Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  Before Tristin could think of a suitable retort, someone called, “Tristin!”

  Tristin looked round to see Prince Mikhyal making his way toward him. Frowning slightly, he stood, dusted off his hands, and took a few steps closer. “Are you all right to be up and about, Your Highness? Last night you were about to collapse after a short walk down the hall.”

  “Whether I am ready or not, my father will be arriving tomorrow,” Mikhyal said. “He will have need of me. I had a very long sleep, and I’m feeling much stronger than I was last night.” His gaze shifted to Tristin’s shoulder. “Dirit, I’d like to apologize if I offended you with my questions.”

  Tristin looked over to see the little dragon perched on his own shoulder.

  Dirit blinked. “Apologize?”

  “Ai. I must admit, I’m as curious as anyone about your origins, but I will refrain from asking. If you choose to share your past, it should be because you wish to, not because you feel you are bound to.”

  Dirit cocked his head. “Why, thank you. I do believe that’s the first time anyone’s acknowledged the fact that I might have feelings in the matter.” The little dragon blinked again, then hopped down off of Tristin’s shoulder and disappeared halfway to the ground.

  “He’s a funny little fellow, isn’t he?” Mikhyal said when he’d gone.

  “He is,” Tristin said, smiling hesitantly. “He, ah, seems to think rather a lot of himself.”

  “That, he does.” Mikhyal smiled. “I think he’s had a difficult time of it, though. His last bearer was my great grandfather, and they didn’t get along at all. But that’s not why I’m here. Master Ilya says I’m ready to move down to the castle. I’ve come to say goodbye, and to inquire as to whether or not I’ll see you again.”

  “Oh… I-I… um…” Tristin stammered. His ears burned as he struggled to think of something to say.

  “You seem to be on very good terms with Prince Jaire,” Mikhyal continued, “and I wondered if you might be planning to attend the betrothal ceremony.”

  “Ah. I… well… you see, I… um. Yes?” The final word was out before Tristin could clap a hand over his mouth, and he’d just started to try and explain that he hadn’t really meant yes at all, when Mikhyal’s face broke out in a smile so beautiful it nearly stopped Tristin’s heart.

  “Oh, very good! I suppose it would be rather too forward of me to ask if you might save a dance for me?”

  “Um. I… well. That is, I haven’t ever danced before, but I’d very much like to dance with you if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and I’d really like to see you again if that’s all right, only I’ve not been properly introduced to anyone, and I’m afraid I might cause a bit of a scandal if anyone finds out where I’m really from and who my father was, and it might not do your reputation any good to be seen with someone who still talks to hallucinations, and if Dirit shows up I can’t promise I won’t make a scene, and it really might be better for everyone if we just… um…” The words ran together until Tristin ran out of breath, and when he finally stopped to take in a great gulp of air, Mikhyal’s lips were twitching, as if he was trying to hold back his laughter.

  “I shall assume that’s a yes, since it sounds as if you’d like to. I shall be very much looking forward to it. Until we meet again, Prince Tristin of Dragonwatch.” And with that, Mikhyal executed a formal bow and made his exit.

  Prince Tristin of Dragonwatch? Tristin stared after him, mind racing through all the things he ought to shout after the prince. Like that he wasn’t even sure if he’d be capable of going down to the castle.

  Before he could settle on a suitable response, the kitchen door banged shut and Prince Mikhyal was gone. Tristin sank down to his knees on the sun-warmed flagstones, staring after him. What had he done? Only promised to go down to the castle for the betrothal. And dance with a prince of Rhiva.

  A shadow fell across him. “Are you all right, Tristin?”

  Tristin looked up to see Ambris staring down at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he hastened to reassure the healer. “Or, well, no, I’m not fine. No. Not really. Actually, not fine at all. Rather miserable, in fact, now that you mention it.”

  “Oh?”

  Tristin got to his feet and spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve just promised Mikhyal… um, I mean Prince Mikhyal, a dance. At Prince Jaire’s betrothal ceremony. I’m not sure how it happened. One minute he came to say goodbye to me, and the next thing I knew, he asked if he’d see me again, and I opened my mouth and words came out and now he’s expecting to see me at the ceremony.” Tristin shook his head sadly. “Only I won’t be going anywhere near the ceremony. How can I set foot in the castle when I can’t even manage the watchtower stairs?”

