Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  * * *

  Mikhyal started to offer his father his arm as they stepped down from the dais, but withdrew it at Drannik’s fierce glare. The Wytch King of Rhiva was adamant that no further sign of weakness be shown before his peers.

  Tristin was right where Mikhyal had left him, hunched over in his chair, looking as if he was trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. It must have taken a considerable amount of courage for him to attend such a large gathering when he’d only recently left the isolation of his prison tower. Mikhyal’s respect for him went up a few notches, and he gave Tristin a fond smile as he took his seat.

  Dark eyes met his briefly before shifting downward. Mikhyal didn’t get a chance to ask him what was wrong, for at that moment, the music began, and the princes made their entrance at the far end of the hall. They were dressed in clothing Mikhyal had only seen before in history books, from the time Prince Vayne had been born into: tight-fitting breeches, high boots, and shirts with elaborate lace ruffles. Jaire was dressed entirely in white, and Vayne in black.

  “Look at all that lace,” Dirit said with a sniff. The little dragon was perched on Mikhyal’s shoulder between himself and Tristin. “And those cuffs! Ridiculous! Imagine trying to keep them out of your soup!”

  Tristin’s mouth curved in a small smile, and he murmured to Dirit, “No wonder Jaire called it frippery.”

  Mikhyal had to smother a bark of laughter with a cough.

  The princes had adopted an older hairstyle consisting of long, narrow braids were gathered at the napes of their necks to cascade down their backs. Vayne’s jet-black hair was a stark contrast to Jaire’s white-blond, and the two made a striking couple as they faced one another to speak their promises to wed.

  Mikhyal leaned toward Tristin. “It must have taken ages to do all those braids,” he whispered.

  “Oh, it did, indeed,” Dirit said. “I stopped by to watch some of the preparations this morning. You should have heard all the moaning and whining.”

  The ceremony was conducted by Altan’s Wytch Master Ilya, with Wytch King Ord standing as Vayne’s witness, and Garrik standing as Jaire’s. It sounded as if they’d borrowed some of the wording from the betrothal ceremonies of Vayne’s time. It was a far more romantic ceremony than Mikhyal was used to hearing. Modern betrothal ceremonies, at least among the nobility of Skanda, tended to be conducted like the business arrangements they were rather than the joining of hearts and minds that Ilya now spoke of.

  When the ceremony was over and Jaire and Vayne had sealed their promises with a chaste kiss, Garrik announced the wedding would take place in the fall, during the same week the Wytch Council normally summoned the Wytch Kings to Askarra to hear the Council’s bidding. None of the kingdoms of the north would be attending the Fall Council this year, and Mikhyal imagined there would be much consternation in Askarra when the Northern Alliance made its formal declaration of independence.

  Consternation, and likely, plans of military action.

  The guests were ushered into the formal dining room for the celebratory feast, and Mikhyal and Tristin found themselves seated at the head table, side by side, along with the rest of the royal families. From the grin Prince Jaire shot his way, Mikhyal guessed the prince had been responsible for that, and he nodded his thanks. Jaire’s grin widened, and he turned to whisper something to his promised husband, who also gave Mikhyal and Tristin a nod and a smile.

  A bit farther down, next to Wytch King Edrun and Prince Bradin, sat Ambris and Kian, both of them looking a bit nervous. Edrun seemed to be in very good spirits, and kept leaning over to speak to his son, or brush his arm, as if he still couldn’t quite believe Ambris was alive.

  When everyone was seated, Garrik rose to address the gathering. “It’s no secret that I have never supported the idea of arranged marriages,” he started. “And those of you who know me well are aware that since the day I took the throne of Altan, one of the greatest points of contention between myself and the Wytch Council has been my brother’s marriage. Today’s events bring me great pleasure. Not only am I no longer bound to obey the dictates of the Council, but my brother has managed to find himself a husband of his own choosing, marriage with whom can only strengthen Altan’s already-strong ties with the kingdom of Irilan, thus adding strength and substance to the foundations of the Northern Alliance.”

  Garrik raised his glass in a toast, after which he continued, “In the spirit of forming a firmer foundation for our alliance, Wytch King Edrun has a few words to say.”

