by Jaye McKenna
Tristin was still breathing fire, but Mordax was holding up a hand to stop him. Flames of red, orange, and gold streamed around the Wytch Masters and the Drachan captain, as if Mordax held an invisible shield. The rest of the soldiers had not been so lucky. They were still burning, but they now lay still, and had stopped screaming.
Jaire crawled a little farther away. Tristin let the flames die and took a few menacing steps closer to the Wytch Masters. Faah looked stunned, but Mordax only grinned, as if he’d been expecting something like this. The Wytch Master’s lips moved and he looked as if he was gathering himself for a powerful weaving.
The warning Jaire had been about to shout died in his throat as a huge gold and orange dragon rose up behind the Wytch Masters.
Garrik!
The Drachan captain shouted and took aim at the dragon as it rose high above the watchtower.
* * *
Vayne wiped the sweat from his brow as he emerged from the forest and scanned the bare slope above him. Upslope stood Riverwatch, twin to Dragonwatch. The crumbling battlements and the great, gaping holes in the walls suggested the fort hadn’t been occupied in many years.
“I don’t give much for our chances of reaching the top of that tower,” he said dubiously.
“Ai. It was abandoned about the same time the Stonehall was, after the Ten Winters of the Dark Ice put a stop to the barbarian raids,” Ilya said. “We shall have to move closer to the ridge. We may get a clearer view of Dragonwatch from up there, near those boulders.” He pointed, and Vayne followed his gaze.
“The ridge doesn’t look as high or as steep up there.” Vayne leaned against a tree trunk, taking a precious few moments to rest while he and Ilya waited for the others to catch up.
They’d been pushing hard since they’d crossed the river. Ilya said the forest wasn’t nearly as thick on the Irilan side as it was on the Altan side. They’d made good time so far, but Garrik was following a well-traveled path, and they had been fighting their way through the forest. Vayne worried that Garrik would reach Dragonwatch long before they could even get close to Riverwatch.
“How much farther, do you think?” Jorin, Garrik’s guard captain, was panting and sweating under the weight of the dragon saddle he carried.
“An hour or so if we move quickly,” Vayne said, squinting up at the tower. “And we had best do so. Garrik must be nearly to Dragonwatch by now.”
Indeed, only moments after he spoke, a draconic scream of rage and pain cut through the air.
“That doesn’t sound like Garrik,” Ilya said. “Or Jaire.”
“Tristin,” Vayne said. “And if he’s able to shift, he hasn’t taken Mordax’s drug, which means he’s likely in agony from the withdrawal. We must be careful. A dragon in pain is unpredictable, at best.”
Ambris and Kian were already shifting, and Vayne and Ilya quickly followed suit. Kian stood snorting impatiently while Jorin lifted the saddle onto his back and fastened the straps with practiced ease.
Vayne didn’t wait for them to finish. He took wing immediately, bursting through the forest canopy with Ilya and Ambris right behind him. If Tristin was in enough pain, his dragon instincts would take over, and he might not be capable of telling friend from foe.
He didn’t like to think about Jaire caught in the middle of that.
* * *
Before the Drachan captain could loose his bolt and bury it in Garrik’s chest, Jaire screamed, “No!” and at the same time, Tristin charged. He didn’t have the distance to build up much speed, but the dragon’s weight and momentum were more than enough to throw the captain over the low wall. The man’s cry of surprise was brief and cut off abruptly.
Tristin glanced over the edge, then swung around and fixed burning eyes on the Wytch Masters who had drugged and imprisoned him. A low growl rumbled deep in his throat, and little curls of smoke escaped from between his fangs. Mordax’s face was grey, but he kept one shaking hand raised as if to activate his shield once more.
Before Tristin could cut loose with another firestorm, Jaire scrambled to his feet. “Tristin, wait! Don’t!”
Keeping his eyes fixed on the dragon so he wouldn’t have to look at the smoking corpses littering the roof, Jaire crossed the open space and placed himself between Tristin and the Wytch Masters.
“Roasted Wytch Masters can’t talk,” he told the dragon.
Tristin cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, body tensed to pounce again at the slightest provocation. Another low, rumbling growl filled the air as the dragon’s glittering black eyes fixed on Jaire.
Trusting that Tristin retained enough of his humanity to understand, Jaire turned his back on the angry dragon. “Faah, come here and get this blood-chain off of me at once, or I shall have Tristin burn you to ash.”
Behind the Wytch Masters, Garrik hovered, tail switching restlessly as he waited for Jaire to get out of the way. Faah looked about frantically, his eyes darting from Mordax to Garrik, then finally to Tristin, before he stumbled toward Jaire. He was shaking as he unlocked the collar, his trembling fingers brushing Jaire’s neck like spider legs.
The moment the blood-chain was opened, the hazy veil lifted from Jaire’s mind. “Now collar yourself,” he ordered.
