“At this rate, Prince Jaire will be betrothed, married, and a father several times over before we ever reach Altan,” Rhu grumbled to Mikhyal as they followed the carriage at a sedate pace that wouldn’t upset the ladies’ digestion.
“Ai, I’d forgotten how much I hate traveling with Mother’s entourage.” Though the ladies rode in a closed carriage to protect them from the damp forest air, Mikhyal still kept his voice low enough not to carry. “We could have traveled this distance in a day or so if we didn’t have to keep to the pace of the carriage.”
They were five days out from the palace, and even though he’d at first appreciated the slow pace, he was now more than ready to be finished with the journey. The ladies tired easily, forcing the party to stop in the late afternoon, and though they rose at a reasonable time in the morning, it was usually several hours of primping and powdering before they were ready to resume the journey.
A shout from up ahead had Mikhyal and Rhu exchanging an anxious glance. A moment later, the distinctive sound of steel ringing against steel reached them, followed by the king’s voice barking orders.
“Stay here, Your Highness,” Rhu ordered, and urged her mount toward the front of the line, where the king rode.
Mikhyal stared after her for only a few moments before touching his heels to Shirra’s flanks. The mare surged forward. When he reached the carriage, which had stopped at the first sign of trouble, he dismounted and tethered her to the door.
The dark curtains at the carriage window parted, and his mother’s face appeared, shockingly pale against her brightly painted lips. Her blue eyes were wide as she stared at her son.
“Stay here!” Mikhyal shouted through the glass.
The queen nodded once and let the curtain fall closed.
Mikhyal hurried forward on foot. He was already winded when the trees thinned abruptly. The melee appeared to be contained in a large clearing up ahead. Keeping to the cover of the forest, Mikhyal circled the open space until he caught sight of his father engaged in combat with a scruffy-looking man in worn, dirty leather armor.
Drannik appeared to be holding his own, but the king wore only a breastplate for protection. Mikhyal drew his sword and rushed to Drannik’s defense. Before he could reach his father’s side, a huge man stepped out from the cover of the forest, sword raised to strike. With only a moment to react, Mikhyal brought his blade up to parry a powerful stroke that might well have split him in two. The force of the blow sent a numbing shock from shoulder to fingertips. Mikhyal’s fingers spasmed, and before he could regain his grip, his opponent twisted his own blade to wrench the hilt from Mikhyal’s hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his sword go sailing into the underbrush.
His focus narrowed, and his senses sharpened as he reached for his dagger. Not fast enough. The sword was arcing around to slash his belly open.
Time froze. Mikhyal braced himself for agony, certain a killing blow was coming. In the next moment, a streak of green and grey flashed past. One of Rhiva’s soldiers barreled into the man from the side, knocking him off of his feet. Mikhyal caught a glimpse of Rhu’s black braids flying past before his attacker fell heavily to the forest floor, blood streaming from his cut throat. Rhu paused long enough to give Mikhyal a nod before springing back into the fray.
Mikhyal stared down at the dagger in his hand. He needed a better weapon, something with more reach. He turned toward the underbrush where his sword had disappeared. A glint of bright steel on the ground at his feet stopped him. His sword? No… this was the blade that had nearly killed him: a longsword that looked oddly familiar. Mikhyal bent to pick it up.
The moment his fingers closed on the grip, a tingling shock went up his arm, and a great ringing sound resonated through his whole body, rattling his very bones and shaking him to the core. The world went white, and a loud buzzing filled both his ears and his mind.
When his vision cleared, the fighting was still raging around him in the clearing. Before he could dive into the chaos, all was covered in a whirling storm of mist and light, full of claws and teeth. Mikhyal caught brief flashes of teeth rending and blood spattering. Screams rang in his ears, and a terrible feeling of pressure began to build in his head.
The realization that someone must be weaving the mythe froze him. The only mythe-weavers in the royal party were his parents, and neither one of them was capable of anything like this.
Before he could make himself move, the storm was over, though the horror remained. The light-suffused mist lifted, and Mikhyal’s gorge rose as he took in the blood-soaked grass and the gleaming piles of white bone that had once been men.
