by Jaye McKenna
“Cooperate, and no one will be hurt,” Shaine said.
“Oh, I think not,” Dirit whispered in Mikhyal’s ear.
“What is the meaning of—” Drannik’s words cut off abruptly as a fog descended over the courtyard.
Screams filled the air, echoing off the stone walls of the palace. Mikhyal could see nothing through the fog. He squeezed his eyes shut and loosened the reins of his borrowed horse, afraid the animal might try to bolt, but the mare didn’t seem at all bothered.
The screaming ceased abruptly. Mikhyal’s breath hitched as he opened his eyes. The men on the roof were gone, and the courtyard was filled with neat little piles of polished bone, gleaming in the sunlight. His father stood not ten paces away, face pale, eyes wide. The guardsmen they’d brought from Brightwood shifted position until they were surrounding Mikhyal and his father, all of them scanning the courtyard for further threats.
In front of the main doors, Wytch Master Anxin sat slumped, the blood-chain Master Ilya had given Drannik locked around his neck. Beside him, on his knees, with his hands bound behind him, was Shaine, eyes wide with shock.
Drannik recovered first. “Go and see what the situation inside is,” he ordered their escort. “Carefully — they may have set up another ambush within.”
“There is no ambush inside, Your Majesty,” Dirit said, materializing on the back of Drannik’s horse. Dangling from one claw was a ring of keys, which he offered to the king. “Not anymore.”
“Thank you, Master Dirit,” Drannik said, taking the keys.
“I have removed the traitors from the palace,” Dirit said. “You’ll want to check the dungeons at your earliest convenience. You’ve quite a few loyal men locked in the cells.”
“You,” Drannik said, pointing to four of the Brightwood guards. “Take the Wytch Master and Prince Shaine to the dungeon, and release the King’s Guard.” He offered the most senior of them the ring of keys.
Both Shaine and Wytch Master Anxin appeared to be in shock. They had to be pulled to their feet and guided into the palace.
Mikhyal choked down bile as he regarded the courtyard. Piles of bone lay everywhere, but there was nothing to distinguish one from another. No clothing, no weapons, in fact, the only thing that seemed to have survived Dirit’s swift, uncompromising defense of the men he was bound to protect was the ring of keys he’d given to the king. How many men loyal to Rhiva had Dirit destroyed in his defense of the royal bloodline?
He glanced over at Dirit and found the little dragon watching him. “Don’t mourn them, Your Highness. They were all Drachan. Council troops, dressed in the uniforms of the King’s Guard.”
“How can you be sure?”
One eyebrow tuft twitched. “They have a certain… flavor.”
Mikhyal’s stomach churned as he moved slowly through the courtyard. “Does Shaine have the same flavor?”
Dirit’s snout wrinkled. “I would have to eat him to find out. Would you like me to?”
“No, Dirit, that won’t be necessary. He’ll be quite safe in the dungeon.”
A few moments later, Rhu arrived, followed by the rest of the King’s Guard. They were all dressed in rumpled, ill-fitting clothing, and Rhu looked furious.
“Your Highness, Your Majesty,” she said, executing a bow. “Thank the Dragon Mother you’re safe. I feared Prince Shaine meant to be rid of you both.”
* * *
“We were drugged,” Rhu said as she stood before the king. She and the rest of the King’s Guard had been given time to tidy themselves and don their uniforms, and now she and her lieutenant, Takla, were reporting to Drannik and Mikhyal in the king’s study. “My best guess is they drugged either the food or the ale we were given for dinner. We woke to find ourselves in the dungeon. That was two nights ago.”
“Two nights?” Mikhyal frowned at Drannik, then at Rhu. “When he arrived in Altan, Shaine told me he’d arrested you before he left the palace.”
“He lied, Your Highness. He made no move here until he returned from Altan, two days ago. Everyone I was able to talk to reported the same experience: a wave of sleepiness, and then nothing until we all woke up in the cells yesterday morning. Anxin’s doing, I’d imagine.”
