The Wizard's Heir (33 page)

The wisps emerging from Aja stuttered, and then retreated.

Rowan pushed and shoved, kicking at the unconscious wizard in his attempt to get back to his feet.

Tybolt tried to gain control of the glass in the wind, but he found it resistant to his will. He needed an incantation of some sort, which he didn’t know.

Something invisible slammed into him, and he was picked up and flung. He cracked his head against the stone wall so hard he saw stars. Magic wrapped around his neck and held him in place, the pressure increasing rapidly. Tybolt flailed his legs and kicked against the wall, but he was helpless to do anything but gag.

Rowan pushed through the wind with ease, striding towards him. “I destroyed half the island trying to kill you. How fortuitous that I won’t have to go looking for you to finish the job.”

Tybolt grappled for control but there was nothing to attack, no fingers to pry from his throat.

He’d pushed back against Alistair in the tree house, and he prepared to flex his magic. Behind Rowan, the door opened and Asher squeezed in. Tybolt gasped for air and tried to keep his eyes away from Asher so as not to betray his presence. He focused on Rowan. “You killed my family.”

He needed to buy Asher a few moments.

“Not your father—not yet. Goodbye, Tybolt.”

The fist of magic around his throat tightened. Asher had an arrow nocked and was taking deliberate steps across the room. He was trying to find the right wind current, Tybolt realized, to carry the arrow to its target. His vision was starting to darken around the edges. Asher let loose.

The silver tip of the arrow flashed, catching Rowan’s attention. He turned. Instead of a deadly strike through the spine, the arrow sank deep into his shoulder.

Rowan yelled and the magic released Tybolt. He crashed to the floor—his knees jammed into his stomach and shoved the air from his lungs. Standing was nearly impossible. He struggled, gasping, while the room swam in nauseating circles.

Rowan jerked the arrow from his shoulder with little more than a grimace and threw it to the floor with a growl.

Asher darted to the side, nocking another arrow. Rowan spat out a string of incantations and waved a hand above his head. There was a creaking and a loud snap. Tybolt looked up to see the large circular candelabra falling. Asher yelped and dove, but he wasn’t fast enough. The giant iron fixture smashed into his leg. The cry was animal-like, and Tybolt didn’t need to look to know the leg was broken.

Rowan was still shouting out commands in words Tybolt had never heard. The ancient language of Deasroc no doubt. The tables and chairs around the room shifted and then screeched as their legs pulled across the floor on a direct path to Asher.

Tybolt had to do something—no Hunter could survive the beating that was on its way. From the window, branches of a tree waved at him.

Of course.

He pulled with everything he had, demanding they capture Rowan. The branches surged into the room.

Rowan scrambled backwards, pushing magic in defense and dropping the attack on Asher. The tree refused to acknowledge Rowan’s superior power, obeying only Tybolt. Rowan’s eyes grew wide, worry visible for the first time.

Tybolt bolted to free Asher. He slid across the floor on his knees, grasping the edge of the chandelier.

“Stop!” Asher cried, holding out his hand.

“We have to get you out.”

“My leg is broken at best. I won’t be any use to you. Leave me.”

The limbs of the tree were woefully too short for what Tybolt had asked of them. They stopped, straining, while the trunk banged uselessly against the window frame over and over again, trying to do as it was commanded. Tybolt got to his feet and stepped closer to Rowan, putting himself between the mad king and Asher.

Rowan quickly realized he was safe. He evaluated the waving branches with narrow eyes. “That is a
very
interesting trick,” he shouted. “But do you know any others? Magic takes years to learn, Tybolt. You’ve only had a few days.”

“I have half of Aja’s power,” Tybolt countered.

“Not the good half.” Rowan flung his arm out, and Tybolt dove to the side to avoid the attack.

Tybolt tried to retaliate, commanding the chairs that Rowan had sent after Asher to take out Rowan. But all it took was one word from Rowan and the furniture shattered. The next second he was flying through the air again and slamming to the ground.

“Stop fighting like a wizard!” Asher shouted. “You’re a Hunter!”

He was right—Tybolt had no idea what he was doing when magic was in play. As he hit the floor, Tybolt felt a pull from beneath him. He couldn’t have explained to anyone how he knew, but beneath this floor he felt a thick root system. The same root system that existed in the tunnels. Thousands of them, big and small. It was exactly what he needed.

