BOOKS BY CINDA WILLIAMS CHIMA
THE HEIR CHRONICLES
The Warrior Heir
The Wizard Heir
The Dragon Heir
The Enchanter Heir
The Sorcerer Heir
THE SEVEN REALMS SERIES
The Demon King
The Exiled Queen
The Gray Wolf Throne
The Crimson Crown
Collection copyright © 2014 Cinda Williams Chima
Excerpt from The Warrior Heir copyright © 2006 by Cinda Williams Chima
The Demon King
Text copyright © 2009 by Cinda Williams Chima
Cover illustration © 2009 by Larry Rostant
The Exiled Queen
Text copyright © 2010 by Cinda Williams Chima
Cover illustration © 2010 by Larry Rostant
The Gray Wolf Throne
Text copyright © 2011 by Cinda Williams Chima
Cover illustration © 2011 by Larry Rostant
The Crimson Crown
Text copyright © 2012 by Cinda Williams Chima
Cover illustration © 2012 by Larry Rostant
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN 978-1-4847-3185-7
Visit www.un-requiredreading.com
www.cindachima.com
Contents
Title Page
Books by Cinda Williams Chima
Copyright
The Seven Realms Map
The Demon King Dedication
1. The Hunt
2. Unintended Consequences
3. Ambushed
4. A Dance of Suitors
5. Old Stories
6. Fellsmarch
7. In the Glass Garden
8. Lessons to Be Learned
9. Eyes and Ears
10. Back in the Maze
11. Sanctuary
12. Bread and Roses
13. The Raggers
14. On the Wrong Side of the Law
15. Strange Bedfellows
16. Demons in the Street
17. Party Warfare
18. On the Borderland
19. Name Day
20. Willo and Bird
21. Blood and Roses
22. Desperate Measures
23. Name Day 2
24. Unholy Ceremony
25. The End of Days
26. Secrets Revealed
27. Gifted
Acknowledgments
The Exiled Queen Dedication
1. The West Wall
2. In the Borderlands
3. In the Autumn Damps
4. Delphi
5. Into the Fens
6. Flatland Demons
7. On the Road Again
8. Oden’s Ford
9. The Road West
10. Cadet
11. Mystwerk House
12. Raised from the Dead
13. Charmcasting for Beginners
14. Dean’s Dinner
15. Friends and Enemies
16. A Meeting with the Dean
17. In Mystwerk Tower
18. Abelard’s Crew
19. Caught in the Act
20. Star-Crossed
21. A Vermin Problem
22. The Waking Dream
23. A Meeting of Exiles
24. News from Home
25. Blueblood Ways
26. Dangerous Dancing
27. When Dreams Turn to Nightmares
28. Word from Home
29. A Babe in the Woods
30. This Rough Magic
31. Betrayal
32. Shifting Alliances
33. Matrimony or Murder
34. Shoulder Taps
35. Old Friends
36. Detours
37. A Parting of the Ways
The Gray Wolf Throne Dedication
1. In the Borderlands
2. Picking Over Old Bones
3. Bad News and Good News
4. A Welcome Home
5. Old Enemies
6. Simon Says
7. The Lady Sword
8. Endings and Beginnings
9. A Hunt Interrupted
10. The Price of Healing
11. Secrets Revealed
12. Bequest
13. Walking Wounded
14. Word Games
15. The Price of Deception
16. A Way Forward
17. The Games Begin
18. A Web of Lies
19. A Calculated Risk
20. Lucius and Alger
21. Back in Aediion
22. Making a Point
23. Making Show
24. Farewells
25. Homecoming
26. Agreeing to Disagree
27. On the Loose in the Palace
28. Love Letter from Arden
29. A Game of Suitors
30. Allies
31. Strange Bedfellows
32. For the Good of the Line
33. More Strange Bedfellows
34. Second Thoughts
35. A Bad Bargain
36. A Dangerous Dance
37. Coronation
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Crimson Crown Dedication
1. Clan Princess
2. A Dance in the Dark
3. Crewing for Abelard
4. Family Matters
5. A High Country Meeting
6. What Happened on Hanalea
7. A Crack in the Mountain
8. Blood and Politics
9. Of Consorts and Kings
10. Into the Snake Pit
11. Meetings at Midnight
12. Meetings at Midday
13. At Cross-Purposes
14. Queen's Orders
15. Street Rules
16. Loose Ends
17. From the Snake Pit into the Flames
18. Past Crimes and Misdemeanors
19. A Hot Summer Night
20. Blood and Ashes
21. Earth Magic
22. Ashes and Accusations
23. Revelations
24. An Old Betrayal
25. Truth or Lie
26. Proofs and Allegations
27. Demonai Delegation
28. Climbing the Deadly Nevergreen
29. In Hanalea's Garden
30. Deadly Music
31. The Armory of the Gifted Kings
32. Betrayal
33. In the Deeps
34. Agreeing to Disagree
35. Back Gamon
36. In the Passes
37. Under Siege
38. A Deal with the Devil
39. Queen Counselor
40. Fever Dreams
41. A New Generation
42. Walking Out with the Bayars
43. Standoff
44. A Meeting Underground
45. Second-Story Work
46. On the Inside
47. Trader
48. Wizard Persuasion
49. Uneasy Alliance
50. Poor Choices
51. A Way In
52. Darkman's Hour
53. Under the Vale
54. A Spectacular Diversion
55. Back into the Flame
56. A Rematch
57. Blessings and Curses
58. Tangle and a Twist
59. Redo
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Preview of The Heir Chronicles, Book One: The Warrior Heir
About the Author
For my father, Franklin Earl Williams
C H A P T E R O N E
THE HUNT
Han Alister squatted next to the steaming mud spring, praying that the thermal crust would hold his weight. He’d tied a bandana over his mouth and nose, but his eyes still stung and teared from the sulfur fumes that boiled upward from the bubbling ooze. He extended his digging stick toward a patch of plants with bilious green flowers at the edge of the spring. Sliding the tip under the clump, he pried it from the mud and lifted it free, dropping it into the deerskin bag that hung from his shoulder. Then, placing his feet carefully, he stood and retreated to solid ground.