  Wytch King Edrun nodded at Garrik and rose from his seat. “I did not wish to take the focus away from Prince Jaire and Prince Vayne’s betrothal, but since their promised union helps to strengthen the Northern Alliance, it seems appropriate for me to officially welcome my youngest son, Prince Ambris, back into the loving arms of his family. I cannot tell you how pleased I was to learn that the son I believed to have perished in the flames at Blackfrost, does, in fact, live. Unbeknownst to me, Ambris was granted sanctuary by Wytch King Garrik five years ago, after Council Speaker Taretha, whom I entrusted with his care, instead sought to use and abuse him.”

  A low murmur rippled through the dining hall. Ambris turned bright red and stared down at his plate. Kian rubbed his back encouragingly.

  “I had thought it would be most convenient if Ambris was free for an alliance marriage,” Edrun continued, “perhaps with a noble lady of Altan. But I have been informed that is not the case.”

  Now it was Kian’s turn to squirm. He gave Ambris a panicked look and practically shrank into his chair, no mean feat for a man of Kian’s stature.

  “While in hiding from the Wytch Council, Ambris has married the man who saved him from suffering further abuse at Taretha’s hands. Kian of Aeyr’s Grove, I would like to publicly acknowledge my debt to you. You have my heartfelt thanks, and you will always have a place in my family.”

  “I… I… thank you, Your Majesty,” Kian mumbled, and ducked his head.

  Garrik chuckled. “As to your wishes for an alliance marriage, Edrun, I fear I can do nothing to change the fact that Kian is not a lady, but I can do something about his status. Kian, how do you feel about lands and a title? Lord Kian has rather a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Kian lifted his head to stare at Garrik, eyes wide.

  “If you and Ambris are so inclined,” Garrik continued, “you can reaffirm your handfasting with a royal wedding the same week Jaire and Vayne marry. Ilya and I shall also be speaking our marriage vows that week, so it will be quite the celebration.” Garrik gave his Wytch Master an affectionate look, and Ilya smiled up at him and took hold of the king’s hand.

  Ambris stared at Garrik, open-mouthed, as if this was the last thing he was expecting.

  Jaire got to his feet and raised his glass. “Our own harvest festival certainly promises to be much more exciting than the Wytch Council’s stuffy Fall Council. To Garrik and Ilya, and to Kian and Ambris. May all these unions forged in love bind the Northern Alliance and help us hold true when the Council tests our resolve, as they surely will.”

  Mikhyal raised his glass, and so did Tristin.

  “Royal weddings seem to be all the rage this season,” Dirit said, appearing on top of Mikhyal’s plate. “How very tiresome. I suppose you two will be next.”

  Mikhyal choked on his wine, and Tristin turned bright red. He barely looked at Mikhyal for the rest of the meal.

  When the guests had eaten, they were invited into the Grand Hall, where the orchestra was already playing soft music, and an array of desserts and pastries waited on long buffet tables.

  Dirit flitted off to inspect the pastries, and Mikhyal grabbed hold of Tristin’s hand and followed the rest of the guests to watch Jaire and Vayne’s first dance. The two princes proceeded directly to the center of the dance floor, and the music began. The dance was an old, intricately choreographed mirror dance, which had been popular in Vayne’s time, but was rarely performed anymore. It was very romantic
, and Mikhyal found himself wondering what it might take to get Tristin to perform such a dance with him.

  Jaire and Vayne executed the complex steps flawlessly, their contrasting black and white finery only adding to the drama of the dance. When the music stopped, they bowed to each other, turned and bowed to their guests, then moved into the crowd to claim new dance partners.

  “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” Mikhyal asked Tristin.

  Tristin’s eyes went wide, and he pulled his hand away. “I’m not sure that’s… ah… well, I mean… not like that!”

  Mikhyal laughed. “No, I don’t imagine any of us will be dancing like that. Not without a lot of practice, anyway.” He looked directly into Tristin’s eyes. “Tristin, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you promised me a dance in the garden at Dragonwatch, but if you’d rather not—”

  “It’s not that,” Tristin said quickly, eyes darting away and then lifting cautiously to meet Mikhyal’s once more. “It’s just… well. I’m the bastard son of a traitor, and you’re the heir to the throne of Rhiva. I’m sure you can find someone more suitable to dance with. They’ll gossip, you know, if they see us together, and if your father has any hopes of making any sort of alliance marriage for you, they’ll be—”

  Mikhyal shut him up with a kiss.

