Shadowspire (Wytch Kings, Book 3)

by Jaye McKenna

  “Older than Garrik by a few years at least, I would think.”

  “So he couldn’t be Saphron’s. Vakha didn’t marry her until the year before I was born. And Vakha’s life wouldn’t have been worth living if he’d brought some other woman’s bastard to Altan.” Jaire gave him a grim smile. “Mordax thinks he’s going to put Vakha’s bastard on the throne of Altan, does he? Garrik won’t like that.”

  “I don’t think Garrik is to be given much choice. Faah seems to think using you as leverage will be enough to convince Garrik to abdicate in favor of Tristin. Their original plan was to discredit Ilya and force Garrik to travel to Askarra to defend him. They… didn’t intend for him to arrive there alive.”

  “Aio’s teeth.” Jaire’s knees went weak, and he staggered the few steps to the table and sat down hard on the nearest chair. “I have to warn him.”

  “I think they’ve changed their minds about outright murder now that you’ve fallen into their hands. Faah was trying to persuade Mordax that threatening you would be much less dangerous than trying to deal with an enraged dragon.”

  Jaire shivered, unable to imagine how using him as leverage wouldn’t result in an enraged dragon. “What… what about Kian? What do they want with him?”

  “He has information Faah wants,” Vayne said. “When I left, Faah was asking him about Ambris, and someone named Taretha. She had a jewel Faah wants to get his hands on. It’s been missing since her death, and he thinks Ambris might have it.”

  “I don’t know anything about a jewel,” Jaire said grimly, “but if Faah suspects Ambris might be alive and wants to draw him out of hiding, he couldn’t have chosen a better way. Ambris would die for Kian.”

  Like Garrik would die for me…

  Vayne’s hands twisted around each other. “I wish I could escape my prison and be here with you. You need more than a ghost who cannot even touch you.”

  “I think you might be more help just as you are,” Jaire said. “You can keep an eye on Kian for me. If they’re going to hurt him…” Jaire squared his shoulders. Now that the initial shock of finding himself a captive was wearing off, his mind was beginning to work again. “Tell me everything you overheard.”

  “There isn’t much more to tell, I’m afraid. Mordax left before Faah began questioning Kian. He said he was going back to Falkrag. And Tristin said we’re being held at a tower called Shadowspire, deep in the Iceshards. Neither of those names means anything to me. You?”

  “Falkrag… that’s familiar, but Shadowspire isn’t.” Jaire searched his memory, glad to have something to focus on besides Kian’s plight. “Ah, that’s it — Falkrag is an estate in Ysdrach. That makes sense. Faah is related to Altivair somehow… an uncle or a cousin, I think. No wonder they’re using Falkrag. I wonder what Altivair is getting out of… oh… of course. Access to the mythe-stones. I think that’s part of why Garrik’s trying to unite the northern kingdoms. If all four of them could stand together against the Council, they would have complete control over the supply of mythe-stones.”

  “My father thought the same, once,” Vayne said darkly. “He ended up dead, along with my entire family.”

  “We need to warn Garrik, but I can’t think how we’ll manage it. I’m locked in a tower and all you can do is spy.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Vayne said, wishing he had something more helpful or certain to offer. “We have to.”

  * * *

  Jaire found that focusing all his attention on the problem of escape was just enough to keep his simmering panic from boiling over. He asked Vayne to repeat all that he’d seen and heard, and while he listened to the ghost-prince’s recitation, he paced the floor in slow, measured steps. Every muscle in his body was tense, and his head was beginning to ache with the effort of keeping his mind on the problem and not giving in to fear.

  When Vayne finally finished relating what he’d heard of Kian’s interrogation, Jaire could stand it no longer. “You must go and check on him. Faah has gone now, but Kian feels wrong.”

  “Are you sure?” Vayne asked. “There’s nothing I can do to help him, and I don’t like to leave you alone.”

  “I’m sure.” He wasn’t sure at all, but Jaire had learned over the years that half the battle lay in acting as if he was. And Vayne shouldn’t be difficult to convince; he’d never seen the pale, cringing child who dissolved into tears at the first harsh word from his father.

