by Jaye McKenna
Indeed, Mikhyal had only just finished dressing when there was a knock at his door and Ambris looked in. “Oh, good, you’re awake. And ready for the day, or what’s left of it, at least. How are you feeling? The effects of the anzaria should be mostly gone by now.”
“My head is much clearer today, for which I’m grateful,” Mikhyal said, “but I fear I may have overdone it a bit last night. I paid a visit to Tristin, and the hallway ended up being quite a bit longer than it looked.”
“I see.” Ambris’s lips pursed. “I thought I told you to stay in bed, and we’d see about you getting up today. You’ve been very ill, Your Highness, and mythe-shock is nothing to be trifled with.”
“Ai, and I wouldn’t have trifled with it, only there was… a bit of an incident when Tristin brought me my lunch. I feared I might have upset him, and I wanted to offer him an apology.”
Ambris’s brows drew together. “Oh?”
Mikhyal gave the healer a rueful smile. “I might have implied, indirectly, of course, that he and I were both mad.”
“Ah. I can’t imagine that going down at all well.”
“He did seem a bit sensitive about it,” Mikhyal admitted. “But it’s all right now. He accepted my apology quite graciously.”
“So it was worth exhausting yourself and risking a relapse?”
“Oh, ai, I think so.” Mikhyal smiled to himself, remembering the moment when their eyes had locked and something had passed between them. Something that made him want to see more of Tristin. Much more.
Ambris sighed. “I can see you’re going to be every bit as difficult a patient as Garrik is.” His pale gold eyes unfocused as he examined Mikhyal with his healer’s sight. “Well, your adventure doesn’t appear to have caused you any harm. Which is just as well. Ilya would be sorely vexed if I had to send you back to your bed. Prince Vayne and Prince Jaire are waiting in his study, if you’d like to join them. He asked me to come and fetch you, and requested that you bring the sword with you.”
Mikhyal stood and lifted the sword from the bed. “Let us not keep the Wytch Master waiting.” He glanced up at the top of the wardrobe. “You had better come along too, Dirit. Master Ilya was quite interested to know if Prince Jaire would be able to see you.”
Ambris must have already been briefed regarding Dirit, for he said nothing, only followed Mikhyal’s gaze, the slight frown puckering his brow suggesting that, like Ilya, he saw no sign of the little dragon.
Dirit’s eyebrow tufts twitched. “On display again,” he muttered, hopping down off the wardrobe to land lightly on Mikhyal’s shoulder. He was weightless, and indeed, when Mikhyal reached up to try to touch him, his hand passed right through the creature, with only a brief sensation of intense cold to suggest there was anything there at all.
“Stop it.” Dirit hissed and laid his ears back. “How would you like to have someone poking about inside you?”
Mikhyal grinned broadly. “That would depend entirely on who was doing the poking, Master Dragon.”
Ambris gave him an odd look and started out the door.
“Master Dragon.” Dirit preened, offended dignity apparently forgotten. “I could get used to that.”
“Don’t,” Mikhyal said under his breath as he followed the healer out the door.
“It would be most fitting, don’t you think? I must say, I rather like it… Master Dragon, yes, very nice.”
In the hall, Ambris offered his arm, but Mikhyal waved him off. “I’m feeling much stronger today. I’d like to see if I can manage on my own.”
Master Ilya’s suite was just a bit farther down the hall than Tristin’s, and Mikhyal walked the entire distance unassisted. Though he felt much stronger than he had the day before, he was just as glad not to have to turn around and walk back immediately.
Ambris ushered him into Master Ilya’s sitting room and settled him in a padded armchair in front of a low table holding a tea pot and a tray piled high with an assortment of pastries. Mikhyal leaned back gratefully and rested the sheathed sword across his knees.
On the couch opposite him sat Prince Jaire, who’d grown from boy to man in the years since Mikhyal had last seen him. The prince was still immediately recognizable, with that bright, white-blond hair of his. Sitting next to Prince Jaire was a man with thick black hair and dark eyes. This must be Prince Vayne.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Master Ilya said after Ambris had gone. “You’re looking quite a bit better than you did yesterday.”
