Shadowspire (Wytch Kings, Book 3)

by Jaye McKenna

  “I see.” The Wytch King’s black eyes glittered dangerously, and his expression was grim and cold, belying the neutral tone of his voice. “Is that all, Faah?”

  Faah didn’t react to the return slight, though the Drachan soldiers beside him stiffened slightly. “Hardly,” Faah said drily. “As the dean of Rakken Academy, it has come to my attention that Altan has been sending fewer and fewer students to be trained in Askarra. It is unlikely that Wytch power has ceased to manifest in the people of Altan, so I can only conclude that Ilya has been remiss in his duties. To remedy that, I shall be touring the villages of Altan and testing the young folk myself. Any deemed of interest to the Wytch Council shall accompany me back to Askarra, where they will attend the academy.”

  “Very well,” the Wytch King said in that same flat tone. “If that is the Council’s will, then so be it. I shall have a suite made ready for your use while you are here.” He beckoned to a man standing near the throne and exchanged a few murmured words with him, then turned back to Faah. “Han assures me that a guest suite will be ready for you by the time Court is adjourned. Let us know if you require anything further.”

  Faah inclined his head. “Your hospitality and your cooperation are both noted and appreciated, Your Majesty.” He moved off toward the seating area traditionally reserved for visiting nobility.

  The Wytch King’s eyes narrowed as they followed the old man’s progress across the hall. When Faah was seated, the king leaned over to murmur something to the Royal Wytch Master just as Wytch King Ord and his party were announced.

  Prince Jaire tensed, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair so tightly they turned white. Wytch King Ord strode up the aisle toward the throne followed by Lady Bria and two guardsmen in Irilan’s blue and grey, who carried the chest between them. They didn’t look nearly as imposing as Faah’s honor guard of masked Drachan had.

  Vayne’s attention wandered as the phrases of formal greeting were exchanged by the two Wytch Kings. Prince Jaire looked pale and tense, but his grey eyes were ablaze with purpose as they darted from his brother to Ord and back again.

  When the greetings were over, Ord cleared his throat and made his request to open betrothal negotiations. Before Wytch King Garrik could even open his mouth to respond, Prince Jaire rose.

  “Altan accepts your request to open negotiations,” he said, his voice wavering only a little. “I have long looked forward to the day when Lady Bria and I shall be wed. I will be available to begin the talks whenever you and my brother find it convenient. If all goes smoothly, perhaps the formal betrothal ceremony could take place during the Fall Council celebrations in Askarra.”

  “Excellent, Your Highness,” Ord said with a satisfied smile. “I shall look forward to the negotiations. As a token of Lady Bria’s devotion and Irilan’s regard, may we present you with a gift from Irilan’s treasury?”

  “Please, do.” The Wytch King’s voice was terse as he turned his fierce, black gaze upon his brother.

  Prince Jaire flinched, but kept his eyes fixed on Ord. His face remained pale and tense as the two guardsmen stepped forward and set the chest at his feet. The prince’s eyes grew wide as the lid was lifted.

  The Wytch King thanked the party for their gifts. After Ord’s party had taken seats near Wytch Master Faah, Prince Jaire sank down in his chair, hands shaking as he clasped them together in his lap. The young man kept his eyes averted as the king rose to address the Court.

  “Court is adjourned for the day,” the Wytch King growled, then turned to his brother and added, in a low voice that sounded as if it came from between tightly clenched teeth, “In my study. Now.”

  Curious, Vayne followed them.

  * * *

  Garrik’s anger snapped like hot sparks at the edges of Jaire’s awareness, penetrating even the most complex shielding pattern he could weave. Knowing at least some it arose from the Council’s threat to Ilya’s position didn’t help at all. The thought of being the sole target of Garrik’s considerable wrath took him right back to his childhood, when their father, Wytch King Dane, was alive.

