by Jaye McKenna
“Oh, do calm down, Mikhyal. I only ask because Wytch Master Anxin has spoken of rumors of a rebellion brewing in the north, and Altan has always been notoriously… independent.”
“I’ve seen no evidence to suggest a rebellion,” Mikhyal lied, hating the circumstances that made it necessary. “But if you have doubts, you should speak them to Father. It isn’t as if I have any power here.” The bitterness in his own voice didn’t surprise him, but the way Shaine flinched as he turned away did.
* * *
The Wytch King of Rhiva and his soon-to-be-deposed heir were arguing, and Mikhyal, standing at his father’s side, was having a difficult time keeping his own expression neutral. At least Dirit, listening avidly from his perch atop the dressing table mirror, was keeping his mouth shut for the time being.
“I never said I did not appreciate the gesture, Shaine,” Drannik said, for perhaps the third time. Though he didn’t raise his voice, his tone made it clear that his patience was wearing thin. “What I object to is your decision to leave the affairs of the kingdom in the hands of Wytch Master Anxin. I left you in charge. Not Anxin.”
Shaine pressed his lips tightly together. His light green eyes darted to Mikhyal and then back to their father. Mikhyal couldn’t decide if his brother was furious or struggling to come up with an explanation.
When Shaine remained silent, Drannik continued, “You will gather your men immediately, and you will make your way back to the summer palace with as much speed as you can muster.”
Shaine struggled in silence for a few more moments before saying in a strangled voice, “Father, even if you think it best that I return to the palace, surely you can see the sense in my leaving some men behind to serve as an escort. How are you to get home safely if you have no one to protect you?”
Drannik sighed and leaned back in the heavy armchair next to his bed. “Wytch King Garrik has kindly offered me an escort. Now, go, Shaine. That is a direct order from your king. I am still recovering, and I am tired of arguing with you. If you cannot obey me, I shall send your brother in your place. He, at least, will not argue with me.”
Shaine’s face paled, and it was with obvious reluctance that he turned on his heel and left the room. He shut the door firmly behind him, not quite slamming it, and a few moments later, he was barking orders at the guardsmen he’d posted about the suite.
As soon as the door was shut, Drannik wilted a bit.
“Oh, dear,” Dirit commented from his perch. “This sounds positively dire. Your royal brother is in quite a temper.”
Mikhyal shot Dirit a warning look before saying quietly, “Was that wise, Father? Shaine could have already been here for days, skulking about, listening in, with no one the wiser. If he has overheard anything, he will take it straight back to Anxin, and Anxin will take it to the Council.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Drannik said. “But it hardly matters now. The Council will know soon enough. If there are spies or sympathizers in Altan’s Court, the secret will be out tomorrow, when we announce the alliance. I am content that we are as prepared as we can be.”
“Ai, but are you prepared to face a coup when we return home? Shaine’s imprisoned the King’s Guard and Captain Rhu. With Anxin in charge, I fear what we may find upon our return.”
“There are enough men loyal to Rhiva within the palace guard and among my staff that I don’t think we have cause to worry,” Drannik said. “And after witnessing what the Wytch Sword is capable of, I have no concerns regarding our personal safety.”
“Very intelligent man, your father,” Dirit commented. “Clearly he appreciates my unique abilities. I don’t imagine he would insult me by asking me to carry messages.”
Mikhyal rolled his eyes and managed to refrain from comment.
Drannik started to get up, but fell back in his chair with a groan. “Help me up, Mikhyal. Garrik will be here for lunch shortly, and I will greet him on my feet.”
“Father, don’t you think—” Mikhyal broke off at Drannik’s scowl, but made a mental note to have a word with the healers later on. Ambris would make certain Drannik rested, even if he had to slip something into his tea.
When Garrik arrived, Drannik went to greet him, clasping his forearm and drawing him into the suite. “Come in, come in, Garrik. Mikhyal will be joining us.”
Garrik frowned slightly, and glanced at Mikhyal, indicating Drannik with the slightest motion of his head. Mikhyal read the question immediately, and it was the same as his own: Should he be up?
