Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  “Even if he hadn’t been quite dead when you picked up the blade, he was of common blood.” Dirit flattened his ears and let out a disdainful little sniff. “Not of the royal bloodline of Rhiva. Not even remotely. I couldn’t have bonded to him if I’d wanted to.” The dragon grinned, showing its teeth. “And I didn’t want to.”

  Mikhyal opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment there was a knock on the door. It opened to reveal a tall, slender man with the black hair and dark eyes so common to the royal lines of Skanda.

  “Oh, time for another formal introduction!” Dirit grinned broadly, displaying even more glittering fangs. “Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva, allow me to introduce Prince Tristin of… of the New Flower Bed, was it not?”

  Prince Tristin took one look at Dirit, blanched, and promptly dropped the tray he was carrying. It hit the floor with a clatter, and the poor man looked so distraught, Mikhyal’s heart went out to him.

  “It’s all right,” Mikhyal said quickly. “Accidents happen.”

  Dirit lifted one of his front feet and waved it dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s overly sensitive. He’s still trying to decide whether or not I’m a hallucination.”

  Tristin’s wide-eyed gaze shifted from Mikhyal to Dirit and back again, then dropped to the floor to fix on the broken crockery at his feet. His cheeks colored, and he stammered, “I’m t-terribly s-sorry, Your Highness. I’ll j-just go and g-get someone to c-clean this.” With that, he bolted into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Mikhyal stared after him for a few moments, then turned to Dirit. The dragon appeared to be smirking. The moment Mikhyal met his eyes, Dirit’s ears drooped, and he looked away.

  * * *

  Face flaming, Tristin slammed Prince Mikhyal’s door shut and fled back to the kitchen. The dragon. The little cat-sized dragon he’d been hallucinating had been right there in the prince’s bedroom, lounging on the bed, bold as brass.

  And the prince had been talking to it, as if he could actually see it.

  Which meant it wasn’t a hallucination.

  It should have made him feel better, but instead, Tristin felt sick.

  “That was fast.” Mistress Alys turned from the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand. “Was His Highness satisfied with the tray, then?”

  “Um. I… I had… there was… a bit of an accident…” Tristin started to stammer out an apology, which quickly turned into a rambling, incoherent explanation.

  Mistress Alys merely raised a dark eyebrow and waited. When he’d finally wound down, rather than asking him to repeat himself, she said, “You’ll be wanting some rags and a bucket, then, won’t you?”

  Before Tristin could respond, she’d plucked a pile of rags and a bucket from a shelf, and handed them to him. Tristin was too surprised to do anything but take them. He’d been intending to finish his flight to his own suite, and take to his bed for the foreseeable future. Midwinter, perhaps, he might think about venturing out again, about the time when—

  “Pick up as much of the crockery as you can,” Mistress Alys ordered, “and wipe up the mess. Then come back for the broom and sweep the floor. It won’t do for His Highness to cut his feet.” Her tone was firm, but she didn’t appear angry. “I’ll prepare another tray while you’re tidying up.”

  “Y-yes, Mistress Alys,” Tristin stammered, and backed out of the kitchen.

  In the hallway, he stared down at the rags, let out a heavy sigh, and trudged back to the prince’s bedroom. He dithered outside the door for several minutes before finally plucking up the courage to ease it open just a crack.

  From the safety of the hallway, he peered in. The little dragon was no longer lounging on the bed. Taking that as a positive sign, Tristin opened the door a bit more.

  “It’s all right,” Prince Mikhyal said from the bed. “You can come in.”

  “I’ve, ah, come to apologize for throwing your lunch on the floor. And to tidy up the mess I made.” Tristin edged into the room and peered about.

  “He’s gone. The dragon, I mean. Dirit, he calls himself.”

  “Ai, we’ve met,” Tristin mumbled. He dropped to his knees and began picking up bits of broken crockery. “I was certain I was imagining him.”

  “So he said.”

  Tristin’s hand froze on the way to the bucket. “He…” He gulped air and had to fight to keep his voice steady. “He told you about me?”

