The Dragon Heir

“McCauley seems to be well-protected,” Longbranch mused. “He is just a boy, after all.”

“You sure it's not Hastings?” D'Orsay asked, suppressing a shudder.

Wylie shook his head. “As far as we know, Hastings and Downey are somewhere in Europe.”

They all glanced over their shoulders, as if the pair might at that moment be sneaking up on them.

“Well,” Jessamine said, smiling, “perhaps we can just walk in and take it, then.”

Now there were smiles all around.

The wind howled over the Ravenshead and the pavilion shuddered under its force. Fat droplets of rain splattered against the canvas. D'Orsay gestured, and the flames in the grate burned hotter.

“Father.” Devereaux spoke up again. “Why should we give them anything? They've got nothing to trade.”

Clever boy, D'Orsay thought fondly.

“We offer you the freedom to come and go,” Jessamine said. “As your father no doubt realizes. If we secure the Dragonheart on our own, your Covenant is worthless. Join us, and we'll negotiate an amended Covenant that distributes power among us. It seems the stone has been the source of power all along, while we've been slaves to old myths and legends about dragons. There'll be no need to adhere to the old restrictions, to share power outside our circle.” She fingered the emerald that hung around her neck. “The possibilities are limitless.”

Claude D'Orsay smiled. It was a familiar playing field, at least. Another proposed wizard agreement involving terms to be negotiated later. With assassination and bloodshed, no doubt. And, given the fact that he held no cards at all, not even the Covenant, it was attractive.

“Surely we can work something out,” D'Orsay said, looking at each of the players in turn.

“Father,” Devereaux protested. “We can't just let…”

“Later, Dev,” D'Orsay said, raising his hand.

Dev subsided, his hands twitching with irritation.

D'Orsay turned to the others. “My son and I will inventory the hoard and arrange for an in-person survey.”

Following discussion of a few more logistics, the meeting broke up. The D'Orsays sent the Roses on their way, and set the servants to dismantling the pavilion. D'Orsay and Dev descended into the ghyll, eager to retire to the fireside in the castle.

“So,” D'Orsay said, when they'd reached the valley floor, “You don't like the idea of sharing the hoard with the Roses.”

“Why should we? It belongs to us. Our family.”

“We have to get out of this bloody ghyll, Dev. Whatever the Dragonheart is, whatever it does, we have to get it back. Then, we're players. We've not heard from Alicia in weeks. So it's not likely we can succeed without the Roses.”

“What do you think happened to that girl? Alicia?”

“Hard to say. It's risky out there, Dev. That's why I've kept you close.”

“She goes wherever she likes. She does whatever she pleases,” Devereaux said enviously.

“And she may very well be dead,” D'Orsay replied testily. What had gotten into Dev lately?

Dev paused at the foot of the gardens leading up to the castle. “That's weird,” he said. “The drawbridge is up and the gate is shut.”

D'Orsay blinked away rain and peered up at the castle. The drawbridge had been little more than a decorative piece since the signing of the Covenant centuries ago.

In fact, he'd last closed the drawbridge the night Jason Haley broke into the ghyll. After all, he had wards and sentries to warn him of danger.

The drawbridge was closed now.

“What the devil?” D'Orsay muttered. “Perhaps Stephen is being overzealous tonight, given our visitors.”

“Well, he should be looking out for us,” Dev said. “He should have noticed we were coming, and opened the gate.” Dev was intolerant of poor service from the staff. He began speed-walking up the road, probably meaning to give Stephen a piece of his mind.

“Devereaux! Wait!” D'Orsay hissed, but the boy was already way out ahead of him. D'Orsay was puffing by the time he reached the garden shed near the top of the garden. He leaned on the wall of the shed, glancing inside as he did so, and noticed, tucked beneath one of the benches, a body, stripped to its undergarments. And, further in, another.

D'Orsay peered into the dim interior, disbelieving his eyes. “Stephen?” he muttered. Then he turned and sprinted after his son, who was out of sight by now. When he topped the hill, he saw Dev standing on the near side of the moat, shouting up to the gatehouse.

“Stephen! Open up, you pathetic imbecile, or I'll…”

“Devereaux!” D'Orsay bellowed. “Come away!” He slammed his son aside just as a blast of wizard fire erupted from the gatehouse and scorched the ground where Dev had been standing.