On top of the still form of a dead horse reclined a shimmering, silver creature about the size of a small house cat. It looked vaguely dragon-like, with four clawed feet and a long, tufted tail. A white mane started at the top of its head, and flowed down its back. Thick white whiskers drooped around its mouth, and tufts of shaggy white eyebrow fur twitched above its eyes.
The creature surveyed the carnage with a satisfied nod, then raised its head and grinned, displaying a fearsome array of sharp, glittering teeth. Eyes like shiny black beads fixed on Mikhyal, and one shaggy eyebrow lifted.
Mikhyal swept his gaze around the clearing, seeking his father. All around him, the men of the King’s Guard were staring at the carnage, eyes wide with shock. He didn’t see his father among them, but before he could call out to anyone, a wave of darkness crashed over him, and he knew no more.
* * *
Tristin sat on a stone bench in the courtyard, soaking up the sun. The bench was a new fixture, carved by the royal stonemason out of freshly quarried stone. It had been placed beside the raised flower bed he was in the process of building, so he’d have somewhere to sit when he tired. Somewhere not pulsing with the lingering resonances of his ancestors and those who’d served them.
The building of the flower bed was a slow process. The thick, flat pieces of stone he was using for the walls that would contain the dirt were located behind the herb garden, and Tristin was not strong enough to carry more than one at a time. Kian and Ambris, his healers, had agreed that the exercise would help speed his recovery, so he’d resigned himself to having to carry the materials he needed all the way from the herb garden to the courtyard.
He’d been at it for nearly a week, and every muscle in his body burned and ached. Ilya said it was a good ache, and that as time went on, the pain would fade and his strength would increase. Already, his stamina was improving; each day he was able to work a little longer than the day before. Seeing the labor of his own hands slowly take shape was enough to spur him on. In another day or two, he might finish the walls and begin hauling the dirt he would need to fill it.
A cool mountain breeze brushed his skin, and Tristin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The sharp scent of the fir trees covering the lower slopes filled the air, softened by the lighter, sweeter notes of the pink and white flowers planted in the already established flower beds around the courtyard.
When he’d been imprisoned in Shadowspire, he’d never been allowed outside. Not that there had been much of an outside to enjoy; located deep in the Iceshards, the tower of glittering black mythe-stone was surrounded by snow, ice, and bare rock, even in high summer. Once Tristin had arrived there, he’d never left. Fifteen years, he’d been confined to the same suite of rooms, and during that time, he’d seen no one, unless one counted the myriad hallucinations that kept him company, punctuated by rare, perfunctory visits from Wytch Master Mordax.
Here, at Dragonwatch, there were real people to talk to, though it was not so crowded that he found it overwhelming. At the moment, there were only himself, Master Ilya, Kian and his husband Ambris, Alys the housekeeper, and a few guardsmen. Tristin had come to know all of them during the long weeks of his recovery.
A piercing, draconic cry of pure joy sounded in the distance, and Tristin opened his eyes to see a dragon winging its way up the slope. Pale, opalescent scales gleamed in the sunlight. The magnificent creature soared high in the air and executed a flawless loop before swooping low over the courtyard. It circled and touched down lightly just beyond the arched stone entrance, then shifted smoothly into a pale, slender young man with white-blond hair hanging to his waist.
Blushing a charming shade of pink, Prince Jaire of Altan passed through the archway into the courtyard in all his naked glory. He flashed a shy smile at Tristin as he passed. “Good afternoon, Cousin.”
Tristin returned the smile as Jaire headed straight for the wooden chest by the main door. “And to you, Your Highness.”
Jaire wrinkled his nose. “Don’t Your Highness me, Tristin. We’re cousins and friends, and I shall have none of this standing on ceremony.” He gave Tristin a rueful smile as he bent to rummage through the chest. “I was so busy thinking about coming to see you and wondering how far you’d gotten on your flower bed that I forgot to bring some clothes with me. They’re still lying in a heap on top of the north tower.”
