Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  He’d been at it for nearly a week, and every muscle in his body burned and ached. Ilya said it was a good ache, and that as time went on, the pain would fade and his strength would increase. Already, his stamina was improving; each day he was able to work a little longer than the day before. Seeing the labor of his own hands slowly take shape was enough to spur him on. In another day or two, he might finish the walls and begin hauling the dirt he would need to fill it.

  A cool mountain breeze brushed his skin, and Tristin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The sharp scent of the fir trees covering the lower slopes filled the air, softened by the lighter, sweeter notes of the pink and white flowers planted in the already established flower beds around the courtyard.

  When he’d been imprisoned in Shadowspire, he’d never been allowed outside. Not that there had been much of an outside to enjoy; located deep in the Iceshards, the tower of glittering black mythe-stone was surrounded by snow, ice, and bare rock, even in high summer. Once Tristin had arrived there, he’d never left. Fifteen years, he’d been confined to the same suite of rooms, and during that time, he’d seen no one, unless one counted the myriad hallucinations that kept him company, punctuated by rare, perfunctory visits from Wytch Master Mordax.

  Here, at Dragonwatch, there were real people to talk to, though it was not so crowded that he found it overwhelming. At the moment, there were only himself, Master Ilya, Kian and his husband Ambris, Alys the housekeeper, and a few guardsmen. Tristin had come to know all of them during the long weeks of his recovery.

  A piercing, draconic cry of pure joy sounded in the distance, and Tristin opened his eyes to see a dragon winging its way up the slope. Pale, opalescent scales gleamed in the sunlight. The magnificent creature soared high in the air and executed a flawless loop before swooping low over the courtyard. It circled and touched down lightly just beyond the arched stone entrance, then shifted smoothly into a pale, slender young man with white-blond hair hanging to his waist.

  Blushing a charming shade of pink, Prince Jaire of Altan passed through the archway into the courtyard in all his naked glory. He flashed a shy smile at Tristin as he passed. “Good afternoon, Cousin.”

  Tristin returned the smile as Jaire headed straight for the wooden chest by the main door. “And to you, Your Highness.”

  Jaire wrinkled his nose. “Don’t Your Highness me, Tristin. We’re cousins and friends, and I shall have none of this standing on ceremony.” He gave Tristin a rueful smile as he bent to rummage through the chest. “I was so busy thinking about coming to see you and wondering how far you’d gotten on your flower bed that I forgot to bring some clothes with me. They’re still lying in a heap on top of the north tower.”

  “Ilya’s probably got something in his suite that would fit you,” Tristin suggested. “I think you’ll find him in his study.”

  “This will do.” Jaire pulled a green cloak from the chest and wrapped it around himself. “I’ve had quite enough of clothes for today. Mistress Nadhya accosted me outside the dining room after breakfast, and I spent the entire morning standing in her fitting room in that ridiculous piece of frippery they want me to wear for the betrothal ceremony. That woman must have worked in the dungeons at some point, though Garrik swears up and down she’s never set foot in them. I’m certain he’s lying; she enjoys poking me with her pins far too much.”

  Tristin laughed at that. After having no one to talk to for so long, he found Prince Jaire’s company quite enjoyable. Jaire was always happy and bright, and he did most of the talking, which took the burden of thinking of something to say off of Tristin.

  “This is really coming along,” Jaire said as he came to inspect Tristin’s work on the flower bed. “Did they really make you carry all those stones by yourself?”

  “Every single one of them. They said it would be good for me.”

  Jaire wrinkled his nose. “The same way eating horrible vegetables is good for you, I suppose.”

  “They’ve even got the guardsmen in on the plot,” Tristin said mournfully. “They’re allowed to watch and talk to me if they like, but they mustn’t lift a finger to help unless I hurt myself.”

  “You’ll have to fake an injury, then,” Jaire said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Though I suppose with three healers here, there’s not much chance of getting away with that. I’d stay and help you if I could, but Master Ristan’s got the afternoon reserved to go over all the etiquette for the betrothal ceremony with me and Vayne. We have to learn all the official titles of the guests, and who outranks whom. At least I already know most of them. Poor Vayne doesn’t know anyone except the family. Honestly, I shall be glad when it’s over. Do you think you’ll be able to come?”

