“Absolutely not.” Garrik’s black eyes narrowed as he stared down Wytch King Drannik across the breakfast table.
They’d finished eating, and Mikhyal was itching to leave, but his father was not happy with the travel arrangements.
“There have been two attacks and no culprit yet found.” Garrik’s tone was perfectly reasonable, but his expression was implacable. “My soldiers will escort you all the way to the palace. This is not negotiable, Drannik. I would be remiss in my duty as your host and your ally if I were to allow you to return to your home unprotected.”
“If your dragon warriors escort us home,” Drannik explained patiently, “then you tip our hand to Wytch Master Anxin, and through him, the Council.”
“Assuming it hasn’t already been tipped,” Garrik said drily.
“They may soon know of the Northern Alliance, but we can hope they do not yet know of our plans for a dragon army.” Drannik looked to Mikhyal for support, but Mikhyal was torn. He wanted his father protected on the journey home, but giving away their advantage to the Council before they were ready would be a terrible mistake.
Drannik rolled his eyes at his son, and continued, “If we are to have any chance of taking them by surprise, we must act under the assumption that the Council still knows nothing of the dragon army, which means Wytch Master Anxin cannot be alerted.”
Garrik regarded him with a faint frown. “You will be arresting Anxin upon your return. Ilya gave you the blood-chain that will prevent him from using his power, did he not?”
“He did, and given the opportunity, I will use it,” Drannik said. “But there is no guarantee I will have the opportunity.”
“And that is precisely why I will not loan you horses to make an overland journey. It is not safe. Whoever is behind these attacks waited until you were on the road, and then tried again here. My mind is made up. You will return home on dragonback with an escort, or not at all. What if you return to find your palace overrun with Council troops?”
“There hasn’t been time,” Drannik said. “Shaine is not a skilled enough rider to make the journey in less than ten days. We may even arrive before he does.”
“Regardless, I will see you safely home,” Garrik said.
Before Drannik could open his mouth to argue, Mikhyal said, “What about a compromise? We travel on dragonback until we reach the estate at Brightwood. That will take, what, about eight hours? And then it’s only a two-hour ride from there to the summer palace. At the estate, we can switch to horses, and you and your dragon warriors can head home, or spend the night and head out in the morning. There are guardsmen stationed at the estate, and they can escort us the rest of the way home in safety.” He looked from Drannik to Garrik. “Would that suit you both?”
“I would remind you that the first attack occurred within the borders of Rhiva,” Garrik said.
Dirit hopped down from his perch on Mikhyal’s shoulder and minced across the table toward the pastry tray, where he materialized and addressed Garrik. “I would remind Your Most Gracious Majesty that I will see to it that the Wytch King of Rhiva and his heir come to no harm. It is my sacred task to protect them, after all. The presence of you and your dragon warriors, while a most appreciated gesture, is entirely superfluous.”
“Thank you, Dirit,” Mikhyal murmured.
With a sharp nod, the little dragon settled himself on his belly, head between his outstretched front legs, and gazed longingly at the blackberry tarts.
Garrik burst out laughing. “Well said, Master Dirit. I suppose I cannot argue with a creature who leaves naught but a pile of clean-picked bones behind when those he watches over are in danger. Go on, help yourself to a tart. I know you’re quite partial to them.”
Dirit sat up very prettily and bobbed his head respectfully. “Why, thank you, Your Most Gracious Majesty. I don’t mind if I do.”
And with that, the little dragon proceeded to devour three blackberry tarts in very short order. When he’d finished his meal, he carefully groomed his claws and whiskers, much to the amusement of everyone around the table.
“Very well,” Garrik said finally. “A compromise, and only because you have such a fierce and valiant little defender. We will escort you as far as Brightwood, and leave you in Dirit’s very capable claws for the remainder of the journey.”
Dirit made a very proper bow and faded from sight.
Garrik turned to Mikhyal. “I’ve taken the liberty of having a harness made for you for times when you might wish to travel in dragon form. I believe it is waiting for you in your suite.”
“Thank you, Garrik. That’s very kind of you,” Mikhyal said. “I’d never have thought of that myself.”
