The mountain air rushed by, crisp and cold. Mikhyal pulled the fur-lined cloak more tightly about his shoulders, thankful he’d taken Prince Jaire up on his offer to loan it to him for his ride to Dragonwatch. Garrik’s muscles shifted and bunched beneath him as the dragon’s powerful wings lifted them higher, and the air grew colder as they glided up the mountain.
Unbeknownst to the Wytch King, Dirit rode upon his head, standing on his hind legs, front feet wrapped around the dragon’s horns, whiskers trailing behind him in the strong wind.
Mikhyal’s heart was still pounding with a mixture of wild joy and sheer terror after Garrik’s leap from the top of Castle Altan’s north tower. For one heart-stopping moment, they’d plummeted into the valley below. Mikhyal had let out a most unmanly squawk, and from the shaking of the dragon’s ribs as he caught an updraft under his great wings, Mikhyal guessed Garrik found his reaction amusing.
Early that morning, the Wytch King had sent word to Mikhyal that he was heading to Dragonwatch for breakfast, and Mikhyal was welcome to join him if he would like. The tone of the note had been most formal and correct, but Mikhyal had to wonder why he’d been invited.
It had been well over a week since he’d seen Tristin… was it possible Tristin had asked his cousin about seeing Mikhyal? His heart leapt at the thought, and he had to remind himself that there had been nothing in Garrik’s message to indicate anything of the sort.
The flight was over far too quickly, and Mikhyal found himself almost disappointed when Garrik landed in Dragonwatch’s courtyard.
Ambris was waiting near the door, and came forward immediately. “Good morning, Your Highness.” The healer reached up to unbuckle the safety straps holding Mikhyal securely in place. “I trust you had a good flight?”
Mikhyal couldn’t stop grinning as he slid down to the ground. “Absolutely amazing! Though I must say, that initial headlong dive off the north tower was enough to make me thankful for the harness. It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.”
The Wytch King snorted, a sound that was suspiciously close to laughter.
“I certainly found it entertaining,” Dirit chirped, picking his way down Garrik’s neck. “Your squeal of terror as we took to the air was particularly endearing, Your Royal Anxiousness.”
Mikhyal gritted his teeth and refrained from comment.
“Yes, I’m afraid our Wytch King does seem to enjoy frightening the life out of his passengers.” Ambris removed his own cloak and laying it across one of the stone benches. “Until someone’s sick all over him. Then it’s not nearly so amusing, you understand.”
Dirit chuckled as he hopped down to the ground and scampered toward the front door, fading from sight halfway there.
“There’s a cloak for you on the bench, Your Majesty,” Ambris said. “I don’t see any saddlebags, so I’ll assume you couldn’t be bothered to bring any clothing for yourself. If you’d like to stop by our suite, you can borrow something of Kian’s, just so you don’t frighten poor Alys. Give me a moment to get this saddle off you and… oh… well. If you’re in that much of a hurry, I shan’t bother.”
Mikhyal turned to see the Wytch King in his human form, untangling himself from the straps, apparently unconcerned about his lack of clothing.
“You can accompany me to your suite Ambris,” Garrik said to the healer, who reached for the cloak and settled it over the king’s shoulders. “Mikhyal and I have a meeting to attend later this morning, so we’ll be leaving shortly after breakfast, but I wanted to have a word with you alone.”
“Very well,” Ambris said. “Mikhyal, if you’d like to go on to the dining room, I believe you’ll find Tristin there. We’ll join you once Garrik is presentable.” He eyed the Wytch King critically, and added, “Or, if not presentable, at least clothed.”
Garrik’s black eyes glittered, and he barked out a laugh. “I’ll have you know Ilya finds me quite presentable, especially unclothed.”
“Yes, I imagine he does,” Ambris said drily, “though I must admit, I’ve always found Ilya to be somewhat lacking in taste.”
Chuckling at their easy banter, Mikhyal followed them inside and headed toward Dragonwatch’s dining hall, which was hardly a hall. The school only boasted six suites, and accordingly, the dining hall contained two tables each surrounded by enough sturdy chairs to seat six.
Tristin was sitting at the table nearest the window, chatting with Dirit, who was perched on the back of the chair next to him. Alys was nowhere to be seen, though the clatter of dishes from behind the kitchen door suggested she’d be along presently.
The shy smile Tristin gave him as he approached made Mikhyal’s heart beat faster. Tristin looked almost well; he was still slender, but his face had lost that gaunt, haunted look, his dark eyes were bright, and his cheeks were no longer quite so pale.
“You’re looking much better, Mikhyal.” Tristin bit his lip, eyes darting down to the table and then briefly, back up to Mikhyal’s face.
“I was just thinking the same of you.” Mikhyal returned the smile and took the seat opposite him. “You look much brighter. Working in the garden seems to agree with you. I wish I had time to join you. And I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to come and see you before this. It must be at least a week since I was here last.”
“Ten days, actually,” Tristin muttered, then flushed, and Mikhyal hid a smile. He was counting the days? “But you’re doing important, kingly sorts of things,” Tristin added quickly. “Things that make a difference. You’re busy discussing treaties, determining the fates of entire kingdoms… and I’m just… sort of flailing about in the dirt.”
“Oh, don’t tell him he’s kingly,” Dirit said. “He’ll become bloated with self-importance.”
“I don’t think I’m in nearly so much danger of that as some others, who shall remain nameless,” Mikhyal said.
“What, Tristin?” Dirit inquired. “Never!”
Mikhyal didn’t bother to hide his smile this time. “I’ve not been so busy that I’ve forgotten about the dance you promised me. I’ve thought about it every day since I left Dragonwatch.”
“Ah. Well.” Tristin flushed even pinker. “I, um… about that… um… I mean, I was…” A faint frown puckered his brow. “Did you really? Think about dancing with me, I mean?”
From his perch on the back of the chair, Dirit heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you two are just too much. Any more sweetness, and I shall be ill. I’m off to see if Alys has anything nice for me.”
“Alys can’t even see you,” Tristin said, “so how are you going to ask her?”
Dirit gave him a toothy grin. “She most certainly can see me, if I choose to show myself to her. But I never said I was going to ask.” And with that, the little dragon trotted off.
“Finally, a bit of peace,” Mikhyal murmured.
“Been a bit of a trial, has he?” Tristin asked.
