Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  “Thank you, Alys. I’m feeling better, too. I had a very encouraging lesson with Master Ilya last night.”

  “And an invitation to dance with Prince Mikhyal at the ball following the ceremony,” Ambris said.

  Heat crept up Tristin’s cheeks. He ducked his head and took a forkful of the pie Alys had set before him. The flavor was rich, the pastry flaky and buttery, and the meat practically melted in his mouth. “Alys, this is lovely,” he said.

  “Why, thank you, Master Tristin.” Alys smiled happily. “You’re very kind to say so.”

  “Are you changing the subject, Tristin?” Ambris teased.

  “No, but you are,” Kian said. “Honestly, Ambris, you need to confront him, if only for your own peace.”

  “I have peace,” Ambris muttered. “Or I would, if you would leave it be.”

  “Peace,” Kian said flatly. “Ai, that’s just what it looks like when you’re whimpering in my arms after a bad dream.”

  “They’re just dreams.”

  “They haunt you.”

  Ambris stared down at his plate and applied himself to his lunch, and the rest of the meal passed in long silences punctuated by brief attempts at awkward conversation. When he’d finished eating, Ambris excused himself, saying he had work to do in the garden. Tristin had already promised he’d help with the weeding this afternoon, so he trailed after Ambris, wondering what to say.

  Ambris saved him from having to think of anything by speaking first. “I’m sorry you had to listen to that, and on the first day you felt brave enough to join us. It’s not usually like that.”

  “It… it sounds as if Kian cares a great deal for you,” Tristin ventured.

  “Oh, he does,” Ambris said quickly. “That’s what makes it so difficult. I know he’s trying to help. He truly wants to see me happy. But Kian is lucky enough to have been loved and wanted his whole life. He hasn’t quite grasped the concept of abandonment and betrayal by one’s own flesh and blood.” Ambris shook his head and forced a smile. “But enough of me. What of you? You said you had a good lesson, and Ilya sounded very pleased when he left last night. He said you’ve made great progress.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it great,” Tristin said, “but progress, certainly. I managed to build the basic shielding pattern he’s been trying to teach me. It turned out to be far less difficult than I expected, although all the credit for my success must go to Ilya. He’s a marvelous teacher. Once I got over my fear of failing, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d been led to believe.”

  “Ilya is a marvelous teacher, indeed.” Ambris’s smile looked a lot less forced now. “He taught me, too, and like you, I’d been told I was too hopelessly broken to ever learn so many times, I never questioned it.”

  “Ilya suggested that it wouldn’t have been in Mordax’s best interests to have me learn to protect myself,” Tristin said with a shudder. “I can’t help thinking that if Ilya had been the one to teach me from the beginning, perhaps I’d never have ended up spending half my life shut up in Shadowspire with only my hallucinations for company.”

  “We have much in common, it seems,” Ambris said. “I was kept prisoner at my father’s estate at Blackfrost for five years while my aunt stole power from me under the guise of trying to teach me. Only… once Kian helped me escape, Ilya took over my training, and I learned that Taretha hadn’t been teaching me the correct patterns to help me control the shift.” Ambris’s golden eyes took on a distant look. “I still don’t know if my father was complicit.” He glanced at Tristin. “That’s what the fuss over lunch was about. My father is Wytch King Edrun of Miraen, and he’s coming for the betrothal ceremony. Kian thinks I should talk to him.”

  “Ah. And you would rather not. Do you think you will?”

  Ambris swallowed hard and looked away. “I don’t think so. I… don’t think I could bear to find out that he knew what she was doing. How much she was hurting me. I think I’d rather not know. That way, I can go on believing the best of him.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, Tristin reached out to put a hand on Ambris’s shoulder. As he squeezed gently, Ambris turned his head and gave him a thin, watery smile. “Besides,” he said in a quavering voice, “I don’t want to cause an incident of any sort. I’d feel dreadful if my presence here harmed Altan’s relations with Miraen. Garrik’s been very kind to me, and I refuse to do anything to complicate things for him. It’s better if my father continues to believe I perished in the fire.”

