Tristin knelt on a low wooden platform and dragged a hand rake over the dirt in his new flower bed. He’d put the platform together himself after he’d discovered that wood insulated him from the worst of the empathic resonances. It was roughly built and not quite square, but Tristin was rather proud of his first attempt at carpentry. Better yet, it seemed to be helping; his headache today was barely noticeable.
The sun was warm on his back, and he paused in his work to wipe the sweat from his brow. The last few days had been more peaceful than he might have guessed. In the cold light of day, he’d managed to convince himself that the little dragon he’d thought he’d seen was simply the product of an overwrought imagination. Too much stress, he’d decided; Ambris had suggested as much the other night.
So Tristin had thrown all his energy into working in the garden, and it seemed to be helping. The rich smell of the earth calmed him, bringing to mind some of the few happy memories of his childhood. Getting his fingers into the dirt was satisfying in a way that nothing else was. Today, he felt more in tune with his body than he had since his arrival. He’d slept deeply and well last night, and best of all, he’d had no more hallucinations of any sort.
He’d spent the last few days lugging buckets of dirt from the back gardens to fill his flower bed. By the time he stopped at the end of each day, his legs were shaking and his muscles were burning, but he couldn’t complain. The stiffness of his limbs in the mornings reminded him he was still alive. Indeed, it often felt as if he was only just waking up from a nightmare that had consumed years of his life.
It gave him no end of satisfaction that he’d accomplished this task all on his own. Now, he stared down at the dark, rich earth and considered what he might plant there. It was too late in Altan’s short growing season to start anything from seed, but Alys had said he might split some of the larger plants from the beds in the back near the kitchen. And there was that pretty purple creeper that spread so quickly. Alys had wrinkled her nose and called it a weed, but its flowers were a lovely shade of violet. It would at least fill the bed for the rest of the summer. Then, next spring he could—
Tristin blinked.
Next spring…
Would he even be here next spring?
He sat back on his heels and stared down the mountain at the castle. He’d been so ill when he’d first come here that he’d given no thought to what might come after his recovery. Now, with his addiction behind him and his body becoming stronger with every passing day, he ought to think about what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Assuming, of course, that he could learn to protect himself from the empathic resonances that still haunted his every step. Ilya seemed to think he could, even though his attempts thus far had all been failures.
Going back to Ysdrach was out of the question. There was no place for him in his Wytch King uncle’s kingdom, and even if there was, he’d never trust Altivair again. Not after his uncle had been complicit in a plot that would have put Tristin on Altan’s throne as a puppet-king and seen Garrik and Jaire dead or in chains.
Where would he go?
He could hardly stay here. Bastard son of a man who’d tried to murder his way into a regency… No. Prince Jaire might have taken a shine to him, but Wytch King Garrik had no reason to trust him.
“That’s going to look lovely, overflowing with flowers.” Ambris’s voice came from behind him. “Have you decided which ones you want?” The healer looked weary, the dark circles under his eyes a striking contrast to his pale skin. Prince Mikhyal was very ill, requiring constant care. Ambris, Kian, or Ilya had been with him every minute since he’d arrived.
Tristin rose and dusted off his breeches, keeping his feet firmly on the wooden platform. “I’m not sure. Something bright and cheerful, I think. Reds and yellows, perhaps, though it’s too late to do anything much with it this season, other than transplant some things from the kitchen gardens. I don’t suppose my favorites from Ysdrach would do very well up here in the mountains.”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to Master Ludin yet.” Even in his exhaustion, Ambris managed to sound as if he truly regretted not having done so.
“Of course you haven’t,” Tristin replied. “You’ve been busy with Prince Mikhyal, and he’s much more important than my flowers.”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to go down to the castle and speak with him yourself before long.”
“I… I’d like that, but…” Tristin trailed off. Given his current lack of progress, it would be a long time before he could even think about braving the castle. He’d tested himself on the watchtower steps just that morning, and the mental onslaught had been every bit as bad as it had when he’d first come.
Things might improve once he started working with Ilya again, but with Prince Mikhyal to care for, and the betrothal ceremony just over two weeks away, Tristin had hardly seen the Royal Wytch Master.
Ambris reached out and gave Tristin’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “It will come, Tristin. Ilya might have some time to work with you in the next few days. Prince Mikhyal has improved a great deal since yesterday.”
“Has he? That must be a relief.”
“I must admit, I am rather looking forward to a full night of unbroken sleep,” Ambris said. “Next to my husband, if I’m lucky. In fact, that’s what I came to see you about. Mikhyal is out of danger and sleeping normally now. Kian and I have hardly seen each other since he flew out to Rhiva, and I wondered if you wouldn’t mind watching over Mikhyal this afternoon in case he wakes up. He’ll be in need of some reassurance.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Tristin said, “only I don’t suppose I’d be much good at reassuring him. I’ve not had much experience with that sort of thing.”
“That’s all right — if he stirs, you can send for me and Kian. We’ll do all the explaining. I’d just rather not have him waking up alone in a strange place. The Dragon Mother only knows what he might think, or what sort of horrible dreams he’s been having. There’s no danger. We’ve been giving him anzaria, so he won’t be capable of unleashing his Wytch power even if he does wake up frightened and disoriented.”
“All right,” Tristin said, pleased that there was something useful he could do to help the healers who had taken such good care of him.
“You might want to stop by your room for a book,” Ambris added as they went inside.
Tristin followed Ambris in and stopped in his own rooms for the book Prince Jaire had brought for him only yesterday morning. The prince’s thoughtfulness had touched Tristin’s heart; Jaire had found a book on plants and flowers he thought Tristin might enjoy in Altan’s library. He’d taken the trouble to have the castle scribes copy the text and the drawings so Tristin wouldn’t have to worry about the book having absorbed any disturbing emotional resonances from its previous owners.
In Prince Mikhyal’s room, Tristin settled himself in the armchair drawn up beside the bed and opened the book.
“We meet again.” The voice was male, familiar, and pleasant. Tristin started, eyes going straight to Prince Mikhyal, but the prince’s eyes were closed, his dark lashes a shocking contrast to his pale skin.
Tristin set his book down and glanced about the room. A glimmer of light at the foot of the bed caught his attention, and he rubbed his eyes, certain he was seeing things again.
There, curled up next to Prince Mikhyal’s feet, was the little silver dragon he’d imagined a few days ago. It got to its feet and stretched, arching its back like a cat. Its jaws opened wide in a yawn, pink forked tongue curling. It turned around several times, like a dog, before settling itself, this time facing Tristin.
“You’re not a hallucination,” Tristin blurted out before he could stop himself.
“What a coincidence,” the dragon said tartly. “Neither are you.” It lifted one sharp, black claw, licked it, and dragged it through long, flowing whiskers.
“I suppose I shall have to tell Ilya I’m seeing things that aren’t there again,” he murmured. “It seems to be the only thing I’m good at, just lately.”
The dragon finished grooming itself and crossed its little front feet neatly. It looked exactly like Tristin’s memory of it: a slender, sinuous thing with a long snout, impressive whiskers, and far too many teeth. Now that he looked more closely, in addition to its fluffy eyebrows and flowing mane, Tristin noted a pair of delicate wings folded against its back, a small, white tuft at the end of its tail, and just a hint of white fuzz at the tips of its little pointed ears.
Glittering black eyes, bright with intelligence, caught Tristin’s gaze and held it. “Or perhaps you’re rather good at seeing things that are here. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to tell me where here is.” The dragon sounded a bit mournful, and when Tristin didn’t answer, it let out a heavy sigh and rested its chin between its front feet, much like his uncle’s hounds did when they were begging for a bit of meat. “It would save us both a lot of time and aggravation.”
“Don’t… don’t you know?”
“Humans,” it muttered, making the word sound like an insult. “If I knew, there would be no point in asking, would there?”
“I… suppose not.” Tristin glanced at Prince Mikhyal to make certain he was still asleep. It wouldn’t do to have the prince wake up and catch him talking to himself. He’d been looking forward to meeting someone who didn’t have any preconceived ideas about his sanity, but the prince wasn’t even awake yet, and he was already off to an unfortunate start.
“You’re at Dragonwatch,” Tristin said in a low voice, “in the kingdom of Altan. If you’re looking for the castle, it’s just down the mountain. It’s not far. Well. I mean, it’s probably not far for you, assuming those wings of yours are actually functional and not just decorative.” No point in being polite to a hallucination. Besides, if he offended it, perhaps it would go away. It was a tactic that had rarely worked in the past, but one could always hope.
The dragon laid its ears back and regarded him with a level stare before saying very softly, “Decorative?”
Tristin shrugged, but didn’t offer an apology. “You’re rather prickly for a hallucination. Or… perhaps not. I’m usually too drug-mazed to recall the details of these sorts of encounters.”
“Prickly,” it mused. “Let me show you prickly.” It flashed him a wide grin, displaying a glittering array of needle-sharp, crystal-clear teeth.
“Charming,” Tristin commented, certain he’d never held a conversation this long — or this coherent — with any of his hallucinations. “I suppose next you’ll be threatening me.”
“Not much point. You don’t look bright enough to take heed.”
Tristin frowned, perplexed. His hallucinatory visitors didn’t usually insult him.
The dragon got to its feet, stretched again, then hopped lightly up on the window sill and gazed out over the mountains. “The Iceshards or the Dragon’s Spine? If memory serves, Altan borders both, though these look a bit high and sharp to be the Dragon’s Spine.”
“The Iceshards,” Tristin said.