“I wonder how much Shaine overheard when he was in Altan,” Mikhyal said grimly. “And whether or not he’s sent word of it to the Council yet.”
“If Anxin is involved — and I have no doubts about that — he will not have sent word yet,” Drannik said. “Anxin never notifies the Council of anything he attempts until he is certain of a favorable outcome. And he will not have expected us to arrive this quickly.”
“He may not have expected us to arrive at all,” Mikhyal said. “Why else would Shaine have brought an escort of men I never approved, rather than the King’s Guard? Drachan, I imagine, if the men awaiting us here were any indication. With orders to see us dead. Possibly within the borders of Altan, so Garrik would be blamed.”
“A foul plot, indeed,” Drannik growled.
“Your Majesty, may I speak freely?” Rhu asked, and at Drannik’s nod, continued, “I’ve considered Prince Shaine to be a possible risk to your security ever since the accident last summer. The men of the King’s Guard have observed enough inconsistencies in his behavior to put us on edge. It would not surprise me in the least to learn he was involved in the ambush of the royal caravan.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Rhu.” The king let out a heavy sigh and turned to his son. “Mikhyal, arrange for Anxin and Shaine to be transported to Mir as soon as possible.”
“Very well, Father.” Much as it grieved him, Mikhyal could see no other option; Shaine’s treachery could have undone the Northern Alliance before it had even begun. “Since we have no idea how much Shaine overheard in Altan, and no knowledge of Anxin’s resources here in Rhiva, I will accompany the prison caravan. I can scout ahead in dragon form and protect our men in the event of an attack.”
Rhu turned a speculative eye on him. “Dragon form, Your Highness?”
“Ai. We’d rather not have it leaked to the Wytch Council, but I suppose word of it will get out soon enough.” Mikhyal gave Rhu and Takla a brief overview of the events of the past few weeks: his bond with the Wytch Sword and Dirit, the forging of the Northern Alliance, the attempt on Drannik’s life, and his own transformation.
Rhu’s eyes got wider and wider as the story unfolded.
“It is Garrik’s aim to build an army of dragon shifters,” Mikhyal finished. “We will be accepting volunteers from across the Northern Alliance. I’ll be giving the men a demonstration and asking them to consider volunteering as soon as we’ve delivered Shaine and the Wytch Master to Mir.”
“You’ve had an eventful few weeks, Your Highness,” she said when he’d finished. “I’m pleased to see you’ve managed to survive the experience.” She cast a dubious look at the sword belted to his hip. “I don’t suppose I’ll have to worry about you losing your edge anymore, will I?”
Mikhyal laughed. “No, you won’t. I have quite a fierce little protector right here.” He gave the Wytch Sword an almost affectionate pat. “Now, Father, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change and unpack my things. After that, Captain Rhu, Lieutenant Takla, and I have a prison caravan to organize, so I’ll see you at dinner.”
Drannik’s dark brows drew together. “When do you intend to leave?”
“The sooner the better. By now, Faah will be on his way to Mir. I would not delay the delivery of the Northern Alliance’s first official message to the Council. We’ll let the men have a good night’s sleep to recover from their time in the cells, and leave first thing in the morning.”
“Having only just gained the heir of my choice, I find myself loathe to allow you to put yourself at risk,” Drannik said slowly. “But as your little defender has proved himself so capable, I will not quarrel with you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Mikhyal made his way back to his apartment with Dirit perched on his shoulder. In the bedr
oom, the little dragon curled up on the bed, watching Mikhyal pack the things he’d need into a small, leather backpack which would be loaded on the supply wagon. As he’d be spending most of his waking hours in dragon form, a few changes of clothing and his weapons should be sufficient.
“Well, at least there’s no argument about whether or not I should accompany the prison carriage to Mir,” Mikhyal said to Dirit.
“Did you expect there to be?” Dirit asked. “As your father said: I’ve proved myself extremely capable. You have nothing to worry about as long as I am protecting you, Your Royal Adventurousness.”