  They’d reached the garden now, and Tristin was grateful to have something else to focus on. It was all terribly awkward; he had no idea what to say to the healer. He knelt at the edge of the flagstones and began searching through the clumps of rabbit-bane planted around the edges of the garden.

  Ambris knelt beside him. “We’ve a gap here,” he said, his voice sounding much steadier. “That won’t do.”

  Tristin looked down at the spot where Ambris was pointing. “We can transplant some from the edge of the coldroot bed,” he suggested. “It’s gotten rather thick there.”

  “Then we can solve two problems at once,” Ambris said. “I shall go and thin out the plants on that side and bring some of them over here for you to plant.” He got to his feet and headed off toward the garden shed, spine stiff, shoulders tense.

  Tristin stared after him, wondering if he’d done something wrong. Real friendships were turning out to be far more complicated than his hallucinatory ones ever were.

  * * *

  Movement in the dressing table mirror had Mikhyal glancing up to see his father entering his bed chamber.

  “How are you feeling?” Drannik asked.

  Mikhyal kept his gaze fixed on the mirror, gritted his teeth, and with effort, refrained from tossing off the first biting reply that came to the tip of his tongue. The constant inquiries after the state of his health were becoming tiresome. Ilya had been in not half an hour earlier to deliver an invitation to a meeting in the library, and he had asked the same question.

  “Much better, Father,” he said patiently. “In fact, I feel quite well. Ilya says I’ve made a remarkable recovery.”

  From his perch on the dressing table, where he was busily inspecting and adjusting his admittedly magnificent whiskers, Dirit said, “No thanks necessary. No, really, I’m channeling the healing energy of the mythe to my bearer out of the supreme goodness of my heart. Not that I really expected anyone to notice. Oh, no, it’ll all be credited to Prince Mikhyal’s Remarkable Constitution or the Manly Blood of Kings flowing through his veins. It’s all right, don’t bother apologizing or thanking me. I’m quite used to being taken for granted.” The little dragon turned to face Mikhyal. “How do I look?”

  “Petulant,” Mikhyal said mildly.

  “Really?” A tuft of eyebrow fur twitched and Dirit turned to survey himself in the mirror once more, though Mikhyal saw no evidence of a reflection, not even a shadow.

  “It rather suits you.”

  “I do believe I’ve been insulted.” Dirit let out an offended sniff and turned away, lashing his tail at Mikhyal. “See if I help you the next time you get yourself into a mess, Your Royal Ungratefulness.”

  “Given that you’ve admitted to being bound to defend my line, I’m afraid I can’t quite find it in me to see that as much of a threat.”

  “Chosen,” Dirit hissed.

  “Chosen to be bound,” Mikhyal countered.

  “Well, really!” Dirit huffed.

  “You’re going to have to watch that, Mikhyal,” Drannik said. “You keep speaking to thin air, and people are going to talk.”

  Mikhyal looked up and met his father’s eyes in the mirror. “I’ll be careful, Father. And I’ll keep my mouth shut at the meeting this morning unless I have something important to contribute.”

  “Oh, if only you could be persuaded to make that a permanent state of affairs,” Dirit muttered. “I wonder what it would take?”

  “Leaving the Wytch Sword here doesn’t make a difference, does it?”
Drannik asked hopefully.

  “No, it does not,” Mikhyal replied. “The sword’s been here in the suite since I arrived, but Dirit seems quite able to follow me about wherever I go. Prince Jaire took me… er, I mean us, on a tour of the castle grounds yesterday, and Dirit was perched on my shoulder the entire time.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be much of a defender of the bloodline if I was stuck in a sword, would I?” Dirit asked. “There is a limit to how far I can go from the sword, but it’s a bit farther than the edge of the castle grounds.” He flitted up to the top of the mirror, coiled himself up, and leapt toward Mikhyal to land on his shoulder.

  Mikhyal felt nothing when the dragon landed, but it appeared to be kneading his tunic with its claws like a little cat. Once it had itself settled, it wrapped its tail around his neck and said, “I’m ready. Shall we be off, then?”

