by Jaye McKenna
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Tristin said. “He’s disappointed, of course, but he understood. If the courtyard here still gives me headaches, I dread to think what it would be like setting foot in the castle. I doubt I could bear it.”
“I shouldn’t think so. Not until you can protect yourself, at any rate.” Ambris flashed him a quick smile. “Very well, then, you and I shall have our own celebration here while everyone else is down at the castle. I’ll have a word with Alys. I’m sure she’ll make sure we’ve something nice to eat, at least.”
“Are you sure?” Tristin could hardly believe Ambris would want to celebrate with him. “I mean… I just… I’m sure I’m not very good company, and if you’ve something better to do—”
“Tristin,” Ambris said, gently cutting him off. “It’s all right. I really would like to spend the evening with you. I enjoy your company.”
“Oh. Oh. Well.” Pleased beyond words, Tristin flushed and ducked his head. “Um. Thank you, Ambris. That’s… that’s very kind.”
“Now, tell me about your plans for the flower bed you’ve been working so hard to create.”
They finished the meal with a discussion of what flowers might look nice in the new bed. Ambris promised to see if Master Ludin, the royal gardener, had any suggestions, and invited Tristin to come and help him with the herb garden if he felt like taking a break from lugging rocks and dirt.
It was quite late when Ambris finally took his leave, and Tristin felt more encouraged than he had since he’d arrived. Perhaps one day, he would be able to have something approaching a normal life… whatever that was.
For the first time in many years, Tristin fell asleep thinking of what he might do tomorrow, and actually looking forward to waking.
* * *
Dawn was just breaking when terse voices and hurried footsteps in the hallway woke Tristin from a sound sleep. He dressed quickly and eased his door open a crack, peering out in time to see Kian striding down the hall with the limp body of a dark-haired man slung over his shoulder. Behind him came Prince Jaire. Both men were barefoot and dressed in cloaks, and Jaire was dragging a saddlebag in one hand, and had a sheathed sword in the other.
When Jaire caught sight of Tristin hovering in his doorway, he stopped. “Wait until I tell you!” Jaire’s grey eyes were alight with excitement.
“Tell me what?” Tristin asked.
“I was right — something enormous was happening in the mythe. I’m just going to help get Prince Mikhyal settled, and then I’ll be back to tell you all about it.”
Prince Mikhyal?
Tristin didn’t know enough about Skanda’s royal families to have the vaguest notion who Prince Mikhyal might be. He retreated to his room and sat at the table to await Jaire’s return. Alys would doubtless be in with breakfast soon enough; he couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping through this racket, and if they’d brought a prince back with them, the staff would be falling all over themselves, making certain everything was just so.
Hopefully, the prince wouldn’t be staying very long. After years of isolation, Tristin had found it hard enough adjusting to the presence of even the small staff here at Dragonwatch. A royal entourage would be unbearable.
It wasn’t long before Jaire arrived, cheeks flushed pink with excitement. He’d taken a few moments to pull on breeches and a shirt, both rumpled enough that Tristin guessed they’d been crammed into the bottom of one of his saddlebags.
“Alys said breakfast will be ready soon.” Jaire sat down at the table across from Tristin. “She said she’d bring it here, if that’s all right. Ambris is seeing to Prince Mikhyal, and Kian and Ilya have gone off to bed. They’re both exhausted. Kian flew all the way back from Rhiva with Prince Mikhyal strapped to his back, and Ilya spent most of his time healing the wounded. It was—”
“The wounded?” Tristin echoed, heart beating a little faster. “What in the Dragon Mother’s name did you walk into? A battle?”
Jaire grimaced. “The aftermath of one, anyway. Wytch King Drannik’s entourage was attacked on their way here. He’s the king of Rhiva, remember? He and Queen Icera and Prince Mikhyal were coming here for the betrothal. Anyway, it wasn’t so much a battle as a massacre, to hear Wytch King Drannik tell it.”
“Oh, dear.” Tristin couldn’t help but wince. “How… how many people…?”
