Tristin closed his book at the sound of a knock on his bed chamber door. “Come in!” A visitor might be a pleasant diversion, especially if it was someone he enjoyed talking to.
One day in bed was quite enough, and the prospect of another had left Tristin bored and irritable. He’d much rather be in the gardens with Master Ludin, but Ilya was concerned about the strain of mythe-shock on his still-weakened constitution. He’d ordered Tristin to bed for another day, much to Tristin’s consternation.
The door opened to reveal a serving girl with fiery red hair carrying a tray. She was followed by Prince Mikhyal.
“Thank you, Leyka. Just set it down on the table, there,” Mikhyal directed the girl.
“Will there be anything else, Your Highness?”
“No, I’ll see to Tristin, thank you.”
The girl bobbed in a low curtsy and left the two of them alone. Tristin peered about. “Where’s your little entourage? Still guarding your father, is he?”
“Ai, and you should have heard the grumbling when I asked. Of course, Garrik’s assigned guards to the suite, but since we have no idea who was behind the attack or how they got in, I thought it a sensible precaution.” Mikhyal brought the tray to Tristin and set it on his lap. “And speaking of precautions, Master Ilya said you must eat all of this.”
Tristin glared at the steaming soup. “Of course he did.” The scowl only lasted until his first taste of the savory mixture of leeks, potatoes, and sharp, tangy cheese. Along with a chunk of fresh bread, it made the perfect lunch. Garrik had certainly been right about his kitchen staff. Tristin couldn’t remember ever eating so well, not even when he’d lived with his mother at Falkrag.
Mikhyal settled himself in the armchair at Tristin’s bedside. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better,” Tristin said between mouthfuls. “What about your father? Is he recovering?”
“Ai, well enough to be giving the healers a hard time of it.”
“Oh, good. I feared he might have taken a turn for the worse. Kian was here earlier to check on me, but he only stayed a few minutes, and he seemed very distracted.”
“That’s nothing to do with my father.” Mikhyal paused for a moment as if debating with himself. “I suppose it’s no secret. Ambris met his father yesterday morning. I… got the impression he would have preferred not to.”
“Oh.” Tristin lowered his spoon. “Oh, dear. How did that happen?”
“Bad timing. Edrun and Bradin came to our suite to inquire after my father just as Ambris was leaving. It was quite a shock to all three of them.”
“I can imagine,” Tristin said. “Ambris was adamant about not letting his father know he was alive.”
“You knew?”
“He spoke of it while I was at Dragonwatch. Kian was trying to convince him to come down to the castle and meet with his father, and Ambris wasn’t having any of it. How… how did it go?”
“It was rather moving, actually,” Mikhyal said. “I was nearly in tears, myself. It turns out the Wytch Master who was supposed to be teaching Ambris lied to both Ambris and Edrun to keep them apart.”
“Oh…” Tristin let out his breath on a long sigh. “That’s a relief.” He flushed and brought a hand to his mouth as he realized how that sounded. “Oh! No, I don’t mean… not a relief that they were lied to and manipulated, but that Ambris’s father didn’t know what was going on. Ambris feared Edrun might have been complicit in his abuse.” Tristin stared down at his lunch, wishing he had better control over his mouth.
Mikhyal didn’t seem at all bothered, though. “Edrun seemed genuinely shocked to learn that not only was Ambris alive, but Edrun’s own sister had been using him for her own gain. To be honest, I thought Edrun a bit naive. Rhiva’s Court is a nest of snakes, and I can’t imagine Miraen’s being any better.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Tristin murmured. He knew nothing of either kingdom’s politics, but Garrik’s scathing comments about Altan’s Court suggested that nest of snakes might actually be a compliment. “What of the treaty? Ambris feared if Edrun learned that Garrik had been sheltering him, it would put the alliance at risk.”
“No danger of that,” Mikhyal said. “The Northern Alliance was signed into existence this morning, over breakfast served in my father’s bed chamber. He insisted they do it as soon as possible. I think the attack shook him. He hasn’t said much about it, but I know he’s been brooding about what will happen to Rhiva if my brother takes the throne. With the alliance in place, he can name the heir he chooses without Council interference.”
“Ah. Your brother is not his first choice, then.” Tristin realized then just how limited his knowledge of the royal families was. He wasn’t even certain how many brothers Mikhyal had. He would need to remedy that, he supposed, if he was to live here at the castle.
“No, he is not,” Mikhyal said grimly. “Shaine will not honor the treaty. Once, there would have been no question, but… ever since the accident, he’s changed, and not for the better.”
Tristin opened his mouth to ask a question, but snapped it shut again before anything could escape. Should he ask? Or would it be more polite not to? He nibbled at his lower lip, excruciatingly aware of the seconds passing while he dithered. Mikhyal must think him a perfect fool. His face burned at the thought.
“A year ago, Midsummer, it was,” Mikhyal said, saving him from having to make a decision. “Shaine had a riding accident. He was thrown from his horse and knocked unconscious. We feared he might never wake, but after nearly a week, he did. He was different, though. Before the accident, he and I were close. I’d been raised to take the throne, and when he was confirmed the heir eight years ago, he was terrified. He needed guidance, and my father was too angry and disappointed to provide it. I took it upon myself to mentor him, to prepare him to be the best king he could be.”
“You sound like a very good brother.”
“Ai, well, Shaine had no one else. Father had always been a bit cool to him. Up until the accident, Shaine was one of my closest friends. Afterward, he wanted nothing to do with me. Instead of being reluctant to take the throne, he became almost eager, as if he could hardly wait for Father’s death. And instead of turning to me for support and instruction as he used to, he turned to Wytch Master Anxin.”
“Was there nothing the healers could do?” Tristin asked.
“Nothing more than to explain that this sort of thing can happen after a severe head injury, and that there was nothing to be done. My father had other healers brought in, but they all said the same thing.” Mikhyal stared down at his hands.
“That must have been very difficult for you,” Tristin said softly.
“Quite. And I fear once we return home and my father makes his intentions clear, Shaine will not take the loss of his position well. A year ago, it would have been a relief to him, but now? He will be beside himself. I shudder to think what he might do.”
Tristin’s breath caught in his throat as the pieces came together, and he grasped the situation. “Your father means to name you his heir.” The words came out in a choked whisper, but Mikhyal didn’t seem to notice his growing discomfort.
“Ai, and I fear he also means to protect me to the point where he fears any risk to me at all. Which doesn’t bode well, if I am to be his military commander. I told you Vayne had said he could perform his transformation on me. I would gladly move forward with it, but my father is opposed. He means to declare me his heir tomorrow, at the betrothal ceremony, and once that’s done, I suspect he will not allow me out of his sight for fear of losing the only heir he trusts.”
Tristin dropped his gaze to his bowl, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Mikhyal might not have realized it yet, but alliance or no, once he was the heir, friendship with someone like Tristin would reflect badly on him.
The heir of Rhiva could hardly be consorting with the half-mad, bastard son of a traitor. Even if Mikhyal didn’t see him that way, the rest of the nobility would, and that was what mattered. Tristin might have grown up far from the intrigues of Ysdrach’s Court, but he’d heard enough whispered gossip in his early years to have grasped how important one’s breeding was to the nobility of Skanda. That attitude wasn’t about to change because of a few signatures on a treaty.
