The Wizard's Heir (6 page)

By the time Tybolt arrived at the theater, it was filled to overflowing. The area in the front that was reserved for Hunters was also full. Much to Tybolt’s displeasure, he spotted Auriella sitting next to Terric, but to his delight she didn’t seem to be enjoying it. Her posture was stiff and her jaw set. She was probably the only woman in all of Eriroc, Hunter or not, to be anything other than elated sitting next to Terric.

Rather than crawl over half the village in an attempt to squeeze onto the edge of the Hunters’ section, he took a seat near the exit. The only reason it was still available was because this particular section of stone bench had cracked and settled lower than the rest, leaving the view partially blocked by those in front. Which, frankly, wasn’t a disadvantage as far as Tybolt was concerned.

The bells tolled, signifying the start of the production, and the crowd quieted. The actor playing Aja, the former wizard king, strolled onto the stage wearing the colors of the royal family—purple and green. Aja sneered at the crowd, and Tybolt noticed a new addition to the costume this year: demon horns.

The wizard raised his arms and threw his head back, signifying the use of magic to bring weather down—the same magic once used to sustain the people would now be used to destroy them. The stagehands in the wings shook sheets of metal and banged drums, filling the amphitheater with the sounds of thunder and lightning. Painted blocks, stacked to represent the village, crashed down in the recreation of the Fracture. The day Tybolt’s family had died.

Wizards had been on the throne as far back as history recorded. Because of their power, crops had thrived and people had prospered. Though only the royal family held power to control the weather, all wizard abilities large or small had been valued as treasures. That all changed the day Aja used his powers to destroy everything. Wizards moved from revered to despised in one night.

A foul smell pulled him from his thoughts. Tybolt wrinkled his nose at the old man in the filthy brown burlap robe who sat next to him reeking of alcohol and body odor.

The old man pointed to the actor on stage. “That’s not exactly how it happened,” he slurred.

Tybolt rolled his eyes. “Gamel, you’re drunk.”

“I am drunk, but that doesn’t make me wrong. That’s not how it happened.” He was speaking louder than he should, and those on the bench in front of them turned around. Tybolt smiled and nodded, then motioned for them to pay attention to the play. He elbowed Gamel.

“I would know,” Gamel continued. “I was there.”

“Gamel,” Tybolt hissed in his ear. “You’ll get yourself hanged, old man.”

There was a flash of sobriety and a fierce intelligence in Gamel’s eyes. He seized Tybolt’s shirt and pulled him closer. “I was there,” he breathed heavily, “and I am telling you, Aja did not cause the Fracture.”

Tybolt jerked backwards, his nostrils burning.

Howls of agony came from the stage as the actors playing the villagers cried over their homes and farms that had been reduced to nothing. Others wailed over the bodies of the many who had been lost. The actor portraying Rowan, a simple villager at the time, rushed onto the stage to combat Aja.

“I was there.” The slur was gone, and Tybolt met the old man’s gaze.

One of the villagers seated in front of them huffed and stood, heading toward the guards that stood around the theater.

“Gamel, shut up.”

“It’s true, and I won’t pretend to not know the truth anymore. Aja didn’t do it.” He grinned, showing off rotting teeth. “But I know who diiid,” Gamel sang. “It was Alistair, and I can take you to him.”

“Alistair!”

Gamel smiled and stood. “That’s not the only secret I know, boy.” He shuffled away, surprisingly quick for an old drunk man.

Tybolt sat there, stunned. On the stage, Rowan stood over the beaten Aja and mimed cutting out his tongue. Aja thrashed on the ground and cupped his mouth as the villagers cheered and begged Rowan to be king.

Alistair
. If Gamel really did know where he was, Tybolt could end the suffering. Capture Alistair and the storms would be able to come inland. He could almost see the clouds breaking open above Eriroc, watering the land and finally producing enough food to feed the starving.

“Lord Tybolt.” The voice jerked him from his thoughts.

