by Jaye McKenna
Mikhyal’s heart leapt at the thought. How much easier the job of a commander would be if he were to have a bird’s-eye view of the combat. He turned to look at his father, expecting eagerness to match his own, only to be met with a frown of consternation.
“Ooh…” Dirit chirped, picking his way across the table to sit in front of Mikhyal. “Heir to the throne. So my sacred task of preserving the line of Rhiva becomes much more important. It seems I chose my bond-mate wisely after all.”
“I see the same latent patterns in Wytch King Edrun and in Prince Bradin,” Vayne said quietly. “If any of you are interested, I could perform the transformation on you.”
“Imagine four dragon kings,” Jaire murmured. “The Council would be paralyzed.”
“Imagine four dragon kings leading an army of dragons,” Garrik said. “The Council and their Drachan soldiers would flee, tails between their legs, like the dogs they are.”
Around the table, the Wytch Kings nodded their agreement, their eyes alight with interest. Drannik clearly spoke for all of them when he said, “Bring forth these documents, Garrik. Let’s have a look at what you and Ord have worked out, and see if we can come to an agreement.”
“Yes, please get on with it,” Dirit said, crossing his front feet primly before him. “I do love a good rebellion.”
No one seemed the least bit surprised when Prince Jaire suddenly burst out laughing.
* * *
Drannik was quiet as he and Mikhyal made their way back to their suite to get ready for dinner. Once the door was shut behind them, he said, “Garrik has thought out this alliance extremely well.”
Indeed, every one of the concerns expressed by the gathered Wytch Kings had been answered to their satisfaction, almost as if every objection that could possibly be raised had been anticipated and prepared for. Each of the kings had been handed a copy of Garrik’s proposal to be looked over before they reconvened the following morning.
Mikhyal let out a barely audible sigh as his father spread the documents out over the suite’s dining table. The two of them would, no doubt, be combing over the papers into the wee hours of the morning. Bed, though it beckoned already, would have to wait.
“Master Ilya said you must rest,” Dirit whispered in his ear from his perch on Mikhyal’s shoulder.
“Not likely, tonight,” Mikhyal muttered under his breath. Though he was feeling better every day, he still tired easily. The mere thought of having to focus on the details of the alliance for half the night was enough to make him want to skip the formal dinner.
“Let me see if I can help,” Dirit said, and a moment later, a surge of energy tingled through Mikhyal. His mind sharpened, and he suddenly felt as rested as if he’d just woken from a full night’s sleep.
“What did you… was that you?” he asked the dragon.
Dirit looked very pleased with himself. “One of my many talents. No thanks necessary. Of course, you cannot survive on mythe-energy alone — you do actually need real sleep — but a bit of help now and then will not harm you, and this should be enough to get you through the evening.”
Drannik looked up from the papers he was perusing. “Did you say something, Mikhyal?”
“No, Father, I was just talking to Dirit.”
“A dragon army,” Drannik said. “Imagine. That was not at all what I expected to hear when Garrik sent Ilya to invite us to negotiations.”
“Nor I. It sounds like exactly the advantage we need.” Mikhyal went to the window and stared out. “Imagine that sky full of dragon warriors.”
“Ai.” Drannik set the papers down and came to join him. “A truly fearsome prospect.” His gaze became distant as it swept the sky.
“What did you think of Vayne’s offer to transform me?”
Drannik turned to face him. “I think it is worth our consideration,” he said slowly, as if he was carefully choosing each word. “But we must exercise caution. I would have to be reassured regarding the safety of the procedure. If we can make this alliance a reality, my choice of heir will no longer be bound by Council dictates. With the succession no longer an issue, there is no reason for us to rush into anything.”
“I disagree,” Mikhyal said. “I think there is every reason to move forward with it, and quickly. Think of the advantage it would give us in battle. I could survey my troops and the progress of the conflict from the air. We’d be able to see our enemy’s every move. They’d never be able to flank us. Not to mention how useful it would be in terms of sending messages and coordinating with our allies. Do not tell me it won’t come to that, Father. If Rhiva joins this alliance, there will be war.”
