Dragonwatch

by Jaye McKenna

  “Oh, well… I’ve been practicing,” Tristin said.

  “Practicing what?” Mikhyal gave him a sly smile. “Dancing, by chance?”

  “Oh…” Tristin’s cheeks turned pink. “Um. I… well, you see, Mordax didn’t teach me properly… I mean, he tried to, or at least, he pretended to try, but he might not have actually wanted me to master it, and I always thought I was hopeless because I couldn’t even walk across the floor of the keep at Falkrag without going into fits. And then Mordax gave up on me, and Uncle sent me to Shadowspire, and I spent fifteen years there with no one to talk to except my hallucinations.”

  Mikhyal frowned, struggling to follow what Tristin was trying to tell him. “You’re not talking about dancing at all. You… you’re talking about mastering your Wytch power, aren’t you?”

  Tristin blinked. “Yes. That’s what I just said.”

  “That would explain why you’re here at Dragonwatch, then.”

  “Well, yes. Sort of. Mordax and Faah actually brought me here with Prince Jaire after they kidnapped him… they were planning to exchange Jaire’s life for Garrik’s agreement to step down in my favor. The way they spoke of it, the plan was approved by the Wytch Council.”

  “Garrik told us of their plot to put you on the throne, though he didn’t go into any details regarding your history, other than to say you would have been the Council’s puppet.”

  “That… that’s correct.” Tristin swallowed hard and stared down at the table. “I was… I was addicted to the drug Mordax was giving me to stop me from feeling the empathic resonances in everything I touched. It… it was supposed to be a temporary measure, just until he could teach me, but I proved to be a hopeless student, and by the time he gave up on me, I was addicted. That’s the other reason I’m here. The school is new.”

  At Mikhyal’s blank look, he added, “There haven’t been enough people living here for long enough for the floors and the furnishings to have absorbed much in the way of empathic impressions. The watchtower, on the other hand…” Tristin trailed off, shuddering. “That place is awful. The very stones are steeped in pain and violence, bloodlust and fear. I get swept away in the memories of those who fought and died in that place. I lose my grip on the moment, and… well, it’s… it’s not good. And the courtyard isn’t much better. Though I have found if I kneel or stand upon a thick chunk of wood, it blocks out enough of the resonances that I can work in the herb garden. Or… or on my new flower bed.”

  Mikhyal stared at him as he tried to fit all the pieces together. “You were kept in isolation all that time? Fifteen years, you said?”

  “Ai,” Tristin nodded.

  “And you’ve not yet mastered your power?”

  “Um. I’m… that is, I… well, I’ve had some small successes. Recently. I’ve at least managed to weave the most basic shielding pattern Master Ilya knows. I… I’m not sure it will be enough, though.”

  “Enough?” Mikhyal’s eyes widened as Tristin’s meaning slowly dawned on him. “Oh… you mean enough to allow you to… Oh, Tristin, why didn’t you say? I’d never have asked you to come to the betrothal ceremony if I’d realized. I’m sorry. You don’t have to come — of course you don’t.”

  Tristin’s face fell. “But… I thought… I thought you wanted to… to dance with me. Oh, but… right. I’m a bastard, you’re a prince… no point in even thinking about it, is there? I mean, you’re not free to marry where you will, and I’m too much of a mess for anyone to want to bother with, aren’t I? I mean, look at me! I can’t even—”

  “Tristin.” Mikhyal reached across the table and laid a finger against Tristin’s lips to stop the flow of words. “I do want to dance with you.” He took Tristin’s hand in his own, ignoring Dirit, whose beady black eyes were fixed upon him with avid interest. “I’d like to dance with you very much. My only concern is that setting foot in the castle might be distressing for you, and I would hate to think I was to blame for causing you pain of any sort.”

  Tristin glanced down at their joined hands and then back up at Mikhyal. “I… I’d like to try,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve been practicing, and I think, by the day of the ceremony, I might be able to manage it.”

