by Jaye McKenna
Captain Rhu’s pale blue eyes crinkled as she grinned down at him. “All right, Commander?”
“Ai. Surprised is all. And a bit winded.” Mikhyal took the offered hand and gave the watching guardsmen a rueful grin. “Go on,” he called across the yard. “Back to work with the lot of you.”
Chuckling and calling out insults, the men returned to their practice bouts. The captain hauled Mikhyal to his feet with strength that always surprised him, given how small she was.
Once he was standing, Rhu let go of his hand and gave his admittedly soft belly a hard jab. “Too many rich meals at your father’s table.” The critical edge to her tone said she wasn’t entirely joking.
“Ai, and not enough time away from the desk to balance it.” He rubbed his bruised backside and returned her grin with a sardonic one of his own. “Thank you, Rhu. You’ll have to show me that maneuver.” He’d seen something coming, but hadn’t been quick enough. The moment he’d moved to block her attempt to disarm him, she’d kicked his feet out from under him. He’d landed hard on his arse, losing both his blade and his dignity.
“Not until you’ve got your edge back, Commander. You’ve let yourself get too soft and slow to manage it without hurting yourself.”
“I’m not sure I’ll have the time to—”
“Then don’t expect to survive your next armed encounter,” she said bluntly. “A year ago, I’d never have got that move past you.”
“A year ago, I believed all Shaine needed was a bit of guidance.” Mikhyal stared down at the packed dirt and lowered his voice. “Now, however, I fear my hopes were misplaced. I dread to think what happens when he becomes king.”
Rhu said nothing. It was more than her position was worth to speak badly of the heir, but Mikhyal knew her fears echoed his own. She’d told him so over too much wine on several occasions in the last year.
“You’re right,” Mikhyal conceded. “I’m badly out of shape. Perhaps it’s time I stopped spending so much energy opposing Shaine. None of it’s going to matter once he’s crowned. He’ll do just as he pleases, then. Or rather, as Wytch Master Anxin pleases. I’ll see what I can do about making one of the practice sessions a daily habit.”
“This is a good time, if you can manage it,” Rhu said. “I’ll be able to work with you myself in the mornings. The afternoon session is mostly new recruits, and they need all of my attention.”
“I’ll have to rearrange my schedule. The only reason I managed to find the time today was because Shaine canceled our morning meeting at the last minute. No promises, but I’ll try to be here first thing tomorrow morning.”
She grinned. “Very good, Commander. I’ll look forward to crossing blades with you tomorrow.”
Mikhyal gave her a sharp nod and collected his practice blade. On his way back to his suite, he considered how he might present the schedule change to his brother. Shaine had little patience with Mikhyal’s friendship with Rhu, or with his efforts to keep himself fit. Mikhyal already knew exactly what his brother would say: That’s what we have guardsmen for. Your job is to assist me. Their job is to protect us.
Which sounded too much like something Wytch Master Anxin would say.
He’d just turned down the hallway leading to the royal apartments when he caught sight of his brother’s red hair, a bright stream of flame against the soft, muted blues and greys of the family wing of Rhiva’s summer palace.
“There you are,” Shaine said, eyes narrowing as they moved from Mikhyal’s sweat-damp, disheveled hair to his torn breeches, and finally, to the practice blade he still held in his hand. “What in Aio’s name have you been doing?”
“When you canceled our meeting, I thought I’d get in some practice with the guards.” Mikhyal slowed, but didn’t stop, forcing Shaine to turn and fall into step beside him if he wished to converse.
“Whatever for?” Shaine sounded mystified.
“Well, I am the commander of Rhiva’s army,” Mikhyal replied. “I ought to at least keep up appearances, don’t you think? In fact, I’ve been meaning to resume my daily weapons practice, so I won’t be available during the hour before breakfast. We’ll have to change our meeting time to later in the day. Before lunch, perhaps?”
