by Jaye McKenna
Now he was back in the human world, Vayne felt the insistent tug of the thread binding him to the green jewel trapped within its finely wrought silver setting. The amulet was definitely here, still inside the chest, but the chest had been moved.
Ashna’s words echoing through his mind gave him the shivers: It has been far longer than you think, Human Child.
It was just his luck to have missed whatever event had taken the amulet from Irilan’s treasury and brought it—
Where?
No place he recognized, that was for certain.
In the early days of his exile, Vayne had spent most of his time wandering the halls of Castle Irila, tickled at the idea of being invisible to the castle’s inhabitants. He listened in on secret meetings, observed all manner of clandestine affairs of the heart, and witnessed his cousin Niall’s brothers plotting against one another.
It was all quite fascinating until he’d realized that there was nothing else beyond it. He could stray no farther than the edge of the castle grounds. He could speak to no one, be seen by no one. All the knowledge he had was worth nothing with no one to share it with or communicate it to.
No one even knew he was there.
And no one ever would. The secret of his whereabouts had died with his father when the Wytch Council had put Irilan’s royal family to the sword for treason.
Vayne had given up counting the years long ago. Once the novelty of wandering the halls of the castle unseen wore off, he spent most of his time exploring the mythe. Alone in the mythe was less painful than walking among his people, privy to all their hopes, their dreams, their tragedies — but unseen, unheard, unable to share the myriad joys and sorrows of being human.
There were times when the loneliness had driven him into madness and despair. Times when he’d have given everything he’d ever possessed for the feel of a warm hand in his own, or the brush of soft lips against his cheek. He’d spent countless lifetimes in the mythe, seen wonders his teacher, the long-dead Wytch Master Larana, could only have dreamed of, but Vayne would trade it all for a single human touch.
Dwelling too long upon his exile and isolation would only drag him back down into despair again, so Vayne resolutely turned his mind to discovering how long he’d been away, and what changes Ashna had spoken of.
* * *
The night’s festivities were long over, but Jaire was still wide awake, despite the tiring day he’d just endured. He’d been completely focused on every moment, exercising his skills at diplomacy during the afternoon’s entertainments, negotiating the treacherous formal dinner, and then circulating among the crowd gathered for the dance, all the while attempting to avoid any entanglements with Lady Bria. The lady’s revelation regarding the betrothal negotiations had sent his thoughts into a mad scramble. Even after fleeing to the safety of his suite and getting himself ready for bed, Jaire’s mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
Had Garrik known about this?
Jaire couldn’t imagine Ord surprising his long-time ally with such a request, especially in public. The betrothal must have been discussed at some point, which made Jaire wonder where he’d been and why no one had said anything to him about it.
As he lay awake, brooding in the darkness, something cold and lonely shivered at the edge of his awareness. Jaire sat up, adjusting his shielding pattern to let in more of the outside world. Emotion strong enough to find its way through his protections could indicate someone in severe distress, and Jaire hated to think of anyone in pain.
Despair blossomed around him, the colors so dark and the texture so complex, the source had to be ancient. Rooted in a loneliness deep enough to bring tears to his eyes, it reminded him of the anguish he’d sensed in Ilya when the Wytch Master first came to Altan.
But this wasn’t coming from Ilya or anyone else Jaire recognized. Curious, he cast his net of awareness out into the night, seeking the source. It was moving about the castle. Some restless guest, unable to sleep? Or perhaps someone creeping toward a clandestine meeting?
His net caught up a dark cloud of stormy anger from Garrik, and a stream of cool, icy annoyance from Ilya. The textures and flavors threading through the discord suggested it might have something to do with him.
Jaire slipped out of bed. He rarely spied on his brother; it felt wrong, given the level of trust that had always existed between them. Up until now, he’d never had reason to believe Garrik was being anything other than forthright with him, but after Lady Bria’s revelation, he thought, perhaps, he might be justified in conducting an investigation of his own.
Distracted for now from the ancient loneliness drifting through the night, Jaire lit a candle and pushed aside the tapestry hiding the secret panel in his bedroom. He slipped into the dark passage beyond and made his way to the concealed door leading into the Wytch King’s bed chamber.
Garrik and Ilya were arguing. He didn’t even have to press his ear to the wall to hear them. Thickening his own protections so Ilya wouldn’t sense his presence in the passage, Jaire settled himself on the floor to listen.
“…should have said something to him months ago.” Ilya’s voice sounded as calm and reasonable as ever, belying the cold anger Jaire had sensed earlier. “He’s an adult now, and as one of your advisors, he needs to be kept abreast of all that occurs. How is he to advise you properly if you’re keeping things from him? Anything that could affect your standing with the Wytch Council has the power to affect your relations with the other kingdoms. Jaire cannot do the job you’ve asked him to if you aren’t prepared to be completely honest with him.”
There was a long pause, during which not even his own defenses could keep out the heat of Garrik’s anger. Jaire hugged his knees and squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught.
“Do you really want Jaire blindsided at Court?” Ilya continued. “I have it on good authority that Wytch King Ord is going to make a formal request to open betrothal negotiations. At the very least, you must warn Jaire. Tomorrow is a holiday, and your only obligation to your guests is the Midsummer Hunt. You’ll have plenty of time to engage him in private conversation when you return. Ord’s request before the Court should not be the first he hears of this.”