  Jaire straightened his spine and managed to suppress a shiver. “I need to know if he’s all right,” he continued, in a much stronger voice. “I’ll be fine. If they plan to use me as leverage, I don’t suppose they’ll do anything horrible to me. Not until they’ve talked to Garrik, anyway.”

  “Very well.” Vayne sounded reluctant. “I’ll check on Kian and then I’ll come right back.” He sank down through the floor and disappeared.

  Now that he was alone, it felt as if the whole weight of the tower were pressing down on him. Jaire went to the window and stared out at the mountains, but spun around at the sound of booted feet coming from across the room.

  An arched opening had appeared on the inner wall, the one Vayne said hid the stairs. Two Drachan soldiers stood there, and between them stood Kian. The soldiers shoved Kian through the hole and stepped back. The wall shimmered for a moment, and went solid once more.

  Kian stumbled and went down heavily on his knees. Jaire rushed to his side. “Kian! Are you all right?”

  The healer stared at him with wide eyes. “Jaire, not you, too… I hoped you hadn’t been caught. I’m so sorry…”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I’m the one who led them straight to us.”

  “By healing me? That wasn’t your fault, Kian. I’m the one who was stupid enough to go outside without any boots on.”

  “Faah’s here.” Kian squeezed his eyes shut, and the depth of his despair stole Jaire’s breath away. “He questioned me. He wanted to know what happened at Blackfrost. He asked me about Ambris and… and Master Taretha. I don’t know how much he knows, but he was trying to get into my head. I fought him as best I could, but… he said… he said he’d be bringing in a Wytch Council Inquisitor.”

  “Did you tell him anything?”

  “I don’t… I don’t think so. That’s why he was so angry. Master Ilya taught me some shielding patterns… complicated ones. It was soon after Ambris came to Altan. I didn’t understand why at the time, but he said I had an important secret to hide, and I might be glad of them one day.” His dark eyes focused on Jaire. “They haven’t questioned you, have they?”

  “No, and I don’t suppose they will,” Jaire told him, patting his arm. “I’m not important, except as a hostage. The Council wants Garrik to relinquish the throne, and they think if they threaten me, he’ll do it. And they might not be wrong about that.” He helped Kian to his feet. “Come on. There’s a bedroom through that door, and you look like you could do with a lie down.”

  “I’m all right,” Kian protested, pulling away. “Just… a bit shaken, is all. I think I’d like to sit down, though.” He took a seat at the table. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?”

  “Yes, there’s water in the cupboard.” Jaire opened it to look. In addition to the water, there was a loaf of bread and several thick slices of cheese. Jaire pressed his hand against the back of the cupboard, but it was solid stone, like the wall through which Kian had been pushed. He brought everything to the table and poured a cup of water for Kian.

  He’d just finished pouring one for himself when Vayne rose up through the floor, a worried expression on his face. “Jaire, Kian is… Oh, that’s a relief. I was worried when I couldn’t find him downstairs. Is he all right?”

  “I think so. I was going to get him to bed, but he wanted to sit down.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Kian asked.

  Jaire shot a helpless look at Vayne, then shrugged and said, “Vayne. Well. Prince Vayne of Irilan, if you want to be precise about it.”

&nb
sp; “Vayne? That’s the name you were calling when you were ill.”

  “Yes. You and Ambris probably thought I was hallucinating, but he was there by my side the whole time. He’s real, but he’s trapped in here.” Jaire lifted the amulet to show Kian. “In the mythe.”

  “Trapped?”

  “By his father. To protect him from the Wytch Council. Only… that was a long time ago. Around the time of the Irilan Rebellion. You remember… Master Ristan told us about it. When the Wytch Council put Wytch King Urich and his entire family to the sword. They thought they’d ended the bloodline, but they hadn’t, because Urich had trapped his youngest son in a mythe-stone.” Jaire held up the amulet. “This one. And he’s been there ever since.”