“You have no idea,” Mikhyal said. “The little monster rides about on my shoulder, commenting on everything. It’s all I can do not to answer, especially when I’m in meetings with the Wytch Kings and their advisors. My father and Garrik know about him, though neither of them can see him. I catch them watching me every so often. And Prince Jaire sometimes bursts out laughing at something Dirit’s said or done at the most inopportune moments. He says they’re all used to him talking to himself, so nobody thinks much of it. But me… well. I have to watch myself, or rumors will start flying.” He grimaced and added, “If they haven’t already.”
From the kitchen came a shriek and the sound of pottery shattering on the floor.
“Oh, dear,” Tristin said. “It sounds as if Alys has made Dirit’s acquaintance. I wonder if she needs any help.”
Mikhyal got to his feet, ready to lend assistance. Before he could take a step toward the kitchen, the door flew open, and Dirit skittered out, pastry clenched firmly in his little jaws. He was followed by a broom-wielding Alys. Nimbly dodging a blow from the broom, Dirit dove under the table and disappeared with his pastry.
Alys shot a baleful glare after him and lowered her broom before dropping a low curtsy. “Apologies, Your Highness, m’lord. The little devil frightened me.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mistress Alys,” Mikhyal said, trying his best to look contrite. “I… suppose Ilya mentioned him to you, did he?”
“Ai, he did. Said I might see him slinking about, and warned me of his penchant for blackberry tarts. Of course, that’s where I found him, lounging on the window sill, pretty as you please, devouring my fresh pastries before they were even cool.”
“She threw a teacup at me.” Dirit’s plaintive voice came from under the table.
“Can you blame me?” Alys demanded. “I thought you were a rat. I’d have offered you a pastry, had you but asked.”
Loud eating noises followed. “Rat, indeed,” Dirit said, smacking his lips. “If it pleases you, madam, I did burn my tongue.”
“Serves you right,” Alys said. Her dark eyes settled on Mikhyal. “Rat or not, I’ll thank you to keep it out of my kitchen, Your Highness.”
Mikhyal dared not look at Tristin as he struggled to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. “I’ll speak to him, Mistress Alys,” he said gravely. “He won’t bother you again.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll be back shortly with your breakfast.”
As soon as her back was turned, Tristin shot him a dubious look. Dirit slunk out from under the table and clambered up on top of it. “A rat, am I?” he muttered, and proceeded to settle himself by Tristin’s elbow, where he made a show of licking his claws clean.
“Dirit, a little more caution, if you please,” Mikhyal said. “I’d rather not make your presence known to all and sundry. And for the sake of all of us, please leave Mistress Alys alone.”
“Blackberry tarts,” Dirit said, by way of explanation. “Fresh and hot, all flaky and steaming and delicious.”
Mikhyal rolled his eyes. “I can just see the history books now. A Scholarly Treatise on the Role of Blackberry Tarts in the Fall of the Prince of Rhiva.”
Dirit scowled, eyebrow tufts twitching. “Oh, very well, Your Royal Circumspectness. I suppose it will only cause trouble if I keep frightening the help. I shall limit my appearances to you and Tristin. And Prince Jaire, of course. He appreciates me, at least.”
With a heavy sigh, Mikhyal turned to Tristin. “Enough of Dirit. Tell me, what have you been up to while I’ve been stuck in endless alliance negotiations?”
“Oh, well… I’ve been practicing,” Tristin said.
“Practicing what?” Mikhyal gave him a sly smile. “Dancing, by chance?”
“Oh…” Tristin’s cheeks turned pink. “Um. I… well, you see, Mordax didn’t teach me properly… I mean, he tried to, or at least, he pretended to try, but he might not have actually wanted me to master it, and I always thought I was hopeless because I couldn’t even walk across the floor of the keep at Falkrag without going into fits. And then Mordax gave up on me, and Uncle sent me to Shadowspire, and I spent fifteen years there with no one to talk to except my hallucinations.”
Mikhyal frowned, struggling to follow what Tristin was trying to tell him. “You’re not talking about dancing at all. You… you’re talking about mastering your Wytch power, aren’t you?”
Tristin blinked. “Yes. That’s what I just said.”
“That would explain why you’re here at Dragonwatch, then.”
“Well, yes. Sort of. Mordax and Faah actually brought me here with Prince Jaire after they kidnapped him… they were planning to exchange Jaire’s life for Garrik’s agreement to step down in my favor. The way they spoke of it, the plan was approved by the Wytch Council.”
“Garrik told us of their plot to put you on the throne, though he didn’t go into any details regarding your history, other than to say you would have been the Council’s puppet.”
“That… that’s correct.” Tristin swallowed hard and stared down at the table. “I was… I was addicted to the drug Mordax was giving me to stop me from feeling the empathic resonances in everything I touched. It… it was supposed to be a temporary measure, just until he could teach me, but I proved to be a hopeless student, and by the time he gave up on me, I was addicted. That’s the other reason I’m here. The school is new.”
At Mikhyal’s blank look, he added, “There haven’t been enough people living here for long enough for the floors and the furnishings to have absorbed much in the way of empathic impressions. The watchtower, on the other hand…” Tristin trailed off, shuddering. “That place is awful. The very stones are steeped in pain and violence, bloodlust and fear. I get swept away in the memories of those who fought and died in that place. I lose my grip on the moment, and… well, it’s… it’s not good. And the courtyard isn’t much better. Though I have found if I kneel or stand upon a thick chunk of wood, it blocks out enough of the resonances that I can work in the herb garden. Or… or on my new flower bed.”
Mikhyal stared at him as he tried to fit all the pieces together. “You were kept in isolation all that time? Fifteen years, you said?”
“Ai,” Tristin nodded.
“And you’ve not yet mastered your power?”
“Um. I’m… that is, I… well, I’ve had some small successes. Recently. I’ve at least managed to weave the most basic shielding pattern Master Ilya knows. I… I’m not sure it will be enough, though.”
“Enough?” Mikhyal’s eyes widened as Tristin’s meaning slowly dawned on him. “Oh… you mean enough to allow you to… Oh, Tristin, why didn’t you say? I’d never have asked you to come to the betrothal ceremony if I’d realized. I’m sorry. You don’t have to come — of course you don’t.”
