by Jaye McKenna
They must be using mythe-gates to pass through the walls, and if that was the case, there would be no escape. Vayne continued down to see what he could discover on the floors below.
The next level was identical to the one where he’d found Jaire, right down to the furnishings and a single prisoner. When Vayne first caught sight of the dark-haired figure hunched over the table, he thought it might be Kian, but a closer look told him it wasn’t. This man was much too slender to be Kian, and his skin was as fair as Prince Jaire’s.
The man sat with his fists clenched in his lap, staring down at a wooden cup. His shoulders slumped, and he lifted the cup to his lips and drank. Vayne moved closer, and the man lifted his head and stared straight at him. His resemblance to Garrik was shocking, but his words were even more so: “If you’re a hallucination, you’re a bit early. I’ve barely choked down my morning dose.”
“You… are you talking to me?” Vayne asked.
“I don’t see any other ghostly figures floating about, do you? Still, I suppose that’s just a matter of time.” He stared down at the cup, raised it to Vayne with a mocking smile, and drank down the rest of the contents. “There. I expect there’ll be six or eight of you before long. I don’t suppose you’ve brought me anything? A new book would be nice.”
Before Vayne could form a reply, the man shook his head. “No, of course you haven’t. Never mind. We’ll just have to talk. It hardly matters. I’m sure I won’t remember any of it by tonight.”
“Who are you?” Vayne asked.
The man drew himself up in his seat, squaring his shoulders. “Tristin, bastard son of Prince Vakha of Altan. And soon-to-be Wytch King of Altan, apparently.” His shoulders slumped again and he gave Vayne a rueful smile. “Or at least… that’s what they tell me. They said that before, though, after Wytch King Dane was done away with. I was supposed to take the throne then, with my father as regent, but as you can see, that didn’t go at all well.”
The family resemblance was certainly there; with his black eyes, thick, shaggy black hair, and strong features, Tristin looked very much like a scholarly version of Wytch King Garrik. Vayne searched his memory. Jaire had rambled on about the family history for ages during his tour of Castle Altan, but Vayne could remember nothing about a Tristin. Or a Prince Vakha, for that matter.
“I wonder what Wytch King Garrik will have to say about that,” Vayne murmured.
“Ah. Yes. Well, he does seem to be the main impediment to my ascension.” Tristin lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m told it’s all well in hand. They say he’ll be stepping down before long.”
“Oh?” Vayne drifted closer and lower, so it appeared he was sitting just across the table from Tristin. “Who are they, and why do they think so?”
“Well, Uncle says so, anyway, and he usually knows what’s going on, what with not being shut up in a tower, like I am.”
“And who is your uncle?” Vayne asked, mystified.
“Wytch King Altivair.”
“Altivair…”
“Of Ysdrach.”
Ysdrach was the kingdom lying directly south of Altan, across the Blue River. Vayne had heard nothing about it when he’d listened in at Court, and he didn’t recall Jaire mentioning it, either. “Is that where we are? Ysdrach?”
“Aio’s teeth and tail, no.” Tristin frowned at him. “We’re in Shadowspire, Uncle Altivair’s tower. It’s deep in the Iceshards where no one will ever find it. And the only way out is by mythe-gate. Mordax likes to remind me of that every chance he gets. I think he fancies I’m still trying to escape. He doesn’t understand I gave that up for a fool’s game long ago.”
“Mordax?”
“Well… Wytch Master Mordax, to the likes of you and me, of course. Do try to keep up. My hallucinations are usually much quicker on the uptake than this.” Tristin yawned and stretched, then peered at Vayne blearily. “Not that it matters. I can already feel the fog… creeping over me…”
Indeed, Tristin’s words were beginning to slur. If the man was being drugged, whatever he’d been given had to be either very potent, or mythe-active, to have worked so quickly. Tristin didn’t look as if he’d be capable of answering questions for much longer.
“So how do Altivair and Mordax intend to put you on the throne of Altan?”
Tristin stared at him, eyes gone glassy.
