Dragon’s Tooth set into the mountain, only . . . portable.
A performance enhancer? Exactly what he needed.
Leaning forward again, he pulled the metal base from the niche. It was a tangle of mythical beasts, or maybe one mythical beast with multiple heads. Dragons.
Feeling a little giddy, Jason dumped agates from a velvet bag and dropped the stone inside. Ripping a piece of crimson velvet from a bolt, he wrapped the stand carefully. He stuffed them into his backpack. This is mine, he thought.
Sorting quickly through the jewelry, he chose several interesting pieces, including a large gold earring for himself; a Celtic star. He poked loose jewels and jewelry into the empty corners of the bag, then zipped the pack shut. He slung the backpack over one shoulder, listing a little under the weight. He hung the sword in its scabbard over the other shoulder and slid the massive book under one arm. He wished he could carry more.
Around him, the mountain grew increasingly restless, groaning as rock slid against rock, sifting sand and pebbles onto the stone floor. It was as if the Ravenshead recognized the thief at its heart and meant to stop him. Jason was overcome by the notion that he had stayed too long.
He stepped out between the double doors, and they slammed shut behind him.
Great cracks fissured the stone vault overhead, spidering out ahead of him.
Uh-oh.
He charged back toward the entrance to the cave, leaping over debris, dodging falling rock and gravel, twisting and turning down the narrow passageway, feeling the pitch and shudder of the rock beneath his feet. Ahead he saw light, meaning he was almost through.
The mountain shimmied, shivered and quaked. Slivers of stone stung his face. Up ahead, he was horrified to see that the two great slabs of rock that had split to open the cave were sliding, slumping toward one another. The wedge of light was disappearing. He’d be trapped inside the Ravenshead.
He squeezed himself through the collapsing entrance, sliding like an eel, clutching the book close to his body, scraping his elbows and knees, smashing his hands, twisting to free the loaded backpack, dragging the sword after him, metal fittings sparking against stone.
And then he was out, clinging to the icy ledge at the entrance to the cave as the mountain snapped shut behind him.
Jason lay on his face on the rock—the sword, the book, and the backpack beside him, his battered hands leaving bloody smears in the snow.
He allowed himself a few more minutes rest before he levered himself into a sitting position and snuck a look over the edge.
The one-sided battle seemed to be over. The greenish mist was dissipating, shredding into long streamers that swirled away on the wind. The forest still smoldered on the slopes of the ghyll. Wizard fire was notoriously hard to put out.
Jason leaned back agains
t Ravenshead and pulled out another cigarette. He had trouble lighting it. His hands were shaking, and not from the cold. The stone in his backpack provided all the warmth he needed. Somehow, he had to get it out of the ghyll.
Using bungee cords, he bound the book to the outside of the backpack, distributing the weight as best he could. Then he lay down and slept restlessly, the magical stone illuminating his dreams.
* * *
Jason waited until the darkest hour before morning, giving the deadly mist more time to clear. Then he crept down the rockface, fighting the weight of his awkward burden, the sword catching in underbrush and crevices. He breathed out a long sigh of relief when he reached the valley floor.
Raven’s Ghyll Castle was still brilliantly lit, and Jason could see dark figures moving along the walls, no doubt on the alert for a possible attack. Jason weighed the risk of going back the way he came against finding a new way out. He decided to take his chances on the path he knew.
Jason made himself unnoticeable and picked his way up the valley, the weight of the backpack becoming more and more apparent as he struggled along. Every so often the sound of quiet conversation or a faint light through the trees told him there were wizards keeping watch in the woods around him. When he reached the base of the trail, he turned upslope, walking even more carefully. He squinted against the wind, searching the inky shadows under the canopy of pines.
He was so numb with cold, he scarcely felt the trip wire when he brushed it. He was immediately engulfed in a bright, glittering cloud, his formerly unnoticeable self totally revealed, in brilliant outline.
“Ha!” The voice came from behind him.
Acting totally on instinct, Jason dropped the unnoticeable charm and threw up a shield in time to turn a gout of blistering wizard flame. He swung round to confront his attacker.
It was a boy, younger than him, thirteen, maybe, almost pretty, pale blue eyes behind wire rim glasses, snow powdering his blond curls.
Well, crap, Jason thought. The plan was to get out without being spotted.
“I knew you must’ve gone unnoticeable,” the boy crowed. “There’s no way you’d have got through Father’s guards otherwise.”
Jason had stepped off-trail to circle around this new obstacle, but the boy’s words stopped him. “Father’s guards,” Jason repeated. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Devereaux D’Orsay,” the boy said. “I live here. Who are you?”
“Geoffrey Wylie,” Jason said, producing the first wizard name that came to mind. The Red Rose wizard could use a little street cred, anyway.
“You are trespassing, Mr. Wylie,” Devereaux D’Orsay said. He extended his hand imperiously. “Hand over the sword and the backpack.”
“Ri-ight,” Jason said. He went to turn away and Devereaux flung out an immobilization charm that Jason managed to deflect, though it left him stunned and reeling. The kid had talent. Unfortunately.
The boy frowned, drawing himself up to his puny height. “You. Come with me. I’m taking you down to the hold. Father and I will interrogate you and find out what you are doing here and for whom you’re working.”
Jason sighed, releasing a plume of vapor. He and Seph McCauley had killed Gregory Leicester in self defense. He figured he could kill Claude D’Orsay without losing any sleep over it. But not a thirteen-year-old kid. And that meant he’d be leaving a witness behind.
“Just go away, okay?” Jason said, wearily, “and let’s forget this ever happened.”
