Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  “Perhaps no one,” Dirit said.

  Mikhyal stared up him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Dirit’s ears flattened. “Well, only that you’re operating on the assumption that your brother Shaine is of the line of Rhiva.”

  Mikhyal blinked. According to whispered rumors, Shaine was the very image of a certain guard captain who had been dismissed shortly after the prince’s birth. The queen had done much to quiet the rumors by announcing that Shaine looked very much like her own dear grandfather on her mother’s side, and when Shaine’s Wytch power had awakened and Drannik had been forced to declare him his heir, the rumors had died completely.

  But what if those rumors were true?

  It would certainly explain Drannik’s coolness toward his youngest son, and his reluctance to have Shaine take the throne after him.

  “What did it say?” Drannik demanded.

  “Only that it has no idea who else might have access to the vaults,” Mikhyal said, casting a sharp glance at Dirit. Drannik had never said anything to him to make him question his brother’s legitimacy, and Mikhyal wasn’t about to bring it up now.

  “Ah,” Dirit said gaily, “the plot thickens. I shall be watching with interest most avid and breath most bated to see how this all unfolds.”

  “Well, then,” Drannik said. “If there is a thief in our midst, I shall post a guard on the vaults the moment we return home. For now, I suppose we had best prepare for supper with the Wytch King of Altan. Hopefully, we shall learn more of this alliance he’s proposing. Has Edrun arrived yet? Will Garrik present his plans for the alliance over dinner, do you think?”

  “I’m not certain. I haven’t seen any sign of the delegation from Miraen, but I came down from Dragonwatch late yesterday, and other than Master Ilya coming to check on me this morning, I’ve seen no one else.”

  “Then we must be prepared for anything,” Drannik said.

  “I’m always prepared for anything,” Dirit chirped.

  * * *

  Tristin concentrated on the pattern he was trying to build. Circular, with lines here, and a spiky bit there… His heart raced as the pattern slowly took shape in his mind.

  Could he really do this?

  “Yes…” Master Ilya murmured from across the table. “Exactly so. And the little hooked part… yes. Now hold on to it in your mind and study how it feels as well as how it looks. Both the look and the feel of the pattern will serve as your guide the next time you build it. You’ll know when you’re getting close, and when you’ve got it wrong. Now dissolve it, and we’ll start from scratch again, but this time, you’ll do it without my guidance.”

  “It’s much easier than I expected,” Tristin said, opening his eyes to focus on the Wytch Master.

  “Especially when you don’t have a troublesome little mythe-dragon distracting you, hmm?”

  Tristin offered him a shy smile. Ilya had believed him even before he’d seen Dirit with his own eyes. “Yes, that does make a difference. But more importantly, you explain everything so clearly. Mordax had a way of making it all seem so difficult and complicated.”

  “Given what the Wytch Council had planned for you,” Ilya said drily, “it may not have been in Mordax’s best interests to have you learn to protect yourself. If you’d been able to master the patterns, he’d have had no reason to keep you locked up in Shadowspire.”

  “And if he hadn’t made me dependent on that damned drug of his, he’d have had no hold over me.” Tristin stared down at the table. “I feel so stupid for just blindly accepting it all. I never questioned him, never even tried to escape.”

  “You were a child, Tristin.” Ilya’s voice was gentle. “And you were isolated. You had no reason to think they were using you, and not enough experience to question the situation. And once you were taking the anzaria regularly, your mind was too clouded to come to any such conclusion, no matter how much evidence was presented.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Tristin found himself unable to meet the Wytch Master’s eyes. “Or are you just being kind?”

  “I truly believe it, Tristin. I cannot see what the future holds for you, but I believe it will be bright. And you will not be alone with no one to turn to, not ever again. You have family and friends here in Altan. Prince Jaire thinks the world of you, Ambris speaks highly of you, and you seem to have struck up a friendship with Prince Mikhyal easily enough.”

