by Jaye McKenna
“Whose troops will he use?” Ord asked.
“He has the Council’s Drachan at his disposal,” Vayne said. “And he is working closely with Wytch King Altivair.”
“Convenient,” Ord muttered. “What has Altivair been promised, I wonder.”
“Access to Altan’s mines,” Vayne said flatly. “And possibly control over the puppet king they plan to put in Garrik’s place. The Council fears the power the northern kingdoms would wield if they united.”
“Have they learned of our proposed alliance?” Ord leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Were we betrayed?”
“I heard nothing to indicate a betrayal,” Vayne replied before Garrik could answer. “It sounded to me as if Faah and Mordax have been scheming to put Tristin on Altan’s throne for some time. Now that Cenyth controls the Council, they do it with her blessing. Tristin did say he was supposed to take the throne after Wytch King Dane was murdered.”
Garrik’s gaze shifted to Ord. “I did warn you.”
Ord frowned. “Would they truly go that far?”
“You mean as far as they went when they murdered my entire family and put your ancestor, Niall, on Irilan’s throne?” Vayne asked drily. “If some faction of the Council was complicit in the death of Wytch King Dane, then I would say they already have.”
“Indeed,” Ord said, looking grim. “Very well. I suggest we draft a preliminary treaty and send word to Wytch Kings Drannik of Rhiva and Edrun of Miraen. And I suggest we do it quickly.”
Vayne couldn’t suppress a grim little smile. It looked as if he’d be fulfilling Urich’s vision after all. Far too late to do Urich any good, but it gave Vayne a sense of satisfaction to know that his father’s work would be continued, his vision of breaking the northern kingdoms free of the Council’s grasp fulfilled.
* * *
A low moan coming from nearby had Jaire struggling to pry open gritty eyes. The air was cold, and he lay in the dark. The only illumination was a narrow line of flickering light near the floor. A torch or a fire in the next room?
Something cold and slimy slithered through his mind, and he shuddered and tried to build a shielding pattern that would keep it out, only to find that he couldn’t touch the core of power at his center, couldn’t even sense it.
The moaning came again, a hoarse, choking sound full of pain. Jaire forced himself to sit up, struggling to focus his thoughts. His mind felt fogged and sticky, and it was almost impossible to hold a thought for more than a few moments.
Cold sweat broke out on his body, and with a creeping sense of dread, he lifted his hands to his throat. A slim band of gem-studded metal encircled his neck.
Blood-chain.
That would explain why he couldn’t sense anything.
He tried to find the catch, but his fingers felt big and clumsy, and he couldn’t find anything that might be a release mechanism. The events of the previous day returned in bits and pieces, his thoughts moving so slowly it was difficult to separate memory from dream.
The ghost-prince had turned out to be real… and… dragons…? He’d been a dragon, hadn’t he? Flying through the air, gliding on brightly colored currents… or was that a dream?
“Jaire…”
The voice was familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. He squinted across the room, and in the dim light, could just make out a dark shape huddled in the opposite corner. Not trusting his sense of balance, Jaire crawled across the floor toward it.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Tristin. Are you—” The voice cut off abruptly, and there was a sharp intake of breath, which hissed out slowly and ended on another moan.
Tristin.
Cousin Tristin…
The first stirrings of panic flickered through the muck coating his mind. Tristin, who had been held prisoner for nearly half his life… and Faah and Mordax, plotting to remove Garrik from Altan’s throne…
“Are you all right?” Tristin’s voice sounded tight and strained, as if he was struggling to control it.
“No… I feel…” It was difficult to form words through the numbing haze. His fingers went back to his throat to brush over the collar. “They put a… a blood-chain on me…”
Tristin’s curse sounded bleak and full of pain. “I’m sorry.”
“The drug… of course. You need the drug. Let me see if they’ve left anything for us.”
A hand gripped his wrist. “No. If they’ve left water… it will be… drugged. Mustn’t drink. Won’t… waste our only… advantage.”
It took a few moments for Jaire to understand what Tristin meant, but when he did, the tiniest spark of hope kindled in his heart.