Tristin’s face fell. “But… I thought… I thought you wanted to… to dance with me. Oh, but… right. I’m a bastard, you’re a prince… no point in even thinking about it, is there? I mean, you’re not free to marry where you will, and I’m too much of a mess for anyone to want to bother with, aren’t I? I mean, look at me! I can’t even—”
“Tristin.” Mikhyal reached across the table and laid a finger against Tristin’s lips to stop the flow of words. “I do want to dance with you.” He took Tristin’s hand in his own, ignoring Dirit, whose beady black eyes were fixed upon him with avid interest. “I’d like to dance with you very much. My only concern is that setting foot in the castle might be distressing for you, and I would hate to think I was to blame for causing you pain of any sort.”
Tristin glanced down at their joined hands and then back up at Mikhyal. “I… I’d like to try,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve been practicing, and I think, by the day of the ceremony, I might be able to manage it.”
Mikhyal was about to protest, but upon seeing the hope and determination in Tristin’s eyes, decided against it. Instead, he squeezed Tristin’s hand and said, “Then I will look forward to seeing you there. And if you are unable to come for any reason, I will come to you here, as soon as I am able. We will have that dance, even if the only music is the whisper of the wind through the fir trees.” Keeping his eyes on Tristin’s, he lifted Tristin’s hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to it.
Tristin’s eyes went wide, and his fingers trembled in Mikhyal’s hand, but he didn’t let go.
* * *
Tristin couldn’t believe Mikhyal still wanted to dance with him, even after he’d heard the truth about his past, his captivity and his addiction, and the fact that even now, he struggled to control the Wytch power that had taken so much from him.
When Mikhyal kissed his hand, it was all Tristin could do not to pull it away. He clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together to hold back the tide of nonsense that would pour forth if he dared allow himself to speak.
He was saved from having to make a response by the dining hall door opening. Mikhyal turned to see who had come in, and Tristin took the opportunity to snatch his hand back, cheeks coloring as he glanced up to see a man who could only be the Wytch King, watching him from the doorway, a slight smile curving his lips.
Wytch King Garrik looked nothing like his brother. Where Jaire was slender and delicate, Garrik was tall and powerfully built. Where Jaire was pale, Garrik was dark, having the black hair and black eyes that so often appeared in the royal lines of the northern kingdoms.
“Well, he doesn’t look at all kingly, does he?” Dirit chirped, slithering across the table and climbing up Mikhyal’s shoulder to observe.
Tristin had been far too awed to pay attention, but now that Dirit mentioned it, the Wytch King did look a bit shabby. His feet were bare, his long black hair unbound, and Tristin was certain he’d seen Kian wearing the same shirt only a few days ago.
“Good morning, Cousin.” Garrik’s smile broadened as he approached the table. “You’re looking much better. I apologize for not finding the time to come and see you before now. With all the guests here for Jaire’s betrothal ceremony, I’ve had very little time for anything else.”
Tristin rose and bowed low to his cousin. “Your Majesty. I… I appreciate your concern, though I can’t imagine why you’d want me anywhere near you or your family, given who my father was and what he—”
“Enough.” Garrik didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was implacable, and that one word was all it took to make Tristin snap his mouth shut. “Your father’s sins do not reflect upon you, Tristin. From what I’ve been told, you never even met the man.”
“That… that’s true. Your Majesty is most—”
“And you can dispense with the honorifics. You are my cousin, and you will call me Garrik. Unless I’m being particularly beastly, in which case that pain in the arse warming the throne will do nicely.”
“I… ah…”
Dirit chuckled. “I think I approve of this cousin of yours, Tristin. He’s a breath of fresh air compared to most of the royal windbags of my acquaintance.”
Tristin cringed for a moment, before recalling that Mikhyal had mentioned that Garrik couldn’t see or hear Dirit. He glanced at Mikhyal, whose mouth twitched as he struggled not to laugh.
The kitchen door opened, and Alys appeared, carrying a tray. She set it down on the sideboard and bobbed a quick curtsy to Garrik before setting two platters piled high with flat cakes on the table. Pots of jam, cream, butter, and honey followed, and then Alys retreated to the kitchen.
“Ah, flat cakes,” Garrik said, taking a large helping. “Jaire’s favorite. He’ll be sorry he missed this, but he had an early appointment with the head seamstress. You should have heard the whining. You’d think she was dragging him down to the dungeons for an interrogation.”
Tristin smiled. “Would this be the infamous Mistress Nadhya?”
“Ai, it would. He’s been whining at you, too, has he?”
“Not whining so much as suggesting she might have been in charge of the dungeons in a former life.”
Garrik laughed. “He’s said as much to me on several occasions. Poor Mistress Nadhya is getting a completely undeserved reputation.”
Tristin smothered butter and honey over his flat cakes and took a forkful. Alys’s flat cakes were crisp and light, and Tristin closed his eyes as he savored the texture. Food was so much more interesting now that his senses were no longer dulled by the drug.
“Ilya seems very pleased with your progress,” Garrik said.
Tristin opened his eyes to focus on his cousin. “I… well, I still have a long way to go,” he said slowly, “though I did have a minor success in my lessons the last time Ilya was here.”
“Excellent. We’ll have you down at the castle in no time. I’ve had a suite prepared especially for you.”
“I… you have?” Tristin wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Ai, it was Jaire’s idea. The work was just finished yesterday. I inspected it myself, and I believe all is in order. You are welcome to move in whenever you feel ready.”
Tristin couldn’t help his smile. He was used to being a nuisance; no one had ever put themselves out to make him feel welcome, and he found himself liking his cousin very much. “Thank you, Your… I mean, Garrik. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. I… I’m not certain how long it will be.” He cast a furtive glance at Mikhyal. “I’ve reason to hope it won’t be long at all. Prince Jaire invited me to his betrothal ceremony, and I’d very much like to go, if I’m able.”
Garrik looked pleased. “We’d be happy to see you there, if you can manage it. I look forward to you joining the rest of the family at the castle. Not until you are ready, though. Please don’t push yourself. We all understand that these things take time. The Dragon Mother knows, it took me long enough to master my own power. I wish we’d had someone like Vayne around then… although, I suppose if I hadn’t needed training, I’d never have met Ilya, so I can hardly wish that, can I?”
