by Jaye McKenna
The shadows cast by the swinging lantern danced across Ilya’s face, but Tristin could see his teacher’s smile, almost as broad as his own. “Very well done, Tristin. Very well done! This is certainly cause for celebration.”
“Might we celebrate at the castle?”
Ilya’s smile faded a little. “We might, only you may still find that some things — and some places — will leak through the shielding pattern. There are still more patterns for you to learn, so even if you do move down to the castle, our lessons will continue.”
“Tomorrow?” Tristin asked eagerly. “Might I go tomorrow? And… might I… might I shift? And go myself?”
Ilya’s smile widened again. “You may, indeed. You have kept your word most admirably, and I think you have recovered sufficiently that I need not worry about you hiding in dragon form, ai?”
“No, you needn’t worry,” Tristin said softly. “I’ve reason to be much more interested in my human form at the moment.”
Ilya gave him an appraising look, then clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Let us go down and fetch Kian and Ambris for a celebratory drink. I’ve a bottle of excellent wine in my suite that I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I cannot think of a better use for it.”
Tristin smiled and followed the Wytch Master down the tower steps.
* * *
Tristin was up with the sun the next morning. He had very little to pack. A few changes of clothing and the book Jaire had given him were the only possessions he’d managed to accumulate during the weeks he’d spent at Dragonwatch. He stuffed his things into a leather pack Ilya had found for him, and went to join Alys, Kian, and Ambris for breakfast.
“I hear it’s a big day today.” Ambris piled eggs and sausages onto his plate while Tristin dug into the fried onions and potatoes.
“Ai,” Tristin said, giving him a bright smile. “Ilya says I might move down to the castle today.”
“Good for you, m’lord,” Alys said, bobbing her head. “You’ve worked hard for it.”
“Thank you, Alys.” Tristin’s cheeks heated only a little as he smiled at her.
“He spoke to me about it last night,” Kian said, “and asked me to escort you down after breakfast. You’ll need someone to show you around. It’s a bit of a maze until you get used to it.”
“What of you, Ambris?” Tristin asked, recalling the breakfast conversation of a few days ago. “Will you be coming with us?”
But Ambris set his fork down and shook his head. “I dare not,” he said softly, eyes darting briefly to his husband’s face. “Though Kian thinks I ought.”
“You needn’t worry, Ambris.” Kian reached across the table for Ambris’s hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t bring it up again. What you do about your father is entirely up to you.”
“Thank you.” Ambris squeezed Kian’s hand and smiled up at him, then turned back to Tristin and continued, “I’ll be staying here until after the ceremony. Kian’s promised Jaire he’ll be there.”
“Then I shall make a point of coming to see you when I’ve time,” Tristin said.
“I’d like that,” Ambris said. “And you’re very welcome to come and visit us in Aeyr’s Grove whenever you like, once we’ve gone back there.”
“That’s very kind of you.” The words nearly clogged behind the lump in Tristin’s throat. No one had ever invited him anywhere before, and he was deeply touched that Ambris and Kian would even think to ask him to come and see them in their home. “I’ll come for a visit as soon as I’m able.”
“Which might not be as soon as you think,” Kian said. “If I know Garrik, he’s already got something in mind for you to do.”
“Really?” Tristin frowned. He hadn’t given much thought to how he might spend his days at the castle. “What sort of something?”
“I’ve no idea,” Kian said, “but you can be sure he won’t allow you to sit idle.”
“I hope he doesn’t mean for me to attend Court,” Tristin murmured. “I shouldn’t like that at all.”
“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Ambris said, giving him a secretive smile.
After breakfast, Tristin stood beside Kian in the sun-drenched courtyard and shifted into dragon form. Kian had offered to carry his pack for him, so Tristin launched himself into the air completely unfettered, a cry of joy cutting through the cool mountain air as he climbed higher and higher.