He was nearly there when one foot broke through the fragile surface, sending him calf-deep into the gray, sticky, superheated mud.
“Hanalea’s bloody bones!” he yelped, flinging himself backward and hoping he didn’t land flat on his back in another mudpot. Or worse, in one of the blue water springs that would boil the flesh from his bones in minutes.
Fortunately, he landed on solid earth amid the lodgepole pines, the breath exploding from his body. Han heard Fire Dancer scrambling down the slope behind him, stifling laughter. Dancer gripped Han’s wrists and hauled him to safer ground, leaning back for leverage.
“We’ll change your name, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, squatting next to Han. Dancer’s tawny face was solemn, the startling blue eyes widely innocent, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “How about ‘Wades in the Mudpot’? ‘Mudpot’ for short?”
Han was not amused. Swearing, he grabbed up a handful of leaves to wipe his boot with. He should have worn his beat-up old moccasins. His knee-high footwear had saved him a bad burn, but the right boot was caked with stinking mud, and he knew he’d hear about it when he got home.
“Those boots were clan made,” his mother would say. “Do you know what they cost?”
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t paid for them in the first place. Dancer’s mother, Willo, had traded them to Han for the rare deathmaster mushroom he’d found the previous spring. Mam hadn’t been happy when he’d brought them home.
“Boots?” Mam had stared at him in disbelief. “Fancy boots? How long will it take you to grow out of those? You couldn’t have asked for money? Grain to fill our bellies? Or firewood or warm blankets for our beds?” She’d advanced on him with the switch she always seemed to have close to hand. Han backed away from her, knowing from experience that a lifetime of hard work had given his mother a powerful arm.
She’d raised welts on his back and shoulders. But he kept the boots.
They were worth far more than what he’d given in trade, and he knew it. Willo had always been generous to Han and Mam and Mari, his sister, because there was no man in the house. Unless you counted Han, and most people didn’t. Even though he was already sixteen and nearly grown.
Dancer brought water from Firehole Spring and sloshed it over Han’s slimed boot. “Why is it that only nasty plants growing in nasty places are valuable?” Dancer said.
“If they’d grow in a garden, who’d pay good money for them?” Han growled, wiping his hands on his leggings. The silver cuffs around his wrists were caked with mud as well, deeply embedded in the delicate engraving. He’d better take a brush to them before he got home, or he’d hear about that too.
It was a fitting end to a frustrating day. They’d been out since dawn, and all he had to show for it were three sulfur lilies, a large bag of cinnamon bark, some razorleaf, and a handful of common snagwort that he could pass off as maidenweed at the Flatlander Market. His mother’s empty purse had sent him foraging in the mountains too early in the season.
“This is a waste of time,” Han said, though it had been his idea in the first place. He snatched up a rock and flung it into the mudpot, where it disappeared with a viscous plop. “Let’s do something else.”
Dancer cocked his head, his beaded braids swinging. “What would you…?”
“Let’s go hunting,” Han said, touching the bow slung across his back.
Dancer frowned, thinking. “We could try Burnt Tree Meadow. The fellsdeer are moving up from the flatlands. Bird saw them there day before yesterday.”
“Let’s go, then.” Han didn’t have to think long about it. It was the hunger moon. The crocks of beans and cabbage and dried fish his mother had laid up for the long winter had evaporated. Even if he’d fancied sitting down to another meal of beans and cabbage, lately there’d been nothing but porridge and more porridge, with the odd bit of salt meat for flavor. Meat for the table would more than make up for today’s meager gleanings.
They set off east, leaving the smoking springs behind. Dancer set a relentless, ground-eating pace down the valley of the Dyrnnewater. Han’s bad mood began to wear away with the friction of physical exertion.
