Shadowspire (Wytch Kings, Book 3)

by Jaye McKenna

  Like many of the men of the northern kingdoms, Ord was powerfully built, with black hair and dark eyes. He reminded Vayne of his own father. The younger man lounging on one of the bedroom chairs could only be the dashing Prince Danyel the kitchen maids had been swooning over.

  “…not relishing the idea of having to sit through Court tomorrow,” Danyel was saying. “Our own Court is bad enough.”

  “Ah, but you must be there. I plan to make my request to negotiate the betrothal tomorrow.”

  “You really mean to go through with it?”

  “We’ve discussed this at length, Danyel. Did you think it just idle talk?”

  “No, but I remain unconvinced regarding the timing. I know you’ve broached the subject with him more than once, but to insist upon it now seems…” Danyel trailed off and gave his father an apologetic look.

  “What?”

  There was a long, tense pause before Danyel finally said quietly, “Unwise. The negotiations for this alliance you and Garrik have cooked up are going to be delicate enough as it is. It seems folly to antagonize him by forcing his hand on the betrothal when you’ve barely begun to discuss the alliance.”

  Ord scowled. “He’s been dithering over this betrothal for seven years now, and the Council has been pushing him on the succession issue.”

  “Which is only going to annoy him further,” Danyel said.

  “Perhaps, but my mind is made up. If Garrik wants this alliance of his, he’s going to have to give me something in return. He won’t get far with the other kingdoms if he doesn’t have Irilan’s support.”

  Danyel shifted in his seat and regarded his father with narrowed eyes. “He will not be pleased to hear that.”

  “No, I am quite sure he won’t,” Ord said with a heavy sigh. “But this is the first time since his coronation that I’ve actually had something to bargain with. As far as uniting the northern kingdoms against the Council goes, he needs me far more than I need him. And I expect he’s well aware of it.”

  Danyel gave his father a wry smile. “Then perhaps I shall attend Court tomorrow after all. It may prove to be rather less soporific than I was expecting.”

  Vayne listened to their talk with a growing sense of unease. This Northern Alliance sounded like an attempt at rebellion, and he had to wonder just how much history Irilan’s Wytch Kings were taught these days. Was Ord at all familiar with the so-called Irilan Rebellion, the bloody massacre that had put his bloodline on Irilan’s throne in the first place?

  When Ord’s valet pronounced the Wytch King fit for company, Danyel rose and followed his father out to the main room of the suite. Their conversation shifted to the Midsummer Hunt planned for later in the day, and the breeding of horses, topics Vayne had no interest in. He drifted through the wall and made his way through the halls to see what else he could learn.

  * * *

  Jaire crouched in the darkness and pressed his ear to the panel. He heard no sound on the other side, but that didn’t mean the library was empty. Some of the concealed doors leading out of the network of secret passages had cleverly hidden peepholes, but this, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.

  It was still early morning, and most of the guests would either be at breakfast or preparing for the Midsummer Hunt. Running into Garrik here was unlikely, but with the Wytch King’s private study connecting to the library, there was always the possibility that Garrik might come in to look up an obscure reference or hunt down a map.

  Still angry over what he’d overheard last night, Jaire had no desire to deal with his brother yet. He’d much rather wait until after Court tomorrow. At that point, there would be no avoiding it, but until then, he’d keep to himself as much as possible to avoid any sort of confrontation.

  Taking a deep breath, Jaire eased the secret panel open and peered out. He was in luck; the library was empty, and he quickly slipped out and made a beeline for the history section.

  An avid scholar, Jaire knew the contents of Castle Altan’s library even better than Master Ristan, the royal tutor and librarian. The library had always been one of his favorite retreats, almost more dear to him than his own rooms. His father, Wytch King Dane, had been rather scathing of his youngest son’s love of books, and Jaire had learned early on that using the secret passages was the best way to keep his movements from being noted and reported to the king.

