Jack looked up, thinking he heard a threat. But Hastings's expression was a mixture of sympathy and impatience.

The wizard leaned back and closed his eyes. “Face the facts, Jack. As far as you are concerned, this all started maybe three or four months ago, with the trip to the graveyard, right? In the past three weeks, you have been attacked three times. That's just a taste of things to come.”

Hastings opened his eyes, fixed Jack with his green-eyed gaze. “Remember, the White Rose has left you entirely alone up until now. As soon as they realize you're alive, they'll come after you again, too. Perhaps the Red Rose tried to poison you. If not, they certainly know who you are now, since the incident at school. And then there are the traders to consider. You're worth a bloody fortune. And the world is full of adventurers who will try to claim it.”

Jack could stay in his seat no longer. He rose and walked back to the window. The mists were burning off in the low places, disintegrating into ragged streamers in the still air. Some sheep had wandered into view on one of the far hills. He wished he could just fly away from this place, from who he was, from his past and his future.

Hastings was relentless. “Assuming you make it home from here, what do you think you'll go back to? Trinity will become a battleground for wizards.Your friends, each person in your family will be a point of vulnerability, particularly Anaweir.” He paused. “You've seen your mother. I brought her here as an example to you. All I have to do is speak a charm, and she'll do anything I tell her to do. I can demonstrate if you'd like.”

“Go to hell,” Jack muttered into the crystalline air.

“Which means she will be at the mercy of any wizard from either house who tracks her down. Your father, Will, and Fitch: no one will be safe. How many of them are you willing to sacrifice?” Hastings joined Jack at the window. His voice grew softer. “Trust me, I know. Even if you sleep with one eye open, I give you six months to a year. And even if you survive, you'll end up alone. You see, there are no rules out there.”

Jack rested his face against the cool stone surrounding the window. He thought of Trinity, of its quiet tree-lined avenues, the stone buildings of the university, the gaudy gingerbread of Jefferson Street. And then he imagined a barren ruin in its place. “Why do they do it? These tournaments, I mean?”

Hastings spoke patiently, as if delivering a history lesson. “These are ruthless, powerful people with time on their hands and the means to destroy each other. This system meets a lot of needs. It allows the settling of disputes with minimal bloodshed. Wizards claim to be heir to the legacy of the Dragon of Dungeon Ghyll. By contract, we own you. By that point of view, warriors are considered property. And are therefore … expendable.”

Jack thought of Jessamine Longbranch and how she had treated him. Like he was some animal that could be used and then put out to stud. Jack's hand stole to where the star-shaped scar lay under his shirt. “They should have let me die, back then,” he whispered. “I'd be better off.”

“Well, they didn't. And now we have to deal with what is.” He touched Jack's arm, and Jack flinched.

“What do you know about it? You're a … a …”

“I know all about it.” Hastings voice was so soft, Jack might have missed it.

I could kill myself, Jack thought. He looked over the stone sill of the window, judged the drop to the courtyard below. It would probably be enough. Of course, he could end up paralyzed. Then they couldn't make him fight. He sighed and pressed his palms into his eyelids. Even his hands were callused from swordplay. He was sixteen years old. He didn't want to be dead or crippled. He wanted to graduate from high school and go to college and fall in love. None of which seemed very likely now.

“What happens if I fight?” Jack realized he had crossed a line.

“All warriors in the Game are associated with a sponsor. There is some protection in that, for you and your family, once you are declared. If you win: fame, fortune. And, based on the current shortage of warriors, probably a considerable respite before you have to fight again.”

Hastings cleared his throat. “Until I heard that the Red Rose was fielding a champion, I had hoped no one would be able to meet your challenge. If the challenge isn't answered, the Game is forfeited. As good as a win, and not so bloody.” Hastings almost smiled. “You don't have much experience, but your weapon may make the difference.”

“Will I be able to go home again? Afterward?” If I win, he thought. After I kill somebody. Jack knew he could have killed Garrett Lobeck. But he wouldn't be facing Garrett Lobeck. Jack thrust the thought from his mind.

Hastings thought a moment. “I don't know, Jack.That's probably a question for you to answer. You are already quite different from the boy who went to Coal Grove.” He ran his hand through his hair and leaned against the wall. “It is not fair, and these are not attractive choices. Look at it this way: even if you lose the tournament, your family and friends will be safe.” He paused, a heartbeat. “But I don't intend for you to lose.”

