by Jaye McKenna
“Do you sense my feelings?”
“I think so… the other night, after the ball, I was nearly overcome by a loneliness so deep it was painful. I think…” Jaire’s eyes unfocused for a moment, and then he nodded slowly. “Yes… it was coming from you. It’s still there, a bit, but it’s covered up by excitement and disbelief… and maybe hope? I suppose that’s because you can talk to me and I can hear you.”
“Yes. Hope.” Vayne smiled. “I feel very hopeful. If you can see and hear me, perhaps you can help me find a way to escape my prison.” Vayne already knew one way to do it, but shattering the amulet seemed a dangerous last resort. He wasn’t entirely certain how his father had trapped him in the first place, and breaking his connection to the real world could kill him or leave him drifting in the mythe forever as easily as it could free him.
“I’ll help you however I can,” Jaire said solemnly. He edged forward. “Can I… do you think I can touch you?”
“You can certainly try, but I doubt you’ll feel anything. I seem to have no problem passing through solid objects. Walls. Floors. People, even.” Vayne tensed as he held out a hand. It had been so long since he’d felt another person’s skin against his own. But if Jaire could see him and hear him, then maybe…
Vayne held his breath as Jaire’s hand moved toward him, hoping despite himself. Of course, their hands passed right through one another, and the prince’s face fell. Vayne felt nothing, not even a breath of air, and though he’d expected as much, he couldn’t help but feel bitterly disappointed.
A frown wrinkled Jaire’s brow as he drew back and picked up the tunic he’d left lying on the bed. He pulled it on over his head, covering his slender form, then turned to face Vayne. “If you can walk through the walls, and my hand passes right through you, then how are you managing to stand on the floor?”
Vayne glanced down at his feet, which did indeed look as if they rested upon the soft green rug that covered the floor of the prince’s bed chamber. “In the mythe, intention is everything. If I believe the floor will support me, then it will.” He moved over to Jaire’s bed and stretched out full length on top of it. “Watch.” Vayne stopped concentrating on where he appeared and promptly sank through the bed.
“Vayne? Where have you gone?”
“All the way down to the dungeons, if I’m not careful.” Vayne focused his intent once more, and heard a sharp intake of breath as he floated a little way above the bed.
Jaire’s light grey eyes were wide as he watched. Vayne lowered himself, then got to his feet and made a little bow. A moment later, Jaire broke into a grin and laughed. “Oh, what fun! You could hang from the chandelier in the library if you wanted… or drape yourself over one of the picture frames in the Grand Hall during Court…” He snickered and added, “Or even look as if you were stuck, with your legs coming out of the ceiling. Imagine the stir that would cause!”
“Ai, it would surely be quite amusing if anyone could see me,” Vayne said with a faint, humorless smile.
Jaire sobered immediately. “It must be terribly lonely for you… able to see and hear them, but never to talk to them. Or… or touch them.” He frowned again. “But… if intention is everything, what would happen if you intended to touch me?”
Vayne shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. My intention can affect where my body appears, but it does not allow me to interact with this world at all. It feels no different to me if I am standing on the floor, or sunk halfway into it. Believe me, I’ve tried. I can affect nothing in the human world. I can’t even stir the air enough to make a breeze.”
Jaire cocked his head. “So… where is your body?”
“I’m not certain. It wasn’t in the family graveyard with the rest, so I can only assume it came into the mythe with me. There, at least, I seem to have a solid form, though I suppose it’s entirely possible that’s just what my human senses tell me. I can interact with the landscape in the mythe — touch things, lie on the ground without sinking through, that sort of thing.”
“And talk to people.”
“There are no people to talk to,” Vayne said. “Not that I’ve ever found, anyway. Only… only the creatures that live in the mythe, and they are strange indeed, and no substitute for human company.”
Jaire sat down on his bed and drew his knees up, eyes bright with curiosity. “What kind of creatures?”
“They look very much like the drawings I’ve seen of the Dragon Mother.”