“That’s enough talk for now,” Mikhyal’s voice cut into his thoughts. “You need to finish your lunch, or Master Ilya will be after both of us.
“You s-sound like one of the h-healers.” Tristin kept his eyes on his bowl. “Perhaps you’ve missed your calling.”
Mikhyal laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Although I must admit my motives are not entirely altruistic.”
Tristin froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Oh?”
“I was promised a dance after the betrothal ceremony tomorrow. It’s in my best interests to make sure my dance partner is well enough to attend.”
“Ah.” Tristin’s face grew hot, and he kept his eyes fixed on his bowl and applied himself to his soup, which had suddenly lost all flavor.
An awkward silence followed. Tristin ate as quickly as he could, painfully aware of the heir’s scrutiny. When he’d finished his last bite, Mikhyal rose.
“I’m sorry to have to leave you so soon, but my father is expecting me. We have much to discuss, and I think he wants to take advantage of the fact that here, we can speak freely without fear of being overheard.”
“Of course,” Tristin mumbled. “You mustn’t neglect your duties on my account.”
“I’ll see you at the ceremony tomorrow afternoon, then.”
Tristin swallowed, not sure what to think of the fact that the prince still wanted to see him. “I… I… um…”
Mikhyal’s pale eyes widened a fraction, as if he’d only just realized something. “I’m sorry, Tristin, I didn’t mean to push. If you’re not comfortable going to the ceremony, I understand. It must be frightful, having to go among a crowd of people when you’ve been used to only your own company for so long.”
“Ah. Yes. I… that’s very true.” Tristin kept his eyes down, unable to look at the prince.
“Well, I did offer to come to you at Dragonwatch to claim my dance. I could come to you here just as easily.”
“No… it’s all right. I… I’ll be there. I… I’ve promised Jaire. He’ll be dreadfully disappointed if I don’t go.”
Mikhyal frowned, but said only, “If I can get away from my father, I’ll come by and see you later on. We can discuss it then.”
Tristin gave him a wordless nod, but he still couldn’t bring himself to meet Mikhyal’s eyes. Surely the prince was only being kind. He’d offered the dance, and he’d stick to his word, but it couldn’t possibly mean anything.
Since Mikhyal seemed unwilling to protect his own reputation, Tristin would have to do it for him. He would attend the ceremony as planned, but only long enough to watch Prince Jaire and Prince Vayne say their vows, and to swear his allegiance to his cousin. The moment the official business had been concluded, he’d take his leave. A celebratory feast would be held before the dancing, so there would be plenty of time to slip away.
Yes. That would be best. It might not be exactly what Tristin wanted, but he liked and respected Mikhyal far too much to want to cause the prince any difficulties. And that was all Tristin was ever likely to be to Mikhyal: a difficulty. As a traitor’s bastard, no matter what he did, he would always be viewed with suspicion. He’d never be anything more than Wytch King Garrik’s rather awkward relation.
* * *
All the way back to the guest wing, Mikhyal mulled over that conversation with Tristin, and wondered where he’d gone wrong. They’d been talking quite happily, but all of a sudden, Tristin had gone quiet, and when he did speak, it was in whispers, or short, stammered sentences. Mikhyal must have said something to make him uncomfortable.
He reviewed the conversation as he crossed the Grand Hall, barely noticing the bustle of the preparations for tomorrow’s ceremony and the dance that would follow.
Dance.
Everything had been fine until he’d mentioned the dance.
Mikhyal stopped dead in the hall. He’d thought Tristin was interested, but… could he be mistaken? Perhaps he’d read too much into Tristin’s shy, sweet smile. The uncertainty… the nervousness…
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Tristin had, after all, spent the last fifteen years in almost complete isolation. If he’d been locked away at seventeen, he’d never had a chance to interact with people as an adult before.
He’d thought he’d been flirting with Tristin, but perhaps he’d only been making the poor man uncomfortable. Perhaps Tristin wasn’t being coy at all. Perhaps he was bewildered and embarrassed, and had no idea how to tell Mikhyal to get lost.
Oh, Mik, you blithering idiot…
A glance at the clock in the Grand Hall told him he didn’t have time to go back and apologize before he was due to meet his father for lunch. He’d just have to make time later.
He arrived in the guest suite to find Dirit lounging on the chandelier. “All is well, Your Royal Diligentness.” The little dragon leapt down from his high perch to land upon Mikhyal’s shoulder. Though Dirit rarely manifested physically, Mikhyal couldn’t help but flinch away to avoid being hit.
“I shall never tire of that game,” Dirit said, settling himself.
“How’s my father?” Mikhyal asked.
“He is quite safe, thanks to me.” Dirit puffed his little chest out. “Although I do think he might have stayed in bed a bit longer. He’s looking rather wilted, and he’s only been up for an hour or so.”
Mikhyal was about to knock on the door of his father’s bed chamber when it opened to reveal Wytch King Drannik. The king looked very pale.
“Should you be up?” Mikhyal asked. “The healers said—”
“To the Dragon Mother’s coldest hell with the healers,” Drannik growled. “Garrik is joining us for lunch in an hour, and I’ll not have him seeing me still abed like an invalid. Bad enough they all had to see it this morning.”
“But the treaty is signed,” Mikhyal reminded him.
“Ai, it is, and it will be made public tomorrow. Garrik plans to make the announcement before the betrothal. I will certainly sleep easier tonight knowing that my allies know who is to rule Rhiva after me. They will fight for your right to the throne, should the need arise, Mikhyal. They have all sworn it.”
“Ai, and now your work here is done and you can rest.” Mikhyal eyed his father critically. “Will you at least allow me to help you to a chair?”
“Looking particularly haggard, am I?” Drannik laughed, but it was a very tired sound. He didn’t protest when Mikhyal helped him back into his bed chamber and settled him in the armchair next to the bed.
“If you overdo it now, you could set yourself back. Ambris did warn you about that. Several times.” Mikhyal pulled a blanket off the bed and was about to drape it over his father’s legs, but Drannik pushed it away.
“Stop your fussing, Mikhyal. I may still be a bit tired, but I’m not nearly as infirm as everyone seems to think. And I will be attending the betrothal ceremony tomorrow.”
Mikhyal knew better than to argue, so, using his most diplomatic tone, he said, “That’s two attempts on your life.”
“Are we certain they were attempts on my life and not yours?” Drannik countered. “If the bandit attack was arranged — and the presence of the Wytch Sword suggests it was — then either one of us could have been the target. As for the other night, the room was dim, and the two of us look so much alike… it could well have been you they were after.”
“I think we should operate under the assumption that they sought to eliminate you, Father. The Council has far more to gain from your death than mine.”
“Yesterday, you might have been correct,” Drannik conceded. “But as of this morning, you are my heir, and once word of that gets out, you and I will both be targets.”
Mikhyal hesitated for just a moment. He hated to use the situation to press his case, but then again… “Which is why I think we should go ahead with the transformation Vayne offered to perform.”
