The Dragon Heir (11 page)

“I … well… it sounds
great. But… would we still work through Trinity High School, or would we…”

“Don't worry,” Sara
said, reading her mind. “I'll handle Penworthy.”

“I don't know what to
say.” Madison felt the burn in her face that said she was blushing.

Sara studied her appraisingly.
“You know, Trinity's a good school, but fine art is not their specialty.
Have you ever thought of coming to Chicago?”

“To the Art Institute?
Oh, no. I … ah … I couldn't afford that.” Madison swallowed down her
hopes. It wouldn't do to let them get the best of her.

Sara gripped her shoulders and
looked her in the eye. “Madison. Your landscapes are unique, totally
refreshing, and you're not even a college student yet. Your voice is much older
than your years. Your work is Appalachian, but it doesn't have a breath of folk
art about it. You see the supernatural in common things. I would call it
ethereal.”

“Look, I really appreciate
… everything. But I can't afford to live in Chicago, let alone pay tuition at
AIC. The free ride is over after this year. I don't want to graduate a million
dollars in debt when I don't know how I'm going to make a living.”

Sara dropped her hands from
her shoulders. “You let me worry about that. You just keep painting. I'd
like to see more figure drawings and portraits, too. Not just landscapes. Then
we'll put together a portfolio for you and see what happens. Deal?”

Madison could only nod.

Sara smiled. “Now, let's
make sure you'll have everything you need. We'll just say it came out of course
fees.”

Madison left Sara's studio
with a backpack full of books, paints, and other supplies. She wandered across
Trinity Square, stopping in shops and galleries and using her tip money to buy
little presents for J.R. and Grace and Carlene.

Without really meaning to, she
found herself walking through the gate at St. Catherine's, crossing the snowy
churchyard to the side door of the church. I'll just take one more look, she
said to herself. I don't know when I'll be back here again.

It was a Tuesday morning, and
the sanctuary echoed with her footsteps, empty of people save an elderly lady
kneeling in the front pew, her head bent over her folded hands. Madison slipped
quietly to the stairs in the front of the sanctuary that led down to the
Mourner's Chapel, walking right through the wards and confusion charms Seph had
built to distract anyone snooping around.

At the foot of the stairs, she
turned to the left, entering the crypt itself. They'd left the Swift tomb open,
trusting to Seph's barriers to keep the curious at bay.

The sorcerer Mercedes Foster
and her small committee had obviously been at work. Magical artifacts were laid
out in rows, sorted by probable function. Those that had been identified were
labeled in Mercedes's neat hand. Symbols and diagrams had been sketched onto
the walls, some sort of tally system.

The stone that Jason called
the Dragonheart sat off by itself on its dragon stand, a jewel in an elaborate
setting. The flames smoldering at its center sent shadows like haunts skulking
along the walls.

What are you doing here?
Madison asked herself, and got no answer.

She felt the tug of the stone
from across the room, dragging her forward. As it had before, the Dragonheart
seemed to react to her presence, brightening, colors sliding over each other
like brilliant paints sloshing in a jar.

She stood over the stone. As
she extended her hand, the light from the stone stained her skin. Her breathing
slowed, her eyelids drooped. A rush of brilliant images coursed through her
mind: a castle built of stone, a jewel-like valley ringed by rugged mountains,
a procession of courtiers bearing gifts. She heard the whisper of a
half-remembered song, lines of poetry that broke her heart. She heard someone
calling a name she wanted to answer to.

Within her, she felt the hex
magic uncoil and quest forward like a serpent.

Without warning, flame
rocketed between her and the Dragonheart, sizzling up her arms and into her
collarbone. The magics collided inside her. She toppled backward, breaking the
connection, landing on her back on the floor, striking her head hard on the
stone threshold. She lay stunned for a moment, colors exploding in her head
like fireworks in the night sky.

Voices whispered in her head,
mingling and competing— pretty
promises, endearments, enticements, curses, and warnings. Like spirits battling
inside a bell jar until finally they died away.