“But Altan, not Rhiva. Interesting.” The little dragon turned to face him and sat neatly on its haunches, tufted tail curling around its dainty, clawed feet. “Well, then. What shall I call you? Human seems a bit too general, if the parade in and out of here is any indication of how many of you there are wandering about. Have you a name that distinguishes you from the rest of them?”
“Tristin,” he said promptly. “Prince Tristin of… well. Of the new flower bed, I suppose. There was some talk of me being king at one point, but that appears to be off the table for good.” Tristin paused for a moment, then added hastily, “Not that I’m complaining, what with all the bloodshed that would have ensued… and the fact that I’m completely unsuited to be…” He trailed off as he remembered his manners. “And you are…?”
“You may call me Dirit.”
“Dirit. That’s a rather odd name.” Tristin cocked his head as he studied the creature in the light. “Doesn’t fit you at all. More the sort of thing you’d call one of those brightly colored songbirds. Or perhaps a type of shrew. Or one of those little hopping insects with the lacy—”
“Insects?” Dirit’s tail lashed back and forth, and its eyebrow tufts drew together in a scowl.
“Father?” The voice came from the bed, and Tristin looked down to see Prince Mikhyal’s eyes fluttering open. Before he could come up with something helpful and reassuring to say, Dirit hopped down off the window sill and onto the bed. The little dragon marched up the prince’s body, stood upon his chest, and stared down at him.
The prince’s pale blue eyes widened as they fixed on Dirit. “No… you can’t be real…” Prince Mikhyal’s voice broke, his words ending on a low, choking sob.
Tristin leapt to his feet, but before he could call for anyone, the prince’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp.
“Well.” Dirit turned to Tristin, whiskers twitching with something that looked perilously close to amusement. “That went better than expected.”
* * *
Mikhyal was on his knees surrounded by a bloody fog. The screams of the dying sliced through him like razor-edged steel, and a cold far deeper than the bite of a winter wind out of the Iceshards froze him from the marrow out.
The murderous dragon-creature followed him into his dreams. Its black eyes fixed on him in a mocking stare, and its needle-sharp teeth dripped blood. Seeking to escape the nightmare, Mikhyal struggled to wake, only to find the thing had followed him.
With a sob, he fled back into the icy darkness.
“Mikhyal? Prince Mikhyal, can you open your eyes?”
The voice wasn’t at all familiar, and with vague memories of a battle flashing through his mind, Mikhyal’s first instinct was to feign sleep.
“It’s all right,” the voice soothed. “You’re safe. You’ve been brought to Altan for healing. I’m Ambris, and you’ve been in my care ever since you arrived.”
Mikhyal forced his eyes open to find himself staring into a pair of kind, pale gold eyes set into a thin face framed by short, golden-blond hair.
Blood-drenched images of the ambush filled his mind: armed men charging across the clearing, more emerging from the trees; his father, sword in hand, mouth set in a grim line as he fought to protect his queen and his men.
“My… my father…” Mikhyal struggled to sit, but a firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.
“Your father is quite safe,” Ambris said matter-of-factly. “As is your mother. You saved their lives. Saved all of them.”
“Where…” He glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar furnishings. “Where am I?”
“You’re at Dragonwatch, a little way up the mountain from Castle Altan. You’ve been suffering from mythe-shock, but I think you’re going to be all right now.”
“Mythe-shock? But…” Mikhyal blinked at Ambris, trying to understand what could have happened to bring him here. He remembered the ambush and being certain he was about to die… then Rhu had been there, and after that, the fog. When it lifted, a dragon-like creature with gleaming black eyes and teeth like little glass needles had been staring at him…
But no… that part couldn’t have been real. In his illness, his mind had woven nightmares from threads of memory drenched in the lurid shades of fever dreams.
“Try to relax,” Ambris said. “Wytch Master Ilya will be here later, and he will explain everything. For now, it’s enough for you to know that you and your family are safe. Your father will be arriving in a few days.”
But Mikhyal couldn’t relax. Not until he knew how much of the nightmare was real. “You said I saved them… but… how? We were attacked on the road… there were far too many…”
“Ah. Well. It appears that your Wytch power may have awakened. That is why you were brought here to Dragonwatch instead of taken home to Rhiva.”
“Wytch power? But… I don’t… I don’t have any Wytch power…”
“Master Ilya can explain it far better than I can. He will come and see you later.”
“But I need to know what happened,” Mikhyal insisted. “The guardsmen who escorted us… how many dead? How many injured?”
“There were no deaths,” Ambris said. “Not among your folk, at least. The worst of the injuries were seen to by Ilya and one of his assistants.”
Ambris took a wooden cup from the bedside table and held it out to Mikhyal. “Drink this.” He used the same tone of voice Rhiva’s healers did, full of confidence that in the sickroom, at least, he was in charge, regardless of his patient’s social standing.
The bone-deep cold still lingered, and Mikhyal shivered as he hauled himself up to sitting and accepted the cup. The liquid inside was thick and had a floral scent. “What is this?”
“Anzaria,” Ambris said as he settled a dark blue knitted blanket over Mikhyal’s shoulders.
“Anzaria?” He couldn’t imagine why Ambris thought he needed that. Anzaria was used to shut down a Wytch’s access to the mythe. But Mikhyal couldn’t touch the mythe; if he could, he’d be the heir, not Shaine.
“Ilya thought it safer to keep you drugged until he’s had a chance to examine you properly and decide what to do with you. There are some… ah… uncertainties as to what, exactly, your condition is.”
Ambris was clearly not going to explain. Mikhyal raised the cup to his lips and drank down the contents. It was warm and sweet, and tasted much like it smelled, like wildflowers and honey. He handed the empty cup back to Ambris and settled back against the pillows. Something knocked against his leg as he shifted position, and he looked down to see a sheathed longsword lying next to him. It looked vaguely familiar.
“Why is this here?” he asked.
“That is one of the uncertainties,” Ambris said. “Master Ilya will explain—”
“Later, I know.” Mikhyal sighed and resigned himself to waiting. “Well, if you cannot tell me what’s happened to me, perhaps you can tell me what happened to my men. How is it that healers from Altan saw to their injuries when the ambush occurred within the borders of Rhiva?”
“You have Prince Jaire to thank for that,” Ambris said, sinking down in the armchair next to the bed.
“Prince Jaire? How?”
“He sensed something stirring in the mythe, all the way across Irilan and Miraen to Rhiva. He’s the one who led Master Ilya and Kian to your side. Like Prince Jaire and Master Ilya, Kian is a dragon shifter. The three of them flew out to find the source of the disturbance. What they found was the aftermath of a battle. A few of your men were injured, and you were deep in mythe-shock. They did what they could to aid your party, and then strapped you to Kian’s back and brought you here, so Master Ilya could oversee your recovery.”
“Strapped me to… I came here on dragonback?” Mikhyal searched his mind, but he had no memory of such a thing. Was he truly conscious, or was this, too, part of the nightmare?
As if reading his thoughts, Ambris said quietly, “You were in no state to remember. You were so deeply unconscious, we feared for your life at first.”
“But… but… dragons? I thought Wytch Master Ilya and Wytch King Garrik were the only ones.”
“Ah. Well.” Ambris cleared his throat, and his expression became guarded. “That, too, is something to be discussed at another time. After your recovery.”
“But—”
“Your Highness, I’ve probably already said more than I ought, and I’d really rather not have to deal with the Wytch King when he’s in a temper. I fear your questions will have to wait. You are still recovering, and rest is more important than anything else at the moment.”
The determined set to Ambris’s jaw told Mikhyal further argument would be futile. “And you are the healer.”
“Exactly so. Mythe-shock is no laughing matter. It very nearly killed you.”
“I shall do my best to follow your orders then, Master Ambris. It wouldn’t do for you to have to give my father an unfavorable report, now, would it?”
“No, it would not.” Ambris’s lips twitched. “I appreciate you saving me the trouble of issuing the threat myself.”
“What do your orders say about how long I must lie abed?”
Ambris considered that for a moment. “You may get up tomorrow, I think. But only for a short time, and only if you can manage to eat something today.”
“That sounds more than fair. Since I appear to be at your mercy, I shall endeavor to do my best to please you.”
“If only all my patients were so accommodating.” Ambris smiled as he got to his feet. “I’ll go and speak with Mistress Alys about putting together a tray for you. Soup to start with, but if you’re feeling up to it, you can try a bit of bread for your dinner tonight.”
Mikhyal’s stomach growled at the thought of food, and Ambris’s smile widened. “Perhaps I’ll send along some bread, after all.”
When Ambris had gone, Mikhyal pulled the blanket tighter about his shoulders and surveyed his surroundings. The room was simply furnished, but comfortable, with stone walls and a polished wooden floor. The weapon rack hanging on the wall opposite his bed held his own sword, which reminded him of the one lying on the bed next to him. Mikhyal lifted it and studied the hilt, trying to think where he’d seen the thing before.
“About time you woke up,” said a male voice that sounded as if it came from both everywhere and nowhere.
Mikhyal’s gaze went first to the closed door, then traveled around the room, seeking the speaker.
“Four days, it’s been,” the voice continued, “with no one to talk to except that half-mad fellow down the hall, and he’s written me off as one of his hallucinations.” The long pause that followed was punctuated by a pained sniff. “Hallucination, indeed.”