“An excellent idea!” Dirit chirped in his ear. “Think what fun we could have frolicking in the sky with Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed!”
Oblivious to Dirit, Drannik gave him a long, appraising look. Mikhyal held his breath. Had this second attack been enough to change his father’s mind? “The gift of the Dragon Mother would certainly give you a way to defend yourself from attack,” the Wytch King said thoughtfully.
“And a weapon the Council will be ignorant of until I use it,” Mikhyal said. “The element of surprise may work in our favor.”
“Ai. I’ve been speaking with Prince Vayne. He’s assured me several times that the transformation is completely safe, though I still have some misgivings about that. Given the circumstances, however, I think the benefits outweigh the risks. You have my permission to proceed.”
“Excellent,” Mikhyal said with a nod. He’d intended to proceed with or without his father’s approval, but moving forward with Drannik’s blessing would certainly be less trouble. “I’ll make arrangements with Prince Vayne immediately.”
“Oh, how very exciting!” Dirit leapt from his shoulder and skipped across the Wytch King’s bed.
Drannik waved his hand dismissively. “There is no urgency. We still have battle plans to discuss, and even if we did not, Ilya won’t allow me to leave until he’s satisfied that I’m fully recovered.”
“He would be remiss in his duties to let you go before you’re ready, Father. As far as your health goes, I trust Ilya and his healers to know what’s best.”
“Ai, but Ilya doesn’t have to contend with the thought of Shaine and Anxin running roughshod over the people of Rhiva in our absence, does he?”
Mikhyal started to respond, but was interrupted by a commotion in the suite’s main room.
“The changing of the guard?” Drannik asked, raising an eyebrow. “They’re usually so quiet, I don’t hear them.”
“No,” Mikhyal said, heart sinking as he recognized his brother’s voice barking orders. “It sounds as if Shaine has arrived. What in Aio’s name is he doing here?”
Drannik’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “That boy had orders to remain at the summer palace.” He started to get to his feet, but Mikhyal set a firm hand on his father’s shoulder.
“No, you rest. You’re looking a bit pale. I’ll deal with him.” Mikhyal turned and left before his father could protest, closing the door quietly behind him.
Shaine was standing in the middle of the suite giving orders to the servants. Garrik’s guardsmen were nowhere to be seen. The suite was now guarded by men wearing Rhiva’s colors.
“Shaine,” Mikhyal said smoothly. “How good to see you.”
Shaine turned to give his brother a cold smile. “I’m surprised to see you on your feet, Mikhyal. Last I heard, you were gravely ill. Father said something about awakening Wytch power?”
Mikhyal hesitated. Should he tell Shaine the truth? No… Drannik would want nothing revealed to the Wytch Council, and if Shaine knew about the Wytch Sword, he would certainly tell Anxin. “Father was mistaken,” Mikhyal said. “I have exactly as much Wytch power as I did when you saw me last. None.”
A fleeting expression of disappointment crossed his brother’s face. “Well,” Shaine said, pulling off his riding gloves and tossing them carelessly on the table, “as soon as I’m settled, you can tell me what’s been happening.”
“What are you doing here? Father left you in charge of things at the summer palace.”
“Ai, but with both of you having arrived here on dragonback, you’ve no safe way of returning home. I put together an escort, and here we are. I’m sure you and Father will be much more comfortable knowing you’re guarded by men loyal to Rhiva.”
Mikhyal glanced at the guardsmen. Two were positioned at the main door of the suite, and two had taken up posts near the bed chambers. He didn’t recognize any of them, which was odd, as Mikhyal made it a point to personally interview every single guardsman who was stationed at the palace.
“Who are these men?” Mikhyal demanded. “These are not the men I assigned to the King’s Guard. And where is Captain Rhu? I must speak with her immediately.”
“I had your captain arrested on charges of negligence and suspicion of treason,” Shaine said flatly. “She and the rest of the King’s Guard are being held in the dungeon pending further investigation into the attack on the royal caravan.”
“On whose authority?” Mikhyal asked in a low voice. “Rhu and the King’s Guard saved us. We were ambushed and outnumbered.”
“You were saved by someone weaving the mythe,” Shaine corrected him. “If it wasn’t your Wytch power, as Father thought, then I’ve no idea what it was, but mysterious use of a power that dangerous needs to be reported to the Wytch Council and investigated immediately. Have no fear. Anxin will inform the Council as soon as I’ve spoken to him, and they will deal with it. Really, Mikhyal, I’m surprised Father trusts your judgment on military matters, when you’ve obviously no idea. Now, where is Father? I must speak with him.”
Mikhyal clenched his jaw, struggling to hide his dismay and his anger. “He’s in his room, resting.”
“Resting?”
“He was attacked two nights ago.”
“Attacked?” Shaine’s hard, green eyes narrowed. “By whom? Why was I not told? I am his heir — I should have been informed the moment I arrived!”
Mikhyal considered his response carefully; the last thing he wanted was Shaine interrogating poor Tristin. “We haven’t managed to determine that just yet, but Garrik’s Captain Jorin is conducting an investigation.”
“I shall need to speak with him immediately.”
“Everything is under control, Shaine. I trust Garrik’s captain to do his job.”
“You don’t think Garrik was behind it, do you?” Shaine asked.
“Aio’s teeth, no!” Mikhyal exclaimed.
Shaine’s eyes narrowed again as he studied his brother. “You seem very certain of that.”
“I am as certain as I can be,” Mikhyal temporized, realizing that even though it wouldn’t matter after tomorrow, he still couldn’t breathe a word of the Northern Alliance or his own change in fortune to his brother. Not in front of guardsmen he neither knew nor trusted. “Father was very good friends with Wytch King Dane when he was alive, and—”
“Oh, do calm down, Mikhyal. I only ask because Wytch Master Anxin has spoken of rumors of a rebellion brewing in the north, and Altan has always been notoriously… independent.”
“I’ve seen no evidence to suggest a rebellion,” Mikhyal lied, hating the circumstances that made it necessary. “But if you have doubts, you should speak them to Father. It isn’t as if I have any power here.” The bitterness in his own voice didn’t surprise him, but the way Shaine flinched as he turned away did.
* * *
The Wytch King of Rhiva and his soon-to-be-deposed heir were arguing, and Mikhyal, standing at his father’s side, was having a difficult time keeping his own expression neutral. At least Dirit, listening avidly from his perch atop the dressing table mirror, was keeping his mouth shut for the time being.
“I never said I did not appreciate the gesture, Shaine,” Drannik said, for perhaps the third time. Though he didn’t raise his voice, his tone made it clear that his patience was wearing thin. “What I object to is your decision to leave the affairs of the kingdom in the hands of Wytch Master Anxin. I left you in charge. Not Anxin.”
Shaine pressed his lips tightly together. His light green eyes darted to Mikhyal and then back to their father. Mikhyal couldn’t decide if his brother was furious or struggling to come up with an explanation.
When Shaine remained silent, Drannik continued, “You will gather your men immediately, and you will make your way back to the summer palace with as much speed as you can muster.”