Mikhyal could only lift his shoulders in reply.
“It’s good to see you on your feet, Drannik,” Garrik said. “You’re looking… not exactly well, but better than you did this morning, at least.”
“The credit goes to your healers,” Drannik said. “They are very thorough and very skilled. Especially that young fellow, Prince Ambris.”
“I shall pass the word along. I am sure he will be gratified to know that you appreciate his services.”
Drannik studied the Wytch King for a few moments. “Quite a surprise that was, him running into his father like that.”
“I can imagine,” Garrik said mildly.
Drannik laughed. “That took stones of iron, Garrik, hiding a prince of Miraen from the Council. Whatever did Edrun think?”
Amusement flickered in Garrik’s dark eyes. “Once the situation had been explained to him, Edrun was grateful. I merely offered his son my protection when he asked for it.”
Noting his father’s unsteadiness, Mikhyal moved surreptitiously to his side to offer him his elbow. Drannik batted his arm away and moved to the table. “Shall we sit down?”
“Ai, we shall,” Garrik said. “Lunch will be along shortly. Will Prince Shaine be joining us? I was informed of his arrival an hour ago.” He glanced about the suite as if he expected to see Shaine.
“He will not,” Drannik said flatly. “He is on his way home to Rhiva. Or at least, he had better be.” Drannik went on to explain the nature of Shaine’s Wytch power and the very real possibility that Shaine already knew of the Northern Alliance.
“What of the attack on you, Drannik?” Garrik asked. “The timing leads me to believe that whoever was responsible intended for you to die before you could sign the treaty. Could Shaine have had a hand in that?”
“I don’t like to think it,” Drannik said slowly, “but it is a possibility we must consider.” He glanced at Mikhyal. “What do you think?”
“Before the accident, I would have told you exactly what you could do with those suspicions, Father. Since then?” Mikhyal shook his head. “I fear he sees me as a threat, and I don’t know how far he would go to secure his position.”
Garrik shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “In light of the suspicious timing of Prince Shaine’s arrival and the attack on Your Majesty within the very walls of my stronghold, I fear the escort I initially offered may not provide adequate protection. I think, perhaps, it would be better if Kian and I were to fly you both home so you don’t have to risk a lengthy overland journey.”
Mikhyal shot him a grateful look, which Garrik acknowledged with the subtlest of nods.
“That is a handsome offer,” Drannik said, apparently oblivious to the younger men’s exchange. “One I will gladly accept. I cannot imagine anyone daring to attack a man guarded by two dragons.” He glanced meaningfully at Mikhyal. “Or three. Mikhyal and I have spoken at length, and I believe we are ready to take Prince Vayne up on his offer to perform his transformation procedure on Mikhyal.”
Garrik regarded Mikhyal with a raised eyebrow. “Excellent. I shall inform Vayne as soon as our meal is over. He will come and explain the procedure to you so you will both know what to expect.”
Mikhyal had to bite back a groan. Between the meetings scheduled with the other Wytch Kings and his responsibilities to his father, it didn’t look like he was going to get a chance to speak to Tristin before tomorrow’s ceremony.
* * *
Tristin stood on the dais
before the throne and tried not to faint. Although, now that he thought about it, fainting might actually be better for all concerned. He’d never had to speak in front of so many people before, and he dreaded to think what might emerge from his mouth if he wasn’t vigilant.
“His Royal Fractiousness says to remind you to breathe.” Dirit’s voice was right next to his ear. “That shade of blue isn’t at all becoming. And don’t lock your knees. It wouldn’t do to have you fall in a heap at the king’s feet, now, would it?”
Tristin glanced to the side to see Dirit perched on his shoulder, but he dared not answer. If even one word slipped out, the dam would break, unleashing a torrent of nonsense. Rumors of his madness must surely have followed him. The last thing he wanted was to prove them true. That wouldn’t do Garrik’s reputation any good at all.
