Mikhyal’s first instinct had been to run after Tristin and blurt out an apology for whatever gross insult had sent the poor man fleeing from the top of the tower. The only thing that stopped him was the look of abject despair in Tristin’s eyes. This was more than simple embarrassment, and the last thing Mikhyal wanted was to make things worse.
Back in the guest suite, he found himself alone. Drannik was either visiting one of the other Wytch Kings or had already gone off to bed. Mikhyal retired to his own room and undressed for bed, but found himself unable to settle.
“What are you doing?”
Mikhyal spun around to see Dirit balanced precariously atop the oil lamp on the dressing table. The little dragon’s tail lashed back and forth as he peered at Mikhyal. “Getting ready for bed. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Pacing about in indecision,” Dirit said bluntly. “How disappointing. Weren’t you raised to be decisive and diplomatic? Go and talk to him.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Mikhyal said.
Dirit wrinkled his snout in apparent disgust. “If you can’t even manage to communicate with a man you’d like to bed, how do you expect to deal with the southern kingdoms and the Wytch Council?”
“It’s not the same thing at all,” Mikhyal protested.
One eyebrow tuft twitched, and Dirit hopped down from the lamp and settled himself on the dressing table. “Oh, do explain, Your Royal Obtuseness. I’m eager to hear how it’s different.” The little dragon’s eyes fixed expectantly on Mikhyal.
Mikhyal glared at him. “If you want to be helpful, go and check on Tristin for me. Otherwise, go and bother someone else.”
“Oh, very nice. I do my best to assist you and it’s, go away, Dirit, go and find something useful to do.” Dirit let out an offended sniff. “We shall see how useful I can be, indeed, we shall. I’ll give your regards to Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed, shall I? Along with a very personal message…” And with that, the little dragon flounced off, disappearing into the mirror.
“Oh for…” Mikhyal muttered several curses under his breath before extinguishing the lamp and throwing himself down on his bed. He closed his eyes, but sleep refused to come. In the darkness, all he could see was the look on Tristin’s face before he’d fled.
* * *
Tristin hadn’t even paused to dress before fleeing down the tower stairs with his clothing clutched against his middle. Fortunately, it was late enough that no one was about in the hall leading to the royal apartments, and Tristin reached his suite without frightening the servants or causing any unfortunate incidents. He closed the door firmly behind him and let his clothing fall to the floor.
What had he been thinking?
Well, he hadn’t been thinking, had he? He’d been half asleep, enjoying the feel of Mikhyal’s hand rubbing his head and neck. It had felt so nice to be touched, even in dragon form, that he’d let himself forget everything else.
Mikhyal must have been absolutely horrified when he’d shifted back. Tristin knew very well he was no prize. He’d avoided mirrors for the most part, but he’d caught enough glimpses to know that his body was still gaunt and wasted, and the scars…
In the brilliant wash of moonlight, his scars would have been so painfully visible that Mikhyal couldn’t possibly have missed them. The prince wouldn’t even want to dance with him now, and he’d been so looking forward to that.
Maybe he should have stayed at Dragonwatch, after all.
Tristin trudged into his bed chamber where he curled up on the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. The things that had pleased him so much when he’d first stepped into the suite now seemed only that: things. They wouldn’t keep him company when he was lonely. Nor would they gently rub his head and neck, or tell him how beautiful he looked in the moonlight.
A hot tear trickled down his face.
“Oh, this is rich. Honestly, you two.”
Tristin started and sat up. Dirit was perched on the foot of the bed glaring at him. The little dragon was bathed in silvery moonlight, making him look like some sort of glowing spirit.
“W-what… what d-do you w-want?” Tristin stammered.
Dirit tapped a long claw on the bedpost, and a glowing ball of yellow light appeared over his head, illuminating the room. “I want you to go and speak to His Royal Restlessness. He’s been in a dreadful state ever since he returned from the tower, pacing and muttering, muttering and pacing.” When Tristin didn’t respond, the dragon added, “He is simply wallowing in misery. It’s most uncomfortable. I shall never be able to fall asleep.”
“Ah. Well. If he’s wallowing, I’m sure it’s because I disgust him.”
“Humans.” The dragon rolled his eyes and twitched his whiskers in apparent disgust. “So dramatic. You think you disgust him, and he’s certain he’s frightened you off. Matchmaking really isn’t part of my mandate, you know, but it appears that neither one of you is bright enough to realize that you’ve had a misunderstanding.”