“I risked everything to ensure Jaire would not be named my father’s heir.” Garrik’s voice was strained, his words clipped.
“And the Council has not pressed you on that issue,” Ilya reminded him. “They have merely suggested that Altan must have an heir.”
“And have made it very clear that any issue of mine will be unacceptable,” Garrik said bitterly. “Which means Jaire faces the very fate I intended for him to avoid.”
“He will not be forced to take the throne,” Ilya said.
“No, but he will be ensnared in a loveless alliance marriage. I will not do that to him, Ilya, and I’ll thank you not to bring it up again.”
“Nevertheless, Altan must have an heir,” Ilya murmured.
“Which I will provide once I no longer have the Council dictating what I may and may not do.”
“That day may yet be a long way off, and it is irresponsible of you not to secure the succession in the meantime. You are not invincible, no matter what you may think. Will you leave your people in turmoil should anything happen to you?”
From Garrik, there was only silence.
“At least consider naming a cousin or someone from one of Altan’s other noble lines,” Ilya said gently.
“There are no cousins,” Garrik muttered. “And there is no one among the nobles I consider suitable. Spineless, the lot of them. Not one of them would be capable of continuing my work.”
There was another long silence before Ilya said quietly, “What will you tell Ord, then? You’ll not reject his request in front of the entire Court, surely?”
“I’ll not reject him outright, no, but I will tell him I’m not ready to discuss it.”
“Again? This is not the first time he’s approached you, though it’s the first time he’s done so in public. You cannot p
ut him off so easily in front of the entire Court.”
“If he thinks to force me into negotiating a betrothal by making his request publicly, he can think again. No, Ilya. I’ll not allow him to manipulate me that way. It will only weaken my position.”
“If you alienate Ord over this, his Wytch Master tells me he is prepared to make any further discussion of the Northern Alliance contingent upon Jaire’s betrothal to Bria. It could all fall apart before it has a chance to form. Is keeping Jaire free of an alliance marriage really worth losing the chance to unite the northern kingdoms?”
Northern Alliance?
Jaire frowned as he searched his memory. He recalled nothing about a Northern Alliance. Was this something else his brother had neglected to mention?
When Garrik didn’t respond to Ilya’s question, Jaire clenched his hands into fists and pressed his lips together to keep from shouting through the wall at his brother. He wasn’t a scared child anymore. He’d always known he’d have to marry one day, and ever since the Council had forbidden Garrik to marry for fear of him passing on the lethal Wytch power he possessed, Jaire had been painfully aware that the responsibility of providing an heir for Altan would fall to him. It had seemed a very long way off when he’d been thirteen and Garrik had first taken the throne. Now, it looked as if it was something he was going to have to face much sooner than he’d thought.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you are not the only one who is willing to make sacrifices for your kingdom?” Ilya asked mildly, and Jaire cheered silently. Ilya was an excellent match for Garrik’s fiery temper; it took a lot more than a few harsh words from an irate Wytch King to ruffle his cool demeanor.
“Prince Jaire is very much aware of how vital Ord’s good will is to Altan,” Ilya continued. “He’s no longer the boy you risked your life to protect. He’s a man grown, and he should be given the opportunity to decide whether or not he’s willing to marry and provide an heir for his kingdom. Politically, betrothing Jaire to Bria would be advantageous to Altan. Not doing so could be disastrous, and could well tear apart your hopes for the Northern Alliance.”
Garrik snorted. “Jaire’s choice would not be to marry Bria, I can tell you that right now. I don’t even have to ask him. I saw him at the ball, lurking behind the greenery to avoid her.”
“Regardless of what he wants — or what you want — it is Jaire’s right to make his own decision in the matter,” Ilya said. “And I am quite certain I know what he would decide. You must tell him what Ord plans, and you must also tell him what’s at stake.”
Jaire got quietly to his feet. He’d heard enough.
Keeping a tight leash on his own anger so Ilya wouldn’t sense him lurking so near, he made his way quietly back to his suite where he paced his bedroom and tried to sort through what he’d heard and what it meant.
So Garrik thought to keep him ignorant, did he?
The Wytch King, he decided, was going to get the surprise of his life when Court resumed. The little brother he thought needed his protection wasn’t so little anymore. And Jaire would be damned if he’d let Garrik risk Altan just to keep him happy. He was as much a man as Garrik, and just as capable of taking on the responsibilities required of a son of the line of Altan.
It was high time he proved it once and for all. To the Dragon Mother’s coldest hell with what Garrik wanted.
He was so angry, the pale figure crossing his bedroom didn’t register immediately, and by the time it did, it was already halfway across the room. Jaire stopped dead, a cold shiver going through him as he stared at it.
It was a young man, wispy and insubstantial. He was dressed in fashions centuries old, if the wide, lace-edged cuffs on his shirt were any indication. His long, dark hair was done up in narrow braids, gathered at the nape of his neck and tied with a ribbon, just like in the tales Jaire had read of those earliest years of the Wytch Council’s rule.