For the first time since his rescue, he found himself longing for the relative safety of his prison at Shadowspire. At least there, it had been just him and his hallucinations, and they certainly weren’t going to spread gossip.
Garrik rose from the throne and gave Tristin an encouraging smile before he began speaking. It sounded as if he might be welcoming his long-lost cousin, but Tristin was far too anxious to focus on the words, and barely heard them. His knees were trembling, and beads of nervous sweat were forming on his brow and on the back of his neck. The finely tailored formal clothing felt tight and uncomfortable, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. Worse, he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do.
He’d practiced before breakfast. Garrik had been there, and he’d told Tristin exactly what would happen, and even had him repeat the words of the oath of fealty back to him. Now, Tristin’s mind was blank, and his eyes darted from side to side as he considered which direction would be best for his flight. The exit to the left was closer. If he dove off the dais—
A slender hand slipping into his own arrested his thoughts of escape, and Tristin turned his head to see Prince Jaire smiling up at him. The prince wasn’t dressed for the betrothal ceremony yet, but his white-blond hair was done up in an intricate style involving dozens of narrow braids, all gathered at the nape of his neck.
“It’s all right,” Jaire murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. Tristin squeezed back, and the tightness in his chest eased enough that he could breathe again. “That’s it. Slow, deep breaths. You can do this. Time to kneel now.”
Tristin did as he was told, thankful that Jaire had stepped in before he’d had a chance to put his flight plan into action.
“Good. Now look up at Garrik and repeat the words of the oath.”
His ears burned as he stumbled over the ritual phrases he’d thought he’d committed to memory, and then Jaire’s hand was squeezing his shoulder.
“Now kiss the ring on Garrik’s hand,” Jaire murmured in that same soothing tone, “and then stand up and turn around.”
When he bent his head to kiss the ring, Garrik’s other hand rested on his head for the briefest moment, and then Jaire was pulling him to his feet and surreptitiously guiding him in his turn, making sure he was facing the right way. Tristin stared out into a sea of unfamiliar faces as the gathered nobility and royalty all bowed in acknowledgment. Jaire squeezed his hand again and whispered, “Look at Dirit. He’s on the chandelier.”
Tristin glanced up and saw the little dragon, hanging upside down by his tail over the gathering, waving at Tristin and waggling his tufted eyebrows.
It took everything he had not to burst out laughing, but it was enough of a distraction to get him through the rest of the ceremony. Thank the Dragon Mother he didn’t have to do anything else but stand there and do his best to keep himself on his feet with his mouth firmly shut.
Then Jaire was pulling him off the dais and behind the throne. “I have to go and get dressed for the betrothal ceremony now,” he whispered. “Garrik and the rest of the kings are going to announce the treaty, and they’ll be yammering on about that for ages. You can either go and sit in the family section over there” —Jaire pointed to a small grouping of chairs along one side of the Grand Hall— “or you can follow me through the back hall, and escape to your suite. It’s all right. I understand how hard that was for you, and I won’t mind if you’re not here for the betrothal.”
“I’ll be here,” Tristin said firmly. “I said I would, and I will.”
Jaire’s face lit up, and he squeezed Tristin’s hand again before slipping through the door at the back.
Tristin took advantage of the lull to make his way to the group of chairs Jaire had pointed out. To his relief, the section reserved for the royal family was nearly empty. The only occupant was an older lady dressed in a revealing gown more suited to a young maid in search of a husband. Tristin sat as far from her as he could, which didn’t turn out to be far enough, for the moment he was seated, she leaned over and said in a low voice, “So you are Garrik’s long-lost cousin, are you?”
“Ah. Well. Yes. I’m—” He gulped and just managed to stop himself from introducing himself as Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed. “Tristin, my lady.”
Cold black eyes raked over him, and the corners of her mouth turned down. Her hair, done up in an elaborate creation of braids and fine gold chains, was jet black, without even a single thread of silver. “Vakha’s bastard, or so I hear.”