  When he was younger, he’d loved fairy stories and tales of magic and valor, but as he’d grown older, he’d developed a passion for history. It served him well now, in his official capacity as one of Garrik’s advisors, though the rest of the advisory council still considered his appointment to be honorary. They’d ignored him during the first few meetings, and even now, two years after he’d joined them, the other councilors still treated him as if they were simply indulging the whims of the king’s rather awkward younger brother. Garrik’s protectiveness wasn’t helping matters at all.

  Now, he stood on his toes to pull two thick volumes from the highest shelf. He hugged them to his chest as he slipped back to the concealed panel, and with one last glance to ensure he hadn’t been spotted, disappeared into the darkness of the secret maze.

  Back in his own suite, he was pleased to see a breakfast tray waiting in the main room. Someone — Patra or Melli, most likely — had been alerted to his absence at breakfast, and made certain a meal was sent up for him.

  Honeycakes were traditional on Midsummer’s Day, and indeed, there was a generous platter of them, along with a bowl full of plump, gleaming strawberries. Jaire set to and devoured as many of each as he could hold.

  After he’d licked the last of the strawberry juice and honey from his fingers, he slipped into the bathing chamber to wash his hands, and then back to his own room to peruse the history texts he’d purloined. He sprawled on his bed and began paging through the first of the books, which covered the formation of the Wytch Council, nearly three centuries ago.

  Jaire found the accounts of those early days of the Council’s rule to be fascinating. Not all of the kingdoms of Skanda had been amenable to the shift in power, and there had been much strife and conflict at first. It was difficult not to get caught up in the text, so Jaire paged rapidly through the book, stopping only to look at the drawings.

  There were several portraits in particular he was searching for, and when he found them, he let out a small noise of satisfaction. He had remembered correctly: the mass of long, narrow braids bound at the nape of the neck was a style popular with the men of the kingdoms of Skanda around the time of the Irilan Rebellion.

  The portraits showed only the men’s heads and shoulders, so he had to turn to the other book for the rest of the information he sought. This one was a history of fashions and textiles, and it didn’t take Jaire long to locate a picture of a man’s shirt with wide cuffs of lace, much like those he’d seen at the ghost’s wrists. These were popular during the same period as the hair style. He hadn’t been close enough to identify the exact design, but the patterns in the lace were apparently specific to each kingdom.

  The baying of the hounds outside broke his concentration, and Jaire rolled off his bed and peered out the window. Sure enough, the Midsummer Hunt was on. Garrik was with a group of men on horseback, following the hounds. Trailing behind the men was a group of ladies, some with hooded hawks perched upon their saddles. Lady Bria was among them, looking rather foul-tempered. Unlike the other ladies, she wore breeches and rode astride. Jaire breathed a silent sigh of relief at the sight of her. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about running into her today.

  He finished his reading and headed back to the library, not bothering to use the secret passage this time; everyone he wished to avoid had gone with the hunt.

  It was there Master Ilya found him, startling him as he was balancing on his toes and trying to wedge the thick History of Fashions and Textile Design back into its place on the top shelf. It was heavy, and Jaire lost his grip on the book and would have dropped it if Ilya hadn’t been quick to catch i
t.

  “An interesting choice of reading material, Your Highness,” the Wytch Master said, reaching up to put the book away. He was only a hair taller than Jaire, but it was enough of a difference that he had no trouble sliding the book back into place.

  “I thought you’d have gone on the hunt, Master Ilya,” Jaire said. “Didn’t they want a healer with them?”

  “Ai, they did, but Wytch King Ord graciously volunteered the services of his Royal Wytch Master Ythlin, and as Ythlin has always enjoyed a good hunt, I was quite happy to let her go in my stead.” Cool blue eyes searched Jaire’s face. “It also gave me a chance to seek you out.”

  Jaire wasn’t sure what to say to that. To ask if it had anything to do with what he’d overheard last night would be to admit to spying, so Jaire bit back the question and waited for the Wytch Master to say more.

  “I sensed your presence in the secret passage last night,” Ilya said.

  “Oh. Um. I…” Jaire stared down at the floor, face heating. “I know I shouldn’t have, but Bria said something to me at the ball that made me think Garrik’s been keeping things from me. And after what I heard last night, I know he is. Not only about the betrothal, but about something called the Northern Alliance.”

