by Jaye McKenna
Vayne followed the prince into his bedroom. “From what you’ve said, and from things I’ve heard — and more importantly, not heard — my own family say over the years, I’ve gathered the Council has done their best to suppress the information. But surely now with both a Wytch King and a Wytch Master who’ve managed to control it, they won’t be able to keep it hidden much longer.”
“I’m not sure how much of it is common knowledge, to be honest,” Jaire said. “Though Garrik hasn’t gone out of his way to keep it a secret, he hasn’t exactly been shouting it from the rooftops, either.” The prince settled himself on a couch under the window, curling up in the corner and dragging a pale green knitted blanket over himself. Outside, the sky was the color of lead, and a steady rain pelted against the window panes. “Sit,” Jaire said. “Or pretend to. And tell me everything.”
“Everything?” Vayne arched an eyebrow as he drifted over to the couch and positioned himself on the opposite side to Jaire. “That would take a very long time indeed, and much of it would bore you. Most of my father’s work has to do with patterns and mythe-shadow manipulation.”
“Oh.” Jaire looked disappointed. “Well… tell me what you can? I’m not really a mythe-weaver. Not in the sense that I can do anything beyond shut out the noise in my head, at least. But dragons… I’d like very much to hear about the dragons.”
Vayne found it impossible to resist the entreaty in those lovely eyes. “Well, I’ve not heard mention of it since my exile, so I’m guessing the Council buried all knowledge of it, but my father, Urich, was a dragon shifter. And Wytch Master Larana, who was my teacher, was an expert in both creating new patterns and manipulating mythe-shadows. She… she taught me.” Vayne winced at the memories. He’d never spoken of his sessions with Larana to anyone, but Jaire was so easy to talk to, and he was listening avidly, as if he were hanging on Vayne’s every word. “My… my father wanted Master Larana to teach me everything she knew, hoping that I could help him continue his work. But she was an old woman by the time my Wytch power manifested. The patterns I could build were… a child’s scrawl compared to hers. Smudged strokes of charcoal on the hearth compared to the brush strokes of a master painter… But she knew how to teach. She pushed her patterns into my mind, and I learned, whether I wanted to or not. Every session left my head splitting and my mind reeling for days, but when the pain receded and I came back to myself, I knew what she’d taught me, bone deep, as if I knew it from my own experience.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Jaire whispered, his grey eyes wide, his voice hushed. “So, you could give any mythe-weaver any pattern, and teach them anything.”
“Well… not quite. I can only teach them something they already possess the ability to do. For instance, I could give any mythe-weaver the pattern for shifting to dragon form, but unless he’s actually capable of shifting, he isn’t going to be able to use the pattern. Unless I manipulate the mythe-shadow itself, and that isn’t easy. I… I’ve seen men die in agony when it was done wrong.”
“But it can be done?”
“Ai, it can.” Vayne couldn’t quite keep the bitter edge from his voice. “But neither Larana nor my father ever asked if it should.”
Chapter Three
After all of Garrik’s grumbling about Wytch King Ord taking up all his time with negotiations, Jaire was surprised to find himself summoned to formal breakfast two days later.
The members of Irilan’s royal family who had made the journey to Altan were there, including Prince Danyel and Lady Bria, as were all three Wytch Masters: Faah, Ilya, and Ythlin. Lady Saphron was, of course, present, and already bending Queen Andrielle’s ear when Jaire slipped into his seat at the high table.
Across from him, Lady Bria simpered and batted her eyes. Her royal blue gown was cut so low, it made Jaire blush, and the inviting looks she kept throwing his way had him squirming in his seat. He kept his thickest shielding pattern in place to block her out entirely. He’d probably pay for it later with a pounding headache, but Jaire had no desire to further subject himself to the scalding anger and contempt he’d sensed at the ball.
Vayne was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best. After spending two days with the ghost-prince, Jaire no longer found his appearance odd or off-putting, and if Vayne had been here, he’d likely forget that no one else could see him, and make a fool of himself in front of everyone.