It was hard to stay angry on such a day. Signs of spring bloomed all around them. Skunk cabbages and maiden’s kiss and May apples covered the ground, and Han breathed in the scent of warm earth freed from its winter covering. The Dyrnnewater frothed over stones and roared over waterfalls, fed by melting snow on the upper slopes. The day warmed as they descended, and soon Han removed his deerskin jacket and pushed his sleeves past his elbows.
Burnt Tree Meadow was the site of a recent fire. In a few short years it would be reclaimed by forest, but for now it was a sea of tall grasses and wildflowers, studded with the standing trunks of charred lodgepole pines. Other trunks lay scattered like a giant’s game of pitchsticks. Knee-high pine trees furred the ground, and blackberry and bramble basked in sunlight where there had once been deep pine-forest shade.
A dozen fellsdeer stood, heads down, grazing on the tender spring grasses. Their large ears flicked away insects, and their red hides shone like spots of paint against the browns and greens of the meadow.
Han’s pulse accelerated. Dancer was the better archer, more patient in choosing his shots, but Han saw no reason why they shouldn’t each take a deer. His always-empty stomach growled at the thought of fresh meat.
Han and Dancer circled the meadow to the downwind side, downslope from the herd. Crouching behind a large rock, Han slid his bow free and tightened the slack bowstring, trying it with his callused thumb. The bow was new, made to match his recent growth. It was clan made, like everything in his life that married beauty and function.
Han eased to his feet and drew the bowstring back to his ear. Then he paused, sniffing the air. The breeze carried the distinct scent of wood smoke. His gaze traveled up the mountain and found a thin line of smoke cutting across the slope. He looked at Dancer and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. Dancer shrugged. The ground was soaked and the spring foliage green and lush. Nothing should burn in this season.
The deer in the meadow caught the scent too. They raised their heads, snorting and stamping their feet nervously, the whites showing in their liquid brown eyes. Han looked up the mountain again. Now he could see orange, purple, and green flames at the base of the fire line, and the wind blowing downslope grew hot and thick with smoke.
Purple and green? Han thought. Were there plants that burned with colors like those?
The herd milled anxiously for a moment, as if not sure which way to go, then turned as one and charged straight toward them.
Han hastily raised his bow and managed to get off a shot as the deer bounded past. He missed completely. Dancer’s luck was no better.
Han sprinted after the herd, leaping over obstacles, hoping to try again, but it was no use. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of the white flags of their tails before the deer vanished into the pines. Muttering to himself, he trudged back to where Dancer stood, staring up the mountain. The line of garish flame rolled toward them, picking up speed, leaving a charred and desolate landscape in its wake.
“What is going on?” Dancer shook his head. “There’s
no burns this time of year.”
As they watched, the fire gathered momentum, leaping small ravines. Glittering embers landed on all sides, driven by the downslope wind. The heat seared the skin on Han’s exposed face and hands. He shook ash from his hair and slapped sparks off his coat, beginning to realize their danger. “Come on. We’d better get out of the way!”
They ran across the ridge, slipping and sliding on the shale and wet leaves, knowing a fall could mean disaster. They took refuge behind a rocky prominence that pierced the thin vegetative skin of the mountain. Rabbits, foxes, and other small animals galloped past, just ahead of the flames. The fire line swept by, hissing and snapping, greedily consuming everything in its path.
And after came three riders, like shepherds driving the flames before them.
Han stared, mesmerized. They were boys no older than Han and Dancer, but they wore fine cloaks of silk and summer wool that grazed their stirrups, and long stoles glittering with exotic emblems. The horses they rode were not compact, shaggy mountain ponies, but flatlander horses, with long delicate legs and proudly arched necks, their saddles and bridles embellished with silver fittings. Han knew horseflesh, and these horses would cost a year’s pay for a common person.
A lifetime’s earnings for him.
The boys rode with a loose and easy arrogance, as if oblivious to the breathtaking landscape around them.
Dancer went still, his bronze face hardening and his blue eyes going flat and opaque. “Charmcasters,” he breathed, using the clan term for wizards. “I should have known.”
Charmcasters, Han thought, fear and excitement thrilling through him. He’d never seen one up close. Wizards did not consort with people like him. They lived in the elaborate palaces surrounding Fellsmarch Castle, and attended the queen at court. Many served as ambassadors to foreign countries—purposefully so. Rumors of their powers of sorcery kept foreign invaders away.
The most powerful among them was named the High Wizard, adviser and magical enforcer of the queen of the Fells.
“Stay away from wizards,” Mam always said. “You don’t want to be noticed by such as them. Get too close, and you might get burnt alive or turned into something foul and unholy. Common folk are like dirt under their feet.”
Like anything forbidden, wizards fascinated Han, but this was one rule he’d never had a chance to break. Charmcasters weren’t allowed in the Spirit Mountains, except to their council house on Gray Lady, overlooking the Vale. Nor would they venture into Ragmarket, the gritty Fellsmarch neighborhood Han called home. If they needed something from the markets, they sent servants to purchase it.