  “Ah. I didn’t realize you’d heard that, as well.”

  Jaire scowled. “If I’m to be his advisor, Garrik needs to keep me informed.”

  “So I have counseled him,” Ilya said. “What you heard of the betrothal is true. Wytch King Ord plans to make the request at Court tomorrow. Whether or not your brother warns you about any of this is still in contention. As is whether or not he will allow the negotiations at all.”

  “I heard, but it doesn’t matter now. I know about it. I shall grant Ord’s request, and if Garrik cannot bring himself to negotiate my betrothal, then I will. It seems we need Ord’s good will and Irilan’s support for this Northern Alliance.” Jaire shot Ilya a bitter look. “Which I’m apparently not qualified to advise him about.”

  Ilya arched a thin, coppery eyebrow. “You shall have to take that up with your brother.”

  “I have. Repeatedly. He still thinks I’m twelve. I’m not sure what it’s going to take to prove I’m perfectly ready to do what I must do for the sake of Altan. Telling him doesn’t seem to be enough. And I can’t give him good counsel if he keeps withholding information. Now, tell me what you know of this Northern Alliance, Ilya.”

  Ilya winced and said in a low voice, “Garrik would be rather put out to learn that I’ve told you, but since you’ve overheard some of it… You must speak of it to no one, though.”

  “I won’t say a word. I promise.”

  “Very well. Over the next few days, Ord and Garrik plan to begin drawing up a preliminary treaty for an alliance of the northern kingdoms. As soon as they can agree on a framework, they will be approaching the kings of Miraen and Rhiva. Garrik and Ord intend to unite them against the Council. Tentative overtures have thus far suggested that there might be some interest in such a venture.”

  Jaire bit his lip. “Do they not remember the Irilan Rebellion? The Council put the entire royal family of Irilan to the sword and gave the throne to one of the collateral lines.”

  “Oh, they remember,” Ilya said. “But Irilan’s rebellion was a solitary effort, kept secret even from her allies. This alliance will be no secret. Between them, the four northern kingdoms control all of the mines in the Iceshards. If they cut off the Council’s access to the mythe-stones that come out of those mines, the Council will have no choice but to negotiate with them.”

  “And not peacefully, if history is any indication,” Jaire said grimly. “They intend to go to war, then?”

  “I do not know for certain what they intend. Garrik has been very closemouthed about it, and I have not been privy to his discussions with Ord. I hope they plan to achieve their goals through diplomatic means, but…” Ilya trailed off, shaking his head. “I have no idea what means they have discussed.” His sharp gaze caught Jaire’s. “Make no mistake, Your Highness, the Council would consider an alliance of this nature to be treason, and I’m certain that’s partly why Garrik has kept it from you. If the Wytch Council should hear of it…”

  “They’ll hear nothing from me,” Jaire said firmly. “I swear it. And not a word to Garrik about this conversation, Ilya. He and I will be having quite enough words tomorrow, after Court.”

  “Ai,” Ilya said with a grim smile. “I imagine you will.”

  Chapter Two

  Vayne spent Midsummer’s Day exploring Castle Altan and testing his limits. To his disappointment, the invisible thread that tied him to his father’s amulet didn’t allow him any more freedom than it had in Castle Irila. He was able to explore the castle itself and the immediate grounds, but could go no farther before the fog began to close in.

  The following day, Vayne hovered in Ord’s guest suite while Irilan’s royal family prepared themselves for Court. Queen Andrielle spent the morning shut away with Lady Bria, whom Vayne surmised was Ord’s niece.

  When they finally appeared in the suite’s main room, Lady Bria was pale and sullen, not at all the picture of the blushing bride, and Queen Andrielle looked very grim indeed. If this was what Prince Jaire had to look forward to, Vayne didn’t envy him one bit.

  Lady Bria presented herself to her uncle, who gave her an approving nod, despite the mutinous expression on the lady’s face, and led his entourage out of the guest suite. Two of Ord’s guardsmen took up the carved wooden chest containing the amulet, and two of Altan’s guardsmen escorted the party to Castle Altan’s Grand Hall. Vayne followed along behind them as they were ushered into a small antechamber. The ladies of the party settled themselves in the comfortable chairs provided, and the men went straight to the sideboard where plates of dainty pastries and a bottle of spirits had been left for their enjoyment.