Gripping the edge of Thomas
Swift's crypt, Madison dragged herself to her feet, remembering Min's words.

Do not mess with magic.
That's not our business.

But it seemed like magic never
tired of messing with her.

The Dragonheart kindled,
sending long tongues of flame and shadow reaching toward her like clutching
fingers. She had to fight the urge to rush into their embrace.

Madison backed away from the
stone, stepped carefully over the threshold, turned, and fled up the stairs.

The next morning, Mercedes
Foster sat back on her heels and studied the pentagrams she'd chalked onto the
stone floor of the crypt. Scrubbing a smudge from her nose with the back of her
hand, she looked up at Snowbeard. “What do you think, Nicodemus?”

The old wizard nodded.
“It looks perfect to me, Mercedes.”

The sorceress planted her
fists on her bony hips and grinned at Jason. “Come on, then. Let's try
again.”

“I hope you know what
you're doing.” Jason reluctantly took his place within the inner pentagon
of one of the pentagrams. The other two took refuge within diagrams of their
own. The battered wooden box from Raven's Ghyll sat on the floor in the fourth
pentacle.

Mercedes began to speak, a
high, singsong chant. Pointing, Nick kindled a bright, hot flame where the four
pentagrams came together. Careful not to lean out of the pentagram,
Jason gripped the case with a pair of iron tongs and thrust it into the flames.

They waited. And waited.
Flames licked across the surface of the box with no apparent effect. The wood
was so impregnated with charms that it was impervious even to wizard flame.

They continued until Jason's
arm trembled with the weight of the box and he had to support his elbow with
his other hand. The tongs grew warm and then hotter and hotter so that he had
to concentrate to keep his fingers from blistering.

Finally, Mercedes let her song
trail away. “All right,” she said, her long face settling into
disappointed lines. “It's not working. I'm afraid we'll never get it
open.” She removed a silk scarf from her head and her wiry hair exploded
free. She mopped sweat from her face with the scarf. “That's enough for
today.”

Gingerly, Jason set the box
back on the floor, dropped the tongs, and wiped his seared hands on his jeans.

Rows of artifacts were lined
up on one of the crypts, sorted by function and tagged with their magical
names. There were heartstones of all kinds: pendants, scrying stones, amulets
that strengthened the bearer, talismans of protection, lovestones that muddled
the mind. Enchanted mirrors that displayed bewitching and confusing images of
past, present, and future. Jeweled daggers that made wounds that would not
heal. Belts and collars for holding magical captives. Recalling his escape from
the ghyll, Jason was amazed that it had all fit in his backpack.

“We've done a lot
already,” he said, gesturing toward the catalogued items.

Mercedes nodded grudgingly.
“Perhaps, but I can't help thinking that the most powerful sefas
are resisting us.”

The remaining pieces were
grouped forlornly in one corner: the small wooden box that could not be opened,
a worn cloak carefully mended with glittering thread, a silver hammer inscribed
with runes, faceted bottles filled with unknown potions, their stoppers larded
with time-darkened wax. And, of course, the Dragonheart on its ornate metal
stand.

Except for the opal, Jason
couldn't remember why he'd chosen any of them. “Maybe this is just
junk,” he suggested. “Maybe I stumbled onto the magical landfill of
Raven's Ghyll.” Mercedes mashed her lips tight together, but he persisted.
“There were tons of loose gemstones in the cave. I took a few, but I
mostly focused on the magical pieces. Maybe the opal is just another gemstone
in the pile.”

As if to contradict him, the
Dragonheart sent light spiraling around the crypt. It looked different from
before, almost agitated. Power washed over him, warming the Weirstone under
Jason's breastbone like a banked fire.

The three of them stood
frozen, staring at it.

Snowbeard cleared his throat.
“I think the stone is important,” he said. “Else I wouldn't
spend so much time on it.”