Shaine struggled in silence for a few more moments before saying in a strangled voice, “Father, even if you think it best that I return to the palace, surely you can see the sense in my leaving some men behind to serve as an escort. How are you to get home safely if you have no one to protect you?”
Drannik sighed and leaned back in the heavy armchair next to his bed. “Wytch King Garrik has kindly offered me an escort. Now, go, Shaine. That is a direct order from your king. I am still recovering, and I am tired of arguing with you. If you cannot obey me, I shall send your brother in your place. He, at least, will not argue with me.”
Shaine’s face paled, and it was with obvious reluctance that he turned on his heel and left the room. He shut the door firmly behind him, not quite slamming it, and a few moments later, he was barking orders at the guardsmen he’d posted about the suite.
As soon as the door was shut, Drannik wilted a bit.
“Oh, dear,” Dirit commented from his perch. “This sounds positively dire. Your royal brother is in quite a temper.”
Mikhyal shot Dirit a warning look before saying quietly, “Was that wise, Father? Shaine could have already been here for days, skulking about, listening in, with no one the wiser. If he has overheard anything, he will take it straight back to Anxin, and Anxin will take it to the Council.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Drannik said. “But it hardly matters now. The Council will know soon enough. If there are spies or sympathizers in Altan’s Court, the secret will be out tomorrow, when we announce the alliance. I am content that we are as prepared as we can be.”
“Ai, but are you prepared to face a coup when we return home? Shaine’s imprisoned the King’s Guard and Captain Rhu. With Anxin in charge, I fear what we may find upon our return.”
“There are enough men loyal to Rhiva within the palace guard and among my staff that I don’t think we have cause to worry,” Drannik said. “And after witnessing what the Wytch Sword is capable of, I have no concerns regarding our personal safety.”
“Very intelligent man, your father,” Dirit commented. “Clearly he appreciates my unique abilities. I don’t imagine he would insult me by asking me to carry messages.”
Mikhyal rolled his eyes and managed to refrain from comment.
Drannik started to get up, but fell back in his chair with a groan. “Help me up, Mikhyal. Garrik will be here for lunch shortly, and I will greet him on my feet.”
“Father, don’t you think—” Mikhyal broke off at Drannik’s scowl, but made a mental note to have a word with the healers later on. Ambris would make certain Drannik rested, even if he had to slip something into his tea.
When Garrik arrived, Drannik went to greet him, clasping his forearm and drawing him into the suite. “Come in, come in, Garrik. Mikhyal will be joining us.”
Garrik frowned slightly, and glanced at Mikhyal, indicating Drannik with the slightest motion of his head. Mikhyal read the question immediately, and it was the same as his own: Should he be up?
Mikhyal could only lift his shoulders in reply.
“It’s good to see you on your feet, Drannik,” Garrik said. “You’re looking… not exactly well, but better than you did this morning, at least.”
“The credit goes to your healers,” Drannik said. “They are very thorough and very skilled. Especially that young fellow, Prince Ambris.”
“I shall pass the word along. I am sure he will be gratified to know that you appreciate his services.”
Drannik studied the Wytch King for a few moments. “Quite a surprise that was, him running into his father like that.”
“I can imagine,” Garrik said mildly.
Drannik laughed. “That took stones of iron, Garrik, hiding a prince of Miraen from the Council. Whatever did Edrun think?”
Amusement flickered in Garrik’s dark eyes. “Once the situation had been explained to him, Edrun was grateful. I merely offered his son my protection when he asked for it.”
Noting his father’s unsteadiness, Mikhyal moved surreptitiously to his side to offer him his elbow. Drannik batted his arm away and moved to the table. “Shall we sit down?”
“Ai, we shall,” Garrik said. “Lunch will be along shortly. Will Prince Shaine be joining us? I was informed of his arrival an hour ago.” He glanced about the suite as if he expected to see Shaine.
“He will not,” Drannik said flatly. “He is on his way home to Rhiva. Or at least, he had better be.” Drannik went on to explain the nature of Shaine’s Wytch power and the very real possibility that Shaine already knew of the Northern Alliance.
“What of the attack on you, Drannik?” Garrik asked. “The timing leads me to believe that whoever was responsible intended for you to die before you could sign the treaty. Could Shaine have had a hand in that?”
“I don’t like to think it,” Drannik said slowly, “but it is a possibility we must consider.” He glanced at Mikhyal. “What do you think?”
“Before the accident, I would have told you exactly what you could do with those suspicions, Father. Since then?” Mikhyal shook his head. “I fear he sees me as a threat, and I don’t know how far he would go to secure his position.”
Garrik shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “In light of the suspicious timing of Prince Shaine’s arrival and the attack on Your Majesty within the very walls of my stronghold, I fear the escort I initially offered may not provide adequate protection. I think, perhaps, it would be better if Kian and I were to fly you both home so you don’t have to risk a lengthy overland journey.”
Mikhyal shot him a grateful look, which Garrik acknowledged with the subtlest of nods.
“That is a handsome offer,” Drannik said, apparently oblivious to the younger men’s exchange. “One I will gladly accept. I cannot imagine anyone daring to attack a man guarded by two dragons.” He glanced meaningfully at Mikhyal. “Or three. Mikhyal and I have spoken at length, and I believe we are ready to take Prince Vayne up on his offer to perform his transformation procedure on Mikhyal.”
Garrik regarded Mikhyal with a raised eyebrow. “Excellent. I shall inform Vayne as soon as our meal is over. He will come and explain the procedure to you so you will both know what to expect.”
Mikhyal had to bite back a groan. Between the meetings scheduled with the other Wytch Kings and his responsibilities to his father, it didn’t look like he was going to get a chance to speak to Tristin before tomorrow’s ceremony.
* * *
Tristin stood on the dais before the throne and tried not to faint. Although, now that he thought about it, fainting might actually be better for all concerned. He’d never had to speak in front of so many people before, and he dreaded to think what might emerge from his mouth if he wasn’t vigilant.
“His Royal Fractiousness says to remind you to breathe.” Dirit’s voice was right next to his ear. “That shade of blue isn’t at all becoming. And don’t lock your knees. It wouldn’t do to have you fall in a heap at the king’s feet, now, would it?”
Tristin glanced to the side to see Dirit perched on his shoulder, but he dared not answer. If even one word slipped out, the dam would break, unleashing a torrent of nonsense. Rumors of his madness must surely have followed him. The last thing he wanted was to prove them true. That wouldn’t do Garrik’s reputation any good at all.
For the first time since his rescue, he found himself longing for the relative safety of his prison at Shadowspire. At least there, it had been just him and his hallucinations, and they certainly weren’t going to spread gossip.
Garrik rose from the throne and gave Tristin an encouraging smile before he began speaking. It sounded as if he might be welcoming his long-lost cousin, but Tristin was far too anxious to focus on the words, and barely heard them. His knees were trembling, and beads of nervous sweat were forming on his brow and on the back of his neck. The finely tailored formal clothing felt tight and uncomfortable, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. Worse, he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do.