Panic flashed in his brother’s eyes, there and gone again so fast, Mikhyal decided he must have imagined it. “I’ll check my schedule. I’m sure I can juggle it to accommodate you, if I must, though I don’t see why you’re bothering.” Shaine’s voice was cool and full of disdain. “A waste of your valuable time, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
Shaine didn’t respond. Nor did he turn away. Instead, he continued on down the corridor with Mikhyal. At the door to his own suite, Mikhyal paused and faced his brother. “Was there anything else?”
A soft shadow flickered behind Shaine’s hard green eyes, an echo, perhaps, of the boy he’d been, the brother Mikhyal had loved, before the accident last summer had turned him into a stranger. “Mik, please, I—” Shaine stopped, a strangled sob escaping his throat.
Mikhyal started at the sound of the nickname Shaine hadn’t used in over a year. “Are you all right, Shaine?”
Shaine squeezed his eyes shut as if he were in pain. A moment later they opened, and whatever fleeting emotion Mikhyal thought he’d seen was gone, leaving his brother’s face as cold and composed as ever. “I’m fine,” he said flatly. “I only came to inform you that Father requests your presence at breakfast. Apparently he has an announcement to make.”
“I see.” Mikhyal resisted the urge to sigh at the thought of all the time formal breakfast would take from his morning.
Shaine said nothing more. He turned and headed back down the hall, his movements stiff and jerky. Mikhyal slipped into his suite and closed the door, leaning heavily against it.
Eight years it was, since the Wytch Council had confirmed Shaine as Wytch King Drannik’s heir. Eight years since Mikhyal’s younger brother had taken the place he’d always assumed would be his. It had been long enough for Mikhyal to have come to terms with the cold reality that he would never be king, that the best he could hope for would be a position as one of Shaine’s advisors.
Only fifteen at the time, poor Shaine had been terrified at the prospect of ruling the kingdom. Mikhyal had thrown himself into the task of helping his brother prepare for the role. Shaine might not have been groomed to be king like Mikhyal had, but with Mikhyal’s guidance, he’d been slowly growing into it. After much hard work, Mikhyal had come to believe that although it wasn’t what Shaine truly wanted, his brother would be a good king.
Last summer, all that had changed.
Up until the accident, Mikhyal had counted Shaine as his closest friend as well as his brother. But ever since Shaine had woken up a week after being thrown from his horse, a stranger wore his brother’s body and spoke with his voice. The healers could do nothing but patiently explain that it was not unheard of for a man’s personality to change completely following such a serious head injury. Mikhyal was told it was only by the Dragon Mother’s grace that Shaine had survived without more serious effects, but Mikhyal thought his brother’s personality change to be quite serious enough. The accident had changed the heir of Rhiva, and not for the better. Shaine was Wytch Master Anxin’s creature now, and Mikhyal feared the day his brother took the throne.
Swallowing down his bitterness, Mikhyal headed for his bedroom. His valet, Senn, was waiting for him. Senn took one look at Mikhyal and said, “Ah. You’ll be wanting your bath then, Your Highness.”
“Sorry, Senn. Rhu caught me snatching a bit of last night’s cake for breakfast in the kitchens, and the next thing I knew, she had me working it off in the practice yard.”
Senn’s sniff communicated his disapproval perfectly as he inspected his prince. “Those breeches weren’t meant for sword practice, Highness. The stains will never come out.”
“Ai, well, when I dressed, I wasn’t expecting to spend half the morning on my arse in the dirt. I shall endeavor to tr
eat my wardrobe with more care in future, shall I?”
“Please.” Senn gave another pained sniff, then continued, “His Majesty requests that you attend him at breakfast as soon as you’re presentable.”
“Ai, Shaine came and told me. You wouldn’t have any idea what it’s about, would you?”
“I really couldn’t say, Your Highness, though rumor has it His Majesty received a visitor last night. Late last night.”
“Oh?”
“One of the dragon-men from Altan, apparently.”
“Wytch King Garrik?”
“No, Highness, I believe it was his Wytch Master, Ilya.”
Mikhyal frowned. “I wonder what he wanted. Well, I suppose I shall find out at breakfast.” He glanced longingly toward his bathing chamber. “And I suppose that long soak in the bath I was looking forward to will have to wait.”