Tristin stared at him, open-mouthed, as he tried to work out whom Dirit was insulting. Both of them, it sounded like.
The little dragon peered at him, eyebrow tufts drawing together in a frown. “You do know what a misunderstanding is, don’t you?”
“Of c-course I do. I’m j-just not sure what I can do about it.”
“You could start by putting some clothing on,” Dirit prodded.
Heat rushed to his face, and Tristin scrambled off of the bed and went to fetch his clothing from the main room of the suite.
“Not those.” Dirit materialized in front of him for just long enough to grab a mouthful of Tristin’s breeches and yank them from his hand. He spit them out on the floor as if they tasted bad, then wrinkled his snout. “They’re all rumpled and dusty. You simply cannot go courting in dirty things.”
“Who says I’m going—”
“Have you no sense of decorum?”
“Decorum isn’t exactly a priority when you’ve been locked in a tower for most of your life,” Tristin explained. He snatched the rumpled breeches from the floor and clutched them against himself in a vain attempt at preserving both modesty and dignity. “Anyway, I haven’t got anything else.”
Dirit swarmed across the floor and disappeared into the bed chamber, taking the ball of light with him and leaving Tristin in darkness. A moment later, the dragon — and the light — returned. “You’ve an entire dressing room full of clothing fit for a prince. Come along, we haven’t got all night. Honestly, do I have to do everything for you?”
With Dirit’s assistance, Tristin selected a pair of dark blue breeches and a grey linen shirt. When he was dressed, at Dirit’s suggestion, he brushed his hair and tied it back with a little strip of black leather.
“Yes…” Dirit circled him, hopping up on the furniture to observe him from all angles. “Of course, a proper bath would have been better, but if I’m to get any sleep at all, we simply haven’t time. I don’t expect you’ll progress to the point where that’s really necessary, not tonight. His Royal Virtuousness is far too much of a gentleman to be invading your dignity with his most impressive royal masculinity on the first encounter.”
“Invading my dignity?” Tristin sputtered. “With his—”
“You’ll do quite nicely. That really is a charming shade of pink. Lovely contrast with the shirt. Come along, then.”
Tristin could only stare at the dragon, speechless. It wasn’t until they’d crossed the Grand Hall and were entering the guest wing that he found his voice. “What if… what if he’s gone to sleep? It must be well after midnight by now.”
“A bit past two, actually,” Dirit informed him. “But he’s awake.”
“How do you know?”
Dirit’s ears flattened. “I can feel him. I’m attached to him, remember? Bonded. Cursed with constant awareness.”
Unable to think of anything else to do, Tristin followed the little dragon through the castle’s dimly lit hallways. The guardsmen posted at regular intervals said nothing, but Tristin hunched his shoulders, certain they were watching and judging. They probably thought he was off to some clandestine meeting of the most sordid kind, and he couldn’t help feeling conspicuous and rather overdressed. Face flaming, he trudged miserably down the hall after Dirit.
When they reached the door of the Rhiva party’s suite, Tristin stopped. “Surely the door will be locked,” he said in a low voice. “And I wouldn’t want to wake anyone. Perhaps it would be better to come back tomorrow.” He started to turn away, but Dirit took wing and flapped in his face.
“I will let you in. You have only to be patient for a moment and I shall unlock the door for you.” The dragon narrowed its gleaming black eyes. “If you run off, I shall make a terrible scene, and everyone will come running.”
“Y-you wouldn’t,” Tristin stammered, glancing up and down the hall to see if any of the guardsmen had noticed him talking to himself outside the door.
“Try and see,” Dirit invited.
“Oh, very well. But no good will come of it, I’m sure.”
Dirit disappeared through the door, and a moment later, it swung open. “You must come! We must get help!” The little dragon was twitching in agitation as he darted across the room to a dark shape on the floor.
Tristin’s heart stuttered as he stepped into the room and realized he was looking at a man. He lay face down on the floor, long black hair in disarray, the handle of a small throwing knife protruding from his back. “Mikhyal?” he whispered.
Tristin was in the room, kneeling at the man’s side before Dirit could say another word. He reached for the knife, intending to pull it free, but the moment his fingers closed on the handle, he was engulfed in a maelstrom of despair, hatred, and anger so hot and so strong it blotted out his awareness of everything else.