The prince’s eyes became huge, and he stared at Vayne, clearly hungry for whatever knowledge Vayne could impart. “What’s it like in the mythe? I’ve never met anyone who could actually go there. I’ve always been taught that it’s an energy field that we can draw upon, power that we can use… but not an actual place one could visit.”
“Oh, it is indeed a place, but it’s like no place you’ve ever seen. It’s a bizarre, dangerous, sometimes beautiful place. I have explored it ever since my father trapped me there, and discovered all manner of wonders, but it is no substitute for the human world. I would give anything to come back here.”
“But you can come part of the way back… just not all the way,” Jaire observed.
“Ai. One of the dragons befriended me early on. It taught me how to project myself into the human world, though I am still tied to the amulet my father used to trap me. I cannot go very far from it, and while I am here, I feel its pull all the time. It must have been moved recently… it is close, perhaps in the next room.”
“They left the betrothal gifts in the main room of my suite.” Jaire waved a hand toward his bedroom door. “I suppose it’s in with them.” He paused for a moment, then asked. “How is it that you’re not completely mad? All those years of isolation, without anyone to talk to…”
“I think perhaps I was mad, at the beginning. Before Ashna found me.”
“Ashna?” Jaire’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Isn’t that… isn’t that the name of one of the lesser gods? One of Aio’s children?”
“That is what humans call him, yes. I rather got the impression he finds it all vastly amusing.”
“So you’ve actually met one of the gods…”
“Ai, but if you saw him cavorting about in the mythe, you wouldn’t look nearly so awestruck. I spent most of my time there in dragon form, as it is much easier if one can—”
“Dragon form?” Jaire’s grey eyes were bright, his voice high with excitement. “You’re a dragon shifter? You must show me. My brother and Ilya are both dragon shifters, and I always wished I could be, too. Being able to turn into a dragon would be so much better than feeling all the horrible truths people hide behind their smiles and pretty words.”
What could it hurt? It wasn’t as if anyone else could see him. Without another word, Vayne shifted, keeping his eyes fixed on the prince’s face. Jaire’s expression was almost rapturous as he gazed upon Vayne’s dragon form.
“Oh, that’s lovely… you do it so smoothly. You look like a ghost-dragon, though, all grey and wispy. What color are you, really?”
In his dragon form, Vayne couldn’t speak to Jaire, so he shifted back. “Emerald green,” he said. “And as for shifting smoothly, I’ve had well over two centuries to practice, haven’t I?”
“You have,” Jaire murmured. “But you’re still wearing clothes… when Garrik forgets and shifts in his clothing, it all tears and falls to his feet in tatters. The seamstresses had fits those first few months, when they had to keep making new clothes for him.”
“I can imagine,” Vayne said, recalling the scoldings he’d gotten from Castle Irila’s head seamstress. “That was the way of it for me, too, when I lived in the human world. But now it seems that when I shift back, I always find myself wearing the clothing I was wearing the day my father hid me. I suppose it’s imprinted into the image I project into the mythe. Ashna could probably explain it if I asked him, though I don’t expect I would understand more than two words in ten.”
Jaire was silent for a time before
he said in a small voice, “It makes me sad that you’ve been alone for so long. How old were you when you were exiled?”
“Not much older than you,” Vayne said. “Twenty-six.”
“And you’ve been trapped since the Irilan Rebellion… That’s such a long time to have no one to talk to. I mean, I enjoy my solitude, but…”
“It doesn’t feel nearly as long as all that,” Vayne told him. “Years, certainly, but centuries? I find that hard to believe, and yet… time does pass strangely in that place. The last time I saw Ord, he was but a chubby child, being told off by his nurse for trying to eat a beetle. I retreated into the mythe for what felt like a few days, and returned to find that Ord is now the Wytch King of Irilan, and my father’s amulet is apparently one of your betrothal gifts.”
“Well, if you’d seen Ord at the banquet table the last few nights, you’d realize not much has changed,” Jaire said with an impish grin. His smile faded then, and he added, “It must have been terribly lonely. I think I would have given in to despair.”