A flash of silver near the end of his bed caught his eye. He blinked, and there, curled up in a patch of sunlight near his feet, lay the dragon-like creature of his nightmares. About the size of a small house cat, it wasn’t nearly as big as it had been in his dreams, but Mikhyal’s heart still stuttered, and a wave of cold dread crashed through him. He threw the covers back and scrambled out of bed, still gripping the sword.
“Do calm down, Your Highness.” Unblinking black eyes regarded him with an expression that looked very much like disapproval. “And get yourself back into bed before you fall over. Do I look big enough to eat you?”
“Y-you ate at least a d-dozen armed men the other day. I’m n-not sure size has much to d-do with it.”
“Ah. That.” The little dragon sounded almost regretful. “I’d rather hoped you hadn’t seen that. Pity.”
“What…” Mikhyal’s throat went dry. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“I want you to get back into bed. And then I shall answer all the questions the healer would not.”
Mikhyal considered that. If the creature meant him harm, it could easily have killed him while he’d lain here, helpless. Not taking his eyes off of it, he moved cautiously to the bed and slowly got in, still gripping the hilt of the sword tightly.
Once he was settled as far away from the creature as he could get without falling off the bed, the dragon sat up on its haunches and cocked its head, regarding him from gleaming black eyes. “It’s time we were properly introduced. I am called Dirit, and I am bound to protect you and your line, Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva.”
“Me and my line?” Mikhyal’s voice cracked. “You want the heir, then, not me. I’m nobody.” He stared down at his hands. “Nobody important, anyway.”
“You are most important to me,” Dirit said matter-of-factly. “You are my bond-mate.” The dragon’s eyes fixed pointedly on the sword Mikhyal still clutched.
Mikhyal stared down at the blade. “This?” He dropped it down on the bed. “What has the sword to do with anything?”
“It’s very simple, really. I am bonded to the sword, as are you. That makes you my bond-mate.”
“Bonded?” A ripple of unease went through Mikhyal. As a child, he’d heard fantastic tales of swords that could form bonds with men, but he’d never seen anything to make him think those stories could have any basis in fact. “Are you telling me this is one of those mythe-blades?”
The little dragon’s tiny forked tongue flicked out for just a moment. “Is that some sort of trick question?”
“But I… I thought… but those are just stories, aren’t they? I mean, I just… I picked this up on the battlefield after I lost my own. It belonged to one of the bandits. Wouldn’t you have been bonded to him?”
“Even if he hadn’t been quite dead when you picked up the blade, he was of common blood.” Dirit flattened his ears and let out a disdainful little sniff. “Not of the royal bloodline of Rhiva. Not even remotely. I couldn’t have bonded to him if I’d wanted to.” The dragon grinned, showing its teeth. “And I didn’t want to.”
Mikhyal opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment there was a knock on the door. It opened to reveal a tall, slender man with the black hair and dark eyes so common to the royal lines of Skanda.
“Oh, time for another formal introduction!” Dirit grinned broadly, displaying even more glittering fangs. “Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva, allow me to introduce Prince Tristin of… of the New Flower Bed, was it not?”
Prince Tristin took one look at Dirit, blanched, and promptly dropped the tray he was carrying. It hit the floor with a clatter, and the poor man looked so distraught, Mikhyal’s heart went out to him.
“It’s all right,” Mikhyal said quickly. “Accidents happen.”
Dirit lifted one of his front feet and waved it dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s overly sensitive. He’s still trying to decide whether or not I’m a hallucination.”
Tristin’s wide-eyed gaze shifted from Mikhyal to Dirit and back again, then dropped to the floor to fix on the broken crockery at his feet. His cheeks colored, and he stammered, “I’m t-terribly s-sorry, Your Highness. I’ll j-just go and g-get someone to c-clean this.” With that, he bolted into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.
Mikhyal stared after him for a few moments, then turned to Dirit. The dragon appeared to be smirking. The moment Mikhyal met his eyes, Dirit’s ears drooped, and he looked away.
* * *
Face flaming, Tristin slammed Prince Mikhyal’s door shut and fled back to the kitchen. The dragon. The little cat-sized dragon he’d been hallucinating had been right there in the prince’s bedroom, lounging on the bed, bold as brass.
And the prince had been talking to it, as if he could actually see it.
Which meant it wasn’t a hallucination.
It should have made him feel better, but instead, Tristin felt sick.
“That was fast.” Mistress Alys turned from the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand. “Was His Highness satisfied with the tray, then?”
“Um. I… I had… there was… a bit of an accident…” Tristin started to stammer out an apology, which quickly turned into a rambling, incoherent explanation.
Mistress Alys merely raised a dark eyebrow and waited. When he’d finally wound down, rather than asking him to repeat himself, she said, “You’ll be wanting some rags and a bucket, then, won’t you?”
Before Tristin could respond, she’d plucked a pile of rags and a bucket from a shelf, and handed them to him. Tristin was too surprised to do anything but take them. He’d been intending to finish his flight to his own suite, and take to his bed for the foreseeable future. Midwinter, perhaps, he might think about venturing out again, about the time when—
“Pick up as much of the crockery as you can,” Mistress Alys ordered, “and wipe up the mess. Then come back for the broom and sweep the floor. It won’t do for His Highness to cut his feet.” Her tone was firm, but she didn’t appear angry. “I’ll prepare another tray while you’re tidying up.”
“Y-yes, Mistress Alys,” Tristin stammered, and backed out of the kitchen.
In the hallway, he stared down at the rags, let out a heavy sigh, and trudged back to the prince’s bedroom. He dithered outside the door for several minutes before finally plucking up the courage to ease it open just a crack.
From the safety of the hallway, he peered in. The little dragon was no longer lounging on the bed. Taking that as a positive sign, Tristin opened the door a bit more.
“It’s all right,” Prince Mikhyal said from the bed. “You can come in.”
“I’ve, ah, come to apologize for throwing your lunch on the floor. And to tidy up the mess I made.” Tristin edged into the room and peered about.
“He’s gone. The dragon, I mean. Dirit, he calls himself.”
“Ai, we’ve met,” Tristin mumbled. He dropped to his knees and began picking up bits of broken crockery. “I was certain I was imagining him.”
“So he said.”
Tristin’s hand froze on the way to the bucket. “He…” He gulped air and had to fight to keep his voice steady. “He told you about me?”
“He mentioned you when he was complaining about having no one to talk to. He seemed rather affronted that you thought he was a hallucination.” The prince didn’t sound at all concerned about the fact that a small dragon had been sitting on his bed. Tristin risked a glance up. Prince Mikhyal gave him an encouraging smile. “I’m Mikhyal,” he said. “And if Dirit is to be believed, you are Tristin.”
“Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed, apparently,” Tristin murmured. “At your service. Only, I’m not really. A prince, I mean. My father was a prince, but I’m just a bastard with no—” He snapped his mouth shut, realizing that he’d probably just said far too much. Talking to real people, he’d discovered, was far more fraught than talking to hallucinations, which were there and gone again in the blink of an eye, and didn’t remember all the stupid things that came out of one’s mouth.
Prince Mikhyal laughed, a deep, rich sound, and Tristin looked up to find his gaze caught by a pair of pale blue eyes in a very handsome face, framed by tousled black hair. Several days’ worth of dark beard covered a strong jaw, giving him a rugged look that Tristin found rather intriguing, much to his dismay.
“It… it doesn’t bother you?” Tristin finally managed to say as he dropped the last of the crockery into the bucket.
“What? The questionable circumstances of your birth?”
“No… well, yes, that, but I meant the… Dirit. The… the… d-dragon.”
Prince Mikhyal blinked. “To be honest, I’m still not convinced I’m actually awake. The things I saw… and… and if I am awake…” His eyes darted down to the bed covers, and Tristin followed his gaze to see the sheathed sword lying alongside him. “I suppose I might be mad,” the prince mused.
Their eyes met, and Tristin gulped. “Then we can be mad together,” he said gaily, and tore his gaze away from Prince Mikhyal’s. He bent forward to hide his flaming cheeks and began wiping up the spilled broth.
“If I am going mad,” the prince said slowly, “I suppose I would rather do it in company than alone.”
Tristin didn’t dare reply. He finished mopping up the mess, got to his feet, and left the room as quickly as he could. The hall was empty, thank the Dragon Mother, because his face was still burning, and surely if anyone saw him, they’d ask about it. He stopped by the kitchen long enough to deposit the bucket full of broken crockery and soaked rags just inside the door.
Mistress Alys was nowhere to be seen, so, feeling vaguely guilty, Tristin crept back to his own room. Hopefully, she wouldn’t remember that she’d asked him to deliver another tray.
It was with vast relief that he closed his bedroom door and leaned heavily against it. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t get Prince Mikhyal’s face out of his mind. His rich laughter, his rugged good looks, and those kind blue eyes…
With a shiver, Tristin pressed his hands to his face and hoped Prince Mikhyal wouldn’t be here for very long.
* * *
Dirit didn’t return, not even after Tristin’s hasty escape, and Mikhyal began to wonder if he’d imagined the strange encounter. Perhaps the dragon and the bastard prince were both figments of his imagination. It did all seem like some very odd fairy tale.
Mikhyal had little knowledge of healing, but if he was suffering from mythe-shock, surely it wouldn’t be unheard of for him to be having odd, waking dreams.
Not long after Tristin’s departure, Mistress Alys brought him some lunch. Mikhyal ate the bread with great enjoyment, and the moment he’d finished the broth, a great wave of sleepiness overcame him. He closed his eyes for just a moment, but when he opened them, twilight was darkening the room. Mikhyal stretched luxuriously. His head felt much clearer now, and his body tingled with restless energy.