  Everyone in the hall save the guardsmen bowed their heads in respect as the Wytch King took his leave. Rather than walking down the central aisle toward the antechamber, Garrik moved to the back of the platform and stepped down to the door leading to his study. Jaire trailed behind him, keeping his distance. Ilya followed, his icy calm a shocking contrast to the hot waves of fury pouring off of Garrik.

  Jorin, the guard captain, opened the door for the king. He gave Jaire a very solemn look, which became an encouraging nod and an approving smile the moment the Wytch King turned aside to speak with the steward.

  “Put Faah in the guest wing,” Garrik said. “I want him nowhere near the family. His escort can be housed with him or in the barracks, as he prefers.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Han said. “Mistress Patra has already anticipated your wish, and is overseeing the preparation of a suite. I shall make inquiries as to the preferred location for Master Faah’s escort.”

  “Thank you, Han.”

  Garrik didn’t say a word to Jaire until they were in his study. He shut the door firmly behind them and stood in front of it, blocking Jaire’s escape. Jaire’s eyes lit briefly on the door on the opposite wall, the one leading into the library. It would, unfortunately, be locked, so there would be no escape that way.

  “What in the Dragon Mother’s coldest hell were you thinking, Jaire?” Garrik yanked the gold circlet from his head and flung it onto the desk before dragging a hand down his face.

  Jaire gaped, stunned that his own defiance was of more concern to Garrik than Faah’s threat to Ilya’s position. “But… but… what about Ilya? Don’t you care about—”

  “Do not change the subject. Ilya and I have already anticipated this eventuality, and have planned accordingly. Now do please answer my question. I’ve not been defying the Wytch Council since I took the throne to have you throw it all away on a whim.”

  Jaire drew himself up to his full height — which admittedly, wasn’t much, especially when he stood next to Garrik — and fixed his brother with what he hoped was a cool stare. “Hardly a whim,” he said, silently thanking the Dragon Mother when his voice didn’t break or waver. “You need Irilan’s good will for this Northern Alliance of yours, and you’re not going to get it by putting Ord off again.”

  Garrik froze. “Where did you hear about that?”

  “You have your secrets, and I have mine.”

  “Have you been spying on me?” Garrik demanded.

  “Spying on you seems to be the only way for me to find out what’s really going on. How am I supposed to advise you if you refuse to tell me half of what’s happening?”

  “I was trying to protect you.” Garrik sounded exasperated now. “Yes, I need Irilan’s good will and Ord’s cooperation, but I’ve been trying to get them without sacrificing your happiness.”

  Jaire snorted. “Irilan’s good will. I see. What of mine?”

  Garrik clenched his fists, and Jaire could almost hear him grinding his teeth. “Your good will means nothing if Altan is crushed by the Wytch Council. The Northern Alliance might be the only thing that saves us, but it is a fragile, tentative thing. Ord and I have only just begun to build the framework for the treaty, and we’ve only made the most tentative overtures to other northern kingdoms. We cannot afford to alienate Wytch King Ord.”

  “Then you had best negotiate my betrothal in good faith, had you not?” Jaire said coldly. “I am as willing as you to make a sacrifice for Altan. If my betrothal to Lady Bria will smooth the way for the alliance, then don’t oppose it.”

  “But—”

  “Garrik. I’m not twelve.”

  “You don’t love her.”

  “Of course not. I barely know her.” Jaire frowned at his brother. “What has that got to do with it?”

  “I want…” Garrik shook his head and leaned against the door, shoulders slumping. “I wanted you to have somethi
ng like what I have with Ilya.”

  “We can’t all be as lucky as you and Ilya. And the Council is right. Altan does need an heir.”

  “Which I was planning to provide, once we break free of the Council.”

  “And when will that be? You and Ord haven’t even drawn up the treaty yet. Marrying Lady Bria makes sense. It will placate the Council and buy us some time until you and your allies are ready to break free.”

  “I—” Garrik closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “So am I,” Jaire said softly.

  A flash of white against the dark wood of the bookcase in the corner caught his eye, and Jaire squinted, trying to bring it into focus. It was there and gone so fast, he couldn’t be certain he’d even seen it, but for just a moment, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of the same ghostly figure he’d seen the night before.