  “There’s a Wytch Master here from Askarra, Your Majesty,” the guardsman told them before closing the door. “He’ll be called first, but you’ll be directly after him. I shall fetch you when it’s time.”

  Vayne had no desire to be shut up in the same room as Ord and Danyel while they waited, so he drifted through the wall into the Grand Hall. No one paid him any mind, which was no surprise. He’d never seen even the slightest indication that he could be seen or heard, and he’d long since given up hope of making contact with anyone outside of the mythe.

  At the far end of the Grand Hall was a raised platform upon which sat the Wytch King’s throne. Several other chairs only slightly less ornate sat beside it in a line.

  Wytch King Garrik looked to be in his late twenties, and was black-haired and powerfully built, cut from the same cloth as Ord and his get. The king and Prince Danyel could have easily passed for brothers, which made Vayne wonder how much intermarriage had occurred between the Altan and Irilan lines in the past few generations. The mingling of the royal bloodlines wasn’t something he’d paid much attention to, as his only information came from chance comments dropped within his hearing. Having no corporeal form made leafing through the pages of Irilan’s record books problematic, and meant his knowledge of events since his exile was sketchy at best.

  Instead of standing just behind the throne, as was traditional, Altan’s Royal Wytch Master sat on Wytch King Garrik’s right, where his queen would normally sit. The Wytch Master was a slender man with bright coppery hair and eyes of arctic blue. He looked to be about twenty, nowhere near old enough to have earned the formal black robe he wore.

  On the king’s left sat another young man, about the same age as the Wytch Master, this one with white-blond hair and light grey eyes. He might have been attractive had his delicate features not been set in such a grim mask. Although he bore little resemblance to the Wytch King, Vayne guessed this must be Prince Jaire, Lady Bria’s intended husband.

  The first supplicant was announced: Wytch Master Faah, Dean of Rakken Academy. Prince Jaire’s expression shifted briefly to panic, and the alarmed look the Wytch King e
xchanged with his Royal Wytch Master suggested that the dean’s visit was an unpleasant surprise to both of them.

  Like Altan’s Wytch Master, Dean Faah wore the black robes of office along with the gold cord around his waist that indicated his association with Rakken Academy. He was flanked by four men wearing the black uniforms and red cloaks of the Drachan, the Wytch Council’s own troops. The soldiers forming Faah’s honor guard were unarmed, though that meant nothing, as their bodies alone were lethal weapons. Behind the masks covering the upper parts of their faces, their eyes roamed the gathering constantly, seeking threats to the man they were sworn to protect.

  Vayne wasn’t surprised to see them here. In his time, there was still much resentment toward the Wytch Council, and most Council representatives traveled with a Drachan escort. Over the years, the custom had ceased, and Vayne hadn’t seen a Drachan soldier in Castle Irila in… well. A very long time.

  Did they still inspire the same fear? In his youth, there were whispered stories that the soldiers of the Drachan were coerced into absolute loyalty and obedience using mind-altering drugs and worse. The training was rumored to be brutal, the details a closely guarded secret.

  Had these men been forged in the same fire?

  Or were they simply a respectful nod to ancient ideals that had no place in the current political landscape?

  “Your Majesty,” Faah said, inclining his head slightly to the king. “Ilya.” He nodded to the Wytch Master, whose lips thinned at the omission of his title. “I come bearing news from the Wytch Council. High Wytch Nerith’s health has forced him to step down. He has been replaced by High Wytch Cenyth. As you can imagine, there will be some changes, possibly including the reassignment of certain Wytch Masters.” His gaze shifted meaningfully to the Wytch Master.

  Wytch Master Ilya didn’t appear at all concerned, but the color drained from Prince Jaire’s face, and the Wytch King’s hands clenched into fists on the arms of his throne. Beside him, the prince flinched and shrank back in his chair.