Jaire had stayed up far too late the past two nights, captivated by Vayne’s stories of a period of history he had always found fascinating. Over the years, Jaire had read everything he could get his hands on, including some of the texts old Master Tevari had kept locked away in his workroom. It hadn’t taken long for him to suspect that much of the history he’d been taught about the establishment of the Wytch Council had been heavily rewritten. What he learned from Vayne only confirmed those suspicions.
Though the history books made no mention of it, according to Vayne, the Wytch Kings had been deeply divided over the establishment of an all-powerful Council to oversee their actions. Threats, bribery, and treachery eventually brought them all into line, but there had been much resentment, especially among the northern kingdoms.
“You look very tired, Prince Jaire,” Lady Bria said. “I do hope you’re feeling better.”
“Much better, thank you, my lady.” Jaire managed a weak smile, and silently thanked Vayne for keeping him up so late; the dark circles under his eyes made his fictitious illness all the more plausible. “Two days of rest did me a great deal of good, I think.”
“I wonder if Prince Jaire is feeling well enough to spend some time with his intended this morning,” Ord said, glancing toward Jaire and then Bria. “They ought to have a chance to get to know one another before the documents are signed.”
“That sounds like a very good idea, Uncle,” Bria agreed. “Prince Jaire is looking a bit pale, and some fresh air might do him good. I wonder if he might be kind enough to show me the castle grounds? I’ve wanted to have a look at the gardens, but the weather the last two days has been just beastly.”
Garrik shot Jaire a worried frown, but said, “An excellent idea. Jaire, perhaps you could take Lady Bria to see Mother’s roses?”
“Oh, could you?” Bria batted her eyes at Jaire again. “I’ve heard so much about Queen Marinda’s rose garden. It’s said to be one of the most beautiful in all of Skanda.”
“It is lovely indeed, and I would be honored to show it to you,” Jaire said.
Fortunately, breakfast was served at that moment, and he was able to apply himself to the food. He kept his eyes fixed mostly on his plate, ignoring the lady’s attempts to capture his attention.
When the meal was over, and Garrik and Ord were making ready to return to Garrik’s study to continue their discussions, Jaire rose and went to pull Lady Bria’s chair out for her. After helping her to her feet, he executed a little bow and said, “Shall we, my lady? There are plenty of places in the garden to sit, if that would aid your digestion.”
Something that looked like amusement flickered briefly in the lady’s dark eyes as she took hold of his arm. White silk slippers peeped out from under the lacy hem of her gown with each step, and he guessed she’d decided the heels she’d worn for the dance emphasized her greater height far too much.
Outside, the morning sun was warm, which was a nice change from the cold rain, and the rose garden was filled with the lazy drone of bees and the sharp scolding of birds busy tending their nests. Jaire asked the gardener for a bit of privacy, and he and Bria stood near the gate as the old man gathered his tools and departed, giving Jaire a broad wink before closing the gate behind him.
To cover his blush, Jaire turned to survey the man’s work. Old Thom had been in charge of this garden since before Jaire could remember, and considered it his sacred duty to keep things the way the queen had liked them — a bit wild and overgrown. He allowed the roses to grow where they would, and shaped the rest of the garden around them.
&nb
sp; Queen Marinda had loved this garden, and when he came here, Jaire always felt a little closer to the mother he’d never known. He liked to imagine her spirit lingered here with the roses she’d adored, watching over her youngest son.
When he’d been a child, he sometimes fled here after his father had been particularly harsh with him, and poured his heart — and his tears — out to her. She’d never responded of course, but Jaire liked to think that wherever she was, she might have heard and understood. His father had never forgiven him for taking the life of the woman he’d loved, but the kind-eyed lady staring from the portrait in the Grand Hall looked as if she might have loved him, if only she’d survived his birth.