  Tristin’s ears began to burn, and he finally risked a glance up. He saw no disapproval or censure sharpening the Wytch Master’s delicate features. “Ah. Yes. Well. Prince Mikhyal is… he’s very kind. I wasn’t expecting him to even speak to me. I’m not really very…” He trailed off, cringing as Ilya’s lips twitched, certain he was about to be reprimanded for behaving inappropriately. Mikhyal was a prince of the blood, after all, and Tristin, the bastard son of a murdering traitor.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re getting on well with him,” Ilya said, and Tristin stared at him in surprise. “I worried that after so many years in isolation, you would have trouble forming friendships. I am happy to learn I was wrong.”

  “Ah. Well. Um.” Tristin pressed his lips together to keep any other awkward confessions from slipping out, and tried not to think too hard of the promise he’d made to Mikhyal yesterday.

  “Shall we try again?” Ilya asked.

  “Yes. That would probably be for the best.” Relieved, Tristin closed his eyes, banished the image of Mikhyal’s face alight with joy as he rode down to the castle on dragonback, and started building the pattern Ilya had taught him.

  * * *

  At the stroke of six, Mikhyal followed his father into Wytch King Garrik’s private dining room to find the table set for three. Garrik was already there, and rose to greet them when they entered. At twenty-seven, he was only a year younger than Mikhyal, though he’d taken the throne at the tender age of twenty, after the murder of his father, Wytch King Dane.

  “Drannik, Mikhyal, welcome to Altan,” Garrik said, coming forward to clasp arms first with Drannik and then Mikhyal. “I hope you don’t mind a quiet, private dinner. Edrun will be arriving tomorrow, and there’ll be a formal reception tomorrow night. Tonight, I wanted to speak with you alone, without any servants about. I trust you’ve found your suite satisfactory?”

  “Quite, quite,” Drannik said, “and your staff most accommodating. You must thank Kian again for coming to fetch me. Though the journey here on dragonback was a bit nerve-wracking, it was certainly faster than horseback, and much more comfortable than that damnable carriage my wife prefers.”

  “I will indeed pass the message along. I’m told Kian is far more considerate of his passengers than I am.” Garrik gave him a rueful grin before turning to Mikhyal. “And how fare you, Mikhyal? I apologize for not stopping by to see you when you arrived yesterday, but preparations for my brother’s betrothal ceremony are taking up every spare moment of my time.”

  Mikhyal bowed his head slightly. “I understand, Garrik. To be quite honest, I wouldn’t have been very good company last night. I was still quite exhausted, and Wytch Master Ilya only allowed me to leave Dragonwatch on the understanding that I wouldn’t overdo it.”

  “He’ll hold you to that, too,” Garrik said with a grin, and gestured toward the sideboard, where a generous buffet was set out. “Ilya would have joined us tonight, but he’s working with a student up at Dragonwatch, and with all that’s going on here, he hasn’t had as much time for him as he ought.”

  “Is this Tristin you speak of?” Mikhyal asked.

  “Ai. You met him, did you?”

  “I did. Is he a relative? He reminded me very much of both you and your father.”

  “Ai, he’s cousin to Jaire and me,” Garrik said. “Vakha’s bastard, apparently. Cenyth and her cronies on the Wytch Council thought they’d put him on the throne in my place, but we managed to disabuse them of that notion quite handily.”

  “So Ilya said when he came to me in Rhiva,” Drannik said, taking a p
late and looking over the offerings. “He also said you had hopes for an alliance. The one you hinted at rather obliquely last year, I assume?”

  “Indeed,” Garrik said. “And that is what I wished to speak to you of tonight, before we meet formally with Edrun and Ord.”

  When they had all filled their plates and were sitting, Garrik began. “My father was an outspoken opponent of the Wytch Council, and one of his goals was to find a way to unite the northern kingdoms and break with the Council and the south. I know he spoke of it at length to you, Drannik, and I also understand the main reason nothing ever came of it was that you both feared the Council would raise the entire south against us. Even with the combined military force of all four of the northern kingdoms, we could never hope to defeat the armies of the southern kingdoms and the Council’s Drachan troops.”

  “You’ll find us all in agreement with that assessment, I think,” Drannik said.

  “Ai, and that situation has not changed appreciably,” Garrik said. “But what if I were to tell you that I have come into possession of knowledge that will give us an advantage the Council cannot hope to match, even with the combined might of the south behind them?”

