The Enchanter Heir

hands. “Totally harmless, that’s me.”

They passed under a banner emblazoned with the legend Trinity Medieval Faire. Jonah could hear strains of lute and recorder and the cadence of drums.

Jonah took in the crowded square—families, tourists with cameras, many clothed in period dress. “They aren’t all mainliners?” Somehow, he’d expected that they would be.

Gabriel shook his head. “The town is a mix of Weir and Anaweir. Today there’s lots of both. People come from all over to shop and have a good time.”

Tents lined the square, mostly artists and craftpersons selling their wares, with a few armorers and purveyors of medieval clothing. Food stands sold such medieval delicacies as turkey legs, deep-fried Twinkies, and “gyros of the realm.”

“Gabriel!” someone called as they passed by a booth offering handwoven clothing.

Gabriel turned aside and greeted the woman tending the booth. “Mercedes! I haven’t seen you since last year’s concert.” They air-kissed, and then Gabriel put a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Mercedes, this is Jonah Kinlock, one of the students I’m mentoring. Jonah, meet Mercedes Foster, sorcerer, healer, and handweaver.”

Foster was all legs and arms and clouds of wiry gray hair—like a bright-eyed bird with handwoven plumage.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jonah said politely, nodding to Mercedes. Thinking, This is a waste of time. Why should we come here and beg these people for acceptance?

“How did Natalie do at the clinic this summer?” Gabriel asked Mercedes.

“That girl is amazing,” Mercedes said. “Especially when it comes to diagnosis. It’s like she can see through a patient’s skin and identify the problem. Send her back to me, please!”

Gabriel laughed. “Oh, no, that was just a loan. I need her at the Anchorage.”

“Gabriel, if you have a minute, I have a question about a medicinal that I’m having trouble sourcing.” The two sorcerers launched into a discussion of tinctures and extractions.

A sign had caught Jonah’s eye: Swordplay demonstration—Try your Hand. Gabriel was still talking with Mercedes, so Jonah cut between two small tents to where a battered set of bleachers had been dragged alongside a fencing strip. Two fighters were going at it—a boy and a girl. Sweat ran down their faces and dripped off their bodies, spotting the piste as they thrust and parried, attacked and retreated. A small crowd of onlookers cheered them on, shouting advice, abuse, and encouragement.

The swords were not fencing blades; these were huge, heavy, and seemed to be of similar vintage to Jonah’s Fragarach. But the two combatants handled them easily, and with deadly precision—as if they were an extension of their limbs. It was more of a dance than a battle. Each seemed to know where the other would be at any given moment.

Though the swords were edged, these fighters were not padded or armored; they were not wearing medieval dress at all, but had stripped down to shorts and T-shirts that showed off their muscular bodies.

“Come on, Jack!” someone shouted from the stands. “Wrap it up and give somebody else a chance.”

Jonah circled the piste and sat down on the bleachers, next to a curvy girl with a mane of black curls and a wizard’s glow. “Who are they?” he asked, nodding toward the fighters.

“Jack Swift and Ellen Stephenson,” the girl said, without taking her eyes off the action. “You know, they’re the ones who . . .” Her eyes fixed on Jonah, and her voice trailed off. “Oh—my—God. Where did YOU come from?”

“I’m from out of town,” Jonah said.

“You are from way out of town,” the wizardling breathed, her eyes alive with interest. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Leesha Middleton.”

Jonah shook it with his gloved hand. “Jonah Kinlock. You were saying? About the fighters?”

Leesha studied him, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me, but what guild are you in?”

“I’m undeclared,” Jonah said. “I thought I’d try them all out first. Right now I’m thinking warrior.” He nodded toward the sword fighters. “Are they warriors, then? They don’t seem all that serious about killing each other.”

“Jack and Ellen? They’re crazy in love with each other. Disgusting, if you ask me.” She paused, and then continued in a low, brittle voice. “Anyway, haven’t you heard? We’re at peace. The Weir don’t kill each other anymore.”

Her grief stabbed at Jonah, fresh and hard-edged.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he blurted without thinking.

She blinked at him. “How did you—?”

“Lucky guess. Looks like they’re finished.”

Jack Swift and Ellen Stephenson were walking toward them, the swords safely stowed in their baldrics, arguing. “I don’t see how they could call it a draw,” Ellen was saying. “I had you on the ropes, Jack.”

“We were supposed to fight to a draw,” Jack said, rolling his eyes. “Wasn’t that the point? It was just an exhibition fight. It doesn’t count.”

“They all count,” Ellen argued.

“I’m fine with a draw,” Jack said, sliding out of his harness and setting his sword down on a blanket on the sidelines.

“Why can’t you be?”

“You’re fine because you were on pace to lose,” Ellen said, shedding her sword also. “Let’s get something to drink before we start the open tournament.”

The two warriors walked toward the concession stand. Jonah heard more raised voices, some kind of argument, spilling down on them from higher in the stands. Leesha twisted around to look, then swore under her breath. “It never stops.” Pushing to her feet, she began to climb. Jonah turned to look. Four mainliners—a man and three women—had converged on a young wizard and appeared to be berating him about something as Leesha charged in for the rescue.

Curious, Jonah loped up the bleachers until he was within hearing distance.

“We want to know what’s going on with the investigation,” one of the mainliners was saying. “It’s been two weeks, and we’ve heard nothing.”

“You’ll be informed of any progress, Ms. Hudson,” the wizard said, raking one hand through his tumble of curls. “Ms. Middleton and Ms. Foster update me regularly.” He nodded at Leesha, who’d entered the target zone.

“You should be updating us,” Hudson said, turning her fire on Leesha. “We’re the parents. We’re the ones who—”

“Did you have a specific question, Ms. Hudson?” Leesha asked, her voice rich with snark.

“Who approved the field trip to Cleveland?” another parent demanded. “What were they thinking?”

“Ms. Morrison, that decision was made by the staff at the preschool,” Leesha said. “For some reason, they thought the children would enjoy a concert at the aquarium.” She paused for a beat. “I assume that you signed a permission slip?” This is about the Flats, Jonah thought, skin prickling.

That would be a hot topic here in Trinity.

“It should never have been allowed,” Hudson fumed, turning on the young man. “You should have intervened, McCauley.”

McCauley looked up, startled. “What? I should have intervened? I don’t run the preschool. I have enough to do as is.”

“The safety of our children should be your highest priority,” Morrison said. “If you and Ms. Moss don’t have time for that, then you need to delegate. My daughter Olivia was totally traumatized.”

“From what I’ve heard, your daughter Olivia was totally a hero,” Leesha said.

It took a few moments for Morrison to get her mouth running again. “Well, I must admit, Olivia does demonstrate natural leadership qualities; she takes after me in that regard.

Certainly, in a time of crisis—”

“No doubt my son Alistair was of great comfort to the other children, too,” Hudson broke in. “But I don’t believe that defending against zombie attacks should be within any four-year-old’s skill set.”

“Zombies?” McCauley rolled his eyes. “That’s the kind of talk that fans the—”