“Tristin?” Vayne waved a hand in front of Tristin’s face and leaned forward to peer into the bastard prince’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
But Tristin was gone. His eyelids drooped, and his mouth went slack as he slumped back in his chair. Mystified, Vayne left him to his stupor and continued his exploration of Shadowspire.
* * *
Vayne continued on down the tower. Two next two levels were unoccupied apartment prisons identical to Jaire’s and Tristin’s, followed by several floors worth of solid stone.
The lowest level consisted of a large entry chamber, a prison, several offices, and an interrogation room. This last contained two heavy chairs, a table equipped with leather straps, and an array of knives, whips, and other instruments of torture hanging on the walls. Bound to one of the chairs was Kian. He was awake, but appeared dazed, as if he’d only just stirred to consciousness.
Across the room two men dressed in the robes of Wytch Masters spoke in low tones. One of them was Wytch Master Faah, but Vayne didn’t recognize the other. He looked to be in his fifties — old enough to be important, as the black robes of a Royal Wytch Master suggested, and he did not appear pleased.
“…not at all what was planned. You were to raise enough suspicion that Ilya would be recalled and Garrik would be forced to come to Askarra to defend him. Now I find you’ve kidnapped Prince Jaire and dragged along an inconsequential peasant. The Council will not be pleased, Faah.”
“Oh, but they will,” Faah said. “Cenyth’s plan to have Garrik killed in a bandit attack is short-sighted, ill-informed, and fails to take into account just how dangerous the Wytch King of Altan is. It took far more than a bandit gang to bring down Prince Chalin all those years ago.”
“The Drachan are far more accomplished than the average bandit gang. You take liberties the Council has not granted you.”
“And you, Mordax, are ignorant of just how dangerous a dragon shifter in a rage can be. You were not there when Ilya was brought to heel. Using Prince Jaire’s life as leverage will incur far less risk, and be much more effective against his brother.”
“It’s a dreadful idea,” Mordax said. “He may not be the heir, but the boy will be missed.”
“Of course he’ll be missed,” Faah said smoothly. “But any suspicion will fall upon Wytch King Garrik. The entire Court of Altan is well aware of his reluctance to name the boy his heir or give him away in an alliance marriage. It would surprise no one if he had Prince Jaire spirited away to protect him. He can deny it all he wants; no one’s going to believe him. Once I’ve spoken to Cenyth about the change in plans, we simply inform Garrik that if he wants to see his brother alive again, he will need to abdicate in favor of Tristin. It’s a much tidier plan, all around.”
“You had better be very certain of that,” Mordax said. “Garrik is every bit as difficult as his father was, and Cenyth has little patience with those who do not follow orders.”
“You worry too much.”
Mordax merely pursed his lips in an expression that could have been anything from disapproval to disgust. “What of this one?” He nodded toward Kian. “How does he figure into your plan? Or should I say, your ill-advised deviation from the plan?”
Faah ignored the jibe and rubbed his hands together. “Ah. Well. This one was a bit of a surprise. He’s supposed to have perished along with Council Speaker Taretha and Prince Ambris of Miraen in the fire at Blackfrost some five years ago. Imagine my dismay when I arrived in Aeyr’s Grove and sensed Taretha’s supposedly dead healer weaving the mythe. The fact that he is alive and living in Altan suggests rather strongly that Wytch King Garrik has
been hiding him from the Council.”
“Thus lending further credence to the idea that he might have spirited his brother away.”
“And possibly enough evidence to force him to step down, regardless of whether we hold his brother hostage.” Faah sounded as satisfied as a cat that had just caught a plump mouse. “And now that I have him, I imagine the Council would be very interested to hear what he has to tell us regarding Taretha’s fate.”
“I imagine they would,” Mordax said. “Assuming you can extract the answers from him. What do you intend to do with him when you’ve finished questioning him?”
“If I determine he was involved in Council Speaker Taretha’s death, he will face a Wytch Council Inquisition. If not…” Faah trailed off, shrugging. “He’s a healer. I’m sure I can find a use for him.”
