The Warrior Heir (31 page)

His breath came quick and shallow, in ineffective gasps. He thought he cried out, and then images began to slide across his consciousness, slowly at first, and then faster, like bright frames in a jumbled videotape. There were landscapes: dense green forests, never touched by an axe, the ground open under a canopy of trees, an Indian trail that twisted and turned, following a creek with a Shawnee name that sang over the rocks as it descended to the Ohio. A broad valley, shrouded in mist, surrounded by mountains, filled with bones, where warriors were brought to fight.

There were people: red-coated British regulars, scruffy colonials who could slide through the forest as well as any Shawnee, a girl in a tavern with hair the color of buttercups and a blouse that slid softly from her shoulders. Wizards, hard-faced and ruthless, with their black arts, with their metal collars and chains, who tortured him until he begged for the chance to kill somebody, who put fear into him for the first time in his life. The warriors who came to him, tall and short, some of them very young, but none of them very old. He read their faces, could see hope and then death in their eyes.

And sensations: the scent of rain racing across the lakes. The ring and spark of steel on steel. The stench of too many unwashed men, too long together. The quick and deadly dance of the Game. The yielding of flesh and bone to his blade, and the wet sucking sound as he freed it. And in the end, that soft slipping away of life as he lay flat on his back staring up at the sky, the blood pumping from his body, knowing that someone else would fight the next time.

When Hastings released him, Jack fell forward onto his face and lay there, trembling, for a long time. He didn't want to look at the other two, because he didn't want them to see him crying. He could hear Hastings speaking softly, to Brooks, he assumed. When he finally lifted his head, the warrior was gone.

From then on, Jack knew all about Brooks—too much. For all intents and purposes, he was the heir of the warrior's experiences, but whether that boded well or ill for him, he didn't know. He had a body memory of bloodshed, in the New World and the Old. He could tell which way a man would go in a fight by a shift in his weight, or the look in his eyes. He could throw a hatchet and hit a tree a hundred paces off. He didn't have to try it, he just knew he could. He feared wizards and their burning hands the way some men feared snakes and flying things: with an irrational and paralyzing terror.

There were other things. He knew the taste of pemmican, and venison, and squirrel. It wasn't until Becka commented on it that he realized he'd acquired a colorful new vocabulary. After that, he tried his best to keep his tongue in check.

Be careful what you wish for. Once again, he was angry with Hastings, who had given him a history he'd never asked for. At the same time he knew it for the gift it was.

He won the next ten bouts he fought.

The days went by, more than the few Becka had promised, and still she stayed. She was an almost ethereal presence, drifting through the corridors and gardens, reading in the courtyard, writing poetry. Because Jack and Hastings spent a lot of time in practice, she spent considerable time alone. But she never complained.

The three of them always had dinner together. In the evenings after supper, Becka and Hastings would go for long walks in the hills. It was during those times that Jack took advantage of the library. It was a wonderful collection of books, some rare and valuable: English literature, studies of the great philosophers, scientific works, volumes about Eastern mysticism. The contents of a glass case in one corner held a particular fascination for Jack. It was a collection of books on wizardry. Although it was protected by a locking charm, it was one that Jack could easily disable. So he spent hours reading through ancient texts, some in Latin, some in Middle English, some in French (which he had taken in school, but there wasn't much overlap in vocabulary). He wished Nick were there to translate. He could use some advice anyway.

Jack had been careful not to reveal anything about his training in wizardry to Hastings. He figured that keeping it a secret might be an advantage in a game where he had few advantages to claim.

After fighting most of the day, Jack was always exhausted by early evening, and fell into bed early. Not even his reluctance to leave his mother alone with Leander Hastings could keep him awake.

Jack was ambivalent over Becka's continuing presence. He was well aware that his mother would never approve of his decision to fight in the tournament, but he welcomed the chance to spend what might be his last days with her before Midsummer's Day.

Sometimes he gazed into Blaise's mirror, hoping it would reveal something. But a mist lay over the silver surface like the fog that shrouded the mountains at sunset.

