by Jaye McKenna
“You’ll do quite nicely. That really is a charming shade of pink. Lovely contrast with the shirt. Come along, then.”
Tristin could only stare at the dragon, speechless. It wasn’t until they’d crossed the Grand Hall and were entering the guest wing that he found his voice. “What if… what if he’s gone to sleep? It must be well after midnight by now.”
“A bit past two, actually,” Dirit informed him. “But he’s awake.”
“How do you know?”
Dirit’s ears flattened. “I can feel him. I’m attached to him, remember? Bonded. Cursed with constant awareness.”
Unable to think of anything else to do, Tristin followed the little dragon through the castle’s dimly lit hallways. The guardsmen posted at regular intervals said nothing, but Tristin hunched his shoulders, certain they were watching and judging. They probably thought he was off to some clandestine meeting of the most sordid kind, and he couldn’t help feeling conspicuous and rather overdressed. Face flaming, he trudged miserably down the hall after Dirit.
When they reached the door of the Rhiva party’s suite, Tristin stopped. “Surely the door will be locked,” he said in a low voice. “And I wouldn’t want to wake anyone. Perhaps it would be better to come back tomorrow.” He started to turn away, but Dirit took wing and flapped in his face.
“I will let you in. You have only to be patient for a moment and I shall unlock the door for you.” The dragon narrowed its gleaming black eyes. “If you run off, I shall make a terrible scene, and everyone will come running.”
“Y-you wouldn’t,” Tristin stammered, glancing up and down the hall to see if any of the guardsmen had noticed him talking to himself outside the door.
“Try and see,” Dirit invited.
“Oh, very well. But no good will come of it, I’m sure.”
Dirit disappeared through the door, and a moment later, it swung open. “You must come! We must get help!” The little dragon was twitching in agitation as he darted across the room to a dark shape on the floor.
Tristin’s heart stuttered as he stepped into the room and realized he was looking at a man. He lay face down on the floor, long black hair in disarray, the handle of a small throwing knife protruding from his back. “Mikhyal?” he whispered.
Tristin was in the room, kneeling at the man’s side before Dirit could say another word. He reached for the knife, intending to pull it free, but the moment his fingers closed on the handle, he was engulfed in a maelstrom of despair, hatred, and anger so hot and so strong it blotted out his awareness of everything else.
* * *
Dirit was right, damn him.
And if the little pest decided to stir things up, it was up to Mikhyal to make sure it didn’t cause some sort of diplomatic incident. Tristin might not call himself a prince, but it was quite clear that Wytch King Garrik thought highly of his cousin. Drannik wouldn’t thank him for upsetting his host or alienating his ally.
With a heavy sigh, Mikhyal rolled out of bed and hunted down his clothing. He’d just finished dressing when Dirit appeared, hovering in the air in front of him. “You must come! Your father! Tristin!”
“What? Where?”
Dirit flitted to the door. “Just outside your door! Did you not hear—”
Mikhyal grabbed the Wytch Sword and was out the door before Dirit could finish. The main room of the suite was only dimly lit, the lamps having been turned down low for the night. On the floor, Drannik lay face down, and next to him lay Tristin, a knife in his hand.
Both men lay very still.
Mikhyal checked his father first, while Dirit hopped up on Tristin’s chest. Drannik was unconscious, and from the tear in his clothing, the blade had penetrated a muscle high on his back. Mikhyal tore his father’s shirt open and examined the wound. It didn’t appear very deep, and there was very little blood. Such a wound wasn’t nearly enough to lay low a warrior as strong and fit as Wytch King Drannik.
Mikhyal couldn’t understand why his father wasn’t responding until he turned him over. Drannik’s face was pale, and his breathing far too shallow.
“Poison?” Mikhyal wondered, and turned his head to frown at Tristin and the knife lying next to his limp hand.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Dirit said quickly. “Tristin was coming to see you. I was accompanying him for moral support. When we arrived, the door was locked. I came in to open it and found your father lying here on the floor. Tristin rushed to his side and pulled the knife out before I could stop him, and… well… I suppose he fainted. He does seem to have a rather delicate constitution.”