“Then I shall leave you to your questioning. If you require nothing further from me, I’m going back to Falkrag. I have duties there which have been sorely neglected.”
“I need not remind you to say nothing to the Council yet. I see no point in explaining my so-called ill-advised deviation to Cenyth until I have all the information I require.”
“Be assured, I shall keep my counsel,” Mordax said grimly. “But do not expect me to come to your defense when Cenyth strips you of rank and title.”
“We shall see who is stripped of rank and title,” Faah said softly. “We shall see, indeed.”
Feeling sick, Vayne followed Mordax into the entry chamber and watched as he walked through the tower’s outer wall. He didn’t emerge outside the tower; Vayne drifted through the wall to make certain.
A mythe-gate leading to Falkrag, then, wherever that was. Vayne didn’t recognize the name, but perhaps Jaire would know. He made his way back to the interrogation chamber where Faah was standing over Kian.
Kian blinked up at him in confusion. He must still be muddle-headed and exhausted after performing such a difficult healing on Prince Jaire the night before.
“Who…” Kian frowned, staring up at the Wytch Master. He pulled weakly on the straps securing his wrists to the arms of the chair, eyes widening as if he’d only just realized he was bound.
“Surely you remember me, Kian,” Faah said softly.
“W-Wytch Master Faah? What are you… where am I?”
“You are my guest here at Shadowspire,” Faah said quietly. “Before I have you taken to your suite, I have a few questions for you.”
“Questions?”
“About what happened at Blackfrost.”
“I…” Kian’s golden-brown skin turned several shades paler.
“It’s all right if you’d rather not tell me,” Faah said softly. “I can take what I want right out of your mind, boy.”
“But… I didn’t…”
“What happened to Council Speaker Taretha and Prince Ambris of Miraen?” Faah demanded. “And where is the jewel Master Taretha was wearing?”
“I… I don’t…”
“You know the jewel I speak of.” Faah pressed a hand to Kian’s forehead. “I can see it in your eyes. Where is it?”
Kian shuddered and let out a choked sound. His body went rigid as every muscle locked. Vayne turned away and drifted up toward the top of the tower. He’d seen enough. If Faah was using the mythe to interrogate Kian, it was unlikely he’d hear anything more. Faah would simply take the answers right from Kian’s mind, and Kian would have no choice but to surrender them.
* * *
Jaire woke with a start. His head was clear, and the horrible, dragging feeling of the blood-chain was gone. His hand flew to his throat. To his relief, the amulet still hung around his neck. Whatever shielding Vayne’s father had woven into it must have concealed its true nature from his captors, as it had fooled Master Ilya.
He sat up slowly. The room was oddly-shaped, the outer wall curved as if it was part of a tower. The only furniture was the bed on which he lay. Soft, yellow mythe-light came from several glowing mythe-stones mounted on the ceiling, and bright daylight came through a window set into the curved wall. Curious, he rolled off the bed to have a look outside. Beyond the metal bars covering the glass, all he could see were jagged, snow-capped mountains. The ground was so far below him, he had a momentary sense of vertigo, and had to step away from the window to stop his head from spinning.
Was he in the Iceshards?
But who would bring him here? And why?
Jaire sank back down on the bed and extended his mythe-senses the way Ilya had taught him. Somewhere beneath him he sensed another presence, but it felt as if it were veiled, the emotional impressions thick and muffled, as if the person were deep in dreams.
Farther down, he sensed Kian. His relief at finding the healer was short-lived; Kian’s mythe-shadow felt vague and hazy, as if he was drugged.
Two other presences moved in the space near Kian, both of them glowing with the kind of power he associated with Wytch Masters. One of them felt like Faah. The other wasn’t at all familiar. Not wanting to draw their attention, Jaire quickly veiled his mind.
Two Wytch Masters… and he’d been taken by Drachan. Had the Wytch Council decided to push the issue of the succession by kidnapping him? He rejected the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. Faah knew a betrothal was being negotiated; he’d been there at Court when Ord had requested it and Jaire had accepted.