After breakfast, Garrik excused himself, saying he’d wait for Mikhyal in the courtyard. When he’d gone, Mikhyal rose. “I shouldn’t keep him waiting. We do have a busy day ahead. Probably a lot of busy days. I… don’t know when I’ll be able to come and see you again.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tristin got slowly to his feet. “You attend to your duties, and I shall do my best to come to you. I intend to dance with you at the betrothal ceremony.”
As they walked down the hall, Mikhyal caught Tristin’s hand in his own. Mikhyal’s hand was warm, and it felt nice the way it encircled his own and squeezed just a little. No one had ever held his hand before, unless it was to drag him somewhere he didn’t want to go.
Outside, Garrik was waiting, already shifted into a great orange-gold dragon. Garrik let out an impatient snort and stamped one foot as Kian set the saddle on his back and began fastening the straps.
Mikhyal turned to face Tristin. “Take care of yourself, Tristin. And don’t forget — you owe me a dance. If you cannot come to the castle to claim it, then I shall come to you.” And with that, Prince Mikhyal leaned forward very slowly, giving Tristin every opportunity to pull away.
Tristin’s heart nearly stopped, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Mikhyal’s lips brushed against his own, warm and soft. It was Tristin’s first kiss, and it was over much too quickly. All too soon, Mikhyal was giving his hand one last squeeze. He let go, fingers slipping away from Tristin’s, and turned toward the waiting Wytch King.
When Mikhyal was safely secured, Garrik took to the air. As he watched them disappear down the side of the mountain, Tristin pressed his fingers to his lips, imagining he could still feel the lingering warmth of Mikhyal’s kiss.
* * *
“Very good,” Ilya said when Tristin had woven yet another new shielding pattern flawlessly on the first try. “You’re much more focused tonight than you have been.”
Tristin, who had thought of little other than Mikhyal’s kiss all day, found it difficult to believe Ilya thought he was focused. He blushed and said quietly, “It helps to have a goal, something I want very much, to work toward.”
“It does, indeed,” Ilya said with a tiny smile. “What do you want badly enough to make such a difference, if I might ask?”
Tristin flushed and turned his face to the window, letting the gentle evening breeze cool his flaming cheeks.
“You don’t have to say, if you’d rather not.”
“Ah. Well. I… um.” Tristin risked a glance at the Wytch Master, but Ilya didn’t look at all annoyed with him. Could he tell Ilya about Mikhyal asking him for a dance? No… perhaps not. The last thing he wanted was to follow in his father’s footsteps by putting himself at the heart of a scandal.
He settled for telling only part of the truth. “Cousin Garrik was here this morning. He said I might move down to the castle when I’m ready. He’s had a suite prepared for me, and… well… I thought… that is, considering that my father murdered Garrik’s father, and… and my uncle kidnapped his brother… it’s not at all the reception I was expecting. I’d not have thought he’d want me anywhere near himself or his family, and yet… he welcomed me this morning, and told me he was looking forward to seeing me at the castle. I… I’m not used to that. People wanting me near, I mean. All my life, I’ve been a nuisance and an embarrassment, something to be shut away and not spoken of, except in whispers. I’m finding it rather refreshing to be given a chance. Although…” Tristin stared down at the table. “I expect it won’t be long before I ruin it all by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Ilya said gently. “Garrik’s never been one for formality or ceremony. And family is very important to him. You won’t drive him off that easily. Wait until you see the suite he’s prepared for you.”
“How long do you think it will be before I’m ready?”
Ilya regarded him soberly. “That, I cannot say. It will depend on how much of the emotional resonance the shielding patterns block out. That will depend both on your sensitivity and on the strength of the resonances in each separate item you might be exposed to. It is something you will not know for certain until you try.”
Tristin’s heart skipped a beat, and he sat up a little straighter. “Could we try? Now, I mean? I could go to the watchtower.”
“You could, though I would caution you against doing so this soon.”
“Why?”
“If the shielding patterns I’ve taught you thus far don’t prove sufficient to protect you, it may shake your confidence badly. You’ve made tremendous progress today, and I would hate to see you set back simply because you lacked patience.”
“On the other hand,” Tristin countered, “a successful trial today could give me a great deal more confidence. And I honestly don’t think a failure would set me back too far. In fact, I think, now that I’m starting to understand how the patterns work, it would only make me even more determined.”
Ilya looked as if he were debating with himself, but he finally nodded slowly and said, “Against my better judgment, then. Come. We might as well try it now.”
“Really? Now?”
“I’ve come to know you well enough to realize that if I don’t capitulate, you’ll simply wait until I’ve gone and try it by yourself. And given what a difficult time you had last time… Well. Since you insist on doing this experiment, I would prefer you at least do it in my presence.”
Tristin waited, bristling with impatience, while Ilya lit a lantern. Once outside, Tristin had to force himself to keep to Ilya’s shorter strides.
At the base of the tower, Ilya opened the door for him. “Whenever you are ready, Tristin. Take your time.”
Tristin already had the most complex of the shielding patterns he’d learned in place. He stared at the barely-illuminated stone stairs, then steeled himself and stepped into the tower.
He was ready for the same things that had assaulted his senses the last time — visions of terrified men in torn bloody clothing fleeing down the stairs, great gouts of fire chasing them — but this time, he sensed only a whisper of fear. Tristin examined his shielding pattern and noted a spot where the shape of it wasn’t quite right. He drew on the light at his center and adjusted the pattern the way Ilya had shown him.
The fear trickled away, leaving him alone in his head and in complete control of his emotions. His heart beat faster as he took his first tentative steps toward the stairs.
“How do you feel?” Ilya asked, his voice coming from right behind Tristin.
“The shielding pattern seems to be holding,” Tristin said, not even trying to disguise his joy. “I didn’t have it quite right to begin with, but I didn’t panic. I made an adjustment, like you taught me, and now I feel none of the violence or the terror that swept me away before.”
“That’s very encouraging,” Ilya said. “Shall we try the stairs? I will be right behind you.”
Tristin turned to eye the smaller man. “That’s not much comfort, Ilya. We’d both end up at the bottom of the stairs, if I should take a tumble.”
“You underestimate the speed at which I can shift,” Ilya said mildly.
“Ah. Well then, let us proceed.” Tristin stepped onto the first stair and waited, taking careful stock of his senses to make certain he felt nothing of the violence of battles past.