He’d practiced before breakfast. Garrik had been there, and he’d told Tristin exactly what would happen, and even had him repeat the words of the oath of fealty back to him. Now, Tristin’s mind was blank, and his eyes darted from side to side as he considered which direction would be best for his flight. The exit to the left was closer. If he dove off the dais—
A slender hand slipping into his own arrested his thoughts of escape, and Tristin turned his head to see Prince Jaire smiling up at him. The prince wasn’t dressed for the betrothal ceremony yet, but his white-blond hair was done up in an intricate style involving dozens of narrow braids, all gathered at the nape of his neck.
“It’s all right,” Jaire murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. Tristin squeezed back, and the tightness in his chest eased enough that he could breathe again. “That’s it. Slow, deep breaths. You can do this. Time to kneel now.”
Tristin did as he was told, thankful that Jaire had stepped in before he’d had a chance to put his flight plan into action.
“Good. Now look up at Garrik and repeat the words of the oath.”
His ears burned as he stumbled over the ritual phrases he’d thought he’d committed to memory, and then Jaire’s hand was squeezing his shoulder.
“Now kiss the ring on Garrik’s hand,” Jaire murmured in that same soothing tone, “and then stand up and turn around.”
When he bent his head to kiss the ring, Garrik’s other hand rested on his head for the briefest moment, and then Jaire was pulling him to his feet and surreptitiously guiding him in his turn, making sure he was facing the right way. Tristin stared out into a sea of unfamiliar faces as the gathered nobility and royalty all bowed in acknowledgment. Jaire squeezed his hand again and whispered, “Look at Dirit. He’s on the chandelier.”
Tristin glanced up and saw the little dragon, hanging upside down by his tail over the gathering, waving at Tristin and waggling his tufted eyebrows.
It took everything he had not to burst out laughing, but it was enough of a distraction to get him through the rest of the ceremony. Thank the Dragon Mother he didn’t have to do anything else but stand there and do his best to keep himself on his feet with his mouth firmly shut.
Then Jaire was pulling him off the dais and behind the throne. “I have to go and get dressed for the betrothal ceremony now,” he whispered. “Garrik and the rest of the kings are going to announce the treaty, and they’ll be yammering on about that for ages. You can either go and sit in the family section over there” —Jaire pointed to a small grouping of chairs along one side of the Grand Hall— “or you can follow me through the back hall, and escape to your suite. It’s all right. I understand how hard that was for you, and I won’t mind if you’re not here for the betrothal.”
“I’ll be here,” Tristin said firmly. “I said I would, and I will.”
Jaire’s face lit up, and he squeezed Tristin’s hand again before slipping through the door at the back.
Tristin took advantage of the lull to make his way to the group of chairs Jaire had pointed out. To his relief, the section reserved for the royal family was nearly empty. The only occupant was an older lady dressed in a revealing gown more suited to a young maid in search of a husband. Tristin sat as far from her as he could, which didn’t turn out to be far enough, for the moment he was seated, she leaned over and said in a low voice, “So you are Garrik’s long-lost cousin, are you?”
“Ah. Well. Yes. I’m—” He gulped and just managed to stop himself from introducing himself as Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed. “Tristin, my lady.”
Cold black eyes raked over him, and the corners of her mouth turned down. Her hair, done up in an elaborate creation of braids and fine gold chains, was jet black, without even a single thread of silver. “Vakha’s bastard, or so I hear.”
Tristin’s face warmed as he tried to think who this woman might be. He’d not attended any formal dinners, and so had yet to make her acquaintance. “Y-yes, I’m told my f-father was Prince Vakha, my lady. I never met the man, though.” He remembered his manners then, and added, “I… I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of m-making your acquaintance.”
She raised a little jeweled fan and waved it about in front of her. “I am Lady Saphron. Vakha’s widow.”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” Tristin wished now that he’d escaped to his suite as Jaire had suggested. If this was his father’s wife, he doubted she’d want to be anywhere near him. “I’m sure we’ll get along famously, then.” The words fell out of his mouth with reckless abandon, and Tristin was helpless to stop the flow. “You can tell me all about my father, since I never met him, and I don’t even know if he was told about me, and then I can regale you with tales of my hallucinations, which were my only companions for years upon years, and then, if it pleases you, you can make sympathetic noises and order tea and cakes for us, and perhaps I shall escort you on walks around the gardens and call you Auntie. I can hardly wait to begin!” He stopped to draw breath and stretched his mouth wide in what he hoped was a brilliant smile.
Lady Saphron’s eyes narrowed. “If you think I would have anything to do with my husband’s tragic mistake, you can think again. You will never be anything to me but a bitter reminder of the follies of my husband’s youth. That little chit from Ysdrach certainly had ambitions, to snare Vakha in her web of deceit. Garrik may accept you into the family with open arms, but you will not find me nearly so welcoming.”
Tristin swallowed, face flaming as he looked helplessly about to see if anyone else had heard. Before he could come up with a thing to say, a voice said, “Tristin! There you are! Come on, you’re supposed to be sitting with us, or had you forgotten?” And there was Mikhyal, helping him up and tugging him away from Lady Saphron.
Tristin pulled free just long enough to give Lady Saphron a stiff, formal bow. Mikhyal led him through the crowd to where Drannik was sitting. The Wytch King of Rhiva still looked pale, but his black eyes were bright and alert, and fixed upon the two of them, gaze resting for a few moments on their joined hands.
To Tristin’s consternation, Mikhyal kept hold of his hand even after they were seated. “Th-thank you for that,” Tristin murmured.
“Prince Jaire was mortified when he remembered that Lady Saphron would be sitting there.” Mikhyal gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “He would have come himself, but he didn’t have time. He sent Dirit to tell me you might be in need of a rescue.”
“I was, rather. She doesn’t seem to like me at all.”
“Prince Jaire told me she was always bitter about never having any children of her own, so I suppose a certain amount of resentment is to be expected. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”
“I… I suppose.” Tristin had doubts about that, but there was no time to continue the conversation, for at that moment, Garrik rose and called the other three Wytch Kings of the north forward to announce their alliance.
Drannik nodded to his son and rose, making his way steadily toward the dais. Tristin glanced about, heart sinking as he realized he’d lost his chance to leave unnoticed. So much for slipping off quietly before the dancing started. Mikhyal would, no doubt, insist he sit with him at dinner. With a sigh, Tristin turned his attention to the dais, where Master Ristan, surrounded by the four Wytch Kings, was reading the treaty out for the assembled Court.
When the reading was complete, Garrik announced that the first official act of the Northern Alliance was to recognize Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva as Drannik’s heir. Mikhyal was called forward to kneel before his father as the ritual words declaring him the heir of Rhiva were spoken.
“He does look most regal, doesn’t he?”
Tristin turned his head to see Dirit perched on the back of the chair Mikhyal had vacated, tail lashing with excitement. “He does indeed,” he murmured under his breath.
After swearing his allegiance to both his father and the alliance, Mikhyal got to his feet and embraced his father, then clasped arms with Ord, Edrun, and Garrik, in turn.
That was it then. Mikhyal was officially the heir, and so far above Tristin that it certainly wouldn’t do for them to be seen together in public. He glanced about, seeking any possible way out, but given the number of people present, leaving without being noticed looked to be an impossible feat. He settled himself in a miserable huddle, determined to wait it out until he could make his escape.