“As you say, Your Highness.”
With Senn’s capable assistance, Mikhyal set about making himself presentable.
* * *
“Garrik of Altan has just announced the betrothal of his brother, Prince Jaire,” Drannik said. He took a sip of his tea and regarded his breakfast thoughtfully.
“It’s about time,” the queen murmured. She was, as always, the picture of cool beauty, with her pale blonde hair and her ice-blue eyes. “I do feel for Lady Bria. Poor woman, she was supposed to marry Garrik years ago. What a disappointment that must have been. Imagine, growing up thinking you’ll be queen, and then having to settle for the younger prince.” She turned to Shaine and beamed. “Not like your Kirali, ai, Shaine? Promised to Mikhyal all those years, she must have thought her life was over when the Council confirmed you as the heir. I can only imagine her joy and relief when she learned the Council had withdrawn their approval of her marriage to Mikhyal and given her to you instead.”
Mikhyal suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He imagined Kirali’s relief would have had more to do with being betrothed to a man closer to her age than his status. At nineteen, she was only four years younger than Shaine, but nearly a decade separated her and Mikhyal. She’d been a babe in arms when she’d been promised to him.
Drannik made no comment. He and the queen had never been close, and while they played their roles to perfection in public, the king and queen had lived in separate apartments for as long as Mikhyal could remember.
“At Wytch King Garrik’s request, I shall be attending the festivities,” Drannik announced, “accompanied by Mikhyal.”
Silence settled around the table while the family digested that. Wytch Master Anxin was the first to break it. “There’s been no official word of a betrothal.”
“I understand it will be a very small ceremony, with only a few guests,” Drannik said. “Prince Jaire is quite shy and fragile, if you’ll remember, and Garrik fears that making a huge production of it will be too great a strain on him.”
“Very good,” Anxin said, inclining his head. “When does Your Majesty wish to depart? I can be ready at your convenience.”
“The ceremony is still a month away, but I’ll be stopping at Brightwood on the way. I’ve not yet had a chance to have a look at the new breeding stock the horse master acquired at the spring Faire in Askarra. I’ll be leaving in a week, but I should like you to remain here, Anxin, and watch over Shaine. This seems like an excellent opportunity for him to try taking the reins for a short period, and you are the only one I trust to guide him.”
The Wytch King’s sincere delivery would have fooled anyone who wasn’t in his confidence. In truth, Drannik despised Anxin, but the only member of the royal family who was aware of that was Mikhyal. He shifted his gaze to his brother in time to see an expression of alarm flash across Shaine’s face. A moment later, Shaine’s body tensed, and he bowed his head and fixed his eyes on his breakfast.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Anxin said. “It would be my honor.” In his early forties, with not a streak of grey to mar his sable hair, Anxin was young to have been granted the honor that came with the station of Royal Wytch Master, and wasn’t above a little preening. “I am humbled that you would entrust the guidance of your heir and the oversight of your kingdom to me.”
Drannik’s smile might have fooled Anxin, but it looked more like a grimace to Mikhyal. Into the silence that followed, the queen said brightly, “I do believe I shall accompany you, my dear.”
“Will you, indeed.” Drannik’s voice and his expression were perfectly neutral.
“This summer has been entirely too dull. The Midsummer ball at Mir was dreadfully disappointing. A royal betrothal ceremony will be a lovely diversion. And it’s been ages since I’ve seen Brightwood.”
“I was not planning to bring an entourage,” the Wytch King said patiently. “As I said, it will be a small ceremony. I had intended to cut through the forest with a small contingent of guardsmen in order to minimize my time on the road.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Icera said pleasantly. “I am quite content to go alone. I’m sure Mikhyal would be happy to escort his mother.”
“If it would please Father, I would indeed,” Mikhyal said, heart sinking at the prospect of escorting his mother’s carriage. On horseback, a small group of skilled riders could make the journey to Altan in a week, but with the carriage and the frequent stops the ladies would require, it would take over two weeks, and that was assuming the weather, the horses, and the ladies cooperated.