When there were no flames, no screams, no sword thrusts coming from all sides, he dared another step, and then another. Soon, he had reached the top of the stairs. Giving Ilya a triumphant grin, he strode to the center of the tower’s roof and spread his arms wide. “I’ve done it!” he exclaimed. “No one ever thought I could, but I have!”
The shadows cast by the swinging lantern danced across Ilya’s face, but Tristin could see his teacher’s smile, almost as broad as his own. “Very well done, Tristin. Very well done! This is certainly cause for celebration.”
“Might we celebrate at the castle?”
Ilya’s smile faded a little. “We might, only you may still find that some things — and some places — will leak through the shielding pattern. There are still more patterns for you to learn, so even if you do move down to the castle, our lessons will continue.”
“Tomorrow?” Tristin asked eagerly. “Might I go tomorrow? And… might I… might I shift? And go myself?”
Ilya’s smile widened again. “You may, indeed. You have kept your word most admirably, and I think you have recovered sufficiently that I need not worry about you hiding in dragon form, ai?”
“No, you needn’t worry,” Tristin said softly. “I’ve reason to be much more interested in my human form at the moment.”
Ilya gave him an appraising look, then clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Let us go down and fetch Kian and Ambris for a celebratory drink. I’ve a bottle of excellent wine in my suite that I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I cannot think of a better use for it.”
Tristin smiled and followed the Wytch Master down the tower steps.
* * *
Tristin was up with the sun the next morning. He had very little to pack. A few changes of clothing and the book Jaire had given him were the only possessions he’d managed to accumulate during the weeks he’d spent at Dragonwatch. He stuffed his things into a leather pack Ilya had found for him, and went to join Alys, Kian, and Ambris for breakfast.
“I hear it’s a big day today.” Ambris piled eggs and sausages onto his plate while Tristin dug into the fried onions and potatoes.
“Ai,” Tristin said, giving him a bright smile. “Ilya says I might move down to the castle today.”
“Good for you, m’lord,” Alys said, bobbing her head. “You’ve worked hard for it.”
“Thank you, Alys.” Tristin’s cheeks heated only a little as he smiled at her.
“He spoke to me about it last night,” Kian said, “and asked me to escort you down after breakfast. You’ll need someone to show you around. It’s a bit of a maze until you get used to it.”
“What of you, Ambris?” Tristin asked, recalling the breakfast conversation of a few days ago. “Will you be coming with us?”
But Ambris set his fork down and shook his head. “I dare not,” he said softly, eyes darting briefly to his husband’s face. “Though Kian thinks I ought.”
“You needn’t worry, Ambris.” Kian reached across the table for Ambris’s hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t bring it up again. What you do about your father is entirely up to you.”
“Thank you.” Ambris squeezed Kian’s hand and smiled up at him, then turned back to Tristin and continued, “I’ll be staying here until after the ceremony. Kian’s promised Jaire he’ll be there.”
“Then I shall make a point of coming to see you when I’ve time,” Tristin said.
“I’d like that,” Ambris said. “And you’re very welcome to come and visit us in Aeyr’s Grove whenever you like, once we’ve gone back there.”
“That’s very kind of you.” The words nearly clogged behind the lump in Tristin’s throat. No one had ever invited him anywhere before, and he was deeply touched that Ambris and Kian would even think to ask him to come and see them in their home. “I’ll come for a visit as soon as I’m able.”
“Which might not be as soon as you think,” Kian said. “If I know Garrik, he’s already got something in mind for you to do.”
“Really?” Tristin frowned. He hadn’t given much thought to how he might spend his days at the castle. “What sort of something?”
“I’ve no idea,” Kian said, “but you can be sure he won’t allow you to sit idle.”
“I hope he doesn’t mean for me to attend Court,” Tristin murmured. “I shouldn’t like that at all.”
“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Ambris said, giving him a secretive smile.
After breakfast, Tristin stood beside Kian in the sun-drenched courtyard and shifted into dragon form. Kian had offered to carry his pack for him, so Tristin launched himself into the air completely unfettered, a cry of joy cutting through the cool mountain air as he climbed higher and higher.
A hard blink lowered his inner eyelids, allowing him to see the air currents in all the shades of the rainbow. He caught an orange updraft and climbed higher, then spiraled halfway down the mountain on a river of indigo. By the time he was finished playing, Kian had reached the castle and was circling the north tower, apparently in no hurry.
Not wanting to keep him waiting, Tristin shot the rest of the way down the mountain. A dark-haired figure tall enough that it could only be Garrik, awaited them on top of the tower. Tristin landed gracefully beside Kian, who shifted immediately and grinned at the waiting Wytch King. Kian quickly went to a small chest near the wall and extracted two cloaks. He swept one over his own broad shoulders, brought the other to Tristin, then tactfully positioned himself between Tristin and Garrik.
Tristin shifted and quickly covered himself. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“Are you all right?” Kian asked in a voice low enough that only Tristin could hear. “Is your shielding holding up?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Only… it’s a bit intimidating, being surrounded by all these terribly fit men, and here’s me, looking like an underfed chicken.”
“You’re looking much healthier than when you first came here,” Kian told him gently. “And you are still recovering. I expect you’ll put on weight right quick if you’re eating at Garrik’s table. Melli is a wonderful cook. She’s the one who taught Alys, you know.”
“I shall look forward to my next meal, then.”
“Good morning, Tristin,” Garrik said, striding toward them. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
Kian stepped aside. “No, I was just giving Tristin some final instructions from his healers. He’s to eat well and put some more weight on.”
“I’ll be sure to let Melli know,” Garrik said, eyes twinkling. “She’ll enjoy fattening you up, Cousin, and will consider it a personal challenge. You’re in for a treat.”
“S-so I’ve heard, Your — I mean, G-Garrik.” Tristin flushed, feeling at a distinct disadvantage standing before his very important cousin wearing only a cloak.
“If that’s all, Your Majesty, I’ll be heading back up to Dragonwatch,” Kian said. “Ilya’s said he’ll be taking charge of Tristin’s recovery while he’s here, but tell him to send for me if he needs me. You’ve enough shifters at the castle now that you ought to be able to spare someone for the few minutes it takes to get up the mountain and back.”
“Ai, our dragon army is slowly growing, though I fear between the transformations and the preparations for the betrothal, we’re running poor Vayne quite ragged.”