Faah’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but one glance at Tristin, still growling low in his throat, silenced him. His hands trembled as he raised the collar to his own neck and snapped it shut.
Keeping his body between Tristin and Faah, Jaire pushed the powerless Wytch Master across the roof, surprised at how light and frail the old man was. Tristin’s growl became deeper and more menacing as he followed Jaire’s progress with burning eyes.
“Mordax is yours,” Jaire said firmly, “but I want Faah alive. I’m sure he has lots of interesting things to tell us, don’t you, Faah?”
Time froze as Tristin’s eyes bored into Jaire. His fury battered at Jaire’s defenses, and for one heart-stopping moment, Jaire feared the dragon might succumb to madness and flame him as well as his tormentors. Eternal seconds dragged by before the great red dragon head swung away from them. With a piercing scream of rage, Tristin launched himself at Mordax.
Mordax’s fear bloomed like a dark, cold cloud in Jaire’s head. Jaire slammed one of his thickest shielding patterns into place just as Tristin grabbed hold of Mordax and dragged him over the railing, opening his wings to ride the air currents high into the sky. Mordax screamed, struggling like an insect caught by a bird. Tristin soared higher, and with a final cry of rage, flung the Wytch Master to the ground.
The screams cut off abruptly, and Jaire shivered, glad he’d managed to raise his own protections before Mordax had met his end. He turned to check on Faah, and found him staring out across the valley, mouth gaping, eyes wide with shock. Jaire followed his gaze, heart leaping in triumph at the sight of a group of dragons winging toward the watchtower, scales gleaming like rare gems in the sunlight. Silver blue, emerald green, and pale gold shading to darkest red: Ilya, Vayne, and Ambris. Behind them came Kian, a magnificent obsidian black, carrying a rider on his back.
A draconic scream behind him had Jaire twisting around to see Tristin floundering in the air. With a great flap of his wings, Garrik was after him, and Jaire watched, heart in his mouth, as Garrik caught the red dragon in his arms and spread his wings wide, bringing them both down safely into the courtyard.
Gold and blue scales flashed as Ambris and Ilya glided over Dragonwatch and down into the courtyard to join Garrik. Kian and Vayne both landed on the roof, Jorin vaulting from Kian’s back the moment he touched down. The guard captain was at Jaire’s side in three strides. He took charge of Faah, binding the shaken Wytch Master’s hands behind him with a set of manacles.
Relief at the sight of his allies made Jaire’s knees go weak, and he staggered back against the railing. Moments later, Vayne was beside him, flinging his arms around Jaire.
“Are you all right?” Vayne held onto Jaire tightly for a few moments before releasing him
. “I feared Tristin would be in too much pain to maintain control.” Vayne’s hands roamed over him, searching for injury, and his eyes unfocused as he studied Jaire’s mythe-shadow.
“I’m fine,” Jaire said. “Really. Tristin wouldn’t have hurt me.”
Vayne eyed the smoking corpses scattered across the roof and gave Jaire a dubious look. A moment later, Garrik rose up above the watchtower and circled once before gliding in for a graceful landing. He shifted the moment he touched down.
“Jaire, are you all right?” The Wytch King’s dark eyes were black with fury as they strayed to Faah.
“I’m fine, Garrik,” Jaire said. “And don’t even think about roasting my prisoner. He might be worth something to the Council, once he’s told us their plans.”
“I was thinking he might make a nice torch, but I suppose you’re right,” Garrik said, his voice taut. Jaire kept his protections thick, sparing himself from his brother’s rage. “You always were more of a diplomat than I. It’s just as well one of us takes after Mother.”
“Just as well, indeed,” Jaire said with a grim smile. “Is Tristin all right?”
“I don’t know. Ilya and Ambris are settling him in Dragonwatch’s dormitory now. Ambris said something about a drug Mordax had been giving him?”
Jaire glanced toward Vayne, who said, “Ai. It stopped him from touching the mythe. He told me he was addicted to it, and I imagine he hasn’t had any for far too long.”
“He hasn’t had any since yesterday,” Jaire said. “They gave us water this morning, but Tristin told me to pour it on the floor because it would be drugged. He said he didn’t want to lose us our only advantage. It’s a good thing, too. They saw me in dragon form and put a blood-chain on me so I couldn’t shift, but they didn’t know about Tristin.”
“A blood-chain, was it?” Garrik glared once more at Faah, who shrank back against Jorin. “Get him out of my sight, Jorin. I shall deal with him when I am able to think clearly enough to refrain from turning him into a greasy puddle.”
“I’ll take him down to the courtyard, Your Majesty, until we decide how we’re going to get him down the mountain.”
“Kian can probably carry both of you,” Jaire said, and Kian, still in dragon form, snorted and dipped his head in a nod of agreement.
“No…” Faah whined. “You can’t mean to…”
“Oh, yes, I can,” Garrik said in a low voice. “And from there, you will go into a cell in the dungeon with a blood-chain around your neck, and plenty of time to consider your crimes. I will have answers from you one way or another, Wytch Master.”
