The Wizard's Heir (18 page)

The sun had set, and Tybolt sat on the edge of the bed in the small treetop cabin they’d given him. He stared down at his hands. He’d been sitting this way for so long his back was aching, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. They’d been so normal yesterday, just hands. Now they were heir to the royal power. It brought him both hope and terror.

What if he could bring rain to the people? What if he found himself in the Hold? What if Auriella hated him? What if he destroyed everything with a power he didn’t understand? The radiance of day continued to dim, and soon he could barely see the outline of his palms.

“I could use a little light,” he muttered.

The tips of his fingers began to glow. Tybolt leapt back on the bed. “No, stop!”

His hand faded.

Tybolt pulled his fingers back up and frowned. “Light.”

The glow returned, illuminating the room. Tybolt turned his hands around in front of his face and smiled. “Now that’s amazing.”

Would Auriella find it amazing? Probably not. He’d just barely gotten her to trust him, and now he’d become the very thing she hated most in this world. He stood and walked to the open window, then leaned on the frame. It didn’t matter if she hated him or not. He wouldn’t leave her there.

He drummed his fingers against the wood, scheming.

Nobody knew he was a wizard besides the wizards in these trees—and not one of them would be marching into the city to announce his true identity any time soon. All he needed to do was return to the castle as if empty-handed from a hunt, then sneak Auriella out. No one would question his presence in a place where he belonged, and he would be back before Alistair had realized he’d left.

He gave a quiet but distinct whistle.

He waited five minutes, then whistled again. After multiple attempts, he’d nearly decided that his horse had returned to the castle—but then he heard a snort over the buzz of insect life. He whistled again. Below him, the dark outline of Widow Maker came into view. Tybolt slipped out the window and silently leapt from tree to tree. Luckily his Hunter abilities didn’t seem to be affected by the appearance of his wizarding ones.

Tybolt dropped to the ground and climbed into the saddle, steering the horse back to the village.

Rowan dressed in black from head to toe. The cloak he chose was old and tattered, and he pulled the hood up to hide his face. He’d told each of his personal guards that the other was coming with him and then left them both at the castle. He walked through the city streets with a hunched back and a shuffling gait. He clutched the hilt of the dagger beneath his cloak, just in case.

In a different lifetime he would’ve been saddened by the suffering around him. But that was years ago. He was no longer Addison, son of Ragnar the Wise. He was Rowan, King of Eriroc.

He glanced in windows as he passed to find empty tables and children’s hungry eyes. The tears of a child really should’ve moved his soul to pity, but his childhood tears had moved no one. They’d been as indifferent to his pain as he was to theirs.

Rowan slipped down an ally, then another, and headed towards the front of the city. Matthew sat inside the gate, slouched on his chair and half asleep, completely unaware of the speed with which the stonecutter was working next to him. That was good. The whole city would be encased by morning.

He crossed the cobblestone street and slipped behind the home that hid the graveyard from view. It was surrounded by an old iron fence and a gate that stood waist high. Many of the headstones had cracked and crumbled during the Fracture, and some leaned to one side or the other. The graveyard was overgrown with brittle weeds and dry grass, because no one cared enough to manage its upkeep.

The headstone Rowan was looking for was overgrown, but not because he didn’t care. Nothing was beneath this headstone, just dirt. There had been nothing left to bury. But he couldn’t let his father go unrecognized. He’d put up a headstone and then allowed it to become overrun as well. It would’ve been too suspicious if someone were to discover the well-tended gravestone of a man whose only heir was dead.

The clink of a chisel and hammer started back up. Rowan knelt and pushed back the weeds to look upon the inscription.

Ragnar Mossentein. Reader of all that was sacred.

Secret
would have been a better choice of word than
sacred
. The texts in the ancient wizarding books were not meant for all eyes, but his father had taught him, just as
his
father had taught him. Rowan had been young and smart, catching onto every word and phrase. His father had said he was born for languages.

They’d been in Deasroc for a meeting with the king, trying to gain peace between the two islands, when his father was murdered. Rowan had been forced into hiding for years. He’d grown from a boy to a man, but he’d slipped up and nearly been killed by a mob of angry peasants who believed him to be a demon.

If he’d had the power then that he had now, he would’ve been able to defend himself against the hoard. The only reason he’d lived was the intervention of the king’s guard. They’d hauled him before the King of Deasroc, and once again Rowan had thought his time was up, but the king had found a use for him. He’d sent Rowan back to Eriroc to take the throne—a demon working for you was much preferable to a demon you couldn’t control—and the beginning of a new life was born.