“I suspect he’s enjoying himself immensely,” Kian said. “It must be a nice change to be busy after sitting idle for over two centuries.” He shuddered as he removed his cloak and handed it to Garrik. “I can’t even imagine it.” Kian strode to the center of the tower, shifted, and was airborne within seconds.
Tristin watched Kian wing his way up the mountain before turning to his cousin. “Dragon army?”
“Indeed.” Garrik’s smile was grim. “I’m in the process of uniting the northern kingdoms. We plan to challenge the Wytch Council and put an end to the sorts of practices that saw my family torn apart, you locked up in Shadowspire, and poor Ambris tortured at Blackfrost.”
Tristin swallowed, stunned both at the enormity of such a task and at the lack of concern with which his cousin spoke of defying the Council. “Do you… do you really think you can win a war against the Council?”
“Not a protracted struggle, we can’t. Not unless we can bring some of the kingdoms of the south around to our way of thinking, which is doubtful. But I believe if we do enough damage in a short enough period of time, the Council could be persuaded to see the wisdom of allowing the kingdoms of the north to break with the rest of Skanda.”
“I would join in the fight,” Tristin said softly. “Let me swear fealty to you.”
Garrik’s dark eyes met his, and the king searched his face for a good, long time before nodding once. “You may do so at the betrothal ceremony, when I announce the formation of the Northern Alliance. It will give me a chance to introduce you to the nobility and to our allies. Although” —the smile he gave Tristin turned wicked— “you seem to be on quite good terms with Rhiva already. Or at least, with its prince.”
Tristin flushed and bent to pick up his pack, mind flailing for a suitable response. Before he could come up with anything, Garrik changed the subject. “Would you be more comfortable changing here? I can wait for you just inside the door, if you’d rather not go parading through the castle in nothing but a cloak.”
“Ah… yes, that’s very kind, thank you,” Tristin said, blushing even more furiously. “I think I would be more… comfortable.”
Garrik dropped Kian’s cloak into the chest and slipped inside without another word, leaving Tristin to pull on the breeches, shirt, and boots he’d packed for himself. When he was dressed, he went through the door. Garrik stood on the landing just inside, waiting to lead him down the tower stairs.
In spite of feeling nothing from the tower, Tristin was braced for an onslaught of emotional resonance. To his surprise, nothing penetrated the protective shield he’d woven around his mind. He was doing well indeed, given that the worn steps leading down from the top of the tower had to be significantly older than those of Dragonwatch.
As they descended, Garrik explained that the north tower was located near the royal apartments, and let out into the private family wing of the castle.
“Let me show you to your suite first,” Garrik said as he led Tristin down the hall. “And then I’ll be putting you to work.”
“Work?” Tristin echoed, a little uneasily.
“Don’t look so frightened. I’ve already discussed it with your healers. I won’t be making you do anything too strenuous.”
“Oh… um. That’s… well.” Tristin wasn’t sure what to say to that. He only hoped Garrik didn’t intend for him to be put on display for the entire Court.
His fears were forgotten the moment Garrik opened the door to the suite he’d had prepared. “Here you are, Cousin. Your home for as long as you’d like to stay here with us. And whenever you wish to visit, should you eventually choose to make your home elsewhere.”
Tristin walked in and stopped dead, eyes wide as he took in the sumptuous surroundings. Everything looked new, from the polished wooden floor to the blue velvet curtains to the furniture. Tristin had never had such luxury before — he’d never been able to bear the touch of anything that might have been owned by someone else.
“It’s all been newly done, just for you,” Garrik said. “When Ilya told me how much trouble you’ve had with emotional resonances and such, I had the suite gutted. The floors are several inches thick, made of new wood. Same with the wall panels. And the furniture is all new as well, as are the linens and curtains. I wasn’t sure what you’d want for decorations, but if you think of anything you’d like, there are plenty of craftsmen down in the town who would be very happy to make whatever you desire, on my order.”
“Garrik, this is…” Tristin took a few tentative steps in and turned around slowly, admiring the view of the mountains — he could see the watchtower perched high above them from here — and the heavy draperies hanging at the windows. Everything looked fresh and clean. “You did all this… for me?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“I wanted you to have somewhere comfortable to stay,” Garrik said earnestly. “I hoped it might encourage you to make your home with us. Jaire and I have so little family. Of course it’s up to you. No one will ever force you to stay where you don’t want, not ever again. I just thought, perhaps…”
“Thank you,” Tristin breathed. “I… no one’s ever done anything like this for me before. I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say you’ll stay. At least until you decide what you want to do. I’d like a chance to get to know you. And I know Jaire would be happy to spend more time with you. He truly enjoys your company, and there aren’t many people I can say that about.”
“I… I’m honestly not sure where else I’d go. Thank you, Cousin. So very much.”
Tristin spent the next half hour or so exploring his rooms. Garrik followed along, pointing things out and explaining how things worked in the castle.
When the clock struck nine, Garrik said, “I’ve a meeting in half an hour. Let me give you a quick tour of the castle, so you know how to find the dining room and the library, and then I’ll take you to see Master Ludin.”
“Oh, yes!” Tristin exclaimed. “I’ve been hoping to talk to him.”
“Ambris mentioned how much you enjoyed working in the garden at Dragonwatch. I think you and Master Ludin will get along very well, indeed. I’ve told him about you, and he said if you’re interested, he’d be glad of your help redesigning some of the gardens here at the castle.”
Tristin smiled happily as he used the key to lock the door of his very own suite. A home of his own, a family that wanted him, and a chance to work in the royal gardens… he could only think of one thing that would make things better: a dance with Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva.
* * *
“That’s the last of it, then,” Garrik said, leaning back and meeting the eyes of each man around the table in turn. “Gentlemen, I think we have an agreement we can all live with.”
The Wytch Kings of the north all looked very pleased with themselves as they got to their feet for a round of congratulatory forearm clasps.
Dirit, curled up on the table next to Mikhyal’s elbow, raised his head and blinked blearily. “Did I miss something?” He peered about, whiskers drooping at the sight of the jovial group. “Oh… they’ve managed to come to a peaceful agreement, have they? How disappointing. I was hoping for a bit of bloodshed over the bargaining table. Your descendants would surely appreciate the extra effort; makes for much more interesting history lessons.”