* * *
Mikhyal could hardly bear to watch his brother being led into the courtyard from the dungeons, but as the commander of Rhiva’s army, he didn’t have the luxury of hiding away. He stood stiffly next to his father, whose face was impassive as he watched the prisoners being escorted to the waiting prison carriage.
Shaine shuffled past, blinking in the bright sunlight. His head was bowed, and the guards on either side of him were helping support him. Heavy chains bound his wrists and ankles, and the anzaria he’d been given to prevent him from touching the mythe had clearly left him dazed and dizzy.
When he reached Mikhyal, Shaine lifted his head briefly. His pale green eyes were dull, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Not even a trace of the brother Mikhyal had once loved so fiercely remained in those eyes.
Shaine didn’t speak, which was just as well; Mikhyal had no words to express either his disappointment or his grief. There would be no coming back for Shaine, and the loss of that last tiny flicker of hope was a cruel blow. Shaine’s actions yesterday had crushed any remaining hope Mikhyal might have harbored, leaving him with nothing but the bitter knowledge that the brother he loved was truly lost to him.
Anxin came next, still wearing the blood-chain Ilya had supplied. He, too, appeared defeated and subdued.
Dirit must have sensed Mikhyal’s mood, for the little dragon was nowhere to be seen. The Wytch Sword was nearby, already secured in its place on the harness Rhu had brought out in preparation for Mikhyal’s departure.
Once the prisoners were secured inside the carriage, the guardsmen assigned to escort them mounted up, and the carriage rolled out of the courtyard and onto the road.
“Well, that’s done,” Drannik said as the last of the escort passed through the gates. “You had better have Rhu see to your harness if you still intend to accompany them.”
“I do, but only as far as Mir,” Mikhyal assured his father. “Garrik’s sending a contingent of dragon warriors to take over from there. I should be back within ten days or so.”
“Good.” Drannik embraced him briefly. “Give my regards to Edrun, and then hurry home. There is much work to do. May Aio protect you.”
“And you, Father.”
Drannik left the courtyard, and Mikhyal nodded to Rhu and quickly stripped out of his clothing and shifted. Rhu politely averted her eyes until he snorted at her to let her know he was ready.
She strapped the harness on and checked that the Wytch Sword was properly secured. “You’ll do, Your Highness. Be careful out there. We’re going to need you.”
Mikhyal dipped his head and waited until Rhu had stepped back before launching himself into the air.
* * *
Mikhyal didn’t sleep well that night. He couldn’t stop staring at the prison carriage. Was Shaine also lying awake in the darkness, perhaps regretting the choices he’d made over the past year? Or wasn’t there enough left of the brother he’d loved to feel regret?
Dawn finally arrived, and the men rose from their bedrolls to break camp. Mikhyal dressed quickly and approached Lieutenant Takla.
“Before we get underway again, I’d like to take to the air and scout ahead to check the surrounding forest and make sure nothing’s crept up on us in the night.”
Takla pursed his lips. “Is there any point, Commander? Yesterday you complained of not being able to see anything through the forest canopy.”
“Yes, do listen to the lieutenant,” Dirit counseled from his perch on Mikhyal’s shoulder. “There is no reason to scout. I will be flying ahead of the procession, and I promise you, if anything is hiding in the forest, I will find it and deal with it long before it can threaten you.”
Mikhyal ignored him and focused on Takla. “Ai, but the Wytch Sword can help me with that. I’m afraid you’ll have to indulge me, Lieutenant. I’d never forgive myself if we were caught in an ambush I could have seen if I’d only taken a few minutes to look for it. That’s how they got the drop on us on the way to Altan, you know. They were hidden in the forest, not far from the place we’d stopped for the night.”
The lieutenant looked doubtful, but once Mikhyal had shifted, he helped him into the harness and fastened the straps. Mikhyal stood still and tried to be patient while the complicated leather contraption was draped over him and the straps adjusted so they were comfortable. Finally, Takla was satisfied. He checked the Wytch Sword was secure one last time, then patted Mikhyal on the flank and said, “Good enough.”