“Fifteen bandits killed — or at least, that’s what they thought. It was a bit difficult to tell. None of Drannik’s party were killed, although a few of his guardsmen were wounded. Prince Mikhyal saved them all. His Wytch power awakened, and he killed every last one of them. All that was left was their bones!” Jaire’s eyes were wide, and a visible shiver rippled through the young prince. “By the time we got there, they’d cleaned up the battle site, and the guard captain and half the guardsmen had escorted the queen’s entourage and some of the wounded to the nearest village. There wasn’t much left for us to do except, have Ilya and Kian heal the worst of the wounded.”
“Prince Mikhyal killed fifteen bandits? What sort of Wytch power can do that?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Jaire said. “But whatever he did, it was powerful enough that Ilya and I both felt it all the way from Rhiva. Drannik said the bandits ambushed them in a clearing. They were fighting for their lives, when all of a sudden, a fog came down and covered everything. There were screams and flashes of light, and when the fog lifted, all that was left of the bandits were little piles of polished bone, carefully arranged in strange patterns. They found Mikhyal unconscious and suffering from mythe-shock. Drannik thought Mikhyal’s Wytch power must have awakened, and Ilya said that was a possibility, but he’d have to examine him more thoroughly to be sure.”
“So this Mikhyal is what, fifteen or so? He looked a bit big for fifteen, if he’s the one I saw Kian carrying in.”
“No, I think he’s about Garrik’s age,” Jaire said. “Twenty-seven or twenty-eight? It’s been years since I’ve seen him. He’s the eldest of Drannik’s sons, but the Wytch Council wouldn’t consider him for the throne because his Wytch power never awakened. Like your father. And like Garrik, until Master Tevari woke his power. So Mikhyal’s younger brother, Shaine, is the heir now. I suppose that’ll change, once Mikhyal gets control of his power. If he ever does. Well, Ilya will teach him. He’s good at that, though he had to argue with Wytch King Drannik for hours about bringing him here at all.”
“The king didn’t want his son to come here?” Tristin asked. “Why ever not?”
“Well, I think he was a bit worried about having Mikhyal go on dragonback, what with him being in mythe-shock and all. I can understand him being a bit nervous. Kian is quite big, and rather fierce looking, if you don’t know how soft he is underneath. Ilya told Drannik with a Wytch power that deadly, the Wytch Council would send Mikhyal to Dragonwatch anyway, and it would save everyone a lot of time and bother to just bring him here straight away. I thought Ilya was going to have to play Wytch Master and invoke Council Law — he hates doing that — but Drannik did finally see the sense of it. He even agreed to let Kian and Ilya come back for him in a week, so he can escort the queen back to the palace and still get here in time for the ceremony. I don’t think he was looking forward to it, though. He looked a bit green when they were strapping Mikhyal in for the journey. Oh, and there was a sword, too! It glowed in the mythe, and there’s a glowing thread connecting it to Mikhyal. Ilya says it’s a mythe-blade, and Mikhyal is freshly bonded to it, and Drannik didn’t look at all happy about that. He wanted to take it back to the palace with him, but Ilya told him separating Mikhyal from it would kill him, so we brought it with us.”
Tristin listened as Jaire rambled on about his adventure. All that was required of Tristin was the occasional question or murmur of agreement, and he was quite happy to supply that.
Jaire didn’t stop talking until Alys brought breakfast. Tristin watched in amazement as the young man devoured two huge stacks of flat cakes smothered with cream and strawberry jam. T
ristin barely managed a single cake with a light scraping of butter and a drizzle of honey.
When he’d finished his breakfast, Prince Jaire rose and said, “Sorry I can’t stay longer, Tristin, but I need to get some sleep, and I promised Ilya I’d go and report to Garrik as soon as I’d had something to eat.” He hurried off, promising he’d be back just as soon as he could manage it.
After he’d gone, Tristin stacked the plates on the tray and carried them to the kitchen. Alys would probably appreciate the help, what with having an unexpected royal guest to run around after.