He pulled at the organic ropes and willed them to rise. He felt nature respond—but nothing happened. They were blocked by the thick stone and lacked the strength to burst through. Yet another blast slammed into his chest, and Tybolt rolled backwards.

Rowan’s laugh rose. “You’re so pathetic. The heir to Eriroc,” he mocked. “Useless.”

Tybolt landed on his hands and knees. His chest ached from the blow, and he slowly raised his head. He focused in on the circle behind Rowan and whispered another command to the roots below. For this they could do their work quietly beneath the surface.

He could feel them moving, but as Rowan stalked forward, he was struck with a helplessness unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The idea was good, but there was no telling how long the roots would take. And by then he could be dead. He simply wasn’t a good enough wizard to compete with Rowan.

“Tybolt!” Asher yelled again. “Hunter!”

“Enough of this game.” Rowan grabbed the book of spells from the floor. The chanting resumed and a wind filled the room, pulling in the smell of smoke from outside. Something in the village was burning.

The wisps again emerged from Aja’s back. Tybolt had to assume it was magic being ripped from Aja and transferred to Rowan.

Asher was right—it was time to be a Hunter. Tybolt turned and ran straight at the wall. He took several steps straight up and flipped backwards onto the upper tree branches that had entered the room at his bidding. He ran across the limb like a squirrel and leapt into midair, grabbing the end of the chain that had once held the candelabra. He swung, letting go at the height of his arc, and sailed towards the center of the room. Landing a few feet from the ring of wizards, he unsheathed his sword. He nearly charged, then noticed the glowing, interlocking circles engraved into the floor.

Tybolt dropped to a knee, slammed the point of his sword into the stone, and cut a clean line through the symbol. The effect was immediate. Rowan slumped over, gasping.

Tybolt charged forward. He lowered his shoulders and pounded him to the ground. Tybolt straddled the thrashing wizard and raised his sword.

The man smiled—moments away from death and he smiled. Rowan flicked a wrist, and Tybolt was picked up and thrown backwards.

He was growing incredibly weary of that trick.

He landed next to Aja. The blue cloud of magic slipped away from Rowan and settled back into its rightful owner.

“You think that will stop me?” Rowan shouted.

Tybolt got to his feet, sword at the ready, and charged. Rowan reached out a hand and yanked Tybolt’s feet out with a swipe of magic. “You and that damn sword. I’m disappointed in you, Tybolt. Truly, I am. Heir to the greatest power in the land, and you come at me with a sword.”

Tybolt’s weapon was ripped from his grasp and taken under Rowan’s control. It rose in the air and turned, point down. Tybolt tried to back away, but the sword dropped rapidly. He reached up and grabbed the blade, stretching his neck back. It lowered again, slicing through the skin of his palms slowly, and smearing the blade in blood. The tip touched skin. Pain seared though his hands and arms but he refused to let go—better his hands than his throat.

The tree frantically tried to reach him, banging its trunk against the window again. Below him he could feel the roots responding to his distress.

Then the sword ceased its attack and pulled back, quivering. Rowan still strained to force the blade down. Beads of sweat sprung along his brow and mixed with the blood on his face, sending red streams that dripped down his neck. And yet the blade did not obey him.

What was going on?

Aja also stared at the sword. His mouth was unable to form any spells without his tongue, but the will to save his son must have been strong enough to garner power over the weapon that threatened Tybolt’s life.

With the symbols destroyed, whatever power Aja had left was his to wield now.

The sword hovered between the two men. Tybolt placed his palms on the ground and pushed, sliding out from beneath. He quickly got to his feet.

Rowan saw him and used one hand to wrap him in magic, rendering him unable to move. Tybolt swore profusely, urging the roots beneath his feet to work faster. He wouldn’t survive this game long. He was in the middle of a war between two masters, and he wasn’t even an apprentice.

Rowan was losing control. Even with half his magic, Aja was stronger.

Tybolt pushed back with his own magic, swearing as he did. The grasp loosened, but Rowan doubled his efforts and jerked him across the room, placing him between his father and Rowan.

Aja now had full control of the weapon and had released it toward Rowan a split second before. The sword increased in speed as Rowan assisted Aja, pulling it in a path toward Tybolt, who was immobile and out of time for a countermeasure. It was over.