* * *
Dirit was right, damn him.
And if the little pest decided to stir things up, it was up to Mikhyal to make sure it didn’t cause some sort of diplomatic incident. Tristin might not call himself a prince, but it was quite clear that Wytch King Garrik thought highly of his cousin. Drannik wouldn’t thank him for upsetting his host or alienating his ally.
With a heavy sigh, Mikhyal rolled out of bed and hunted down his clothing. He’d just finished dressing when Dirit appeared, hovering in the air in front of him. “You must come! Your father! Tristin!”
“What? Where?”
Dirit flitted to the door. “Just outside your door! Did you not hear—”
Mikhyal grabbed the Wytch Sword and was out the door before Dirit could finish. The main room of the suite was only dimly lit, the lamps having been turned down low for the night. On the floor, Drannik lay face down, and next to him lay Tristin, a knife in his hand.
Both men lay very still.
Mikhyal checked his father first, while Dirit hopped up on Tristin’s chest. Drannik was unconscious, and from the tear in his clothing, the blade had penetrated a muscle high on his back. Mikhyal tore his father’s shirt open and examined the wound. It didn’t appear very deep, and there was very little blood. Such a wound wasn’t nearly enough to lay low a warrior as strong and fit as Wytch King Drannik.
Mikhyal couldn’t understand why his father wasn’t responding until he turned him over. Drannik’s face was pale, and his breathing far too shallow.
“Poison?” Mikhyal wondered, and turned his head to frown at Tristin and the knife lying next to his limp hand.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Dirit said quickly. “Tristin was coming to see you. I was accompanying him for moral support. When we arrived, the door was locked. I came in to open it and found your father lying here on the floor. Tristin rushed to his side and pulled the knife out before I could stop him, and… well… I suppose he fainted. He does seem to have a rather delicate constitution.”
“Go and fetch Master Ilya and Wytch King Garrik,” Mikhyal said. “Quickly!”
“What if someone’s lurking about waiting to catch you alone? What if—”
“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself,” Mikhyal said grimly.
“I’m sure that’s what your father thought, too,” Dirit pointed out.
Mikhyal shot him a scowl. “Go! And be quick about it!”
With a low hiss, Dirit winked out of sight.
By the time Wytch Master Ilya arrived, Mikhyal had turned up the lamps and covered both his father and Tristin with blankets from his own bed. He wasn’t sure if it would help or not, but Tristin, at least, was shivering as if he were freezing.
The knife lay on the table. A faint green residue going halfway up the blade had confirmed Mikhyal’s suspicions. Whoever had attacked Drannik hadn’t been concerned with striking a killing blow, for the knife had been poisoned.
Master Ilya arrived more quickly than Mikhyal expected. He knelt between Tristin and Drannik, examining each in turn with his healer’s sight. When he’d finished, his expression was grave. “Tristin can be put to bed. He is suffering from simple mythe-shock. Your father, however, has been poisoned. Is the weapon still here?”
“Ai, it’s on the table.” Mikhyal fetched it and handed it to the Wytch Master.
Ilya examined it, eyes going distant as he studied the blade. “Poison. I thought as much. A foul concoction that damages the mythe-shadow as well as the body. We can help him, but we must hurry. Ambris is particularly skilled at dealing with poisons and the healing of damage to the mythe-shadow.”
“What do you require, Ilya?” The Wytch King’s low growl came from the doorway, and Mikhyal turned to see Garrik stride in, a heavy black cloak draped over his nightshirt. He was followed by his guard captain, Jorin, who pushed past him, eyes scanning the room for danger.
Ilya got to his feet. “I need someone to fly up to Dragonwatch to fetch Ambris and Kian.”
“I shall go immediately,” Garrik said. “What of Tristin?”
“Jorin, I want guards on this suite, inside and out.” Ilya’s voice was cool and calm as he issued orders. “Send for someone to move Tristin back to his rooms. I’ll see to him while Ambris and Kian work on Drannik.”
Garrik and Jorin left, leaving Mikhyal alone with Ilya and the two stricken men. “Your Highness, have you any idea who might have done this?”
“Someone who doesn’t appreciate the idea of a Northern Alliance,” Mikhyal said grimly. “Tristin may be able to tell us more. According to Dirit, he is the one who pulled the blade from my father. Is it possible there was some sort of emotional resonance associated with the blade? Something strong enough to send Tristin into mythe-shock?”
