Shadowspire (Wytch Kings, Book 3)

by Jaye McKenna

  “Have you, now?” Ilya asked, stepping over to the table to examine the pile of gold chains and gem-encrusted jewelry. “Quite the haul,” he observed. “Ord must want this marriage very badly.”

  Jaire scowled down at the glittering pile. “I’d much rather have had a pile of books. Or a quiet little cottage in the mountains all of my own. Except then I suppose she would lay claim to that, as well. I wonder if anyone would notice if I sold it all to finance a new library?”

  Vayne laughed out loud, and Jaire glanced at Ilya, but the Wytch Master didn’t appear to have heard a thing.

  “I should think Lady Bria would be most affronted,” Ilya said. “You realize, of course, that if you attend Court tomorrow, you’ll be expected to wear something from this lot.”

  “I’d guessed as much,” Jaire said, glancing at Vayne and trying not to smile at the sound of his laughter.

  Ilya’s pale eyes searched Jaire’s face. “Are you certain you’re feeling all right, Your Highness?”

  Jaire started to say he was quite well, but thought the better of it when he realized Ilya would report any sign of odd behavior back to Garrik. “I am feeling a bit tired,” he admitted with an exaggerated sigh. “Must be all the excitement.”

  “Ai, it has been a rather… eventful Midsummer Faire.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Jaire muttered.

  “You should probably have an early night tonight. Garrik’s told me he’ll be making excuses for you at dinner. Do you want me to send for a sleeping draught?”

  “No, I don’t think I shall have any trouble falling asleep, and I promise I’ll seek out Mistress Polina if I do.”

  “Very well.” Ilya gave him a nod. “I had better go and prepare myself for an audience with Master Faah. He wants to interview me after he’s finished with Garrik. And he’s requested a tour of Dragonwatch tomorrow, so I suppose that will take up most of the day.”

  “Why ever would he want a tour when you’ve no students at the moment?” Jaire’s breath caught in his throat as a new thought occurred to him. “You don’t think they’d replace you, do you?” He couldn’t imagine anyone but Master Ilya in charge of the place. Dragonwatch had been Ilya’s school ever since Ilya had been made Altan’s Royal Wytch Master seven years ago. The school had been built upon the foundations of the old fort known as the Stonehall. It had been renamed after Jaire had caught Garrik sunning himself on the roof of the old watchtower, which still stood next to the school. Jaire had jokingly suggested that Dragonwatch was a far more suitable name than Stonehall. The name had stuck, and it had been Dragonwatch ever since, much to Jaire’s amusement.

  “The Dragon Mother only knows, but I dare not appear uncooperative.” Ilya sounded weary. “As things stand, the Wytch Council will probably not be announcing any changes until the fall, but if I anger Faah, that could change.”

  “I don’t envy you having to spend the day with him, but as you say, we must be careful not to annoy the Council. At least you only have to behave for a few months. I shall be married to Bria for the rest of my life.” He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth.

  Ilya’s eyes softened. “Jaire—”

  “Don’t start, Ilya. And don’t you dare apologize. It’s my duty and I’m resigned to it. As Master Ristan is fond of reminding me, I was born to privilege, and with that privilege comes the responsibility for the well-being of the people of my kingdom.”

  “Well said, Prince Jaire. Your brother should be very proud of you, and I’m sure he’ll tell you so, once he gets over his fit of pique.”

  When the Wytch Master was gone, Vayne said, “Considering how bent your brother is on defying the Council, you seem to be on remarkably good terms with the Royal Wytch Master.”

  “Ai. He’s… well, I suppose he’s almost my brother-in-law. If the Wytch Council would allow Garrik to marry, he’d marry Ilya.”

  “Why won’t they allow him to marry?”

  “Because of his Wytch power.”

  “You mean because he’s a dragon shifter? Or is there something else?”

  “It’s the shifting ability. They don’t want him to have children and pass on the power, so they’ve forbidden him to marry. There have been too many dragon shifters who haven’t been able to control themselves. That’s why I have to provide an heir.”