The blade sailed straight for him.

After everything he’d done, all would be lost. He’d always assumed he’d be angry when faced with death, but instead he was wrapped in a deep well of sorrow. He’d failed them all.

Tybolt closed his eyes and flinched as the blade touched his chest, so sharp. He felt his skin separate beneath it and waited for that moment when it would cut through muscle and bone. But there was nothing more. He opened his eyes. The sword hovered, tip against his chest. Tybolt took shallow, gulping breaths, worried that anything more would push the blade in farther.

Rowan laughed, first low and then louder. “Go ahead, Aja, put that sword through your son’s heart. I can see how much it’s costing you to hold it back.”

Aja’s skin was pale and his eyes sunken. Tybolt wasn’t sure how long he could maintain this without the added benefit of words.

“His death is inevitable. Your son can’t compete with my power.”

Aja got that look on his face that Tybolt was so familiar with. Defiance, determination, and a resolve that grew from somewhere deep inside him. Aja shoved his arms out, hands wide. The sword jerked away from Tybolt’s chest and turned in midair, flying straight towards his father. He thought for a second that Aja would catch it with one hand, but it was turned the wrong way. It flew forward, blade first.

Aja spread his arms even wider, pushing his chest out and closing his eyes in anticipation. The sword cut through him, burying itself hilt deep.

Tybolt stood speechless. Aja’s eyes fluttered open, and he gave Tybolt one look, a gentle look. A look he’d craved his whole life. Then the stare faded into nothing, and Aja fell forward, dead.

Rowan raced to retrieve the book from the ground and started shouting the spell again. Wisps rose from Aja’s body as he shouted the last words. But as he grasped at the blue cloud that lifted from Aja’s dead body, his fingers slid through the magic. The cloud surged forward, passing through Rowan and heading for Tybolt.

“No!” Rowan screamed. “No!”

The mist enveloped Tybolt, and fire burned through his veins. His eyes rolled back in his head. Power, such immense power. His nerve endings buzzed, and he felt like he was rising above the world. Alistair had said he’d inherited half the power, but this new half was so much more than he’d experienced.

He opened his eyes and looked at the fire dripping from his fingertips. It didn’t hurt. He was burning on the inside too, burning with pure, unadulterated rage. Undiluted with his compassion and love, it rolled through him with a vengeance.

Rowan stood frozen, staring at Tybolt.

“What’s the matter?” Tybolt said, taking a step forward. “Afraid? Without the extra power you stole the first time, you don’t stand a chance, do you?” He didn’t know the incantations, but there was something else he knew—instinct.

Rowan flipped frantically through the pages in the ancient book of spells. Tybolt looked at the worn brown leather and muttered commands. The book flew out of Rowan’s hands. A branch flipped out and pulled the book deep inside the mess of limbs. “You’ve starved children, murdered innocents, and bred a society of hate while you sat above it all feeding on your cruelty.”

“I won’t let you do this,” Rowan snarled, backing away.

“You can’t stop me.” Tybolt stalked forward, a trail of fire smoldering in his wake. “You condemned wizards to death and left them in the Hold to feed your own power stores.”

Rowan stepped over the first white chalk line of the circle.

“You stole my birthright, imprisoned my father!” Tybolt’s voice rose.

A few more steps and Rowan’s foot crossed over the second chalk circle.

“You murdered my sister and my mother!” he shouted. “You have sentenced hundreds to death under false charges, and now I sentence you.” He reached out a hand and sent several fireballs. Rowan turned away and covered his head. The fire smashed down in three places around his feet.

Tybolt pulled his head high, waiting.

Rowan straightened and looked down, laughing. “You missed. All the power of Eriroc and you…” He trailed off as the floor popped and snapped. Cracks and fractures danced around him, and then the floor crumbled. Rowan tried to leap out of the way, but it was too late. The stones gave way and the king vanished.

Tybolt walked forward until the tips of his shoes hung over the edge. The hole was so deep he couldn’t see the bottom, but he heard the faint sound of Rowan’s shouts. He was still falling. The roots that lined the edges writhed and moved, digging at the dirt to create the hole Tybolt had requested. He thought that killing Rowan would satisfy the fury. But the fire wasn’t just running over his skin—it flowed through his veins.