“Ilya’s probably got something in his suite that would fit you,” Tristin suggested. “I think you’ll find him in his study.”
“This will do.” Jaire pulled a green cloak from the chest and wrapped it around himself. “I’ve had quite enough of clothes for today. Mistress Nadhya accosted me outside the dining room after breakfast, and I spent the entire morning standing in her fitting room in that ridiculous piece of frippery they want me to wear for the betrothal ceremony. That woman must have worked in the dungeons at some point, though Garrik swears up and down she’s never set foot in them. I’m certain he’s lying; she enjoys poking me with her pins far too much.”
Tristin laughed at that. After having no one to talk to for so long, he found Prince Jaire’s company quite enjoyable. Jaire was always happy and bright, and he did most of the talking, which took the burden of thinking of something to say off of Tristin.
“This is really coming along,” Jaire said as he came to inspect Tristin’s work on the flower bed. “Did they really make you carry all those stones by yourself?”
“Every single one of them. They said it would be good for me.”
Jaire wrinkled his nose. “The same way eating horrible vegetables is good for you, I suppose.”
“They’ve even got the guardsmen in on the plot,” Tristin said mournfully. “They’re allowed to watch and talk to me if they like, but they mustn’t lift a finger to help unless I hurt myself.”
“You’ll have to fake an injury, then,” Jaire said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Though I suppose with three healers here, there’s not much chance of getting away with that. I’d stay and help you if I could, but Master Ristan’s got the afternoon reserved to go over all the etiquette for the betrothal ceremony with me and Vayne. We have to learn all the official titles of the guests, and who outranks whom. At least I already know most of them. Poor Vayne doesn’t know anyone except the family. Honestly, I shall be glad when it’s over. Do you think you’ll be able to come?”
Tristin swallowed. Jaire and Vayne had saved both his life and his sanity, and he owed it to them to make every effort to attend their betrothal celebration. But Castle Altan was old enough that every stone must be soaked with the emotional resonances left by countless generations of Wytch Kings and their families and servants. Without anzaria — which Master Ilya would not allow him to have under any circumstances — he wouldn’t be able to bear it. Not when a single touch of his foot to the floor was enough to overwhelm him with all the toils and travails of those who had walked the halls before him.
“It’s only three weeks away, isn’t it?” Tristin asked.
“Ai, and it can’t come soon enough for me. Will you come? Please?”
“I’d very much like to, Jaire,” he said gently, “but the last thing you want on your special day is your bastard cousin with the traitorous father tripping all over the dance floor and causing all manner of scandalous talk.”
Jaire’s face fell. “You always think everything will turn into a disaster if you’re there. It won’t, you know.”
Tristin immediately regretted his offhand remark. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended, Cousin. I didn’t mean to. I’m afraid being locked up alone for so long has made my sense of humor a bit too dark for polite company. I… I’ve learned to make light of difficult things because if I did not laugh at them, I should surely weep.”
At Jaire’s look of alarm, Tristin continued quickly, “At any rate, I really would like to be there at your betrothal, but until I’ve learned the patterns to protect myself, I don’t think I could bear it. Ilya tried to start teaching me last week, but it’s not going very well. He thinks I just need some time to settle in, but… I rather doubt I’ll be ready by the ceremony. I am sorry.”
Already a diplomat at the tender age of twenty, Jaire covered his disappointment quickly with a smile that looked only a shade too bright to be real. “That’s all right. I understand. Surely you’ll have managed it by the wedding, though. That’s not until after the harvest, and it will be ever so grand! Ilya and Garrik are getting married the same week. There will be parties every night, with entertainments and dancing. And Mistress Nadhya’s making me a different suit of clothes for every one of them.”
“And you’ll have to endure numerous fittings for each one, no doubt,” Tristin said. “I’m sure Mistress Nadhya can barely contain her excitement at the prospect.”
Jaire scowled and opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. The color drained from his cheeks, and he clutched his head. “Aio’s teeth,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Whoever’s caught in the middle of that is in trouble…”
“The middle of what?” Tristin asked.
