The Dragon Heir (The Heir Chronicles #3)

The Dragon Heir (The Heir Chronicles #3) Page 54

The Roses were building their own wall, a few hundred yards from Mercedes's fortification. It was tall and slick and menacing, iced with razorwire, lacking the grace and style of Mercedes's barrier. A poisonous green light reflected back from it, like an oil slick on black water.

It was a nightmarish kind of wall—the kind the witch builds to keep the prince out. Or in. The kind that surrounds the dark lord's castle. It was a wall that would trap both Weir and Anaweir. And from the looks of things, it was nearly finished.

They must've used glamours to hide their progress. Even if they'd waited to begin construction until after dark, they would have had more hands to share in the work than Mercedes and her crews. Not to mention unlimited magical firepower. It was a testament to the forces arrayed against them.

Jason descended the ridge on the far side, slipping and sliding on the loose shale. He knew who to credit for this latest play.

Wylie and Longbranch and D'Orsay's elaborate, heavily warded pavilions now stood just outside the half-built wall. There they hatched schemes and fought with each other, from what Jason had gleaned over the previous days.

As he approached the pavilions, Jason moved with exquisite caution, alert for traps and alarms. He'd be way better off dead than to be caught out here on his own. Ahead he could see the glowing silk walls of the tents, enchanted to turn the rain. Above the peaks flew the banners of the Red and White Rose, and a black raven on white that was D'Orsay's new signia.

Geoffrey Wylie stood outside the tents, issuing orders to a huge crowd of eager young wizards clad in damp camouflage. Among them was Bruce Hays, an alumnus of the Havens, holding Gregory Leicester's glass and metal wizard staff, and looking damn proud of it.

With Wylie were Jessamine Longbranch, dressed in couture camouflage. And Claude D'Orsay.

D'Orsay's patrician features were clearly revealed in the light that leaked from the pavilion. The tall wizard stood in the midst of his enemies, seemingly at ease, expending bits of power to keep the rain off him. He wore rings on both hands—powerful sefas, if Jason was any judge. So D'Orsay had come well armed to this meeting.

Devereaux stood next to his father, eyes wide, taking it all in.

“We'll begin immediately,” Wylie said. “The Anaweir are … er … unaware of the rebels' Weirwall, since they can pass freely through it. However, anyone leaving the sanctuary will be trapped inside our wall. You'll capture them—Weir and Anaweir—and bring them to the retention area for processing and identification. As word gets out, panicked townspeople will no doubt come flooding through the inner wall. We'll have hundreds of hostages, some of them with strong ties to the rebels.”

“What are we going to do with them?” Hays asked.

“When we go to breach the inner wall, we'll pack the area between with immobilized hostages. That way, the rebels won't be able to use their arsenal against us.”

This was, apparently, Wylie s plan, because Longbranch rolled her eyes. “Do you really think wizards will negotiate for Anaweir hostages?”

Wylie shrugged. “Who knows? They've seemed unaccountably attached to them in the past.”

“Strange.” Longbranch turned back to the soldiers. “You must immobilize the prisoners as quickly as possible, so there's no outcry. Particularly the Weir.” She distributed leather pouches to the soldiers. “This is Gemynd bana. Mind-Slayer. It will knock them out without being detectable by those inside the walls. Just be careful with it, or you'll end up flat on your back yourselves.”

Jason stood frozen. Panic constricted his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Crap, he thought. It's beginning. It's really happening. When you're scared, why is it that your mouth goes dry while your hands get sweaty?

“If there's any question,” Longbranch went on, “use an immobilization charm. Try not to muck things up. Now, go.”

The wizard soldiers dispersed, leaving the three wizards and the boy alone.

“It would help if we knew more about the weapons you've supplied us, Claude,” Longbranch said.

“Hmmm?” D'Orsay seemed distracted, gazing wistfully past Longbranch and Wylie to the sanctuary walls.

Forget it, Jason thought. You'll never get your hands on the Dragonheart.

D'Orsay wrenched himself away from his study of the Sanctuary, turning to Longbranch. “You know as much as I do, Jessamine. We'll have to take a bit of a chance.”

“It appears to me that we're taking the chance, since it's our wizards who'll be involved in the attack.”

“I'd be more than happy to contribute,” D'Orsay replied, “but I'm afraid I'm a bit short on armies at the moment. I had to leave my guard behind to secure the ghyll.”

“I can fight, Father,” Devereaux said eagerly. “I'm only one person, but…”

“No, Dev,” D'Orsay said, scowling. “Not this time.” He turned to the Roses. “How do you propose to find the Dragonheart once we're inside?”