Vayne hesitated for a moment before saying softly, “Who says I did not? Every time I gave up and sought my end within the mythe, Ashna was there to guide me back to the light. If anyone saved my sanity, it was he.”
“But… if he’s a dragon-god, couldn’t he have helped you escape?”
“No, he could not. Although… he said I would not always be trapped there. He’s never explained what he meant by that, but he’s told me a number of times I must not give up. He said my people would have need of me, and I would find my own way out when the time was right.”
“That sounds a bit cryptic.”
Vayne nodded in agreement. “Yes, he does tend to speak in riddles. But he is not human, and does not see things as we do.”
“Well, you’ve got me to talk to now.” Jaire got up from the bed, and held out a hand, as if Vayne could take it in his own. “Shall we go and look for this amulet of yours? You’ll have to show me which it is. There’s probably more than one.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it all, to be honest, except that I have to look at the gifts tonight and thank Lady Bria formally at Court tomorrow. That’s the official start of the negotiations. Oh… you probably don’t know about that, do you?”
“I was there at Court earlier. I heard Ord make the formal request. My congratulations.”
“Condolences, more like. I don’t really want to marry her. I mean, I’m sure she’s perfectly nice…” Jaire trailed off, shaking his head, then winced as he met Vayne’s eyes. “Well, no, I’m not sure of that at all. Actually, I’m quite certain she hates me. I had to dance with her at the ball the night before last. The whole time, I could feel how much she loathes me, but she was all bubbling over about how happy she was to see me and how she couldn’t wait for us to have children. And then I forgot which part of the dance came next and stepped on her toes. That was horrible.”
Vayne wasn’t sure what to say. He understood all about making sacrifices for one’s kingdom.
“I wish I didn’t have to do it,” Jaire murmured. “And the worst part is, if I told Garrik I didn’t want to, he’d make it so I didn’t have to. Only… we need Irilan’s good will for this alliance he wants to build. If I don’t marry her, it might all fall apart… and then the Wytch Council will send Ilya away, and Garrik will be miserable. Or he’ll do something stupid.”
“I’m sorry,” Vayne said, and found that he meant it.
The smile Jaire gave him was small and grim, and didn’t touch his lovely eyes. “Come on, then. Let’s go and look for your amulet. Wytch Master Ilya might be able to come up with some way to free you.”
* * *
“It’s not here,” Vayne said as Jaire lifted the last piece of jewelry out of the chest and laid it on the table. “But it has to be. I can feel it. I must be practically on top of it.”
“Funny, that,” Jaire said, peering into the empty chest. “I don’t sense anything. You’d think if it were strong enough to trap a powerful mythe-weaver in the mythe, I’d feel something.”
“I imagine my father worked some kind of shielding pattern into it when he constructed it,” Vayne said. “No point in using it to hide me if any passing Wytch Master could sense it.”
“Oh… yes, I suppose that does make sense,” Jaire said. He felt inside the chest, running his fingers lightly over the polished surface. “Some of the old chests we have in our treasury have secret drawers or false bottoms for hiding things. Maybe I can find a release mechanism.” He frowned and ran his hands along the exterior, then slipped a hand between the ornate feet to feel underneath. The catch was recessed, and only the tiniest change in the texture of the polished wood gave away its location. “Ah… here it is.”
Vayne drifted through Jaire and the table to peer underneath the chest. Jaire shivered at the eerie sensation of an icy fog passing through him. “Don’t do that!”
“What?” Vayne lifted his head up through the chest to peer at him.
“Walk through me like that. It’s the oddest feeling. Like cold mist drifting through my bones.”
“But you didn’t feel my hand at all.”
“No, but we didn’t try for very long, did we? And we only just brushed fingertips.” Jaire held his hand up. “Let’s try again.”
Vayne raised his hand and moved it so it appeared to occupy the same space as Jaire’s. At first, Jaire felt nothing, but as he held his hand still, a clinging cold began to seep into his flesh. He pulled it away quickly. “I felt that. Like the mist was filling me up. I wonder what Master Ilya would make of it?” He turned his attention back to the chest, carefully working the ancient release mechanism. There was a clicking sound and Jaire eased open the small drawer, the face of which was cleverly disguised as part of the decorations carved on the chest’s front.