“Thank you, Master Ilya. I’m sure that’s to do with the most excellent care I’ve received here.”
“And the fact that your bond-mate can help you heal,” Dirit whispered in his ear. The dragon hopped down onto the table to inspect the pastries. “You’ll want to watch how many of those you eat, Your Royal Voraciousness.”
“Ilya, you didn’t tell me it was so beautiful!” Prince Jaire leaned forward, examining Dirit closely.
“No, well, I can’t see it like the rest of you can,” Ilya murmured, watching Prince Jaire with a bemused expression.
“Can you see it, Vayne?” Jaire asked.
“No, I can’t.” Prince Vayne looked as bemused as the Wytch Master.
“It’s got the prettiest silver scales,” Prince Jaire said, “and a beautiful white mane. It has tufts of fur over its eyebrows and at the tip of its tail. And such dainty little feet! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so lovely.”
“Oh, now, you I like.” Dirit displayed glittering, needle-sharp teeth in what Mikhyal hoped was a grin. “I can see we’re going to be the greatest of friends. At least someone appreciates my numerous charms.” He threw Mikhyal a baleful glare before continuing, “I am Dirit, and you must be Prince Jaire. I am most charmed to make your acquaintance.”
Much to Prince Jaire’s delight, Dirit marched across the table, traipsed over the pastries, and climbed up onto the prince’s lap, where he settled himself, curling his tail around his body like a cat.
Prince Jaire smothered his laughter behind his hand and shifted his attention to Mikhyal. “Sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to ignore you, it’s just…” He smiled down at Dirit. “I had no idea. Welcome to Altan and to Dragonwatch, Dirit. And welcome to you, too, Prince Mikhyal. It’s good to see you awake and on your feet, Your Highness. I’m Prince Jaire, and this is Prince Vayne of Irilan, my intended husband.”
“Ai, I remember you from a harvest festival some years ago,” Mikhyal said, starting to rise, but Prince Jaire waved him back, and Mikhyal nodded gratefully and sank back down in his chair. “You were just a boy, hanging about the dessert table and doing your best to avoid your nurse.”
“I’m afraid not much has changed,” Jaire said with a rueful grin. “The dessert table hasn’t lost its appeal, but up until very recently, it’s been noblemen with eligible daughters I’ve had to avoid. They’re quite a bit trickier than Mistress Polina ever was.”
Mikhyal shifted his gaze to Prince Vayne. “Prince Vayne, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, though I must confess, I didn’t realize Ord had another son.”
“I’m not his son, Your Highness,” Vayne said. “More like a very distant cousin.”
“Vayne was trapped in the mythe for years and years,” Jaire explained. “His father was Wytch King Urich, the same Urich who was put to death by the Wytch Council for leading the Irilan Rebellion. Urich hid Vayne in the mythe, but was killed before he could tell anyone what he’d done, so poor Vayne was trapped there all that time — over two hundred years — until I set him free.”
Vayne gave his intended an indulgent smile as Jaire wrinkled his nose and continued, “It sounds rather like one of those soppy romantic ballads that go on and on, but it was really very exciting. Vayne rescued me, Kian, and Tristin after the Wytch Council kidnapped me and tried to make Garrik step down in Tristin’s favor.”
Mikhyal eyed Vayne with interest. “You learned about mythe-blades while you were trapped in the mythe?”
“No
, my father taught me,” Vayne said. “My own skills lie in the manipulation of living mythe-shadows, but my father was capable of burning patterns into raw mythe-stones. As a student of both my father and his Wytch Master, I had a great deal of practice at reading the mythe-shadows of the objects created from those stones.” He looked questioningly at the sword still lying across Mikhyal’s knees, than back up at Mikhyal. “If I might?”
At Mikhyal’s nod, Vayne rose and took the sword from him. He pulled it from the scabbard and examined it closely, eyes unfocusing slightly as he studied its mythe-shadow. “The bond is strong,” he murmured. “And tied to the bloodline of Rhiva. Some of the patterns in the blade’s mythe-shadow echo the inherited patterns in yours. Passed down from your father, was it?”
“No, strangely enough, it wasn’t,” Mikhyal said. “According to Dirit, it hasn’t had a bearer since my father’s grandfather died.”