A hard blink lowered his inner eyelids, allowing him to see the air currents in all the shades of the rainbow. He caught an orange updraft and climbed higher, then spiraled halfway down the mountain on a river of indigo. By the time he was finished playing, Kian had reached the castle and was circling the north tower, apparently in no hurry.
Not wanting to keep him waiting, Tristin shot the rest of the way down the mountain. A dark-haired figure tall enough that it could only be Garrik, awaited them on top of the tower. Tristin landed gracefully beside Kian, who shifted immediately and grinned at the waiting Wytch King. Kian quickly went to a small chest near the wall and extracted two cloaks. He swept one over his own broad shoulders, brought the other to Tristin, then tactfully positioned himself between Tristin and Garrik.
Tristin shifted and quickly covered himself. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“Are you all right?” Kian asked in a voice low enough that only Tristin could hear. “Is your shielding holding up?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Only… it’s a bit intimidating, being surrounded by all these terribly fit men, and here’s me, looking like an underfed chicken.”
“You’re looking much healthier than when you first came here,” Kian told him gently. “And you are still recovering. I expect you’ll put on weight right quick if you’re eating at Garrik’s table. Melli is a wonderful cook. She’s the one who taught Alys, you know.”
“I shall look forward to my next meal, then.”
“Good morning, Tristin,” Garrik said, striding toward them. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
Kian stepped aside. “No, I was just giving Tristin some final instructions from his healers. He’s to eat well and put some more weight on.”
“I’ll be sure to let Melli know,” Garrik said, eyes twinkling. “She’ll enjoy fattening you up, Cousin, and will consider it a personal challenge. You’re in for a treat.”
“S-so I’ve heard, Your — I mean, G-Garrik.” Tristin flushed, feeling at a distinct disadvantage standing before his very important cousin wearing only a cloak.
“If that’s all, Your Majesty, I’ll be heading back up to Dragonwatch,” Kian said. “Ilya’s said he’ll be taking charge of Tristin’s recovery while he’s here, but tell him to send for me if he needs me. You’ve enough shifters at the castle now that you ought to be able to spare someone for the few minutes it takes to get up the mountain and back.”
“Ai, our dragon army is slowly growing, though I fear between the transformations and the preparations for the betrothal, we’re running poor Vayne quite ragged.”
“I suspect he’s enjoying himself immensely,” Kian said. “It must be a nice change to be busy after sitting idle for over two centuries.” He shuddered as he removed his cloak and handed it to Garrik. “I can’t even imagine it.” Kian strode to the center of the tower, shifted, and was airborne within seconds.
Tristin watched Kian wing his way up the mountain before turning to his cousin. “Dragon army?”
“Indeed.” Garrik’s smile was grim. “I’m in the process of uniting the northern kingdoms. We plan to challenge the Wytch Council and put an end to the sorts of practices that saw my family torn apart, you locked up in Shadowspire, and poor Ambris tortured at Blackfrost.”
Tristin swallowed, stunned both at the enormity of such a task and at the lack of concern with which his cousin spoke of defying the Council. “Do you… do you really think you can win a war against the Council?”
“Not a protracted struggle, we can’t. Not unless we can bring s
ome of the kingdoms of the south around to our way of thinking, which is doubtful. But I believe if we do enough damage in a short enough period of time, the Council could be persuaded to see the wisdom of allowing the kingdoms of the north to break with the rest of Skanda.”
“I would join in the fight,” Tristin said softly. “Let me swear fealty to you.”
Garrik’s dark eyes met his, and the king searched his face for a good, long time before nodding once. “You may do so at the betrothal ceremony, when I announce the formation of the Northern Alliance. It will give me a chance to introduce you to the nobility and to our allies. Although” —the smile he gave Tristin turned wicked— “you seem to be on quite good terms with Rhiva already. Or at least, with its prince.”
Tristin flushed and bent to pick up his pack, mind flailing for a suitable response. Before he could come up with anything, Garrik changed the subject. “Would you be more comfortable changing here? I can wait for you just inside the door, if you’d rather not go parading through the castle in nothing but a cloak.”