  Tristin swallowed. Jaire and Vayne had saved both his life and his sanity, and he owed it to them to make every effort to attend their betrothal celebration. But Castle Altan was old enough that every stone must be soaked with the emotional resonances left by countless generations of Wytch Kings and their families and servants. Without anzaria — which Master Ilya would not allow him to have under any circumstances — he wouldn’t be able to bear it. Not when a single touch of his foot to the floor was enough to overwhelm him with all the toils and travails of those who had walked the halls before him.

  “It’s only three weeks away, isn’t it?” Tristin asked.

  “Ai, and it can’t come soon enough for me. Will you come? Please?”

  “I’d very much like to, Jaire,” he said gently, “but the last thing you want on your special day is your bastard cousin with the traitorous father tripping all over the dance floor and causing all manner of scandalous talk.”

  Jaire’s face fell. “You always think everything will turn into a disaster if you’re there. It won’t, you know.”

  Tristin immediately regretted his offhand remark. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended, Cousin. I didn’t mean to. I’m afraid being locked up alone for so long has made my sense of humor a bit too dark for polite company. I… I’ve learned to make light of difficult things because if I did not laugh at them, I should surely weep.”

  At Jaire’s look of alarm, Tristin continued quickly, “At any rate, I really would like to be there at your betrothal, but until I’ve learned the patterns to protect myself, I don’t think I could bear it. Ilya tried to start teaching me last week, but it’s not going very well. He thinks I just need some time to settle in, but… I rather doubt I’ll be ready by the ceremony. I am sorry.”

  Already a diplomat at the tender age of twenty, Jaire covered his disappointment quickly with a smile that looked only a shade too bright to be real. “That’s all right. I understand. Surely you’ll have managed it by the wedding, though. That’s not until after the harvest, and it will be ever so grand! Ilya and Garrik are getting married the same week. There will be parties every night, with entertainments and dancing. And Mistress Nadhya’s making me a different suit of clothes for every one of them.”

  “And you’ll have to endure numerous fittings for each one, no doubt,” Tristin said. “I’m sure Mistress Nadhya can barely contain her excitement at the prospect.”

  Jaire scowled and opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. The color drained from his cheeks, and he clutched his head. “Aio’s teeth,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Whoever’s caught in the middle of that is in trouble…”

  “The middle of what?” Tristin asked.

  But Jaire didn’t answer. Still clutching his head, he dropped to his knees and let out a low moan. Tristin leapt to his feet. Visions of flame and violence locked in the stones beneath him pushed into his mind, and he gritted his teeth. He’d only taken two steps toward Jaire when the prince slumped over and fell limp on the flagstones. Sweat broke out on Tristin’s body as he fought to stay calm in the midst of the chaos of the ancient battle his mind insisted on showing him. With a whimper, he struggled to lift Jaire. The prince was quite a bit smaller than Tristin, but even after several days of lugging rocks, Tristin still could
n’t manage Jaire’s slight weight.

  He was debating whether or not he should leave the prince alone and go for help when Ilya burst into the courtyard. “What’s happened?” he asked, moving to help Tristin.

  “I don’t know,” Tristin said as he helped Ilya lift Jaire onto the bench. The Wytch Master knelt beside the prince, eyes unfocusing as he examined Jaire’s mythe-shadow with his healer’s sight.

  Tristin stepped back out of the way and shifted from foot to foot as he sought a comfortable spot to stand on. He recalled a spot he’d noted just yesterday, next to that fine crack in the darker flagstone — a place where the empathic impressions weren’t quite so strong — and moved over to it, sighing with relief as the noise faded into the background once more.

  “We were talking,” he explained to Ilya, “and all of a sudden, Jaire stopped and clutched his head as if he was in pain. He said whoever was caught in the middle of it was in trouble. I’m not sure what he meant, though.”