“Yes?”

Two guards stood at his side. “Where is the man you were just talking to?”

Tybolt looked over the guards’ shoulders at the villager who’d reported the insubordination of an old drunk. “I have no idea. He went that way.” Tybolt pointed. “He shouldn’t be that hard to catch.”

The guards headed off, shouldering their way through the crowd.

Tybolt almost laughed. Gamel could vanish into a crowd better than anyone he knew. He crossed his arms and turned back to the stage. Actors had donned dark wigs to represent the Hunters who’d been sent out by the new King Rowan to find the wizards—to bring them to justice and ensure that what happened on the night of the Fracture never happened again.

The people in the arena stood and cheered, waving their arms as if salvation was at hand. In the midst of this glory, King Rowan himself walked onstage to acknowledge the praise of his subjects.

His starving subjects.

The first Festival had been a day of grieving and remorse, a day of remembrance for those lost. But as the food had waned, people began losing their patience. Festival had then changed to a celebration of Rowan’s rule—of his miraculous conquering of Aja and his continuing capture of the wizards.

The king was a master at ensuring the people kept their focus where he wanted it—on their hatred of wizards and on his part in ridding the world of them—instead of on their own starving stomachs.

Tybolt was not so easily distracted. He saw everything and it made him ill. If anyone outside the palace walls knew the luxury the king and his Hunters enjoyed, they would be much harder to refocus.

King Rowan left the stage, and the people began to file out. Tybolt watched them go by with a heavy heart. Some were so thin, with hunched posture and mincing steps, he was worried they would fall over. But he couldn’t worry about everyone—he would explode. But it did remind him that he needed to pay a visit to the bar tonight to ensure the little boy’s father found his way home.

“Do you ever bathe?”

Tybolt looked up at Auriella and smiled. “I’ve heard the grime gives a more…rugged look.”

“Rugged. Hmmm, I see.”

“Don’t you agree?” He stood.

She looked him up and down and wrinkled her nose. “If by ‘rugged’ you mean a smell that cannot be properly defined without being offensive, then…yes.”

“You’re so cruel.” He sighed dramatically. “I should be used to it by now.”

“Do clean up before lunch.”

“Of course, my lady.” He bowed deeply.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love it.”

He chuckled as she shoved past him. “Auriella! I would love to escort you to the feast.”

She stopped, her head turned just enough that he could see a ghost of a smile on her face before she walked away. Her reaction, however mild, was not negative, and he couldn’t hold back his grin.

“I’ll meet you by the picture window at the top of the stairs,” he shouted into the crowd.

Terric glared at him from the Hunters’ section. It was well known that Terric had set his sights on Auriella some time ago. The fact that he could not secure her affections was a constant thorn in his side, and a never ceasing point of enjoyment for Tybolt. He bit back the laughter and a mocking wave he wanted to use, instead joining the crowd to head back to his quarters.

Once in the boys’ dormitory, he took the main hall to the last door on the left. His room was simple by choice. A desk was pushed underneath the window, a single bed occupied one side of the room, a large tub took the other wall, and a small table with mirror and washbasin stood near his bed. The king insisted that the Hunters be well groomed at all times, so his wardrobe was full of finery for special occasions.

He was pleased to see that steam rose from the tub. Wonders never cease.

Tybolt dipped his finger in the water and flew backwards with a yelp. Malachi had drawn him a bath all right—and had left the fire burning to heat the water long enough to boil a chicken. Growling, he nursed his burnt finger.

Tybolt walked to the desk and plopped into a chair. He pulled out a quill, ink, and paper from the single drawer and began to sketch. Two forms appeared within his lines that made his heart ache—his mother and sister. He set the quill down and stared at the picture for a long while. What he wouldn’t give to relive his last moments with his family. He wouldn’t have yelled, he would’ve been more understanding…he would’ve died.

