The Dragon Heir (3 page)

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 against
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.

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 was coming and she didn't have any presents for Grace or John
Robert or Carlene.

Or Seph.

She glanced at her watch and
walked faster. Trinity Square was 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 street lamps. Quaint storefronts
glittered with their holiday offerings 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.

Madison straightened, lifted
her chin, cleared her throat. “Actually, there's something I'd like to
take back, for now, anyway.” Madison shuffled through the bin of matted
drawings, pulled one out, and slid it into her portfolio. She brought the
sticker to Iris, who noted it on Maddie's card. “I have a few other prints
back in my room. I'll bring them in tomorrow.”

She left Magic Hands and
turned down Maple, kicking at chunks of ice thrown up by the snowplow, heading for
the high school.

With any luck, she'd bring in
some tips that evening at the Legends. Business was usually slow in the winter,
but not this year. This year Trinity was like Aspen at the holidays. That's
what cousin Rachel said, anyway. She'd been there, once, at an innkeepers'
convention.

Classes were just letting out
at Trinity High School, and students were clattering down the steps,
splintering off into adjacent streets and climbing onto buses. A few of them
waved—it was a small town, after all, and
they'd seen her with hometown boy Jack Swift and his friends Harmon Fitch and
Will Childers.

Some of the girls studied her
appraisingly, no doubt wondering what the exotic Seph McCauley saw in her. But
most of the faces were empty of opinions about her. Trinity might be a small
town, but compared to Coal Grove, it was a metropolis.

Clutching that welcome cloak
of anonymity around her, Madison cut through the school's crowded lobby to the
main office.

She pulled a manila envelope
out of her portfolio and handed it to the secretary. “For Mr.
Penworthy,” she said. “Progress reports from Dr. Mignon for the
grading period.”

“Dr. Mignon is supposed
to send those directly to me, Miss Moss,” Mr. Penworthy said from the
doorway of his office. “I've told you that before.”

The Trinity High School
principal wore high heeled boots, a Western belt with a silver buckle, and a
string tie. Madison glanced down at her own fancy boots and shrugged. It was
all about scale and context. That's what she told herself, anyway.

Madison paused before she
spoke, afraid of what would leak out. “I … I'm sorry, sir,” Madison
said. “She insisted I give this to you. Said she wanted me to be in the
loop. Said to call her if you had any questions.”

The principal hadn't liked the
idea of supervising Madison's post-secondary program from the start, even
though all he had to do was handle the paperwork.

Mr. Penworthy snatched the
envelope away from his secretary and waved it at Madison. “How do I know your
grades haven't been tampered with?”

Madison bit back the first
words that came to mind. “Well. Um. I guess you could call her. Sir.”
She practically curtsied as she backed out of the office.

You can't afford to get into
any more trouble, she said to herself. You came up here to make a fresh start.

It had started at Coal Grove
High School, with notes left on her locker and slipped into her backpack, and
text messages flying around. Stories that claimed Madison Moss was a witch. Not
the white witch or granny woman traditional in those parts. No. Maddie was an
evil, diabolical harpy who would suck your soul out through your ear and hex
your garden or ensnare your boyfriend.

She had no clue where it was
coming from, but the gossip was widespread and persistent. Kids made signs
against the evil eye in the hallway when she passed. Girls tried to get a lock
of her hair to use for love charms. Boys dared each other to ask her out.

It wasn't even like people
still believed in that kind of thing. It was more like everybody was moonstruck
or something. Madison tried to ignore it, hoping it would wear off or that some
other scandal would come up to talk about.

Then the fires started. At
first, it was tumbledown barns, sheds, and haystacks that went up like tinder,
all around the county. Later, it was occupied barns and hunting cabins and
country churches. There was no putting the fires out. Everything burned to the
dirt. The perpetrators marked each site with a witchcraft symbol—a pentacle, an elven cross, a chalice. Madison didn't
even know what they meant until she looked them up at the library.

Fear swept across the county,
and suspicion focused on Booker Mountain, fed by the rumors that had gone round
before. The police came out and looked for clues, though they didn't seem sure
what to look for. Someone left a cauldron filled with blood in the barnyard.
People left threatening messages on their phone (when they had a phone.)
Someone sneaked into the family graveyard on Booker Mountain and broke some of
the headstones, scribbled threats and profanity on others. A delegation from
the Foursquare Church performed an exorcism in front of their gate until
Madison brought out Jordie's shotgun and waved it at them.

That didn't help.

It was a nightmare that got
worse and worse. Carloads of thrill seekers started following her around,
hoping to catch her in the act. People refused to serve her in restaurants, and
refused to be served by Carlene. What friends she had melted away.

Carlene was finally moved to
action when it looked like she'd lose her job. She called Rachel, and Rachel
offered Madison room and board and a job in Trinity. And her art teacher, Ms.
McGregor, told Madison how she could use college credit to graduate from high
school. Madison left Coalton County at the end of her junior year.

And just like that, the fires
stopped. Which confirmed her guilt, some said.

Her gut twisted up and she
shoved the memory away. She was done with that.

The hallways had cleared by
the time she left the office, and the busses were gone. She eyed the students
hanging out on the front steps, thinking she might see Seph's tall, spare form
among them. But no. He'd said he'd meet her at Corcoran's and she was already
late. Luckily, it was just down the block. She crossed the parking lot and
headed up the street.

She stamped the snow off her
boots in front of Corcoran's Diner, glaring at the plastic reindeer mounted on
the door, its lighted nose glowing cheerfully in the waning afternoon light.
The bells mounted on its collar jangled as she pushed the door open.

Corcoran's was jammed with the
usual after-school crowd. Madison scanned the room—the red leatherette booths along the side, the
battered stools at the soda fountain.

No Seph.

Madison checked her watch. She
was twenty minutes late. Maybe he'd come and gone? She flipped open her cell
phone. No messages.

Harmon Fitch and his
girlfriend, Rosie, were huddled over Fitch's laptop at their usual table in the
front window.

Fitch looked up. “Hey,
Maddie. Pull up a chair.”

He turned the laptop toward
Rosie, who flung back her long dreadlocks and began typing furiously. Probably
hacking into the Pentagon.

Madison shook her head.
“Thanks. I can't stay. I have to get to work.” She shifted from one
foot to the other.

Rosie passed the notebook back
to Fitch. He studied the screen and grinned savagely. “Brilliant. Let's
try this.” His fingers flickered over the keyboard, entering strings of
letters and numbers.

“Um. Have you seen
Seph?” She tilted the portfolio toward Fitch. “He was supposed to
meet me here. I have something for him.”

Fitch's fingers never stopped
moving. “Last I saw him was second period, sleeping through class, as
usual. He cut Calculus this afternoon.”

“He what?”

Fitch left off typing and
leaned back in his chair, regarding her thoughtfully. “He didn't show for
Math, and he wasn't on the absent list. You been keeping him up late or
what?”

Madison flinched, feeling the
blood rush to her face. “Wasn't me.” Then who? She fought back a wave
of jealousy. She'd been avoiding Seph, making excuses. She couldn't complain if
he hung out with someone else.

Fitch shrugged and leaned over
his computer again. “Anyway, he's in trouble. Garrity was pissed. It's the
third time this semester.”

Fear pricked at her, warring
with guilt. It wasn't like him to miss class.

Maybe he was sick.

Even worse, maybe he was sick
because of her.

But how could that be, when
she hadn't seen him in days? He'd texted her yesterday, asking for help with an
art project. He wouldn't ask unless he was desperate. She couldn't say no.