  “Something stirring in the mythe. I felt it too, though obviously not as keenly as Jaire did. Whatever it is, it’s a long way off.” Ilya placed a hand on Jaire’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

  At Ilya’s touch, Jaire stirred, eyes fluttering open. He stared about, looking quite lost. A few moments later, his eyes widened, and he clutched at Ilya’s robe. “Ilya, they’re hurt! We must go and help!”

  “Who is hurt? And where?” Ilya asked. “I sensed a disturbance, but nothing specific.”

  “I… I don’t know. There was a clearing… and men with swords. Some of them wore Rhiva’s colors. I felt… fear and pain and… and…” He stared at Ilya, pale grey eyes huge. “A storm in the mythe. A storm of blood and death. It was horrible…”

  “A battle?” Ilya looked grim.

  “It felt like something more than a battle,” Jaire said. “Like the mythe itself had been stirred into a terrible storm. There are people hurt… I can still feel the echoes of it. Can’t you feel it, Ilya? Like the ripples on a pond when a stone is dropped into still water…”

  “I cannot feel anything of the sort, Jaire,” Ilya said gravely, “but if men of Rhiva are in need, it is our duty to go to their aid.”

  “I can guide you to them,” Jaire said. “It’s that way.” He pointed east, across the river valley that formed the border between the kingdom of Altan and its ally, Irilan.

  Ilya turned toward the valley, eyes unfocused. After a short time, he frowned and shook his head. “I still sense nothing, but you are much more sensitive to such things than I. I’ll fetch Kian. Wait here.”

  “You’re going?” Tristin asked. “Is Jaire all right to fly?”

  “He is shaken, but otherwise sound,” Ilya said, stripping out of his clothes right there in the courtyard. “And as I cannot sense the echoes of the disturbance, Jaire is the only one who can lead us to those who are in need of our aid. Alys is in the kitchen, Jaire. Go and ask her to pack some food for us to take with us. Depending on what we find, it may be a number of hours before we can return.” Ilya strode through the stone arch. He didn’t break stride, not even as he shifted, and quickly took wing.

  Jaire stared after the lithe silver-blue dragon gliding down to the castle.

  “Are you all right?” Tristin asked.

  “I’m fine,” Jaire said, sounding much stronger now. “As Ilya said, a bit shaken. That surge at the beginning was the strongest thing I’ve ever felt in the mythe. I’m surprise Ilya only got a whisper of it. I suppose I’d better go and see Alys about some food.”

  “At least let me help you up.” Tristin offered Jaire his arm. “You still look a bit unsteady.”

  “I’ll be all right.” He accepted Tristin’s help, though, and rewarded him with a rueful smile. “When I said I wanted to escape Master Ristan’s etiquette lessons, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  * * *

  Tristin stood in the courtyard next to the dark flagstone with the hairline crack, eyes fixed on the eastern sky. The purple shadows of twilight crept across the flagstones, and the first stars of evening were just visible. Of the three dragons who had taken off from the top of the watchtower earlier in the day, there was no sign.

  Shifting his gaze to the tower, Tristin contemplated climbing to the top. The view from the flat rooftop would be much better, but he’d promised Ilya he wouldn’t shift while he was gone, and he didn’t think he was ready to face the violence of the empathic resonances absorbed by the worn stone steps. The watchtower was far worse than the courtyard, and even if he could reach the top, he’d still have to come down again.

  “Alys says dinner’s ready.”

  Tristin started and turned to see Ambris, the gentlest of the healers who’d been caring for him, approaching. He wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, and started to say so, but the words died in his throat as he recalled his promise to Jaire that he would do his best to be well enough to come to the prince’s wedding in the fall. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Ambris.”

  Ambris pursed his lips, as if he’d guessed the direction of Tristin’s thoughts. “I’d be happy to keep you company if you’d like,” he offered.

  Only a few weeks ago, Tristin would have refused, unused to spending time with anyone who wasn’t a figment of his drug-addled imagination, and unwilling to put himself on display. But Ambris had been there while he’d been deep in the throes of withdrawal. Ambris had already seen him at his worst, but still treated him as if they might be friends.