Tristin could shift.
He could shift, too, though not with the blood-chain locked around his neck. He decided he wouldn’t drink, either. When someone banged on the door a short time later, and a tray was shoved through the slot at the bottom, the first thing Jaire did was spill the water over the floor.
“There,” he said. “Neither of us will drink it now.”
“Is there… food?”
“Just bread, and it feels hard and crusty. Do you want any?”
“No. Won’t be able to… keep it down. But you should… try to eat something. Might need… your strength.”
Jaire left the bread on the tray and returned to Tristin’s side. Tristin’s breath was coming in harsh pants, and his body was tensed, as if he were waiting to be punched. Jaire felt for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Garrik will think of something,” he murmured, more to comfort Tristin than anything else. He settled beside his cousin to wait.
The rattling of keys jerked him awake, and the door was flung open. Blinded by the sudden brilliance of lantern light, Jaire squeezed his light-starved eyes shut and raised his arm to shield them.
Booted feet scraped over stone, and moments later, he was pulled roughly to his feet. His arms were yanked back, and his wrists were bound. Rough hands pushed him forward, and Jaire opened his eyes to find himself in a dimly lit hallway made of stone, surrounded by Drachan. Cold prickles skittered down his spine as he recalled the dungeons deep under Castle Altan.
Behind him, he heard Tristin cry out as he was dragged to his feet. The Drachan escorted them down the hall to a bare stone wall where Wytch Masters Faah and Mordax waited.
“…long ago was the messenger sent?” Mordax was asking.
“Not long, but we’ve plenty of time,” Faah replied. “I’ve specified in my demands that Garrik come alone and on foot. It will take him hours to reach us.”
Jaire caught his lower lip between his teeth. If they’d threatened Garrik with Jaire’s life, he’d comply with their demands… wouldn’t he?
With a sinking heart, Jaire guessed he would.
Garrik would never allow his brother to be sacrificed, even if, for the good of Altan, he should.
Faah turned to face the wall, and a few moments later, a patch in the shape of an arched doorway began to glow. The stone dissolved, to be replaced by a swirling, glowing mist, which slowly dissipated.
When the mist cleared, Jaire found himself staring at the rebuilt watchtower that was now part of Ilya’s school, Dragonwatch. From the angle of the view, Faah had set the mythe-gate into the arched entrance of the courtyard in front of the school.
Faah and Mordax both strode through. Jaire was pushed sharply from behind, and stumbled forward after them. Dulled by the blood-chain, his reflexes weren’t quick enough for him to catch himself, and he would have fallen if the soldier beside him hadn’t had a tight grip on his arm.
He came through the gate into bright, mid-morning sunlight. Behind him, Tristin grunted as he was escorted firmly through the gate. By the time he managed to twist around, the gate was gone, and he had a clear view through the arch of Castle Altan. A wave of homesickness washed over him, and his eyes burned.
“This is a terrible place for a negotiation,” Mordax said flatly. “Whatever are you thinking, Faah? We’re halfway up the
mountain, and there’s no cover here. We’re completely vulnerable.”
“We have a hostage,” Faah said. “And I have told Garrik that if I should see even a hint of a dragon in the sky, Prince Jaire will not be spared.” Faah gestured to the watchtower. “Come. We’ll have an excellent view of the surrounding countryside from the top of the tower.”
Jaire was nudged from behind, and he moved forward to follow Faah and Mordax to the tower.
* * *
“I think that will do,” Garrik said. “Master Ristan, if you could get everything written up into a proper document, we will have at least some semblance of a treaty to present to the kings of Rhiva and Miraen.”
Vayne rubbed his eyes and rolled his shoulders. There was still no word of Prince Jaire, and he’d had a hard time keeping his mind on the details of the treaty.
“I shall have the document drafted by this afternoon, your Majesty.” Master Ristan set aside his pen and shuffled through his pile of notes.
“Good. Ilya, how do you feel about heading off to Miraen and Rhiva to see if you can arrange a meeting?”