“Oh, finally,” said a familiar voice. “You’ve been asleep again.”
Mikhyal turned slowly to see Dirit sitting on the wide window ledge, long tail curled neatly around his tiny, clawed feet.
“You haven’t been a very interesting bond-mate thus far.” The dragon sounded petulant. “But I suppose I shouldn’t complain, since you are at least talking to me. Not like my last bond-mate, who refused to even acknowledge my existence. Very rude of him, I thought.”
“I must still be dreaming,” Mikhyal murmured to himself.
There was a knock on the door. Dirit didn’t move, but his grin widened.
“Come in!” Mikhyal called out.
The door opened and in came Wytch Master Ilya. Mikhyal knew Altan’s Wytch Master a little, having met him several times over the past few years at various royal gatherings. Ilya was slender, and with his delicate features, he could almost be called pretty. He had long, coppery hair, currently hanging loose to his hips, and rumor had it he was far older than the twenty years he appeared to have lived.
Master Ilya made a brief gesture with his fingers, and a ball of yellow light floated up from his hand to hover near the center of the ceiling, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. “That’s not too bright for you, is it?” he asked.
“No, it’s fine. Thank you for asking.” Mikhyal pulled himself up in the bed and shoved the pillows higher behind him.
“Ambris said you’d improved, but I must say, I hadn’t expected to find you sitting up and talking sense quite so soon.” The Wytch Master pulled the room’s single chair close to the side of the bed and settled himself there. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, at least in the physical sense,” Mikhyal said. “Although there are some rather odd things going on. Ambris said you would explain.”
“Odd things,” Dirit muttered. “Oh, very nice.”
Mikhyal glanced at the dragon, and then at Ilya. “You didn’t hear that, did you? And you can’t see it, either.”
Ilya looked toward the window, frowning. “Should I see something?”
“A dragon. Small, about the size of a house cat. He’s… he’s in here now. On the window ledge. He calls himself Dirit, but… you can’t see him, can you?”
The Wytch Master followed Mikhyal’s gaze and peered at the window. His pale eyes unfocused, and Mikhyal held his breath, waiting for Ilya to pass judgment. If he was mad, he’d rather know it now than struggle to hide it. His father would need better counsel than a madman could give him, especially if he intended to ally with Altan and the other northern kingdoms. Mikhyal only hoped this wouldn’t ruin the alliance they’d come to negotiate.
“I see nothing, Your Highness,” the Wytch Master said softly. “Nothing with my eyes, and nothing in the mythe.”
“I see.” Mikhyal swallowed. He didn’t feel mad.
“But then, I wouldn’t expect to see anything. You are the one bonded to the sword. In all the accounts I’ve read of mythe-bonds, only the blade’s bond-mate hears its voice. I must admit, however, in all my reading, I’ve not come across any accounts involving visual manifestations.”
“Manifestations?” Dirit sounded appalled. “Well, I never! I’m not sure I like this Wytch Master.”
Mikhyal ignored the dragon. “So I didn’t dream it. The… the dragon — Dirit — he called me his bond-mate. I suppose that means I’m bonded to the sword.” He glanced down at the blade, which still lay on top of the bed, alongside his leg.
“You are,” Ilya said gravely. “I can see the bond clearly in the mythe. I was not certain at first whether we were dealing with a mythe-bond, an awakening Wytch power, or both, but once we got you away from the site of the manifestation and the resulting disturbance in the mythe, it became clear to me that you were, in fact, bonded to the sword. That’s why it’s lying on the bed near you. Close proximity to the blade during the first few days helps ease the bonding process.”
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or terrified,” Mikhyal said. “And I don’t understand how a sword that claims its purpose is to defend the royal line of Rhiva ended up in the hands of a bandit.”
“Did it?” The Wytch Master’s thin, coppery eyebrows drew together in a faint frown. “It was in your hand when they found you. Your father recognized it, and assumed you’d taken it from one of the vaults beneath the palace. He said it had been there since his father’s grandfather’s time. He seemed quite surprised to see it.”
“But… I didn’t,” Mikhyal said slowly. “Take it from the vaults, I mean. The first I saw of it, the bandit captain was about to take my head off with it. He… he disarmed me, and I thought he was about to kill me, but Captain Rhu intervened. My own blade was nowhere in sight, lost somewhere in the underbrush, I suppose, though it looks as if someone found it.” Mikhyal’s eyes strayed briefly to the weapon rack hanging on the wall opposite the bed.
“I grabbed the captain’s sword,” he continued, “and the moment I touched it, I felt this… this tingling feeling that ran up my arm and… covered my whole body. It felt as if I were standing inside a great bell, and someone had struck it. It rang all through me, right down to my bones, and then everything went white. When I came back to myself, the fighting was still raging around me. I’d just started across the clearing to aid my father when a cloud of fog and light descended, covering the entire clearing. When it lifted, all that was left of the bandits were little piles of bone.”
A cold shudder went through Mikhyal as he turned his head to look at Dirit, who was now lounging on the window ledge. The dragon grinned and winked.
“Ai, it frightened your father’s men terribly,” Ilya said. “Once we got you here, and I had a chance to examine the blade, I came to the conclusion that they were never in any danger. It was quite selective in its choice of victims.”
Mikhyal turned back to Ilya. “Are you certain?” he whispered. “How can we be sure it won’t do the same thing here?”
“You said its purpose was to defend your line,” Ilya said calmly. “And that sense of purpose is written clearly and deeply in the blade’s mythe-shadow. Since it was found in the vaults under the palace and once belonged to one of your ancestors, I do not believe you have anything of that nature to fear from it.”
“You most certainly do not.” Dirit’s whiskers drooped. “You wound me with your doubt, Your Royal Suspiciousness. It is my sacred duty to protect you. I was chosen for this task by one of the greater dragons, bonded to the blade of my own free will when I learned that I, Dirit, might play a most important role in the restoration of the Balance.”
Mikhyal bit his lip. “It says… it says it was chosen. Bonded to the sword to… to help restore the balance?” He shifted his gaze from the dragon to the Wytch Master. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“Nor do I,” Ilya said gravely. “But if you require further reassurance, perhaps a visit from Prince Vayne and Prince Jaire is in order. Prince Vayne is far more skilled than I at reading and interpreting mythe-shadows. He could, perhaps, examine the blade and set your mind at ease. And Prince Jaire is a voracious student of history. It wouldn’t surprise me if he holds the entire contents of the royal library in his head. It’s quite possible he’s read something about this blade, in particular.”
“Ai, that… that might help,” Mikhyal said.
“I shall ask them to accompany me here tomorrow. Until then, I’d like you to continue resting and recovering your strength. You’re not long out of mythe-shock, and if you attempt too much too soon, you will have a relapse.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do as I’m told.” Mikhyal forced a smile. “Ambris has already made it quite clear that he’s in charge.”
When the Wytch Master had closed the door behind him, Mikhyal turned to Dirit. “Tell me more about this bond that joins us. Can it be broken?”
“Quite easily, in fact.” The dragon hopped off the window ledge to land lightly on the bed, where he curled up facing Mikhyal.
“How?” Mikhyal asked eagerly.
“You must leave the sword somewhere and then travel a long distance away. It will strain the bond, and eventually break it. It won’t do you much good, though, because at that point, you’ll be dead of mythe-shock, and I’ll be rather uncomfortable, so I’d be much obliged if you didn’t.”
“So I’m stuck with you, then.”
One tufted eyebrow twitched. “Or I’m stuck with you. Rather depends upon which side of the bond you’re on, doesn’t it?”
Mikhyal considered that. “What else can you do?”
Dirit tapped one claw against a crystalline fang, as if deep in thought. “Well… if you ever need to sneak about, I can scout ahead and let you know what I see and hear. And of course, I can assist you in combat.”
“The way you assisted me the other day, murdering all those men?”
Dirit’s glare was decidedly sulky. “They would have killed your entire party. Your royal father. Your royal mother. Your royal—”
“You stripped their bones clean.”
“I was hungry.” The dragon cocked his head. “It was a rather impressive display, wasn’t it?”
“Impressive isn’t exactly the word I’d have chosen,” Mikhyal said flatly. “They’ll all be terrified of me, after this.”
“Humans,” Dirit huffed. “So concerned about appearances. You command Rhiva’s army, do you not? Surely a bit of terror isn’t out of keeping. Does wonders for one’s reputation. Imagine it… the very sound of your name striking fear into the hearts of the bravest warriors. Think of the songs they’ll—”
“You must promise you won’t do anything like that again.”
Gleaming black eyes narrowed, and Dirit laid his ears back against his head. “Why?”
“Because I order it,” Mikhyal snapped.
“Order?” Dirit sounded most affronted. “You, a mere human, think you can order me, a creature of the mythe — one chosen for a most important mission, no less — to do anything? I am most pleased to inform you that anything I do or do not do will be done in the service of my mission. Unfortunately, protecting Your Most Ungrateful Royal Self is part of that mission.”
“That may be so,” Mikhyal said firmly, “but I cannot have you destroying my reputation. I’ve worked hard for the good of my people, and I cannot bear to see them run from me in fear.”
“Hmm.” Dirit’s eyebrow tufts drew together in a frown. “Given the speed at which rumors spread, it might be a bit late for that.”
“Which is another reason why you mustn’t do such a thing again. Especially not in public.”
The dragon huffed out a huge sigh. “They never appreciate the artistry of the thing. All they see is a pile of bones. They never ask how it was done. Or marvel at the way the bones fall in such clever patterns. Or notice how beautifully polished they are.”