  “I’d be glad of your company, if you think you can stand mine,” Tristin ventured. “It’s been rather strange, not having any hallucinations to talk to.”

  “I’m sure I can manage to be a bit more interesting than a hallucination,” Ambris said with a gentle smile.

  Tristin turned his head to glance up at the sky one more time, and when he looked back at Ambris, the healer’s pale gold eyes had also turned skyward. “It’s early yet, to expect them back,” Ambris said mildly. “If there was a battle of some sort, there will surely be injuries to see to.”

  “Of course,” Tristin said, and turned to follow Ambris inside to his small suite. “Jaire did say he thought there were people injured.”

  Dragonwatch had never been intended to house a large number of students, and only contained half a dozen suites. Ilya kept permanent rooms here, and Ambris and Kian had been using the suite next door to Tristin’s, as they’d spent a fair amount of time here in the weeks since Tristin’s arrival.

  They settled at the small table in Tristin’s sitting room, and Alys soon brought in their dinner. She’d done a roast with tender baby carrots and new potatoes sprinkled with herbs and butter.

  “Thank you, Alys,” Tristin said. “This looks wonderful.”

  Alys set her hands on her hips. “Master Ilya left instructions that you were to clean your plate, m’lord, so I shall be reporting to him upon his return.”

  “If Master Ilya is so intent upon my plate being cleaned,” Tristin said, “perhaps we should await his return so he can witness it for himself.”

  “You’ll not be getting out of eating your dinner that easily,” Alys told him, twinkling brown eyes belying her otherwise stern expression. She turned to Ambris and added, “And you’re not to be eating it for him, brother, or you’ll be for it, as well.”

  Ambris laughed. “As if I would dare! Worry not. I’ll see that he eats. I shall have Ilya to answer to if I don’t!”

  “And me,” Alys said, giving Tristin another stern look. “I’m on to your tricks, m’lord, so don’t think you’ll be slipping it out the window, either.”

  “Why, Alys,” Tristin teased, “I’m shocked and hurt that you think me capable of such duplicitous behavior.”

  “After last week’s attempts to get out of eating, I’d not put anything past you,” she said drily. “Master Ilya said you were clever, but I’ll warn you right now — I’m cleverer.”

  Ambris laughed again, and when Alys had gone, Tristin said, “I didn’t realize she was
your sister. You look nothing alike.” Ambris was pale and blond, with intriguing golden eyes, but Alys, with her dark brown hair and eyes and her dusky, dark gold skin, looked almost like a female version of Kian.

  “Sister by marriage,” Ambris clarified, taking a bite of roast. “She’s the eldest of Kian’s younger sisters.”

  “How many sisters does he have?” Tristin asked. Hidden away at Falkrag with his mother, who had scandalized Ysdrach’s Court by having a clandestine affair with the late Prince Vakha of Altan, Tristin had never had siblings. He couldn’t imagine what it might have been like growing up with other children.

  “Three,” Ambris said. “Two younger, one older. And an older brother. I’ve often envied him his family. They truly enjoy one another’s company, and seem to genuinely care for one another. My own family is… well. I have two elder brothers, but I’ve not seen either of them in years. And my father…” Ambris trailed off, shaking his head. “He’s coming for the betrothal ceremony, which means I shall be staying here in hiding for the duration. I hate to miss it, as I’m very fond of Prince Jaire, but the last thing I want to do is make things awkward for Garrik. It’s best for all concerned if my father continues to believe I’m dead.”

  Ambris looked so grim, Tristin didn’t quite dare ask any of the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said, “Jaire very much wants me to be there, too. He asked me again this morning. I felt dreadful telling him I couldn’t, but after my last lesson with Ilya, I just don’t think I can.”

  “You aren’t ready,” Ambris said, expression softening. “You’re still not completely recovered from the withdrawal. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you haven’t picked up shielding yet. You’re under a great deal of stress, you know. Not just the physical stress of the withdrawal, but the mental stress of having your whole world turned upside down. It’s no wonder you can’t focus. Do you want me to have a word with Jaire?”