Then came an evening ten days into his stay in Cumbria and four days prior to Midsummer's Day. Becka and Hastings had gone out walking as usual. Jack was deep in a book on
convertere,
that is, the art of transforming one thing into another. He heard a sound as of a door closing elsewhere in the house. He thought perhaps that his mother and Hastings had returned early. Quickly he returned the book to its shelf, closed the cabinet, and reapplied the locking charm.

He heard no voices filtering down the hallway, no one calling his name. Curious, he crept to the door of the library and looked up and down the hall. Empty. Could it have been the wind? He thought it was unlikely any breeze could have moved the heavy wooden doors in that place. An intruder? Perhaps the wizards of the Red or White Rose had tracked them there.

Shadowslayer was in the Great Hall, where he'd left it after practice. He slipped noiselessly down the hall to the huge, two-story entry and scanned the room beyond. It was dimly illuminated by the fading light that leaked through the gallery windows. There was no sign of anyone or anything moving on the main floor or on the gallery above. His sword still leaned against the corner of the hearth. He took a deep breath and sprinted across the flagstones that separated him from his weapon. He had reached the apron of the huge fireplace when he heard a noise behind him. He seized his sword and spun around in a half crouch and came face-to-face with Linda Downey.

"Jack!" She grabbed him and held him tight, careful to avoid the blade as she did so. "I knew you couldn't be too far from your sword." She patted his sword arm, then released him and looked him over carefully. "Are you all right? Is your shoulder healed?"

Jack nodded, completely undone by this turn of events. He carefully set his sword back on the hearth and retreated until his back was against the masonry. His mind was spinning madly. What now?

Linda didn't give him much time to think about it. She seemed to be in a considerable hurry. "Where's Hastings?" she demanded.

Jack found his voice. "He's out for a walk, I think."

"Good. We've got to get out of here before he gets back." She picked up the case and the sword, and handed them both back to Jack.

"H-how did you find us?" Jack stammered.

"I knew he owned property up here. It just took me a while to trace it. Come on, Jack," she said urgently. "You're in danger here."

"I can't just leave," Jack protested.

"We'll write him a note when we're far away," Linda replied grimly. "With no return address."

"Mom is here," Jack said finally.

"Becka?" Linda exclaimed. "I've been worried sick about her. Has she been here all this time? Thank God she's all right." And, then, after a pause, "But, what is she doing here?"

"Hastings thought it was best if she weren't searching the town for me, asking questions, perhaps going back to Dr. Longbranch.” Jack shrugged unconvincingly.

"Is she in the house?" Linda asked quickly.

Jack shook his head. "She's out walking with him."

Linda stared at him for a moment, then appeared to come to a decision. "Never mind. I need to get you to safety, then I'll come back for Becka. Nick's waiting for us in Oxford. From there, we'll find a safer place." There was a mixture of enchantment and desperation in her voice. "Please, Jack.You've got to come with me now."

"Can't you at least stay for a cup of tea?" The voice came from the doorway. "Or a glass of wine for old times' sake?" It was Hastings, with an armload of kindling, Becka just behind him. "I was just about to light a fire." He turned to Becka. "Look, Becka, your sister has come to visit."

"Linda!" Becka embraced her sister. "How did you find us? I wanted to call you, but there's no phone up here. You've seen Jack? He's much better."

Linda withdrew enough from Becka's embrace to glare at Hastings. "Lee, this is just like you."

Becka stared at them, looking from one to the other. "Do you two know each other?"

Hastings looked up from the hearth, resting his forearms on his knees. "Becka, forgive me. Would you mind fetching us some wine?"

Becka nodded, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Let me see if I can find us something in the kitchen." She disappeared.

"So you've left the Chaucerian Society behind," Hastings said, standing up. He pointed at the kindling and it burst into flame. "I hope they're in good hands." He was studiously avoiding looking at the enchanter, which wouldn't have been easy for any man.

"They are safe enough," she replied. "Will's parents are with them. They're leaving for their tour to Scotland and Ireland. Which you should know, since you set it up."

Hastings nodded. "So perhaps … perhaps you can stay a few days?" He looked at her quickly, then away. To Jack's surprise, he sounded hopeful, almost eager.

Linda was having none of it. "Look, I appreciate all you've done, but I think it's time Jack and Becka went to Oxford," she said evenly. "My car is not far away, and I've come to drive them there."