“Dirit. Please.”
“Oh, very well. If I should have occasion to devour anyone on your behalf again, I shall take pains to do it… surreptitiously. Will that suit Your Royal Squeamishness?”
“I’m not—”
“You’re a soldier, aren’t you? You ought to be used to such things.”
“It’s not a question of—”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Dirit said, waving a front claw at him. “I shall endeavor to behave myself. Unless your life is threatened. Then I will use every weapon I have at my disposal: claws and teeth, tail and mythe. My sacred duty is to see to it that you survive, and I am sworn to uphold that duty. Keep yourself out of danger, and your shining reputation shall remain, ah, untarnished. You might consider locking yourself in a tower. That’s rumored to be quite safe.” And with that, he flashed Mikhyal a toothy grin and faded from sight, leaving Mikhyal uncertain as to whether he should be relieved or concerned.
* * *
Tristin cringed, waiting for a blow that never came. The pattern he was starting to build shattered into scintillating shards of fire and shadow, glittering in the darkness before winking out.
“I’m sorry, Master Ilya.” He glanced across the table at the Wytch Master. “I am trying.” If he’d been in a better frame of mind, he was certain he could have completed the pattern this time. He’d done quite well during his last two lessons. Twice now, he’d managed to find his center and meditate quietly upon it without once thinking about Mordax and his punishments. Tonight, he’d tried to take it a step further, and begin building the very simplest of shielding patterns.
After the day he’d had, he should probably have guessed it wouldn’t go well. Seeing Dirit again had been bad enough, but learning that the all-too-intriguing Prince Mikhyal could also see the little dragon was enough to put Tristin into a panic. And finding out the prince had yet to decide whether Dirit was a product of his own madness hadn’t made Tristin feel any better at all. If they could both see Dirit, then Dirit couldn’t be a hallucination, and if that was the case—
“You seem distracted,” Ilya observed. “If you don’t feel up to working tonight, we can stop early. You’ve done well with the last few lessons, and I’d hate to push you further before you’re ready. That would be far more of a blow to your confidence than stopping now and picking up again tomorrow.”
“I… it has been a rather difficult day,” Tristin admitted, staring down at the table.
“Difficult, was it?” said a voice behind him. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Tristin twisted around in his seat to see Dirit balancing precariously on the edge of a tall bookcase. The dragon took several mincing steps along the very edge, then leapt from the shelf to land lightly on the back of the empty chair at the foot of the table. He settled himself there, adjusting his delicate little wings.
Ilya followed Tristin’s gaze and frowned at the back of the chair. “What do you see, Tristin?” Ilya’s voice was soft and full of curiosity.
Tristin wrenched his head away from Dirit to stare at the Wytch Master.
“Yes, Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed, what do you see?” Dirit asked.
“It’s all right to tell me,” Ilya said. “Prince Mikhyal spoke to me earlier about observing a… a disturbance in the mythe.”
“Disturbance, indeed,” Dirit muttered, shaking his head. “Thank you, Dirit, for saving the entire royal family of Rhiva from certain death. As a token of our undying gratitude, please accept this nice silk cushion to lay your head upon, and all the blackberry tarts you can eat. But no, it’s not good enough, is it? Silk cushions and lovely pastries have not been forthcoming. Instead, I’m a disturbance.”
If Tristin had any doubts regarding the Wytch Master’s awareness of Dirit, they were certainly laid to rest now. Ilya gave no sign of having heard the little dragon’s lament.
“If there is a disturbance in the mythe,” Tristin said carefully, “surely you can sense it, Master Ilya.”
“I cannot, and I’m curious to know if anyone else can. If you think you’re hearing things, or seeing things… it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re hallucinating. Just as some people have exceptional vision or hearing, you may have exceptional mythe-senses.”
“Well… I suppose I did see Prince Vayne when he was trapped in the mythe,” Tristin said slowly. “I thought at first he was another of my hallucinations, but… but he didn’t act anything like a hallucination. At least, not like any I remembered having up until then.”
“Ai, and Prince Jaire saw him, too,” Ilya said encouragingly. “And he’s always been able to sense things I cannot.”
“Go on, go on,” Dirit said. “The nice Wytch Master has practically invited you to tell him all about your Dirit-shaped hallucination.”
Tristin shot a scowl at the dragon, and reminded himself that Prince Mikhyal could see Dirit, too, and he’d known the dragon’s name without Tristin having to tell him.
“Did it speak to you?” Ilya asked. “Just now, I mean?”
“Ai, it did, and its manners are beyond appalling.” Tristin clapped a hand over his mouth and stared at Ilya with wide eyes, cringing as he waited for the Wytch Master to call for the guards to drug him senseless and lock him away.
But Ilya only leaned forward, pale eyes fixed on Tristin. “Tell me.”
Tristin swallowed and glanced at Dirit. The dragon was grinning broadly and picking his teeth with a single, sharp claw. He pulled something stringy from between them, examined it closely, and flicked it in Tristin’s direction. Tristin leaned aside to avoid it, but there was nothing there. “It’s… it’s a little dragon, about the size of a house cat. It looks a lot like Prince Jaire does in his dragon form, only… only it’s silver, and it has fluffy bits. Whiskers, eyebrows, and a mane. Oh, and a rather sweet little tuft at the end of its tail.”
Dirit rolled his eyes. “Sweet, indeed,” he muttered. “I’ll give you sweet.”
“And does it have a name?”
“It calls itself Dirit.”
Ilya looked pleased. “That is exactly what Mikhyal said. That should set your mind at ease regarding your sanity.”
Tristin gave him a dubious look. “I’m not sure how sharing a hallucination with the prince of Rhiva is supposed to make me feel better.”
“It is most certainly not a hallucination,” Ilya said firmly. “It is a manifestation of the mythe-blade Mikhyal is bonded to.”
“So, you don’t…” Tristin had to force himself to finish the question. “You don’t think I’m mad?”
“Aio’s teeth, no.” Ilya gave him a reassuring smile. “The mythe is a most fickle mistress. She shows different sides of herself to all who can see her, and no mere mortal can possibly know all of her secrets.”
Some of the tension in Tristin’s body eased. “And… and I can see Dirit for the same reason I could see Vayne?”
“Exactly. I shall be most interested to find out if Prince Jaire can see it, too. He made no mention of it while we were assisting Mikhyal’s entourage.”
“Why don’t you just invite the entire castle up to have a look?” Dirit said with a sniff. “Only my bond-mate is supposed to be able to see me. Honestly, having all these extra-sensitive mythe-weavers about is a bit like relaxing in your own home in your underthings, and then discovering everyone’s been peering at you through a window you’d never noticed before. I feel so very… exposed.”
Tristin merely shook his head slightly and turned his attention to Master Ilya.
“… see why your day might have been difficult, if you believed you were hallucinating again,” Ilya was saying. “I’m not surprised you’re having trouble concentrating. I think, perhaps, with all the excitement, we should take a few days to allow you to rest and recover before we try again. If you’re in no hurry?”
“No, no hurry at all.” Hurrying was pointless; Tristin had nothing to go back to and nowhere he belonged. He was just beginning to feel safe here at Dragonwatch, and once he learned to protect his mind from the empathic resonances contained in the objects he touched, there would be no reason for him to stay. Then he would have no choice but to confront his future.
Master Ilya bade Tristin a good night and took his leave, promising he’d stop by tomorrow, when he brought Jaire and Vayne to see Prince Mikhyal.
When Master Ilya had gone, Tristin looked about for Dirit, but the dragon had disappeared. Probably off frightening the local wildlife or causing mischief elsewhere.
Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Tristin headed for his bedroom. Though he’d done less physical labor today, he found himself exhausted. Tomorrow would be better; Prince Jaire was coming tomorrow, and Tristin did enjoy spending time with his cousin. The prince was interested in so many different things, they could always find something to talk about. Tristin thought perhaps he’d ask Jaire to have a word with Master Ludin and find out what sorts of flowers might grow best in his new flower bed.
A knock sounded on the door of his suite, and Tristin paused with his hand on the bedroom door. Who besides Master Ilya had reason to come to his rooms at this hour? Perhaps Alys needed help with something.
But it wasn’t Ilya or Alys. Standing out in the hallway looking rather pale and drawn was Prince Mikhyal.
“Your Highness.” Tristin glanced up and down the hallway, and was both relieved and alarmed to discover the prince was alone. “Should you be out of bed? You… you look as if you’re about to fall over.” He offered his arm, and Prince Mikhyal took hold of it gratefully, leaning heavily on Tristin.
“I fear I’ve overestimated my strength,” the prince said as Tristin helped him to the armchair next to the hearth.
“Ai, I’ve done rather a lot of that, myself, just lately. One of the more frustrating phases of a long recovery: thinking you can do things and discovering the hard way that you’re not quite ready. Can I fetch you something from the kitchen? I’ve nothing here to offer you at the moment but a drink of water.”
“No, thank you. And please don’t stand on ceremony. Just Mikhyal will do quite nicely.”
“Well, then, you must call me Tristin, and you can kindly leave off the Lord of the Flowers bit, or whatever it is that bloody dragon’s decided to call—” Tristin snapped his mouth shut, face going so hot, he was certain he must be a brilliant crimson.
Mikhyal’s lips twitched. “He does have an infuriating way about him, doesn’t he? Actually, that’s why I braved that deceptively long hallway in the first place. I wanted to apologize.”
“Apologize? What… whatever for?”