  Tristin stiffened for a moment, and then his arms slowly crept around Mikhyal. He was clearly inexperienced, but just as clearly interested, and eagerly followed Mikhyal’s lead when Mikhyal deepened the kiss.

  When Mikhyal finally pulled away, Tristin’s eyes were wide and stunned. “Ah. Yes. Well,” he said softly. “About that dance…”

  Mikhyal smiled and led him out onto the dance floor.

  * * *

  It was just as well the first dance was a slow, romantic one. The complex steps of the mirror dance Jaire and Vayne had performed would have been completely beyond Tristin. He’d never attended a formal dance before, nor had he been given any lessons in his youth. Hidden away from Ysdrach’s Court at Falkrag and later exiled to Shadowspire, he’d never attended any of the formal events that honed the social skills of Skanda’s young nobles.

  Mikhyal led, and Tristin did his best to follow. One of his arms was around Mikhyal’s waist, which was nice in some ways, but quite distracting in others. His hand, now damp and warm with nervous sweat, was firmly clasped in Mikhyal’s.

  If he’d only had to worry about his hands, he might have managed. But dancing also required the moving of one’s feet, and Tristin couldn’t quite decide what to do with his. As he shuffled about, trying his best not to step on Mikhyal’s boots or tangle their legs, Mikhyal smiled at him.

  That bright, happy smile was his undoing. Tristin put his foot down wrong and trod on Mikhyal’s foot. Mikhyal’s arm tightened around him, supporting him as Tristin struggled to regain his balance. Once Tristin had his feet under him, Mikhyal guided him into the next sequence of steps, barely missing a beat. Tristin’s face flamed. He was certain he could hear snickers as they continued their awkward lurch around the dance floor.

  By the time the music stopped, he was sweaty, out of breath, and completely flustered. Mikhyal led him off the dance floor to one of the little alcoves around the edge of the Grand Hall. “I’m sorry, Tristin,” he said, before Tristin could apologize for being such a dreadful dance partner. “I never thought. You’ve probably never danced before in your life, have you?”

  “Um. Not… well. No. There’s, um, not much call for dancing when you’re locked in a tower like some damsel in a fairy story.” At Mikhyal’s contrite expression, he added quickly, “I’m quite good at languishing in my bed chamber, though. And sighing wistfully as I gaze out the window toward the distant horizon, dreaming of handsome princes.” Aware that he probably sounded ridiculous, Tristin clamped his lips together and vowed to keep a tighter leash on his mouth.

  But Mikhyal just gave him a sad smile. “I might have found that amusing if I didn’t know it was the truth. You don’t appear at all comfortable. Why don’t we go back to my suite? My father’s busy holding court from an armchair in the corner over there. He’s not going to need me. I can fetch us a bit of dessert from the buffet table and we can go and enjoy it away from all these prying eyes, ai?”

  Tristin could hardly believe Mikhyal still wanted to spend time with him after he’d so spectacularly failed to deliver the promised dance. “I… um… yes,” he said shyly, ducking his head. “I… I’d like that.”

  “Right,” Mikhyal said in a conspiratorial tone, “you wait here, and I’ll go and steal us something to sustain us. What do you like best?”

  “Cream puffs,” Tristin said promptly. “Oh… and blackberry tarts, if there are any.”

  “Excellent choices.” Mikhyal grinned. “I’ll return shortly. If I’m captured, I shall endeavor to stuff all the evidence in my mouth and swallow it before they can wrest it from me.”

  Tristin returned the grin as his mind conjured an image to go with Mikhyal’s stated intention. “If you are captured, my prince, they’ll not get a word out of me.”

  “Good man. Wish me luck.” Mikhyal turned to scan the crowd. “It appears I shall have to cross this rather perilous ballroom filled with enemy agents disguised as revelers.” He stepped out of the alcove, looked both ways, and made his way with exaggerated caution to the dessert table. Tristin stifled a giggle as Mikhyal stopped halfway to the table and looked about furtively. He turned back to Tristin, gave him a broad wink, and continued on his way.