Back in their suite, Mikhyal and Drannik packed their things in the saddlebags Kian and Garrik would carry. Eager for any excuse to use his new abilities, Mikhyal would have preferred to make the flight in shifted form. Drannik, however, was adamant about keeping Mikhyal’s transformation a secret until after Anxin had been dealt with.
When he’d finished packing, Mikhyal examined the harness Garrik had sent up for him. It was identical to those used by Garrik’s dragon warriors, with places to attach saddlebags and a cleverly designed holder that would accommodate a sheathed sword and sword belt.
“A handsome gift for a dragon commander,” Drannik said, fingering the neatly stitched leather.
“As was the transformation,” Mikhyal murmured. “What will they be saying at home, do you suppose? Surely there will be rumors about Dirit’s performance during the bandit attack. Shaine knew all about it, although he seemed to be under the impression that my Wytch power had awakened. When I told him it hadn’t, he said Anxin would want to investigate.”
“Anxin will have difficulty investigating anything with a blood-chain locked around his scrawny neck.” Drannik’s smile was grim. “And as for rumors, the only witnesses were the King’s Guard, and I forbade them to speak of what they saw.”
A knock sounded at the suite door. Mikhyal opened it to find Tristin standing in the hallway. “I’ll just be a minute, Father,” he called, and didn’t wait for an answer before slipping out to join Tristin. The two of them walked a little way down the hall, out of earshot of the guards.
“I, ah, just wanted to see you once more before you leave,” Tristin said quietly, cheeks going pink. “I imagine it will be some time before we can see one another again. If there’s a war—”
Mikhyal stopped and pressed a finger gently to Tristin’s lips. “There will be a war,” he said quietly. “I fear we cannot avoid it at this point. But our hope is that we can win it quickly and decisively.”
“And if you cannot?”
“I will find a way to come and see you. I’ll be commanding my troops in the field, but that does not mean I cannot slip away now and then. I am not waiting until the end of the conflict to see you again.”
Tristin managed a tremulous smile.
Mikhyal leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We will be together again before you know it,” he whispered.
“I hope so,” Tristin whispered back, and flung his arms around Mikhyal before tearing himself away and hurrying off down the hall.
Mikhyal stared after him, fingers pressed to his lips, and wished with all his heart that the conflict was over and those he cared for were all safe.
* * *
The afternoon sun was warm as Mikhyal, Drannik, and their escort made their way toward the summer palace from Drannik’s Brightwood estate later that day. Garrik had clearly been torn about leaving them, and once they’d arrived at Brightwood, he’d renewed his arguments of the morning. In the end, Dirit had materialized and convinced him that he could remove any threat much faster than the Wytch King could, and without the risk of accidentally roasting those he was trying to protect.
The journey had been uneventful thus far, but they were nearing the palace, and despite his assurances to Mikhyal, Drannik was clearly becoming nervous.
When the narrow track through the forest widened enough, he brought his horse up alongside Mikhyal’s and said in a low voice, “I don’t suppose you can send Dirit ahead to check the palace?”
“Alas, no. He doesn’t have that kind of range. When the sword was in our suite at Castle Altan, he could only roam as far as the edge of the castle grounds.”
“Unfortunate. They’ll have seen us by the time we get that close.”
“Dirit will serve us better if he stays nearby,” Mikhyal said. “He’s been patrolling our immediate surroundings ever since we left Brightwood, you know.”
“Has he?”
“Every so often, he comes to perch on my shoulder to assure me that all is well.”
Drannik nodded and lapsed into thoughtful silence.
Mikhyal dared not bring up the possibility of facing an armed force at the palace. He was certain his father was already brooding upon the possibility. Personally, Mikhyal would welcome an open challenge. It would be far less nerve-wracking than having to constantly watch his own back and his father’s.
Did the fact that both of the attacks had occurred far from the palace mean their enemies hadn’t been able to penetrate the palace security? Or was that only what they were meant to think?
Perhaps it would have been better to follow the queen to Castle Rhivana in the mountains. Though Mikhyal loved the summer palace, it wasn’t nearly as secure as the castle. A sprawling, mostly single-level construction of light stone and pale, polished wood, the palace boasted open breezeways and large windows to let in the cool summer breezes of the northern forest. Many of the rooms opened out into courtyards and walled gardens. The entire compound was surrounded by a high, heavily guarded wall, but Rhu had confided in Mikhyal many times that the place was a security nightmare. She hated it, and would much rather have the royal family safe at the castle year round.