Jason shrugged, struggling to
hide his annoyance. “Whatever. Anyway, it's a waste of time to keep
working on this. I'm thinking I should collect some of the most powerful pieces
and take them back to Hastings in Britain. I hear he's planning a major attack
on the ghyll. These could help.”

“Has Hastings asked you
to bring any of the items back to Raven's Ghyll?” Nick asked.

“No, but…”

“Didn't he say to keep
them within the sanctuary?”

“They don't do us any
good here!” Jason paced back and forth, making tight turns within the
confines of the crypt. “I might as well have left them in the cave.”

“I think the fact that
they're not in our enemies' hands is a good thing,” Nick said, his black
eyes tunneling all the way to Jason's spine.

“When you think about it,
this stuff belongs to me,” Jason said. “I found it. I carried it out
of the ghyll. I should be able to do what I want with it.”

“Jason Haley!” The
wizard's voice reverberated against the stone walls of the crypt, although he
wasn't speaking particularly loudly. Snowbeard seemed to grow until his head
nearly touched the ceiling. Flame flickered about his angular frame. “You
know better than that. You are not a child who can demand your toys back. The
future of the magical guilds may depend on how we use what's fallen into our
hands. I will not allow you to recklessly endanger all of us with their
ill-considered use.”

Jason knew he should just shut
up, but he couldn't help himself. “So you think we should just hole up
here and wait to be attacked?”

“I think we don't know
enough yet to see who our most dangerous adversary will be. If D'Orsay holds
the Covenant, the hoard, and the ghyll, then why hasn't he acted? Why hasn't he
consecrated the document and brought us all under his heel?”

“How would I know?”
Jason stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Hastings seems to think
he's worth going after, now that I'm stuck back here.”

Nick's voice softened.
“Jason. This work we're doing is important, even if you don't think so. I believe we've
been given a rare gift, if we can just figure out how to use it.”

Jason wasn't buying it.
“You sound like Hastings.”

“Indeed?” Nick
lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps there's a reason.”

“I'll just take the opal,
then,” Jason said. “You can keep the rest.” Impulsively, he
reached for the Dragonheart.

And was slammed back against
the wall with stunning force. He seemed to stick for a moment, then slid down
the wall until his butt hit the floor.

“Jason!”

Mercedes and Nick leaned over
him, both talking at once, checking him for missing parts. Once they figured
out that he was okay, the interrogation began.

“Jason! What did you
do?” Nick gripped his arm hard.

“I didn't do anything.
Jeez. I just reached for it.”

“Did you speak a charm of
any kind?” Mercedes grabbed his hands, turning them palm up, as if to
examine them for contraband. “Did you apply anything to the stone? Did you
use a sefa?”

He shook his head, ripping his
hands free. “I just went to pick it up.” He felt humiliated and
frustrated. Rejected by a rock.

Being a sorcerer healer,
Mercedes was an empath, too. So she began to try and soothe him, which only
irritated him more. “Don't worry. We've probably destabilized it with our
poking and prodding,” she suggested.

“I never had any trouble
with it before,” Jason said, remembering how he'd handled the stone in the
ghyll, caressing its crystalline surface, the flames percolating gently under
his fingers. He stood, rubbing his elbows where they'd hit the wall.

“We've been whacking at
it for weeks,” Mercedes said. “It might be time to give it a rest. Sefas
are temperamental, you know.” She grabbed up the velvet bag.
“I'll just put it back in the crypt.”

“Mercedes—” Snowbeard began what sounded like a warning.
But the sorcerer reached for the Dragonheart and the stone responded with an
eruption of flame that sent her staggering back on her long bird legs. She
would have gone down had Snowbeard not caught her arm.

“Well!” Mercedes
gasped. “Well, well.”

“You want to try?” Jason said to Snowbeard, feeling
somewhat redeemed.

Snowbeard eyed the stone. Not
being a fool, he snatched up his staff from where it leaned against the wall
and extended the bear's-head tip gingerly toward the Dragonheart until they
almost touched.