Ilya glanced at Tristin. “I suspect so, Your Highness, since he shows no sign of having been poisoned. If that is the case, he may be able to help us identify the culprit.”
“We must make certain he is well protected, then. My father will be quite safe, with Altan’s guardsmen and several dragon shifters watching over him, and there is little enough I can do to aid in his healing. I will watch over Tristin, and Dirit can relay messages between us as necessary… assuming Dirit is in agreement?” He glanced at Dirit, who had draped himself over the chandelier, from which he had a clear view of the entire room.
“Most decidedly not.” The little dragon laid his ears back. “Dirit’s sacred duty is to protect Your Most Royal Foolhardiness. He is not a messenger bird, and he will not be leaving your side. Not for a moment. Messages, indeed.”
* * *
Tristin had never been so cold in his life, not even at Shadowspire. He curled on his side and pulled the blankets tighter about himself, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Was he ill? His head was pounding mercilessly, and he couldn’t quite recall whether or not he’d been feeling feverish when he’d gone to bed.
“Are you awake?” a male voice asked.
Mikhyal.
But how could that be?
Mikhyal had been lying on the floor with a knife in his back. Tristin had tried to pull it free, only to be engulfed by a hatred so deep and hot, he still felt the blazing echo of it throbbing through his veins.
His eyes flew open, and there was Mikhyal sitting beside him, looking quite uninjured.
“You are awake, then. Good. Master Ilya left some medicine for you to drink.”
“M-Mikhyal? But I thought… I found you on the floor… and the knife… how long…?”
“Only a few hours ago,” Mikhyal said, helping him sit up. “That was my father you found, though I can understand the confusion. We’re often mistaken for brothers, and in the dim light…” He trailed off and handed Tristin a cup. “It’s water, but Master Ilya’s put something in it. He said it would help with your headache, and he apologized for not being able to give you anzaria.”
Tristin shuddered at the thought. He accepted the cup and drank the contents down quickly. “Your father… is he… is he all right?”
“I’m not certain,” Mikhyal said softly. “The knife was poisoned. The healers are with him now. Master Ilya called Ambris and Kian down from Dragonwatch to see to him.”
Hot shards of panic lanced through Tristin’s belly. “You don’t think I—”
“No, of course not,” Mikhyal soothed. “Dirit was right there. He told me what happened.”
“Where is Dirit now?” Tristin asked, glancing about.
“I managed to convince him to keep watch over my father, though he wasn’t happy about it. He insists it’s his duty to guard the royal bloodline. I reminded him that if this alliance doesn’t get signed, it’s my brother, not me, who will rule after my father, and that we’d all be better off if Shaine’s rule was a long time coming.” He snapped his mouth shut then, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t, but quickly recovered and changed the subject. “So what happened last night? Did you see anything?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I was…” Tristin’s face heated, but he forced himself to continue. “I was coming to see you. To… to apologize for running off. I was… ashamed, I suppose. You’re so very strong and… and handsome, and I’m so scrawny and weak. And I was afraid you’d seen—” He gulped and glanced down at himself. He’d been dressed in a long-sleeved nightshirt. Barely aware that he was doing so, he tugged the sleeves down to make sure they covered his scars.
Had Mikhyal seen them anyway?
Someone had undressed him. Seen him in all his naked ugliness, including the sorry tale of desperation carved in his very flesh.
Tristin cringed and looked away.
A warm hand closed firmly around his own. “And then what?” Mikhyal asked gently.
He blinked, trying to think what Mikhyal was talking about. It took him a few moments to recall what he’d been saying. “I… and then Dirit came and told me you were upset. And… and said I should come and see you, that you were still awake. So I g-got dressed and… and when we got to your suite, he opened the door, and I f-found you… well, I mean, I thought it was you. I reached for the knife, but the moment I touched it…” He trailed off, sickened at the memory. “It was so very strong,” he whispered. “Strong enough that I felt it even through my shielding pattern. Fear. A desperate struggle to escape. And a deep anger, like fire in my veins, burning everything it touches. I couldn’t break free of it.”
“I don’t suppose you managed to get any sense of who the knife might belong to?” Mikhyal asked.