Since Wytch King Dane’s death and Garrik’s ascension to the throne, Jaire hadn’t sought the safety and solitude of the rose garden nearly as often, and it was with some surprise — and not a little guilt — he realized he’d not walked the familiar paths in nearly a year.
Even so, bringing his future wife here felt like an invasion of his deepest self. He expected her to begin gushing about how lovely it was the moment the gate was closed, but instead, she heaved a huge sigh and said in a low voice, “Are we alone?”
Jaire’s mouth went dry. “Yes?” he almost squeaked.
“Thank the Dragon Mother for that. I’m so sorry about all this. This” — she gestured to the perilously low-cut gown she was wearing — “was my aunt’s idea, and the woman would not be swayed. She wouldn’t even allow me to wear a shawl to cover myself. I’ve never felt so undressed in my life.”
“Ah. I, um…” Jaire wasn’t certain how to respond to that.
“Is there somewhere quiet we can go and sit?”
He gulped. “There are s-some alcoves with little b-benches in them… along the far wall.” He waved a hand in that general direction.
“Come on, then,” Lady Bria said, hiking up her skirts and starting down the path. “We’ll not likely get another chance to be alone.”
Alone?
Jaire followed, trying not to drag his feet. Was this the part where she’d try to get him to kiss her? He supposed he’d have to reconcile himself to that and more once they were married, though he still couldn’t see the appeal. Lady Bria was pretty enough, but the thought of bedding her didn’t have nearly the same effect on him as his fantasies about Kian, the handsome healer who’d once been Ilya’s apprentice and Garrik’s lover.
When they reached the closest of the alcoves, she reached for his hand and pulled him in. Jaire waited for her to sit, but she chose to stand facing him, arms crossed over her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry they’re using us as bargaining chips for their alliance. I imagine that you’re as appalled as I am at being handed off to a stranger like a piece of property.”
Jaire blinked. “It’s me that should be apologizing. You were expecting to marry my brother and be queen. I-I know I’m not much of a substitute, but—”
“Queen?” Her bark of laughter — harsh and loud — was the sort of thing he’d have expected from one of the guardsmen, not from a lady of Irilan. “I never wanted to be queen. Of anything.”
“But… but…”
“I never wanted to leave my family’s estate at Erilind.”
“Oh. I… um.” Jaire stared up at her, wondering what he was supposed to say to that. “Sorry?”
Bria worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Let me be completely honest with you. Uncle Ord is set on strengthening Irilan’s ties to Altan by marriage, as if that Irilan Alliance everyone speaks of so reverently weren’t already in place. And since he has no daughters, he’s fixed on the idea of marrying his niece off. My father, of course, thinks it’s a wonderful idea, and neither of them will be swayed. Aio knows, I’ve tried. We’ll just have to make the best of things, you and I. I’m prepared to do my duty and give an heir to Altan, and I’ll try not to make it unpleasant for either of us, but… I feel it would be unfair to you to let you go into this marriage thinking that you have any chance of winning my heart, when it already belongs to another.”
Jaire wasn’t sure if he ought to feel relieved or indignant. “But… but… at the dance. You… you—”
“I was being watched,” Bria said flatly. “Aunt Andrielle has her spies everywhere. Every nuance of my expression was under observation for later dissection. I dared not stray from the script I’d been given. I hated every moment of that dance. It was my aunt’s order that I accost you at the archery competition, and then pursue you at the dance. Please believe me when I say it was not my choice.”
Jaire’s whole body felt lighter, as if a great weight had just been cut free. “I… can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear that,” he said, then clapped a hand over his mouth. His face had to be scarlet when he finally lowered it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that quite the way it came out.”
Instead of looking scandalized, Bria let out a hearty laugh and plopped down on the bench, patting the seat beside her.
Jaire sat, leaving a little space between them. “I thought you hated me,” he said, stealing a sidelong glance at her. “You were so angry. At the dance, I mean.”