“Bloodshed will come soon enough, I fear,” Mikhyal murmured, getting to his feet as Wytch King Edrun of Miraen turned to clasp his arm and clap him on the back. Dirit ran up his other arm and perched upon his shoulder.
While Dirit might be surprised at the efficiency and civility of the negotiations, Mikhyal was not. The Wytch Kings of the north had long chafed under the dictates of the Wytch Council. The main objection to uniting and declaring their independence had always been that the south had far more military power than the north could ever hope to muster. Until now, any rebellion they might contemplate would eventually be crushed by the sheer numbers against them, and would ultimately only hurt the very people it sought to protect.
With Vayne’s ability to confer the gift of the Dragon Mother upon anyone who could touch the mythe, the balance of power had shifted enough that the kings of the north were, if not eager for war, at least willing to entertain the notion. Indeed, Prince Bradin of Miraen had already announced his intention to undergo the transformation.
At the far end of the table, Master Ristan, who served as Altan’s historian, scribe, and librarian, gathered up his notes and said to Garrik, “I shall have the documents ready for signing by midday tomorrow, Your Majesty.”
“Very good, Master Ristan,” Garrik said. “Thank you.”
Master Ristan executed a precise formal bow and left the library.
When he was gone, Garrik addressed the group. “It is late, and I have kept you all from your beds for long enough. I appreciate your willingness to work around the preparations for the betrothal celebrations, and I am most pleased that we’ve managed to come to an agreement that suits us all.”
As the group drifted apart, Mikhyal said to Drannik, “You see, Father? Prince Bradin has already volunteered.”
“Prince Bradin is not Edrun’s heir,” Drannik responded.
“Technically, I’m not yours, yet,” Mikhyal countered.
“Ai, but you will be, and I’ll not have you risking yourself on an unproven procedure that could well kill you. Just because nothing has gone wrong yet doesn’t mean nothing can.”
Across the library, Mikhyal caught Vayne’s eye and waved him over. “Perhaps a few words with Prince Vayne will set your mind at ease,” he said, smiling broadly at Vayne as he approached. “Vayne, I am most interested in hearing more about this transformation procedure you’ve developed, but I fear my father might take some convincing.”
Vayne turned to Drannik. “What is it about the transformation that concerns you, Your Majesty?”
Drannik shot a withering glare at Mikhyal before answering. “The risk, mainly. I have no other heir. None I’m willing to see on the throne after me, anyway.”
“I understand your concern,” Vayne said smoothly. “I can assure you that working closely with a healer eliminates the risk of mythe-shock. Perhaps a word with Ambris, the healer I’ve been working with, would set your mind at ease?”
“Perhaps,” Drannik said gruffly, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“I’ll make arrangements for you to meet with him before the ceremony,” Vayne said.
“Thank you, Vayne.” Drannik nodded politely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a word with Ord.”
When he’d gone, Mikhyal said, “I apologize for that. It seems if I wish to take advantage of what you offer, I must either fight him or defy him.”
“Perhaps once Prince Bradin has undergone the transformation, your father will be more open to the idea,” Vayne suggested.
“Ai, perhaps. I dared not say so to him, but I must admit to no small amount of trepidation regarding the procedure.”
“If it would help to ease your mind, I am certain Jaire would be happy to tell you all about it — in great detail. Of course, he will also tell you all about the thrill of flying, which he still finds enthralling.”
Mikhyal smiled at that. He could just imagine Prince Jaire waxing poetic about the joy of flight.
“Or you might speak to Tristin about it,” Vayne continued. “Or Wyndra, Altan’s assistant weapons master, who was one of my first volunteers. I’d suggest Kian, but his transformation did not go smoothly. I was… still learning at that point.”
“Tristin?” Mikhyal frowned. “Tristin is a dragon shifter?”
“Ai,” Vayne said with a nod. “I transformed him at the same time I worked on Jaire and Kian. I had to, or he could never have escaped Shadowspire.”
“Of course.” Mikhyal had heard some of the tale, though he hadn’t realized Tristin, too, was a dragon shifter. Tristin had spoken only a little of his years-long ordeal at Shadowspire, and Garrik had been rather vague about the details of both his confinement and his escape.
“I shall say no more about it, for it is Tristin’s tale to tell,” Vayne said quietly. “If you cannot learn what you wish from Tristin or Jaire, let me know, and I’ll arrange for you to talk with one of the others.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Mikhyal said. “I shall consider it.”
“And I’ll make sure Edrun and Ord drop some words of encouragement in your father’s ear, too, shall I?”
Mikhyal smiled. “Ai, I think their support might prove more helpful than any argument I can muster.”
He was making his way across the Grand Hall toward the guest wing when Dirit sat up straight on his shoulder and chirped, “Well, well, what have we here? It looks like a rather excited Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed.”
“Mikhyal!”
Mikhyal looked up to see Tristin coming across the hall. The man’s face was alight with excitement, and Mikhyal’s heart stuttered at the sight of him.
“Look at me! I’m walking! On the floor! In the castle! Look at me, Dirit! I’ve been all over the place, exploring, and now that Garrik’s secret alliance meeting is over for the day, I’m off to the library to see if I can manage to touch a book without going into fits. Imagine, being able to choose any book I like, and read it without having to feel whatever horrible things the previous owner felt.”
Mikhyal couldn’t help smiling. “You’ve learned the shielding patterns?”
“I have. Ilya was most pleased with my progress. Well. It helped tremendously to have something to look forward to. Something I could think of as a reward. You… you would still like a dance, wouldn’t you? I shall be able to attend the betrothal ceremony.”
He looked so hopeful and so happy that Mikhyal reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I’ve been looking forward to it ever since we spoke of it.”
Tristin’s answering smile brought even more light to his face, if that was possible.
“How long have you been here at the castle?” Mikhyal asked. “Are you returning to Dragonwatch tonight?”
“I arrived this morning, and I’m here to stay. Garrik’s had the most lovely suite prepared for me. I’m a bit overwhelmed at all he’s done, to be honest. But you must come and see!”
“Yes, please, do,” Dirit said with a pained little sniff. “Let us take this most touching reunion to a more private venue. All these public displays are most unsettling.”
Tristin glanced about, clearly afraid he’d offended someone, but Mikhyal said, “Enough, Dirit. I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to… to go for a walk, or something?”