With everyone else either asleep or seeing to the new arrival, Tristin found himself at a loose end. Recalling his dinner conversation with Ambris, he thought perhaps he’d go and have a look at the herb garden. While building the new flower bed was satisfying, he found himself longing to get his fingers into the dirt. Working in Falkrag’s gardens had always soothed him, and he’d certainly learned enough from Falkrag’s gardener during his childhood that he’d be able to see what was needed in the herb garden easily enough.
Determined to start immediately, he went straight to his bedroom to change. He stopped in the doorway, brought up short by the sight of a small creature curled up on his pillow. For a moment, he thought it was a little silver cat, but upon closer inspection, he realized it had more in common with one of the dragons than a cat. Its features were certainly draconic, and instead of fur, it was covered in delicate silver scales that glinted in the sunlight.
Unlike the dragon forms of the shifters he knew, this creature had fluffy eyebrow tufts, long, luxurious whiskers, and a flowing, silky mane running halfway down its back.
It couldn’t possibly be real. As Tristin squinted at it, one of its back legs began twitching in a way that reminded him of his uncle’s hunting dogs, running down rabbits in their dreams.
What did a dragon that size dream about chasing?
“You can’t possibly be one of my hallucinations.” Tristin’s voice cracked and wavered. “I’ve not had any of Mordax’s damned drug in weeks.”
“Hallucination?” The creature cracked open gleaming black eyes, twitched its long whiskers, and gave him a flat stare. “Guess again, Human.”
A moment later, it vanished into thin air.
Tristin sank down slowly on his bed, bitter disappointment crushing his chest and tightening his throat. Just last night, Ambris had commented on how well he looked, and how much good working outside was doing him. But the fact that he was hallucinating again suggested that he wasn’t doing nearly as well as Ambris thought.
Was he finally going mad? Or was this just a lingering remnant of his addiction?
Tristin squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment, all he wanted to do was shift into dragon form and flee. It wouldn’t help, though; while it might make him feel better in the short term, he would never learn to stand on his own two feet if he fled at every setback.
So instead of tearing his clothing off and running outside, Tristin rode out the urge to shift, imagining instead Ilya’s cool, soothing voice talking him down: Deep breaths, Tristin. It’s not real. You’re just under too much stress. Ambris even said so last night, and he’s a healer. He would certainly know.
When he opened his eyes again, the bed was still empty, and Tristin breathed a little easier. Perhaps he’d had a bit too much sun yesterday. Or… or perhaps something he’d eaten hadn’t agreed with him.
He’d wear a hat today to protect himself from the sun. And he’d watch what he ate.
There was a simple, logical explanation for this, and it had nothing to do with hallucinations.
Chapter Three
Tristin knelt on a low wooden platform and dragged a hand rake over the dirt in his new flower bed. He’d put the platform together himself after he’d discovered that wood insulated him from the worst of the empathic resonances. It was roughly built and not quite square, but Tristin was rather proud of his first attempt at carpentry. Better yet, it seemed to be helping; his headache today was barely noticeable.
The sun was warm on his back, and he paused in his work to wipe the sweat from his brow. The last few days had been more peaceful than he might have guessed. In the cold light of day, he’d managed to convince himself that the little dragon he’d thought he’d seen was simply the product of an overwrought imagination. Too much stress, he’d decided; Ambris had suggested as much the other night.
So Tristin had thrown all his energy into working in the garden, and it seemed to be helping. The rich smell of the earth calmed him, bringing to mind some of the few happy memories of his childhood. Getting his fingers into the dirt was satisfying in a way that nothing else was. Today, he felt more in tune with his body than he had since his arrival. He’d slept deeply and well last night, and best of all, he’d had no more hallucinations of any sort.
He’d spent the last few days lugging buckets of dirt from the back gardens to fill his flower bed. By the time he stopped at the end of each day, his legs were shaking and his muscles were burning, but he couldn’t complain. The stiffness of his limbs in the mornings reminded him he was still alive. Indeed, it often felt as if he was only just waking up from a nightmare that had consumed years of his life.
