Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  “Because I order it,” Mikhyal snapped.

  “Order?” Dirit sounded most affronted. “You, a mere human, think you can order me, a creature of the mythe — one chosen for a most important mission, no less — to do anything? I am most pleased to inform you that anything I do or do not do will be done in the service of my mission. Unfortunately, protecting Your Most Ungrateful Royal Self is part of that mission.”

  “That may be so,” Mikhyal said firmly, “but I cannot have you destroying my reputation. I’ve worked hard for the good of my people, and I cannot bear to see them run from me in fear.”

  “Hmm.” Dirit’s eyebrow tufts drew together in a frown. “Given the speed at which rumors spread, it might be a bit late for that.”

  “Which is another reason why you mustn’t do such a thing again. Especially not in public.”

  The dragon huffed out a huge sigh. “They never appreciate the artistry of the thing. All they see is a pile of bones. They never ask how it was done. Or marvel at the way the bones fall in such clever patterns. Or notice how beautifully polished they are.”

  “Dirit. Please.”

  “Oh, very well. If I should have occasion to devour anyone on your behalf again, I shall take pains to do it… surreptitiously. Will that suit Your Royal Squeamishness?”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re a soldier, aren’t you? You ought to be used to such things.”

  “It’s not a question of—”

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Dirit said, waving a front claw at him. “I shall endeavor to behave myself. Unless your life is threatened. Then I will use every weapon I have at my disposal: claws and teeth, tail and mythe. My sacred duty is to see to it that you survive, and I am sworn to uphold that duty. Keep yourself out of danger, and your shining reputation shall remain, ah, untarnished. You might consider locking yourself in a tower. That’s rumored to be quite safe.” And with that, he flashed Mikhyal a toothy grin and faded from sight, leaving Mikhyal uncertain as to whether he should be relieved or concerned.

  * * *

  Tristin cringed, waiting for a blow that never came. The pattern he was starting to build shattered into scintillating shards of fire and shadow, glittering in the darkness before winking out.

  “I’m sorry, Master Ilya.” He glanced across the table at the Wytch Master. “I am trying.” If he’d been in a better frame of mind, he was certain he could have completed the pattern this time. He’d done quite well during his last two lessons. Twice now, he’d managed to find his center and meditate quietly upon it without once thinking about Mordax and his punishments. Tonight, he’d tried to take it a step further, and begin building the very simplest of shielding patterns.

  After the day he’d had, he should probably have guessed it wouldn’t go well. Seeing Dirit again had been bad enough, but learning that the all-too-intriguing Prince Mikhyal could also see the little dragon was enough to put Tristin into a panic. And finding out the prince had yet to decide whether Dirit was a product of his own madness hadn’t made Tristin feel any better at all. If they could both see Dirit, then Dirit couldn’t be a hallucination, and if that was the case—

  “You seem distracted,” Ilya observed. “If you don’t feel up to working tonight, we can stop early. You’ve done well with the last few lessons, and I’d hate to push you further before you’re ready. That would be far more of a blow to your confidence than stopping now and picking up again tomorrow.”

  “I… it has been a rather difficult day,” Tristin admitted, staring down at the table.

  “Difficult, was it?” said a voice behind him. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Tristin twisted around in his seat to see Dirit balancing precariously on the edge of a tall bookcase. The dragon took several mincing steps along the very edge, then leapt from the shelf to land lightly on the back of the empty chair at the foot of the table. He settled himself there, adjusting his delicate little wings.

  Ilya followed Tristin’s gaze and frowned at the back of the chair. “What do you see, Tristin?” Ilya’s voice was soft and full of curiosity.

  Tristin wrenched his head away from Dirit to stare at the Wytch Master.

  “Yes, Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed, what do you see?” Dirit asked.

  “It’s all right to tell me,” Ilya said. “Prince Mikhyal spoke to me earlier about observing a… a disturbance in the mythe.”

  “Disturbance, indeed,” Dirit muttered, shaking his head. “Thank you, Dirit, for saving the entire royal family of Rhiva from certain death. As a token of our undying gratitude, please accept this nice silk cushion to lay your head upon, and all the blackberry tarts you can eat. But no, it’s not good enough, is it? Silk cushions and lovely pastries have not been forthcoming. Instead, I’m a disturbance.”