* * *
Mikhyal started to offer his father his arm as they stepped down from the dais, but withdrew it at Drannik’s fierce glare. The Wytch King of Rhiva was adamant that no further sign of weakness be shown before his peers.
Tristin was right where Mikhyal had left him, hunched over in his chair, looking as if he was trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. It must have taken a considerable amount of courage for him to attend such a large gathering when he’d only recently left the isolation of his prison tower. Mikhyal’s respect for him went up a few notches, and he gave Tristin a fond smile as he took his seat.
Dark eyes met his briefly before shifting downward. Mikhyal didn’t get a chance to ask him what was wrong, for at that moment, the music began, and the princes made their entrance at the far end of the hall. They were dressed in clothing Mikhyal had only seen before in history books, from the time Prince Vayne had been born into: tight-fitting breeches, high boots, and shirts with elaborate lace ruffles. Jaire was dressed entirely in white, and Vayne in black.
“Look at all that lace,” Dirit said with a sniff. The little dragon was perched on Mikhyal’s shoulder between himself and Tristin. “And those cuffs! Ridiculous! Imagine trying to keep them out of your soup!”
Tristin’s mouth curved in a small smile, and he murmured to Dirit, “No wonder Jaire called it frippery.”
Mikhyal had to smother a bark of laughter with a cough.
The princes had adopted an older hairstyle consisting of long, narrow braids were gathered at the napes of their necks to cascade down their backs. Vayne’s jet-black hair was a stark contrast to Jaire’s white-blond, and the two made a striking couple as they faced one another to speak their promises to wed.
Mikhyal leaned toward Tristin. “It must have taken ages to do all those braids,” he whispered.
“Oh, it did, indeed,” Dirit said. “I stopped by to watch some of the preparations this morning. You should have heard all the moaning and whining.”
The ceremony was conducted by Altan’s Wytch Master Ilya, with Wytch King Ord standing as Vayne’s witness, and Garrik standing as Jaire’s. It sounded as if they’d borrowed some of the wording from the betrothal ceremonies of Vayne’s time. It was a far more romantic ceremony than Mikhyal was used to hearing. Modern betrothal ceremonies, at least among the nobility of Skanda, tended to be conducted like the business arrangements they were rather than the joining of hearts and minds that Ilya now spoke of.
When the ceremony was over and Jaire and Vayne had sealed their promises with a chaste kiss, Garrik announced the wedding would take place in the fall, during the same week the Wytch Council normally summoned the Wytch Kings to Askarra to hear the Council’s bidding. None of the kingdoms of the north would be attending the Fall Council this year, and Mikhyal imagined there would be much consternation in Askarra when the Northern Alliance made its formal declaration of independence.
Consternation, and likely, plans of military action.
The guests were ushered into the formal dining room for the celebratory feast, and Mikhyal and Tristin found themselves seated at the head table, side by side, along with the rest of the royal families. From the grin Prince Jaire shot his way, Mikhyal guessed the prince had been responsible for that, and he nodded his thanks. Jaire’s grin widened, and he turned to whisper something to his promised husband, who also gave Mikhyal and Tristin a nod and a smile.
A bit farther down, next to Wytch King Edrun and Prince Bradin, sat Ambris and Kian, both of them looking a bit nervous. Edrun seemed to be in very good spirits, and kept leaning over to speak to his son, or brush his arm, as if he still couldn’t quite believe Ambris was alive.
When everyone was seated, Garrik rose to address the gathering. “It’s no secret that I have never supported the idea of arranged marriages,” he started. “And those of you who know me well are aware that since the day I took the throne of Altan, one of the greatest points of contention between myself and the Wytch Council has been my brother’s marriage. Today’s events bring me great pleasure. Not only am I no longer bound to obey the dictates of the Council, but my brother has managed to find himself a husband of his own choosing, marriage with whom can only strengthen Altan’s already-strong ties with the kingdom of Irilan, thus adding strength and substance to the foundations of the Northern Alliance.”
Garrik raised his glass in a toast, after which he continued, “In the spirit of forming a firmer foundation for our alliance, Wytch King Edrun has a few words to say.”
Wytch King Edrun nodded at Garrik and rose from his seat. “I did not wish to take the focus away from Prince Jaire and Prince Vayne’s betrothal, but since their promised union helps to strengthen the Northern Alliance, it seems appropriate for me to officially welcome my youngest son, Prince Ambris, back into the loving arms of his family. I cannot tell you how pleased I was to learn that the son I believed to have perished in the flames at Blackfrost, does, in fact, live. Unbeknownst to me, Ambris was granted sanctuary by Wytch King Garrik five years ago, after Council Speaker Taretha, whom I entrusted with his care, instead sought to use and abuse him.”
A low murmur rippled through the dining hall. Ambris turned bright red and stared down at his plate. Kian rubbed his back encouragingly.
“I had thought it would be most convenient if Ambris was free for an alliance marriage,” Edrun continued, “perhaps with a noble lady of Altan. But I have been informed that is not the case.”
Now it was Kian’s turn to squirm. He gave Ambris a panicked look and practically shrank into his chair, no mean feat for a man of Kian’s stature.
“While in hiding from the Wytch Council, Ambris has married the man who saved him from suffering further abuse at Taretha’s hands. Kian of Aeyr’s Grove, I would like to publicly acknowledge my debt to you. You have my heartfelt thanks, and you will always have a place in my family.”
“I… I… thank you, Your Majesty,” Kian mumbled, and ducked his head.
Garrik chuckled. “As to your wishes for an alliance marriage, Edrun, I fear I can do nothing to change the fact that Kian is not a lady, but I can do something about his status. Kian, how do you feel about lands and a title? Lord Kian has rather a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Kian lifted his head to stare at Garrik, eyes wide.
“If you and Ambris are so inclined,” Garrik continued, “you can reaffirm your handfasting with a royal wedding the same week Jaire and Vayne marry. Ilya and I shall also be speaking our marriage vows that week, so it will be quite the celebration.” Garrik gave his Wytch Master an affectionate look, and Ilya smiled up at him and took hold of the king’s hand.
Ambris stared at Garrik, open-mouthed, as if this was the last thing he was expecting.
Jaire got to his feet and raised his glass. “Our own harvest festival certainly promises to be much more exciting than the Wytch Council’s stuffy Fall Council. To Garrik and Ilya, and to Kian and Ambris. May all these unions forged in love bind the Northern Alliance and help us hold true when the Council tests our resolve, as they surely will.”
Mikhyal raised his glass, and so did Tristin.
“Royal weddings seem to be all the rage this season,” Dirit said, appearing on top of Mikhyal’s plate. “How very tiresome. I suppose you two will be next.”
Mikhyal choked on his wine, and Tristin turned bright red. He barely looked at Mikhyal for the rest of the meal.
When the guests had eaten, they were invited into the Grand Hall, where the orchestra was already playing soft music, and an array of desserts and pastries waited on long buffet tables.
