Dragonwatch
Page 26
“It’s a fungus,” Master Ludin said. “I’ve seen no sign of it on the other plants, so we may have caught it before it can spread. We’ll treat it and keep a careful watch on the rest. I thought this morning I’d show you how to mix a paste we can smear on the leaves to kill the fungus.”
Tristin hesitated for a few moments before asking tentatively, “Would…would smearing it on the leaves of the uninfected plants prevent them from succumbing?”
“It would indeed, and that will be our job this afternoon.”
“Tristin!”
Tristin turned to see Prince Jaire standing at the greenhouse door, his face pale and strained. “What’s wrong, Jaire?”
“We need to talk.” The prince’s gaze flicked to Master Ludin. “Quietly, if you please.”
Tristin excused himself and followed Jaire outside. Jaire shut the greenhouse door, and they’d only gone a few steps before he said, “Dirit’s in trouble.”
Tristin went cold. “What kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know.” Jaire’s voice was high and tense. “He’s frightened and frustrated, but that’s all I can tell.”
“Can you talk to him? When you’re shifted, I mean?”
“No, I tried already. He’s in Rhiva… it’s much too far away. I… I felt something odd yesterday afternoon, but it was there and gone so quick, I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. But this is different. It’s been going on since breakfast, and it’s only getting worse. What if something’s happened to Mikhyal? We have to go to him.”
“Now?” Tristin stared at Jaire. “It will take us all day to get to Rhiva.”
“Yes. If we leave now, we’ll arrive just after dark.”
“Shouldn’t we check with Garrik first? I don’t think—”
“Garrik will have to have a meeting and a committee, and he’ll want discussions and maps and… and I don’t think we can wait.” Jaire bit his lip. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone.”
“You really think it’s that serious?”
“I don’t know,” Jaire said, shaking his head again. “But Dirit’s really frightened, and knowing what he can do, I can’t think of anything much that would frighten him. We must go and help.”
Tristin dithered for only a few moments. If Dirit was in trouble, then it stood to reason that Mikhyal was also in trouble. “Very well. Should we pack anything?”
“What would we bring?” Jaire asked. “Neither of us is any good with weapons. We’re only dangerous in dragon form.”
“Fair point. What about a change of clothes?”
“Mikhyal’s in trouble, and you’re worried about your clothes?”
“No, but think for a moment,” Tristin said. “We can’t land too close to the palace. They won’t be expecting us, and if there’s been a coup of some sort, do we really want to show ourselves to the Council? Better if we land a short distance from the castle, get dressed, and walk the rest of the way. It’ll only take a few minutes for us to fetch some clothing.”
“I’m not going back inside,” Jaire said. “If Ilya sees me, he’ll know something’s wrong. You can fetch clothing for both of us. Pack it in my saddlebags and bring my harness. It’s a long flight, and I’d rather not have to hold a bag in my claws all the way there. I’ll wait for you at Riverwatch.”
Tristin frowned. “Where’s that?”
“The watchtower just across the river from Dragonwatch. It’s all falling apart, so don’t try to land on the roof. I’ll wait for you at the bottom of the tower.” Jaire began unlacing the ties at the neck of his shirt.
Tristin waited for him to undress and shift, then gathered up the prince’s clothing and boots to pack up and bring with him. Jaire launched himself into the air. The trees prevented Tristin from following his progress, but he imagined the prince would be flying as close to the treetops as possible to avoid being spotted.
With a heavy sigh, Tristin started back toward the castle.
* * *
Mikhyal jolted awake. His mind was fuzzy, his mouth was parched, and he was freezing cold. He stared into the dimness and dredged his memory for some hint of where he might be.
He was lying naked in a heap of straw in a stuffy, dark room — no, that lurching motion that kept pushing him against the wall suggested he was in a wagon of some sort…
It all came back to him in a slow cascade of memories: Dirit’s hissed warning, the bolt piercing his chest, his fall through the canopy, the crossbowman standing over him…
He was inside the prison carriage.