  If Tristin had any doubts regarding the Wytch Master’s awareness of Dirit, they were certainly laid to rest now. Ilya gave no sign of having heard the little dragon’s lament.

  “If there is a disturbance in the mythe,” Tristin said carefully, “surely you can sense it, Master Ilya.”

  “I cannot, and I’m curious to know if anyone else can. If you think you’re hearing things, or seeing things… it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re hallucinating. Just as some people have exceptional vision or hearing, you may have exceptional mythe-senses.”

  “Well… I suppose I did see Prince Vayne when he was trapped in the mythe,” Tristin said slowly. “I thought at first he was another of my hallucinations, but… but he didn’t act anything like a hallucination. At least, not like any I remembered having up until then.”

  “Ai, and Prince Jaire saw him, too,” Ilya said encouragingly. “And he’s always been able to sense things I cannot.”

  “Go on, go on,” Dirit said. “The nice Wytch Master has practically invited you to tell him all about your Dirit-shaped hallucination.”

  Tristin shot a scowl at the dragon, and reminded himself that Prince Mikhyal could see Dirit, too, and he’d known the dragon’s name without Tristin having to tell him.

  “Did it speak to you?” Ilya asked. “Just now, I mean?”

  “Ai, it did, and its manners are beyond appalling.” Tristin clapped a hand over his mouth and stared at Ilya with wide eyes, cringing as he waited for the Wytch Master to call for the guards to drug him senseless and lock him away.

  But Ilya only leaned forward, pale eyes fixed on Tristin. “Tell me.”

  Tristin swallowed and glanced at Dirit. The dragon was grinning broadly and picking his teeth with a single, sharp claw. He pulled something stringy from between them, examined it closely, and flicked it in Tristin’s direction. Tristin leaned aside to avoid it, but there was nothing there. “It’s… it’s a little dragon, about the size of a house cat. It looks a lot like Prince Jaire does in his dragon form, only… only it’s silver, and it has fluffy bits. Whiskers, eyebrows, and a mane. Oh, and a rather sweet little tuft at the end of its tail.”

  Dirit rolled his eyes. “Sweet, indeed,” he muttered. “I’ll give you sweet.”

  “And does it have a name?”

  “It calls itself Dirit.”

  Ilya looked pleased. “That is exactly what Mikhyal said. That should set your mind at ease regarding your sanity.”

  Tristin gave him a dubious look. “I’m not sure how sharing a hallucination with the prince of Rhiva is supposed to make me feel better.”

  “It is most certainly not a hallucination,” Ilya said firmly. “It is a manifestation of the mythe-blade Mikhyal is bonded to.”

  “So, you don’t…” Tristin had to force himself to finish the question. “You don’t think I’m mad?”

  “Aio’s teeth, no.” Ilya gave him a reassuring smile. “The mythe is a most fickle mistress. She shows different sides of herself to all who can see her, and no mere mortal can possibly know all of her secrets.”

  Some of the tension in Tristin’s body eased. “And… and I can see Dirit for the same reason I could see V
ayne?”

  “Exactly. I shall be most interested to find out if Prince Jaire can see it, too. He made no mention of it while we were assisting Mikhyal’s entourage.”

  “Why don’t you just invite the entire castle up to have a look?” Dirit said with a sniff. “Only my bond-mate is supposed to be able to see me. Honestly, having all these extra-sensitive mythe-weavers about is a bit like relaxing in your own home in your underthings, and then discovering everyone’s been peering at you through a window you’d never noticed before. I feel so very… exposed.”

  Tristin merely shook his head slightly and turned his attention to Master Ilya.

  “… see why your day might have been difficult, if you believed you were hallucinating again,” Ilya was saying. “I’m not surprised you’re having trouble concentrating. I think, perhaps, with all the excitement, we should take a few days to allow you to rest and recover before we try again. If you’re in no hurry?”

  “No, no hurry at all.” Hurrying was pointless; Tristin had nothing to go back to and nowhere he belonged. He was just beginning to feel safe here at Dragonwatch, and once he learned to protect his mind from the empathic resonances contained in the objects he touched, there would be no reason for him to stay. Then he would have no choice but to confront his future.