But Jaire didn’t answer. Still clutching his head, he dropped to his knees and let out a low moan. Tristin leapt to his feet. Visions of flame and violence locked in the stones beneath him pushed into his mind, and he gritted his teeth. He’d only taken two steps toward Jaire when the prince slumped over and fell limp on the flagstones. Sweat broke out on Tristin’s body as he fought to stay calm in the midst of the chaos of the ancient battle his mind insisted on showing him. With a whimper, he struggled to lift Jaire. The prince was quite a bit smaller than Tristin, but even after several days of lugging rocks, Tristin still couldn’t manage Jaire’s slight weight.
He was debating whether or not he should leave the prince alone and go for help when Ilya burst into the courtyard. “What’s happened?” he asked, moving to help Tristin.
“I don’t know,” Tristin said as he helped Ilya lift Jaire onto the bench. The Wytch Master knelt beside the prince, eyes unfocusing as he examined Jaire’s mythe-shadow with his healer’s sight.
Tristin stepped back out of the way and shifted from foot to foot as he sought a comfortable spot to stand on. He recalled a spot he’d noted just yesterday, next to that fine crack in the darker flagstone — a place where the empathic impressions weren’t quite so strong — and moved over to it, sighing with relief as the noise faded into the background once more.
“We were talking,” he explained to Ilya, “and all of a sudden, Jaire stopped and clutched his head as if he was in pain. He said whoever was caught in the middle of it was in trouble. I’m not sure what he meant, though.”
“Something stirring in the mythe. I felt it too, though obviously not as keenly as Jaire did. Whatever it is, it’s a long way off.” Ilya placed a hand on Jaire’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
At Ilya’s touch, Jaire stirred, eyes fluttering open. He stared about, looking quite lost. A few moments later, his eyes widened, and he clutched at Ilya’s robe. “Ilya, they’re hurt! We must go and help!”
“Who is hurt? And where?” Ilya asked. “I sensed a disturbance, but nothing specific.”
“I… I don’t know. There was a clearing… and men with swords. Some of them wore Rhiva’s colors. I felt… fear and pain and… and…” He stared at Ilya, pale grey eyes huge. “A storm in the mythe. A storm of blood and death. It was horrible…”
“A battle?” Ilya looked grim.
“It felt like something more than a battle,” Jaire said. “Like the mythe itself had been stirred into a terrible storm. There are people hurt… I can still feel the echoes of it. Can’t you feel it, Ilya? Like the ripples on a pond when a stone is dropped into still water…”
“I cannot feel anything of the sort, Jaire,” Ilya said gravely, “but if men of Rhiva are in need, it is our duty to go to their aid.”
“I can guide you to them,” Jaire said. “It’s that way.” He pointed east, across the river valley that formed the border between the kingdom of Altan and its ally, Irilan.
Ilya turned toward the valley, eyes unfocused. After a short time, he frowned and shook his head. “I still sense nothing, but you are much more sensitive to such things than I. I’ll fetch Kian. Wait here.”
“You’re going?” Tristin asked. “Is Jaire all right to fly?”
“He is shaken, but otherwise sound,” Ilya said, stripping out of his clothes right there in the courtyard. “And as I cannot sense the echoes of the disturbance, Jaire is the only one who can lead us to those who are in need of our aid. Alys is in the kitchen, Jaire. Go and ask her to pack some food for us to take with us. Depending on what we find, it may be a number of hours before we can return.” Ilya strode through the stone arch. He didn’t break stride, not even as he shifted, and quickly took wing.
Jaire stared after the lithe silver-blue dragon gliding down to the castle.
“Are you all right?” Tristin asked.
“I’m fine,” Jaire said, sounding much stronger now. “As Ilya said, a bit shaken. That surge at the beginning was the strongest thing I’ve ever felt in the mythe. I’m surprise Ilya only got a whisper of it. I suppose I’d better go and see Alys about some food.”
“At least let me help you up.” Tristin offered Jaire his arm. “You still look a bit unsteady.”