“Ah. No, though I can tell you it’s no one I’ve ever encountered before. And that whoever it is, they are full of fear and fury.”
There was a long silence before Mikhyal said, “Tristin, about last night—”
A quiet knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” Tristin called. Quickly, please…
The door opened and Ilya entered, followed by Garrik and Jaire. “Excellent,” Ilya said. “I guessed you’d be awake by now.”
“I’ve given him his medicine, Master Ilya,” Mikhyal said, holding out the empty cup.
Ilya’s smile was tired. “We shall make a healer of you yet, Your Highness.”
“Is there any word on my father?” Mikhyal asked, and now Tristin noticed the dark circles under Mikhyal’s eyes. Had he slept? Had any of them?
“He will recover,” Ilya said. “Ambris and Kian are still with him. I have come to relieve you so can go to him. If you’d like to go back to the suite and wait, you can speak with Ambris as soon as he’s finished.”
Mikhyal turned to Tristin. “Would you mind terribly, Tristin? I know you’ve only just woken up, but…”
“He’s your father. Of course I don’t mind. Go on.” Tristin practically sagged with relief when Mikhyal, with only a single, doubtful look, allowed himself to be cajoled into going to see his father.
When the prince had gone, Ilya took the seat Mikhyal had vacated and studied Tristin with that vague, unfocused look that meant he was using his healer’s sight.
“You look much better than you did last night,” Ilya said. “Whatever resonances you picked up from that knife were strong enough to throw you into mythe-shock.”
“Are you certain he didn’t pick up any of the poison from the blade?” Garrik asked, his voice a low rumble.
“I am. Tristin is suffering from simple mythe-shock. There is nothing to indicate even the briefest contact with the poison.”
“You… h-have you c-come to question me?” Tristin stammered, nervous despite Mikhyal’s reassurances. “About… about the attack on Mikhyal’s father?”
“Of course not,” Jaire said. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“Dirit was quite insistent about that,” Garrik said. “When I returned with Kian and Ambris, he took physical form, introduced himself to me, and then proceeded to assure me you were not involved in the attack. Not that I thought for a moment that you were. You do seem to have made quite an impression on him, Cousin.”
“Anyway, if you had done it, I’d know,” Jaire said. “I’m very good at telling when someone’s lying.”
“And,” Ilya added, arching one thin, coppery eyebrow, “if barely touching the knife was enough to throw you into mythe-shock, I doubt you could have held onto it long enough to do any damage to anyone, let alone a man as fit as Drannik. No, I believe the knife was thrown from the shadows by someone who hoped to prevent the king from signing the treaty.”
A chill crept up Tristin’s spine. Was Mikhyal in danger, too?
Jaire took a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and came to his side to drape it over his shoulders. “We only came because we wanted to make certain you were all right, and to reassure you,” he explained. “I know how your mind works — it’s a bit like mine, always going to the worst possible case.”
“Thank you,” Tristin murmured, nearly overcome at the idea that his cousins had given even a moment’s thought to his comfort. “Both of you. Have… have you any idea who might have done it?”
“None at the moment,” Garrick said, “but we have already begun an investigation.”
“And now that you’ve satisfied yourselves that your cousin is resting comfortably,” Ilya said sternly, “you can leave him in peace.”
“Yes, Master Ilya.” Jaire nodded to Tristin and followed his brother out the door.
When they were alone, Ilya said, “Now then, Tristin, tell me how you came to be in the suite in the first place, and what you sensed when you touched the knife. Anything you can remember could be helpful.”
Tristin took a deep breath and began the sorry tale.
When he’d finally finished, Ilya said only, “And you have no idea who you were sensing?”
“Mikhyal asked me the same thing,” Tristin said slowly. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Ilya. I’ve been… experimenting since you taught me the shielding patterns, and one thing I’ve noticed is that the strongest empathic resonances absorbed by objects aren’t necessarily the most recent. If the knife is very old, and hadn’t been in the attacker’s possession for very long, the things I sensed might not have anything to do with the last person to touch it. I might only be sensing the person who owned it the longest, or perhaps the strongest personality to own it.”
“I see.” Ilya looked thoughtful. “So your Wytch power will not be as helpful in identifying the attacker as I’d hoped.”
“I… I don’t think so, no.”