  “I do hope he’s not talking about me.”

  Mikhyal looked down to see Dirit curled around his plate, head appearing to rest upon a leg of roast duck. He gave the dragon a very slight shake of his head and turned his attention back to the conversation.

  Drannik’s dark eyes revealed nothing as he slowly chewed his mouthful. “A weapon, then?” he said finally. “Whenever the Wytch Kings of the north grow restless, there’s talk of caches of weapons buried in the deepest vaults of the oldest holdings of the royal families, hidden before the Wytch Council banned the possession of such things.”

  “Not a weapon.” Garrik’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “An army.”

  “We have an army,” Drannik said flatly. “Between the kingdoms of the north, we have four. It still wouldn’t be enough. Even if we were able to choose our ground for every battle, we simply cannot raise the numbers we’d need. The northern kingdoms have never been able to support the kind of population the southern kingdoms can.”

  “What about an army that can cross a kingdom in hours rather than days? An army that isn’t hampered by rough terrain or foul weather, and will not require long supply lines. An army that can strike a devastating blow out of a clear sky.” Garrik leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. “An army the mere sight of which will strike terror into the hearts of those who oppose us.”

  “Oh, my ears and whiskers!” Dirit exclaimed. “How exciting! He’s talking about treason.” The dragon minced across the table and lay himself down, settling his head between his little front feet like a dog, and stared up at Garrik. “He looks much too kingly to be a rebel, don’t you think? I wonder if history will paint him as a hero or a traitor. I suppose it depends upon which side emerges victorious once the dust has settled.”

  Mikhyal kept his mouth shut and hoped Garrik couldn’t hear Dirit any more than Drannik could.

  Drannik was silent for a time, regarding Garrik from hooded eyes. “What sort of army?” he finally asked.

  The grin that lit Garrik’s face was almost feral. He rose from his seat and threw open the double doors of the dining room. “Come with me. This will only take a few moments.”

  Mikhyal and his father exchanged a frown and a shrug and rose to follow the Wytch King. Not content to be left alone, Dirit made a show of scurrying up Mikhyal’s sleeve and perching on his shoulder.

  Garrik only took them as far as the Grand Hall, where Prince Vayne, Prince Jaire, and the healer, Kian, awaited them. All three men wore cloaks and were barefoot.

  “My, my, what have we here?” Dirit murmured in Mikhyal’s ear.

  Jaire executed a formal bow. “Good evening, Your Majesties and Your Highness.” His gaze drifted to Mikhyal’s shoulder, and he grinned, presumably at Dirit.

  “Good evening, Your Highness,” Dirit chirped. “Are you going to give us a demonstration?”

  Prince Jaire glanced over at his brother and Drannik, then gave Dirit the slightest nod.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Garrik said.

  As if they’d rehearsed the maneuver, Vayne and Kian both turned and walked a few paces away from Jaire, then all three men faced forward and whipped off their cloaks. None of them wore a stitch of clothing underneath, but there was hardly time to register that before all three of them began to change.

  Their shifts were so smooth and so fast, Mikhyal barely caught any details. His attention was on Prince Jaire, and he had a momentary impression of the prince’s slender body lengthening, his face elongating and changing, and the next thing he knew, in place of Prince Jaire stood a dragon with gleaming opalescent scales and violet markings. Next to him, where Vayne had stood, was a slightly larger emerald-green dragon, and at Jaire’s other side stood a much bigger black dragon.

  “Oh, they’re very good,” Dirit said admiringly. “And what pretty colors. Though Jaire and Vayne don’t look nearly big enough to carry you, Your Royal Immenseness. Even though you were quite restrained with those blackberry tarts yesterday.”

  Mikhyal opened his mouth to throw back an acid retort, but snapped it shut before a single word could slip out.

  Drannik’s eyes narrowed in a calculating expression as he watched the three men shift back to human form. Blushing furiously, Jaire snatched up his discarded cloak and whipped it over his shoulders. Kian and Vayne followed suit at a more leisurely pace, clearly less bothered about exposing themselves.

  Jaire focused on his brother. “If that’s all, Garrik, Master Ristan’s expecting me in the library to go over titles and such.”