“For what I said earlier, about going mad in company. I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you were mad. I… I’d just woken up, and I’d had such odd dreams while I was ill. Ambris tells me that’s not unusual with mythe-shock. When you came to my room, I still wasn’t certain whether or not I was dreaming, and you must admit, given the choice, Dirit is the sort of thing one would prefer to relegate to the dream world.”
“Nightmare, more like,” Tristin muttered under his breath.
Mikhyal broke into a grin. “Ai. Nightmare fits much better. Only it’s not one I’ll be waking up from, I fear. Dirit is tied to a sword forged by my ancestors. Only the royal bloodline of Rhiva can wield the blade, and Dirit claims that I’m now bonded to it.”
“Ai, that’s what Wytch Master Ilya said when I told him about Dirit.” Tristin sank down in the chair opposite Mikhyal. The fire in the hearth was blazing merrily, but it did nothing to warm him. “Have you any idea what this bonding entails?”
“According to Dirit, it means I’m stuck with him.”
“I see,” Tristin murmured. “Do you gain any benefit from this… uh… relationship?”
“Why, His Most Fortunate Royal Gloriousness is blessed with the pleasure of my company, of course,” Dirit said from the mantelpiece, where he lay stretched out full length, tufted tail dangling down in front of the fire. “What more could a prince of the blood ask?”
Both men turned to look at the dragon.
“Do you see it?” Mikhyal whispered.
“Ai,” Tristin whispered back. “Draped over the mantel, as if it hasn’t a care in the world.”
The dragon’s ears went back and glittering black eyes flicked from one to the other of them. “It’s the height of rudeness to talk about someone as if they’re not present. Especially someone whose most heroic efforts saved you from certain death. Don’t those fancy royal tutors of yours teach manners anymore?”
Mikhyal looked contrite. He inclined his head and addressed Dirit. “I do believe you’re right, Dirit. I haven’t thanked you properly, have I?”
“No, you have not.” The little dragon sat up on the mantle and cocked his head, regarding Mikhyal expectantly.
“I apologize for being so slow to express my gratitude.” Mikhyal’s tone was grave. “I fear my only excuse is that I’ve been recovering from the effects of our bonding. Thank you, Dirit, for saving my life and the lives of my family and my men.”
“Truly, it was nothing,” Dirit said, preening. “A mere fraction of what I’m capable of when my full power is unleashed. I was specially chosen for the task, you know, because I was the most powerful and the most trustworthy. Also, the most beautiful. You’re very lucky I chose to bond to you.”
Mikhyal glanced at Tristin long enough to roll his eyes. “My understanding is that you didn’t have much choice in the matter, tied to the royal bloodline as you are.”
“Oh, well, that,” Dirit blustered. “Well, of course, there is that. But I could have refused to bond with you. I don’t have to, you know.”
“He’s all fire and wind, isn’t he?” Tristin said in a low voice.
Mikhyal smiled, and in the warm glow of the firelight, he was even more handsome than Tristin had first thought. “Ai, that he is.”
“Fire and wind, indeed.” Dirit managed to convey his wounded feelings in a single sniff. “I shall give you fire and wind, I shall, just when you least expect it.”
Mikhyal’s smile widened. Pale blue eyes sparkling with mirth caught Tristin’s gaze and held it fast. Time froze, or perhaps it stretched. The air between them sizzled, and Tristin felt his ears growing hot.
When he finally managed to look away from Mikhyal, he found Dirit watching him with apparent interest. The dragon grinned, displaying needle-sharp teeth. “He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”
“Quite,” Tristin said before he could stop himself, but at almost the same moment, Mikhyal murmured, “Oh, yes.”
Tristin turned his head slowly to face Mikhyal, mortified. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Your Highness. It just… um. Popped out. That is, my, ah, my mouth often keeps going even when my senses of propriety and self-preservation are screaming at it to stop.” Face flaming, he got to his feet, prepared to flee, until he remembered that he was already in his own rooms, and there was nowhere to flee to.
“Then I think, perhaps, this would be an appropriate moment for me to make a dramatic exit.” Mikhyal’s mouth curved in a rueful grin. “I’d very much like to leave you with some witty, yet frustratingly ambiguous remark to ponder over. Unfortunately, I’m too exhausted to think of anything witty or ambiguous. I don’t suppose you’d care to help me back to my rooms?”
“Dramatically?” Tristin couldn’t help but ask.
At Mikhyal’s warm chuckle, Tristin ducked his head so the prince might not notice his flaming cheeks.
As he walked Mikhyal back down the hall with one arm around his waist to steady him, it occurred to Tristin that not long ago he’d been the one needing help. He really had come a long way since he’d been brought to Dragonwatch. He hadn’t realized how much his addiction had dulled his senses. Coming off the drug had been a painful ordeal, but it had opened up a world of sensory experience Tristin had almost forgotten.
Now, he was finding it very difficult not to be aware of the solid warmth of Mikhyal’s hip pressed against his own, and how very broad and strong Mikhyal’s back felt against his arm. They were roughly the same height, though Mikhyal felt as if he was mostly muscle, with perhaps just a hint of extra padding around his middle, whereas Tristin was all bones with a bit of scarred skin and stringy sinew holding everything together.
“Thank you, Tristin,” Mikhyal said as they reached the door of his suite. “Pleasant dreams to you.”
“And to you, Your… I mean, Mikhyal.”
The door closed quietly behind Mikhyal, and Tristin turned and made his way slowly back to his own room, body still tingling pleasantly from the close contact.
* * *
Mikhyal slept late the next day. It was the middle of the afternoon when he finally woke to see Dirit pacing about on top of the wardrobe looking quite put out.
“About time you woke up,” the dragon grumped. “That healer’s poked his nose in here three times already. You’re going to catch it for overdoing it yesterday, see if you don’t.”
Indeed, Mikhyal had only just finished dressing when there was a knock at his door and Ambris looked in. “Oh, good, you’re awake. And ready for the day, or what’s left of it, at least. How are you feeling? The effects of the anzaria should be mostly gone by now.”
“My head is much clearer today, for which I’m grateful,” Mikhyal said, “but I fear I may have overdone it a bit last night. I paid a visit to Tristin, and the hallway ended up being quite a bit longer than it looked.”
“I see.” Ambris’s lips pursed. “I thought I told you to stay in bed, and we’d see about you getting up today. You’ve been very ill, Your Highness, and mythe-shock is nothing to be trifled with.”
“Ai, and I wouldn’t have trifled with it, only there was… a bit of an incident when Tristin brought me my lunch. I feared I might have upset him, and I wanted to offer him an apology.”
Ambris’s brows drew together. “Oh?”
Mikhyal gave the healer a rueful smile. “I might have implied, indirectly, of course, that he and I were both mad.”
“Ah. I can’t imagine that going down at all well.”
“He did seem a bit sensitive about it,” Mikhyal admitted. “But it’s all right now. He accepted my apology quite graciously.”
“So it was worth exhausting yourself and risking a relapse?”
“Oh, ai, I think so.” Mikhyal smiled to himself, remembering the moment when their eyes had locked and something had passed between them. Something that made him want to see more of Tristin. Much more.
Ambris sighed. “I can see you’re going to be every bit as difficult a patient as Garrik is.” His pale gold eyes unfocused as he examined Mikhyal with his healer’s sight. “Well, your adventure doesn’t appear to have caused you any harm. Which is just as well. Ilya would be sorely vexed if I had to send you back to your bed. Prince Vayne and Prince Jaire are waiting in his study, if you’d like to join them. He asked me to come and fetch you, and requested that you bring the sword with you.”
Mikhyal stood and lifted the sword from the bed. “Let us not keep the Wytch Master waiting.” He glanced up at the top of the wardrobe. “You had better come along too, Dirit. Master Ilya was quite interested to know if Prince Jaire would be able to see you.”
Ambris must have already been briefed regarding Dirit, for he said nothing, only followed Mikhyal’s gaze, the slight frown puckering his brow suggesting that, like Ilya, he saw no sign of the little dragon.
Dirit’s eyebrow tufts twitched. “On display again,” he muttered, hopping down off the wardrobe to land lightly on Mikhyal’s shoulder. He was weightless, and indeed, when Mikhyal reached up to try to touch him, his hand passed right through the creature, with only a brief sensation of intense cold to suggest there was anything there at all.
“Stop it.” Dirit hissed and laid his ears back. “How would you like to have someone poking about inside you?”
Mikhyal grinned broadly. “That would depend entirely on who was doing the poking, Master Dragon.”
Ambris gave him an odd look and started out the door.
“Master Dragon.” Dirit preened, offended dignity apparently forgotten. “I could get used to that.”
“Don’t,” Mikhyal said under his breath as he followed the healer out the door.
“It would be most fitting, don’t you think? I must say, I rather like it… Master Dragon, yes, very nice.”
In the hall, Ambris offered his arm, but Mikhyal waved him off. “I’m feeling much stronger today. I’d like to see if I can manage on my own.”
Master Ilya’s suite was just a bit farther down the hall than Tristin’s, and Mikhyal walked the entire distance unassisted. Though he felt much stronger than he had the day before, he was just as glad not to have to turn around and walk back immediately.
Ambris ushered him into Master Ilya’s sitting room and settled him in a padded armchair in front of a low table holding a tea pot and a tray piled high with an assortment of pastries. Mikhyal leaned back gratefully and rested the sheathed sword across his knees.