Inside the drawer lay a green gem attached to a fine silver chain. Jaire drew it out and held it up. “Is this it?”
“Yes,” Vayne whispered. “He must have hidden it there before the Drachan came for him. All these years, and no one’s found it.”
“Aio’s teeth, this is beautiful.” Jaire moved across the room to hold it up to the light coming in the window. The stone was a deep, emerald green, with flecks of gold winking and flashing deep inside, forming patterns as if they were being pushed about by invisible currents. “And you’re trapped inside it?” He peered at it closely, eyes tracing the dark line of a tiny flaw deep inside the gem. A shame, though the crack couldn’t be seen from a distance, and was mostly hidden by the intricately wrought silver setting.
“I’m not sure where I am,” Vayne said. “Having no physical form makes research a bit difficult. I’m tied to it, though. No matter where I go, I can always find my way back to it, both here and in the mythe.”
“Is there a limit on the distance you can go?”
“Not in the mythe. But here, if I stray beyond the castle grounds, everything turns to fog. If I keep going, I eventually end up back in the mythe.”
A knock on the door had Jaire stuffing the gem into the pocket of his breeches and extending his mythe-senses. He relaxed a little as he sensed Master Ilya’s familiar presence in the hallway outside. “It’s Master Ilya,” he murmured to Vayne. “I suppose I’d better see what he wants.”
Jaire crossed the room and opened the door to find the Wytch Master standing there, still dressed in the formal black robes of office he’d worn for Court.
“Might I come in, Your Highness?”
“Of course you might.” Jaire stepped aside for him and closed the door behind him. “And there’s no need to be so formal. I suppose Garrik’s sent you, has he?”
“He did ask me to look in on you and make sure you’re all right, yes. He’d have come himself, but Wytch Master Faah cornered him.”
“I’m sure that pleased Garrik.”
“Indeed.” Wytch Master Ilya’s smile was faint, and didn’t touch his eyes. “I wanted to make certain you understood that Garr
ik is far more angry at the situation than he is with you. We’ve known for some time that Nerith’s health was failing, and he might be forced to step down. I’ve been in touch with Ythlin, Ord’s Wytch Master. She’s Nerith’s granddaughter, and she warned me this would likely happen before the year was out. It is not surprising that the new High Wytch would want to place Wytch Masters loyal to her within the kingdoms. Altan is not the only kingdom likely to have a new Royal Wytch Master before winter.”
Ilya’s revelation fit quite neatly into the hole in Jaire’s knowledge, and he drew in his breath sharply as the picture became clear in his head. “Poor Garrik,” Jaire murmured. “He must feel as if he’s being asked to choose between your happiness and mine. If he can pull this Northern Alliance together, he might have the power to defy the Council and keep you by his side. But in order to do that, he has to sacrifice me to an alliance marriage with Irilan.”
“Precisely,” Ilya said. “I’m impressed you’ve grasped the gist of the situation so quickly. I’ve told Garrik he’s wasting a powerful resource by keeping you in the dark.”
“I don’t know why he’s still so adamant about protecting me,” Jaire said. “He kept his promise to Mother while I was growing up, but I’m no longer a child, and he needs to let go. I’m not made of glass. It’s time he saw that.”
“I think he saw ample evidence of it at Court this afternoon,” Ilya said drily. “At any rate, he asked me to let you know he’ll be stopping by before dinner tonight. I believe he wishes to apologize.”
“Tell him I shall be spending the rest of the day quietly in my rooms, and he is welcome to come at his convenience.” Jaire glanced over at Vayne and added, “I’ve developed a rather keen interest in the history of Irilan.”
Vayne grinned, and Jaire couldn’t help the tiny, answering smile that quirked his lips. When he shifted his gaze back to Ilya, the Wytch Master was looking in Vayne’s direction, a slight frown puckering his brow.