“Go and fetch Master Ilya and Wytch King Garrik,” Mikhyal said. “Quickly!”
“What if someone’s lurking about waiting to catch you alone? What if—”
“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself,” Mikhyal said grimly.
“I’m sure that’s what your father thought, too,” Dirit pointed out.
Mikhyal shot him a scowl. “Go! And be quick about it!”
With a low hiss, Dirit winked out of sight.
By the time Wytch Master Ilya arrived, Mikhyal had turned up the lamps and covered both his father and Tristin with blankets from his own bed. He wasn’t sure if it would help or not, but Tristin, at least, was shivering as if he were freezing.
The knife lay on the table. A faint green residue going halfway up the blade had confirmed Mikhyal’s suspicions. Whoever had attacked Drannik hadn’t been concerned with striking a killing blow, for the knife had been poisoned.
Master Ilya arrived more quickly than Mikhyal expected. He knelt between Tristin and Drannik, examining each in turn with his healer’s sight. When he’d finished, his expression was grave. “Tristin can be put to bed. He is suffering from simple mythe-shock. Your father, however, has been poisoned. Is the weapon still here?”
“Ai, it’s on the table.” Mikhyal fetched it and handed it to the Wytch Master.
Ilya examined it, eyes going distant as he studied the blade. “Poison. I thought as much. A foul concoction that damages the mythe-shadow as well as the body. We can help him, but we must hurry. Ambris is particularly skilled at dealing with poisons and the healing of damage to the mythe-shadow.”
“What do you require, Ilya?” The Wytch King’s low growl came from the doorway, and Mikhyal turned to see Garrik stride in, a heavy black cloak draped over his nightshirt. He was followed by his guard captain, Jorin, who pushed past him, eyes scanning the room for danger.
Ilya got to his feet. “I need someone to fly up to Dragonwatch to fetch Ambris and Kian.”
“I shall go immediately,” Garrik said. “What of Tristin?”
“Jorin, I want guards on this suite, inside and out.” Ilya’s voice was cool and calm as he issued orders. “Send for someone to move Tristin back to his rooms. I’ll see to him while Ambris and Kian work on Drannik.”
Garrik and Jorin left, leaving Mikhyal alone with Ilya and the two stricken men. “Your Highness, have you any idea who might have done this?”
“Someone who doesn’t appreciate the idea of a Northern Alliance,” Mikhyal said grimly. “Tristin may be able to tell us more. According to Dirit, he is the one who pulled the blade from my father. Is it possible there was some sort of emotional resonance associated with the blade? Something strong enough to send Tristin into mythe-shock?”
Ilya glanced at Tristin. “I suspect so, Your Highness, since he shows no sign of having been poisoned. If that is the case, he may be able to help us identify the culprit.”
“We must make certain he is well protected, then. My father will be quite safe, with Altan’s guardsmen and several dragon shifters watching over him, and there is little enough I can do to aid in his healing. I will watch over Tristin, and Dirit can relay messages between us as necessary… assuming Dirit is in agreement?” He glanced at Dirit, who had draped himself over the chandelier, from which he had a clear view of the entire room.
“Most decidedly not.” The little dragon laid his ears ba
ck. “Dirit’s sacred duty is to protect Your Most Royal Foolhardiness. He is not a messenger bird, and he will not be leaving your side. Not for a moment. Messages, indeed.”
* * *
Tristin had never been so cold in his life, not even at Shadowspire. He curled on his side and pulled the blankets tighter about himself, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Was he ill? His head was pounding mercilessly, and he couldn’t quite recall whether or not he’d been feeling feverish when he’d gone to bed.
“Are you awake?” a male voice asked.
Mikhyal.
But how could that be?
Mikhyal had been lying on the floor with a knife in his back. Tristin had tried to pull it free, only to be engulfed by a hatred so deep and hot, he still felt the blazing echo of it throbbing through his veins.