  Master Ilya bade Tristin a good night and took his leave, promising he’d stop by tomorrow, when he brought Jaire and Vayne to see Prince Mikhyal.

  When Master Ilya had gone, Tristin looked about for Dirit, but the dragon had disappeared. Probably off frightening the local wildlife or causing mischief elsewhere.

  Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Tristin headed for his bedroom. Though he’d done less physical labor today, he found himself exhausted. Tomorrow would be better; Prince Jaire was coming tomorrow, and Tristin did enjoy spending time with his cousin. The prince was interested in so many different things, they could always find something to talk about. Tristin thought perhaps he’d ask Jaire to have a word with Master Ludin and find out what sorts of flowers might grow best in his new flower bed.

  A knock sounded on the door of his suite, and Tristin paused with his hand on the bedroom door. Who besides Master Ilya had reason to come to his rooms at this hour? Perhaps Alys needed help with something.

  But it wasn’t Ilya or Alys. Standing out in the hallway looking rather pale and drawn was Prince Mikhyal.

  “Your Highness.” Tristin glanced up and down the hallway, and was both relieved and alarmed to discover the prince was alone. “Should you be out of bed? You… you look as if you’re about to fall over.” He offered his arm, and Prince Mikhyal took hold of it gratefully, leaning heavily on Tristin.

  “I fear I’ve overestimated my strength,” the prince said as Tristin helped him to the armchair next to the hearth.

  “Ai, I’ve done rather a lot of that, myself, just lately. One of the more frustrating phases of a long recovery: thinking you can do things and discovering the hard way that you’re not quite ready. Can I fetch you something from the kitchen? I’ve nothing here to offer you at the moment but a drink of water.”

  “No, thank you. And please don’t stand on ceremony. Just Mikhyal will do quite nicely.”

  “Well, then, you must call me Tristin, and you can kindly leave off the Lord of the Flowers bit, or whatever it is that bloody dragon’s decided to call—” Tristin snapped his mouth shut, face going so hot, he was certain he must be a brilliant crimson.

  Mikhyal’s lips twitched. “He does have an infuriating way about him, doesn’t he? Actually, that’s why I braved that deceptively long hallway in the first place. I wanted to apologize.”

  “Apologize? What… whatever for?”

  “For what I said earlier, about going mad in company. I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you were mad. I… I’d just woken up, and I’d had such odd dreams while I was ill. Ambris tells me that’s not unusual with mythe-shock. When you came to my room, I still wasn’t certain whether or not I was dreaming, and you must admit, given the choice, Dirit is the sort of thing one would prefer to relegate to the dream world.”

  “Nightmare, more like,” Tristin muttered under his breath.

  Mikhyal broke into a grin. “Ai. Nightmare fits much better. Only it’s not one I’ll be waking up from, I fear. Dirit is tied to a sword forged by my ancestors. Only the royal bloodline of Rhiva can wield the blade, and Dirit claims that I’m now bonded to it.”

  “Ai, that’s what Wytch Master Ilya said when I told him about Dirit.” Tristin sank down in the chair opposite Mikhyal. The fire in the hearth was blazing merrily, but it did nothing to warm him. “Have you any idea what this bonding entails?”

  “According to Dirit, it means I’m stuck with him.”

  “I see,” Tristin murmured. “Do you gain any benefit from this… uh… relationship?”

  “Why, His Most Fortunate Royal Gloriousness is blessed with the pleasure of my company, of course,” Dirit said from the mantelpiece, where he lay stretched out full length, tufted tail dangling down in front of the fire. “What more could a prince of the blood ask?”

  Both men turned to look at the dragon.

  “Do you see it?” Mikhyal whispered.

  “Ai,” Tristin whispered back. “Draped over the mantel, as if it hasn’t a care in the world.”

  The dragon’s ears went back and glittering black eyes flicked from one to the other of them. “It’s the height of rudeness to talk about someone as if they’re not present. Especially someone whose most heroic efforts saved you from certain death. Don’t those fancy royal tutors of yours teach manners anymore?”

