The Dragon Heir (26 page)

Madison put her hand on his
arm. “Since you're friends, I think you ought to believe him.” She
hesitated, then rushed ahead. “Me—I'm
a mess. I miss Seph so much. I want to be with him, but I can't. And the
Dragonheart—it's like an itch I can't scratch. I can't seem to get it out of my
mind.”

Jason stared at her. That was
it exactly. They both lusted after the stone, but it couldn't be for the same
reason. Jason looked on it as some kind of tonic. He could feel the flow of
power to his Weirstone, every minute of the day. But Madison didn't have a
Weirstone.

Just then Ophelia raised her
head and looked toward the door. A car rattled into the yard and stopped.

What now? Jason thought. I
mean, this is getting kind of relentless. He held up a finger, signaling for
Madison to stay put, and crossed to the door, peering through the screen.

Two people were climbing out
of an old Jeep that he instantly recognized. Breathing a long sigh of relief,
he walked out onto the porch.

“Jason!” Harmon
Fitch crowed, a smile spreading across his face. He turned to Will Childers and
slapped hands. “The dude's alive! That's the first good news we've had in
a while.”

They sat around the kitchen
table. Jason seemed nervous and distracted, like he was trying to think up
answers to the questions he knew were coming. Madison delayed the interrogation
as long as she could, making small talk, rooting in the refrigerator for
drinks, pounding ice cube trays on the counter, and dumping chips into a
basket.

Finally, twitchy Fitch could
stand it no longer. “In case you're wondering why we're here,” he
said, “everybody's been worried because we haven't heard from you.”

“What have you guys been
doing?” Will asked. “Why didn't you call?”

Well, Madison thought, because
Jason begged me not to tell, and threatened to tell about Grace being an
elicitor, if I did. She looked at Jason pointedly, waiting for him to speak,
while he looked like he kind of hoped she'd handle it.

“I did e-mail
Seph,” she said finally. “And wrote a lot of letters.”

“But you said
Jason never showed,” Will said.

“Well. Um. I guess
so,” Madison stammered. “But…”

“It was my fault,”
Jason broke in. “I was an idiot. I wouldn't let her call. I didn't want
anyone to know I was here.”

Will lifted an eyebrow.
“You wouldn't let her? Did you tie her hand-and-foot or what?”

“Something like
that.” Color stained Jason's cheeks.

He's actually blushing, Madison
thought. That's a first.

“That's messed up,”
Fitch said. “What's the matter with you? Everybody was going crazy. Some
people said you took off.” Fitch removed his glasses and polished them on
his shirttail. “But Seph wouldn't believe it. He was convinced something
happened to you.”

“Well.” Jason looked
at Madison, then back at Fitch. “Something did.”

So they told Will and Fitch
about Barber, and Jason's injury, and Brice Roper.

“You should've told us,”
Will said, a betrayed look on his face. “Nick or Mercedes or somebody
could have helped you.”

“I was going to
run off, okay?” Jason's voice rose. “And I would've if I
hadn't been hurt. I wanted to get away from the whole Trinity scene. And then,
after, I was…um … out of my head.” He stared down at the table. “I'm
better now.”

Fitch eyed him, then nodded
grudgingly. “Well,” he said, “seems like things are almost as
dangerous down here as at home.”

Madison's mouth went dry as
cotton. “Why? What's going on in Trinity?”

“Well, for one thing,
Barber's been sighted up our way,” Will said. “Jack and Ellen and
Seph got into this big battle with him in some old warehouse in Cleveland and
practically burned the place down.”

“What?” Madison
looked from Will to Fitch. “How did that happen? Are they all right?”

“They're okay,” Will
said, rearing back under the onslaught of questions. “Just some scrapes
and burns,” he said. “Routine for them.”

“And?” Jason
demanded. “What about Barber?”

“He got away.” Will
hesitated. “Leesha Middleton told us that he was after you.”

Jason's face seemed to drain
of its usual animation, and his blue eyes went narrow and hard. “Did
she?” he said, in a cold, disinterested voice.

“She was the one that led
them to Barber,” Fitch added, frowning at Jason.

“That was Barber's
mistake,” Jason said lightly. “Trusting Leesha.” Hamlet nudged
him, whining, and he scratched the dog behind the ears.

What's going on? Madison
wondered. Did Jason think Leesha had something to do with…

“Anyway,” Fitch
persisted. “Leesha's really helped out, and I wanted you to know. I know
some of us haven't exactly…welcomed her back, but…”

“So what else is going
on?” Jason broke in, still focusing on the dog.

Will shrugged. “Mercedes
is building a magical wall around Trinity. Well, with a lot of help, I guess.
Not that we've actually seen it, or anything.”

“They're building a wall?”
Jason looked from Will to Fitch. “Are you talking about the
boundary?”