His eyes flew open, and there was Mikhyal sitting beside him, looking quite uninjured.
“You are awake, then. Good. Master Ilya left some medicine for you to drink.”
“M-Mikhyal? But I thought… I found you on the floor… and the knife… how long…?”
“Only a few hours ago,” Mikhyal said, helping him sit up. “That was my father you found, though I can understand the confusion. We’re often mistaken for brothers, and in the dim light…” He trailed off and handed Tristin a cup. “It’s water, but Master Ilya’s put something in it. He said it would help with your headache, and he apologized for not being able to give you anzaria.”
Tristin shuddered at the thought. He accepted the cup and drank the contents down quickly. “Your father… is he… is he all right?”
“I’m not certain,” Mikhyal said softly. “The knife was poisoned. The healers are with him now. Master Ilya called Ambris and Kian down from Dragonwatch to see to him.”
Hot shards of panic lanced through Tristin’s belly. “You don’t think I—”
“No, of course not,” Mikhyal soothed. “Dirit was right there. He told me what happened.”
“Where is Dirit now?” Tristin asked, glancing about.
“I managed to convince him to keep watch over my father, though he wasn’t happy about it. He insists it’s his duty to guard the royal bloodline. I reminded him that if this alliance doesn’t get signed, it’s my brother, not me, who will rule after my father, and that we’d all be better off if Shaine’s rule was a long time coming.” He snapped his mouth shut then, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t, but quickly recovered and changed the subject. “So what happened last night? Did you see anything?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I was…” Tristin’s face heated, but he forced himself to continue. “I was coming to see you. To… to apologize for running off. I was… ashamed, I suppose. You’re so very strong and… and handsome, and I’m so scrawny and weak. And I was afraid you’d seen—” He gulped and glanced down at himself. He’d been dressed in a long-sleeved nightshirt. Barely aware that he was doing so, he tugged the sleeves down to make sure they covered his scars.
Had Mikhyal seen them anyway?
Someone had undressed him. Seen him in all his naked ugliness, including the sorry tale of desperation carved in his very flesh.
Tristin cringed and looked away.
A warm hand closed firmly around his own. “And then what?” Mikhyal asked gently.
He blinked, trying to think what Mikhyal was talking about. It took him a few moments to recall what he’d been saying. “I… and then Dirit came and told me you were upset. And… and said I should come and see you, that you were still awake. So I g-got dressed and… and when we got to your suite, he opened the door, and I f-found you… well, I mean, I thought it was you. I reached for the knife, but the moment I touched it…” He trailed off, sickened at the memory. “It was so very strong,” he whispered. “Strong enough that I felt it even through my shielding pattern. Fear. A desperate struggle to escape. And a deep anger, like fire in my veins, burning everything it touches. I couldn’t break free of it.”
“I don’t suppose you managed to get any sense of who the knife might belong to?” Mikhyal asked.
“Ah. No, though I can tell you it’s no one I’ve ever encountered before. And that whoever it is, they are full of fear and fury.”
There was a long silence before Mikhyal said, “Tristin, about last night—”
A quiet knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” Tristin called. Quickly, please…
The door opened and Ilya entered, followed by Garrik and Jaire. “Excellent,” Ilya said. “I guessed you’d be awake by now.”
“I’ve given him his medicine, Master Ilya,” Mikhyal said, holding out the empty cup.
Ilya’s smile was tired. “We shall make a healer of you yet, Your Highness.”
“Is there any word on my father?” Mikhyal asked, and now Tristin noticed the dark circles under Mikhyal’s eyes. Had he slept? Had any of them?
“He will recover,” Ilya said. “Ambris and Kian are still with him. I have come to relieve you so can go to him. If you’d like to go back to the suite and wait, you can speak with Ambris as soon as he’s finished.”
Mikhyal turned to Tristin. “Would you mind terribly, Tristin? I know you’ve only just woken up, but…”
“He’s your father. Of course I don’t mind. Go on.” Tristin practically sagged with relief when Mikhyal, with only a single, doubtful look, allowed himself to be cajoled into going to see his father.