“Ah… yes, that’s very kind, thank you,” Tristin said, blushing even more furiously. “I think I would be more… comfortable.”
Garrik dropped Kian’s cloak into the chest and slipped inside without another word, leaving Tristin to pull on the breeches, shirt, and boots he’d packed for himself. When he was dressed, he went through the door. Garrik stood on the landing just inside, waiting to lead him down the tower stairs.
In spite of feeling nothing from the tower, Tristin was braced for an onslaught of emotional resonance. To his surprise, nothing penetrated the protective shield he’d woven around his mind. He was doing well indeed, given that the worn steps leading down from the top of the tower had to be significantly older than those of Dragonwatch.
As they descended, Garrik explained that the north tower was located near the royal apartments, and let out into the private family wing of the castle.
“Let me show you to your suite first,” Garrik said as he led Tristin down the hall. “And then I’ll be putting you to work.”
“Work?” Tristin echoed, a little uneasily.
“Don’t look so frightened. I’ve already discussed it with your healers. I won’t be making you do anything too strenuous.”
“Oh… um. That’s… well.” Tristin wasn’t sure what to say to that. He only hoped Garrik didn’t intend for him to be put on display for the entire Court.
His fears were forgotten the moment Garrik opened the door to the suite he’d had prepared. “Here you are, Cousin. Your home for as long as you’d like to stay here with us. And whenever you wish to visit, should you eventually choose to make your home elsewhere.”
Tristin walked in and stopped dead, eyes wide as he took in the sumptuous surroundings. Everything looked new, from the polished wooden floor to the blue velvet curtains to the furniture. Tristin had never had such luxury before — he’d never been able to bear the touch of anything that might have been owned by someone else.
“It’s all been newly done, just for you,” Garrik said. “When Ilya told me how much trouble you’ve had with emotional resonances and such, I had the suite gutted. The floors are several inches thick, made of new wood. Same with the wall panels. And the furniture is all new as well, as are the linens and curtains. I wasn’t sure what you’d want for decorations, but if you think of anything you’d like, there are plenty of craftsmen down in the town who would be very happy to make whatever you desire, on my order.”
“Garrik, this is…” Tristin took a few tentative steps in and turned around slowly, admiring the view of the mountains — he could see the watchtower perched high above them from here — and the heavy draperies hanging at the windows. Everything looked fresh and clean. “You did all this… for me?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“I wanted you to have somewhere comfortable to stay,” Garrik said earnestly. “I hoped it might encourage you to make your home with us. Jaire and I have so little family. Of course it’s up to you. No one will ever force you to stay where you don’t want, not ever again. I just thought, perhaps…”
“Thank you,” Tristin breathed. “I… no one’s ever done anything like this for me before. I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say you’ll stay. At least until you decide what you want to do. I’d like a chance to get to know you. And I know Jaire would be happy to spend more time with you. He truly enjoys your company, and there aren’t many people I can say that about.”
“I… I’m honestly not sure where else I’d go. Thank you, Cousin. So very much.”
Tristin spent the next half hour or so exploring his rooms. Garrik followed along, pointing things out and explaining how things worked in the castle.
When the clock struck nine, Garrik said, “I’ve a meeting in half an hour. Let me give you a quick tour of the castle, so you know how to find the dining room and the library, and then I’ll take you to see Master Ludin.”
“Oh, yes!” Tristin exclaimed. “I’ve been hoping to talk to him.”
“Ambris mentioned how much you enjoyed working in the garden at Dragonwatch. I think you and Master Ludin will get along very well, indeed. I’ve told him about you, and he said if you’re interested, he’d be glad of your help redesigning some of the gardens here at the castle.”
Tristin smiled happily as he used the key to lock the door of his very own suite. A home of his own, a family that wanted him, and a chance to work in the royal gardens… he could only think of one thing that would make things better: a dance with Prince Mikhyal of Rhiva.