Mikhyal was in complete agreement, but he’d given up suggesting it to Drannik, who wouldn’t dream of giving his enemies the pleasure of seeing him run for the safety of his castle like a whipped dog.
As they came in sight of the palace wall, a group of guardsmen rode out to meet them, joining the Brightwood escort. They rode through the main gates and into the courtyard with a clatter of hooves. Shaine awaited them in front of the main doors, Wytch Master Anxin at his side.
A vague feeling of disquiet stirred in Mikhyal’s belly as he swung down from his horse and two men in the uniform of the King’s Guard — men he didn’t recognize — moved closer, as if to assist him.
“Put your weapons down, Mikhyal. And you, Father.” Shaine’s voice was loud and steady, and Mikhyal turned his head to see his brother approaching. Behind him, Anxin stood watching, a small, satisfied smile on his face.
Mikhyal’s hand dropped to the hilt of the Wytch Sword, but Shaine said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. There are crossbowmen on the roof.”
With a sinking heart, Mikhyal looked up to the roof overlooking three sides of the courtyard. At least a dozen men were arrayed around the perimeter, their weapons trained on the king and his son.
“Cooperate, and no one will be hurt,” Shaine said.
“Oh, I think not,” Dirit whispered in Mikhyal’s ear.
“What is the meaning of—” Drannik’s words cut off abruptly as a fog descended over the courtyard.
Screams filled the air, echoing off the stone walls of the palace. Mikhyal could see nothing through the fog. He squeezed his eyes shut and loosened the reins of his borrowed horse, afraid the animal might try to bolt, but the mare didn’t seem at all bothered.
The screaming ceased abruptly. Mikhyal’s breath hitched as he opened his eyes. The men on the roof were gone, and the courtyard was filled with neat little piles of polished bone, gleaming in the sunlight. His father stood not ten paces away, face pale, eyes wide. The guardsmen they’d brought from Brightwood shifted position until they were surrounding Mikhyal and his father, all of them scanning the courtyard for further threats.
In front of the main doors, Wytch Master Anxin sat slumped, the blood-chain Master Ilya had given Drannik locked around his neck. Beside him, on his knees, with his hands bound behind him, was Shaine, eyes wide with shock.
Drannik recovered first. “Go and see what the situation inside is,” he ordered their escort. “Carefully — they may have set up another ambush within.”
“There is no ambush inside, Your Majesty,” Dirit said, materializing on the back of Drannik’s horse. Dangling from one claw was a ring of keys, which he offered to the king. “Not anymore.”
“Thank you, Master Dirit,” Drannik said, taking the keys.
“I have removed the traitors from the palace,” Dirit said. “You’ll want to check the dungeons at your earliest convenience. You’ve quite a few loyal men locked in the cells.”
“You,” Drannik said, pointing to four of the Brightwood guards. “Take the Wytch Master and Prince Shaine to the dungeon, and release the King’s Guard.” He offered the most senior of them the ring of keys.
Both Shaine and Wytch Master Anxin appeared to be in shock. They had to be pulled to their feet and guided into the palace.
Mikhyal choked down bile as he regarded the courtyard. Piles of bone lay everywhere, but there was nothing to distinguish one from another. No clothing, no weapons, in fact, the only thing that seemed to have survived Dirit’s swift, uncompromising defense of the men he was bound to protect was the ring of keys he’d given to the king. How many men loyal to Rhiva had Dirit destroyed in his defense of the royal bloodline?
He glanced over at Dirit and found the little dragon watching him. “Don’t mourn them, Your Highness. They were all Drachan. Council troops, dressed in the uniforms of the King’s Guard.”
“How can you be sure?”
One eyebrow tuft twitched. “They have a certain… flavor.”
Mikhyal’s stomach churned as he moved slowly through the courtyard. “Does Shaine have the same flavor?”
Dirit’s snout wrinkled. “I would have to eat him to find out. Would you like me to?”
“No, Dirit, that won’t be necessary. He’ll be quite safe in the dungeon.”
A few moments later, Rhu arrived, followed by the rest of the King’s Guard. They were all dressed in rumpled, ill-fitting clothing, and Rhu looked furious.
