Cinda Williams Chima - The Warrior Heir

The Warrior Heir

Book 1 of the Heir Series

Cinda Williams Chima

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CONTENTS

Heartfelt thanks to my agent,Michelle Wolfson, who made all the difference; to my editors, Arianne Lewin andDonna Bray, who believed; to Hudson Writers (Deb Abood, Pam Daum, CathyFahey-Hunt, Anne Gallagher, Ellen Matthews, Marsha McGregor, James Robinson,and Jane Sahr), who gave the gift that every writer needs: thoughtful andloving critique; most of all, thanks to Rod, Eric, and Keith, who understood.

For my mother, Carol Bryan Williams, who told stories

CoaltonCounty, Ohio

June, 1870

The scent of wood smokeand roses always took him back there, to the boy he was and would never beagain.

The Roses came for them duringhis tenth summer. In those days, Lee was slight of build, though his fatheralways said his big hands and feet predicted height and broad shoulders when hewas grown. He was the youngest, a little spoiled, the only one of four childrento display the telltale signs of a wizard's stone. His parents complained thatit took him two days to do a day's worth of work. Not lazy, exactly, butlargely inefficient.

They had been back only afortnight after a month on the run. It was a mistake to come back. Lee knewthat, afterward, but his father was a farmer, and a farmer can't afford to stayout of the fields too long during the growing season. Besides, the Roses'previous attacks had been hit-or-miss affairs. They would sweep through thevillage on the river, search the outlying farms, and then disappear, sometimesfor as long as a year.

Bandits, their neighborscalled them, and speculated that they'd been soldiers in the recent War of theRebellion. Only seven years before, Confederate General John Morgan had led hisraiders through these southern Ohio hills.

Lee's family knew better. Knewwhat these raiders were looking for, and why. The Roses had followed thelineages west from the port cities in the east. They hunted the descendants ofthe Silver Bear, harvesting the gifted for the Trade. His brother Jamie hadbeen taken when Lee was just a baby, while they still lived in Pennsylvania.Jamie had been an enchanter. Lee didn't really remember him, but they alwaysburned a beeswax candle for him on the holidays.

Lee was just happy to be home,back in those green, blunted hills tailor-made for a dreamer. On that fatefulday, he had left the house early in order to avoid any chores that might beassigned. He'd spent the morning on the riverbank, and the product of it was astringer of catfish that he planned to offer up for supper. He ambled backalong the road that led up to the house, just two wagon ruts, really, detouringwhenever something caught his interest.

As he drew closer to home, hecaught a strong scent of wood smoke. It was odd, because it was summertime andthe stone fireplaces and woodstoves that heated the house had not been in usesince April. Perhaps his father was clearing land or burning off brush. If so,Lee should have been home to help. From the angle of the sun, he knew he wasalready late for the midday meal. His mother would be in a fine state about it.

It was then that he saw a darkcolumn of smoke climbing into the sky through the tops of the trees up ahead.From the location, he knew it must be coming from the home yard. Perhaps thekitchen had caught fire. He broke into a run, the fish swinging awkwardly athis side.

As it turned out, it was thekitchen, and the barn, and the garden shed. They were all ablaze, wood andthatch buildings ready-made for burning, and half devoured already. The mainhouse, though, was stone, with a slate roof, and so more resistant. His fatherhad teased the stones for it out of the surrounding hills. A fine house forthat part of the world, and perhaps that was why it had drawn attention. Leestood in the fringes of the forest, unsure what to do. The fish slid unnoticedfrom his fingers.

Why was no one fighting thefire, pumping water from the well, passing buckets, and soaking down the woodthat had not yet caught? He scanned the yard. No one was there, not his father,nor his brother, not anyone.

Keeping within the shelter ofthe woods, he circled around to the back of the house, knowing the hedges andwalls that quilted the gardens would give him cover. His father had come overfrom the Old World, and he was proud of those gardens. They were civilized,hemmed in by stone, like those in their family's ancestral home.

Instinct told him to stayhidden. He crouched, fading into the shadow of the stone wall where it ran nearthe forest,following it back to the house. The skin on his face tightened from the heat ofthe kitchen fire as he slipped past it, through the vegetable garden, to theback door of the house.The door was standing partly ajar. He pushed it wideopen.

It was a mess inside. Clearly,his family had been at the table when the attack came. Had he returned on time,he would have been among them. Food lay scattered, ground into the floor bread and pieces of fruit and the small cinnamontarts that Martin liked so well. The furniture had been chopped to pieces andset ablaze like kindling, tables were overturned, crockery shattered againstthe wall. Someone was either very angry or wanted to make a point. Lee circledaround the shards of glass on the floor, aware of his bare feet.

He crept farther into thehouse, barely breathing, keeping flat to the wall, his ears straining for anyclue that would tell him the intruders were still inside. As he moved towardthe great hall, he became aware of a sound, a rhythmic banging. It grew louderas he drew closer to the front of the house. As he slid his hand along thewall, he encountered something wet. Bringing his hand close to his face, hecaught the metallic scent of blood. Blood was splashed all over the floor andwalls. Dark red puddles were congealing between the stones in the floor. Hisheart clamored in his chest; he had to fight to get his breath, but he forcedhimself to go on.

A body lay in the doorway tothe hall, a man dressed too fine to be local, in a waistcoat and a silk shirtand cravat, not homespun, like Lee's. He looked middle-aged, but wasprobably much older. A man who carried no obvious weapons, and needed none. Awizard, it must be.

Lee's brother Martin layfacedown just beyond the doorway, his body nearly torn in two. Most of theblood must have been his. He was ten years older, big and broad shouldered,known as a hard worker. Practical. Not a dreamer like Lee. Anaweir: no magic inhim, no match for wizards.

"Martin." Lee's lipsformed the word, but he had no breath to make a sound.

Lee crept into the room,feeling the tacky blood under his toes. There were the bodies of two morewizards, and then he saw his father sprawled across the hearth, his legs in thefireplace as if he'd been thrown there.

His father, who told himstories of castles and manor houses across the ocean. Who could steal fire outof the air with his fingers and spin shields out of sunlight. Who called himwizard heir and had begun to teach him the charms that would shape magic to hisuse. Who had been powerful enough and smart enough to protect them fromanything. Until now.

Lee fell to his kneesretching, and lost what little remained of his breakfast. Then he heard thenoise again, the banging sound.

His mother was huddled in herrocking chair next to the fireplace, her knitting on her lap.The sound he'dheard was the slam of the rocker against the wall. Now that he was closer, hecould hear her knitting needles, clicking together in a businesslike fashion.But she had picked up no stitches. Although she had yarn in her basket, and on her lap, shewas knitting nothing.

"Mama?" hewhispered, drawing close to her, looking warily over his shoulder. "Was itthe Roses?" She stared into the hearth where Papa lay cold and broken.Rocked, and knitted nothing, and said nothing. She didn't have to. He knew itwas the Roses; of course it was the Roses, who else would it be?