  When Mikhyal turned around, Drannik was giving him a speculative look. “I don’t suppose it might be encouraged to spy for you? Listen in on conversations, tell us where trouble might be brewing?”

  Before Mikhyal could answer, Dirit whispered in his ear, “It might be persuaded. Possibly. For a price.”

  “Of course there would be a price.” Mikhyal rolled his eyes. “What would it want?”

  “A nice fish.” Dirit smacked his lips. “Or perhaps the occasional compliment.”

  “Or a blackberry tart?” Mikhyal suggested.

  “Ooh, yes, that would do very well. Much nicer than those bandits. They were altogether too stringy for my liking. Could have done with some tenderizing. And a nice bit of sauce or gravy… something with lots of garlic would have been just the thing.”

  Mikhyal’s stomach roiled as he thought of what Dirit had left of the bandits in the clearing. “Compliments and blackberry tarts, then,” he murmured. He turned to his father and said, a little louder, “Apparently, it might be persuaded. If I’m nice to it, and feed it pastries.”

  Drannik’s dark eyebrows drew together. “Well, then, you had best endeavor to be civil, had you not?”

  Dirit chuckled. “Yes, do try to be civil, Your Royal Beastliness. I shall be most intrigued to observe your attempts.”

  Mikhyal didn’t answer the dragon, but said to his father, “I’ll do my best.”

  A guardsman waited in the hallway outside the suite to escort them to the library.

  “I don’t know how Garrik manages without a queen to oversee the household,” Drannik commented as they crossed the Grand Hall, where servants were busy cleaning and polishing in preparation for the betrothal ceremony. “Your mother works herself to the bone for weeks before any event held at Castle Rhivana.”

  “Extremely competent staff, I’d imagine,” Mikhyal said, trying to ignore Dirit, who was chattering in his ear about all the changes he’d noticed since he’d last visited Castle Altan, which must have been at least a century ago.

  They were the last to arrive in the library. The gathering was not large. Each of the Wytch Kings had brought only a single advisor with him, and Mikhyal immediately noted there were no Wytch Masters present, not even Ilya. Garrik had Prince Jaire at his side of the table. Ord had Vayne with him, and Edrun had brought Prince Bradin, the second eldest of his sons. Drannik, too, had made note of the conspicuous lack of Wytch Masters. He scanned the faces at the table, then glanced at Mikhyal, one eyebrow raised.

  “This looks like a council of war!” Dirit exclaimed. “How intriguing!” He hopped down from Mikhyal’s shoulder and settled himself near Prince Jaire to listen to the proceedings. An expression of delight crossed the prince’s face, but he quickly concealed it, giving the little dragon a surreptitious nod, then directing a shy smile at Mikhyal, who grinned in return.

  “Where is Ilya?” Drannik asked. “I expected to see him here.”

  “Depending upon what we decide,” Garrik replied, “he and Wytch Master Ythlin of Irilan, both of whom are sympathetic to our cause, may be joining us later. I thought this first meeting should not involve any Council representatives, no matter which faction they favor.” He folded his hands in front of him and cast his gaze around the table, meeting each man’s eyes in turn. “I’ve spoken to each of you in the past of uniting the northern kingdoms and breaking free of the Council’s grip, and I am aware that my father also approached you during his reign, so the alliance I will propose to you is nothing you haven’t considered or discussed before.

  “My understanding from speaking to each of you individually is that the biggest objection to forming an independent alliance is the fact that our declaration of independence would be met with force. The Council and the southern kingdoms will not wish to lose their access to the metals, gems, and mythe-stones than come out of the mines in the Iceshards.

  “Up until now, there has been no reason to think we could be victorious in such a conflict. With our harsher climate, difficult terrain, and shorter growing season, the mountain kingdoms have never been able to support the number of people — or raise the kind of armies — that the southern kingdoms can.