Tybolt snatched the picture and crumbled it into a ball. He closed his eyes, determined not to cry, and touched the rough ball of paper to his lips. Grief and anger boiled within him. He chucked the drawing at the wall, watching as it fell and rolled under the tub.

He shoved his chair back and moved to check the water. Finding it of nearly normal temperature, Tybolt undressed and slid in, sighing in relief as the warmth soothed his aching muscles and washed the dirt away. He leaned his head against the rim and tried to relax, but a pounding at the door jolted him upright.

“Lord Tybolt?”

Tybolt rolled his eyes and leaned back again. “Did you need something, Malachi?”

“Yes, Lord Tybolt. I have your dress cloaks.” It sounded like he had pressed his face firmly against the door to ensure that his words carried through. “The tailor had some last minute alterations to make. Your shoulders are wider than—”

“Malachi!”

There was a long pause. “Yes?”

“Why in the name of Aja are we carrying on this conversation through the door?”

Another pause. “Would you like me to come in?”

Tybolt shoved his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. “Yes.”

Malachi came bursting through the door with the cloak spread over his arms. He stopped and looked at the bath, tilting his head quizzically to the side. “That water must have been hot.”

“Yes, yes it was.”

“I thought so.”

Tybolt grabbed the soap and started scrubbing at his ears and neck. “You were saying?”

“Oh! Sorry. Your shoulders have gotten broader so the tailor had to let out the seams.” Even while standing still, the poor kid managed to look like he was bumbling about. He was all arms and legs, thin as a rail, with a long face and a mop of curly brown hair that made his face look even thinner than it really was. “Your pants are in the wardrobe, along with your dress shirt.”

Tybolt glanced around. “Towel?”

“What?”

“Is there a
towel,
Malachi? So I don’t have to go to lunch looking like a drowned rat?”

“Oh!” Malachi yelped as if he’d been bit. “I forgot! Forgive me, I’ll be right back.” He dropped the cloak that he’d been holding so carefully into a jumbled pile on the bed and ran out the door. Tybolt heard a thud down the hall. No doubt Malachi had tripped on his own feet.

A minute later the boy came streaking back into the room with a large white towel.

“Thank you.” Tybolt climbed out of the tub to dry off. “Are your knees all right? That was quite a fall you just took.”

“How did you know?” Malachi asked, genuinely surprised.

“It’s these amazingly perceptive powers of mine,” Tybolt said, tapping his temple. “Have you polished my shoes yet?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Mmmm hmmmm.” Tybolt pulled on a pair of pants and handed over his black dress shoes. “Have them back here before dinner.”

“Of course.” Malachi began to bow himself out of the room but stopped in the doorframe. “My lord, a boy delivered this to me, saying it was urgent.” He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “But there was nothing inside.”

Tybolt smiled. “I expect you’ll be receiving quite a few blank messages from me in the near future. Don’t tell the boy.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Tybolt stopped by the stables on the way to lunch. He pulled an apple out of his pocket and handed it to Widow Maker, the black horse with dangerous eyes, who snorted and snatched the fruit.

“You’re welcome,” Tybolt said as he patted the horse’s neck.

“That horse should be shot.”

Tybolt didn’t need to turn around to identify the owner of the scornful voice. “I disagree, Terric. This horse is an impeccable judge of character.” He turned with a smile. “Which is why you always end up on your backside when you to try to ride him.”

Being a Hunter was impressive enough, but Terric was the male equivalent of Auriella. Bulging muscles, stunning good looks. He was also an egotistical maniac.

“Were you out hunting with Auriella again?” Terric asked.

Tybolt handed the other apple to Widow Maker. “You know I was, Terric. So why don’t you just say what’s on your mind instead of asking stupid questions?”

Terric’s eyes narrowed. “You have a mouth on you, Tybolt. One of these days I’ll put my fist in it.”

“You could try, but I wouldn’t recommend trying it now. You know how upset King Rowan gets when his festivities are ruined.”