D'Orsay threw up a shield in time to turn three more attacks from his own hold. Had the Roses taken advantage of their absence from the hold to sneak unobserved into the ghyll? Had his guard turned on him?

Wards were crystallizing all about the fortifications, powerful barriers to any magic that might be used to bring down the walls. Not that D'Orsay intended to knock down his house if he could help it.

They retreated to a safe distance. Dev was shaken but unhurt. He quickly added his strength to D'Orsay's shielding. “What's happened, Father? Has that idiot Stephen gone berserk?”

“Stephen is dead, Dev. I found him in the garden.”

“Stephen? Dead?” Dev's eyes widened. “That's horrid. I can't believe it.”

Just then a dozen guardsmen in D'Orsay livery trotted up. “What's going on, sir?” the officer gasped. “We saw flames from down below.”

“I would expect that you could have told me, if you'd been at your posts where you belonged,” D'Orsay said dryly. “Where have you been?”

“We…um…”They looked at each other and shuffled their feet. Obviously no one wanted to be the one to confess. Finally the captain spoke up.

“My lord, we heard a woman singing, and went to check it out.”

“You heard a woman singing.” D'Orsay paused, just in case he'd misunderstood, and the captain nodded. “And you—all of you—went to investigate.”

“Well.” The captain fussed with his sleeve. “Yes. It was…well, you'd have to hear it for yourself.”

“Bewitched, were you? And did you find this woman?”

He shook his head. “We found this.” He held out his hand, and a small crystal bird sparkled in the center of his calloused palm.

D'Orsay struck it out of his hand. “An enchanter's trick. And you fell for it. And now someone has locked me out of my own home.”

And then it came to him, a suspicion of who that someone might be.

D'Orsay turned back toward the castle, cupped his hands, and shouted, “Hastings!” He waited, and then repeated, “Hastings! I know it's you, so you may as well show yourself!”

A moment later, he heard a woman's amused voice from the parapet. “Leander, why is it you always get the credit for everything?”

They stepped out onto the wall walk, side-by-side, iced in magic—the tall wizard and the small enchanter, looking like a Romeo and Juliet in climbing gear.

Or the new lord and lady of the manor.

Linda Downey. And Leander Hastings. And Claude D'Orsay had them trapped in the ghyll.

That was one way to look at it.

D'Orsay turned to his guard. “Surround the hold,” he snapped. “They mustn't be allowed to escape.”

“Oh, we have no intention of escaping,” Hastings said. “We like it here.”

“There is no way the two of you can hold the keep against an army,” D'Orsay said, trying to sound convincing.

“Who says there are just two of us?” Downey replied. “And it seems amazingly well-built. Are there any weaknesses we should know about?”

D'Orsay very nearly told her before he caught himself. Her voice was like a song that insinuates itself into your mind until you find yourself humming along.

Damn her! The Master of the Games generally preferred to keep his distance from violence by delegating it. But just then he would have welcomed the opportunity to rend the pair of them into little bits. Personally. By hand.

The worst of it was that, with the exception of a few caches of choice pieces that D'Orsay kept elsewhere in the ghyll, the lion's share of the hoard of magical weapons was in the inner keep of Raven's Ghyll Castle—now in Downey and Hasting's possession, and no longer accessible to D'Orsay and his new allies. There was the risk that the Roses would be unimpressed with what little he would be able to deliver—his contribution to the cause.

“We'll starve you out!” he blustered, though he was not one to make empty threats.

“It appears that will take some time,” Hastings said. “My compliments on your wine cellar, Claude.” He paused. “In fact, I'm finding your cellar very…intriguing.”

He'd found the hoard, then. It was heavily warded, but, still … it was Leander Hastings. Soon enough, he'd be using the sefas against them.

“Where will you be staying in the meantime?” Downey asked sweetly. “In case someone calls?”

Dev pressed forward, and D'Orsay grabbed his arm, hauling him back. “No, Dev, they are trying to make you do something foolish.”

“Make them leave!” Dev's face was white with fury. “That is our home!”

“Never mind, Dev.” He turned to his captain. “I want a twenty-four-hour guard on this castle. No one enters or leaves without my permission. Anyone left alive inside, stays there.” He paused. “And, damn it, next time you hear someone singing, stop up your ears.”

“Where will we live, Father?” Dev asked, shoulders slumped dejectedly. “All my things are in there.”