The Dragon Heir (The Heir Chronicles #3)

The Dragon Heir (The Heir Chronicles #3) Page 53

Well, he never claimed to be a poet.

Warren wasn't the only one killing time on the wrong side of the wall. There was a virtual encampment of wizards in the countryside and lake resorts surrounding the town. He'd had to duck out of sight when he spotted his erstwhile ally Claude D'Orsay with Geoffrey Wylie of the Red Rose. They were inspecting the wall, testing it with cautious bits of magic. Looking for weaknesses, no doubt.

What was up with that? Since when were they all chummy? D'Orsay was supposed to be working with him, against the Roses. Of course, there'd been no communication between them except through Leesha, and D'Orsay wasn't supposed to know who her partner was. Like Leesha hadn't betrayed him immediately.

Warren was beginning to feel irrelevant. It had been weeks since anyone had even tried to kill him. As long as someone was trying to kill you, you knew you were important.

He had the Covenant, but it was seeming more and more like a worthless piece of paper, since he didn't have the means to consecrate it. It hadn't drawn anyone useful to him.

It was a class thing. Warren might be a wizard, ruler over the Anaweir and the servant guilds, but the aristocrats who lorded over the Houses would never give him a seat at the table.

After a few days, he grew tired of basking in reflected rays. What he needed was a new partner. Or, preferably, a servant. He could have his pick of the Anaweir, but he wanted someone who could contribute more.

Someone like Madison Moss.

As far as he knew, Madison had left Trinity. He'd found no clues as to where she'd gone when he searched her room. But if she wasn't in Trinity, she was somewhere.

It was pathetically easy. He grabbed a car from a nearby parking lot and drove into Cleveland, found a public library branch and got online. His search on Madison Moss turned up a number of hits from art shows in Coalton County, Ohio.

Coalton County. He'd followed Jason Haley south to Coalton County. Warren had never been able to find out why he was down there.

Now he knew. And now that he had a name and a place, it shouldn't be hard to find her.

Brice Roper was beginning to think that being a wizard was overrated. Yes, he could have almost any girl, get almost anything, burn up almost anything he wanted.

But it had been that way all his life. He was rich, he was spoiled, and ever since he could remember, he'd focused on what he didn't have. And what he didn't have was the ability to get what he wanted from Madison Moss. That was linked to a lot of other things, like impressing his father, which was important because he couldn't recall that ever happening. Those were his goals—impressing his old man and then getting out of Coalton County for good.

It gnawed at him, even though he knew he should just leave and forget about Roper Coal and his father and being humiliated on Booker Mountain.

It was on his mind when he woke up, and it was on his mind when he went to bed, and it contaminated his dreams. He brooded on it in class, and snapped at those brave enough to sit down at his lunch table. All the charms of being king to a court of high-school seniors were wearing thin.

It didn't help that his father became more and more of a pain as he traveled further down the road to financial ruin. Bryson Roper, Sr. had formally approached Madison Moss about selling Booker Mountain, and she'd formally refused. The only good thing was, Bryson, Sr. was out of town a lot, trying to line up financing, cut some deals, find a partner, something.

Carlene was no help. She claimed she'd talked to Madison until she was blue in the face, and it made no difference.

Brice still couldn't figure out where Madison fit into the magical scheme of things. He'd asked around, and nobody had heard of a Witch Guild. Nobody but wizards ever displayed that kind of power.

What he wouldn't admit was that his insides turned to water at the thought of confronting her again.

So he spent his days sleepwalking through classes, avoiding his father, and dreaming of revenge.

One Saturday he'd just finished a long ride and handed his horse off to Mike. He was walking up to the house to take a much-needed shower when someone rattled up the drive in a Jeep and pulled up in front of the barn.

They didn't get many unannounced visitors, so Brice waited, leaning against the split-rail fence that enclosed the paddock.

It was a boy, a stranger of medium height, maybe a little older than Brice, with shaggy white-blond hair and pale blue eyes that were somehow startling. He walked with a smooth gait, flowing across the ground like a predator. Brice felt both intense interest and prickling unease. He glanced back to see whether Mike was still in sight, but he had led Annie into the barn.

“Can I help you?” Brice asked, aiming for a nonchalance he didn't feel.

“Maybe,” the boy said, smiling. “I guess I'm lost. I'm looking for Madison Moss.” His voice was soft, but, like his gait, it got your attention. “I heard she lived up this road. Is this the place?”

No, Brice wanted to say. It's not. Now get the hell out of here.

But he didn't. This guy was looking for Madison. Could he be a witch, too? Was that why he was so intimidating?