And it was moving.
Every rut in the road made the vehicle lurch, sending shards of pain lancing through Mikhyal’s head. His whole body ached, and he rolled over, struggling to find a comfortable position. Straw and dirt stuck to his sweat-slick skin, and something tugged at his neck. It was a slim metal collar, and he shuddered as his fingers slid over smooth, ice-cold stones. This was a blood-chain, probably the very same one they’d locked around Anxin’s neck. It would prevent him from touching the fiery core inside himself and shifting.
Shifting…
His heart stuttered. He’d shifted back to human form on the forest floor after he’d been shot…
Where was the Wytch Sword?
Mikhyal felt about himself, but there was nothing in the carriage but the pile of straw he lay on. Was the deep cold gripping him an effect of the blood-chain? Or was it coming from the increasing distance between himself and Dirit?
Dirit’s absence suggested the latter.
Panicked, Mikhyal scrambled to his knees, groaning as his stiff muscles protested the sudden movement. Where were they taking him? A heavy iron cuff was locked around his ankle and bolted to the carriage floor by a length of chain just long enough to let him crawl to the door. The tiny barred window was too small to allow for much air flow, and he could see nothing but thick forest moving by. Nausea and dizziness forced him back down to the floor.
The light coming in the window was beginning to dim before the bone-jarring motion of the carriage finally changed. Mikhyal was thrown to one side, hitting the wall as the vehicle lurched off the road. Pain shot through his skull, and stars exploded in his head.
By the time the pain receded, the sickening motion had stopped. Someone barked orders to open the carriage, and a key rattled in the lock. Moments later, the door opened, letting in cool, fresh air and dim, evening light.
“Looks all right to me,” an unfamiliar male voice called.
“See that he gets some water. And something to eat, I suppose. He’ll need his strength to answer the Council’s questions.” That voice he knew: Wytch Master Anxin.
“Let me see him.” And that was Shaine. His brother pushed the Wytch Master aside and peered into the carriage, holding up a lantern. Mikhyal blinked at the light, but the fog dragging at his mind made both thought and speech impossible.
“He looks sick.” Shaine frowned. “Are you sure he’s all right?”
“It’s the blood-chain,” Anxin said. “And we dare not remove that.”
Shaine stared down at him, his features softening. He started to reach out. “Mik, I—”
“Shaine.” Anxin’s voice was soft, but Shaine jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Go and wait inside the shelter. I need to speak with your brother alone.”
Shaine handed Anxin the lantern and retreated.
“Get him out,” Anxin ordered.
Still naked, Mikhyal was dragged from the carriage and forced to stand before the Wytch Master, half supported by the men who flanked him.
Anxin’s face betrayed no emotion as he studied Mikhyal with sharp, dark eyes. “What foul weapon did you use to kill my men at the palace? And who gave it to you? Garrik of Altan, was it?”
Mikhyal shook his head and pressed his lips together.
Anxin nodded, and the man his right drove a fist into Mikhyal’s gut. The pain was enough to steal his breath away and bring tears to his eyes. Only the men gripping his arms stopped him fro
m collapsing to his knees.
“You will answer,” Anxin said softly. “If not me, then a Council Inquisitor. And you will tell them everything you know. It will go easier on you if you speak willingly.”
“I would rather die,” Mikhyal ground out.
Anxin laughed. “Oh, no, Mikhyal of Rhiva. Dying is not an option. Not for you.”
If they took him too far from the Wytch Sword, it might be. Should he point that out?
No. He knew too much about the Northern Alliance’s plans. Better to die of mythe-shock on the journey than betray the Northern Alliance in the Council’s dungeons. If Anxin thought it was the effect of the blood-chain, then so much the better.
At another nod from Anxin, Mikhyal was thrown back into the carriage. The door slammed shut, leaving him in near-darkness once more. He curled up in the straw and closed his eyes, shivering with cold. His duty was clear, his only regret that there would be no more dances with Tristin.