  “But we now have a course of action open to us that will swing the balance in our favor. Prince Vayne of Irilan has revived an ancient technique of mythe-shadow manipulation that could help us build an army the likes of which the Council cannot hope to match. You’ve all witnessed Prince Jaire’s transformation into a dragon shifter. The gift of the Dragon Mother, it has been called, and yet it was not given to Jaire by the gods, or by chance, but by Prince Vayne. Furthermore, this transformation can be performed on anyone who can touch the mythe, or anyone who has certain patterns already present in their mythe-shadow. Indeed, Vayne has already successfully performed it on a number of volunteers. I have therefore bestowed upon him the title of Royal Dragon Master.”

  All eyes turned to Vayne, who bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  Wytch King Edrun cleared his throat. “Not all who possess the gift of the Dragon Mother are able to use it effectively. Garrik’s own experience in learning to control the shift was not so pleasant. How can you be sure those you transform can control the power you give them?”

  “I burn the patterns to control the shift into their mythe-shadows when I give them the ability to shift,” Vayne said. “Thus far, none have had any difficulty controlling their abilities.”

  “What are the risks of the procedure?” Drannik asked.

  “As with any process involving the manipulation of mythe-shadows,” Vayne said, meeting Drannik’s eyes, “the primary risk is mythe-shock. The risk can be minimized if I work closely with a healer. I have, in fact, found a healer here in Altan who works extremely well with me. Together, we have performed the transformation on nine volunteers, including Prince Jaire. None of them suffered any ill effects, and all of them now have the ability to shift, which means they have the ability to fly.”

  “Think about it,” Garrik said softly into the silence that followed. “It means we can observe troop movements from the air, and get word back to our commanders long before the armies meet. Knowing what the enemy is planning will allow us to meet them on the ground of our choosing, and our ability to react to enemy tactics will be far greater than their ability to react to ours. Not to mention the fact that most of our dragon shifters turn out to be fire breathers. Imagine the terror of the enemy soldiers, knowing that fiery death could rain down from above with little warning.”

  Mikhyal listened with increasing interest. This was exactly the advantage the northern kingdoms needed, and the murmurs of approval coming from around the table suggested the others were in agreement.

  “Wytch King Ord and I have spent the past several weeks combing the archives and drafting a preliminary document laying out the framework of the Northern Alliance,” Garrik continued. “If I’ve piqued your interest, we can present our draft to you as a starting point. I am hopeful that we might be able to come to an agreement before the betrothal ceremony.”

  Beside him, Drannik nodded thoughtfully. “It is time. The Council overstepped their authority when
they kidnapped Prince Jaire. Which of us will be next, hmm? The heir they have saddled me with is not the heir I’d have chosen. Wytch power should not be the sole qualification for rule. I, for one, am with Garrik. I say we break free before the Council attempts to tear our kingdoms apart and fill our thrones with puppet kings.”

  Ord nodded, but Edrun said, “What of our Wytch Masters? Ilya and Ythlin may be willing to throw their lot in with the north, but Miraen’s Wytch Master Rotham was hand-picked by Council Speaker Taretha. She may be gone, but Rotham is still loyal to the Council. He would betray us.”

  “As would Rhiva’s Anxin,” Drannik murmured. “Indeed, I fear my own heir, Shaine, has become a puppet of the Council, and would also betray us, were he to learn of our plans.”

  “I, too, have a Wytch Master to be rid of,” Garrik said. “Wytch Master Faah was involved in the plot to usurp Altan’s throne. He is currently in a cell beneath the castle. I suggest we send him, Rotham, and Anxin to Askarra in a prison coach, with the declaration of our independence chained around their necks.”

  “A bold move, indeed,” said Edrun. “But perhaps it is time. Let us see this document you and Ord have drafted. I would be well pleased to help devise a plan to rid ourselves of those who would betray us.” He glanced at his son, Prince Bradin, before addressing Drannik. “Your own heir would betray you?”

  Drannik grimaced. “He was not my choice of heir. Mikhyal, here, would be my choice. He is my firstborn and was trained to rule after me, but his Wytch power never manifested, and without that, the Council would not confirm him.”

  “That could be changed,” Vayne murmured. “Even though he possesses no active Wytch power, Prince Mikhyal carries latent shifter patterns in his mythe-shadow. It would be a simple matter to bring them to the surface, thus giving him the power to shift. With such power, he would be considered an acceptable heir by the Council.”