  Mikhyal was about to protest, but upon seeing the hope and determination in Tristin’s eyes, decided against it. Instead, he squeezed Tristin’s hand and said, “Then I will look forward to seeing you there. And if you are unable to come for any reason, I will come to you here, as soon as I am able. We will have that dance, even if the only music is the whisper of the wind through the fir trees.” Keeping his eyes on Tristin’s, he lifted Tristin’s hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

  Tristin’s eyes went wide, and his fingers trembled in Mikhyal’s hand, but he didn’t let go.

  * * *

  Tristin couldn’t believe Mikhyal still wanted to dance with him, even after he’d heard the truth about his past, his captivity and his addiction, and the fact that even now, he struggled to control the Wytch power that had taken so much from him.

  When Mikhyal kissed his hand, it was all Tristin could do not to pull it away. He clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together to hold back the tide of nonsense that would pour forth if he dared allow himself to speak.

  He was saved from having to make a response by the dining hall door opening. Mikhyal turned to see who had come in, and Tristin took the opportunity to snatch his hand back, cheeks coloring as he glanced up to see a man who could only be the Wytch King, watching him from the doorway, a slight smile curving his lips.

  Wytch King Garrik looked nothing like his brother. Where Jaire was slender and delicate, Garrik was tall and powerfully built. Where Jaire was pale, Garrik was dark, having the black hair and black eyes that so often appeared in the royal lines of the northern kingdoms.

  “Well, he doesn’t look at all kingly, does he?” Dirit chirped, slithering across the table and climbing up Mikhyal’s shoulder to observe.

  Tristin had been far too awed to pay attention, but now that Dirit mentioned it, the Wytch King did look a bit shabby. His feet were bare, his long black hair unbound, and Tristin was certain he’d seen Kian wearing the same shirt only a few days ago.

  “Good morning, Cousin.” Garrik’s smile broadened as he approached the table. “You’re looking much better. I apologize for not finding the time to come and see you before now. With all the guests here for Jaire’s betrothal ceremony, I’ve had very little time for anything else.”

  Tristin rose and bowed low to his cousin. “Your Majesty. I… I appreciate your concern, though I can’t imagine why you’d want me anywhere near you or your family, given who my father was and what he—”

  “Enough.” Garrik didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was implacable, and that one word was all it took to make Tristin snap his mouth shut. “Your father’s sins do not reflect upon you, Tristin. From what I’ve been told, you never even met the man.”

  “That… that’s true. Your Majesty is most—”

  “And you can dispense with the honorifics. You are my cousin, and you will call me Garrik. Unless I’m being particularly beastly, in which case that pain in the arse warming the throne will do nicely.”

  “I… ah…”

  Dirit chuckled. “I think I approve of this cousin of yours, Tristin. He’s a breath of fresh air compared to most of the royal windbags of my acquaintance.”

  Tristin cringed for a moment, before recalling that Mikhyal had mentioned that Garrik couldn’t see or hear Dirit. He glanced at Mikhyal, whose mouth twitched as he struggled not to laugh.

  The kitchen door opened, and Alys appeared, carrying a tray. She set it down on the sideboard and bobbed a quick curtsy to Garrik before setting two platters piled high with flat cakes on the table. Pots of jam, cream, butter, and honey followed, and then Alys retreated to the kitchen.

  “Ah, flat cakes,” Garrik said, taking a large helping. “Jaire’s favorite. He’ll be sorry he missed this, but he had an early
appointment with the head seamstress. You should have heard the whining. You’d think she was dragging him down to the dungeons for an interrogation.”

  Tristin smiled. “Would this be the infamous Mistress Nadhya?”

  “Ai, it would. He’s been whining at you, too, has he?”

  “Not whining so much as suggesting she might have been in charge of the dungeons in a former life.”

  Garrik laughed. “He’s said as much to me on several occasions. Poor Mistress Nadhya is getting a completely undeserved reputation.”

  Tristin smothered butter and honey over his flat cakes and took a forkful. Alys’s flat cakes were crisp and light, and Tristin closed his eyes as he savored the texture. Food was so much more interesting now that his senses were no longer dulled by the drug.

  “Ilya seems very pleased with your progress,” Garrik said.