  “Fools.” Vayne’s expression became dark, his tone bitter. “My father tried to tell them… but of course they refused to hear him. They killed him because they feared what he’d learned, and then made up that ridiculous fiction they now call the Irilan Rebellion. All that knowledge died with him, I suppose. How many dragon shifters has the Council put to death since my time?”

  “I… don’t know,” Jaire said carefully. Vayne’s anger was like a wave of hot spikes, pushing through his mythe-shadow with a force that surprised him. “Ilya says there have been several in Altan’s bloodline, and I know of at least one other in—” Jaire bit his lip as if he’d nearly said something he shouldn’t, before continuing. “You won’t find mention of any dragon shifters in the history books. Not the ones we’re taught from, anyway. I’ve found some discrepancies in some of the older texts that make me think the Council has rewritten history to hide their existence. My own ancestor, Prince Chalin, was a dragon shifter. He was put to death when he couldn’t control himself. He set fire to all the fields and forests around Castle Altan before they killed him. But there’s no mention of his Wytch power in the history books. They say he died a heroic death, fighting the Great Forest Fire.”

  Vayne was shaking his head. “What they teach in the books is wrong. My grandfather was there on the fire lines, fighting the blaze alongside your ancestors. He saw Chalin’s dragon form with his own eyes. A magnificent beast, he said, but completely mad.”

  “Like Garrik would have been, if Ilya hadn’t helped him,” Jaire murmured.

  “A pity,” Vayne said sadly. “My own father’s work could have saved Chalin, had he been born just fifty years later.”

  “What was your father’s work?” Jaire asked.

  “He wanted to build an army strong enough to destroy the Wytch Council.”

  A breath of cold went through Jaire, and he wrapped his arms about himself. “What sort of army?” he whispered.

  “An army of dragon shifters.”

  * * *

  Jaire opened his eyes to dreary, grey morning light and a dull, overcast sky. He stretched luxuriously and glanced about his room. There was no sign of Vayne. The ghost-prince had disappeared shortly after Jaire’s dinner had arrived last evening, and Jaire had fallen asleep soon after that.

  Perhaps Vayne had been uncomfortable watching him eat. It must be difficult, watching other people enjoy things he could no longer experience, and Jaire always did enjoy his dinner. Melli, remaining true to her self-appointed mission to fatten him up, had sent up a special tray for him, filled with things he liked.

  Once dressed, Jaire ventured into the main room of his suite. Vayne was nowhere to be seen, and Jaire guessed he was off listening in on his family’s conversations, or perhaps exploring the castle grounds. If Jaire had been tied to the same place for hundreds of years and suddenly found himself somewhere new, his first priority would be a thorough exploration. A bit of rain would hardly bother a ghost-prince, and Vayne would surely find studying his new surroundings far more interesting that making conversation with Altan’s awkward prince.

  The green amulet still lay upon the table, though Jaire had put the other betrothal gifts back in the chest and closed the lid. He slipped the amulet’s chain over his head and tucked the silver-wrapped stone out of sight beneath his loose shirt. He didn’t want to miss seeing Vayne if the ghost-prince should decide to return to the stone.

  The formal dining room was empty, so Jaire made his way to the much smaller family dining room. Garrik and Ilya were already there, deep in conversation.

  On days when formal breakfast wasn’t being served, it was usually just the three of t
hem. Their late uncle Vakha’s widow, Lady Saphron, generally elected to take breakfast in her rooms. Unfortunately, this reticence didn’t extend to dinner, especially if the occasion was formal and there were guests to impress.

  It looked like Garrik had requested a quiet breakfast with no servers today. All the food was laid out on the sideboard. Jaire picked up a plate and perused the morning’s offerings. There was a platter of flat-cakes, still piping hot, and Jaire put three of them on his plate, all the while keeping his ears trained on Garrik and Ilya’s conversation.

  “I thought there would be formal breakfast today,” Jaire said as he sat down.

  “Ord’s taking up enough of my time this week without bloody formal breakfasts as well,” Garrik muttered. “I told Patra to serve them in their suite.”

  “What time are we starting the betrothal talks?” Not that it mattered; other than meeting with Garrik occasionally, Jaire didn’t normally have any morning obligations. He dropped a generous dollop of butter on top of his flat-cakes and used his spoon to smear it around, making sure to cover every bit.