  A great draconic cry cut through the air, and Tristin and Ambris both looked up to see a great black dragon — Kian in his dragon form — circling the watchtower with a rider on his back. Mikhyal’s long, black hair streamed behind him like a banner, and his face was alight with an expression of boyish exuberance. Kian swooped low over the garden, and Mikhyal lifted a hand to wave as they passed by.

  Tristin raised his own hand and gave Mikhyal a shy smile.

  “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression,” Ambris said, watching his husband glide down the mountain.

  “For all the good it’ll do me,” Tristin grumbled. “I suppose I shall have to ask Master Ilya to take a message to him telling him I won’t be able to manage the betrothal ceremony.”

  “Nonsense,” Ambris said firmly. “If you hold thoughts like that in your head, you’ve failed before you’ve even begun. Now listen: you’ve just over two weeks until the celebration, and Master Ilya has several hours scheduled to work with you after dinner tomorrow. I’m sure if you tell him how much it means to you to be able to attend the ceremony, he’ll find more time to work with you. Two weeks is plenty of time to master the basics.”

  “Mordax spent two years trying to teach me the basics.” A heavy gloom settled over Tristin. “He eventually gave up, said I was hopeless and I’d never learn.”

  “Master Ilya is the best teacher the Wytch Council has.” Ambris’s voice brimmed with all the confidence Tristin lacked, and Tristin’s spirits rose a little in spite of the enormity of the task lying before him. “Why do you think they gave him his own school? He trains the students no one else can, as well as the ones who are so dangerous no one else dares. I despaired of ever learning to shift properly, but Master Ilya taught me in a single afternoon what I’d struggled with for years. I believe he can help you, too, Tristin.”

  “I’d like to believe that, but our last lesson didn’t go at all well.”

  Ambris snorted. “When you had your last lesson, Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva hadn’t caught your eye. Nor had you promised him a dance. I think the prospect of dancing with a man as handsome as Prince Mikhyal might inspire even the most reluctant student, don’t you?”

  Tristin allowed himself a small smile as he stared down the mountain at the castle, but he found it impossible to believe it might be that easy.

  “You can do it, Tristin.”

  “I hope so, Master Ambris. I truly hope so.” Tristin’s face grew hot again. “I should very much like to claim that dance.”

  Chapter Four

  “Someone’s coming.” The voice was a low hiss, right in his ear.

  Mikhyal woke with a start and sat up on the couch, frowning as he stared at the unfamiliar surroundings. It took a moment for him to realize he’d fallen asleep in the main room of his guest suite at Castle Altan. He’d polished off a marvelous lunch sent up from the kitchens, and had only intended to close his eyes for a few minutes.

  “Up here,” the voice said. Now it came from behind him.

  Twisting around, Mikhyal saw Dirit materialize. He was lying stretched out along the top of the couch, tail swishing lazily through the air. “Ah. Dirit. There you are. Sorry, I didn’t see you at first.”

  “You weren’t supposed to,” Dirit s
aid loftily. “I was in hiding.”

  “Hiding? From what?”

  “Anything that might want to eat me, of course. Very difficult to eat someone if you can’t find them.”

  Mikhyal frowned. “No one here wants to eat you.”

  “Not here. In the mythe.” The little dragon’s wings vibrated with his delicate shudder. “There are things. Bigger things than me. Things with sharp teeth and sharper appetites.”

  “I suspect you’d give anything that tried to eat you a rather bad case of indigestion,” Mikhyal said mildly.

  “At the very least,” Dirit agreed. “But by that time it would be a bit too late for me.”

  Mikhyal was about to get to his feet when he heard voices in the hall outside. The door of the suite flew open, and in stepped Han, the castle steward, followed by his father.

  Wytch King Drannik’s eyes went straight to his son. “Mikhyal! Kian said you were much improved, but it does my heart good to see it with my own eyes.”