“Well, if nothing else, this incident has shown me that while the shielding patterns you’re using are sufficient for most things you’ll encounter, you’re sensitive enough that you clearly need something stronger. When you’re feeling better, I shall endeavor to teach you a much more complex shielding pattern. It will block out everything, but you will be able to adjust it, so that if you should choose to sense the empathic resonances in an object, you can let them in slowly, a bit at a time, before they overwhelm you.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right, Ilya.” Tristin tried to sound enthusiastic, but the thought of more lessons did not excite him. “I suppose it’s best if I don’t have to worry about the possibility of collapsing just from touching something that’s absorbed a particularly strong impression.”
* * *
When Mikhyal returned to the suite, Kian was slumped in an armchair, half asleep, but Ambris was nowhere to be seen. Mikhyal tried to be quiet, but Kian stirred the moment he eased the door shut, blinking at him with bloodshot eyes.
“Good morning, Your Highness.” Kian started to get up, but Mikhyal waved him back down.
“Don’t stand on ceremony, Kian. I’m sorry to have woken you. I suppose it’s too early to see my father?”
“Ambris is just hunting down any last remnants of the poison staining your father’s mythe-shadow.” Kian yawned and stretched. “I expect he’ll be finished soon. I don’t suppose you could stay for a bit? I need to talk to Mistress Polina about preparing some medicine for your father, but I’m loathe to leave Ambris alone. He’s at the end of his strength, and he might well fall on his nose the moment he’s finished.”
“Of course I’ll stay. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him until you get back. Is there anything I ought to do for him?”
“Just make sure he waits for me before he tries to stagger back to our suite,” Kian replied, getting slowly to his feet. “I’ll try to be back before he’s finished.” He nodded good morning to the guardsmen stationed just inside the door as he left.
Mikhyal settled himself in one of the armchairs to wait. There was no sound from his father’s room, and he could only hope that might be a good sign.
Not long after Kian left, a knock sounded on the door of the suite. Mikhyal went to open it and was surprised to find Wytch King Edrun and Prince Bradin standing out in the hall. They didn’t look nearly as alike as Mikhyal and Drannik did; while Edrun had the black hair and eyes so common to the royal bloodlines, Prince Bradin was a blue-eyed blond.
“Good morning, Mikhyal,” Edrun said gravely. “We heard what happened. Frightful business, truly frightful. How fares your father? And is there anything we can do?”
“One of the healers is still with him at the moment,” Mikhyal said, “though I believe we should have word soon. Won’t you come in? I’d be glad of the company. I can ring for breakfast, if you’ve not yet eaten.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” Edrun said. He and Bradin settled themselves in the sitting room while Mikhyal pulled on the red cord by the door.
A servant was there before Mikhyal had a chance to sit down. Mikhyal asked for breakfast to be brought for himself and his guests, and once the servant had gone, took a seat opposite the Wytch King of Miraen.
“Has the culprit been caught?” Bradin asked.
“Alas, no.” Mikhyal didn’t elaborate; Tristin wouldn’t want the attention, he was certain.
“Do you think the intent was to actually kill your father, or only frighten him?” Edrun asked.
“The blade was poisoned,” Mikhyal said, “so I imagine whoever was behind it intended to prevent him from signing the treaty.”
Edrun and Bradin exchanged a nervous look.
“Have you any idea who could have done it?” Bradin asked.
Mikhyal shrugged. “I suppose anyone who is sympathetic to the Wytch Council’s goals could be suspect. If our own Wytch Master Anxin has somehow learned of what we do here, he could very well be responsible, though I’ve yet to see any evidence to suggest that.”
“Ai, Miraen’s Wytch Master Rotham would not be beyond suspicion, either,” Edrun said. “He was hand-picked by my sister, Taretha, as her replacement when she became Council Speaker. Now that Cenyth leads the Council, how soon do you suppose she will replace Altan’s Master Ilya and Irilan’s Master Ythlin?”
“Garrik says he’s been told to expect the announcement this fall, when the Wytch Kings are called to Askarra for the Fall Council,” Mikhyal said with a thin smile. “Imagine their dismay when the northern kingdoms decline the invitation and announce their independence.”
“There will be war,” Edrun said. “The Council will not let the kingdoms of the north go free without a fight.”
“No, it will not. Access to the mines alone is—” Mikhyal stopped at the sound of the door to his father’s bed chamber opening. He turned in time to see Ambris slip out and close it quietly behind him.