  Mikhyal looked contrite. He inclined his head and addressed Dirit. “I do believe you’re right, Dirit. I haven’t thanked you properly, have I?”

  “No, you have not.” The little dragon sat up on the mantle and cocked his head, regarding Mikhyal expectantly.

  “I apologize for being so slow to express my gratitude.” Mikhyal’s tone was grave. “I fear my only excuse is that I’ve been recovering from the effects of our bonding. Thank you, Dirit, for saving my life and the lives of my family and my men.”

  “Truly, it was nothing,” Dirit said, preening. “A mere fraction of what I’m capable of when my full power is unleashed. I was specially chosen for the task, you know, because I was the most powerful and the most trustworthy. Also, the most beautiful. You’re very lucky I chose to bond to you.”

  Mikhyal glanced at Tristin long enough to roll his eyes. “My understanding is that you didn’t have much choice in the matter, tied to the royal bloodline as you are.”

  “Oh, well, that,” Dirit blustered. “Well, of course, there is that. But I could have refused to bond with you. I don’t have to, you know.”

  “He’s all fire and wind, isn’t he?” Tristin said in a low voice.

  Mikhyal smiled, and in the warm glow of the firelight, he was even more handsome than Tristin had first thought. “Ai, that he is.”

  “Fire and wind, indeed.” Dirit managed to convey his wounded feelings in a single sniff. “I shall give you fire and wind, I shall, just when you least expect it.”

  Mikhyal’s smile widened. Pale blue eyes sparkling with mirth caught Tristin’s gaze and held it fast. Time froze, or perhaps it stretched. The air between them sizzled, and Tristin felt his ears growing hot.

  When he finally managed to look away from Mikhyal, he found Dirit watching him with apparent interest. The dragon grinned, displaying needle-sharp teeth. “He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Quite,” Tristin said before he could stop himself, but at almost the same moment, Mikhyal murmured, “Oh, yes.”

  Tristin turned his head slowly to face Mikhyal, mortified. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Your Highness. It just… um. Popped out. That is, my, ah, my mouth often keeps going even when my senses of propriety and self-preservation are screaming at it to stop.” Face flaming, he got to his feet, prepared to flee, until he remembered that he was already in his own rooms, and there was nowhere to fle
e to.

  “Then I think, perhaps, this would be an appropriate moment for me to make a dramatic exit.” Mikhyal’s mouth curved in a rueful grin. “I’d very much like to leave you with some witty, yet frustratingly ambiguous remark to ponder over. Unfortunately, I’m too exhausted to think of anything witty or ambiguous. I don’t suppose you’d care to help me back to my rooms?”

  “Dramatically?” Tristin couldn’t help but ask.

  At Mikhyal’s warm chuckle, Tristin ducked his head so the prince might not notice his flaming cheeks.

  As he walked Mikhyal back down the hall with one arm around his waist to steady him, it occurred to Tristin that not long ago he’d been the one needing help. He really had come a long way since he’d been brought to Dragonwatch. He hadn’t realized how much his addiction had dulled his senses. Coming off the drug had been a painful ordeal, but it had opened up a world of sensory experience Tristin had almost forgotten.

  Now, he was finding it very difficult not to be aware of the solid warmth of Mikhyal’s hip pressed against his own, and how very broad and strong Mikhyal’s back felt against his arm. They were roughly the same height, though Mikhyal felt as if he was mostly muscle, with perhaps just a hint of extra padding around his middle, whereas Tristin was all bones with a bit of scarred skin and stringy sinew holding everything together.

  “Thank you, Tristin,” Mikhyal said as they reached the door of his suite. “Pleasant dreams to you.”

  “And to you, Your… I mean, Mikhyal.”

  The door closed quietly behind Mikhyal, and Tristin turned and made his way slowly back to his own room, body still tingling pleasantly from the close contact.

  * * *

  Mikhyal slept late the next day. It was the middle of the afternoon when he finally woke to see Dirit pacing about on top of the wardrobe looking quite put out.

  “About time you woke up,” the dragon grumped. “That healer’s poked his nose in here three times already. You’re going to catch it for overdoing it yesterday, see if you don’t.”