This seemed to enrage Devereaux D’Orsay. He flung himself at Jason, managing to penetrate his shield and knock him off his feet. They rolled together into a small ravine, a cartoon tangle of arms and legs. Devereaux ripped at him, pulling on the cords around the backpack until the book came free and tumbled loose into the snow.
Jason punched the kid in the nose and blood poured out, distracting little D’Orsay enough so Jason could lay an immobilization charm on him. He managed to extricate himself and stood, looking down at Claude D’Orsay’s immobilized son, wishing he could make him disappear.
“Say hi to Claude for me,” he muttered. “Tell him I’ll stop by again.” There was no time to look for the lost book. Their magical fracas wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Energized by the desire to stay alive, Jason loped up the trail, heading for the road back to Keswick, conscious of the mysterious stone in his backpack.
Behind him, the great shoulder of the mountain lay shrouded in unbroken darkness. The flame at the heart of the Dragon’s Tooth had gone out.
Chapter Two
Sanctuary
Madison Moss picked her way across the icy street, clutching her portfolio close to her body so it wouldn’t catch the wind. The “uniform” she wore for her waitress job at the Legends Inn—a long swishy skirt and lacy Victorian blouse—was impractical for navigating small town sidewalks in a northeastern Ohio winter.
Over top, she wore a fleece-lined barn coat she’d found at the Salvation Army, and on her feet were a pair of tooled red leather boots she’d bought at a sidewalk sale downtown. That was in September, when she’d felt rich.
Now she had $10.55 in her coat pocket. Her book and supply list for spring semester totaled $455.79 plus tax. She could’ve probably ordered online for less, but her credit card was still maxed out from fall.
Back in her room was a bill for health insurance— $150—required by Trinity College. The kinds of jobs her mother, Carlene, could find didn’t offer benefits.
What else? The transmission in Madison’s old pickup was going. She could still get it moving by gunning the engine and shifting directly into second gear from a dead stop.
If she was at home, she’d talk some shade-tree mechanic into fixing it. He’d be afraid to say no. Afraid his shop or house might burn down with his family inside of it.
There were some advantages to being named a witch.
Madison’s stomach clenched up in a familiar way until she could push that thought out of her mind. She was trying to keep too many worries at bay. It was like one of those games at the arcade where the alligators pop up and you slam them with a mallet before they can bite you.
Even with the state paying the tuition for courses she was taking for college credit, and even though she was living with her cousin Rachel for free, and even though she was working as many hours as Rachel would give her at the Legends Inn, she was broke and getting broker. Christmas had come and gone, and she’d spent more than she should have on presents for Grace and John Robert and Carlene.
And Seph.
She glanced at her watch and walked faster. It was late January, but Trinity Square resembled a holiday postcard from the past: snowy commons surrounded by the weathered stone buildings of the college, bows and greenery draped over the old-fashioned streetlamps. Quaint storefronts glittered with post-holiday sales, and shoppers hustled by with bundles and bags.
Totally perfect.
Totally annoying.
But better than home. Back in Coalton County, she was the subject of sermons in hangdog little churches where sweaty-handed preachers used her as a bad example. “Witch,” they shouted. And whispered, “Firestarter.” People crossed the street when they saw her coming. They collected into prissy little groups after she passed by, like gossiping starlings.
Trinity’s sidewalks were crowded with glittering people whose magic glowed through their skins like Christmas lights through layers of snow. They were mostly Anawizard Weir—members of the non-wizard magical guilds who’d taken refuge from the war in the sanctuary of Trinity.
It was a war unnoticed by the Anaweir—non-magical people—but the bloodletting had spread all over the world. It was a running battle between shifting factions of wizards, the nightmare the Covenant had been intended to prevent. Those in the underguilds who refused to participate had fled to Trinity—and were deemed rebels because of it.
Madison didn’t shine, so they never gave her a second glance.
The scents of cinnamon and patchouli teased her
nose as she stepped into the warm interior of Magic Hands, the consignment art shop on the square. Iris Bolingame was at her worktable in the back, soldering glass. Iris was a wizard with stained glass. Literally.
“Hey, Maddie,” Iris said, setting down her work and washing the flux from her hands. “I have to tell you—people love your work. It’s been attracting a lot of interest.”
Madison fingered the beaded earrings hanging from the Christmas tree on the counter and gazed longingly at the jewelry in the glass showcase. “I was just—you know—I wanted to see if any of my pieces sold.”
“Hmmm.” Iris came forward to the counter and riffled through the card file. “Let’s see. Three prints, one watercolor, four boxes of notecards.” She looked up at Madison. “Wow. In just two weeks. That’s great, huh?”
“I was wondering if I could get the money now.”
Iris hesitated. “We usually wait until the end of the month and process all the checks at once, but if it’s an emergency ...”
“Never mind,” Madison said, pretending to examine the kaleidoscopes on the counter. “I was just going to do some shopping is all.” Traitorous tears burned in her eyes. I hate this, she thought, and I’ve done it all my life. Scraping, scrimping, making excuses.
“Are you all right, honey?” Madison looked up and met Iris’s worried eyes.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, willing Iris not to call her on it.
The wizard impulsively reached out for her, then yanked her hand back at the last moment, pretending to fuss with the ornaments that dangled from her long braid. Iris hadn’t been at Second Sister, but she’d certainly heard about it. Wizards were wary of a person who could suck the magic right out of them.
It’s like I have an incurable disease, Maddie thought, and no one knows how contagious it is. Not even me.
“If you have anything else you’d like to place here . . .” Iris’s cheeks were stained pink with embarrassment.
The Dragon Heir Page 3