  “Jaire?”

  He blinked and shifted his gaze back to Garrik. “Sorry, I… thought I saw something.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

  Garrik moved toward him and pulled him into a hug. “Get some rest,” he said. “You don’t have to attend dinner tonight.”

  “But the betrothal—”

  “We’ve only agreed to open negotiations. There’s nothing to celebrate and nothing to announce. Regardless of what Lady Bria might like, your presence isn’t required tonight. I’ll make an excuse for you, and have Melli send a tray up. You can’t have had much sleep if you were prowling the secret passages late enough to have heard me and Ilya.”

  “He told you I was listening?” Jaire pulled away and stared up at his brother.

  “No, but I’m not stupid, and I know you. I should have been more careful about what I said.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Jaire told him. “You should have trusted me in the first place.”

  Garrik stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry. When I look at you, I still see the tiny baby I promised Mother I’d protect.”

  “I’m not that baby anymore, Garrik.”

  “I can see that. Very well, then. I shall negotiate your betrothal in good faith. Tying Altan to Irilan through marriage will make a good beginning for our alliance.”

  “Then I did the right thing, speaking out in Court?”

  Garrik let out a long sigh. “Ai, Jaire, much as I hate to admit it, you did.”

  * * *

  Vayne watched the argument between the brothers with interest. In his own experience — and from what he’d observed of Irilan’s royal family through the generations — brothers were rivals more often than not. Though Prince Jaire and Wytch King Garrik were clearly furious at one another, their anger didn’t seem to stem from bitter rivalry, but from a desire on the Wytch King’s part to protect his younger brother.

  After years of watching the often-twisted machinations of Ord’s ancestors, it warmed Vayne’s heart to see the affection and regard they held for one another, even through their argument.

  He hovered in the corner of the study until Prince Jaire looked right at him, actually meeting his eyes for the briefest moment. Vayne was so stunned, he retreated back through the wall and found himself in the Wytch King’s suite.

  Had Prince Jaire actually seen him?

  It certainly looked as though he had. The prince’s eyes had widened in an expression that could only be recognition.

  But how could that be?

  Vayne drifted through the halls, barely paying attention to the walls in front of him as his mind raced. Had something changed about his own situation? Or was Prince Jaire unique in some way?

  Or… was it just wishful thinking?

  Most likely, he’d imagined the eye contact, conjured it up out of coincidence and hope. But regardless of what he told himself, the hope that someone might have actually seen him was far too strong to ignore.

  Heart pounding furiously, Vayne headed down to the lower level of the castle to see if anyone else noticed him. This time of day, the kitchen would be a hive of activity as the staff prepared to serve formal dinner to the Wytch King and his guests.

  Vayne entered the kitchen and waved his arms about. When that failed to gain anyone’s attention, he hopped up on the long work table and walked up and down the length of it, shouting. No one paid him any mind. Disappointed, but not really surprised, he gave up.

  Maybe Prince Jaire was the only one who could see him.

  Or maybe he’d imagined it.

  He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to find out. Sometimes hope was better than cold, hard certainty.

  With much trepidation, Vayne made his way slowly back to the upper level of the castle and began an exploration of the family wing. Prince Jaire’s suite turned out to be just down the hall from his brother’s, though Vayne would never have known it had he not drifted into the prince’s bed chamber and heard a sharp gasp.

  When he turned to look for the source of the sound, he realized he’d caught the young man in the middle of changing out of his Court garb. Prince Jaire stood in the center of the room wearing only a pair of thin leggings. His pale eyes widened, and the color drained from his face, but he held his hand out to Vayne. “Don’t go. Please.”

  Vayne stopped dead, hope flaring wildly. Dare he speak? Prince Jaire could see him, yes, but could he hear him, too? Indecision froze him as he weighed the hope of having a real conversation against the crushing disappointment of learning he couldn’t.

  Hope won. Of course it did.

  “Can you really see me?”