  “Evening lessons?” Garrik inquired.

  “Making up for spending yesterday afternoon at Dragonwatch,” Jaire grumbled. “I thought I was getting out of it, but apparently I was just delaying it.”

  “Go on, then. Off to your lessons,” Garrik said. “Better you than me.”

  Jaire shot his brother a scowl, flashed a quick, shy smile at Mikhyal — or perhaps it was Dirit he was acknowledging — and hurried off across the hall.

  “Nice boy,” Dirit commented. “I like him.”

  “Vayne, Kian, thank you,” Garrik said. “That’s all I need for the moment.”

  Vayne and Kian nodded to the Wytch King and followed Prince Jaire out at a leisurely pace.

  Drannik turned his speculative gaze upon the Wytch King. “I saw Jaire’s dragon form when Ilya brought him to our aid in Rhiva. I knew you had inherited the gift of the Dragon Mother, but until that moment, I did not realize your brother had, too. There’s been no talk of it among the Wytch Masters.”

  “No, there wouldn’t have been,” Garrik said. “Jaire did not inherit the gift. None of them did. Prince Vayne transformed both Jaire and Kian by burning the patterns into their mythe-shadows. He can confer the ability to shift upon anyone who can touch the mythe, as well as some who cannot, if certain patterns are present in their mythe-shadows.”

  “Can he, now?” Drannik glanced at Mikhyal, then focused on Garrik, eyes alight with interest. “Let’s hear about this alliance you’re proposing. And this army.”

  “Let us return to our meal, then,” Garrik said, “and I’ll tell you what Wytch King Ord and I have in mind.”

  * * *

  Tristin drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the hall. Ambris had been encouraging him to join him, Kian, and Alys for meals ever since he’d been well enough to eat solid food. Thus far, Tristin had always politely declined, but yesterday, he’d announced to Ambris that he was going to try to be more sociable. He would have to be, if he intended to venture down to the castle. Lunch with Ambris and the others seemed like a sensible first step.

  He’d almost reached the dining hall when he heard voices drifting out. It sounded as if an argument was going on, and he hesitated in the doorway.

  Should he intrude? Per
haps he should just turn around and go quietly back to his suite…

  “I’m just saying you can’t possibly know for certain until you’ve talked to him.” Kian sounded irritated.

  “Taretha was his sister,” Ambris snapped. “Of course he knew.”

  “You don’t know that,” Kian said stubbornly. “And you won’t, unless you ask him.”

  “Gently, Kian,” Alys said. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have a family like ours.”

  Ambris looked as if he was about to launch into a tirade, but stopped when he caught sight of Tristin, still dithering in the doorway. “Come in, Tristin! I was hoping you’d come. Alys has set a place for you.”

  Tristin edged in, suddenly very aware of the three pairs of eyes fixed on him. “Um. Sorry. I… ah… didn’t mean to interrupt anything. You did say I should join you sometime, but if you’re having a private discussion…”

  “Hardly,” said Ambris. “And it’s not a discussion.” He shot a glare at Kian. “I happened to mention to Kian that you were keen to go down to the castle for the betrothal, and now he’s got it into his head that I ought to go, as well.”

  “I only suggested that since Tristin was going, you might go together,” Kian said.

  “And risk being recognized?” Ambris scowled. “There’s too much at stake to risk alienating Miraen. Garrik needs all the northern kingdoms working together, and if my father should find out Garrik’s been sheltering me here…”

  “And it makes such a fine, noble excuse, doesn’t it?” Kian muttered.

  “Kian.” Alys kicked her brother under the table, and Tristin suppressed a smile. Having never had a sibling, he found Kian and Alys’s interactions both fascinating and amusing.

  Ambris grimaced. “I’ve had plenty of time to consider it, Kian, and my mind is made up. I shall remain here at Dragonwatch until the ceremony is over and the guests have gone home.”

  While Ambris spoke, Tristin took a seat at the table, opposite Ambris and next to Alys, who offered him a kind smile as she lifted a slice of meat pie onto a plate for him. “You’re looking much better this morning, Master Tristin.”