  “And he talks to you,” Kian said flatly.

  “He says I’m the only one who’s ever been able to see him. Oh! And he’s a dragon shifter, too. Not that it’ll help us much, since his dragon form is as trapped in the mythe as his human one.”

  Kian peered about the room, but it was clear from the way his eyes skimmed right past Vayne that he saw nothing. “I don’t sense anyone else. There’s someone below us, only they feel like they’re asleep.”

  “Tristin,” Vayne said helpfully. “He was slumped at the table right where I left him, when I went past just now.”

  “That’s Tristin,” Jaire said. “Vayne says they keep him drugged.”

  Kian’s dark eyes searched his face for the span of several breaths. “Jaire, they didn’t… I mean… it just occurred to me that they might have hit you on the head when they captured you, and—”

  “You think I’m seeing things.” Jaire didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. Kian was as bad as the rest of them, thinking he’d imagined it, just like Garrik would.

  “I didn’t say that,” Kian said quietly. “But I do think you’ve been under a great deal of strain lately. And since I can’t see this Vayne, and I can’t think of any way for you to prove that he’s real, I’d just like to make certain you haven’t sustained some injury.”

  Jaire let out a noisy, irritated sigh. “And I suppose I won’t have a moment’s peace until I let you. Go on then, have a look.”

  Kian’s eyes unfocused, and Jaire busied himself with dividing up the bread and cheese between them. When Kian finally sat back a little, he said only, “Well, there’s no sign of any injury. Where is Vayne now?”

  “You… you believe me?”

  “I don’t think you’d lie to me.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Jaire said firmly. “And Vayne is standing right next to me.”

  Kian’s gaze shifted to the spot Jaire indicated. “I see nothing and I sense nothing. Of course, that doesn’t mean nothing’s there. Ilya always said you were one of the most sensitive empaths he’s ever known. Can Vayne do anything useful? Anything to help us, I mean? Can he get word to Garrik?”

  “No,” Jaire said, shoulders slumping. “I only wish he could. He can’t go very far from the amulet before he gets pulled back into the mythe, and Garrik wouldn’t be able to see him any more than you can. He’s good at spying, though. That’s how I knew you were here. And how I know about Tristin, down below.”

  “I suppose you’ve already checked for a way out.”

  Jaire nodded. “There are four rooms arranged in a ring, and no way out of them, except for that wall they brought you through.” Jaire got up and pressed his hand to the wall, but it was cold stone, like the rest of the walls of the tower. “There’s nothing odd about it, though.”

  “If they brought Kian in through a hole in the wall, then they’re using mythe-gates, like I thought,” Vayne said.

  “Vayne says they’re using mythe-gates,” Jaire said to Kian, then glanced at Vayne. “That doesn’t help us, does it?”

  “No,” Vayne replied. “If a gate is set permanently, it can either be left open so anyone can cross, or it can be keyed so that only particular mythe-shadows will activate it.”

  “So we can’t use it,” Jaire said.

  “No.”

  Jaire told Kian what Vayne had said, then added, “Not that it matters. Even if we could get out, we’re in the middle of the Iceshards. There’s nothing but stone and snow for as far as I can see. We’d never survive out there dressed like this.”

  “What about the windows?” Kian eyed the nearest one. “They’re big enough… but I suppose they’re all barred?”

  “Yes. And so high up, I get dizzy looking down.”

  Kian took a long drink and applied himself to his share of the bread and cheese. Jaire stared down at his own share, but it suddenly looked unappetizing.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Kian asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “You need to eat,” Kian and Vayne said at the same moment, and Vayne continued, “You need to keep your strength up in case an opportunity to escape should arise.”

  They were right; it wouldn’t be fair to Kian if such an opportunity did arise, and Jaire was too weak to help because he didn’t feel like eating. He applied himself to his meal with grim determination.

  Chapter Seven

  “… so of course, when my mother became pregnant, my grandfather was absolutely scandalized.” Tristin paused in his tale. His gaze shifted briefly to Vayne, who sat cross-legged, floating just above the table in front of him. The cup of drugged water he’d been given with his breakfast sat between them, and Tristin eyed it longingly.