Hastings folded his arms, making an exasperated sound. "D'you really think Jack can go down to Oxford? With every wizard in the United Kingdom hunting him?"

"Well, they can't stay up here!" Linda muttered, balling her hands into fists.

"Who are you worried about? Jack or Becka?" He raised a hand to prevent an onslaught of words. "Don't you see? Jessamine knows who he is. So does Geoffrey. It's over."

Jack could stand the game playing no longer. "I've decided to fight in the tournament, Aunt Linda," he said.

"Jack!" She turned on Hastings. "You were supposed to prevent this! What kind of charm have you laid on him?" she demanded.

Hastings sighed. "Had I wanted to force him into it, I could have taken him a long time ago and saved myself considerable trouble."

Becka returned with a bottle of wine and some glasses. She scanned the angry faces and poured a glass for Linda first. "Maybe you'll feel better after you've had some wine," Becka suggested calmly, handing it to her.

"There's more than one way to spellbind a person," Linda said darkly, then caught herself, sliding a glance at her sister. "Becka, I need to talk to Leander in private."

Becka handed a glass of wine to Hastings and laid a hand on his arm, a gesture of support. "Linda, I want to know why you're being so rude to him. He saved Jack's life back in Trinity. When Jack was taken ill in London, he invited us to come up here so he could recover. He's been nothing but kind to Jack and me. Then you show up here unannounced and treat him like a villain in his own house."

"Leander!" Linda vibrated with anger.

"Oh, all right!" Reluctantly, Hastings set his wine down on the table. He put an arm around Becka and muttered a few words under his breath. Becka froze where she stood, eyes open, lips parted, as if she were about to say something. Hastings lifted her and settled her gently on the couch. Then he picked up his glass again, holding it in front of him like a shield. "Speak your piece, if you feel you must."

Linda swung around to face Jack. "Jack, if you participate in this barbaric system, you will just perpetuate it."

Hastings drained his glass quickly and refilled it from the bottle on the table. "Linda, you will not be allowed to interfere with this," he said softly.

"So now you've taken to using sixteen-year-old boys to get your revenge, is that it?"

"If I could do it myself, don't you think I would? You know me better than that."

Jack was absolutely lost. "What are you two talking about?" he demanded. He dropped wearily into a chair.

Linda's voice was brittle and cold. "Didn't you tell me once that Mr. Hastings always chooses what he wants to talk about? I assume he didn't choose to tell you about his family."

Jack shook his head, already depressed. He knew he was about to hear another old story. He felt like his life had been entirely ruined by events that had occurred long before he was born.

"Leander's older sister, Carrie, was born a warrior. Lee's childhood was spent moving from place to place, as his family tried to avoid the Roses." Linda took a sip of wine. Hastings was staring into the fire. "It didn't help. Geoffrey Wylie found her when she was eighteen, and claimed her for the Red Rose." Her voice softened. "She never even made it to a tournament, because the White Rose got to her first. His father and brother were killed, and his mother was never the same. Leander was ten at the time."

"Wylie?" Jack repeated.

She glanced at Jack. "It's a story that has been played out a thousand times in our family. Only, Leander has been obsessed with fighting Wylie and the Roses ever since. So when I was looking for someone to help me protect you from the Roses, I thought of him. I never thought he would choose to embrace the system that killed his sister." She threw what remained of her wine in Hastings's face.

Hastings caught Linda's wrist with one hand and shook the wine glass from it. It shattered on the flagstones, scattering drops of wine like blood on the hearth. He wiped wine out of his eyes with the other hand. "Don't make me lose my temper, Linda." His voice was deceptively gentle.

Linda didn't back away, but leaned in to him, standing on tiptoe to get close to his face. "Why? Is that what happened to Susannah?"

The daylight had fled completely, and the room was illuminated only by magic and the flames on the hearth. For a moment the little scene was like an engraving, the tall wizard, the tiny enchanter, both spinning out fragments of light; Jack and his mother, everyone frozen. Then Hastings released his grip on Linda's wrist and stepped back. The two stared at each other for a long moment. "Something like that," he said. He sat down in a chair by the fireplace and put his face in his hands.