“I’ll be all right.” He accepted Tristin’s help, though, and rewarded him with a rueful smile. “When I said I wanted to escape Master Ristan’s etiquette lessons, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
* * *
Tristin stood in the courtyard next to the dark flagstone with the hairline crack, eyes fixed on the eastern sky. The purple shadows of twilight crept across the flagstones, and the first stars of evening were just visible. Of the three dragons who had taken off from the top of the watchtower earlier in the day, there was no sign.
Shifting his gaze to the tower, Tristin contemplated climbing to the top. The view from the flat rooftop would be much better, but he’d promised Ilya he wouldn’t shift while he was gone, and he didn’t think he was ready to face the violence of the empathic resonances absorbed by the worn stone steps. The watchtower was far worse than the courtyard, and even if he could reach the top, he’d still have to come down again.
“Alys says dinner’s ready.”
Tristin started and turned to see Ambris, the gentlest of the healers who’d been caring for him, approaching. He wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, and started to say so, but the words died in his throat as he recalled his promise to Jaire that he would do his best to be well enough to come to the prince’s wedding in the fall. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Ambris.”
Ambris pursed his lips, as if he’d guessed the direction of Tristin’s thoughts. “I’d be happy to keep you company if you’d like,” he offered.
Only a few weeks ago, Tristin would have refused, unused to spending time with anyone who wasn’t a figment of his drug-addled imagination, and unwilling to put himself on display. But Ambris had been there while he’d been deep in the throes of withdrawal. Ambris had already seen him at his worst, but still treated him as if they might be friends.
“I’d be glad of your company, if you think you can stand mine,” Tristin ventured. “It’s been rather strange, not having any hallucinations to talk to.”
“I’m sure I can manage to be a bit more interesting than a hallucination,” Ambris said with a gentle smile.
Tristin turned his head to glance up at the sky one more time, and when he looked back at Ambris, the healer’s pale gold eyes had also turned skyward. “It’s early yet, to expect them back,” Ambris said mildly. “If there was a battle of some sort, there will surely be injuries to see to.”
“Of course,” Tristin said, and turned to follow Ambris inside to his small suite. “Jaire did say he thought there were people injured.”
Dragonwatch had never been intended to house a large number of students, and only contained half a dozen suites. Ilya kept permanent rooms here, and Ambris and Kian had been using the suite next door to Tristin’s, as they’d spent a fair amount of time here in the weeks since Tristin’s arrival.
They settled at the small table in Tristin’s sitting room, and Alys soon brought in their dinner. She’d done a roast with tender baby carrots and new potatoes sprinkled with herbs and butter.
“Thank you, Alys,” Tristin said. “This looks wonderful.”
Alys set her hands on her hips. “Master Ilya left instructions that you were to clean your plate, m’lord, so I shall be reporting to him upon his return.”
“If Master Ilya is so intent upon my plate being cleaned,” Tristin said, “perhaps we should await his return so he can witness it for himself.”
“You’ll not be getting out of eating your dinner that easily,” Alys told him, twinkling brown eyes belying her otherwise stern expression. She turned to Ambris and added, “And you’re not to be eating it for him, brother, or you’ll be for it, as well.”
Ambris laughed. “As if I would dare! Worry not. I’ll see that he eats. I shall have Ilya to answer to if I don’t!”
“And me,” Alys said, giving Tristin another stern look. “I’m on to your tricks, m’lord, so don’t think you’ll be slipping it out the window, either.”
“Why, Alys,” Tristin teased, “I’m shocked and hurt that you think me capable of such duplicitous behavior.”
“After last week’s attempts to get out of eating, I’d not put anything past you,” she said drily. “Master Ilya said you were clever, but I’ll warn you right now — I’m cleverer.”
Ambris laughed again, and when Alys had gone, Tristin said, “I didn’t realize she was your sister. You look nothing alike.” Ambris was pale and blond, with intriguing golden eyes, but Alys, with her dark brown hair and eyes and her dusky, dark gold skin, looked almost like a female version of Kian.