  “He mentioned you when he was complaining about having no one to talk to. He seemed rather affronted that you thought he was a hallucination.” The prince didn’t sound at all concerned about the fact that a small dragon had been sitting on his bed. Tristin risked a glance up. Prince Mikhyal gave him an encouraging smile. “I’m Mikhyal,” he said. “And if Dirit is to be believed, you are Tristin.”

  “Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed, apparently,” Tristin murmured. “At your service. Only, I’m not really. A prince, I mean. My father was a prince, but I’m just a bastard with no—” He snapped his mouth shut, realizing that he’d probably just said far too much. Talking to real people, he’d discovered, was far more fraught than talking to hallucinations, which were there and gone again in the blink of an eye, and didn’t remember all the stupid things that came out of one’s mouth.

  Prince Mikhyal laughed, a deep, rich sound, and Tristin looked up to find his gaze caught by a pair of pale blue eyes in a very handsome face, framed by tousled black hair. Several days’ worth of dark beard covered a strong jaw, giving him a rugged look that Tristin found rather intriguing, much to his dismay.

  “It… it doesn’t bother you?” Tristin finally managed to say as he dropped the last of the crockery into the bucket.

  “What? The questionable circumstances of your birth?”

  “No… well, yes, that, but I meant the… Dirit. The… the… d-dragon.”

  Prince Mikhyal blinked. “To be honest, I’m still not convinced I’m actually awake. The things I saw… and… and if I am awake…” His eyes darted down to the bed covers, and Tristin followed his gaze to see the sheathed sword lying alongside him. “I suppose I might be mad,” the prince mused.

  Their eyes met, and Tristin gulped. “Then we can be mad together,” he said gaily, and tore his gaze away from Prince Mikhyal’s. He bent forward to hide his flaming cheeks and began wiping up the spilled broth.

  “If I am going mad,” the prince said slowly, “I suppose I would rather do it in company than alone.”

  Tristin didn’t dare reply. He finished mopping up the mess, got to his feet, and left the room as quickly as he could. The hall was empty, thank the Dragon Mother, because his face was still burning, and surely if anyone saw him, they’d ask about it. He stopped by the kitchen long enough to deposit the bucket full of broken crockery and soaked rags just inside the door.

  Mistress Alys was nowhere to be seen, so, feeling vaguely guilty, Tristin crept back to his own room. Hopefully, she wouldn’t remember that she’d asked him to deliver another tray.

  It was with vast relief that he closed his bedroom door and leaned heavily against it. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t get Prince Mikhyal’s face out of his mind. His rich laughter, his rugged good looks, and those kind blue eyes…

  With a shiver, Tristin pressed his hands to his face and hoped Prince Mikhyal wouldn’t be here for very long.

  * * *

  Dirit didn’t return, not even after Tristin’s hasty escape, and Mikhyal began to wonder if he’d imagined the strange encounter. Perhaps the dragon and the bastard prince were both figments of his imagination. It did all seem like some very odd fairy tale.

  Mikhyal had little knowledge of healing, but if he was suffering from mythe-shock, surely it wouldn’t be unheard of for him to be having odd, waking dreams.

  Not long after Tristin’s departure, Mistress Alys brought him some lunch. Mikhyal ate the bread with great enjoyment, and the moment he’d finished the broth, a great wave of sleepiness overcame him. He closed his eyes for just
a moment, but when he opened them, twilight was darkening the room. Mikhyal stretched luxuriously. His head felt much clearer now, and his body tingled with restless energy.

  “Oh, finally,” said a familiar voice. “You’ve been asleep again.”

  Mikhyal turned slowly to see Dirit sitting on the wide window ledge, long tail curled neatly around his tiny, clawed feet.

  “You haven’t been a very interesting bond-mate thus far.” The dragon sounded petulant. “But I suppose I shouldn’t complain, since you are at least talking to me. Not like my last bond-mate, who refused to even acknowledge my existence. Very rude of him, I thought.”

  “I must still be dreaming,” Mikhyal murmured to himself.

  There was a knock on the door. Dirit didn’t move, but his grin widened.

  “Come in!” Mikhyal called out.