  “I can.” Prince Jaire nodded eagerly. “I saw you last night… and then again in Garrik’s study a little while ago. Last night, I thought I might be dreaming.” He frowned and pinched his own arm. “I suppose I still might be.”

  Vayne’s heart stuttered. “You… you can hear me…”

  “Perfectly.” The prince cocked his head. “Only, you look all thin and wispy, like you’re made of fog or clouds. Are you a ghost?”

  “Not… exactly.”

  “But you must be. Nobody’s worn their hair that way since the Irilan Rebellion, and that was, oh, nearly two hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Two hundred and fifty years? He’d guessed it was a long time, but there had been no way to keep track of the passing years.

  “I looked it up in a book,” Prince Jaire continued, moving slowly toward him. “After I saw you last night, I went to the library. I thought I recognized your hair from one of the history books… those braids must take ages to do. And then there was the lace around your cuffs. I wanted to get a closer look and see if I could find out what kingdom you were from. The book said each kingdom had its own style of lace, and there were drawings…”

  “Irilan,” Vayne blurted out, unable to believe he was actually speaking to a living, breathing person. “I’m Prince Vayne of Irilan, son of Wytch King Urich.”

  “Urich’s son? But… you died. The whole family was put to the sword.”

  “The Wytch Council certainly assumed I died,” Vayne said drily. “They’d never have gotten away with putting my idiot cousin Niall on the throne if I’d had anything to say about it.”

  “Wytch King Niall…” Prince Jaire clapped his hands together. “And you’re Vayne… of course… you’re that Vayne. Most of the history books agree that when the Wytch Council set the Drachan on Wytch King Urich’s family, no one was left alive. But there were a few accounts from less reputable sources that said the youngest prince’s body was never found. There was speculation that he’d somehow escaped the slaughter.”

  “I didn’t exactly escape.” Vayne gave him a pained smile. “My father hid me. In the mythe. Only… he never told anyone else what he’d done, so the knowledge of my whereabouts died with him. Along with any hope of me returning.”

  Jaire went pale and clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. Garrik always says I go on a bit. I didn’t mean… you had to watch them die, didn’t you? That must have been horrible.”

  “I saw nothing,” Vayne said. �
��When my father received word the Drachan were approaching, he hid me in the mythe. I’m still not sure how he did it, but I was trapped there for a number of years before I learned how to walk the human world. By the time I did, the massacre was long over, and I had to piece together what had occurred from snatches of conversation I overheard as I drifted through the halls of Castle Irila.”

  “But… but… couldn’t you just ask someone?”

  Vayne’s smile tightened. “You’re the first person I’ve ever encountered who’s been able to see me. Or hear me.”

  “Oh…” The prince’s mouth formed a perfectly round circle. “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I’m Jaire. Prince Jaire of Altan.” His cheeks colored, and he lowered his voice. “Though I suppose you already know that. You were there in Garrik’s study, so you probably heard everything.”

  “I heard an elder brother doing his best to protect a younger one,” Vayne said. “Believe me, it was a refreshing change after some of the bloody rivalries I’ve witnessed over the years. My own brothers assumed I saw them only as obstacles to the throne. They would never believe I had no interest in ruling the kingdom. The only power I wanted was the power to bend and shape the mythe to my will.”

  “You’re a mythe-weaver, then?”

  “Ai. What of you?”

  Jaire wrinkled his nose, making him look even younger. “My Wytch power is empathy, and Master Ilya says I’m the most sensitive empath he’s ever encountered. I hate it, and I wish I didn’t have it. Being able to feel everyone’s emotions isn’t nice at all. Especially when most of them say things that are completely at odds with the hateful things they feel.”

  Having grown up around Irilan’s Court, Vayne could well imagine how uncomfortable having such an ability would be. “Court must be a real trial for you,” he said.

  The surprised look in Jaire’s eyes suggested that very few people understood that. “It is, but I can save my brother a great deal of time and trouble by telling him when his subjects are being untruthful, or when their feelings aren’t in accord with their words.”