The Dragon Heir (2 page)

Extending his hand, he
muttered, “Geryman.” Open. The door remained shut.

Jason looked about for tools.
Lifting one of the long leg bones, he came at the door from the side, extending
the bone and poking cautiously through the web of light.

With a sound like a gunshot
the door exploded outward in a blast of flame. Had he been standing at the
threshold, he would have been incinerated. As it was, he almost wet his pants.

When his rocketing pulse had
steadied, he approached the  doorway,  again  from  the  side,  and peered 
through. Beyond the entrance was yet another door, set with six panels of beaten
gold, each engraved with an image. It took a moment for Jason to realize what
he was seeing.

Each engraving depicted one of
the Weirguilds. A beautiful woman with rippling hair and flowing robes extended
her hands toward Jason, smiling. She obviously represented the enchanters, who
had the gift of charm and seduction. A tall, muscled man in a breastplate and
kilt charged forward, swinging a sword. That was the warrior, who excelled in
battle.

In another scene, an old man
gazed into a mirror, tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks. He must be a soothsayer
or seer, who could predict the future, though imperfectly. In the fourth, a
woman ground roots with a mortar and pestle. She was a sorcerer, expert in the
creation and use of magical tools and materials. Finally, a lean-faced man in a
nimbus of light manipulated the strings of a marionette who seemed unaware of
the puppeteer.

Well, there's the wizard,
Jason thought. The only one of the lot who could shape magic with words, and
for that reason most powerful.

The center panel, the largest,
was engraved with a magnificent dragon, clawed forelegs extended and wings
spread.

The legend was that the
founders of the magical guilds had originated in the ghyll as cousins, slaves
to a dragon who ruled the dragonhold. Eventually, by working together, they'd
managed to outsmart the dragon. In some versions they killed it, in others they
put it into a magical sleep. They'd renamed the valley Raven's Ghyll,
preferring to forget that the dragon had ever existed.

Then four of the cousins were
tricked into signing a covenant that made them subservient to the fifth cousin.

The wizard.

By the sixteenth century, the
hierarchy of the magical guilds was well established. The ruling wizards had
organized themselves into the warring houses of the Red and the White Rose,
whose incessant battles decimated the houses over time. The system of
tournaments known as the Game had been launched to limit bloodshed among
wizards. The Dragon House, to which Jason belonged, harked back to a time
before wizards assumed their dominant role.

Jason studied the engraving of
the dragon, knowing such pieces often held important clues. The work had been
done by Old Magic, using an artistry lost to time. Power seemed to ripple under
the dragon's metal scales, and humor and intelligence glittered in its golden
eyes. An elaborate cloak poured in glittering folds down the dragon's back, to
be caught in the arms of a lady who stood just behind the beast.

The lady was well-dressed for
a servant, if that's what she was. Her hair was carefully arranged and she wore
a necklace with a single glittering gemstone set into the metal. Although she
was tiny next to the dragon, she seemed unafraid. She rested one hand on the
dragon's leg in an affectionate way and the dragon's head arced down toward her
as if to continue an intimate conversation.

In a faint continuous script
around the center panel ran the words, “Enter with a virtuous heart, or
not at all.”

Well, that shuts me out, Jason
thought. Though by wizard standards he might qualify.

Who would have made something
so cool and then hidden it in the mountain to be found only by chance? And what
lay behind it?

It's no use. You're going
in. You can't resist.

Taking a deep breath,
extending his hand, he whispered “Geryman” again, expecting
another detonation.

This time, the double doors
swung silently in.

Once again, he used the dyrne
sefa to examine the entrance for magical traps. And found none. Leading
with the leg bone, waving it like a sword, he advanced through the doorway.

It was a storeroom, lined
ceiling-high with barrels, chests and casks, strongboxes and coffers, baskets
and bins.

He stood blinking stupidly for
a moment, then dropped the bone and pried the lid off the nearest barrel.
Recklessly thrusting his hand deep, he let the contents trickle through his
fingers.

Pearls. In all colors, from
precious black to creamy white to pale pink and yellow. Large and round and
perfect. These must be worth a fortune, he thought.

He lifted the lid on a small
brass-bound chest. Emeralds, in a deep green with fiery hearts. A small gold
coffer was filled with diamonds so large that anywhere else he'd assume they
were fake.

There were stones in all
colors, spools of gold chain, both loose gems and jewels in medieval settings.
Coins engraved with the portraits of long-dead kings and queens. Bolts of
velvet and satin shrouded in sleeves of sturdy linen. Cabinets filled with
parchment scrolls, fragile with age, and books in leather bindings. Paintings
in gilded frames were lined four-deep against the walls.