  “Mid-morning.” Garrik glanced at Ilya. “Ten, didn’t we say?”

  “Ai, Your Majesty, ten it was.”

  “And we shall probably end up working right through lunch, if Ord is agreeable,” Garrik continued. “But you’re not required to be present.”

  Jaire froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Aren’t I advising you?”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “But—”

  “Since you’re the subject of the negotiations,” Garrik said, “I would think that would be a conflict of interest. Wouldn’t it?”

  “I… I suppose.”

  “And besides that, Ilya thinks yesterday was too much strain on you. He said you looked like you’d seen a ghost last night. I think it would do you good to have the day to yourself.”

  “A… a ghost?” Jaire pressed his lips together to keep from smiling; the less said about Vayne, the better. “Don’t I at least need to make an appearance at Court? Won’t they be expecting me to accept the gifts?”

  “Traditionally, betrothal negotiations are conducted between Wytch Kings,” Ilya said. “It’s perfectly acceptable for Garrik to accept the gifts on your behalf. Your presence is not required until the documents are read and signed. Neither is Lady Bria’s.”

  “But… won’t it be considered a slight if I don’t show up?”

  “I don’t much care what Lady Bria thinks,” Garrik growled.

  “I wasn’t thinking about her. She already hates me. Me not showing up is hardly going to make things worse.”

  “All the more reason to keep you away from her.”

  “But what about Ord?”

  “What purpose would it serve to force you to sit across the table from her for hours while Ord and I wrestle with the details?” Garrik said. “No, you take the next few days to do as you please. No Court, no negotiations, and no dealing with Lady Bria. In fact, if you wish to hide in your suite reading your books, I shall have no argument with that. I’ll let you know when we’ve finished with the negotiations and start on laying down the framework for the Northern Alliance. I’d appreciate your insight on that, but until then, you should relax. Things are likely to be all too busy around here once the papers are signed and we’ve a wedding to prepare for.”

  It was too tempting to pass up such an opportunity, especially with the all-too-intriguing Prince Vayne to talk to. Jaire had so many questions for him. “What will you tell them, though?”

  Garrik gave him a wicked grin. “I’ll tell them you’re indisposed. If the ladies can get away with such vague excuses, I don’t see why we shouldn’t. I’ll speak to Melli and see that she sends your meals to your rooms.”

  Jaire grinned and had to suppress the urge to hug himself. Two or three days to spend with the ghost-prince? Garrik couldn’t have given him a better present if he’d tried.

  * * *

  Vayne was beginning to regret having been so open with Prince Jaire last night. He’d been so shocked — and overjoyed, if he was honest with himself — at having a real, flesh-and-blood human to talk to, that he hadn’t paid much mind to what was coming out of his mouth.

  Now, he found himself going back over everything he’d said and worrying it to death. Jaire might trust Wytch Master Ilya, but Ilya wasn’t the only Wytch Master in residence. What if Faah was sensitive enough or powerful enough to detect the amulet? Just because Jaire and Ilya hadn’t didn’t mean no one else could.

  A shiver went through him as he considered what the Wytch Council might do if it came to their attention that he’d survived. The son of the architect of the so-called Irilan Rebellion could hardly be allowed to pour his poison into the ear of Altan’s young prince.

  Perhaps he could pretend he didn’t remember the conversation. He could always tell the prince the excitement had addled his brain. The moment the thought formed, he knew it wouldn’t work. Prince Jaire had a keen mind. He’d remember it all, and he’d question everything. Vayne knew the type, because truth be told, Prince Jaire was a lot like himself in that respect.

  He’d kept himself hidden when Jaire awakened, and it had taken all of his will not to answer when the young man had called to him. With no small amount of dismay, he’d watched Jaire touch the amulet almost reverently before slipping it on over his head.

  It might be best if he retreated into the mythe again for a time. He’d almost decided he would do exactly that when the door of the outer suite flew open and Prince Jaire entered.

  Vayne melted back into the wall before the prince caught sight of him, but he hovered there, listening, as Jaire called his name.