On the couch opposite him sat Prince Jaire, who’d grown from boy to man in the years since Mikhyal had last seen him. The prince was still immediately recognizable, with that bright, white-blond hair of his. Sitting next to Prince Jaire was a man with thick black hair and dark eyes. This must be Prince Vayne.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Master Ilya said after Ambris had gone. “You’re looking quite a bit better than you did yesterday.”
“Thank you, Master Ilya. I’m sure that’s to do with the most excellent care I’ve received here.”
“And the fact that your bond-mate can help you heal,” Dirit whispered in his ear. The dragon hopped down onto the table to inspect the pastries. “You’ll want to watch how many of those you eat, Your Royal Voraciousness.”
“Ilya, you didn’t tell me it was so beautiful!” Prince Jaire leaned forward, examining Dirit closely.
“No, well, I can’t see it like the rest of you can,” Ilya murmured, watching Prince Jaire with a bemused expression.
“Can you see it, Vayne?” Jaire asked.
“No, I can’t.” Prince Vayne looked as bemused as the Wytch Master.
“It’s got the prettiest silver scales,” Prince Jaire said, “and a beautiful white mane. It has tufts of fur over its eyebrows and at the tip of its tail. And such dainty little feet! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so lovely.”
“Oh, now, you I like.” Dirit displayed glittering, needle-sharp teeth in what Mikhyal hoped was a grin. “I can see we’re going to be the greatest of friends. At least someone appreciates my numerous charms.” He threw Mikhyal a baleful glare before continuing, “I am Dirit, and you must be Prince Jaire. I am most charmed to make your acquaintance.”
Much to Prince Jaire’s delight, Dirit marched across the table, traipsed over the pastries, and climbed up onto the prince’s lap, where he settled himself, curling his tail around his body like a cat.
Prince Jaire smothered his laughter behind his hand and shifted his attention to Mikhyal. “Sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to ignore you, it’s just…” He smiled down at Dirit. “I had no idea. Welcome to Altan and to Dragonwatch, Dirit. And welcome to you, too, Prince Mikhyal. It’s good to see you awake and on your feet, Your Highness. I’m Prince Jaire, and this is Prince Vayne of Irilan, my intended husband.”
“Ai, I remember you from a harvest festival some years ago,” Mikhyal said, starting to rise, but Prince Jaire waved him back, and Mikhyal nodded gratefully and sank back down in his chair. “You were just a boy, hanging about the dessert table and doing your best to avoid your nurse.”
“I’m afraid not much has changed,” Jaire said with a rueful grin. “The dessert table hasn’t lost its appeal, but up until very recently, it’s been noblemen with eligible daughters I’ve had to avoid. They’re quite a bit trickier than Mistress Polina ever was.”
Mikhyal shifted his gaze to Prince Vayne. “Prince Vayne, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, though I must confess, I didn’t realize Ord had another son.”
“I’m not his son, Your Highness,” Vayne said. “More like a very distant cousin.”
“Vayne was trapped in the mythe for years and years,” Jaire explained. “His father was Wytch King Urich, the same Urich who was put to death by the Wytch Council for leading the Irilan Rebellion. Urich hid Vayne in the mythe, but was killed before he could tell anyone what he’d done, so poor Vayne was trapped there all that time — over two hundred years — until I set him free.”
Vayne gave his intended an indulgent smile as Jaire wrinkled his nose and continued, “It sounds rather like one of those soppy romantic ballads that go on and on, but it was really very exciting. Vayne rescued me, Kian, and Tristin after the Wytch Council kidnapped me and tried to make Garrik step down in Tristin’s favor.”
Mikhyal eyed Vayne with interest. “You learned about mythe-blades while you were trapped in the mythe?”
“No, my father taught me,” Vayne said. “My own skills lie in the manipulation of living mythe-shadows, but my father was capable of burning patterns into raw mythe-stones. As a student of both my father and his Wytch Master, I had a great deal of practice at reading the mythe-shadows of the objects created from those stones.” He looked questioningly at the sword still lying across Mikhyal’s knees, than back up at Mikhyal. “If I might?”
At Mikhyal’s nod, Vayne rose and took the sword from him. He pulled it from the scabbard and examined it closely, eyes unfocusing slightly as he studied its mythe-shadow. “The bond is strong,” he murmured. “And tied to the bloodline of Rhiva. Some of the patterns in the blade’s mythe-shadow echo the inherited patterns in yours. Passed down from your father, was it?”
“No, strangely enough, it wasn’t,” Mikhyal said. “According to Dirit, it hasn’t had a bearer since my father’s grandfather died.”
“Hated me, he did,” Dirit muttered. “Fought the bond, damaged it to the point where I could not manifest physically to prove my existence. Always arguing, he was. And of course, since he had damaged the bond, no one but him could see me, so they all thought he was quite mad by the time he died. On his deathbed, he ordered the sword sent to the vaults. And there it stayed until… well. Until someone removed it. Recently.”
Prince Jaire’s eyes widened and he bit his lip as he stared down at the little dragon. “That must have been horrible,” he murmured, hand hovering over Dirit as if he would stroke the creature. “Poor Dirit.”
The little dragon looked mournfully up at Prince Jaire. “Most horrible,” he agreed. “Poor Dirit, indeed. Charged with a sacred task, and then not allowed to perform it.”
At Ilya’s questioning look, Mikhyal repeated what Dirit had said, then went on to ask, “You don’t know who took the sword from the vaults?”
Dirit’s ears flattened. “I’ve no idea. The sword is my gateway to this world, but unless I have a bearer, the gate is shut tight. All I know for certain is that it cannot have been anyone of the line of Rhiva, or the bonding would have been initiated the moment they touched the blade.”
Mikhyal repeated Dirit’s reply for the benefit of Vayne and the Wytch Master.
When he’d finished, Dirit cocked his head. “Perhaps this would make it easier.”
A moment later, Prince Jaire let out a squeak of surprise. “It has weight now!” Jaire stared down at the little dragon in wonder and reached out a tentative finger to stroke Dirit’s mane.
Dirit flinched at the contact and shot him an irritated glare. “I can manifest in the physical world, but I find it most uncomfortable.” He rose gingerly to his feet and lifted each of his claws in turn, as if finding himself ankle deep in something disgusting. “Breezes and smells and all manner of things ruffling my fur and poking at my feet. The mythe is so much cleaner and more civilized.” His tail twitched, and he hopped onto the table. Tiny claws tapped delicately on the polished surface as he minced across it to the pastry tray, where he helped himself. “I am rather partial to blackberry tarts, though.”
Jaire was watching in rapt fascination. “Can you see it now, Vayne?”
“Ai.” Vayne nodded, his eyes fixed on the little dragon. “It looks very much like some of the creatures I encountered when I was trapped in the mythe.”
Dirit devoured the pastry with a few quick snaps of his jaws, apparently oblivious of his audience. When he was finished, he took one step, then lifted one of his front feet and inspected it, snout wrinkling. “Sticky. I cannot abide sticky.” And with that, the little dragon set about licking every scrap of blackberry jam from his claws with a long, forked tongue. He went on to groom his whiskers. When he was finished, he settled on the table with his front feet crossed primly before him. “Ask your questions, then, humans. Quickly, for I am not prepared to tolerate all these odd textures and disturbing smells for very long.”
“Are you trapped in the mythe like Vayne was?” Jaire asked.
“No,” Dirit said. “I can roam freely in the mythe, though I am tethered to the sword. I can only manifest physically a short distance from it, and then only if my bond-mate is also nearby.”
“Did someone capture you in order to bond you to the blade?” Vayne asked. “The method of forging mythe-blades I’m familiar with involves trapping the personality bonded to the blade within a mythe-stone.”
“That is the way it is done when a human personality is used to create the blade. It works differently for creatures of the mythe.” The little dragon’s chest puffed out a bit, and he sat up straight. “I was chosen for the honor of defending the royal line of Rhiva because I was trusted to carry out my duties most faithfully. Mortified, I was, to discover I had been barred from carrying out my sacred duty because of the whims of a mad Wytch King who refused to accept me as his protector.”
“Who chose you?” Ilya asked quietly.
“Why, one of the Greater Dragons, of course, second only in power to the Dragon Mother, herself. His name is Ashna, and he is one of the more influential creatures in the mythe.” Dirit drew himself up even more. “He said there was important work to be done, and I was uniquely qualified to do it. Those were his exact words: uniquely qualified.”
“Ashna,” Vayne said thoughtfully. “Of course. I encountered him a number of times during my exile. He spoke in riddles much of the time, and I got the impression he toiled at some great task far beyond human understanding. What sort of work did he intend for you to do?”
“I was personally chosen to help restore the Balance.” Dirit turned to look at each of them in turn, perhaps to gauge how impressed they were. “Seeing to it that the line of Rhiva remains unbroken is a very important part of it. Perhaps the most important.”
Mikhyal frowned. “The balance of what, exactly?”
Dirit blinked. “Well, I never. These questions are becoming entirely too personal, Your Royal Inquisitiveness.” And with that, the little dragon simply faded from sight.
“Can you still see it, Mikhyal?” Ilya asked.
“No, he’s gone,” Mikhyal said. “I seem to have offended him. Again.”
“Offended or not, I see no reason for concern, Ilya.” Vayne said. “There is nothing to be read in the mythe-shadows of either the sword or of Prince Mikhyal that suggests to me that the blade is anything other than what Dirit claims. I did, however, see patterns in Mikhyal’s mythe-shadow very much like some of those possessed by both Jaire and Tristin.”
“Does that mean—” Jaire started, but Vayne elbowed him and he pressed his lips together.