“Your Highness, Your Majesty,” she said, executing a bow. “Thank the Dragon Mother you’re safe. I feared Prince Shaine meant to be rid of you both.”
* * *
“We were drugged,” Rhu said as she stood before the king. She and the rest of the King’s Guard had been given time to tidy themselves and don their uniforms, and now she and her lieutenant, Takla, were reporting to Drannik and Mikhyal in the king’s study. “My best guess is they drugged either the food or the ale we were given for dinner. We woke to find ourselves in the dungeon. That was two nights ago.”
“Two nights?” Mikhyal frowned at Drannik, then at Rhu. “When he arrived in Altan, Shaine told me he’d arrested you before he left the palace.”
“He lied, Your Highness. He made no move here until he returned from Altan, two days ago. Everyone I was able to talk to reported the same experience: a wave of sleepiness, and then nothing until we all woke up in the cells yesterday morning. Anxin’s doing, I’d imagine.”
“I wonder how much Shaine overheard when he was in Altan,” Mikhyal said grimly. “And whether or not he’s sent word of it to the Council yet.”
“If Anxin is involved — and I have no doubts about that — he will not have sent word yet,” Drannik said. “Anxin never notifies the Council of anything he attempts until he is certain of a favorable outcome. And he will not have expected us to arrive this quickly.”
“He may not have expected us to arrive at all,” Mikhyal said. “Why else would Shaine have brought an escort of men I never approved, rather than the King’s Guard? Drachan, I imagine, if the men awaiting us here were any indication. With orders to see us dead. Possibly within the borders of Altan, so Garrik would be blamed.”
“A foul plot, indeed,” Drannik growled.
“Your Majesty, may I speak freely?” Rhu asked, and at Drannik’s nod, continued, “I’ve considered Prince Shaine to be a possible risk to your security ever since the accident last summer. The men of the King’s Guard have observed enough inconsistencies in his behavior to put us on edge. It would not surprise me in the least to learn he was involved in the ambush of the royal caravan.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Rhu.” The king let out a heavy sigh and turned to his son. “Mikhyal, arrange for Anxin and Shaine to be transported to Mir as soon as possible.”
“Very well, Father.” Much as it grieved him, Mikhyal could see no other option; Shaine’s treachery could have undone the Northern Alliance before it had even begun. “Since we have no idea how much Shaine overheard in Altan, and no knowledge of Anxin’s resources here in Rhiva, I will accompany the prison caravan. I can scout ahead in dragon form and protect our men in the event of an attack.”
Rhu turned a speculative eye on him. “Dragon form, Your Highness?”
“Ai. We’d rather not have it leaked to the Wytch Council, but I suppose word of it will get out soon enough.” Mikhyal gave Rhu and Takla a brief overview of the events of the past few weeks: his bond with the Wytch Sword and Dirit, the forging of the Northern Alliance, the attempt on Drannik’s life, and his own transformation.
Rhu’s eyes got wider and wider as the story unfolded.
“It is Garrik’s aim to build an army of dragon shifters,” Mikhyal finished. “We will be accepting volunteers from across the Northern Alliance. I’ll be giving the men a demonstration and asking them to consider volunteering as soon as we’ve delivered Shaine and the Wytch Master to Mir.”
“You’ve had an eventful few weeks, Your Highness,” she said when he’d finished. “I’m pleased to see you’ve managed to survive the experience.” She cast a dubious look at the sword belted to his hip. “I don’t suppose I’ll have to worry about you losing your edge anymore, will I?”
Mikhyal laughed. “No, you won’t. I have quite a fierce little protector right here.” He gave the Wytch Sword an almost affectionate pat. “Now, Father, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change and unpack my things. After that, Captain Rhu, Lieutenant Takla, and I have a prison caravan to organize, so I’ll see you at dinner.”
Drannik’s dark brows drew together. “When do you intend to leave?”
“The sooner the better. By now, Faah will be on his way to Mir. I would not delay the delivery of the Northern Alliance’s first official message to the Council. We’ll let the men have a good night’s sleep to recover from their time in the cells, and leave first thing in the morning.”