What little color had been left in Faah’s cheeks drained away, and he pressed his lips together. Then Jorin laid a big hand on his shoulder and forced him toward the great black dragon. Faah struggled and dug his heels in, but he was no match for Jorin’s strength. In short order, he was slung unceremoniously across Kian’s back and secured in place with a length of rope and some leather straps.
“Straight to the dungeon, Jorin,” Garrik said, giving Kian’s flank a playful slap.
Kian let out a snort and leapt from the roof of the tower. Faah’s screams of terror could be heard halfway down the mountain.
“Now,” said Garrik, turning to Vayne, “if there’s nothing else that requires our attention, we need to report to Ord.”
Vayne nodded and shifted, and Garrik followed suit. After only a moment’s hesitation, Jaire shifted, not bothering to strip out of his clothing first.
When he’d finished, Garrik was staring at him with wide dragon eyes.
Jaire snorted. Jaire directed his snout away from Vayne and Garrik and breathed out a puff of sparkly smoke.
From behind him, Jaire sensed Vayne’s shock.
Jaire finally lifted his head to see Vayne staring at him.
Jaire couldn’t help the smile that stretched his mouth, even if it did feel a bit odd against all those sharp dragon teeth.
Garrik was watching his brother, a speculative gleam in his draconic eyes.
Spirits soaring, Jaire followed his brother and Vayne off the edge of the watchtower and glided down the mountain after them.
* * *
Vayne glided down toward the castle with Jaire beside him. Garrik led them to the north tower and landed first. Vayne noted with some pride that Jaire’s landing was every bit as graceful as his brother’s, his shift back to human form just as smooth.
From a wooden chest in a sheltered corner, Garrik pulled several cloaks and handed one each to Jaire and Vayne before settling one over his own broad shoulders. “Ilya and I decided it might be best to keep a supply of cloaks here, rather than keep giving the servants an eyeful,” he said with a wicked grin. “Meet me in my study when you’ve dressed. Jaire can show you the way to your suite from here.”
The Wytch King bent to open the trapdoor at the top of the tower and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Jaire and Vayne alone.
“If it’s not too late after we’ve met with Garrik and Ord, I’d like to fly back up to Dragonwatch to check on Tristin,” Jaire said. “He saved Garrik’s life today, even if Garrik hasn’t realized it yet.”
“I will accompany you, unless my king has need of me,” Vayne told him. “I, too, have much to thank Tristin for.” He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Jaire’s lips.
Two bright spots of color flared on Jaire’s cheeks as he caught hold of Vayne’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I… wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of you, Prince Vayne,” he murmured. “When we’ve time.”
Vayne smiled. “And I would not mind seeing a lot more of you, Prince Jaire.”
“I…” Jaire licked his lips. “Would you… perhaps we could… um… I mean, there’s a book I’d very much like to show you.”
“I would very much like to examine any… book… you might care to show me,” Vayne said soberly.
“I… I’ll, um, look forward to it, then.” Jaire gave Vayne a shy smile before ducking his head. “Come on, then. We’d better not keep them waiting.”
Vayne followed him down the tower steps, and couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Books, indeed.
Garrik, Ord, and Kian were already waiting in Garrik’s study when Vayne and Jaire arrived. The two Wytch Kings peppered the three dragon
shifters with questions far into the night. Every detail they could recall about their interactions with both Faah and Mordax was examined.
“Let’s go back to what you overheard, Vayne,” Ord said.
Vayne let out a ragged breath; he’d already recounted this part of the story twice, and by now, his mind was buzzing with fatigue. Before he could begin, there was a knock on the study door, and Ilya was admitted. His feet were bare, and he was wrapped in a cloak.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Ilya said, “but I thought you might want to know how Tristin fares.”
“Ai, we do,” Garrik said with a nod. “Tristin saved Jaire’s life this afternoon. And probably mine, as well.”
“Will he be all right, Ilya?” Jaire asked quickly.
“He will. We are helping him sleep through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.”
“Is he in pain?” Jaire asked, heart going out to poor Tristin.
“No, Your Highness,” Ilya said, with a slight shake of his head. “Ambris and I are keeping him comfortable. I fear he is in for a long recovery, though. The drug has muffled his senses as well as cut him off from the mythe. I fear the sights and sounds of the world will be overwhelming to him until he gets used to them again. Once he does, I will teach him how to protect himself from the empathic impressions he receives when he touches things. A most fascinating Wytch power, and possibly quite useful, if Tristin can learn to control it.”
“Do you think he can?” Vayne asked.
“I see no reason why not,” Ilya said. “The patterns he needs are closely related to the ones I taught Prince Jaire. I’m not sure why Tristin wasn’t taught properly in the first place. He should have been sent to Rakken Academy when his power first awakened.”
“Ah, but then they couldn’t have kept his existence a secret, could they?” Garrik said.