“Prince Mikhyal, I’m glad you’re here,” Ambris said. “Your father is responding well to—” He stopped dead, all color draining from his face, golden eyes going wide as they fixed on Edrun.
“Ambris?” Edrun slowly rose.
Bradin stood and reached out to steady his father, who swayed on his feet. “Is it truly you, Ambris?” Bradin didn’t look at all sure.
Mikhyal frowned. Ambris was that Ambris? He’d thought the young prince of Miraen had died tragically a few years ago, and so, apparently, did Ambris’s family. He glanced toward the guardsmen, but they wore the same blank expressions Rhiva’s King’s Guard did when they guarded the family closely. Taking in everything, but sworn never to breathe a word of what they saw and heard.
Ambris swallowed, eyes darting from Edrun to Bradin and back.
“They… they told me you were dead.” Edrun took a step forward. “Blackfrost burned…”
“It did,” Ambris murmured, pressing himself against the door. “I burned it.” Mikhyal couldn’t tell if he was using the door for support or trying to merge with it. A bit of both, if the stricken expression on his face was anything to go by.
“But… but… why did no one tell me?”
“Because I asked them not to.” Ambris’s voice was barely a whisper.
“But…” Edrun brought a shaking hand to his brow and sank down slowly in his chair.
Still on his feet, Bradin demanded, “Why would you do that? Father was beside himself with grief!”
“Beside himself?” Ambris recovered enough to give his brother an incredulous look. “Really? When he couldn’t even be bothered to answer my letters?”
“What letters?” Edrun whispered, dark eyes shimmering in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
“The letters I gave Taretha to carry back to you every time she came to give me lessons. The letters in which I begged you to come and see me so I could tell you how sorry I was about… about Mama. The letters in which I begged for some sign that you might one day find it in your heart to forgive me. But there was nothing. Never a word from you.”
Edrun shook his head. “Ambris… I never received any letters. I asked Taretha to let me come and see you. She told me… she said the mere mention of me visiting sent you into fits. She told us your guilt had driven you mad.”
Ambris closed his eyes, swaying against the door. Mikhyal rose and went to him, putting an arm around him. The healer was trembling. How much of it was shock, and how much exhaustion from the complex healing he’d just performed?
“What do you want to do?” Mikhyal said in a voice pitched for Ambris’s ears alone. “I can ask them to leave, or I can ask one of the guardsmen to escort you to your own suite, but either way, I think you had better sit down before you fall down.”
“I… yes. I had better sit.” Ambris clung to Mikhyal’s arm, leaning heavily against him.
Edrun shot a worried look at Mikhyal. “Is he all right?”
Mikhyal bit back a sharp retort, and said only, “He’s been with my father all night, and I gather it was a rather difficult healing. He’s exhausted himself, and seeing you has clearly been a shock.” He helped Ambris into an armchair. When he started to pull away, Ambris held his arm even more tightly, so Mikhyal remained, standing by the healer’s side.
Tears slipped down Ambris’s face. “She lied to us both.”
“I don’t understand,” Edrun said. “She was teaching you. What could she possibly have to gain by keeping us apart?”
“My power,” Ambris said, a bitter edge to his voice. “She stole my power under the guise of teaching me. She had her guard captain beat me until I was injured enough to force the shift. Then she would hold me there in agony, half-shifted and unhealed, so she could siphon off the power I should have used to finish the shift. She told you I was incapable of learning, but truly, the only thing stopping me was her wish to use me as a power source. Master Ilya taught me in a single afternoon the patterns she withheld from me for five long years. Five years, Father. And I’d be there still, if it wasn’t for Kian.”
A choking sound escaped from the Wytch King’s throat, and a moment later, Edrun was on his feet. Bradin offered his arm, but Edrun pushed it away. “Ambris, I had no idea.” Edrun closed the gap between them and dropped to his knees in front of his son. “If I’d known… I never would have… I’m so sorry.” The king’s voice broke on the words.
Ambris stared at his father, disbelief written all over his delicate features. “I thought… I thought you hated me. The fire… Mama… my fault.”
“Not your fault,” Edrun whispered. “It was an accident. A terrible, horrible accident. I never blamed you, Ambris. But in my grief, I never made that clear to you.” He lifted his eyes to meet his son’s. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Ambris’s shoulders shook. He let out a broken sob before sliding out of the chair to join his father on the floor. Edrun wrapped his arms around his son, and Ambris melted into his father’s embrace, his arms creeping around the Wytch King and holding on tightly.