“I see,” the Wytch Master murmured, and turned a speculative gaze upon Mikhyal. “Well, then. We shall have much to discuss when the Wytch Kings arrive.”
“Meaning what, exactly, Master Ilya?” Mikhyal asked.
“All in good time, Your Highness,” Ilya said smoothly. “You have enough to think about at the moment, what with recovering from mythe-shock and adjusting to the bond. You understand, of course, that we needed to be certain the blade posed no danger to anyone before we moved you to the castle.”
“Of course,” Mikhyal said. “Most sensible of you, to isolate me until you knew for certain what sort of bond it was.”
“Now that Vayne has confirmed my observations, I see no reason for you to remain here,” Ilya said. “You are out of danger now. All that remains is for you to continue resting and recovering. Kian is standing by, ready to ferry you down to the castle, where a suite has been prepared for you and your father.”
“I…” Mikhyal trailed off, thoughts spinning as it occurred to him that once his father arrived tomorrow and the negotiations began, he might not see Tristin again before he had to return to Rhiva. He hoped they wouldn’t rush him off to the castle too quickly; he’d like to at least have the chance to say goodbye.
* * *
Tristin knelt on the stones at the edge of the bed of coldroot and plucked out the weeds that were valiantly trying to gain a foothold in the rich soil. The task was simple. His hands remembered weeding the herb beds when he’d been a child helping in the gardens at Falkrag, leaving his mind free to wander.
Jaire and Vayne had arrived a little while ago. Tristin had seen them playing up in the sky above the watchtower before they’d landed in the courtyard and gone inside to meet Mikhyal and Dirit. He wondered what Jaire would think of Dirit. Imagining his cousin’s delight brought a smile to his lips, and he hoped Jaire would be able to see the little dragon.
“You missed a bit.”
Tristin turned to see Dirit eyeing him from the middle of a patch of coldroot. He was about to admonish the dragon when he realized that Dirit wasn’t actually crushing the flowers, but only looked as if he were. He glanced across the garden to see if anyone else was about, but the herb garden was deserted.
“I thought you were supposed to be in there with Mikhyal.” Tristin sat back on his heels and regarded the little dragon soberly. “Prince Jaire said something about Ilya wanting to make sure you’re not dangerous.”
“Of course I’m dangerous.” Dirit’s nostrils flared in an offended sniff. “I wouldn’t be much use as a protector of the royal line of Rhiva if I wasn’t dangerous, would I? Anyway, they’ve had all the answers they’re going to get from me. The questions were getting entirely too personal, so I took my leave.”
“You can’t blame them for asking. I should think anyone would be cautious around a force that can strip the flesh off of a man in a few moments and leave behind naught but a pile of bones.”
“They told you about that, did they?” Dirit preened.
“Prince Jaire did. And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself. I find the idea rather horrifying.”
Dirit flattened his ears. “You would.” His lip curled in disgust, revealing long, needle-like teeth glittering in the sunlight like tiny crystalline knives. “In case no one told you, mythe-weapons do tend to be a bit horrifying by human standards, although I’m sure you must agree, they don’t normally come in such an appealing little package.”
Before Tristin could think of a suitable retort, someone called, “Tristin!”
Tristin looked round to see Prince Mikhyal making his way toward him. Frowning slightly, he stood, dusted off his hands, and took a few steps closer. “Are you all right to be up and about, Your Highness? Last night you were about to collapse after a short walk down the hall.”
“Whether I am ready or not, my father will be arriving tomorrow,” Mikhyal said. “He will have need of me. I had a very long sleep, and I’m feeling much stronger than I was last night.” His gaze shifted to Tristin’s shoulder. “Dirit, I’d like to apologize if I offended you with my questions.”
Tristin looked over to see the little dragon perched on his own shoulder.
Dirit blinked. “Apologize?”
“Ai. I must admit, I’m as curious as anyone about your origins, but I will refrain from asking. If you choose to share your past, it should be because you wish to, not because you feel you are bound to.”
Dirit cocked his head. “Why, thank you. I do believe that’s the first time anyone’s acknowledged the fact that I might have feelings in the matter.” The little dragon blinked again, then hopped down off of Tristin’s shoulder and disappeared halfway to the ground.
“He’s a funny little fellow, isn’t he?” Mikhyal said when he’d gone.
“He is,” Tristin said, smiling hesitantly. “He, ah, seems to think rather a lot of himself.”
“That, he does.” Mikhyal smiled. “I think he’s had a difficult time of it, though. His last bearer was my great grandfather, and they didn’t get along at all. But that’s not why I’m here. Master Ilya says I’m ready to move down to the castle. I’ve come to say goodbye, and to inquire as to whether or not I’ll see you again.”
“Oh… I-I… um…” Tristin stammered. His ears burned as he struggled to think of something to say.
“You seem to be on very good terms with Prince Jaire,” Mikhyal continued, “and I wondered if you might be planning to attend the betrothal ceremony.”
“Ah. I… well… you see, I… um. Yes?” The final word was out before Tristin could clap a hand over his mouth, and he’d just started to try and explain that he hadn’t really meant yes at all, when Mikhyal’s face broke out in a smile so beautiful it nearly stopped Tristin’s heart.
“Oh, very good! I suppose it would be rather too forward of me to ask if you might save a dance for me?”
“Um. I… well. That is, I haven’t ever danced before, but I’d very much like to dance with you if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and I’d really like to see you again if that’s all right, only I’ve not been properly introduced to anyone, and I’m afraid I might cause a bit of a scandal if anyone finds out where I’m really from and who my father was, and it might not do your reputation any good to be seen with someone who still talks to hallucinations, and if Dirit shows up I can’t promise I won’t make a scene, and it really might be better for everyone if we just… um…” The words ran together until Tristin ran out of breath, and when he finally stopped to take in a great gulp of air, Mikhyal’s lips were twitching, as if he was trying to hold back his laughter.
“I shall assume that’s a yes, since it sounds as if you’d like to. I shall be very much looking forward to it. Until we meet again, Prince Tristin of Dragonwatch.” And with that, Mikhyal executed a formal bow and made his exit.
Prince Tristin of Dragonwatch? Tristin stared after him, mind racing through all the things he ought to shout after the prince. Like that he wasn’t even sure if he’d be capable of going down to the castle.
Before he could settle on a suitable response, the kitchen door banged shut and Prince Mikhyal was gone. Tristin sank down to his knees on the sun-warmed flagstones, staring after him. What had he done? Only promised to go down to the castle for the betrothal. And dance with a prince of Rhiva.
A shadow fell across him. “Are you all right, Tristin?”
Tristin looked up to see Ambris staring down at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he hastened to reassure the healer. “Or, well, no, I’m not fine. No. Not really. Actually, not fine at all. Rather miserable, in fact, now that you mention it.”
“Oh?”
Tristin got to his feet and spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve just promised Mikhyal… um, I mean Prince Mikhyal, a dance. At Prince Jaire’s betrothal ceremony. I’m not sure how it happened. One minute he came to say goodbye to me, and the next thing I knew, he asked if he’d see me again, and I opened my mouth and words came out and now he’s expecting to see me at the ceremony.” Tristin shook his head sadly. “Only I won’t be going anywhere near the ceremony. How can I set foot in the castle when I can’t even manage the watchtower stairs?”
A great draconic cry cut through the air, and Tristin and Ambris both looked up to see a great black dragon — Kian in his dragon form — circling the watchtower with a rider on his back. Mikhyal’s long, black hair streamed behind him like a banner, and his face was alight with an expression of boyish exuberance. Kian swooped low over the garden, and Mikhyal lifted a hand to wave as they passed by.
Tristin raised his own hand and gave Mikhyal a shy smile.
“Well, you’ve certainly made an impression,” Ambris said, watching his husband glide down the mountain.
“For all the good it’ll do me,” Tristin grumbled. “I suppose I shall have to ask Master Ilya to take a message to him telling him I won’t be able to manage the betrothal ceremony.”
“Nonsense,” Ambris said firmly. “If you hold thoughts like that in your head, you’ve failed before you’ve even begun. Now listen: you’ve just over two weeks until the celebration, and Master Ilya has several hours scheduled to work with you after dinner tomorrow. I’m sure if you tell him how much it means to you to be able to attend the ceremony, he’ll find more time to work with you. Two weeks is plenty of time to master the basics.”
“Mordax spent two years trying to teach me the basics.” A heavy gloom settled over Tristin. “He eventually gave up, said I was hopeless and I’d never learn.”
“Master Ilya is the best teacher the Wytch Council has.” Ambris’s voice brimmed with all the confidence Tristin lacked, and Tristin’s spirits rose a little in spite of the enormity of the task lying before him. “Why do you think they gave him his own school? He trains the students no one else can, as well as the ones who are so dangerous no one else dares. I despaired of ever learning to shift properly, but Master Ilya taught me in a single afternoon what I’d struggled with for years. I believe he can help you, too, Tristin.”
“I’d like to believe that, but our last lesson didn’t go at all well.”
Ambris snorted. “When you had your last lesson, Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva hadn’t caught your eye. Nor had you promised him a dance. I think the prospect of dancing with a man as handsome as Prince Mikhyal might inspire even the most reluctant student, don’t you?”
Tristin allowed himself a small smile as he stared down the mountain at the castle, but he found it impossible to believe it might be that easy.
“You can do it, Tristin.”
“I hope so, Master Ambris. I truly hope so.” Tristin’s face grew hot again. “I should very much like to claim that dance.”