The Enchanter Heir

Rowan rubbed the back of his neck. “Does it matter now? Some things you’re better off not knowing. Maybe you should just leave that be.”

“You mean, like you let Tyler be?”

Rowan sighed. “I don’t know specifics about your mother, but it seems likely that she made poisons. The sorcerers who worked for my father were primarily involved in making them.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “If so, she must have been good at it. He only hired the best.”

“What—what would he want with poison?” Emma forced the words over a dry tongue.

“My father, Andrew DeVries, founded a syndicate known as the Black Rose. Its members solved all kinds of sticky problems for their clients, but they specialized in contract killing of the gifted. Wizards, mostly. To be blunt, I come from a family of assassins.”

Emma’s heart squeezed painfully as the realization hit home. My mother was a murderer. An accessory to murder, at least.

“The syndicate was successful from the very start. After all, why butt heads with an opponent when you can take him out of play entirely? Why negotiate with rebellious underguilds when you can eliminate their ringleaders and frighten the rest into submission? A little judicious killing can reduce the need for bloodshed later on.

“My father didn’t take sides . . . he was apolitical. He sold his services to anyone willing to pay the price. Of course, some in the wizard houses were disdainful of him . . . at first, anyway.” A trace of a smile quirked Rowan’s lips. “They considered poison a weapon of the underguilds, an inappropriate tactic for wizards. They preferred to settle disputes via the anachronistic elegance of the Game.”

“The Game?”

“You’ve not heard of it? They used warrior gladiators as proxies to settle disputes. They would fight one- on-one, winner take all, under a set of rules that go back to the sixteenth century.” He rolled his eyes. “Rather silly, really. It leaves way too much up to chance. My father was nothing if not efficient. People soon learned to get out of his way.”

Horrified words crowded together in Emma’s mind, competing to escape. “B-but . . . what would he . . . I don’t understand why she would—”

“There’s a lot I don’t know, all right?” Rowan snapped. “I was twelve when my father was murdered. Rachel was eight. We were not involved in Father’s business; we were attending private schools under aliases for our own protection. I was fourteen before I found out my real name.”

“Who killed your father?” Emma asked.

Rowan straightened his sleeves. “Who indeed? So many suspects to choose from.”

“Why are you interested in Thorn Hill?” Emma asked.

“The sorcerers who went to Thorn Hill had expertise in a number of areas that are of interest to us now. Much of that knowledge was lost in the accident. We’re hoping to salvage something.”

“The accident?” My father called it a massacre, she wanted to say. “What happened?”

Rowan shrugged. “Apparently some of the poisons they were working on contaminated the water supply. Nearly everyone died. A few children survived—and many of them were horribly disfigured.” He frowned, appraising Emma. “You must have left before then,” he said.

“I guess I must have,” Emma said. “How many people died?”

“Several thousand, from what I understand.” He grimaced. “So much expertise was lost. What a shame.”

“Yeah. A shame about the expertise,” Emma murmured. “Why does that matter now? Have you decided to go into the family business?”

“Recent events have forced my hand,” Rowan said. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody is murdering wizards. We believe we know who’s doing it, but right now we’re helpless to stop it. Thorn Hill was also a center for research into Weirstones. Specifically, research on ways to modify them.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

Rowan shrugged. “I don’t know . . . maybe they wanted to create a mutant army to kill wizards?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Emma said. “My parents would never be involved in something like that.”

“You mean your mother, the assassin’s accomplice, or your father that you just met?” Rowan laughed. “We’re alike, you and I . . . we both spring from tainted stock.”

“Why do you want to modify Weirstones?”

“All of our Weirstones are dependent on the Dragonheart, the source of magical energy. A small group has seized power over the Weirguilds by taking control of the Dragonheart. We’re looking for a way to free ourselves from dependence on the Dragonheart while retaining our gifts. Until we’re able to do this, we’re helpless to fight back.

“We’d been looking for your father for a long time. Some records seemed to connect him to the Black Rose—perhaps through your mother, I don’t know. He was connected to Thorn Hill as well . . . he spent some time there. So we thought perhaps he might be the link we were looking for. “Rachel had reason to believe that she’d finally located him. She and the others went to question your father and verify who he was.” Pain flickered across his face. “I should never have allowed her to go, but she was excited, hoping this would be her first big breakthrough. And I thought, of course, he’s a sorcerer—what chance would he have against eight wizards?” He grimaced. “But somebody else showed up, maybe somebody who knew they were coming. My sister called for help, but I got there too late.”

He lost more than I did that night, Emma thought. For me, Tyler was a link to the past and a hope for the future. But anyone could tell that Rowan really loved his sister.

“She didn’t describe the killer to you?”

Rowan shook his head. “It seems she didn’t plan on being dead when I got there.”

“You sent eight people to question one man?”

“Most of them were young. New recruits. Like me, Rachel assumed the job was routine, and brought them along so they could gain some experience. But it’s also possible that they were anticipating trouble. Anyone who can murder that many wizards is exceedingly dangerous.”

“But you weren’t there?”

“If I had been there, Rachel would have survived. Or I would be dead,” Rowan said bluntly.

“And so . . . your sister and the others drew assassins to my house, and my father ended up dead?” Emma made no effort to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Either that or your father lured my sister and the others into a trap,” Rowan snapped back.

“And ended up dead himself. That’s a real good plan, to host a murder with his own daughter as witness.”

“If he was involved, I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to turn out the way it did,” Rowan said. “This is the first time the murderers have left any witnesses. I don’t think they meant to.”

So, Emma realized, she herself was supposed to be dead, along with the others. If any of what Rowan was saying was even true.

“How did I get here?”

“At first, we thought you were dead, too,” Rowan said. “You didn’t seem to be breathing. And yet, you were still warm, and you had a faint pulse. We brought you back here, hoping you’d recover. When you didn’t show any signs of improvement, we called in that labrat healer.”

“You never considered taking me to a hospital?”

“No.”

You said you wanted the truth, Emma thought. “Where are we, anyway?” she asked, looking around.

“This is my house,” Rowan said. “In Bratenahl.”

“What’s Bratenahl?”

“It’s a neighborhood. A village, I guess. Up on the lake.”

“Pretty fancy house you’ve got.”

“It was my father’s.”

“Who are Hackleford and Burroughs?” Emma asked.

Rowan’s face armored up—even more than it already was. “They’re longtime colleagues of my father’s. After my father died, the organization splintered. Hackleford and Burroughs are very much interested in using the