  “Vayne? Vayne, I’ve got the next few days to myself! Do you… Vayne?” Jaire turned around, frowning as he peered about. When he saw no one, the prince’s shoulders slumped and his hand went to the amulet. “Maybe Ilya’s right. Maybe I am under too much strain. I must have imagined it all. No one else could see him, after all.”

  With a heavy sigh, Jaire started to lift the amulet over his head.

  The desolation in the prince’s eyes tore at Vayne’s heart, and before he could think twice, he was drifting back into the room. “I’m here, Jaire. I was just… I was exploring.”

  Jaire’s face lit up. “I guessed that’s where you were this morning! It’s exactly what I’d do, if I’d been stuck in the same place for hundreds of years. It must get terribly boring for you at night, when everyone’s asleep. Do you… you don’t need to sleep, do you? Or eat or drink?”

  “No, I don’t,” Vayne said with a laugh. “And you’re right. Night time was always the worst. Although… you’d be surprised how much one can learn about the state of the kingdom by haunting the royal bed chambers.”

  “I can imagine,” Jaire said, wrinkling his nose. “All that intrigue and deception. Why else would the walls be riddled with secret passages?”

  “Altan, too? Castle Irila is the same. My brothers and I used the secret passages to spy on our elders all the time. It was a very good education.”

  Jaire shot him a conspiratorial grin. “Oh, ai, it was. I can give you a tour of the castle, if you like, only… only we’d have to watch carefully for other people. They already think this betrothal is too much of a strain for me. The Dragon Mother only knows what they’d do if they caught me talking to myself. Probably send me to bed and dose me with one of Mistress Polina’s horrible potions.”

  “A tour would be lovely,” Vayne said. “I’m sure you can tell me far more than I was able to discover wandering about on my own.”

  “Oh, yes,” Jaire said, beaming. “You don’t get all the historical context just by looking. Like the funny little annex off the family wing with the stairs that don’t go anywhere. That’s supposed to have been added by mad Prince Zandrin, before he leapt to his death from the top of the north tower, convinced he could fly. And Wytch King Boros’s workroom, filled with contraptions no one understands or dares touch. And then after I�
��ve told you about my mad ancestors, you can tell me all about your father’s army of dragon shifters.” The prince’s lips curved in a small, shy smile, and he added, “And if you don’t mind, I should very much like to see you shift again.”

  The lure of having a real conversation with a human man about human things was too much for Vayne. Even if Jaire did slip and say something, who would believe him? If the prince was already worried about his perceived stability, it seemed unlikely he would say anything to make matters worse.

  The tour proved to be a bad idea. Prince Jaire chattered incessantly, and Vayne had to keep a careful eye out for anyone who might catch the prince talking to himself. They had several near misses, until Jaire got so involved explaining the complexities of Altan’s historical alliance with Irilan that he bumped into Wytch Master Ilya.

  “Sorry, M-Master Ilya,” Jaire stammered as Ilya bent to pick up the book he’d dropped. “I was j-just… going over the f-finer points of the agreement w-we already have with Irilan. In preparation. For the… the betrothal negotiations.”

  “You mean the negotiations Garrik’s said you don’t need to attend,” Ilya said flatly. His pale eyes lost their focus as he studied Jaire.

  “Um. Well. I-I’d still like to look over the documents before anything gets signed.”

  “I see,” Ilya said, though he clearly didn’t. “Get some rest, Your Highness. I’ll send Mistress Polina in at bedtime with a sleeping draught.”

  “Yes, Master Ilya. Thank you, Master Ilya.”

  The Wytch Master strode off down the hall, and Jaire gave Vayne a wide-eyed look before scurrying back in the direction of his own suite. Once inside, he leaned heavily against the door. “That didn’t go very well, did it?”

  “Perhaps we’d best keep our conversations to this room,” Vayne suggested. “I’d hate to cause trouble for you.”

  “I suppose that would be wise. I hardly need to give them more reason to talk.” Jaire pushed himself away from the door. “Well, then. Tell me about your father’s work with dragon shifters. I’ve always been fascinated by them, but no one seems to know very much about them. Bloody Council. Always hiding the most interesting bits of things.”