Will shrugged his shoulders in
a how should I know way. “Guess it's different. Like a real wall.
Real for the Weir, anyway.”

“See, the thing is,
Jason, they could really use your help,” Fitch said. “I don't know
much about it, but seems there's a real shortage of wizards. Mr. Hastings is
still gone, and it's just Seph and Nick and Iris, and a few other wizards,
doing it all. Jack's helping some, but once the warriors start manning the
gate, he won't be around much. It takes a lot of magic, I guess, to prop up the
wall.”

“You need to come back
with us,” Fitch said. He smiled crookedly. “I'll tell you one thing—I don't want to be the one to tell Aunt Linda about
her car.”

Jason hesitated. Madison
touched his hand and smiled at him encouragingly. “Seems like Barber's
left, anyway,” she said. “It's your call, but I think you should
go.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I think
so, too.” He actually looked relieved, like he'd been carrying around
something heavy and just set it down.

“Seph wants you to come
back, too, Madison,” Fitch said.

Madison shook her head,
feeling even lonelier than before Jason came. She was going to have to settle
things once and for all with Brice Roper. And her mother. Somehow. “I
can't leave. If Brice finds out I'm gone, he might have another go at the
house. But tell Seph … I really miss him.”

It was so lame. So inadequate.
But it was all she had.

Spring was usually a golden
time at Raven's Ghyll. The bitter winter winds that roared down out of Scotland
departed in favor of soft, spring breezes laden with the scent of high country
flowers. Clear streams fed by melting snow tumbled out of the heights. Best of
all, the tourists who plagued the rest of the Lake District in fine weather
came nowhere near. But this was a barren season. The tall grass that rippled
across the ghyll withered and turned brown, beaten down by cold and unrelenting
rains. Buds shriveled on the trees, reneging on their promise of flowers. Birds
and wildlife disappeared. Most nights, the furnace in the cellar rattled into
life, and the servants kindled the fire on the hearth in a vain effort to warm
the sitting room. D'Orsay was forced to spell his servants to keep them from
running off to friendlier climes. It would be risky to bring in new, who might
be assassins working for the Roses. Wizard lights glittered on the surrounding
hills, evidence that the Roses hadn't lifted their siege.

They'd heard nothing from
Alicia Middleton and had consequently lost track of Warren Barber. Which might
mean they were dead, the new Covenant taken or lost. As for the Dragonheart,
D'Orsay had to assume it was still in the sanctuary. Unless the Roses held that
also.

He and Dev rattled around
Raven's Ghyll Castle, snapping at each other—they
who had always got on so famously.

Then, finally, they had a
message from the Roses. Not a demand for surrender, as D'Orsay expected, but a
request for a meeting.

It took days to negotiate the
terms. Would it be safer to hold it in Raven's Ghyll, or would that open the
ghyll to invasion? Could the D'Orsays feel secure in a meeting outside of the
ghyll? Would it be necessary to hold the meeting in the nude in order to
prevent the smuggling in of sefas?

Finally, the terms were nailed
down, mostly because both sides were eager to meet and resolve the impasse.
They met in a high meadow that overlooked the ghyll, a site scoured clean by
both sides prior to the event.

It was usually a lovely spot
in spring, starred with bluebells and buttercups. But now it was sere and
silent, like the site of some horrible industrial accident.

It was an intimate gathering—D'Orsay and Devereaux, Jessamine Longbranch of the
White Rose, and Geoffrey Wylie of the Red Rose. The last time they'd all been
together had been at Second Sister—when D'Orsay and Leicester's coup against
the Roses had nearly succeeded.

It was a spare meeting,
without ceremony or hospitality, since neither side trusted the other enough to
break bread together. They met in a tent-like pavilion with a planked wood
floor covered in wool rugs.

“Jessamine.
Pleasure.” D'Orsay gripped her gloved hands and kissed her cheek. He
nodded curtly to Wylie. “Geoffrey. This is my son, Devereaux.”

Poor Dev hunched his shoulders
and stuck his hands in his pockets. As usual, he was awkward and tongue-tied in
company.

They settled into a circle of
chairs. A grate at the center spilled welcome warmth into the chill.

“I don't ever remember it
being this nasty up here in April,” Jessamine said, shivering, despite her
layers of leather and fur. “Can't you do something about it?” As if
the weather were a failure of his hospitality.

“The weather is unusually
cold,” D'Orsay admitted. “But then, as the poet says, 'April is the
cruelest month.' I assume you didn't come up here to discuss the weather.
Except as it relates to other events.”

Jess jumped on that like a
trout on a mayfly. “What do you mean by that?”

“You first, my
dear,” D'Orsay said graciously.

“We know you have the
Covenant,” Jessamine said bluntly. “But you're unable to consecrate
it.”