Chapter Ten
Tristin and Jaire had been airborne for less than an hour when Jaire faltered in the air. For one heart-stopping moment, Tristin thought he was going to plummet to the ground, but with a great flap of his opalescent wings, Jaire righted himself and recovered his rhythm.
Jaire didn’t finish the thought, but with two mighty beats of his wings, he pulled ahead of Tristin.
Tristin needed no more urging than that. He blinked hard, bringing his inner eyelids down, and studied the colors of the air currents to determine which would assist him the most. Jaire must have had the same thought, for they both turned toward a ribbon of yellow-green streaming east, toward Rhiva.
They flew in silence, communicating only when they needed to adjust speed or direction, or when Jaire had something to report. Dirit’s condition seemed to be deteriorating as the day wore on. The lack of information was maddening, and Tristin’s dragon belly was a burning, writhing knot of anxiety, which only grew hotter and tighter with every report from Jaire.
In the early afternoon, as they crossed into Rhiva, heavy clouds began to build. Tristin eyed the darkening sky. A storm would ground them, and he couldn’t bear the thought of anything preventing him from reaching Mikhyal.
Jaire, too, eyed the sky.
He wished now that he’d thought things through before leaving, and perhaps told someone.
It was well into the evening when Jaire said,
Tristin followed Jaire down into the clearing where they found Mikhyal’s empty harness and the Wytch Sword lying atop a broken tree limb. Of the prince of Rhiva, there was no sign.
Jaire didn’t shift, but moved toward the harness and nudged it. Something pale and nearly transparent flickered on the ground next to the Wytch Sword.
Jaire shot Tristin an anguished look, then turned back to Dirit.
Dirit looked down at the Wytch Sword.
Jaire nodded in understanding and waited while Tristin bent to retrieve the Wytch Sword. The moment Tristin’s fingers closed on the grip, a flash of desperate fury followed by the sense of a fierce, ongoing struggle nearly overwhelmed him. It was a horribly familiar sensation. Tristin squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the most complex shielding pattern he knew into place the way Ilya had taught him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was on his knees, and Jaire was nudging him gently with his snout.
“I’m all right,” Tristin managed to gasp out. “Thanks to Ilya’s lessons. But someone besides Mikhyal has touched this blade.” He raised his eyes to look at Jaire. “The same person who threw that knife at Wytch King Drannik in Altan.”
Jaire cocked his head, but Tristin didn’t expect to hear a response. None of the shifters he’d met could hear dragon mind-voices when they were in their human forms.
Dirit flared brightly, and for just a moment, he looked almost solid. “Prince Jaire wants to know… if you can tell… who it was.”
“I’m afraid not,” Tristin said apologetically. “Not any more than I could the first time I sensed it. But the anger, the sense of futile struggle… it’s the same feeling. The same… flavor, if you will. But that must wait. We have more important concerns at the moment.”
With his mind properly protected, Tristin picked up the sword once more and secured it to Jaire’s harness. Mikhyal’s harness went into one of Jaire’s saddlebags. He checked Jaire’s straps once more before shifting back into dragon form so that he and Jaire could confer without making Dirit translate.
ittle voice. Tristin glanced about and saw Dirit perched on Jaire’s head, still flickering in and out of sight.
* * *
Tristin glided low over the trees. Just off his right wingtip, Jaire kept pace with him, Dirit perched on his head. The little dragon was no longer flickering, and the closer they drew to Mikhyal, the more he perked up.
He did see it, and thought for perhaps the dozenth time since they’d taken to the air with Dirit that it was a very good thing dragons could see in the dark. Lightning-laced storm clouds hung low in the sky, and the air felt thick and heavy.
Tristin banked left, aiming for the tree, and a moment later, Jaire followed suit. Dirit’s directions had nothing to do with roads; he was going by the only guide he had: the tug of the bond he shared with Mikhyal.
It wasn’t long before Jaire said,
Dirit said.