  Tristin opened his eyes to focus on his cousin. “I… well, I still have a long way to go,” he said slowly, “though I did have a minor success in my lessons the last time Ilya was here.”

  “Excellent. We’ll have you down at the castle in no time. I’ve had a suite prepared especially for you.”

  “I… you have?” Tristin wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “Ai, it was Jaire’s idea. The work was just finished yesterday. I inspected it myself, and I believe all is in order. You are welcome to move in whenever you feel ready.”

  Tristin couldn’t help his smile. He was used to being a nuisance; no one had ever put themselves out to make him feel welcome, and he found himself liking his cousin very much. “Thank you, Your… I mean, Garrik. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. I… I’m not certain how long it will be.” He cast a furtive glance at Mikhyal. “I’ve reason to hope it won’t be long at all. Prince Jaire invited me to his betrothal ceremony, and I’d very much like to go, if I’m able.”

  Garrik looked pleased. “We’d be happy to see you there, if you can manage it. I look forward to you joining the rest of the family at the castle. Not until you are ready, though. Please don’t push yourself. We all understand that these things take time. The Dragon Mother knows, it took me long enough to master my own power. I wish we’d had someone like Vayne around then… although, I suppose if I hadn’t needed training, I’d never have met Ilya, so I can hardly wish that, can I?”

  After breakfast, Garrik excused himself, saying he’d wait for Mikhyal in the courtyard. When he’d gone, Mikhyal rose. “I shouldn’t keep him waiting. We do have a busy day ahead. Probably a lot of busy days. I… don’t know when I’ll be able to come and see you again.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Tristin got slowly to his feet. “You attend to your duties, and I shall do my best to come to you. I intend to dance with you at the betrothal ceremony.”

  As they walked down the hall, Mikhyal caught Tristin’s hand in his own. Mikhyal’s hand was warm, and it felt nice the way it encircled his own and squeezed just a little. No one had ever held his hand before, unless it was to drag him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

  Outside, Garrik was waiting, already shifted into a great orange-gold dragon. Garrik let out an impatient snort and stamped one foot as Kian set the saddle on his back and began fastening the straps.

  Mikhyal turned to face Tristin. “Take care of yourself, Tristin. And don’t forget — you owe me a dance. If you cannot come to the castle to claim it, then I shall come to you.” And with that, Prince Mikhyal leaned forward very slowly, giving Tristin every opportunity to pull away.

  Tristin’s heart nearly stopped, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Mikhyal’s lips brushed against his own, warm and soft. It was Tristin’s first kiss, and it was over much too quickly. All too soon, Mikhyal was giving his hand one last squeeze. He let go, fingers slipping away from Tristin’s, and turned toward the waiting Wytch King.

  When Mikhyal was safely secured, Garrik took to the air. As he watched them disappear down the side of the mountain, Tristin pressed his fingers to his lips, imagining he could still feel the lingering warmth of Mikhyal’s kiss.

  * * *

  “Very good,” Ilya said when Tristin had woven yet another new shielding pattern flawlessly on the first try. “You’re much more focused tonight than you have been.”

  Tristin, who had thought of little other than Mikhyal’s kiss all day, found it difficult to believe Ilya thought he was focused. He blushed and said quietly, “It helps to have a goal, something I want very much, to work toward.”

  “It does, indeed,” Ilya said with a tiny smile. “What do you want badly enough to make such a difference, if I might ask?”

  Tristin flushed and turned his face to the window, letting the gentle evening breeze cool his flaming cheeks.

  “You don’t have to say, if you’d rather not.”

  “Ah. Well. I… um.” Tristin risked a glance at the Wytch Master, but Ilya didn’t look at all annoyed with him. Could he tell Ilya about Mikhyal asking him for a dance? No… perhaps not. The last thing he wanted was to follow in his father’s footsteps by putting himself at the heart of a scandal.