The stone seemed to explode,
spinning the staff from Snowbeard's hands, shattering it into three pieces that
clattered onto the stone floor.

They all looked from the
broken staff to the Dragonheart and back again.

“Your staff!” Jason
was shocked. Snowbeard had carried that staff for hundreds of years, probably.
It was an extraordinarily powerful sefa. Or it had been. Jason collected
the pieces, and laid them out on top of the crypt. “Man, I'm sorry. Can
you fix it?”

“The head is
intact,” Mercedes said, fingering the broken shaft. “Maybe we can
remount it.”

“Hmmm? Perhaps,
perhaps.” Snowbeard seemed distracted. He poked at the broken staff, then
turned and studied the Dragonheart, smoothed his beard, twisting the ends
between his thumb and forefinger. “It's mounted a vigorous defense against
us,” he said. “What do you suppose accounts for that? What's
changed?” He seemed more intrigued with the Dragonheart than concerned
about his wizard staff.

“Who knows,” Jason
said. “But now we can't even touch it.” So much for his plans to take
it back to Raven's Ghyll. He eyed the stone, wondering if he could sneak up on
it somehow.

“I wish we had the book
you found,” Snowbeard said. “That might tell us something.”

“I can go back and get
it,” Jason suggested. When that proposal was met with silence, he added,
“I'll tell you one thing. I'm not going to hide out here forever, sucking
dust in a church basement.”

He swung around to Mercedes.
“See you around, Mercedes. I'm done for the day.”

Hunching his shoulders against
the disapproval emanating from behind, Jason clumped up the stairs to the side
door of the church. He knew he should leave through the cold, miserable tunnel,
but, just then, he didn't care.

When he emerged from the
building, brilliant sunshine struck him like a club. It was a beautiful winter
day, and he'd wasted it holed up in a cellar with old people.

“Hey, there.”

The back of his neck prickled.
He turned to see Leesha Middleton sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard
that adjoined the church. Snow was melted in an arc around her.

Jason was amazingly glad to
see her.

“You've been in there
half the day,” Leesha went on, crossing her legs and swinging her booted
foot. “Choir practice, or what?”

Jason sat down next to her,
taking advantage of the warm microclimate zone she'd created around the bench.
He could think of no explanation to offer as to why he'd spent all morning in
church. “Why? Have you been waiting for me?”

“Maybe.” She put her
hand on his arm. “It's Saturday. I'm bored. Want to do something?”

“Like what?”

She seemed surprised by the
question. “Well. We could go for coffee. There are some places over by the
campus.”

“I don't like
coffee.”

“We could get something
to eat.”

“I'm not really
hungry.” Jason enjoyed saying no to somebody. He was still smarting from
the verbal beating he'd taken in the crypt.

“Okay.” She paused.
“Well, we could go back to my house,” she suggested, gazing out at
the square. “My Aunt Milli's home, but she probably won't even know we're
there.”

Jason leaned his head back and
looked up at the winter-pale blue sky. “What do you want from me? I can't
help you with Jack, you know.” Leesha stood and faced him, her cheeks pink with
indignation, her hands balled into fists. “I've never met a guy so full of
questions. If you don't want to hang out, just say so.” Jason lifted a
hand to stop the tirade. “I didn't say I didn't want to.”

“You could've fooled
me.”

To be truthful, he was interested.
It had been so long since he'd done anything for fun. And the frustration he
was feeling made him want to spit in the eye of Hastings and Snowbeard and the
rest. Going out with Leesha was one way to accomplish that.

He stood, taking hold of her
hands and lifting her to her feet. “Let's go to the park.”

“The park?” He
might have said the city dump and got the same reaction. “It's freezing
out.”

He grinned and took her elbow,
towing her along so she had to trot to keep up. “Perry Park is the
absolute garden spot of Trinity, and I bet you've never been there.” Perry
Park was also the perfect marriage of public and private. Smack in the middle
of the sanctuary, but they were still unlikely to be seen. And plenty of escape
routes, if that became necessary, too.