“What happens at the tournament?”

“It's a celebration over several days: ceremony, wagering, and posturing on both sides. Then the champions fight each other in one-to-one combat. Everything is regulated by the Rules of Engagement.”

“Where is it held?”

“Here in Cumbria, traditionally; though it's a movable feast. The last one was held in Australia.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“Perhaps a chance to change the system. Perhaps a chance to save your life. No guarantees, either way.”

Did he really have a choice? Jack had no doubt Hastings could force him to participate, whether he wanted to or not. He was just like any other wizard when it came to pushing people around. Hastings acted like he had some kind of personal rule book he played by. If so, it was indecipherable to Jack.

It was all pretty hopeless. The best he could do was to try to limit the risk to his family. Perhaps this would be easier than throwing himself out a window.

The soft breath of the mountains cooled his flushed skin, whispered a warning. “I'll play,” he said, without turning away from the window.

Hastings released a long breath. Jack wondered if it was a sigh of relief.

“I thought you would.” Hastings said.

“What about Aunt Linda?” She would be furious with him, but there was nothing he could do about that. My choice. My life and my death.

“I'm hoping the tournament will be over before she knows you're playing.” Hastings shook his head. “She is going to be very angry with me. Perhaps angry is not so bad as indifferent.” He gazed out of the window.

Jack couldn't stop himself. “But how could you … weren't you … ?” His voice trailed away under Hastings's clear-eyed scrutiny.

“Yes. We were together once.” He half smiled. “You know, Jack, all of the women in your family are full of magic, whether they inherit the stone or not. They are among the casualties of this war.” With some effort, Hastings shook off his melancholy. “I will make arrangements for us to attend the tournament, then.” He turned to go.

But Jack still had a question. “So if the Red Rose already has a champion, I assume that I will be fighting for the White Rose?”

The wizard stopped and turned back, looking surprised and almost amused.

“No, Jack. I thought you understood.You will be playing for me.”

Chapter Fourteen

When Lovers Meet

Jack went back into training the day following his conversation with Hastings. The routine of it was almost soothing. The idea of a deadline was also appealing compared to the cat-and-mouse game that had been going on for months. Every morning he ran for miles through the mists, up and down the treacherous hills surrounding the stone house. Hastings ran with him.

They would return to the house and have breakfast with Becka. The stone house was almost a castle, with sheer, fortresslike walls that dropped to a grassy plain surrounded by hills. Informal gardens stretched from the back door to the wooded area at the foot of the fells. The first floor of the house included a great hall, a library, and kitchen and dining areas. There were at least six bedrooms upstairs. Jack never saw any staff around, although there always seemed to be food and drink available whenever they were hungry. Perhaps it was all done through sorcery.

After breakfast, they worked with their foils in the meadow behind the house. Now the focus was no longer on defense but on offense, on penetrating his opponent's defenses, the delivery of a killing stroke. And every afternoon Hastings sent warriors against Jack. Some were new to him, while others were familiar from his previous bouts.

Now there was no need to put up a barrier when he fought, to keep away prying eyes. No one came anywhere near, except for the occasional sheep that wandered down the hillsides. Somehow, Hastings kept Becka away from the bouts, though whether through personal charm or wizardry, Jack didn't know.

Jack realized Hastings was concerned about his lack of experience. Despite relentless coaching and the quality of his weapon, it was hard to get around the fact that Jack had been in training for only a few months. The same could be true of his opponent, but he couldn't count on that.

Jack wished he knew more about the warriors he fought against in practice; about their previous lives, how they'd come to be warriors, how many tournaments they'd fought in, how they'd died. Well, maybe not that last part.

On his third afternoon of training, a young man exploded into the meadow, Jack's fifth opponent of the afternoon. The man's brown hair was drawn into a queue decorated with feathers, and he wore fringed buckskins. He carried a hatchet in one hand, a curved sword in the other, and a knife was belted at his waist. He appeared to be a New World frontiersman of the seventeenth or eighteenth century. He charged at Jack with a bloodcurdling howl.

Jack put up his hand. “Wait a minute!”

For a moment, Jack didn't think the man had heard him. He kept coming, full speed, like he meant to take Jack's head off without breaking stride. But finally, at the last minute, the man slowed and skidded to a stop just outside the reach of Jack's sword.