  The door opened and in came Wytch Master Ilya. Mikhyal knew Altan’s Wytch Master a little, having met him several times over the past few years at various royal gatherings. Ilya was slender, and with his delicate features, he could almost be called pretty. He had long, coppery hair, currently hanging loose to his hips, and rumor had it he was far older than the twenty years he appeared to have lived.

  Master Ilya made a brief gesture with his fingers, and a ball of yellow light floated up from his hand to hover near the center of the ceiling, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. “That’s not too bright for you, is it?” he asked.

  “No, it’s fine. Thank you for asking.” Mikhyal pulled himself up in the bed and shoved the pillows higher behind him.

  “Ambris said you’d improved, but I must say, I hadn’t expected to find you sitting up and talking sense quite so soon.” The Wytch Master pulled the room’s single chair close to the side of the bed and settled himself there. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, at least in the physical sense,” Mikhyal said. “Although there are some rather odd things going on. Ambris said you would explain.”

  “Odd things,” Dirit muttered. “Oh, very nice.”

  Mikhyal glanced at the dragon, and then at Ilya. “You didn’t hear that, did you? And you can’t see it, either.”

  Ilya looked toward the window, frowning. “Should I see something?”

  “A dragon. Small, about the size of a house cat. He’s… he’s in here now. On the window ledge. He calls himself Dirit, but… you can’t see him, can you?”

  The Wytch Master followed Mikhyal’s gaze and peered at the window. His pale eyes unfocused, and Mikhyal held his breath, waiting for Ilya to pass judgment. If he was mad, he’d rather know it now than struggle to hide it. His father would need better counsel than a madman could give him, especially if he intended to ally with Altan and the other northern kingdoms. Mikhyal only hoped this wouldn’t ruin the alliance they’d come to negotiate.

  “I see nothing, Your Highness,” the Wytch Master said softly. “Nothing with my eyes, and nothing in the mythe.”

  “I see.” Mikhyal swallowed. He didn’t feel mad.

  “But then, I wouldn’t expect to see anything. You are the one bonded to the sword. In all the accounts I’ve read of mythe-bonds, only the blade’s bond-mate hears its voice. I must admit, however, in all my reading, I’ve not come across any accounts involving visual manifestations.”

  “Manifestations?” Dirit sounded appalled. “Well, I never! I’m not sure I like this Wytch Master.”

  Mikhyal ignored the dragon. “So I didn’t dream it. The… the dragon — Dirit — he called me his bond-mate. I suppose that means I’m bonded to the sword.” He glanced down at the blade, which still lay on top of the bed, alongside his leg.

  “You are,” Ilya said gravely. “I can see the bond clearly in the mythe. I was not certain at first whether we were dealing with a mythe-bond, an awakening Wytch power, or both, but once we got you away from the site of the manifestation and the resulting disturbance in the mythe, it became clear to me that you were, in fact, bonded to the sword. That’s why it’s lying on the bed near you. Close proximity to the blade during the first few days helps ease the bonding process.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be relieved or terrified,” Mikhyal said. “And I don’t understand how a sword that claims its purpose is to defend the royal line of Rhiva ended up in the hands of a bandit.”

  “Did it?” The Wytch Master’s thin, coppery eyebrows drew together in a faint frown. “It was in your hand when they found you. Your father recognized it, and assumed you’d taken it from one of the vaults beneath the palace. He said it had been there since his father’s grandfather’s time. He seemed quite surprised to see it.”

  “But… I didn’t,” Mikhyal said slowly. “Take it from the vaults, I mean. The first I saw of it, the bandit captain was about to take my head off with it. He… he disarmed me, and I thought he was about to kill me, but Captain Rhu intervened. My own blade was nowhere in sight, lost somewhere in the underbrush, I suppose, though it looks as if someone found it.” Mikhyal’s eyes strayed briefly to the weapon rack hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

  “I grabbed the captain’s sword,” he continued, “and the moment I touched it, I felt this… this tingling feeling that ran up my arm and… covered my whole body. It felt as if I were standing inside a great bell, and someone had struck it. It rang all through me, right down to my bones, and then everything went white. When I came back to myself, the fighting was still raging around me. I’d just started across the clearing to aid my father when a cloud of fog and light descended, covering the entire clearing. When it lifted, all that was left of the bandits were little piles of bone.”