“A walk?” The little dragon’s ears flattened. “You don’t have to be so polite, you know. I’m not stupid and boorish, not like some people. I do know when I’m not wanted.” And with that, Dirit vanished from his perch.
“Oh, dear,” Tristin said. “I think you might have hurt his feelings.”
“Never mind,” Mikhyal said. “The properly contrite apology I shall be expected to deliver will be worth it if I can have a few hours free of his most charming commentary. He’s probably gone off to bother Prince Jaire, who doesn’t seem to find him at all annoying.”
Tristin led Mikhyal to his suite and opened the door with a flourish.
Mikhyal stepped inside, turning around slowly as he took in the polished floor, the crisp curtains, and the paneled walls. “Is this all new?”
“It is. Cousin Garrik had it done specially for me, so I’d have a place where I’d be comfortable. Every surface I might touch is new. He even had the floors torn up and replaced so I could walk on them without fear. I can hardly believe he would go to such trouble for me. I mean… he hardly knows me, and… after all the horrible things my father did, I thought… but Garrik said those things were nothing to do with me.”
Those wide, dark eyes, filled with such uncertainty, tugged at Mikhyal’s heart. “Your cousin is very kind.”
“He is. He’s not at all what I expected.”
“Neither are you,” Mikhyal said. “What I expected, I mean. Vayne said… well, he offered to transform me. Into a dragon shifter. He said I should talk to you to find out what it’s like. I had no idea. I knew he’d transformed Jaire and Kian, but no one said a word about you.”
Tristin flushed. “Garrik’s been keeping my presence here quiet, and I-I didn’t say anything at first because… because well, to be honest, I’m… a bit ashamed of allowing them to use me the way they did. I should have realized, but… but I didn’t. Ilya says I mustn’t think that way, that I was only a child, but… but I can’t help think none of it would have happened if I’d only been a bit cleverer… or perhaps a bit stronger.” Tristin wrung his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, by omission or otherwise. It was just… you’re one of the first people I’ve met who didn’t know anything about me from before. And… and I rather liked it like that, being able to make a fresh start without rumors and pretense.”
“It’s all right, Tristin,” Mikhyal hastened to reassure him the moment he paused for breath. “Really. Whatever happened in your past, it’s your business. You’ll tell me when you’re ready, or you won’t. It’s not up to me to decide that.”
“Oh… oh, th-thank you, Your Highness.” Tristin gave him a shy, hesitant smile. “I… I can tell you about being dragon, though. If you’d like.”
“I would,” Mikhyal said. “Very much. But only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
Tristin’s eyes took on a distant look, and his smile grew soft and dreamy. “You cannot imagine how glorious it is! All the world spread out below you… all the sky, your playground… I flew down the mountain this morning, and it was so beautiful.” The happiness of that memory completely transformed Tristin’s face. “Well… you probably can. Imagine it, I mean. You rode up to Dragonwatch on Garrik’s back. But… to be the one in control, to feel the wind beneath your wings and see the colors of the air currents, and know instinctively which way they will take you…” He focused on Mikhyal again. “It is truly wondrous.”
Mikhyal’s breath caught in his throat at the joy in his voice and the brilliance of his smile. “Show me?” he whispered.
“Show… show you?”
“Shift for me? If you would. I’d like to see you in all your dragon glory.”
Tristin flushed again and lowered his eyes. “Ah. Well… I… I suppose there’s no reason why not. We could… we could go to the north tower. No one’s likely to happen by up there.”
Tristin led the way, alternately hurrying and dragging his feet. The top of the tower was bathed in moonlight, and Tristin seemed reluctant to leave the shadows near the door.
“Are you sure this is all right?” Mikhyal asked.
“It’s… I can do this.” It sounded almost as if he was trying to convince himself. Before Mikhyal could tell him it really wasn’t necessary that he shift, Tristin swallowed, then took a deep breath and moved to the center of the space. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to, um, turn your back?”
The sweet, shy request made a fierce protectiveness swell in Mikhyal’s chest. “Of course I wouldn’t mind,” he said quickly, and turned to face the closed door they’d just come through. He froze for a few moments, listening for any sound, but all he heard was the soft rustle of cloth as Tristin removed his garments. Much as he would have liked to catch a glimpse of Tristin unclothed, he remained facing the door until a low rumble followed by a snort had him turning slowly around.
In the spot where Tristin had stood was a dragon. It wasn’t nearly as large as Kian’s dragon form, certainly not large enough to carry a man Mikhyal’s size. Where Kian and Garrik were big and bulky, this dragon was sleek and slender, like Ilya and Jaire, built for speed and grace rather than raw power. Dark scales glinted in the silver-violet moonlight. Mikhyal couldn’t tell what color they might be in daylight, but they looked much darker than Ilya’s pale silver-blue, or Jaire’s opalescent white.
“You’re magnificent!” Mikhyal said, completely taken with the creature’s beauty. He edged closer and reached out a hand, then froze and asked, “Might I… may I touch you?”
Tristin dipped his head, and Mikhyal drew closer and lay his hand on the dragon’s neck. The scales were smooth, like a snake’s, but warm to the touch, despite the coolness of the night air. He slid his hand down Tristin’s neck in a long stroke, and then moved it to his head.
“Do you like to be scratched?” Mikhyal rubbed the delicate scales around the dragon’s snout and eyes, and Tristin’s eyes slid shut as he leaned in. A low rumble came from his throat, and Mikhyal laughed. “Are you purring?”
Tristin’s eyes opened and fixed on him. He bobbed his head up and down and leaned in closer, nudging Mikhyal’s hand with his head, clearly wanting more.
Laughing, Mikhyal indulged him, paying close attention to which strokes and scratches seemed to elicit the most favorable response.
It wasn’t long before Tristin indulged in a great yawn, showing long, sharp teeth. Mikhyal waited until he’d finished to pat his head and give his eye ridges a final rub. “You’re tired,” Mikhyal said. “It sounds as if you’ve had a busy day, and you are still recovering. Perhaps it’s time for me to see you off to bed, hmm?”
With a sleepy nod, Tristin shifted back, then squawked in surprise as he stared down at himself. He gave Mikhyal a brief, wide-eyed look of horror, gathered his clothing, and fled. The tower door slammed shut behind him, and Mikhyal stared after him, wondering what he’d said.
“Well,” Dirit said, appearing on Mikhyal’s shoulder, “that didn’t go very well, did it?”