“Sister by marriage,” Ambris clarified, taking a bite of roast. “She’s the eldest of Kian’s younger sisters.”
“How many sisters does he have?” Tristin asked. Hidden away at Falkrag with his mother, who had scandalized Ysdrach’s Court by having a clandestine affair with the late Prince Vakha of Altan, Tristin had never had siblings. He couldn’t imagine what it might have been like growing up with other children.
“Three,” Ambris said. “Two younger, one older. And an older brother. I’ve often envied him his family. They truly enjoy one another’s company, and seem to genuinely care for one another. My own family is… well. I have two elder brothers, but I’ve not seen either of them in years. And my father…” Ambris trailed off, shaking his head. “He’s coming for the betrothal ceremony, which means I shall be staying here in hiding for the duration. I hate to miss it, as I’m very fond of Prince Jaire, but the last thing I want to do is make things awkward for Garrik. It’s best for all concerned if my father continues to believe I’m dead.”
Ambris looked so grim, Tristin didn’t quite dare ask any of the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said, “Jaire very much wants me to be there, too. He asked me again this morning. I felt dreadful telling him I couldn’t, but after my last lesson with Ilya, I just don’t think I can.”
“You aren’t ready,” Ambris said, expression softening. “You’re still not completely recovered from the withdrawal. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you haven’t picked up shielding yet. You’re under a great deal of stress, you know. Not just the physical stress of the withdrawal, but the mental stress of having your whole world turned upside down. It’s no wonder you can’t focus. Do you want me to have a word with Jaire?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Tristin said. “He’s disappointed, of course, but he understood. If the courtyard here still gives me headaches, I dread to think what it would be like setting foot in the castle. I doubt I could bear it.”
“I shouldn’t think so. Not until you can protect yourself, at any rate.” Ambris flashed him a quick smile. “Very well, then, you and I shall have our own celebration here while everyone else is down at the castle. I’ll have a word with Alys. I’m sure she’ll make sure we’ve something nice to eat, at least.”
“Are you sure?” Tristin could hardly believe Ambris would want to celebrate with him. “I mean… I just… I’m sure I’m not very good company, and if you’ve something better to do—”
“Tristin,” Ambris said, gently cutting him off. “It’s all right. I really would like to spend the evening with you. I enjoy your company.”
“Oh. Oh. Well.” Pleased beyond words, Tristin flushed and ducked his head. “Um. Thank you, Ambris. That’s… that’s very kind.”
“Now, tell me about your plans for the flower bed you’ve been working so hard to create.”
They finished the meal with a discussion of what flowers might look nice in the new bed. Ambris promised to see if Master Ludin, the royal gardener, had any suggestions, and invited Tristin to come and help him with the herb garden if he felt like taking a break from lugging rocks and dirt.
It was quite late when Ambris finally took his leave, and Tristin felt more encouraged than he had since he’d arrived. Perhaps one day, he would be able to have something approaching a normal life… whatever that was.
For the first time in many years, Tristin fell asleep thinking of what he might do tomorrow, and actually looking forward to waking.
* * *
Dawn was just breaking when terse voices and hurried footsteps in the hallway woke Tristin from a sound sleep. He dressed quickly and eased his door open a crack, peering out in time to see Kian striding down the hall with the limp body of a dark-haired man slung over his shoulder. Behind him came Prince Jaire. Both men were barefoot and dressed in cloaks, and Jaire was dragging a saddlebag in one hand, and had a sheathed sword in the other.
When Jaire caught sight of Tristin hovering in his doorway, he stopped. “Wait until I tell you!” Jaire’s grey eyes were alight with excitement.
“Tell me what?” Tristin asked.
“I was right — something enormous was happening in the mythe. I’m just going to help get Prince Mikhyal settled, and then I’ll be back to tell you all about it.”
Prince Mikhyal?
Tristin didn’t know enough about Skanda’s royal families to have the vaguest notion who Prince Mikhyal might be. He retreated to his room and sat at the table to await Jaire’s return. Alys would doubtless be in with breakfast soon enough; he couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping through this racket, and if they’d brought a prince back with them, the staff would be falling all over themselves, making certain everything was just so.