In some of the large baskets
he found the best treasure yet: talismans for protection, amulets for power,
inscribed with spell runes in the mysterious languages of magic. Many were
crafted from the flat black stones familiar from his own collection, the magical
pieces he'd inherited from his mother. Others were made of precious metals—devised by methods now lost to the guilds.

They were carelessly jumbled
together, and he sorted them into piles, his fingers itching to put them to
use. Jason was not particularly powerful, but with these at his disposal, even
Raven's Ghyll Castle might fall.

Was this the legendary hoard
of weapons? It seemed unlikely. The hoard was said to be a living arsenal,
regularly added to and used by the D'Orsays. These things looked like they'd
lain untouched for centuries. While some of the sefas could be used as
weapons, this was mostly fancy work—
jewelry, books, art, gemstones.

Was it possible that D'Orsay
didn't know this was here? Totally possible.

Jason leaned against the wall,
rubbing his chin. Well, now. It wouldn't do for the Roses or D'Orsay to get
hold of it.

He couldn't haul everything
out in one trip, but he couldn't count on coming back, either. He might not
make it out alive this time. And if he were caught, they'd quickly force the
cave's location out of him.

He'd have to focus on smaller
items, and choose carefully. He zipped open his backpack and set it on the cave
floor.

The magical artifacts were the
first priority. He and Hastings and the rest of the Dragon House were in this
war for survival. Anything that kept the other Wizard Houses away from the
sanctuary at Trinity was golden. The rebels could use these amulets to make the
price of conquest too high for Claude D'Orsay or the Roses.

Jason methodically worked his
way through the vault, torn between a growing claustrophobia and the fear he'd overlook
something critical. He wrapped some of the more fragile and dangerous-looking
pieces in strips of cloth he ripped from the bolts of fabric. Then he shoveled
magical jewelry, crystals, mirrors, and scrying stones into the backpack,
trying to be careful, hoping he wouldn't break anything or inadvertently set
something off. It was like loading pipe bombs into a shopping cart.

At the back of the cave, a
sword in a jeweled scabbard stood alone, as if its owner had leaned it against
the wall, meaning to come back and retrieve it. He gripped the hilt gingerly.
The metal tingled in his hand, a kind of magical greeting.

“What have we here?”
Jason muttered, feeling a rising excitement.

The hilt and crosspiece were
of rather plain make, embellished with a Celtic cross on the pommel, centered
with a flat-petaled rose. It was somehow more beautiful for its simplicity.
Jason was no warrior, but he recognized quality when he saw it. As he drew the
blade from its covering, it seemed to ignite, driving the shadows from the
corners.

Could this be one of the seven
great blades?

Of the seven, only one other
was known to exist: Shadowslayer, the blade carried by Jason's friend, the warrior
Jack Swift, of Trinity. Stroking the glittering metal, Jason wished he could
marry himself to a weapon the way Jack did.

But, no. Always better to be a
wizard than a warrior in the hierarchy of the magical guilds.

Sliding the blade back into
its scabbard, he carried it forward and set it next to the bulging backpack.
Now what else? he queried the room.

Niches lined the back wall, in
the blue shadow of the Dragon's Tooth. Some were empty, some displayed
treasures, some were mortared shut. Reasoning that the closed niches might
contain the most valuable contents, he took the time to break them open with
cautious bits of magic. The mountain shuddered uneasily under the assault. Dirt
from above trickled onto his head and shoulders.

A battered wooden chest covered
with a tracery of runes stood in an open niche just under the Weirstone. Jason
lifted it down to the floor of the cave and pried at the lid. Inside was a
collection of scrolls, bound together with linen twine, covered with writing he
couldn't decipher. And a large book secured with a jeweled lock.

Jason wasn't much for books,
and this one looked awkward and heavy, and who knew if it was worth carrying
back with him? Then again, someone had taken the trouble to lock it.

The lock fell apart in his
hands, and the ancient binding protested with a crackling sound as he opened
it. This was almost too easy. The text was written in a flowing hand by a
scribe or scholar. On the title page was scribbled, Of the Last Days of the Glorious Kingdom and How it Passed Into
Memory: A Tragedie.

Spinning light off his
fingers, Jason scanned the first few pages.

It was a journal, kept by the
attendant to some ancient ruler, written in the Language of Magic. He almost
closed the book and set it aside, but something kept him reading.

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.