by Jaye McKenna
Dragonwatch
Wytch Kings, Book 4
by
Jaye McKenna
Published by Mythe Weaver Press
Distributed by Smashwords
Copyright © 2017 Jaye McKenna
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art by Chinchbug
Copyright © 2017 Chinchbug
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Words of Caution
This story contains sexually explicit material and describes sexual relations between men. It is intended for adult readers.
Dragonwatch
Wytch Kings, Book 4
by
Jaye McKenna
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Also Available
Acknowledgments
Author Bio
Contact Info
Book Description
Chapter One
Tristin was wholly dragon.
The treetops rushed by as he soared down the mountain on wings of brilliant ruby red, reveling in the perfection of his dragon form. When he was dragon, he was strong and whole. When he was dragon, he didn’t have to put up with horrible feelings shivering through his human form every time he touched something that had been handled by someone else.
The anzaria his uncle had dosed him with for years might have dulled his mind and plagued him with hallucinations, but it had also blocked his cursed Wytch power. Addiction, at least, had brought him peace.
Now, with his human body purged of the last remnants of the drug, Tristin sought refuge in his dragon form more and more often, much to the consternation of those overseeing his recovery.
The late afternoon sun was warm on his back, and a thrill of joy suffused him as the ground sped by below. There was Dragonwatch, where he’d been taken to recover from his addiction and learn to control the Wytch power that had kept him in isolation for over half his life. And there, at the foot of the mountain, lay Castle Altan, home to the cousins he’d only recently learned he had: Garrik, the Wytch King of Altan and Prince Jaire, Garrik’s younger brother.
Tristin had yet to set foot in the castle itself, but he hoped he’d be well enough to do so one day soon. His cousins seemed genuinely concerned about his welfare, and once he’d fully recovered, he planned to spend some time getting acquainted with them. He’d had no one to call family since the death of his mother, half a lifetime ago.
His uncle, Wytch King Altivair of Ysdrach, could no longer be counted as family; not after the things he’d allowed to be done to Tristin.
A flash of emerald green on the roof of the watchtower caught his eye as he went past, and Tristin banked and came around at a lower altitude to get a closer look.
The green was a cloak, whipped by the wind, worn by a figure with hair gleaming like copper in the sunlight: Ilya, Wytch Master of Altan. Across the watchtower from the Wytch Master was Prince Jaire, in his opalescent white dragon form. As Tristin watched, Jaire reared up on his hind legs and breathed a snapping, glowing ball of lightning down into the river valley below. Tristin felt the tingle of it in the air even from this distance.
Lightning.
Prince Jaire was unusual among dragon shifters in that he could breathe fire and ice. The lightning was new. If war was coming to Altan, the prince’s versatility would certainly be a valuable asset on the battlefield, although Tristin cringed at the thought of his gentle cousin going to war.
Prince Jaire blew out another ball of lightning, and moments later, took to the sky. He winged his way up to Tristin and leveled out so he was flying on Tristin’s left.
Tristin didn’t respond. The only thing he was getting better at was hiding his despair. Jaire peeled away and glided down the mountain toward the castle. Tristin watched him for a few moments, then blinked hard to bring down his inner eyelids. He quickly located a downdraft, a swath of cool turquoise, and rode it in a lazy, spiraling descent toward the roof of the watchtower. His landing was perfect, but it gave him no satisfaction, and he didn’t make the shift back to human form.
Wytch Master Ilya stood before him, a cloak draped over his arm. “Would you shift for me, Tristin? I would have words with you, and we cannot speak properly when you are in dragon form and I am not.”
Tristin snorted, but didn’t shift. If Ilya wanted to speak to him so badly, the Wytch Master could shift. He knew exactly what Ilya wished to talk about, and the thought of it made his dragon belly writhe and twist in dread.
His gaze drifted away from the Wytch Master to the slope of the mountain beyond the watchtower. He could have been safe in his cave by now, if he hadn’t been curious and come to investigate.
“Tristin… it’s been three days since I’ve seen you in your human form. If you insist on spending all your time as a dragon, you risk losing yourself to the beast entirely. You will forget your humanity and truly become dragon.”
Tristin stared down at his wicked, ruby-red claws. Forgetting his human life would not necessarily be a bad thing.
“If you lose yourself to the dragon,” Ilya continued, “you will be a danger to the folk of Altan. Garrik would have no choice but to order your death, though it would grieve him to do so.”
Ilya was right, of course, and Tristin knew it. He’d already experienced signs of the dragon within him overshadowing his human self: losing track of the days, reveling in the hunt, the smell of blood transporting him into ecstasies the likes of which he’d never known as a man.