But what else could the Wytch Council possibly want with him?
He called for Vayne, but there was no answer. The ghost-prince must have been forced back into the mythe when Jaire had been taken away on horseback.
How long before Vayne returned? The ghost-prince had said time ran strangely in the mythe; by the time he found his way back to Jaire, this might all be long over.
Jaire tried to take comfort in the knowledge that wherever he was, Ilya could find him. And once Ilya had located him, Garrik would come for him. Of course he would.
But then his all-too-practical mind started considering how much time would pass before Garrik even knew he was missing… and how long Ambris would wait before venturing forth from the hideaway… and whether or not he’d dare risk shifting while a Council representative was creeping about…
Garrik might not even realize he was gone yet.
Determined to do what he could to help himself, Jaire got to his feet and made a thorough exploration of his surroundings. The sparsely furnished suite of rooms formed one entire level of a round structure. A tower of some sort, and deep in the Iceshards, if the view was anything to go by. He saw no way out; the only doors led to the other rooms, except for a small cupboard in the main room, opposite one of the windows. The cupboard contained only an earthenware jug full of cool water and two wooden cups.
Jaire couldn’t imagine who the tower might belong to. No one ever tried to build too deep in the Iceshards. It was far too dangerous, what with wild animals warped by the currents of the mythe and fearsome, unpredictable storms rumored to drive men mad.
As he studied the view outside the main room, he tried to work his way through the logic of his abduction. Who stood to gain if Prince Jaire of Altan went missing? He wasn’t the heir, and Irilan and Altan were already bound by the Irilan Alliance, so although Ord wanted to strengthen the ties between the two kingdoms, it wasn’t as if war was about to break out if he didn’t marry Bria.
Without warning, a bolt of panic seared through him, so intense his knees went weak. He dropped to the floor with a moan, icy fear burning through his limbs and simmering in the pit of his belly.
Jaire retained only enough sense to understand that it was Kian’s fear he was experiencing. Wrenching his attention away from the agony and the crawling horror that came with it took a supreme effort. He focused all his will upon reinforcing the shielding pattern Ilya had taught him, but it wasn’t until he’d woven the most complex pattern he knew that he was able to shut Kian completely out of his mind. By that time, his cheeks were wet with tears and he was shivering uncontrollably.
What in Aio’s name
were they doing to Kian?
“Jaire?”
It was Vayne’s voice. Jaire lifted his head, hand going to the amulet as he saw Vayne standing before him, hands outstretched, as if to help him. “Vayne! I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to come back…” He trailed off, noticing how ill the ghost-prince looked. “What is it?”
“They’ve got Kian.” Vayne’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I know. I… I felt it. They… they’re hurting him, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. They’re using the mythe to strip his mind of every secret.”
“Who is they?” Jaire stood slowly. “I sensed Faah down there, near Kian, but there was someone else, too. Someone I didn’t recognize.”
“Mordax,” Vayne said. “He’s Wytch Master to Wytch King Altivair of Ysdrach. And on the level below you, a man named Tristin is imprisoned in a suite of rooms just like this one. He says he’s the bastard son of a Prince Vakha of Altan, and that they’re planning to put him on the throne of Altan in your brother’s place.”
“Vakha’s son? But Vakha never had—” Jaire stopped short, staring at Vayne. “Wait, he talked to you?”
“He could see me as clearly as you can, though he thought I was one of his hallucinations. They’re drugging him.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have time to inquire before the drug took hold,” Vayne said. “He does bear an uncanny resemblance to your brother, though. Who is Prince Vakha?”
Jaire bit his lip and wrapped his arms tightly about himself. “He was my father’s elder brother, passed over for the throne because he didn’t have any Wytch power. Only no one was ever allowed to call him Prince Vakha. He always insisted that he was just Lord Vakha. I think it was a deliberate reminder to my father that he’d taken Vakha’s rightful place. He was like that: held grudges, and liked to make sure people remembered every slight. But you’d think if he’d had a son… how old is this Tristin?”