Longbranch and Wylie glanced at each other, then looked toward the sanctuary. “Do you really think it will be hard to find?” Wylie said.

Jason studied the odds, considered and discarded several options. He might hear more if he stayed, but wizards already lay waiting for anyone who passed beyond the barrier. There was no time to lose.

He backed away from the wizard pavilions, placing his feet carefully so as not to betray himself, though he felt like his heart was pounding loud enough to be heard on its own.

As soon as he was away, Jason turned and ran back the way he'd come.

As he neared the inner wall, his pace slowed. The moon had risen, and shafts of light penetrated the canopy of trees and bathed the trail in silvery light. The way seemed clear ahead.

Jason left the path and cut through the trees, approaching the gate from the east. He scanned the smudged border of forest across the clearing and saw movement in the shadows there. Then, startlingly close at hand, someone slapped a mosquito. It was all Jason could do not to flail backward into the underbrush.

The trap was already laid for the residents of Trinity. Jason was determined not to fall into it. Unnoticeable or not, Mick would still need to open the gate to let him in.

Half-holding his breath, Jason crossed the open meadow toward the gate. The back of his neck prickled. At any moment, he expected to be slammed with an immobilization charm.

When he reached the wall, he pressed his palm against the gate. “Mick,” he muttered. “Open up.”

There was no response.

“Mick,” Jason repeated, a little louder. “It's Jase. Let me in. Get a move on.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw three wizards step out of the trees, peering toward the gate. Jason recognized Bruce Hays, packing his fancy staff.

Jason pounded on the gate with the heel of his hand. “Come on, Mick. Open the fricking gate!”

Finally, he heard movement within, the unfortunately loud rumble of Mick's voice spewing Irish profanity from another age. “Can't a man take a bluidy leak in the middle of the bluidy night 'athout you getting your bollocks in a bluidy…”

Jason looked back at the wizards. Hays raised his staff and pointed it directly at Jason.

“Aetywan!” Hays shouted. Mist spewed from the tip of the staff and enveloped Jason in a cloud of vapor.

Unable to respond in his unnoticeable state, Jason held his breath to avoid breathing in the fumes, crouched to make a small target, and struggled to remember his sparse Anglo-Saxon.

Aetywan. That would mean…reveal?

“It's Haley!” Shouts reverberated across the clearing.

Jason looked down at himself. The formerly unnoticeable Jason was indeed revealed. It was like being stripped naked in the middle of Main Street during a block party thrown by your worst enemies.

“Get him!” Hays shouted. “Grab him! Take him alive!” They charged toward him, baying like hounds on a scent. More wizards poured out of the woods.

“Mick!” Jason threw up a pathetic shield, braced his feet against the wall, gripped the edge of the gate, and yanked. “Open up now or you might as well forget it!”

He was surrounded by wizards, a kaleidoscope of excited faces, many flinging mind-slayer at him. Lame as it was, his shield repelled the powder. A wizard staggered and went down, a victim of friendly fire.

The gate was moving now, excruciatingly slowly, with Mick's litany of oaths continuing on the other side, though now with a certain sense of urgency. Jason heard running feet inside the double-gated barbican, a thud of bodies against the gate, and it slammed open, spilling Jason and a handful of warriors into the no-man's-land between the barriers.

Jason scrambled to his feet as Mick bolted past him, gleefully swinging his axe, bellowing a Gaelic battle cry. Jack and Ellen and Jeremiah followed, weapons blazing, driving the wizards back toward the outer wall. Wizard fire spewed into the air, setting the treetops ablaze.

How long before the fireworks and sounds of battle drew Anaweir past the inner barrier and into the hands of the Roses?

Weaponless, Jason sprinted after the warriors as two wizards closed in on them from behind. Jason tackled one of the wizards and disabled him by wizard's grip, thrusting his fingers under his chin and applying power directly to that vulnerable place. Ellen leveled the other one with the flat of her blade.

“What is going on?” Jack demanded, smashing back a bolt from Hays's fancy staff. “It looks like all hell's broken loose.”

“Big trouble,” Jason gasped “There's an army waiting out there. They've put up their own wall. They're planning to trap people and take hostages. We've got to go back.”

Reluctantly, the warriors left off chasing wizards and retreated, spraying flame in their wake to discourage pursuit. Once inside the gate, Jason helped slam the locks into place while the walls shuddered under the wizards' assault.

“Where's Seph?” Jason gasped. “We can't wait any longer. We've got to do something about the Anaweir. Right now.”