D'Orsay tilted his head.
“What makes you think that?”

“Because you would have already
done so, if you could.”

“All right,” D'Orsay
said, with the air of a man who is humoring difficult guests. “So why are
you here? Why not just let us dwindle away into obscurity?”

“Because you hold the
ghyll. The ghyll houses the Weirstone. And something's gone wrong.”

“Wrong?” D'Orsay
felt ludicrous, like the captain of a sinking ship, still manipulating the
wheel as the deck sloshed under the waves.

Wylie lifted both hands,
indicating their surroundings. “Please. You are presiding over a wasteland,
Claude. When I think of what it used to be…”

“Don't be overdramatic,
Geoffrey,” D'Orsay said. “This is merely the consequence of unusually
foul weather and incompetent gardeners.”

Longbranch pressed her fingers
into her chest. “The Weirstone is dark. I can usually feel its presence,
anywhere in Cumbria. And, now? Nothing.” She shivered. “It's as if
the source of our power has moved, as if it's at a great distance.”

In point of fact, D'Orsay had
already made his decision. Politics made strange bedfellows, and he was
definitely running out of options. He needed to get out of the ghyll, or he and
Dev might just slit each other's throats.

“I've noticed it,
too,” D'Orsay conceded. “It feels like true north has shifted,
doesn't it?”

“The question is,
why?” Wylie settled back in his seat

“Perhaps it's the effect
of the siege,” D'Orsay suggested. “What's it been, six months?”

“You could
surrender,” Longbranch suggested. “Just a thought.”

D'Orsay looked up at the
surrounding hills, at the wizard fires blazing there. “You could withdraw
your forces.”

“It's not because of the
siege,” Wylie said impatiently. “The shift in power was rather
sudden. Back in midwinter, I believe.”

“Do you really want to
know who's responsible?” D'Orsay asked, emitting a bit of power to warm
his feet.

“Who?” Longbranch
leaned forward.

“Jason Haley.”

“Jason Haley?” Wylie
frowned. “The one from Second Sister?”

“The same.”

“What about him?”
Longbranch demanded.

“He stole the
Dragonheart.”

Longbranch and Wylie looked at
each other. “What's that?” Wylie asked. “I never heard of
it.”

“The magical heart of the
ghyll. A weapon of infinite capability. The source of power for all the
Weirguilds.”

“I never heard of
it,” Wylie repeated. “Don't tell me you believe those old stories
about mythical beasts spitting flames. And even if you do, that was a long time
ago.”

“Whether I believe in
dragons or not is irrelevant. The point is, the Dragonheart is a powerful sefa
that sat under the Weirstone on my ancestral lands for centuries. Somehow,
it fueled the Weirstone. The Weirstone is still there, but it's gone
dark.”

“So you knew this stone
was there, all along?” Longbranch asked.

It was easier just to lie.
“Yes,” D'Orsay said. “But I've only recently become aware of its
full power.”

“Why are you
telling them this, Father?” Devereaux demanded.

“It's all right,
Dev,” D'Orsay said, patting Dev on the shoulder. Dev flinched away.

“Why are you telling
us?” Wylie asked suspiciously.

“Because the time has
come for us to work together,” D'Orsay said. “I'm trapped, as you
know, in the ghyll. I need your cooperation in order to go after the
stone.”

“Do you have any idea
where it is?” Wylie asked.

“In the sanctuary, I
presume,” D'Orsay said. “Unless they've moved it. For a time, I had
an operative in Trinity. I know Haley returned there after looting the ghyll,
and I did receive reports that magical items were hidden there.”

“All right,”
Longbranch said. “Now that you've told us, -why do we need your
involvement? We can go and get the piece ourselves.”

D'Orsay had anticipated this,
also. “Two reasons,” he said. “I hold the journal kept by the
person who hid the stone in the ghyll, which provides details about its use.
Powerful as it is, one doesn't want to make an error, does one?” Perhaps
he was exaggerating the value of the journal a bit, but such was the nature of
negotiation.

“And the second
reason?”

“The Dragonheart is only
one piece. Perhaps you've heard of the Raven's Ghyll hoard?”

“Another legend?”
Wylie stuffed his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders against the
cold.

“Not at all. The hoard
includes a treasure trove of magical artifacts and sefas accumulated
since the founding of the guilds.”

“And we would need these
because…?” Longbranch feigned indifference, but her eyes glittered
greedily.

“The Dragonheart is said
to be the most powerful sefa known, capable of destroying us all. We
don't know if the servant guilds realize how powerful it is, or how to use it.
Still, it would seem prudent to go armed to any confrontation with them.”

“If Hastings is involved,
we can assume he has it sorted out,” Wylie said, his mouth twisting in
distaste.

“My operatives in Trinity
tell me he's not there,” Jessamine said. “Nor is Linda Downey.”