Before Ilya could reply, a knock sounded at the door, and one of the guardsmen appeared.
“A message has arrived from a Prince Tristin of Altan,” the guardsman announced. “It was delivered by one of the Council’s Drachan.”
Garrik raised an eyebrow, but said only, “Thank you, Willem.”
The envelope was brought to him, and after the guardsman withdrew, Garrik broke the seal. He scanned the contents, his expression growing darker by the moment. When he’d finished, he dropped the letter onto the table with a muttered curse.
“Prince Tristin of Altan demands I step down and relinquish my throne to him,” Garrik said flatly. “If I refuse, he says he will kill Jaire.”
“That’s not from Tristin,” Vayne said. “He wants nothing to do with your throne. The message is from Faah.”
Ilya’s lips compressed in a thin line as he picked up the letter and read the message. “You are to meet with him at Dragonwatch. Alone and on foot, he says. No shifting.”
“Thus negating any advantage we might have had,” Garrik growled. “From the watchtower, they will be able to see even a single man approaching from any direction.” He leaned heavily on the table and huffed out a sigh. “Well, then. It appears I will be hiking up the mountain to Dragonwatch this afternoon.”
“What?” Ord rose to his feet. “You cannot just give in to their demands, Garrik.”
“I am not going to let them kill Jaire,” Garrik said tightly. “All of Jaire’s life, I have kept the promise I made to our mother on her deathbed, and I will not break it now.”
“Garrik—”
“Do not presume to tell me how to rule my kingdom, Ord.” Garrik’s voice was deadly calm, but his black eyes glittered in fury. “The Wytch Council has been trying to do that ever since I took the throne, and I will not stand for it. If I do not survive this encounter, I trust my northern allies to remove whatever vermin the Council sets upon the throne.”
“We are not ready for war,” Ord said. “We haven’t even a proper treaty yet. Any confrontation with the Council was supposed to be years away. We don’t have the numbers we would need to ensure victory, especially not if the Council plans to ally the rest of Skanda against us.”
“Perhaps not,” Vayne said quietly. “But we have something that would make up for the lack of troops: an army of dragon shifters. Get me enough volunteers, and I can build you the army of the Council’s nightmares.”
Garrik exchanged a long look with Ord, and at Ord’s nod, said, “Do it. If I am killed or imprisoned, then the rest of the northern kingdoms must wage war on the Council in my name.”
“It will be done,” Ord murmured.
Vayne bowed his head. “Ai, it will, Your Majesties.”
Garrik nodded once and headed for the study door. “Ilya, might I suggest you gather whichever of the dragons wish to assist, and make your way to the watchtower on the Irilan side of the river. The forest and the ridge should hide you from prying eyes for most of the ascent, but they will also block your view of Dragonwatch until you are nearly at the tower. If I have need of you, you will see me take wing, high above Dragonwatch.”
“What are you planning, Garrik?” Ilya asked.
“I am planning to save my brother’s life,” Garrik said. “And my own, if I can.” His expression softened then and he pulled Ilya into a rough embrace and kissed him long and hard.
When Garrik released him, Ilya returned his grim smile with one of his own and stepped aside. Without a backward glance, the Wytch King of Altan strode from the room, leaving the others to stare after him.
* * *
Jaire stood on top of Dragonwatch flanked by two Drachan. Across the roof, two more of the Council’s soldiers guarded Tristin, who had been looking paler and more strained as the day had worn on. Tristin’s lips were pressed tightly together in a thin line, and his brow glistened with sweat, despite the cool mountain breeze.
Although Jaire longed to comfort his cousin, he dared not draw the Wytch Masters’ attention to him. He had no idea how much Mordax might have guessed about what Jaire had been doing in Tristin’s prison, but if Mordax realized Tristin wasn’t drugged, they would likely lose their only advantage.
In front of them, Faah, Mordax, and the Drachan captain stood near the waist-high wall that had replaced the crumbling battlements of the old Stonehall. Two more Drachan stood nearby, eyes darting constantly between the Wytch Masters and the prisoners.