Mikhyal swung his head around to glare at Takla, who gave him a sheepish look and a slight shrug.
“Sorry, Commander. When I see you like this, I can’t help but think of you as a rather magnificent steed.”
Uncertain as to whether he should take offense, Mikhyal snorted and took to the air.
Scouting from the air was a grand idea in theory, but the reality had proved to be problematic. For one thing, much of their route toward Mir took them through dense forest. While Mikhyal could keep track of the prison carriage winding its way along the road, he couldn’t see through the dense canopy to either side. Dirit, however, could go wherever he wished, and Mikhyal was relying on the little dragon to tell him if anything lurked beneath the trees.
While Dirit explored the forest below, Mikhyal scanned the treetops for any sign of smoke, or for a clearing where a group of armed men might make camp.
The bolt came out of the dense canopy of green, tearing through the delicate membrane of his right wing. A second bolt quickly followed, this one lodging in his chest. The tough hide and the thick layer of muscle underneath it prevented the bolt from piercing his heart, but the pain was enough to cause every muscle in his body to seize up.
Dirit was beside him in an instant, flitting about and chittering away about a crossbowman hidden in the trees. Mikhyal was too busy struggling to slow his descent to wonder why Dirit hadn’t simply eaten the man. He crashed through the canopy, his thick dragon hide protecting him from being impaled by twigs and branches.
The impact with the ground was hard enough to stun him. Worse, the burning cold spreading slowly through his body from the wound suggested he’d been poisoned.
No choice but to shift. If he shifted, he’d heal, though he’d be naked and helpless in his human skin for as long as that took. He dithered for only a few moments before instinct overruled intellect. The shift wasn’t nearly as smooth as usual, and it took longer than it should for him to feel the sharp twigs on the forest floor poking his human skin.
He lay amid a tangle of leather straps, the Wytch Sword underneath him. His wounds had healed in the shift, but the poison was still burning through his veins, and his vision was beginning to blur. Mikhyal vaguely remembered Vayne warning him that while the shift could heal even the most grievous physical injuries, it could neutralize only the simplest poisons.
He started to roll over in an attempt to free the Wytch Sword.
“Don’t move,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Mikhyal looked up to find himself staring at the business end of a crossbow. The man holding it was dressed like a common bandit, though the way he held himself suggested he might be something more. Why in the Dragon Mother
’s name hadn’t Dirit dealt with him?
He reached for his center, intending to shift and roast the man, but it was gone. The glowing ball of power burning within him was nowhere to be found.
“Do as he says,” Dirit hissed in his ear. “I cannot help you. I have never encountered a human like this before… all living things have a mythe-shadow… he must have a mythe-shadow, and yet he does not. I cannot eat him for you.”
“Shift again and you’re dead,” the soldier told him.
A heavy paralysis crept through Mikhyal’s limbs and his mind, making everything feel heavy and slow. “What do you want?” he demanded, words slurring as his tongue began to go numb. His attacker said nothing, merely stood there waiting, crossbow pointed at Mikhyal’s chest.
Mikhyal’s mind screamed for action, but his body refused to obey. Soon, a warm lassitude spread over him, dulling his senses and sapping his strength. His mind ceased to protest as the darkness slowly engulfed him.
* * *
“What do you make of this?” Master Ludin held out a limp, torn leaf.
Tristin took it and examined it carefully. “It looks almost as if something’s eaten it. Except…” he peered at it more closely, noting the red, powdery substance at the very edges of the tears. “I don’t think bite marks would have left that red powder along the edges, would they?”
“Very good, m’lord.”
In the two days since Mikhyal and his father had departed, Tristin had spent almost every waking hour in the gardens. When Garrik had first introduced him to Master Ludin, the old man had been quite distressed at the notion that the Wytch King’s cousin meant to get dirt on his royal hands. It had taken the Wytch King himself to reassure Master Ludin that working in the garden was what Tristin wanted, and that the healers were of the opinion that it would help complete his recovery. Once that was understood, Tristin and Master Ludin had become fast friends. But the old man still refused to call Tristin by his name.