“I am aware.” Drannik’s smile was grim. “Believe me, I’ve studied enough military strategy to see the advantages. I’m certain we won’t be short of volunteers for the transformation. I’m just not convinced that you should be one of them.” He returned to the table where he began shuffling through the papers again, apparently considering the matter closed.
Mikhyal scanned the sky once more and imagined himself gliding through the air, an entire unit of dragon warriors at his back.
“You’re not giving up that easily, are you?” Dirit whispered in his ear.
“You would have me ask my men to submit to a procedure that I, their commander, will not risk?” Mikhyal said softly. “That is not the way to maintain the loyalty and trust I have striven to build over the years.”
Drannik looked up from his papers. “It is the risk to you that concerns me. Vayne sounds confident that the procedure is safe, but he admits he’s only performed it on a handful of people, and he cannot see all eventual outcomes. If you do not survive the process, what then? I will be left with Shaine as my heir, and we both know where that will lead.”
“I’ve never understood why you’ve always been so opposed to Shaine taking the throne. Up until the accident, it was my belief that with the right guidance, Shaine could make a fine king. And yet you have been dead set against the idea ever since the Council confirmed him as your heir. What, exactly, are your objections?”
“You know my objections. They are the same as yours: he has become the Council’s creature.”
“That’s a recent development,” Mikhyal pointed out. “What were your objections before the accident?”
Drannik’s dark brows drew together. “You were always my first choice. You know that.”
“There is more to it than that, is there not?” Mikhyal pressed. “The rumors—”
“Are true,” Drannik said flatly. “As I’m sure you’ve already gathered. Shaine is not mine. Had he been mine, I would have been far less resistant to the idea of accepting him as my heir. As it is, whenever I look at him, all I see is the end of my line.” The bitterness in his father’s voice was enough to take Mikhyal’s breath away.
“Does Shaine know?” Mikhyal asked quietly.
Drannik spread his hands and shook his head. “Not from me, but I’ve no idea what your mother has told him.” He stared down at the documents, but Mikhyal guessed he wasn’t seeing the carefully formed letters inked on the parchment.
The silence stretched between them until finally, Mikhyal said, “We had best prepare ourselves for dinner. Think upon what I’ve said. We have time to come to a decision, but do not close the door on Vayne’s offer. It could be crucial to our success.” Dirit, still perched upon Mikhyal’s shoulder, was, for once, mercifully silent.
Chapter Five
The mountain air rushed by, crisp and cold. Mikhyal pulled the fur-lined cloak more tightly about his shoulders, thankful he’d taken Prince Jaire up on his offer to loan it to him for his ride to Dragonwatch. Garrik’s muscles shifted and bunched beneath him as the dragon’s powerful wings lifted them higher, and the air grew colder as they glided up the mountain.
Unbeknownst to the Wytch King, Dirit rode upon his head, standing on his hind legs, front feet wrapped around the dragon’s horns, whiskers trailing behind him in the strong wind.
Mikhyal’s heart w
as still pounding with a mixture of wild joy and sheer terror after Garrik’s leap from the top of Castle Altan’s north tower. For one heart-stopping moment, they’d plummeted into the valley below. Mikhyal had let out a most unmanly squawk, and from the shaking of the dragon’s ribs as he caught an updraft under his great wings, Mikhyal guessed Garrik found his reaction amusing.
Early that morning, the Wytch King had sent word to Mikhyal that he was heading to Dragonwatch for breakfast, and Mikhyal was welcome to join him if he would like. The tone of the note had been most formal and correct, but Mikhyal had to wonder why he’d been invited.
It had been well over a week since he’d seen Tristin… was it possible Tristin had asked his cousin about seeing Mikhyal? His heart leapt at the thought, and he had to remind himself that there had been nothing in Garrik’s message to indicate anything of the sort.
The flight was over far too quickly, and Mikhyal found himself almost disappointed when Garrik landed in Dragonwatch’s courtyard.
Ambris was waiting near the door, and came forward immediately. “Good morning, Your Highness.” The healer reached up to unbuckle the safety straps holding Mikhyal securely in place. “I trust you had a good flight?”