“Hated me, he did,” Dirit muttered. “Fought the bond, damaged it to the point where I could not manifest physically to prove my existence. Always arguing, he was. And of course, since he had damaged the bond, no one but him could see me, so they all thought he was quite mad by the time he died. On his deathbed, he ordered the sword sent to the vaults. And there it stayed until… well. Until someone removed it. Recently.”
Prince Jaire’s eyes widened and he bit his lip as he stared down at the little dragon. “That must have been horrible,” he murmured, hand hovering over Dirit as if he would stroke the creature. “Poor Dirit.”
The little dragon looked mournfully up at Prince Jaire. “Most horrible,” he agreed. “Poor Dirit, indeed. Charged with a sacred task, and then not allowed to perform it.”
At Ilya’s questioning look, Mikhyal repeated what Dirit had said, then went on to ask, “You don’t know who took the sword from the vaults?”
Dirit’s ears flattened. “I’ve no idea. The sword is my gateway to this world, but unless I have a bearer, the gate is shut tight. All I know for certain is that it cannot have been anyone of the line of Rhiva, or the bonding would have been initiated the moment they touched the blade.”
Mikhyal repeated Dirit’s reply for the benefit of Vayne and the Wytch Master.
When he’d finished, Dirit cocked his head. “Perhaps this would make it easier.”
A moment later, Prince Jaire let out a squeak of surprise. “It has weight now!” Jaire stared down at the little dragon in wonder and reached out a tentative finger to stroke Dirit’s mane.
Dirit flinched at the contact and shot him an irritated glare. “I can manifest in the physical world, but I find it most uncomfortable.” He rose gingerly to his feet and lifted each of his claws in turn, as if finding himself ankle deep in something disgusting. “Breezes and smells and all manner of things ruffling my fur and poking at my feet. The mythe is so much cleaner and more civilized.” His tail twitched, and he hopped onto the table. Tiny claws tapped delicately on the polished surface as he minced across it to the pastry tray, where he helped himself. “I am rather partial to blackberry tarts, though.”
Jaire was watching in rapt fascination. “Can you see it now, Vayne?”
“Ai.” Vayne nodded, his eyes fixed on the little dragon. “It looks very much like some of the creatures I encountered when I was trapped in the mythe.”
Dirit devoured the pastry with a few quick snaps of his jaws, apparently oblivious of his audience. When he was finished, he took one step, then lifted one of his front feet and inspected it, snout wrinkling. “Sticky. I cannot abide sticky.” And with that, the little dragon set about licking every scrap of blackberry jam from his claws with a long, forked tongue. He went on to groom his whiskers. When he was finished, he settled on the table with his front feet crossed primly before him. “Ask your questions, then, humans. Quickly, for I am not prepared to tolerate all these odd textures and disturbing smells for very long.”
“Are you trapped in the mythe like Vayne was?” Jaire asked.
“No,” Dirit said. “I can roam freely in the mythe, though I am tethered to the sword. I can only manifest physically a short distance from it, and then only if my bond-mate is also nearby.”
“Did someone capture you in order to bond you to the blade?” Vayne asked. “The method of forging mythe-blades I’m familiar with involves trapping the personality bonded to the blade within a mythe-stone.”
“That is the way it is done when a human personality is used to create the blade. It works differently for creatures of the mythe.” The little dragon’s chest puffed out a bit, and he sat up straight. “I was chosen for the honor of defending the royal line of Rhiva because I was trusted to carry out my duties most faithfully. Mortified, I was, to discover I had been barred from carrying out my sacred duty because of the whims of a mad Wytch King who refused to accept me as his protector.”
“Who chose you?” Ilya asked quietly.
“Why, one of the Greater Dragons, of course, second only in power to the Dragon Mother, herself. His name is Ashna, and he is one of the more influential creatures in the mythe.” Dirit drew himself up even more. “He said there was important work to be done, and I was uniquely qualified to do it. Those were his exact words: uniquely qualified.”
“Ashna,” Vayne said thoughtfully. “Of course. I encountered him a number of times during my exile. He spoke in riddles much of the time, and I got the impression he toiled at some great task far beyond human understanding. What sort of work did he intend for you to do?”