  Mikhyal stood and went to embrace his father. Two servants carrying heavy saddlebags edged past them. “What of you, Father? You weren’t hurt? And mother? Is she all right?”

  “I was not injured, nor was your mother, though she was quite frightened. Once we arrived safely back at the summer palace, she was too nervous to settle. I sent her back to Castle Rhivana with some of the staff and a large detachment of guardsmen.”

  “I’m sure she’ll feel safer there,” Mikhyal said. “The castle is much more secure than the summer palace. What of Shaine? Did he remain at the palace?”

  “Ai, he did. I suggested he might accompany your mother, but he didn’t seem overly concerned about his own safety. Anxin, of course, remained with him.”

  “Of course.”

  Han waited in the doorway in respectful silence while the bags were taken to the largest of the suite’s three bed chambers. After the servants had gone, Han waited until Drannik and Mikhyal had drawn apart before saying, “If Your Majesty should require anything, just pull on the red cord by the door, and someone will be with you. An informal supper will be served in the Wytch King’s private dining room at six. Shall I send someone to guide Your Majesty?”

  “No, thank you, Han,” Drannik said. “I remember the way.”

  Han bowed and retreated, closing the door firmly behind him. When they were alone, Drannik looked Mikhyal up and down. “How are you really?”

  “I’m well, thank you. I’m told I was suffering from mythe-shock, but Master Ilya and his healers took very good care of me. I’m still a bit tired, but other than that, I think I’m fully recovered.”

  “That is very good news,” Drannik said warmly. “There was talk of your Wytch power finally awakening. Is that true?”

  “Alas, no, Father, it’s not. Master Ilya first thought it was the most logical explanation for what happened in the clearing, but we’ve since learned that was not the case.”

  “No Wytch power, then?” Drannik looked disappointed.

  “No, what happened was the work of the sword. The one I picked up after I lost my own in the attack. Master Ilya said you recognized it.”

  “Ai, I’d nearly forgotten about it until we found you holding it after the ambush. It belonged to my grandfather, but it was forged long before his time. They called it the Wytch Sword of Rhiva, and its power was legendary. The story I was told was that if the Wytch Sword found the right bearer, its powers would awaken, and it would answer the call of its master.”

  There was a very distinct humph from Dirit. “Master, indeed,” the dragon muttered. “No human is my master. I serve the Dragon Mother and protect the line of Rhiva at her behest.” Mikhyal looked around to see the dragon clinging to the chandelier above the suite’s dining table.

  “Ah. Yes. About that… it appears that I am its… ah… master.” Mikhyal glanced at Dirit, whose eyebrow tufts drew together in a fierce scowl.

  “Oh, very presumptuous,” Dirit protested. “I never called you master.”

  “And what, exactly, does that mean?” Drannik inquired.

  “It… it speaks to me.” Mikhyal’s shoulders tensed in anticipation of his father’s reaction.

  But Drannik only raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. My grandfather said the same. Most of the family thought he was quite mad, though the Royal Wytch Master always said there was something odd about the sword.”

  “Odd, indeed,” Mikhyal murmured, glancing at Dirit. The dragon flattened his ears, rolled his eyes, and flopped over onto his back, draping himself over the chandelier with his head hanging down so he could stare at Mikhyal. “It… according to Master Ilya, the sword is a mythe-blade. It acts as a conduit for a creature of the mythe, which is bound to protect the line of Rhiva.”

  “Who chose to protect the line of Rhiva,” Dirit corrected. “I’m not bound to do anything.”

  “Is it speaking to you now?” Drannik asked, squinting as he followed Mikhyal’s gaze upward.

  “Ai,” Mikhyal said with a small sigh.

  “What’s it saying?”

  “He’s correcting me. He says he is not bound to protect the line, but rather chooses to. The distinction seems quite important to him.”

  “He?”

  “His name is Dirit, and he appears to be a small dragon, about the size of one Mother’s cats. He’s… an interesting companion, to say the least. At the moment, he’s draped over the chandelier over there.” Mikhyal pointed, and Drannik squinted in that direction.