“Very well,” Drannik said in a clipped tone. “If we are to arrive on time, we will depart in two days, and we’ll delay the visit to Brightwood until after the ceremony. I shall need at least two weeks to see to matters at the estate, and there simply won’t be time for it if we are to be shackled to the pace of the carriage. If you cannot arrange for your baggage to be packed in that time, I regret that you will have to remain behind, my dear.”
Icera arched a perfectly shaped golden eyebrow. “As you say, dear. Two days. I look forward to it.”
A cool silence descended over the breakfast table. Mikhyal noted that Shaine didn’t eat, only pushed the food around on his plate. Anxin watched the young man with narrowed eyes, and Mikhyal would have given a lot to know what the Wytch Master was thinking.
* * *
Tristin was trembling when he presented himself to Ilya in the Wytch Master’s study the next afternoon. His head ached from the relentless barrage of muffled emotions seeping up from the stone and earth underneath Dragonwatch’s floorboards. Though the intensity was nowhere near the level it was in the ancient watchtower, it never let up. Having agreed not to shift into his dragon form, in which he mercifully could not sense the resonances, he could find no respite.
“Are you all right, Tristin?” Master Ilya’s brow wrinkled as he studied Tristin’s face. “Come, sit down.”
Tristin took the seat across the desk from Ilya, and sat hunched over, hands clasped tightly in his lap. “I think,” he began, licking his lips, “I think if I am to keep my promise not to shift, I need something to occupy my mind. Something to stop me from focusing on my discomfort. Can you… do you think you could show me the patterns I need to shield myself?”
“Is the pain so bad?” Ilya asked softly.
“It is… not unbearable, but there is no longer any drug fog to retreat into, nothing to lull me into the depths of sleep. There is a constant noise in my head. It never lets up, not for a moment. Even my hallucinations went away every so often.” He gave Ilya a thin, bitter smile. “It nibbles and bites at the edges of my awareness, and frays my determination so thin, I fear I shall break. The sooner I can learn to block it out, the better.”
“I’m not convinced you’ve the strength yet to focus.” Ilya’s pale blue eyes were soft with concern. “I’d hate to start before you’re ready. Failure now is only going to shake your confidence.”
“Confidence?” Tristin’s bark of laughter was brittle. “I can promise you cooperation, Wytch Master, but confidence? That, I fear, I lost long ago.”
Ilya regarded him in thou
ghtful silence for a time. “Mordax gave you no encouragement?”
Tristin couldn’t quite suppress a cold shudder when he thought about the Wytch Master who had been in charge of his training and later, his captivity. “I was not a good student,” he said flatly. “And Mordax was… a harsh teacher, and not very patient.”
The Wytch Master’s eyes narrowed as he frowned. “Tristin… did Mordax hurt you?”
Heart pounding, Tristin stared down at his hands. “Only when I couldn’t perform to his satisfaction. Which was most of the time, actually. He… he told me it was for my own good.”
Ilya cursed softly, almost under his breath. Tristin risked a glance up, and found the Wytch Master’s eyes still on him. His cheeks heated, and he quickly averted his eyes.
“We shall start at the very beginning,” Ilya said. “With the most basic lesson of all — finding your center.”
“My… my center? Is that… is it anything like the place where the patterns for shifting go?”
“Exactly so.” Ilya arched a coppery eyebrow. “He never showed you your center? No wonder you couldn’t master it.” He rose and beckoned to Tristin. “Having the shifting patterns as a template will help. Come, then. If you are serious about getting started, let us retire to a more comfortable spot. Your sitting room, I think, since I’d like you to feel as safe and relaxed as possible.”
The tiniest glimmer of hope kindled in the dark recesses of Tristin’s mind. If shielding was anything like shifting, perhaps he could master it, after all. Curious, Tristin got to his feet and followed the Wytch Master.
* * *
Despite the lingering aches and pains from his practice bout with Rhu, Mikhyal chose to make the journey to Altan on horseback. The alternative was to spend day after day shut up in the carriage with his mother and her ladies, forced to endure endless rounds of interrogation regarding his own marriage prospects.