“Having only just gained the heir of my choice, I find myself loathe to allow you to put yourself at risk,” Drannik said slowly. “But as your little defender has proved himself so capable, I will not quarrel with you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Mikhyal made his way back to his apartment with Dirit perched on his shoulder. In the bedroom, the little dragon curled up on the bed, watching Mikhyal pack the things he’d need into a small, leather backpack which would be loaded on the supply wagon. As he’d be spending most of his waking hours in dragon form, a few changes of clothing and his weapons should be sufficient.
“Well, at least there’s no argument about whether or not I should accompany the prison carriage to Mir,” Mikhyal said to Dirit.
“Did you expect there to be?” Dirit asked. “As your father said: I’ve proved myself extremely capable. You have nothing to worry about as long as I am protecting you, Your Royal Adventurousness.”
* * *
Mikhyal could hardly bear to watch his brother being led into the courtyard from the dungeons, but as the commander of Rhiva’s army, he didn’t have the luxury of hiding away. He stood stiffly next to his father, whose face was impassive as he watched the prisoners being escorted to the waiting prison carriage.
Shaine shuffled past, blinking in the bright sunlight. His head was bowed, and the guards on either side of him were helping support him. Heavy chains bound his wrists and ankles, and the anzaria he’d been given to prevent him from touching the mythe had clearly left him dazed and dizzy.
When he reached Mikhyal, Shaine lifted his head briefly. His pale green eyes were dull, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Not even a trace of the brother Mikhyal had once loved so fiercely remained in those eyes.
Shaine didn’t speak, which was just as well; Mikhyal had no words to express either his disappointment or his grief. There would be no coming back for Shaine, and the loss of that last tiny flicker of hope was a cruel blow. Shaine’s actions yesterday had crushed any remaining hope Mikhyal might have harbored, leaving him with nothing but the bitter knowledge that the brother he loved was truly lost to him.
Anxin came next, still wearing the blood-chain Ilya had supplied. He, too, appeared defeated and subdued.
Dirit must have sensed Mikhyal’s mood, for the little dragon was nowhere to be seen. The Wytch Sword was nearby, already secured in its place on the harness Rhu had brought out in preparation for Mikhyal’s departure.
Once the prisoners were secured inside the carriage, the guardsmen assigned to escort them mounted up, and the carriage rolled out of the courtyard and onto the road.
“Well, that’s done,” Drannik said as the last of the escort passed through the gates. “You had better have Rhu see to your harness if you still intend to accompany them.”
“I do, but only as far as Mir,” Mikhyal assured his father. “Garrik’s sending a contingent of dragon warriors to take over from there. I should be back within ten days or so.”
“Good.” Drannik embraced him briefly. “Give my regards to Edrun, and then hurry home. There is much work to do. May Aio protect you.”
“And you, Father.”
Drannik left the courtyard, and Mikhyal nodded to Rhu and quickly stripped out of his clothing and shifted. Rhu politely averted her eyes until he snorted at her to let her know he was ready.
She strapped the harness on and checked that the Wytch Sword was properly secured. “You’ll do, Your Highness. Be careful out there. We’re going to need you.”
Mikhyal dipped his head and waited until Rhu had stepped back before launching himself into the air.
* * *
Mikhyal didn’t sleep well that night. He couldn’t stop staring at the prison carriage. Was Shaine also lying awake in the darkness, perhaps regretting the choices he’d made over the past year? Or wasn’t there enough left of the brother he’d loved to feel regret?
Dawn finally arrived, and the men rose from their bedrolls to break camp. Mikhyal dressed quickly and approached Lieutenant Takla.
“Before we get underway again, I’d like to take to the air and scout ahead to check the surrounding forest and make sure nothing’s crept up on us in the night.”
Takla pursed his lips. “Is there any point, Commander? Yesterday you complained of not being able to see anything through the forest canopy.”
“Yes, do listen to the lieutenant,” Dirit counseled from his perch on Mikhyal’s shoulder. “There is no reason to scout. I will be flying ahead of the procession, and I promise you, if anything is hiding in the forest, I will find it and deal with it long before it can threaten you.”
Mikhyal ignored him and focused on Takla. “Ai, but the Wytch Sword can help me with that. I’m afraid you’ll have to indulge me, Lieutenant. I’d never forgive myself if we were caught in an ambush I could have seen if I’d only taken a few minutes to look for it. That’s how they got the drop on us on the way to Altan, you know. They were hidden in the forest, not far from the place we’d stopped for the night.”