Dirit flitted off to inspect the pastries, and Mikhyal grabbed hold of Tristin’s hand and followed the rest of the guests to watch Jaire and Vayne’s first dance. The two princes proceeded directly to the center of the dance floor, and the music began. The dance was an old, intricately choreographed mirror dance, which had been popular in Vayne’s time, but was rarely performed anymore. It was very romantic, and Mikhyal found himself wondering what it might take to get Tristin to perform such a dance with him.
Jaire and Vayne executed the complex steps flawlessly, their contrasting black and white finery only adding to the drama of the dance. When the music stopped, they bowed to each other, turned and bowed to their guests, then moved into the crowd to claim new dance partners.
“Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” Mikhyal asked Tristin.
Tristin’s eyes went wide, and he pulled his hand away. “I’m not sure that’s… ah… well, I mean… not like that!”
Mikhyal laughed. “No, I don’t imagine any of us will be dancing like that. Not without a lot of practice, anyway.” He looked directly into Tristin’s eyes. “Tristin, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you promised me a dance in the garden at Dragonwatch, but if you’d rather not—”
“It’s not that,” Tristin said quickly, eyes darting away and then lifting cautiously to meet Mikhyal’s once more. “It’s just… well. I’m the bastard son of a traitor, and you’re the heir to the throne of Rhiva. I’m sure you can find someone more suitable to dance with. They’ll gossip, you know, if they see us together, and if your father has any hopes of making any sort of alliance marriage for you, they’ll be—”
Mikhyal shut him up with a kiss.
Tristin stiffened for a moment, and then his arms slowly crept around Mikhyal. He was clearly inexperienced, but just as clearly interested, and eagerly followed Mikhyal’s lead when Mikhyal deepened the kiss.
When Mikhyal finally pulled away, Tristin’s eyes were wide and stunned. “Ah. Yes. Well,” he said softly. “About that dance…”
Mikhyal smiled and led him out onto the dance floor.
* * *
It was just as well the first dance was a slow, romantic one. The complex steps of the mirror dance Jaire and Vayne had performed would have been completely beyond Tristin. He’d never attended a formal dance before, nor had he been given any lessons in his youth. Hidden away from Ysdrach’s Court at Falkrag and later exiled to Shadowspire, he’d never attended any of the formal events that honed the social skills of Skanda’s young nobles.
Mikhyal led, and Tristin did his best to follow. One of his arms was around Mikhyal’s waist, which was nice in some ways, but quite distracting in others. His hand, now damp and warm with nervous sweat, was firmly clasped in Mikhyal’s.
If he’d only had to worry about his hands, he might have managed. But dancing also required the moving of one’s feet, and Tristin couldn’t quite decide what to do with his. As he shuffled about, trying his best not to step on Mikhyal’s boots or tangle their legs, Mikhyal smiled at him.
That bright, happy smile was his undoing. Tristin put his foot down wrong and trod on Mikhyal’s foot. Mikhyal’s arm tightened around him, supporting him as Tristin struggled to regain his balance. Once Tristin had his feet under him, Mikhyal guided him into the next sequence of steps, barely missing a beat. Tristin’s face flamed. He was certain he could hear snickers as they continued their awkward lurch around the dance floor.
By the time the music stopped, he was sweaty, out of breath, and completely flustered. Mikhyal led him off the dance floor to one of the little alcoves around the edge of the Grand Hall. “I’m sorry, Tristin,” he said, before Tristin could apologize for being such a dreadful dance partner. “I never thought. You’ve probably never danced before in your life, have you?”
“Um. Not… well. No. There’s, um, not much call for dancing when you’re locked in a tower like some damsel in a fairy story.” At Mikhyal’s contrite expression, he added quickly, “I’m quite good at languishing in my bed chamber, though. And sighing wistfully as I gaze out the window toward the distant horizon, dreaming of handsome princes.” Aware that he probably sounded ridiculous, Tristin clamped his lips together and vowed to keep a tighter leash on his mouth.
But Mikhyal just gave him a sad smile. “I might have found that amusing if I didn’t know it was the truth. You don’t appear at all comfortable. Why don’t we go back to my suite? My father’s busy holding court from an armchair in the corner over there. He’s not going to need me. I can fetch us a bit of dessert from the buffet table and we can go and enjoy it away from all these prying eyes, ai?”
Tristin could hardly believe Mikhyal still wanted to spend time with him after he’d so spectacularly failed to deliver the promised dance. “I… um… yes,” he said shyly, ducking his head. “I… I’d like that.”
“Right,” Mikhyal said in a conspiratorial tone, “you wait here, and I’ll go and steal us something to sustain us. What do you like best?”
“Cream puffs,” Tristin said promptly. “Oh… and blackberry tarts, if there are any.”
“Excellent choices.” Mikhyal grinned. “I’ll return shortly. If I’m captured, I shall endeavor to stuff all the evidence in my mouth and swallow it before they can wrest it from me.”
Tristin returned the grin as his mind conjured an image to go with Mikhyal’s stated intention. “If you are captured, my prince, they’ll not get a word out of me.”
“Good man. Wish me luck.” Mikhyal turned to scan the crowd. “It appears I shall have to cross this rather perilous ballroom filled with enemy agents disguised as revelers.” He stepped out of the alcove, looked both ways, and made his way with exaggerated caution to the dessert table. Tristin stifled a giggle as Mikhyal stopped halfway to the table and looked about furtively. He turned back to Tristin, gave him a broad wink, and continued on his way.
Still fearing himself to be a source of speculation that Mikhyal really couldn’t afford, Tristin stepped back into the shadows to wait.
“He seems quite taken with you.”
Tristin looked around to see Dirit clinging to the curtain at the side of the alcove. “Good evening, Dirit. I wondered where you’d gotten to.”
“Oh, well, His Royal Bossiness has set me to watching over his father, who is currently being guarded by four large, well-armed men who hardly need my help. This dance is turning out to be far more tiresome than I’d anticipated.” The little dragon’s lip curled. “I shall never understand the fascination you humans have with your social conventions. Rules for everything. What you must wear, how you must walk, how you must drink your tea. It’s all quite—”
“Frivolous?” Tristin guessed.
“Pointless.” Dirit flattened his ears. “Where I come from, if something doesn’t like the way you’re doing something, you either get mythe-whacked or set on fire. Or, if you’re really unlucky, eaten. Usually before you can apologize.” A delicate shudder rippled over the little dragon’s body, beginning with an eyebrow twitch and working its way down to the tuft at the end of his tail.
“That sounds rather unpleasant,” Tristin ventured.
“It is, but it does guarantee that the truly hopeless don’t survive long enough to be a bother to the rest of us. That was a very interesting dance you were doing. Does it have a name?”
Tristin’s face had only just cooled down, but now his cheeks burned again. “Ah. No. Not… not really. I’ve… not had very much practice, you see.”
“Well, His Royal Gallantness doesn’t seem too bothered. He’s all ready to take you back to his lair and have his evil way with you.”
Now Tristin’s ears were on fire, too. “Oh,” he said faintly. “Is he? I hadn’t really… I’ve tried to explain to him why that would be a terrible idea. I mean, it isn’t proper for him to let himself be seen in public with me. I’m not at all respectable. Not with my family history. He doesn’t listen, though.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Dirit. “As I said, he’s quite taken with you. I must admit, I’m rather intrigued to see what happens next.”