* * *
“That’s the last of it, then,” Garrik said, leaning back and meeting the eyes of each man around the table in turn. “Gentlemen, I think we have an agreement we can all live with.”
The Wytch Kings of the north all looked very pleased with themselves as they got to their feet for a round of congratulatory forearm clasps.
Dirit, curled up on the table next to Mikhyal’s elbow, raised his head and blinked blearily. “Did I miss something?” He peered about, whiskers drooping at the sight of the jovial group. “Oh… they’ve managed to come to a peaceful agreement, have they? How disappointing. I was hoping for a bit of bloodshed over the bargaining table. Your descendants would surely appreciate the extra effort; makes for much more interesting history lessons.”
“Bloodshed will come soon enough, I fear,” Mikhyal murmured, getting to his feet as Wytch King Edrun of Miraen turned to clasp his arm and clap him on the back. Dirit ran up his other arm and perched upon his shoulder.
While Dirit might be surprised at the efficiency and civility of the negotiations, Mikhyal was not. The Wytch Kings of the north had long chafed under the dictates of the Wytch Council. The main objection to uniting and declaring their independence had always been that the south had far more military power than the north could ever hope to muster. Until now, any rebellion they might contemplate would eventually be crushed by the sheer numbers against them, and would ultimately only hurt the very people it sought to protect.
With Vayne’s ability to confer the gift of the Dragon Mother upon anyone who could touch the mythe, the balance of power had shifted enough that the kings of the north were, if not eager for war, at least willing to entertain the notion. Indeed, Prince Bradin of Miraen had already announced his intention to undergo the transformation.
At the far end of the table, Master Ristan, who served as Altan’s historian, scribe, and librarian, gathered up his notes and said to Garrik, “I shall have the documents ready for signing by midday tomorrow, Your Majesty.”
“Very good, Master Ristan,” Garrik said. “Thank you.”
Master Ristan executed a precise formal bow and left the library.
When he was gone, Garrik addressed the group. “It is late, and I have kept you all from your beds for long enough. I appreciate your willingness to work around the preparations for the betrothal celebrations, and I am most pleased that we’ve managed to come to an agreement
that suits us all.”
As the group drifted apart, Mikhyal said to Drannik, “You see, Father? Prince Bradin has already volunteered.”
“Prince Bradin is not Edrun’s heir,” Drannik responded.
“Technically, I’m not yours, yet,” Mikhyal countered.
“Ai, but you will be, and I’ll not have you risking yourself on an unproven procedure that could well kill you. Just because nothing has gone wrong yet doesn’t mean nothing can.”
Across the library, Mikhyal caught Vayne’s eye and waved him over. “Perhaps a few words with Prince Vayne will set your mind at ease,” he said, smiling broadly at Vayne as he approached. “Vayne, I am most interested in hearing more about this transformation procedure you’ve developed, but I fear my father might take some convincing.”
Vayne turned to Drannik. “What is it about the transformation that concerns you, Your Majesty?”
Drannik shot a withering glare at Mikhyal before answering. “The risk, mainly. I have no other heir. None I’m willing to see on the throne after me, anyway.”
“I understand your concern,” Vayne said smoothly. “I can assure you that working closely with a healer eliminates the risk of mythe-shock. Perhaps a word with Ambris, the healer I’ve been working with, would set your mind at ease?”
“Perhaps,” Drannik said gruffly, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“I’ll make arrangements for you to meet with him before the ceremony,” Vayne said.
“Thank you, Vayne.” Drannik nodded politely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a word with Ord.”
When he’d gone, Mikhyal said, “I apologize for that. It seems if I wish to take advantage of what you offer, I must either fight him or defy him.”
“Perhaps once Prince Bradin has undergone the transformation, your father will be more open to the idea,” Vayne suggested.
“Ai, perhaps. I dared not say so to him, but I must admit to no small amount of trepidation regarding the procedure.”