  A cold shudder went through Mikhyal as he turned his head to look at Dirit, who was now lounging on the window ledge. The dragon grinned and winked.

  “Ai, it frightened your father’s men terribly,” Ilya said. “Once we got you here, and I had a chance to examine the blade, I came to the conclusion that they were never in any danger. It was quite selective in its choice of victims.”

  Mikhyal turned back to Ilya. “Are you certain?” he whispered. “How can we be sure it won’t do the same thing here?”

  “You said its purpose was to defend your line,” Ilya said calmly. “And that sense of purpose is written clearly and deeply in the blade’s mythe-shadow. Since it was found in the vaults under the palace and once belonged to one of your ancestors, I do not believe you have anything of that nature to fear from it.”

  “You most certainly do not.” Dirit’s whiskers drooped. “You wound me with your doubt, Your Royal Suspiciousness. It is my sacred duty to protect you. I was chosen for this task by one of the greater dragons, bonded to the blade of my own free will when I learned that I, Dirit, might play a most important role in the restoration of the Balance.”

  Mikhyal bit his lip. “It says… it says it was chosen. Bonded to the sword to… to help restore the balance?” He shifted his gaze from the dragon to the Wytch Master. “I don’t understand what that means.”

  “Nor do I,” Ilya said gravely. “But if you require further reassurance, perhaps a visit from Prince Vayne and Prince Jaire is in order. Prince Vayne is far more skilled than I at reading and interpreting mythe-shadows. He could, perhaps, examine the blade and set your mind at ease. And Prince Jaire is a voracious student of history. It wouldn’t surprise me if he holds the entire contents of the royal library in his head. It’s quite possible he’s read something about this blade, in particular.”

  “Ai, that… that might help,” Mikhyal said.

  “I shall ask them to accompany me here tomorrow. Until then, I’d like you to continue resting and recovering your strength. You’re not long out of mythe-shock, and if you attempt too much too soon, you will have a relapse.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do as I’m told.” Mikhyal forced a smile. “Ambris has already made it quite clear that he’s in charge.”

  When the Wytch Master had closed the door behind him, Mikhyal turned to Dirit. “Tell me more about this bond that joins us. Can it be broke
n?”

  “Quite easily, in fact.” The dragon hopped off the window ledge to land lightly on the bed, where he curled up facing Mikhyal.

  “How?” Mikhyal asked eagerly.

  “You must leave the sword somewhere and then travel a long distance away. It will strain the bond, and eventually break it. It won’t do you much good, though, because at that point, you’ll be dead of mythe-shock, and I’ll be rather uncomfortable, so I’d be much obliged if you didn’t.”

  “So I’m stuck with you, then.”

  One tufted eyebrow twitched. “Or I’m stuck with you. Rather depends upon which side of the bond you’re on, doesn’t it?”

  Mikhyal considered that. “What else can you do?”

  Dirit tapped one claw against a crystalline fang, as if deep in thought. “Well… if you ever need to sneak about, I can scout ahead and let you know what I see and hear. And of course, I can assist you in combat.”

  “The way you assisted me the other day, murdering all those men?”

  Dirit’s glare was decidedly sulky. “They would have killed your entire party. Your royal father. Your royal mother. Your royal—”

  “You stripped their bones clean.”

  “I was hungry.” The dragon cocked his head. “It was a rather impressive display, wasn’t it?”

  “Impressive isn’t exactly the word I’d have chosen,” Mikhyal said flatly. “They’ll all be terrified of me, after this.”

  “Humans,” Dirit huffed. “So concerned about appearances. You command Rhiva’s army, do you not? Surely a bit of terror isn’t out of keeping. Does wonders for one’s reputation. Imagine it… the very sound of your name striking fear into the hearts of the bravest warriors. Think of the songs they’ll—”

  “You must promise you won’t do anything like that again.”

  Gleaming black eyes narrowed, and Dirit laid his ears back against his head. “Why?”