A gasp came from the door, and Mikhyal looked up to see Kian standing there, staring at the two of them, dark eyes wide and scared. Ambris and Edrun broke apart, and Kian took a few hesitant steps forward, stopping as Edrun helped Ambris back to his chair.
Bradin approached Ambris and embraced him briefly. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”
“It is a good thing for Taretha that she’s already dead,” Edrun said in a hard voice. “Had I known what foul things she was doing to you, I’d have put a stop to it and avenged you immediately.”
“She… she died by my hand, Father,” Ambris said in a low, trembling voice. “I took back what she stole from me.”
“And for that, I am proud of you. And I will be proud to welcome you back home to Miraen, as well. Ferrin will be thrilled to see you alive.”
Ambris’s eyes darted across the room to Kian. “I… I’m afraid I won’t be going back to Miraen. My home — and my husband — are here in Altan.”
“Your husband?” Edrun’s eyes followed Ambris’s gaze, then snapped back to his son. “And you have been here all this time?”
“Ever since Blackfrost burned, yes,” Ambris said. “Garrik gave us sanctuary. And before you go breaking off your alliance and making declarations of war, I would have you know that he has been trying to convince me to come and see you ever since he arranged this meeting. It was my choice to stay away.”
“But… why?” The pain in the Wytch King’s eyes went straight to Mikhyal’s heart.
“I feared you had given Taretha permission to use me the way she did. I… thought you were complicit in the abuse I suffered at her hands.”
“Never.” Edrun looked shocked. “I swear it, Ambris. Had I but known…”
“And here I thought your family was dysfunctional.” Dirit’s voice drifted down from somewhere above him. Mikhyal glanced up to see the little dragon perched on a high shelf, watching the Wytch King and his son with rapt attention. Mikhyal shook his head slightly, but dared not speak.
“Surely you must realize,” Edrun said, “that if I had been complicit in Taretha’s plans, I would not be here to commit Miraen to the Northern Alliance.”
“So Garrik advised me when he came to see me the other day,” Ambris said. “He argued quite convincingly on your behalf. It was my choice to remain hidden. He did not agree, though he assured me that he would respect my wishes.”
“And he has,” Edrun said. “He’s not said a word.” He sighed heavily, then said, “But you have a husband. You must introduce us.”
A flash of panic crossed Ambris’s face, but he quickly controlled it. He got to his feet and crossed the room to stand beside Kian. “Father, this is Kian. He is the healer Taretha brought to Blackfrost after Cyrith’s death. He’s the only reason I’m alive.”
Kian dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Your Majesty,” he whispered.
“Rise, Kian, you must not kneel to me, regardless of your station. You saved my son and have kept him safe and happy these past few years. For that, I am in your debt.”
Kian rose and gave Ambris a worried look. “Ambris, you need to rest. Shall I escort you to our suite, or will your father do it?”
“I shall see to it,” Edrun said. “Come, Ambris, you can lean on me and tell me the way.”
Ambris shot a pleading glance at Kian, who said, “I’ll stay here and watch over Wytch King Drannik until Ilya returns. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Have no fear, Kian,” Edrun said. “I’ll see that he rests. It’s the least I can do. I have… much to make up to him.”
Prince Bradin followed them, a bemused look on his face. After the door had closed behind them, Kian cleared his throat and said, “You can go and see your father now, Your Highness. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here until he wakes up. I believe we have dealt with the poison, but there are some things we cannot know for certain until he regains consciousness.”
“Of course,” Mikhyal said. “You are his healer. You must do as you think best.” He rose and crossed the room, but paused at his father’s door. “Are you all right, Kian? That meeting seemed to be a bit of a shock for all of you.”
“I… I’m sorry you had to witness it, Your Highness. It was not planned.”
“No, I rather gathered that. Will Ambris be all right, do you think?”
“Revealing his whereabouts to his father was not what Ambris desired, but… I think it is for the best.” Kian hesitated, then added, “Though he will not admit it, he has missed his father terribly.”
“As I would miss mine, were anything to happen to him,” Mikhyal said gravely. “Thank you, Kian, for saving his life. You and Ambris have the gratitude of myself and all of Rhiva.”