But Rowan worked for no one.

“Father, I was so close.” He leaned his face against the headstone. “There’s a legitimate heir. Part of Aja’s power has already transferred. If I do the ceremony, I won’t have enough. I need Aja and the heir.” He ran his finger down the cold plane of stone, wishing his father was still here. He would know exactly what to do, what spells to use. “Who is it? Where would Aja have hidden his heir? You knew him better than anyone.”

The grasses around him rustled with useless murmurings—devoid of answers.

Widow Maker snorted and shook his head against the bit, reprimanding Tybolt for how hard he was pushing him. As they approached the treacherous decent into Eriroc, Widow Maker was forced to walk, picking his way down the path. It was everything Tybolt could do not to snap the reins until they reached the bottom.

They tore towards the entrance. He pulled the horse back, and they skidded towards the gate in a puff of dry dust.

“Matthew,” he hissed. “Matthew!”

Widow Maker stopped prancing, and Tybolt heard clinking sounds just inside, metal against stone. Then came the sound of keys, and the door opened a fraction. Tybolt looked through the crack. “Open the gate, Matthew.”

Matthew scowled at him. “King Rowan was furious that I let you out.

“I’m sorry, it was an emergency. And I have another one right now, so open the gate!”

Matthew pulled back. The sound of metal clinking against stone resumed as the gates swung open. Tybolt snapped the reins and glanced down at the stonecutter as they trotted forward. He was stretched out on the ground with a chisel and a hammer, working on the side of the entrance.

The old man dropped his chisel. “There, finished.”

Immediately a force gripped Tybolt the likes of which he’d never experienced before. It felt like his insides were being pulled out through his mouth, ears, eyes—any orifice they could escape from. The pain was excruciating.

He tried to grip the reins, but his fingers spasmed and he toppled to the ground. He was vaguely aware of slamming into the bricks, but the impact barely registered over his pain. The feeling of magic within himself that he’d so recently acquired diminished to nearly nothing. He rolled over on the ground, gasping, as he tried to focus on what the stonecutter had been working on.

Two small intertwined circles were engraved on the wall, emitting a faint purple glow.

Tybolt struggled to his knees. Using shaky hands, he grabbed the stirrups and pulled himself to his feet.

The stonecutter was hunched over in what looked to be pain as well, but he extended a finger in Tybolt’s direction. “Wizard,” he said quietly, then shouted louder, “Wizard!”

Matthew looked between Tybolt and the old man, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He drew his sword with one hand and the small horn that hung from his belt with the other.

“Matthew,” Tybolt said. “You know me, I can’t possibly be a—”

Matthew brought the horn to his lips.

“No!” Tybolt tried to step forward, but his legs were useless. If he let go of the saddle horn, he’d crumble.

The horn sounded, a high clear tone that carried through the village. The sound that announced to all that a wizard was within the walls.

Tybolt swore and used every ounce of energy he had to pull himself back on his horse. Matthew stepped between him and the exit. Tybolt pulled his own sword and held it level to Matthew’s eyes. “Don’t make me do this.” He probably didn’t have enough strength to do any damage—just keeping his arm steady took immense effort. But Matthew didn’t need to know that.

“I can’t let you go.”

“You’ll let me go. You can be dead or alive as I leave—it’s your choice.” Tybolt glanced quickly at the old man who had flattened himself against the wall to stay as clear of this battle as he could.

Matthew hesitated, and his sword dropped a few inches. Tybolt yanked Widow Maker’s reins, spinning him to one side. Using the horse’s momentum instead of his own, Tybolt knocked Matthew upside the temple with the hilt.  He crumbled to the ground, blood blooming under his eye. Tybolt snapped the reins and burst out of the city. The moment he passed the barrier where the two circles had been carved, the pain and dizziness left him and his magic returned.

Rowan paced back and forth amongst the old headstones, unable to make sense of the puzzle. He pulled from his amulet, wanting nothing more than to feel the comfort of power. Suddenly his magic increased, returning to the levels it had been before Aja’s heir had inherited it. The horn sounded.

His head snapped up. The heir was here.

Rowan ran towards the gate, his heart pounding with adrenalin. He slowed to turn the corner of the building, making sure his hood was up and his face covered before he looked toward the gate.