  Vayne hadn’t managed to get to him in time to delay him drinking it yesterday, but this morning, he’d come down early, before Tristin had even awakened, and waited until he was up and able to talk. Unused to company, Tristin was a fount of information, though he was clearly distracted by the cup sitting in the center of the table.

  “Prince Jaire was not aware Vakha had a son,” Vayne said, hoping to keep him from drugging himself for long enough to get some more information about Faah’s plans.

  “That does not surprise me one bit. My grandfather hated scandal. My mother was Princess Emira of Ysdrach. She and my father applied to the Council to approve their union, but the Council refused to allow them to marry. Something about dangerous Wytch powers and lethal abilities lurking in the bloodlines.”

  Vayne frowned. “You look perfectly healthy to me.”

  “My problems are all in here.” Tristin gave him a grim smile and tapped his head. “Object empathy, Mordax calls it. If I touch something that’s been handled enough by the same person to form lasting impressions in the mythe, I receive those impressions. Sometimes they’re strong enough to overwhelm me completely. Which means touching almost anything can be rather… fraught.”

  “But surely he’s taught you how to protect yourself? To shield your mind?”

  “No, although Mordax has tried, to no avail. I haven’t decided if that’s a shortcoming on his part or on mine, but the end result is the same — I can do nothing to protect myself. Which is why I’m here. No one has ever stayed here in Shadowspire long enough to imprint any lasting impressions in the mythe. These rooms carry no memories strong enough to concern me, and even if they did, all the furnishings were brought here new when this suite was prepared for me. So I need not worry about touching anything.”

  Vayne looked pointedly at the cup. “What’s the drug for?”

  “It’s some brew of Mordax’s. Anzaria and some other things… it stops me from sensing anything.”

  “But why would you need it here? You’ve just said—”

  “I don’t.” Tristin reached for the cup, sweat beading on his brow as he raised it to his lips. “But I took it for several years before they finally gave up and brought me here. I’ve been taking the foul stuff for so long, I cannot go without it. I’m addicted.” And with that, he drank down the contents of the cup. “And I suppose that’s how they intend to control me once they install me on Altan’s throne. If I don’t behave, they’ll withhold the drug, and I shall suffer.” He stared at the cup morosely. “Honestly, sometimes I think Mother had the right idea.”
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  “What… what do you mean?”

  “Oh, she threw herself from her balcony at Falkrag soon after my Wytch power manifested. No one could help me, and… she feared it would drive me mad. She blamed herself.” Tristin’s words were already beginning to slur. “Should have done it when I had the chance. There’s no way out of this place. Think that’s why they… moved me… here. I’d developed rather a… a fascination with high places. Made… made Mordax nervous, and he… what was I…” Tristin trailed off, eyes gone glassy, mouth gone slack.

  “Tristin? Tristin?”

  There was no response, so Vayne floated up through the floor to find Jaire and Kian sitting at the table. Jaire looked up as Vayne settled himself in the empty spot between them.

  “Vayne’s back,” Jaire said, gesturing to the chair.

  A flicker of doubt lit Kian’s eyes, but he glanced dutifully in Vayne’s direction and said, “Good morning, Vayne. Did you learn anything new?”

  “Tell him I learned a bit more of Tristin’s past, but nothing useful regarding our captors’ plans,” Vayne said, and related what Tristin had told him, pausing every so often so Jaire could repeat his words to Kian.

  When he’d finished, Jaire’s eyes were shimmering with tears. “But that’s horrible!” the prince declared. “If we come up with a way out, we must try to free Tristin, as well. I’m sure Master Ilya could help him, even if that horrible Mordax couldn’t.”

  “Or wouldn’t,” Vayne said softly.

  “What do you mean?” Jaire asked.

  “How better to keep someone under your control than make them completely dependent on you for something they need in order to survive?”

  The color drained from Jaire’s face, and Kian said, “What? What is it, Jaire?”