“Won’t you try?” Ilya coaxed. “Your cousins are both very concerned about you, as am I.”
His cousins, yes. He owed them his life, his freedom… and, he thought, with a mixture of resentment and guilt, his current condition. Which, truth be told, they were trying hard to help him with.
“I know the watchtower is particularly difficult for you,” Ilya said. “If you’d be more comfortable, you may glide down to the courtyard, and I will meet you there.”
With a heavy sigh, Tristin dipped his head in acquiescence and nodded toward the courtyard.
Ilya smiled. “Very good. I shall see you in a minute, then. Would you like to take the cloak with y
ou?” He offered it to Tristin, laid across his outstretched arms so it would be easy for the dragon to take it. Tristin carefully wrapped his claws around it and hopped to the edge of the watchtower roof on three legs. He spread his wings and glided down to the courtyard.
Shifting back into human form was easy, but the mental onslaught that came with it was always a shock, no matter how well prepared he thought he was. Visions of armed men running to do battle flooded his mind. Shouted commands and screams of pain filled his ears, and he felt the bite of steel on flesh and the searing pain of fire. The smell of smoke and the taste of blood were almost enough to choke him. It didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself it wasn’t real, the sensations were too intense for him to remember that when he was caught up in them.
The empathic resonances bled from every surface he touched, and those first moments after shifting back into human form were always overwhelming, especially after the peace he experienced as a dragon.
Dragonwatch stood on the site of an old fort which had been home to the men who guarded the kingdom of Altan from the winter raids of the mountain barbarians. The barbarian tribes were gone now, thinned out or driven off nearly a century ago, during the Ten Winters of the Dark Ice, but the empathic resonances of the men who’d fought here remained. The violence, fear, and pain experienced by those ancient warriors had permeated the stones of the watchtower and the surrounding landscape as their blood had soaked the dirt.
Most people were blissfully unaware of the savage history resonating through the land beneath their feet.
Tristin wasn’t most people.
The fears and hopes of those long-dead souls who once defended the kingdom sliced through his head like millions of tiny daggers. Each alone was barely noticeable, a drop of rain in a raging storm. But the combined onslaught was so overwhelming that for a moment, Tristin froze, feet glued to the sun-warmed stone, cloak in a blue puddle of fabric on the ground in front of him.
“Tristin?” Master Ilya’s voice broke him out of a haze of pain so intense, he forgot to hide his arms. “You will be well again, I promise you. But I cannot teach you the shielding patterns if you insist on spending all your time in dragon form.”
The Wytch Master’s pale blue eyes fixed on Tristin, his expression remaining calm and composed. He didn’t look the least bit disgusted at the sight of Tristin’s gaunt frame, or the terrible scars on his arms.
Ilya bent to retrieve the cloak, and though Tristin wanted to tear it from Ilya’s hands and whip it around himself to cover his body, he forced himself to wait while the Wytch Master gently draped it over his shoulders. When the cloak was in place, Tristin pulled it tight, holding it closed with shaking hands in an attempt to cover as much of himself as possible.
“Come. You’ll feel better once you’re inside.” The Wytch Master’s voice was cool, a soothing contrast to the painful chaos of empathic resonances swirling in Tristin’s head.
By the time they reached the school’s entry hall — the new hall, built from freshly hewn planks, thank the Dragon Mother — Tristin’s skin was slick with cold sweat. The moment his bare feet touched the smooth, polished floorboards, the sensations absorbed by the stones in the courtyard faded to a dim noise in the background, leaving him weak-kneed and trembling.
Master Ilya escorted him to his suite and waited in the sitting room while Tristin staggered into his bedroom to find some clothing.
Now that the worst of the resonances were blocked by the relatively new floor, Tristin’s mind was as quiet as it ever got. He dressed quickly, in breeches and a shirt with sleeves long enough to hide his scars.
Outside, the sky was a clear, lavender blue, and Tristin stared longingly at it. He could be out the window and gliding — without pain — high above Dragonwatch in a moment, if he dared.
The Wytch Master’s words threaded through his mind: Garrik would have no choice but to order your death…
For one brief moment, he thought perhaps that was the answer. But no — Tristin wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. Not quite. Though he feared if things didn’t improve, it wouldn’t be long before he reached that point.
Casting one last look of regret at the sky, he left his bedroom.
A tray of bread, fruit, and cheese was waiting on the little table in the sitting room, along with a pitcher full of water. Ilya bade him sit and began loading a plate with food.