  “I see nothing of the sort.” The Wytch King of Rhiva gave his son a dubious look.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Master Ilya can’t see him, and neither can the healers, Ambris and Kian. Prince Jaire was able to see him, though. And Tristin.”

  “Master Ilya did say there was some connection between you and the Wytch Sword when he and the others came to our aid. But who is this Tristin?”

  “He calls himself the bastard prince,” Mikhyal said, “but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure who his father was. He never said. Perhaps he doesn’t know. At any rate, he’s up at Master Ilya’s school, Dragonwatch. It’s where they brought me when they thought I might have some sort of out-of-control Wytch power.”

  “So Ilya said.” Drannik rubbed the back of his neck. “If you don’t actually have Wytch power, and the Wytch Sword was responsible for the slaughter, what caused you to fall into mythe-shock so deep that Master Ilya feared for your life?”

  “Apparently the process of bonding to the sword can be rather a shock to the system.”

  “For some people,” Dirit put in. “Your great grandfather didn’t even bat an eye. You must have an extremely delicate constitution, Your Royal Frailness. The bloodline has clearly thinned in recent years. Too much inbreeding, I imagine.” He glanced at Drannik appraisingly. “You’re certain he’s your father?”

  Mikhyal sputtered at the insult, and Drannik gave him a sideways look.

  “I’ve just been insulted,” Mikhyal explained, once he’d caught his breath. “Or, rather, you have.”

  “By a creature only you can see, apparently.” Drannik shook his head. “They all thought my grandfather was mad, you know. He hated the Wytch Sword, but he kept it with him all the time.”

  “You can speak to Wytch Master Ilya if you require confirmation of my sanity,” Mikhyal said, a little stiffly. “Dirit most graciously performed a physical manifestation for the Wytch Master. Apparently, he finds the physical world to be quite uncomfortable, so I am disinclined to ask him to do it again.”

  Dirit froze, black eyes going wide as they fixed on Mikhyal, and for once, the little dragon had nothing to say.

  “My apologies, Mikhyal.” Drannik gave him a smile that looked more resigned than anything. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I don’t believe you. I’ve already spoken to Wytch Master Ilya, and he has given me all the reassurance I need as to the soundness of your mind. Now that I know you are well, my main concern is what effect any rumors about this might have on the negotiations
. As for the rest of it, if what happened to those bandits was any indication of the Wytch Sword’s power, then I am well pleased. Given what may be coming, you might find yourself grateful to have the extra measure of protection. It seems fortuitous that you chose to bring this particular blade along.”

  “I didn’t,” Mikhyal said flatly. “Choose it, I mean.”

  “Then who did? As far as I knew, it was down in the vaults, in storage. When we found you after… after it had… I assumed you must have removed it, though I’d have thought you would have asked first.”

  “I most certainly would have. The first I saw of it, it was lying on the ground at my feet, dropped from the hand of the bandit captain. I recall thinking it looked familiar, but I didn’t have time to ponder it. He’d disarmed me and was about to take my head off when Rhu intervened. I had no blade, and his was there on the ground in front of me, so I picked it up and… and there was a ringing sensation, like a great bell had been struck, and the next clear memory I have is of waking up at Dragonwatch.”

  “I suppose Shaine might have taken it,” Drannik mused, “but I can’t imagine what he’d want it for — he’s always hated weapons practice with a passion.”

  “Ai, I wouldn’t have thought Shaine would have any interest. I can ask Dirit. He might know.”

  The dragon stared down at him from the chandelier. “Dirit might, if he’d had a bearer at that point, but he didn’t. He has no more idea who removed the sword from your vaults than you do.”

  “Ah. No. Dirit says he is unaware of anything that might have happened before I picked up the sword.”

  “Pity,” Drannik said, glancing in the direction Mikhyal had been looking and shaking his head.

  “Actually, it can’t have been Shaine,” Mikhyal said. “If it had been, his touch would have woken Dirit, and Dirit would have bonded to him.” He frowned. “But that leaves us with a greater mystery — who else has access to the vaults? The only keys are in the hands of you, Shaine, and myself. Who else could have gone down there?”