Mikhyal couldn’t stop grinning as he slid down to the ground. “Absolutely amazing! Though I must say, that initial headlong dive off the north tower was enough to make me thankful for the harness. It was a good thing I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.”
The Wytch King snorted, a sound that was suspiciously close to laughter.
“I certainly found it entertaining,” Dirit chirped, picking his way down Garrik’s neck. “Your squeal of terror as we took to the air was particularly endearing, Your Royal Anxiousness.”
Mikhyal gritted his teeth and refrained from comment.
“Yes, I’m afraid our Wytch King does seem to enjoy frightening the life out of his passengers.” Ambris removed his own cloak and laying it across one of the stone benches. “Until someone’s sick all over him. Then it’s not nearly so amusing, you understand.”
Dirit chuckled as he hopped down to the ground and scampered toward the front door, fading from sight halfway there.
“There’s a cloak for you on the bench, Your Majesty,” Ambris said. “I don’t see any saddlebags, so I’ll assume you couldn’t be bothered to bring any clothing for yourself. If you’d like to stop by our suite, you can borrow something of Kian’s, just so you don’t frighten poor Alys. Give me a moment to get this saddle off you and… oh… well. If you’re in that much of a hurry, I shan’t bother.”
Mikhyal turned to see the Wytch King in his human form, untangling himself from the straps, apparently unconcerned about his lack of clothing.
“You can accompany me to your suite Ambris,” Garrik said to the healer, who reached for the cloak and settled it over the king’s shoulders. “Mikhyal and I have a meeting to attend later this morning, so we’ll be leaving shortly after breakfast, but I wanted to have a word with you alone.”
“Very well,” Ambris said. “Mikhyal, if you’d like to go on to the dining room, I believe you’ll find Tristin there. We’ll join you once Garrik is presentable.” He eyed the Wytch King critically, and added, “Or, if not presentable, at least clothed.”
Garrik’s black eyes glittered, and he barked out a laugh. “I’ll have you know Ilya finds me quite presentable, especially unclothed.”
“Yes, I imagine he does,” Ambris said drily, “though I must admit, I’ve always found Ilya to be somewhat lacking in taste.”
Chuckling at their easy banter, Mikhyal followed them inside and headed toward Dragonwatch’s dining hall, which was hardly a hall. The school only boasted six suites, and accordingly, the dining hall contained two tables each surrounded by enough sturdy chairs to seat six.
Tristin was sitting at the table nearest the window, chatting with Dirit, who was perched on the back of the chair next to him. Alys was nowhere to be seen, though the clatter of dishes from behind the kitchen door suggested she’d be along presently.
The shy smile Tristin gave him as he approached made Mikhyal’s heart beat faster. Tristin looked almost well; he was still slender, but his face had lost that gaunt, haunted look, his dark eyes were bright, and his cheeks were no longer quite so pale.
“You’re looking much better, Mikhyal.” Tristin bit his lip, eyes darting down to the table and then briefly, back up to Mikhyal’s face.
“I was just thinking the same of you.” Mikhyal returned the smile and took the seat opposite him. “You look much brighter. Working in the garden seems to agree with you. I wish I had time to join you. And I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to come and see you before this. It must be at least a week since I was here last.”
“Ten days, actually,” Tristin muttered, then flushed, and Mikhyal hid a smile. He was counting the days? “But you’re doing important, kingly sorts of things,” Tristin added quickly. “Things that make a difference. You’re busy discussing treaties, determining the fates of entire kingdoms… and I’m just… sort of flailing about in the dirt.”
“Oh, don’t tell him he’s kingly,” Dirit said. “He’ll become bloated with self-importance.”
“I don’t think I’m in nearly so much danger of that as some others, who shall remain nameless,” Mikhyal said.
“What, Tristin?” Dirit inquired. “Never!”
Mikhyal didn’t bother to hide his smile this time. “I’ve not been so busy that I’ve forgotten about the dance you promised me. I’ve thought about it every day since I left Dragonwatch.”