Tristin arched an eyebrow when the Wytch Master handed it to him. “You’re serving me?”
“I’m seeing to the needs of a wounded man who has come under my care,” Ilya corrected. He sat down opposite Tristin. “Eat. I should like to see you gain a bit of flesh. You will not have the focus or the energy to learn the shielding patterns if you are not at full strength.”
“You’re starting to sound a lot like one of my hallucinations.” Tristin eyed Ilya suspiciously. “You haven’t been talking to them, have you?”
“I wouldn’t presume,” Ilya said drily. “I’d much rather talk to you. Although at the moment, I’d prefer you had your mouth too full to speak.”
Tristin shifted his gaze to the food and wrinkled his nose. The thought of putting anything into his mouth made his stomach turn. Even the bread, still warm from the oven, did nothing to tempt him.
“Tristin.” Ilya’s voice was gentle, but there was a determined edge to his tone. “I want to help you, but there is little I can do if you will not meet me halfway.”
“I can’t imagine why you care enough to do so,” Tristin said, glancing up in time to see Ilya’s pale eyes narrow.
“Can you not? First and foremost, I am a healer, and I cannot bear to think of any creature in pain. In addition to that, you are the only living relative Garrik and Jaire have. And Jaire has taken quite a shine to you. He asks about you every day, you know.”
A faint smile curved Tristin’s lips. He’d liked Prince Jaire from the moment he’d met the young man.
“Try to eat something, Tristin. If not for yourself, then for Jaire. He would be devastated if anything were to happen to you.”
Tristin started to reach for the bread, then let his hand fall into his lap. “I see little point.”
“You are giving up already? You have barely begun.”
The Wytch Master was right, of course, but Tristin saw no point in getting his hopes up only to have them dashed once more. Mordax had tried for years to teach him the simplest of shielding patterns, and Tristin had never been able to master even the first one. “I have so far to go,” Tristin said wearily. “The mere thought of it is exhausting.”
“That is because you are focusing on the end point,” Ilya said gently. “You need a more easily achievable goal. Something you can accomplish quickly, if only you put your mind to it.”
Tristin shrugged. The only goal he was interested in was whichever one would leave him free of the resonances that soaked every surface, to have his mind quiet for once. Even here in his bedroom, the resonances were there. Muffled, yes, but still there, an ever-present noise in the back of his mind. By the end of the day, he’d have a skull-splitting headache.
“What about going a whole day without shifting?” Ilya suggested. “Do you think you can do that?”
Tristin blinked. Could he? “I… I don’t know,” he whispered. “When it gets too much, shifting is the only escape I have.”
“Hmm, well, perhaps we need to give you some incentive. If you could do anything — anything at all — what would it be?”
“I… I don’t…” Tristin frowned. No one had ever asked him that before, and he hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond.
“Let me put it another way. Looking back over your life, when were you the happiest?”
Had he ever been happy? Not at Shadowspire, certainly. And not in the years since his Wytch power had awakened and filled his mind with feelings and sensations he didn’t want, but couldn’t shut out.
He had to think back further than that, to a lonely childhood. Raised in isolation at Falkra
g, one of his uncle’s estates, Tristin had very few happy memories. The only person who’d paid any attention to him had been old Thom, the gardener.
A faint smile curved his lips. “Rooting about in the dirt in Falkrag’s gardens,” he murmured. “The sun on my back, the rich smell of the living earth all around me. Watching the green, growing things poking their heads up out of the dirt. Seeing the leaves unfurl and reach for the sun…” Falkrag’s gardens were more for growing herbs and vegetables than for show, and old Thom had allowed Tristin to have his very own patch of earth. Tristin had chosen to grow flowers in as many colors as he could. “I was happy then.” His smile turned wistful. “Or… as close to happy as I’ve ever been, I suppose.”
Ilya looked pleased. “Very good. Ambris grows herbs in the garden behind the school, and cares for the flowers in the courtyard. If you can go all of tomorrow without shifting, I will speak to him about finding a bit of earth for you to work. Would that be sufficient encouragement?”
Tristin’s eyes widened and his heart beat a little faster. It would never have occurred to him to ask for such a thing. “I’d like that. I-I’ll try, Master Ilya.” With a tiny smile, Tristin lifted a chunk of buttered bread to his lips.
* * *
Mikhyal, prince of Rhiva, lay flat on his back in the corner of the practice yard and stared up at the sky. A smattering of applause came from around the yard, where a growing number of Rhiva’s guardsmen had paused in their own sparring matches to watch their captain give their commander a thorough trouncing. He pretended he didn’t hear the clink of coins changing hands.