  He settled for telling only part of the truth. “Cousin Garrik was here this morning. He said I might move down to the castle when I’m ready. He’s had a suite prepared for me, and… well… I thought… that is, considering that my father murdered Garrik’s father, and… and my uncle kidnapped his brother… it’s not at all the reception I was expecting. I’d not have thought he’d want me anywhere near himself or his family, and yet… he welcomed me this morning, and told me he was looking forward to seeing me at the castle. I… I’m not used to that. People wanting me near, I mean. All my life, I’ve been a nuisance and an embarrassment, something to be shut away and not spoken of, except in whispers. I’m finding it rather refreshing to be given a chance. Although…” Tristin stared down at the table. “I expect it won’t be long before I ruin it all by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Ilya said gently. “Garrik’s never been one for formality or ceremony. And family is very important to him. You won’t drive him off that easily. Wait until you see the suite he’s prepared for you.”

  “How long do you think it will be before I’m ready?”

  Ilya regarded him soberly. “That, I cannot say. It will depend on how much of the emotional resonance the shielding patterns block out. That will depend both on your sensitivity and on the strength of the resonances in each separate item you might be exposed to. It is something you will not know for certain until you try.”

  Tristin’s heart skipped a beat, and he sat up a little straighter. “Could we try? Now, I mean? I could go to the watchtower.”

  “You could, though I would caution you against doing so this soon.”

  “Why?”

  “If the shielding patterns I’ve taught you thus far don’t prove sufficient to protect you, it may shake your confidence badly. You’ve made tremendous progress today, and I would hate to see you set back simply because you lacked patience.”

  “On the other hand,” Tristin countered, “a successful trial today could give me a great deal more confidence. And I honestly don’t think a failure would set me back too far. In fact, I think, now that I’m starting to understand how the patterns work, it would only make me even more determined.”

  Ilya looked as if he were debating with himself, but he finally nodded slowly and said, “Against my better judgment, then. Come. We might as well try it now.”

  “Really? Now?”

  “I’ve come to know you well enough to realize that if I don’t capitulate, you’ll simply wait until I’ve gone and try it by yourself. And given what a difficult time you had last time… Well. Since you insist on doing this experiment, I would prefer you at least do it in my presence.”

  Tristin waited, bristling with impatience, while Ilya lit a lantern. Once outside, Tristin had to force himself to keep to Ilya’s shorter strides.

  At the base
of the tower, Ilya opened the door for him. “Whenever you are ready, Tristin. Take your time.”

  Tristin already had the most complex of the shielding patterns he’d learned in place. He stared at the barely-illuminated stone stairs, then steeled himself and stepped into the tower.

  He was ready for the same things that had assaulted his senses the last time — visions of terrified men in torn bloody clothing fleeing down the stairs, great gouts of fire chasing them — but this time, he sensed only a whisper of fear. Tristin examined his shielding pattern and noted a spot where the shape of it wasn’t quite right. He drew on the light at his center and adjusted the pattern the way Ilya had shown him.

  The fear trickled away, leaving him alone in his head and in complete control of his emotions. His heart beat faster as he took his first tentative steps toward the stairs.

  “How do you feel?” Ilya asked, his voice coming from right behind Tristin.

  “The shielding pattern seems to be holding,” Tristin said, not even trying to disguise his joy. “I didn’t have it quite right to begin with, but I didn’t panic. I made an adjustment, like you taught me, and now I feel none of the violence or the terror that swept me away before.”

  “That’s very encouraging,” Ilya said. “Shall we try the stairs? I will be right behind you.”

  Tristin turned to eye the smaller man. “That’s not much comfort, Ilya. We’d both end up at the bottom of the stairs, if I should take a tumble.”

  “You underestimate the speed at which I can shift,” Ilya said mildly.

  “Ah. Well then, let us proceed.” Tristin stepped onto the first stair and waited, taking careful stock of his senses to make certain he felt nothing of the violence of battles past.

  When there were no flames, no screams, no sword thrusts coming from all sides, he dared another step, and then another. Soon, he had reached the top of the stairs. Giving Ilya a triumphant grin, he strode to the center of the tower’s roof and spread his arms wide. “I’ve done it!” he exclaimed. “No one ever thought I could, but I have!”