“Ah. Well.” Tristin flushed even pinker. “I, um… about that… um… I mean, I was…” A faint frown puckered his brow. “Did you really? Think about dancing with me, I mean?”
From his perch on the back of the chair, Dirit heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you two are just too much. Any more sweetness, and I shall be ill. I’m off to see if Alys has anything nice for me.”
“Alys can’t even see you,” Tristin said, “so how are you going to ask her?”
Dirit gave him a toothy grin. “She most certainly can see me, if I choose to show myself to her. But I never said I was going to ask.” And with that, the little dragon trotted off.
“Finally, a bit of peace,” Mikhyal murmured.
“Been a bit of a trial, has he?” Tristin asked.
“You have no idea,” Mikhyal said. “The little monster rides about on my shoulder, commenting on everything. It’s all I can do not to answer, especially when I’m in meetings with the Wytch Kings and their advisors. My father and Garrik know about him, though neither of them can see him. I catch them watching me every so often. And Prince Jaire sometimes bursts out laughing at something Dirit’s said or done at the most inopportune moments. He says they’re all used to him talking to himself, so nobody thinks much of it. But me… well. I have to watch myself, or rumors will start flying.” He grimaced and added, “If they haven’t already.”
From the kitchen came a shriek and the sound of pottery shattering on the floor.
“Oh, dear,” Tristin said. “It sounds as if Alys has made Dirit’s acquaintance. I wonder if she needs any help.”
Mikhyal got to his feet, ready to lend assistance. Before he could take a step toward the kitchen, the door flew open, and Dirit skittered out, pastry clenched firmly in his little jaws. He was followed by a broom-wielding Alys. Nimbly dodging a blow from the broom, Dirit dove under the table and disappeared with his pastry.
Alys shot a baleful glare after him and lowered her broom before dropping a low curtsy. “Apologies, Your Highness, m’lord. The little devil frightened me.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mistress Alys,” Mikhyal said, trying his best to look contrite. “I… suppose Ilya mentioned him to you, did he?”
“Ai, he did. Said I might see him slinking about, and warned me of his penchant for blackberry tarts. Of course, that’s where I found him, lounging on the window sill, pretty as you please, devouring my fresh pastries before they were
even cool.”
“She threw a teacup at me.” Dirit’s plaintive voice came from under the table.
“Can you blame me?” Alys demanded. “I thought you were a rat. I’d have offered you a pastry, had you but asked.”
Loud eating noises followed. “Rat, indeed,” Dirit said, smacking his lips. “If it pleases you, madam, I did burn my tongue.”
“Serves you right,” Alys said. Her dark eyes settled on Mikhyal. “Rat or not, I’ll thank you to keep it out of my kitchen, Your Highness.”
Mikhyal dared not look at Tristin as he struggled to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. “I’ll speak to him, Mistress Alys,” he said gravely. “He won’t bother you again.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll be back shortly with your breakfast.”
As soon as her back was turned, Tristin shot him a dubious look. Dirit slunk out from under the table and clambered up on top of it. “A rat, am I?” he muttered, and proceeded to settle himself by Tristin’s elbow, where he made a show of licking his claws clean.
“Dirit, a little more caution, if you please,” Mikhyal said. “I’d rather not make your presence known to all and sundry. And for the sake of all of us, please leave Mistress Alys alone.”
“Blackberry tarts,” Dirit said, by way of explanation. “Fresh and hot, all flaky and steaming and delicious.”
Mikhyal rolled his eyes. “I can just see the history books now. A Scholarly Treatise on the Role of Blackberry Tarts in the Fall of the Prince of Rhiva.”
Dirit scowled, eyebrow tufts twitching. “Oh, very well, Your Royal Circumspectness. I suppose it will only cause trouble if I keep frightening the help. I shall limit my appearances to you and Tristin. And Prince Jaire, of course. He appreciates me, at least.”
With a heavy sigh, Mikhyal turned to Tristin. “Enough of Dirit. Tell me, what have you been up to while I’ve been stuck in endless alliance negotiations?”