“One wonders who is in
charge,” D'Orsay murmured.

“Snowbeard's there,”
Jessamine said. “Otherwise…” She
hesitated, then ticked them off on her
gloved fingers. “It's the boy, McCauley, basically. And Iris Bolingame.
Jason Haley seems to have disappeared. Perhaps there are other wizards. Jack
Swift and Ellen Stephenson have organized an army of ghosts.” She rolled
her eyes.

“Eliminate McCauley, and
the whole thing falls apart,” Wylie said. “He would seem to be the
strongest link.”

How hard could it be? D'Orsay
thought. “Don't you have anyone inside the sanctuary?” he asked
delicately. “An all-out assault may not be the way to go.”

“We've sent in
assassins,” Wylie said bluntly. “They never returned, never reported
back. They must have been identified and eliminated immediately.”

“McCauley seems to be
well-protected,” Longbranch mused. “He is just a boy, after
all.”

“You sure it's not
Hastings?” D'Orsay asked, suppressing a shudder.

Wylie shook his head. “As
far as we know, Hastings and Downey are somewhere in Europe.”

They all glanced over their
shoulders, as if the pair might at that moment be sneaking up on them.

“Well,” Jessamine
said, smiling, “perhaps we can just walk in and take it, then.”

Now there were smiles all
around.

The wind howled over the
Ravenshead and the pavilion shuddered under its force. Fat droplets of rain
splattered against the canvas. D'Orsay gestured, and the flames in the grate
burned hotter.

“Father.” Devereaux
spoke up again. “Why should we give them anything? They've got nothing to
trade.”

Clever boy, D'Orsay thought
fondly.

“We offer you the freedom
to come and go,” Jessamine said. “As your father no doubt realizes.
If we secure the Dragonheart on our own, your Covenant is worthless. Join us,
and we'll negotiate an amended Covenant that distributes power among us. It
seems the stone has been the source of power all along, while we've been slaves
to old myths and legends about dragons. There'll be no need to adhere to the
old restrictions, to share power outside our circle.” She fingered the
emerald that hung around her neck. “The possibilities are limitless.”

Claude D'Orsay smiled. It was
a familiar playing field, at least. Another proposed wizard agreement involving
terms to be negotiated later. With assassination and bloodshed, no doubt. And,
given the fact that he held no cards at all, not even the Covenant, it was
attractive.

“Surely we can work
something out,” D'Orsay said, looking at each of the players in turn.

“Father,” Devereaux protested. “We can't just let…”

“Later, Dev,”
D'Orsay said, raising his hand.

Dev subsided, his hands
twitching with irritation.

D'Orsay turned to the others.
“My son and I will inventory the hoard and arrange for an in-person
survey.”

Following discussion of a few
more logistics, the meeting broke up. The D'Orsays sent the Roses on their way,
and set the servants to dismantling the pavilion. D'Orsay and Dev descended
into the ghyll, eager to retire to the fireside in the castle.

“So,” D'Orsay said,
when they'd reached the valley floor, “You don't like the idea of sharing
the hoard with the Roses.”

“Why should we? It
belongs to us. Our family.”

“We have to get out of
this bloody ghyll, Dev. Whatever the Dragonheart is, whatever it does, we have to get
it back. Then, we're players. We've not heard from Alicia in weeks. So it's not
likely we can succeed without the Roses.”

“What do you think
happened to that girl? Alicia?”

“Hard to say. It's risky
out there, Dev. That's why I've kept you close.”

“She goes wherever she likes. She does whatever she
pleases,” Devereaux said enviously.

“And she may very
well be dead,” D'Orsay replied testily. What had gotten into Dev lately?

Dev paused at the foot of the
gardens leading up to the castle. “That's weird,” he said. “The
drawbridge is up and the gate is shut.”

D'Orsay blinked away rain and
peered up at the castle. The drawbridge had been little more than a decorative
piece since the signing of the Covenant centuries ago.

In fact, he'd last closed the
drawbridge the night Jason Haley broke into the ghyll. After all, he had wards
and sentries to warn him of danger.

The drawbridge was closed now.

“What the devil?”
D'Orsay muttered. “Perhaps Stephen is being overzealous tonight, given our
visitors.”

“Well, he should be
looking out for us,” Dev said. “He should have noticed we were
coming, and opened the gate.” Dev was intolerant of poor service from the
staff. He began speed-walking up the road, probably meaning to give Stephen a
piece of his mind.

“Devereaux! Wait!”
D'Orsay hissed, but the boy was already way out ahead of him. D'Orsay was
puffing by the time he reached the garden shed near the top of the garden. He
leaned on the wall of the shed, glancing inside as he did so, and noticed, tucked
beneath one of the benches, a body, stripped to its undergarments. And, further
in, another.