Hopefully, the prince wouldn’t be staying very long. After years of isolation, Tristin had found it hard enough adjusting to the presence of even the small staff here at Dragonwatch. A royal entourage would be unbearable.
It wasn’t long before Jaire arrived, cheeks flushed pink with excitement. He’d taken a few moments to pull on breeches and a shirt, both rumpled enough that Tristin guessed they’d been crammed into the bottom of one of his saddlebags.
“Alys said breakfast will be ready soon.” Jaire sat down at the table across from Tristin. “She said she’d bring it here, if that’s all right. Ambris is seeing to Prince Mikhyal, and Kian and Ilya have gone off to bed. They’re both exhausted. Kian flew all the way back from Rhiva with Prince Mikhyal strapped to his back, and Ilya spent most of his time healing the wounded. It was—”
“The wounded?” Tristin echoed, heart beating a little faster. “What in the Dragon Mother’s name did you walk into? A battle?”
Jaire grimaced. “The aftermath of one, anyway. Wytch King Drannik’s entourage was attacked on their way here. He’s the king of Rhiva, remember? He and Queen Icera and Prince Mikhyal were coming here for the betrothal. Anyway, it wasn’t so much a battle as a massacre, to hear Wytch King Drannik tell it.”
“Oh, dear.” Tristin couldn’t help but wince. “How… how many people…?”
“Fifteen bandits killed — or at least, that’s what they thought. It was a bit difficult to tell. None of Drannik’s party were killed, although a few of his guardsmen were wounded. Prince Mikhyal saved them all. His Wytch power awakened, and he killed every last one of them. All that was left was their bones!” Jaire’s eyes were wide, and a visible shiver rippled through the young prince. “By the time we got there, they’d cleaned up the battle site, and the guard captain and half the guardsmen had escorted the queen’s entourage and some of the wounded to the nearest village. There wasn’t much left for us to do except, have Ilya and Kian heal the worst of the wounded.”
“Prince Mikhyal killed fifteen bandits? What sort of Wytch power can do that?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Jaire said. “But whatever he did, it was powerful enough that Ilya and I both felt it all the way from Rhiva. Drannik said the bandits ambushed them in a clearing. They were fighting for their lives, when all of a sudden, a fog came down and covered everything. There were screams and flashes of light, and when the fog lifted, all that was left of the bandits were little piles of polished bone, carefully arranged in strange patterns. They found Mikhyal unconscious and suffering from mythe-shock. Drannik thought Mikhyal’s Wytch power must have awakened, and Ilya said that was a possibility, but he’d have to examine him more thoroughly to be sure.”
“So this Mikhyal is what, fifteen or so? He looked a bit big for fifteen, if he’s the one I saw Kian carrying in.”
“No, I think he’s about Garrik’s age,” Jaire said. “Twenty-seven or twenty-eight? It’s been years since I’ve seen him. He’s the eldest of Drannik’s sons, but the Wytch Council wouldn’t consider him for the throne because his Wytch power never awakened. Like your father. And like Garrik, until Master Tevari woke his power. So Mikhyal’s younger brother, Shaine, is the heir now. I suppose that’ll change, once Mikhyal gets control of his power. If he ever does. Well, Ilya will teach him. He’s good at that, though he had to argue with Wytch King Drannik for hours about bringing him here at all.”
“The king didn’t want his son to come here?” Tristin asked. “Why ever not?”
“Well, I think he was a bit worried about having Mikhyal go on dragonback, what with him being in mythe-shock and all. I can understand him being a bit nervous. Kian is quite big, and rather fierce looking, if you don’t know how soft he is underneath. Ilya told Drannik with a Wytch power that deadly, the Wytch Council would send Mikhyal to Dragonwatch anyway, and it would save everyone a lot of time and bother to just bring him here straight away. I thought Ilya was going to have to play Wytch Master and invoke Council Law — he hates doing that — but Drannik did finally see the sense of it. He even agreed to let Kian and Ilya come back for him in a week, so he can escort the queen back to the palace and still get here in time for the ceremony. I don’t think he was looking forward to it, though. He looked a bit green when they were strapping Mikhyal in for the journey. Oh, and there was a sword, too! It glowed in the mythe, and there’s a glowing thread connecting it to Mikhyal. Ilya says it’s a mythe-blade, and Mikhyal is freshly bonded to it, and Drannik didn’t look at all happy about that. He wanted to take it back to the palace with him, but Ilya told him separating Mikhyal from it would kill him, so we brought it with us.”