The lieutenant looked doubtful, but once Mikhyal had shifted, he helped him into the harness and fastened the straps. Mikhyal stood still and tried to be patient while the complicated leather contraption was draped over him and the straps adjusted so they were comfortable. Finally, Takla was satisfied. He checked the Wytch Sword was secure one last time, then patted Mikhyal on the flank and said, “Good enough.”
Mikhyal swung his head around to glare at Takla, who gave him a sheepish look and a slight shrug.
“Sorry, Commander. When I see you like this, I can’t help but think of you as a rather magnificent steed.”
Uncertain as to whether he should take offense, Mikhyal snorted and took to the air.
Scouting from the air was a grand idea in theory, but the reality had proved to be problematic. For one thing, much of their route toward Mir took them through dense forest. While Mikhyal could keep track of the prison carriage winding its way along the road, he couldn’t see through the dense canopy to either side. Dirit, however, could go wherever he wished, and Mikhyal was relying on the little dragon to tell him if anything lurked beneath the trees.
While Dirit explored the forest below, Mikhyal scanned the treetops for any sign of smoke, or for a clearing where a group of armed men might make camp.
<I’m not seeing anything suspicious from up here,> he reported. <What about you, Dirit?>
<Nothing so far, Your Royal Recklessness.> Dirit’s mind-voice dripped with disapproval. <But I shall be sure to — oh, do watch out!>
The bolt came out of the dense canopy of green, tearing through the delicate membrane of his right wing. A second bolt quickly followed, this one lodging in his chest. The tough hide and the thick layer of muscle underneath it prevented the bolt from piercing his heart, but the pain was enough to cause every muscle in his body to seize up.
Dirit was beside him in an instant, flitting about and chittering away about a crossbowman hidden in the trees. Mikhyal was too busy struggling to slow his descent to wonder why Dirit hadn’t simply eaten the man. He crashed through the canopy, his thick dragon hide protecting him from being impaled by twigs and branches.
The impact with the ground was hard enough to stun him. Worse, the burning cold spreading slowly through his body from the wound suggested he’d been poisoned.
No choice but to shift. If he shifted, he’d heal, though he’d be naked and helpless in his human skin for as long as that took. He dithered for only a few moments before instinct overruled intellect. The shift wasn’t nearly as smooth as usual, and it took longer than it should for him to feel the sharp twigs on the forest floor poking his human skin.
He lay amid a tangle of leather straps, the Wytch Sword underneath him. His wounds had healed in the shift, but the poison was still burning through his veins, and his vision was beginning to blur. Mikhyal vaguely remembered Vayne warning him that while the shift could heal even the most grievous physical injuries, it could neutralize only the simplest poisons.
He started to roll over in an attempt to free the Wytch Sword.
“Don’t move,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Mikhyal looked up to find himself staring at the business end of a crossbow. The man holding it was dressed like a common bandit, though the way he held himself suggested he might be something more. Why in the Dragon Mother’s name hadn’t Dirit dealt with him?
He reached for his center, intending to shift and roast the man, but it was gone. The glowing ball of power burning within him was nowhere to be found.
“Do as he says,” Dirit hissed in his ear. “I cannot help you. I have never encountered a human like this before… all living things have a mythe-shadow… he must have a mythe-shadow, and yet he does not. I cannot eat him for you.”
“Shift again and you’re dead,” the soldier told him.
A heavy paralysis crept through Mikhyal’s limbs and his mind, making everything feel heavy and slow. “What do you want?” he demanded, words slurring as his tongue began to go numb. His attacker said nothing, merely stood there waiting, crossbow pointed at Mikhyal’s chest.
Mikhyal’s mind screamed for action, but his body refused to obey. Soon, a warm lassitude spread over him, dulling his senses and sapping his strength. His mind ceased to protest as the darkness slowly engulfed him.
* * *
“What do you make of this?” Master Ludin held out a limp, torn leaf.
Tristin took it and examined it carefully. “It looks almost as if something’s eaten it. Except…” he peered at it more closely, noting the red, powdery substance at the very edges of the tears. “I don’t think bite marks would have left that red powder along the edges, would they?”