When the prince had gone, Ilya took the seat Mikhyal had vacated and studied Tristin with that vague, unfocused look that meant he was using his healer’s sight.
“You look much better than you did last night,” Ilya said. “Whatever resonances you picked up from that knife were strong enough to throw you into mythe-shock.”
“Are you certain he didn’t pick up any of the poison from the blade?” Garrik asked, his voice a low rumble.
“I am. Tristin is suffering from simple mythe-shock. There is nothing to indicate even the briefest contact with the poison.”
“You… h-have you c-come to question me?” Tristin stammered, nervous despite Mikhyal’s reassurances. “About… about the attack on Mikhyal’s father?”
“Of course not,” Jaire said. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“Dirit was quite insistent about that,” Garrik said. “When I returned with Kian and Ambris, he took physical form, introduced himself to me, and then proceeded to assure me you were not involved in the attack. Not that I thought for a moment that you were. You do seem to have made quite an impression on him, Cousin.”
“Anyway, if you had done it, I’d know,” Jaire said. “I’m very good at telling when someone’s lying.”
“And,” Ilya added, arching one thin, coppery eyebrow, “if barely touching the knife was enough to throw you into mythe-shock, I doubt you could have held onto it long enough to do any damage to anyone, let alone a man as fit as Drannik. No, I believe the knife was thrown from the shadows by someone who hoped to prevent the king from signing the treaty.”
A chill crept up Tristin’s spine. Was Mikhyal in danger, too?
Jaire took a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and came to his side to drape it over his shoulders. “We only came because we wanted to make certain you were all right, and to reassure you,” he explained. “I know how your mind works — it’s a bit like mine, always going to the worst possible case.”
“Thank you,” Tristin murmured, nearly overcome at the idea that his cousins had given even a moment’s thought to his comfort. “Both of you. Have… have you any idea who might have done it?”
“None at the moment,” Garrick said, “but we have already begun an investigation.”
“And now that you’ve satisfied yourselves that your cousin is resting comfortably,” Ilya said sternly, “you can leave him in peace.”
“Yes, Master Ilya.” Jaire nodded to Tristin and followed his brother out the door.
When they were alone, Ilya said, “Now then, Tristin, tell me how you came to be in the suite in the first plac
e, and what you sensed when you touched the knife. Anything you can remember could be helpful.”
Tristin took a deep breath and began the sorry tale.
When he’d finally finished, Ilya said only, “And you have no idea who you were sensing?”
“Mikhyal asked me the same thing,” Tristin said slowly. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Ilya. I’ve been… experimenting since you taught me the shielding patterns, and one thing I’ve noticed is that the strongest empathic resonances absorbed by objects aren’t necessarily the most recent. If the knife is very old, and hadn’t been in the attacker’s possession for very long, the things I sensed might not have anything to do with the last person to touch it. I might only be sensing the person who owned it the longest, or perhaps the strongest personality to own it.”
“I see.” Ilya looked thoughtful. “So your Wytch power will not be as helpful in identifying the attacker as I’d hoped.”
“I… I don’t think so, no.”
“Well, if nothing else, this incident has shown me that while the shielding patterns you’re using are sufficient for most things you’ll encounter, you’re sensitive enough that you clearly need something stronger. When you’re feeling better, I shall endeavor to teach you a much more complex shielding pattern. It will block out everything, but you will be able to adjust it, so that if you should choose to sense the empathic resonances in an object, you can let them in slowly, a bit at a time, before they overwhelm you.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right, Ilya.” Tristin tried to sound enthusiastic, but the thought of more lessons did not excite him. “I suppose it’s best if I don’t have to worry about the possibility of collapsing just from touching something that’s absorbed a particularly strong impression.”
* * *
When Mikhyal returned to the suite, Kian was slumped in an armchair, half asleep, but Ambris was nowhere to be seen. Mikhyal tried to be quiet, but Kian stirred the moment he eased the door shut, blinking at him with bloodshot eyes.