It was a long way up the mountain, and when Jaire had been small, it sometimes took him two days to make the climb with Garrik. His brother, he knew, could do it alone in only a few hours. Today, he must be pushing himself hard, for the sun was only halfway along its slow crawl to the western horizon when Faah made a satisfied humming noise.
“Excellent.” Faah rubbed his hands together. “There is the Wytch King now. And he’s come alone.”
Mordax leaned over the wall to peer down the mountain, and Jaire’s heart sank. Garrik couldn’t mean to turn himself over to them, could he?
He has a plan. He must have a plan. I just need to be ready…
But the weight of the blood-chain dragged at his mind, and Jaire found it impossible to remain in a constant state of readiness. He kept drifting into a half-doze and jerking awake when his knees began to buckle, or when Tristin let out another strangled whimper.
The wait while Garrik toiled the rest of the way up the side of the mountain was agonizing, more so because the Wytch King could be here in moments if he shifted.
He wouldn’t, though. Not with Jaire’s life at stake.
Eventually, Garrik drew close enough to Dragonwatch that the bulk of the tower blocked him from Jaire’s view.
“He has reached the courtyard, Faah,” Mordax murmured from where he stood watch.
“Excellent.” From a pocket in his robe, Faah pulled a jeweled collar, which he handed to one of the remaining Drachan soldiers. “Go and fetch him,” Faah ordered. “Warn him that I am watching, and if he makes any trouble at all, Prince Jaire will die.”
The soldier took the collar and departed.
“Bring Prince Jaire to the wall, here,” Faah instructed. “Let the Wytch King see I have kept to my part of the bargain.”
Jaire was brought near the wall. The blood-chain made him slow and clumsy, and the soldiers on either side of him had to support most of his weight to keep him from falling. He peered over the edge to see Garrik staring up at him.
Garrik’s eyes narrowed at the sight of his brother, and he shouted, “Come down here, Faah! I would speak with you face to face.”
“What guarantee of safety have I?” Faah countered.
“You have my word as Wytch King of Altan,” Garrik said, his fury evident in every line of his body. “And you have my brother.”
Faah tapped his sparsely whiskered chin with his finger as he considered Garrik’s request. “I will come down
when you are wearing the blood-chain one of my soldiers is bringing to you.” He turned his gaze on the Drachan captain. “Take aim at the Wytch King. If he makes any move to shift, shoot him.”
The captain raised his crossbow, training it on Garrik.
“Faah, are you certain?” Mordax asked. “I can protect you up here. If you go down there…”
“You have Prince Jaire. That is all the protection I need.”
“Don’t do it, Garrik!” Jaire shouted. “Don’t let them collar you!”
Pain exploded on the side of his face. Jaire staggered, the taste of blood filling his mouth. When he looked up, Faah was drawing his hand back, his wrinkled features twisted in annoyance.
“That will be quite enough of that, Prince Jaire,” Faah said in a low voice.
A sharp cry came from behind him, and he turned to see Tristin slumped between the two Drachan. Tristin raised his head just a fraction, looked Jaire straight in the eye, and winked. Then he shifted.
The Drachan dropped his arms as if they’d been burned and stumbled back, and Faah and Mordax stared, frozen for the precious moments it took Tristin to complete the transformation.
Tristin’s dragon form was about the size of Vayne’s, but instead of emerald green, he was a brilliant ruby red. Iridescent scales glittered in the sunlight as he shook himself and let out a terrible scream. His pain and fury rocked the mythe, and Jaire whimpered as it pounded against his defenses.
At the sound of Tristin’s cry, the soldiers’ grip on Jaire loosened. Knowing this might be his only chance to escape, Jaire gathered his waning strength and wrenched himself free, then flung himself backward. He rolled and scrambled back, making for the opposite side of the tower, as far from the Wytch Masters as he could get. Intense heat behind him forced him to bury his face in his arms.
The screams of the men caught in the flames of Tristin’s wrath were terrible, and Jaire pressed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. When the noise finally stopped, he lifted his head a little and risked a look.