“Very good, m’lord.”
In the two days since Mikhyal and his father had departed, Tristin had spent almost every waking hour in the gardens. When Garrik had first introduced him to Master Ludin, the old man had been quite distressed at the notion that the Wytch King’s cousin meant to get dirt on his royal hands. It had taken the Wytch King himself to reassure Master Ludin that working in the garden was what Tristin wanted, and that the healers were of the opinion that it would help complete his recovery. Once that was understood, Tristin and Master Ludin had become fast friends. But the old man still refused to call Tristin by his name.
“It’s a fungus,” Master Ludin said. “I’ve seen no sign of it on the other plants, so we may have caught it before it can spread. We’ll treat it and keep a careful watch on the rest. I thought this morning I’d show you how to mix a paste we can smear on the leaves to kill the fungus.”
Tristin hesitated for a few moments before asking tentatively, “Would…would smearing it on the leaves of the uninfected plants prevent them from succumbing?”
“It would indeed, and that will be our job this afternoon.”
“Tristin!”
Tristin turned to see Prince Jaire standing at the greenhouse door, his face pale and strained. “What’s wrong, Jaire?”
“We need to talk.” The prince’s gaze flicked to Master Ludin. “Quietly, if you please.”
Tristin excused himself and followed Jaire outside. Jaire shut the greenhouse door, and they’d only gone a few steps before he said, “Dirit’s in trouble.”
Tristin went cold. “What kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know.” Jaire’s voice was high and tense. “He’s frightened and frustrated, but that’s all I can tell.”
“Can you talk to him? When you’re shifted, I mean?”
“No, I tried already. He’s in Rhiva… it’s much too far away. I… I felt something odd yesterday afternoon, but it was there and gone so quick, I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. But this is different. It’s been going on since breakfast, and it’s only getting worse. What if something’s happened to Mikhyal? We have to go to him.”
“Now?” Tristin stared at Jaire. “It will take us all day to get to Rhiva.”
“Yes. If we leave now, we’ll arrive just after dark.”
“Shouldn’t we check with Garrik first? I don’t think—”
“Garrik will have to have a meeting and a committee, and he’ll want discussions and maps and… and I don’t think we can wait.” Jaire bit his lip. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone.”
“You really think it’s that serious?”
“I don’t know,” Jaire said, shaking his head again. “But Dirit’s really frightened, and knowing what he can do, I can’t think of anything much that would frighten him. We must go and help.”
Tristin dithered for only a few moments. If Dirit was in trouble, then it stood to reason that Mikhyal was also in trouble. “Very well. Should we pack anything?”
“What would we bring?” Jaire asked. “Neither of us is any good with weapons. We’re only dangerous in dragon form.”
“Fair point. What about a change of clothes?”
“Mikhyal’s in trouble, and you’re worried about your clothes?”
“No, but think for a moment,” Tristin said. “We can’t land too close to the palace. They won’t be expecting us, and if there’s been a coup of some sort, do we really want to show ourselves to the Council? Better if we land a short distance from the castle, get dressed, and walk the rest of the way. It’ll only take a few minutes for us to fetch some clothing.”
“I’m not going back inside,” Jaire said. “If Ilya sees me, he’ll know something’s wrong. You can fetch clothing for both of us. Pack it in my saddlebags and bring my harness. It’s a long flight, and I’d rather not have to hold a bag in my claws all the way there. I’ll wait for you at Riverwatch.”
Tristin frowned. “Where’s that?”
“The watchtower just across the river from Dragonwatch. It’s all falling apart, so don’t try to land on the roof. I’ll wait for you at the bottom of the tower.” Jaire began unlacing the ties at the neck of his shirt.
Tristin waited for him to undress and shift, then gathered up the prince’s clothing and boots to pack up and bring with him. Jaire launched himself into the air. The trees prevented Tristin from following his progress, but he imagined the prince would be flying as close to the treetops as possible to avoid being spotted.
With a heavy sigh, Tristin started back toward the castle.
* * *
Mikhyal jolted awake. His mind was fuzzy, his mouth was parched, and he was freezing cold. He stared into the dimness and dredged his memory for some hint of where he might be.