Was he a ghost?
Jaire opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make a sound, the figure reached the far wall and continued right through it. He hurried after it and pressed his hand against the spot where the apparition had passed through. The normally warm wood was icy to his touch, as cold as the flagstones in the courtyard in deepest winter.
Focusing inward, Jaire thinned the protections around his mind and cast his awareness out into the mythe. There — the figure had left a dark trail of bleak despair. The taste of it reminded him of the ancient loneliness that had captured his attention earlier.
He snagged his robe from beside the door and slipped out into the main room of his suite. Jaire might not be able to pass through solid walls, but he could certainly follow the wake. The figure had already reached the far wall and was just passing through it when Jaire caught sight of him. He hurried across the room to the door and flung it open, but there was no sign of the apparition in the hallway beyond, and the trail of despair was quickly fading.
Though he walked the entire length of the main hallway in the family’s wing of the castle several times, the ghost was gone, and Jaire sensed nothing beyond the sleeping minds of the castle’s inhabitants.
* * *
Vayne spent the night wandering the halls of the unfamiliar castle. The guardsmen he saw wore black-and-silver uniforms. Though he didn’t recognize the style, the colors were those traditionally worn by the army of Altan, Irilan’s long-time ally. He listened in on a few conversations, but the guards’ talk was chiefly concerned with women and dice, and he heard nothing to confirm either his location or his place in time.
Once the dim light of dawn began to filter through the windows, Vayne sought out the kitchen, where every castle’s daily activities began.
As he drifted in, a pretty, red-haired maid set a basket of eggs on the central work table. “Here you are, Melli. There’s more coming.”
“Thank you, Leyka,” said a plump, middle-aged woman with blonde braids pinned up over her head. “I expect we’ll be needing them.”
Leyka let out a sigh and leaned heavily against the long wooden table. “I shall be glad when things get back to normal. Most of the guests will be leaving tomorrow, won’t they?”
“Ai, they will,” Melli said. “All but Wytch King Ord’s party.”
“Wytch King Ord?” Vayne echoed. His most recent memories of Ord were of a chubby, drooling toddler with a penchant for putting insects in his mouth.
Ashna’s words whispered through his mind: It has been far longer than you think, Human Child. Longer, indeed. Decades, if Ord was king, though it seemed only weeks.
No one heard his comment, of course, and the conversation continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“Do you think they’re finally going to announce Prince Jaire’s betrothal?” Leyka asked.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, my girl,” Melli replied. “If they are, I imagine we’ll hear about it soon enough, though.”
“You’d think he’d be married by now,” Leyka said. “He’s twenty, after all.”
“We’ve all thought that, but the Wytch King won’t have it,” Melli said. “He’ll have to give in eventually. Altan needs an heir.”
“I should so love to see a royal wedding.” Leyka rested her chin on her hand, lips curving in a dreamy smile. “My grandmama worked right here in the kitchens when Wytch King Dane was married. She said it was simply amazing.”
“An amazing amount of work, too, I’ll warrant,” Melli huffed, eyes flicking down to the far end of the table where a slender woman with an iron-grey braid was counting out silverware. “Twice the usual number of loaves for today, do you think, Patra?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Patra said. “Judging from the number of guests who had to be poured into their beds last night, we won’t be needing all that for breakfast. Half as much again should do. And if I’m wrong and we do run short, we can always make some flat bread to go with dinner. We shall want some of Mistress Polina’s blue-nettle tea to settle their stomachs and cure their headaches, too.
Leyka, you could see to that if you’ve nothing better to do.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Leyka moved across the kitchen to a set of shelves containing rows of neatly labeled herb jars. “Have any of you seen Wytch King Ord’s heir, Prince Danyel?”
“Ai, I served him at breakfast yesterday,” said another of the maids who was restocking the kitchen linens. “Those eyes! And that arse… honestly, Lady Caladri is the luckiest woman in Skanda. What I wouldn’t give to be in her shoes.”
“You mean in her bed, don’t you, Gilli?” Leyka asked drily.
Gilli flushed bright red and ducked her head.
“Enough, girls,” Melli scolded. “I’m quite sure Mistress Patra has better things to do than listen to your gossip. And you, Leyka, whatever would your poor husband think if he knew you were drooling after every royal in breeches?”
Leyka laughed. “Oh, Willem doesn’t mind my looking, as long as I don’t touch.”
Gilli suppressed a giggle.
“Ah, leave them be, Melli,” Patra said with an indulgent smile. “They’re doing no harm, as long as they keep their observations to themselves and remember their manners around their betters.”
Vayne drifted out of the kitchen, deep in thought. If Ord was now the Wytch King of Irilan and had a son of marriageable age, it must be at least forty years since he’d last set foot in Castle Irila. Had he really been wandering the mythe for that long?
He had a lot to catch up on, and the best place to do it would be Wytch King Ord’s suite, presumably where the amulet had been left. Following the tug of the stone, he found his way back easily enough.
Ord did not appear to be one of the guests who would require the blue-nettle tea this morning. He was already up, his valet just brushing off his morning coat when Vayne drifted through the wall of his bed chamber.