“You are lost,” Brice said, forcing a smile. “What do you want with Madison?”

“We met last summer and I've been looking for her ever since,” the stranger said. “I wanted to surprise her.”

It was an odd thing to say—kind of stalkerish—but Brice had the sense this guy didn't care what Brice made of it. Like what he thought didn't matter.

“Maybe she's mentioned you,” Brice said, again looking over his shoulder for Mike, who had not reappeared. “What's your name?”

“That's not important,” the pale-haired boy said. “How do I get to her house?”

“Well,” Brice said, aiming for dismissive. “I don't want to send you up there if I don't know who you are.”

The stranger struck quick as a snake, shoving Brice back against the fence. He gripped Brice by the shoulders and sent a flood of Persuasion into him. Brice's reflexive magical defense was feeble by comparison, but it got the other boy's attention.

“You're a wizard!” he said, letting go of Brice. He sounded surprised and looked a little wary, but not particularly impressed.

“Y-you, too?” Brice stammered.

The wizard kept his hands raised to waist level, as if ready to defend himself. “Well, well,” the boy said. “Who knew?” He studied Brice, then looked around, as if other, more powerful wizards might come out of the woodwork. “What House are you with?”

“Um,” Brice said, feeling an unaccustomed social inferiority, “I'm…um…unaffiliated at present.”

“What do you know? Me, too,” the other boy said. “What's your name?”

“Brice Roper.”

“You a friend of Madison's or what?”

“Not really,” Brice said, assuming that was the safest answer. The other wizard still hadn't supplied his own name. It was more like an interrogation than a conversation. “I know her, is all. I went to school with her.”

“You're not going out, then, or anything?” The boy's tone was faintly mocking.

“Not hardly!” Brice couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

The boy smiled. “Then you won't mind if I pay her a visit, will you?”

Brice felt flattered. It was a kind of wizard-to-wizard thing, like the boy was seeking his permission to come into his territory.

“Well, I guess I'd like to know what you want with her.” Not that Brice was worried about Madison, but by now his curiosity was aroused.

“Don't worry,” the boy said. “I don't mean her any harm.” He smiled, eyes glittering. “Not if she cooperates.”

Brice stared at the other wizard. Hope crowded out surprise. Maybe he'd found the solution to his problem. A way to get back at Madison.

But then he thought of the episode on Booker Mountain. Did this arrogant wizard know what she could do?

“Well,” Brice said. “She's…um…not been that cooperative in the past,” he said. “I'd be careful, if I were you.”

“Really?” the boy said, appraising him with sudden intensity. “Tell me more.”

“Why don't we go on up to the house,” Brice suggested. “And I'll tell you all about her.” He turned toward the house, then paused, recovering a little confidence. “What did you say your name was?”

Annoyance flashed across the boy's face, and Brice thought he'd made a mistake. Then the wizard smiled and extended his hand. “Actually, I didn't. I'm Warren Barber.”

Chapter Twenty-six No-man's-land

Jason spoke the unnoticeable charm and slipped through the Weirgate, hearing the whisper of magical locks as one of the ghost warriors, Mick, pulled it shut behind him. It was after midnight, but the moon had not risen. Beyond the wall, the dark pressed down, and a steady rain swallowed the light. But Jason walked this path nearly every night in his role as spy. He'd had plenty of practice, slipping around unnoticed back at the Havens. Now he slid between the trees like a vapor.

He was well-suited to the role of spy, since it required little in the way of magical power. Still, the perimeter was difficult to navigate these days. You could hardly move without tripping over wizards. Everywhere he looked, wizard fire sparkled in the darkness like stars fallen to earth. Wizard voices in multiple languages collided under the canopy of trees.

They'd come from all over, more and more every day. The Red Rose. The White Rose. Traders. The unaffiliated. Drawn to Trinity by the thrum of power within its walls.

Wizards fricking camping. Roughing it in the forest. Like a Wizard Woodstock. It was almost funny.

But not quite.

And all the while, the Anaweir came and went, oblivious to the gathering horde, unaware of the growing tension on either side of Mercedes's wall.

Dodging around several warded campsites, Jason crossed a rocky streambed and climbed the ridge beyond. From there he could monitor the comings and goings from the wizard camps and take a rough count of the Weir on the perimeter. But this time, as he crested the rise, he saw that the view had changed dramatically. The landscape was obscured by an ominous shadow that extended as far as he could see in both directions. It took him a moment to fathom what it was. And when he did, he swore and pounded his fist into his open palm.