“And here I thought my act could fool anyone. Aunt Andrielle won’t be pleased to know that.”
“Your act was superb, my lady. But you can’t ever fool me with an act. I’m an empath. I sense what other people feel. Some more intensely than others. You were… very angry.”
“Oh, I am sorry, then… I had no idea what your Wytch power might be; Ord speculated that you might be a storm-caller, like your father. It was never my intent to make you uncomfortable. I was furious with my father and Uncle Ord. I’m so tired of the men in my life arranging every detail of my future without even asking what I think of it. Unfortunately, they have a hostage, and I must play the part I’ve been set, or she will suffer.”
“A… a hostage?”
“The woman I love,” she said bluntly. “Wyndra. She was weapon master at Erilind, but now she languishes in the dungeon at Castle Irila, to ensure my good behavior.”
“I’m sorry,” Jaire whispered. “Do you… I could talk to Garrik. I’m sure we could slip something into the contract that would allow you to bring her here as part of your household. Would that suit you?”
Lady Bria’s eyes widened. “Why would you do that?”
“Well… you just said you love her. Wouldn’t you like to have her near you?”
“And you… you would not object?”
“I… look, neither of us wants this,” Jaire said. “And since we’re going to be stuck with each other, it seems stupid to make each other miserable for the rest of our lives. We’ll give them their heir, and we can even pretend to drown in each other’s eyes in public, if that’s what they demand, but… they can’t control our hearts. Or our thoughts.”
“No, that they cannot, however hard they might try,” Lady Bria replied. “To whom does your heart belong, then, Prince Jaire of Altan?”
“You must be joking.” Jaire’s laughter sounded far more bitter than he had intended it to. “With my brother the Dragon King constantly looking over my shoulder and baring his fangs at anyone who comes too near? I shouldn’t think anyone would dare even approach me.”
“And have you not done any approaching yourself?”
“Ah. Well. No. It’s, um, not so easy, when you can tell what people are feeling the minute they get close. All those women at the dances… it’s like… like a game. And they score a victory if they get me to dance with them. It has nothing to do with any warm feelings for me.”
“It must be very hard for you,” she said softly.
Jaire dared to adjust his shielding pattern slightly, and to his surprise, sensed only sympathy and sincerity behind her words.
“If you ever do meet someone,” Bria continued, “of course, our agreement would work both ways. I would not be aggrieved if you took a lover. In fact, I hope y
ou do find someone who can bring you as much joy as Wyndra has brought me.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Jaire stared down at his hands. The only person who’d brought him anything like joy just lately was Vayne, and he still wasn’t entirely convinced the ghost-prince wasn’t a figment of a lonely, overactive imagination.
* * *
Aware of how important it was that Prince Jaire not be distracted in public, Vayne made a point of staying away while the prince was otherwise occupied. Retreating into the mythe was not an option; Vayne feared if he left, he might return only to find Prince Jaire long dead, and one of his descendants on the throne. Or worse, to find the amulet had been moved again, perhaps to a location where there would be no conversations to listen to. The thought of coming back from the mythe only to discover that everything had changed in his absence, and perhaps never knowing the prince’s fate was… disturbing.
While he waited for Prince Jaire to return from the formal breakfast to which he’d been summoned, Vayne wandered the halls of Castle Altan, exploring the places Jaire hadn’t had time to show him on their tour.
Prince Jaire didn’t return to his suite for hours. While he was gone, a valet came in and laid out Jaire’s clothing for Court. When Jaire finally returned, he stared at the clothing set out for him with distaste.
“You were gone longer than I expected,” Vayne said as he perched on the end of Jaire’s bed.
Jaire turned to give him a small smile. “Ord suggested Bria and I take some time to get to know one another, so I took her to see Mother’s rose garden. It’s the first nice day we’ve had since the Midsummer Hunt, and… well. It didn’t go at all like I expected. I was afraid she’d try and kiss me the minute we were alone, but she didn’t. She’s not at all what I thought.”