“I was personally chosen to help restore the Balance.” Dirit turned to look at each of them in turn, perhaps to gauge how impressed they were. “Seeing to it that the line of Rhiva remains unbroken is a very important part of it. Perhaps the most important.”
Mikhyal frowned. “The balance of what, exactly?”
Dirit blinked. “Well, I never. These questions are becoming entirely too personal, Your Royal Inquisitiveness.” And with that, the little dragon simply faded from sight.
“Can you still see it, Mikhyal?” Ilya asked.
“No, he’s gone,” Mikhyal said. “I seem to have offended him. Again.”
“Offended or not, I see no reason for concern, Ilya.” Vayne said. “There is nothing to be read in the mythe-shadows of either the sword or of Prince Mikhyal that suggests to me that the blade is anything other than what Dirit claims. I did, however, see patterns in Mikhyal’s mythe-shadow very much like some of those possessed by both Jaire and Tristin.”
“Does that mean—” Jaire started, but Vayne elbowed him and he pressed his lips together.
“I see,” the Wytch Master murmured, and turned a speculative gaze upon Mikhyal. “Well, then. We shall have much to discuss when the Wytch Kings arrive.”
“Meaning what, exactly, Master Ilya?” Mikhyal asked.
“All in good time, Your Highness,” Ilya said smoothly. “You have enough to think about at the moment, what with recovering from mythe-shock and adjusting to the bond. You understand, of course, that we needed to be certain the blade posed no danger to anyone before we moved you to the castle.”
“Of course,” Mikhyal said. “Most sensible of you, to isolate me until you knew for certain what sort of bond it was.”
“Now that Vayne has confirmed my observations, I see no reason for you to remain here,” Ilya said. “You are out of danger now. All that remains is for you to continue resting and recovering. Kian is standing by, ready to ferry you down to the castle, where a suite has been prepared for you and your father.”
“I…” Mikhyal trailed off, thoughts spinning as it occurred to him that once his father arrived tomorrow and the negotiations began, he might not see Tristin again before he had to return to Rhiva. He hoped they wouldn’t rush him off to the castle too quickly; he’d like to at least have the chance to say goodbye.
* * *
Tristin knelt on the stones at the edge of the bed of coldroot and plucked out the weeds that were valiantly trying to gain a foothold in the rich soil. The task was simple. His
hands remembered weeding the herb beds when he’d been a child helping in the gardens at Falkrag, leaving his mind free to wander.
Jaire and Vayne had arrived a little while ago. Tristin had seen them playing up in the sky above the watchtower before they’d landed in the courtyard and gone inside to meet Mikhyal and Dirit. He wondered what Jaire would think of Dirit. Imagining his cousin’s delight brought a smile to his lips, and he hoped Jaire would be able to see the little dragon.
“You missed a bit.”
Tristin turned to see Dirit eyeing him from the middle of a patch of coldroot. He was about to admonish the dragon when he realized that Dirit wasn’t actually crushing the flowers, but only looked as if he were. He glanced across the garden to see if anyone else was about, but the herb garden was deserted.
“I thought you were supposed to be in there with Mikhyal.” Tristin sat back on his heels and regarded the little dragon soberly. “Prince Jaire said something about Ilya wanting to make sure you’re not dangerous.”
“Of course I’m dangerous.” Dirit’s nostrils flared in an offended sniff. “I wouldn’t be much use as a protector of the royal line of Rhiva if I wasn’t dangerous, would I? Anyway, they’ve had all the answers they’re going to get from me. The questions were getting entirely too personal, so I took my leave.”
“You can’t blame them for asking. I should think anyone would be cautious around a force that can strip the flesh off of a man in a few moments and leave behind naught but a pile of bones.”
“They told you about that, did they?” Dirit preened.
“Prince Jaire did. And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself. I find the idea rather horrifying.”
Dirit flattened his ears. “You would.” His lip curled in disgust, revealing long, needle-like teeth glittering in the sunlight like tiny crystalline knives. “In case no one told you, mythe-weapons do tend to be a bit horrifying by human standards, although I’m sure you must agree, they don’t normally come in such an appealing little package.”