He was lying naked in a heap of straw in a stuffy, dark room — no, that lurching motion that kept pushing him against the wall suggested he was in a wagon of some sort…
It all came back to him in a slow cascade of memories: Dirit’s hissed warning, the bolt piercing his chest, his fall through the canopy, the crossbowman standing over him…
He was inside the prison carriage.
And it was moving.
Every rut in the road made the vehicle lurch, sending shards of pain lancing through Mikhyal’s head. His whole body ached, and he rolled over, struggling to find a comfortable position. Straw and dirt stuck to his sweat-slick skin, and something tugged at his neck. It was a slim metal collar, and he shuddered as his fingers slid over smooth, ice-cold stones. This was a blood-chain, probably the very same one they’d locked around Anxin’s neck. It would prevent him from touching the fiery core inside himself and shifting.
Shifting…
His heart stuttered. He’d shifted back to human form on the forest floor after he’d been shot…
Where was the Wytch Sword?
Mikhyal felt about himself, but there was nothing in the carriage but the pile of straw he lay on. Was the deep cold gripping him an effect of the blood-chain? Or was it coming from the increasing distance between himself and Dirit?
Dirit’s absence suggested the latter.
Panicked, Mikhyal scrambled to his knees, groaning as his stiff muscles protested the sudden movement. Where were they taking him? A heavy iron cuff was locked around his ankle and bolted to the carriage floor by a length of chain just long enough to let him crawl to the door. The tiny barred window was too small to allow for much air flow, and he could see nothing but thick forest moving by. Nausea and dizziness forced him back down to the floor.
The light coming in the window was beginning to dim before the bone-jarring motion of the carriage finally changed. Mikhyal was thrown to one side, hitting the wall as the vehicle lurched off the road. Pain shot through his skull, and stars exploded in his head.
By the time the pain receded, the sickening motion had stopped. Someone barked orders to open the carriage, and a key rattled in the lock. Moments later, the door opened, letting in cool, fresh air and dim, evening light.
“Looks all right to me,” an unfamiliar male voice called.
“See that he gets some water. And something to eat, I suppose. He’ll need his strength to answer the Council’s questions.” That voice he knew: Wytch Master Anxin.
“Let me see him.” And that was Shaine. His brother pushed the Wytch Master aside and peered into the carriage, holding up a lantern. Mikhyal blinked at the light, but the fog dragging at his mind made both thought and speech impossible.
“He looks sick.” Shaine frowned. “Are you sure he’s all right?”
“It’s the blood-chain,” Anxin said. “And we dare not remove that.”
Shaine stared down at him, his features softening. He started to reach out. “Mik, I—”
“Shaine.” Anxin’s voice was soft, but Shaine jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Go and wait inside the shelter. I need to speak with your brother alone.”
Shaine handed Anxin the lantern and retreated.
“Get him out,” Anxin ordered.
Still naked, Mikhyal was dragged from the carriage and forced to stand before the Wytch Master, half supported by the men who flanked him.
Anxin’s face betrayed no emotion as he studied Mikhyal with sharp, dark eyes. “What foul weapon did you use to kill my men at the palace? And who gave it to you? Garrik of Altan, was it?”
Mikhyal shook his head and pressed his lips together.
Anxin nodded, and the man his right drove a fist into Mikhyal’s gut. The pain was enough to steal his breath away and bring tears to his eyes. Only the men gripping his arms stopped him from collapsing to his knees.
“You will answer,” Anxin said softly. “If not me, then a Council Inquisitor. And you will tell them everything you know. It will go easier on you if you speak willingly.”
“I would rather die,” Mikhyal ground out.
Anxin laughed. “Oh, no, Mikhyal of Rhiva. Dying is not an option. Not for you.”
If they took him too far from the Wytch Sword, it might be. Should he point that out?
No. He knew too much about the Northern Alliance’s plans. Better to die of mythe-shock on the journey than betray the Northern Alliance in the Council’s dungeons. If Anxin thought it was the effect of the blood-chain, then so much the better.
At another nod from Anxin, Mikhyal was thrown back into the carriage. The door slammed shut, leaving him in near-darkness once more. He curled up in the straw and closed his eyes, shivering with cold. His duty was clear, his only regret that there would be no more dances with Tristin.