Tristin’s face warmed as he tried to think who this woman might be. He’d not attended any formal dinners, and so had yet to make her acquaintance. “Y-yes, I’m told my f-father was Prince Vakha, my lady. I never met the man, though.” He remembered his manners then, and added, “I… I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of m-making your acquaintance.”
She raised a little jeweled fan and waved it about in front of her. “I am Lady Saphron. Vakha’s widow.”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” Tristin wished now that he’d escaped to his suite as Jaire had suggested. If this was his father’s wife, he doubted she’d want to be anywhere near him. “I’m sure we’ll get along famously, then.” The words fell out of his mouth with reckless abandon, and Tristin was helpless to stop the flow. “You can tell me all about my father, since I never met him, and I don’t even know if he was told about me, and then I can regale you with tales of my hallucinations, which were my only companions for years upon years, and then, if it pleases you, you can make sympathetic noises and order tea and cakes for us, and perhaps I shall escort you on walks around the gardens and call you Auntie. I can hardly wait to begin!” He stopped to draw breath and stretched his mouth wide in what he hoped was a brilliant smile.
Lady Saphron’s eyes narrowed. “If you think I would have anything to do with my husband’s tragic mistake, you can think again. You will never be anything to me but a bitter reminder of the follies of my husband’s youth. That little chit from Ysdrach certainly had ambitions, to snare Vakha in her web of deceit. Garrik may accept you into the family with open arms, but you will not find me nearly so welcoming.”
Tristin swallowed, face flaming as he looked helplessly about to see if anyone else had heard. Before he could come up with a thing to say, a voice said, “Tristin! There you are! Come on, you’re supposed to be sitting with us, or had you forgotten?” And there was Mikhyal, helping him up and tugging him away from Lady Saphron.
Tristin pulled free just long enough to give Lady Saphron a stiff, formal bow. Mikhyal led him through the crowd to where Drannik was sitting. The Wytch King of Rhiva still looked pale, but his black eyes were bright and alert, and fixed upon the two of them, gaze resting for a few moments on their joined hands.
To Tristin’s consternation, Mikhyal kept hold of his hand even after they were seated. “Th-thank you for that,” Tristin murmured.
“Prince Jaire was mortified when he remembered that Lady Saphron would be sitting there.” Mikhyal gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “He would have come himself, but he didn’t have time. He sent Dirit to tell me you might be in need of a rescue.”
“I was, rather. She doesn’t seem to like me at a
ll.”
“Prince Jaire told me she was always bitter about never having any children of her own, so I suppose a certain amount of resentment is to be expected. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”
“I… I suppose.” Tristin had doubts about that, but there was no time to continue the conversation, for at that moment, Garrik rose and called the other three Wytch Kings of the north forward to announce their alliance.
Drannik nodded to his son and rose, making his way steadily toward the dais. Tristin glanced about, heart sinking as he realized he’d lost his chance to leave unnoticed. So much for slipping off quietly before the dancing started. Mikhyal would, no doubt, insist he sit with him at dinner. With a sigh, Tristin turned his attention to the dais, where Master Ristan, surrounded by the four Wytch Kings, was reading the treaty out for the assembled Court.
When the reading was complete, Garrik announced that the first official act of the Northern Alliance was to recognize Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva as Drannik’s heir. Mikhyal was called forward to kneel before his father as the ritual words declaring him the heir of Rhiva were spoken.
“He does look most regal, doesn’t he?”
Tristin turned his head to see Dirit perched on the back of the chair Mikhyal had vacated, tail lashing with excitement. “He does indeed,” he murmured under his breath.
After swearing his allegiance to both his father and the alliance, Mikhyal got to his feet and embraced his father, then clasped arms with Ord, Edrun, and Garrik, in turn.
That was it then. Mikhyal was officially the heir, and so far above Tristin that it certainly wouldn’t do for them to be seen together in public. He glanced about, seeking any possible way out, but given the number of people present, leaving without being noticed looked to be an impossible feat. He settled himself in a miserable huddle, determined to wait it out until he could make his escape.