A feeling of dread crept over Tristin. “You’re not going to, um… watch, are you?”
“Why?” Dirit blinked at him, one furry eyebrow twitching. “Will there be something to see?”
“I don’t… ah, that is—”
“My curiosity is now most assuredly piqued, Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed. Perhaps morning shall find you prince of another sort of bed entirely.”
“Mission accomplished!” Mikhyal sounded triumphant as he entered the alcove holding a large plate loaded with cream puffs, blackberry tarts, and crispy little sugar-biscuits. “Is Dirit here? I thought I caught a glimpse of him as I was returning.”
Tristin glanced about, but there was no sign of the little dragon. “He was. He’s gone now. He was harassing me, as usual.”
“Well, I’ve asked the little monster to keep an eye on my father. We’ll have the suite to ourselves.”
“W-we will?” Tristin stammered, becoming flustered all over again at the thought of the rumors that would spread if anyone should catch sight of them leaving the dance together. He ought to plead a headache and retire to his own suite, but… he liked Mikhyal, and he’d had so few friends in his life. So instead of offering up an excuse, he returned Mikhyal’s smile with a tentative one of his own. “I… I think I’d like that.”
Since Drannik was at the celebration, most of the guardsmen Garrik had provided were busy watching over him, leaving only two on duty outside the suite. Mikhyal invited Tristin in and set the plate of pastries on a low table in the sitting room.
“Would you like some dessert?” Mikhyal asked. “Or can I get you a glass of spirits?”
“D-dessert would be n-nice.” A glass of spirits was the last thing he needed. His tongue was already problematic enough; the Dragon Mother only knew what sort of nonsense would come flying out of his mouth if he dared have a drink of anything stronger than watered wine.
While Mikhyal went to the sideboard for dessert plates, Tristin took a moment to loosen the laces of his shirt. It was a warm evening, and the Grand Hall had been hot and stuffy with all those people packed elbow to elbow for the dancing. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the narrow couch, acutely aware of every sensation: the slight tightness of the new boots he wore, the stiff, starched linen of his shirt, the prickle of unease rippling through his middle.
Mikhyal handed Tristin a plate holding a huge cream puff.
“Thank you,” Tristin whispered, staring down at it. Was he expected to eat it? And talk at the same time? Or should he leave it until he was finished talking? What did one talk about with a royal heir when one had been invited to said heir’s suite while everyone else was still at the dance?
Had anyone seen them leave together?
Aio’s teeth, what would it do to Mikhyal’s reputation if they had been seen? Word would spread through the Court like wildfire.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Tristin blurted out.
“Why ever not?” Mikhyal asked.
Tristin risked a glance up. A frown marred Mikhyal’s handsome features, and he was immediately sorry for having put it there. “I don’t mean I don’t want to be here, just that it might not be a good idea, I mean people will talk, and I’m quite sure they all saw us leaving the ballroom, they might have even seen me talking to Dirit, I forget sometimes that not everyone can see him, and there I was happily chatting away to him, and you wouldn’t want people thinking you were doing anything untoward with—”
Mikhyal took the plate from Tristin and set it on the table, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Tristin’s in a soft, chaste kiss.
“Oh.” Tristin said when Mikhyal finally pulled back to stare into his eyes. “That was nice.”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” Mikhyal whispered. “I’m only interested in what you think.”
Tristin swallowed. “I think… I think I might like another of those.”
“The cream puff or the kiss?” Mikhyal teased.
“Can I have both?”
Mikhyal grinned. “Your wish is my command, my prince.”
“I’m not really a—” Tristin never finished his sentence, for Mikhyal leaned over toward the table, dipped a finger into the creamy filling of the pastry, and lifted it to Tristin’s mouth. Tristin froze, mesmerized, as Mikhyal spread the cream over his lips, then leaned closer to lick it off with delicate swipes of his tongue.
The air in the room became close and warm, and Tristin’s clothing felt tight, especially his breeches. He closed his eyes, and when the tip of Mikhyal’s tongue pushed gently at the seam of his lips, he parted them and let out a little whimper.
He’d never done much in the way of kissing, and Tristin had no idea what he was supposed to do. Should he kiss Mikhyal back? Or should he simply sit there and let Mikhyal keep doing all those intriguing things with his tongue? Was he supposed to tilt his head? What if he did and their noses bumped?
Frozen with indecision, Tristin did nothing. Mikhyal didn’t seem to mind. He continued exploring Tristin’s mouth with his tongue. Heat pooled low in Tristin’s belly as he hesitantly poked his own tongue out. It stroked Mikhyal’s, and Mikhyal let out a little moaning sound as he finished licking the cream from Tristin’s lips.
When Mikhyal had thoroughly explored Tristin’s mouth, he drew back, pale eyes burning. “You were saying?” he whispered.
Had he been saying something? Tristin’s thoughts were so scattered, he couldn’t recall. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to repeat his own name, if asked. “Yes?”
A smile played about the corners of Mikhyal’s mouth. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I liked that, and yes, I’d like some more, please,” he said without thinking.
“Good.” Mikhyal pulled him into his arms and kissed him again.
Tristin lost himself in that kiss. It was everything he’d ever dreamed a kiss could be. Sweet and gentle, but it set off a yearning heat deep inside him. Tristin might be inexperienced, but he was a quick study, and it wasn’t long before he was making hesitant overtures of his own. His hands wandered across Mikhyal’s broad back. It was difficult to feel the contours of his body beneath the layers of formal clothing. What would it feel like to touch Mikhyal’s bare skin?
As his hand traveled lower, he wondered if he dared try to loosen the prince’s shirt. He’d just about worked up the courage to start tugging it free from the waist of Mikhyal’s breeches when Dirit’s voice hissed in his ear, “The Wytch King is heading this way!”
Mikhyal cursed as they pulled apart. “How far away is he?”
“He just left the ballroom,” Dirit said, flitting up to perch on top of the tall bookshelf from which he commanded a view of the entire main room of the suite.
“I… I sh-should really b-be going,” Tristin stammered.
“You don’t need to leave,” Mikhyal said. “Whom I entertain is my own business.”
“Yes, well… it’s also the business of the entire C-Court.”
Mikhyal sighed and straightened his clothing, and Tristin did the same. He’d only just finished when the door of the suite opened and Wytch King Drannik entered, looking pale and tired.
“You may have been right, Mikhyal,” the Wytch King said sourly. “Perhaps attending the ceremony and the dance was a bit much.”
Mikhyal moved to his father’s side. “Do you need any help, Father?”
Drannik tried to shrug Mikhyal off, but Mikhyal insisted on seeing the king to his bed chamber. He shot Tristin an apologetic look, and mouthed, Tomorrow.
Tristin nodded and took the opportunity to slip away, hoping his presence in the suite wasn’t going to cause problems for Mikhyal. He returned to his own rooms by way of the Grand Hall, and hung about on the fringes of the gathering, just in case anyone who had seen them leave together was watching to see if either of them returned.
By the time he arrived in his bed chamber, he was too tired to do much more than fall into bed.