  Still fearing himself to be a source of speculation that Mikhyal really couldn’t afford, Tristin stepped back into the shadows to wait.

  “He seems quite taken with you.”

  Tristin looked around to see Dirit clinging to the curtain at the side of the alcove. “Good evening, Dirit. I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

  “Oh, well, His Royal Bossiness has set me to watching over his father, who is currently being guarded by four large, well-armed men who hardly need my help. This dance is turning out to be far more tiresome than I’d anticipated.” The little dragon’s lip curled. “I shall never understand the fascination you humans have with your social conventions. Rules for everything. What you must wear, how you must walk, how you must drink your tea. It’s all quite—”

  “Frivolous?” Tristin guessed.

  “Pointless.” Dirit flattened his ears. “Where I come from, if something doesn’t like the way you’re doing something, you either get mythe-whacked or set on fire. Or, if you’re really unlucky, eaten. Usually before you can apologize.” A delicate shudder rippled over the little dragon’s body, beginning with an eyebrow twitch and working its way down to the tuft at the end of his tail.

  “That sounds rather unpleasant,” Tristin ventured.

  “It is, but it does guarantee that the truly hopeless don’t survive long enough to be a bother to the rest of us. That was a very interesting dance you were doing. Does it have a name?”

  Tristin’s face had only just cooled down, but now his cheeks burned again. “Ah. No. Not… not really. I’ve… not had very much practice, you see.”

  “Well, His Royal Gallantness doesn’t seem too bothered. He’s all ready to take you back to his lair and have his evil way with you.”

  Now Tristin’s ears were on fire, too. “Oh,” he said faintly. “Is he? I hadn’t really… I’ve tried to explain to him why that would be a terrible idea. I mean, it isn’t proper for him to let himself be seen in public with me. I’m not at all respectable. Not with my family history. He doesn’t listen, though.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Dirit. “As I said, he’s quite taken with you. I must admit, I’m rather intrigued to see what happens next.”

  A feeling of dread crept over Tristin. “You’re not going to, um… watch, are you?”

  “Why?” Dirit blinked at him, one furry eyebrow twitching. “Will there be something to see?”

  “I don’t… ah, that is—”

  “My curiosity i
s now most assuredly piqued, Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed. Perhaps morning shall find you prince of another sort of bed entirely.”

  “Mission accomplished!” Mikhyal sounded triumphant as he entered the alcove holding a large plate loaded with cream puffs, blackberry tarts, and crispy little sugar-biscuits. “Is Dirit here? I thought I caught a glimpse of him as I was returning.”

  Tristin glanced about, but there was no sign of the little dragon. “He was. He’s gone now. He was harassing me, as usual.”

  “Well, I’ve asked the little monster to keep an eye on my father. We’ll have the suite to ourselves.”

  “W-we will?” Tristin stammered, becoming flustered all over again at the thought of the rumors that would spread if anyone should catch sight of them leaving the dance together. He ought to plead a headache and retire to his own suite, but… he liked Mikhyal, and he’d had so few friends in his life. So instead of offering up an excuse, he returned Mikhyal’s smile with a tentative one of his own. “I… I think I’d like that.”

  Since Drannik was at the celebration, most of the guardsmen Garrik had provided were busy watching over him, leaving only two on duty outside the suite. Mikhyal invited Tristin in and set the plate of pastries on a low table in the sitting room.

  “Would you like some dessert?” Mikhyal asked. “Or can I get you a glass of spirits?”

  “D-dessert would be n-nice.” A glass of spirits was the last thing he needed. His tongue was already problematic enough; the Dragon Mother only knew what sort of nonsense would come flying out of his mouth if he dared have a drink of anything stronger than watered wine.

  While Mikhyal went to the sideboard for dessert plates, Tristin took a moment to loosen the laces of his shirt. It was a warm evening, and the Grand Hall had been hot and stuffy with all those people packed elbow to elbow for the dancing. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the narrow couch, acutely aware of every sensation: the slight tightness of the new boots he wore, the stiff, starched linen of his shirt, the prickle of unease rippling through his middle.