Tristin listened as Jaire rambled on about his adventure. All that was required of Tristin was the occasional question or murmur of agreement, and he was quite happy to supply that.
Jaire didn’t stop talking until Alys brought breakfast. Tristin watched in amazement as the young man devoured two huge stacks of flat cakes smothered with cream and strawberry jam. Tristin barely managed a single cake with a light scraping of butter and a drizzle of honey.
When he’d finished his breakfast, Prince Jaire rose and said, “Sorry I can’t stay longer, Tristin, but I need to get some sleep, and I promised Ilya I’d go and report to Garrik as soon as I’d had something to eat.” He hurried off, promising he’d be back just as soon as he could manage it.
After he’d gone, Tristin stacked the plates on the tray and carried them to the kitchen. Alys would probably appreciate the help, what with having an unexpected royal guest to run around after.
With everyone else either asleep or seeing to the new arrival, Tristin found himself at a loose end. Recalling his dinner conversation with Ambris, he thought perhaps he’d go and have a look at the herb garden. While building the new flower bed was satisfying, he found himself longing to get his fingers into the dirt. Working in Falkrag’s gardens had always soothed him, and he’d certainly learned enough from Falkrag’s gardener during his childhood that he’d be able to see what was needed in the herb garden easily enough.
Determined to start immediately, he went straight to his bedroom to change. He stopped in the doorway, brought up short by the sight of a small creature curled up on his pillow. For a moment, he thought it was a little silver cat, but upon closer inspection, he realized it had more in common with one of the dragons than a cat. Its features were certainly draconic, and instead of fur, it was covered in delicate silver scales that glinted in the sunlight.
Unlike the dragon forms of the shifters he knew, this creature had fluffy eyebrow tufts, long, luxurious whiskers, and a flowing, silky mane running halfway down its back.
It couldn’t possibly be real. As Tristin squinted at it, one of its back legs began twitching in a way that reminded him of his uncle’s hunting dogs, running down rabbits in their dreams.
What did a dragon that size dream about chasing?
“You can’t possibly be one of my hallucinations.” Tristin’s voice cracked and wavered. “I’ve not had any of Mordax’s damned drug in weeks.”
“Hallucination?” The creature cracked open gleaming black eyes, twitched its long whiskers, and gave him a flat stare. “Guess again, Human.”
A moment later, it vanished into thin air.
Tristin sank down slowly on his bed, bitter disappointment crushing his chest and tightening his throat. Just last night, Ambris had commented on how well he looked, and how much good working outside was doing him. But the fact that he was hallucinating again suggested that he wasn’t doing nearly as well as Ambris thought.
Was he finally going mad? Or was this just a lingering remnant of his addiction?
Tristin squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment, all he wanted to do was shift into dragon form and flee. It wouldn’t help, though; while it might make him feel better in the short term, he would never learn to stand on his own two feet if he fled at every setback.
So instead of tearing his clothing off and running outside, Tristin rode out the urge to shift, imagining instead Ilya’s cool, soothing voice talking him down: Deep breaths, Tristin. It’s not real. You’re just under too much stress. Ambris even said so last night, and he’s a healer. He would certainly know.
When he opened his eyes again, the bed was still empty, and Tristin breathed a little easier. Perhaps he’d had a bit too much sun yesterday. Or… or perhaps something he’d eaten hadn’t agreed with him.
He’d wear a hat today to protect himself from the sun. And he’d watch what he ate.
There was a simple, logical explanation for this, and it had nothing to do with hallucinations.