It gave him no end of satisfaction that he’d accomplished this task all on his own. Now, he stared down at the dark, rich earth and considered what he might plant there. It was too late in Altan’s short growing season to start anything from seed, but Alys had said he might split some of the larger plants from the beds in the back near the kitchen. And there was that pretty purple creeper that spread so quickly. Alys had wrinkled her nose and called it a weed, but its flowers were a lovely shade of violet. It would at least fill the bed for the rest of the summer. Then, next spring he could—
Tristin blinked.
Next spring…
Would he even be here next spring?
He sat back on his heels and stared down the mountain at the castle. He’d been so ill when he’d first come here that he’d given no thought to what might come after his recovery. Now, with his addiction behind him and his body becoming stronger with every passing day, he ought to think about what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Assuming, of course, that he could learn to protect himself from the empathic resonances that still haunted his every step. Ilya seemed to think he could, even though his attempts thus far had all been failures.
Going back to Ysdrach was out of the question. There was no place for him in his Wytch King uncle’s kingdom, and even if there was, he’d never trust Altivair again. Not after his uncle had been complicit in a plot that would have put Tristin on Altan’s throne as a puppet-king and seen Garrik and Jaire dead or in chains.
Where would he go?
He could hardly stay here. Bastard son of a man who’d tried to murder his way into a regency… No. Prince Jaire might have taken a shine to him, but Wytch King Garrik had no reason to trust him.
“That’s going to look lovely, overflowing with flowers.” Ambris’s voice came from behind him. “Have you decided which ones you want?” The healer looked weary, the dark circles under his eyes a striking contrast to his pale skin. Prince Mikhyal was very ill, requiring constant care. Ambris, Kian, or Ilya had been with him every minute since he’d arrived.
Tristin rose and dusted off his breeches, keeping his feet firmly on the wooden platform. “I’m not sure. Something bright and cheerful, I think. Reds and yellows, perhaps, though it’s too late to do anything much with it this season, other than transplant some things from the kitchen gardens. I don’t suppose my favorites from Ysdrach would do very well up here in the mountains.”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to Master Ludin yet.” Even in his exhaustion, Ambris managed to sound as if he truly regretted not having done so.
“Of course you haven’t,” Tristin replied. “You’ve been busy with Prince Mikhyal, and he’s much more important than my flowers.”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to go down to the
castle and speak with him yourself before long.”
“I… I’d like that, but…” Tristin trailed off. Given his current lack of progress, it would be a long time before he could even think about braving the castle. He’d tested himself on the watchtower steps just that morning, and the mental onslaught had been every bit as bad as it had when he’d first come.
Things might improve once he started working with Ilya again, but with Prince Mikhyal to care for, and the betrothal ceremony just over two weeks away, Tristin had hardly seen the Royal Wytch Master.
Ambris reached out and gave Tristin’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “It will come, Tristin. Ilya might have some time to work with you in the next few days. Prince Mikhyal has improved a great deal since yesterday.”
“Has he? That must be a relief.”
“I must admit, I am rather looking forward to a full night of unbroken sleep,” Ambris said. “Next to my husband, if I’m lucky. In fact, that’s what I came to see you about. Mikhyal is out of danger and sleeping normally now. Kian and I have hardly seen each other since he flew out to Rhiva, and I wondered if you wouldn’t mind watching over Mikhyal this afternoon in case he wakes up. He’ll be in need of some reassurance.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Tristin said, “only I don’t suppose I’d be much good at reassuring him. I’ve not had much experience with that sort of thing.”
“That’s all right — if he stirs, you can send for me and Kian. We’ll do all the explaining. I’d just rather not have him waking up alone in a strange place. The Dragon Mother only knows what he might think, or what sort of horrible dreams he’s been having. There’s no danger. We’ve been giving him anzaria, so he won’t be capable of unleashing his Wytch power even if he does wake up frightened and disoriented.”
“All right,” Tristin said, pleased that there was something useful he could do to help the healers who had taken such good care of him.