by Jaye McKenna
“Whether I have or not, it doesn’t matter,” Vayne said, giving him a grim smile. “We are out of time. I shall rest when this is over and you and Kian are safe.”
“And Tristin,” Jaire murmured.
“And Tristin,” Vayne agreed. “If I can free him, too, then I will. I promise you that. He does not deserve what’s been done to him any more than Kian does.”
Downstairs, supper was waiting in the cupboard. Jaire insisted that Vayne eat his share of the hearty stew and warm bread. Watching Vayne’s rapturous expression as he savored those first few bites was well worth missing the meal, but after his initial reaction, Vayne did not linger over the food.
The sun had set by the time he wiped the last of the crumbs from his mouth and went to inspect the window. “Well, then,” he said. “This should prove interesting.”
“Can you manage?” Jaire asked, eyeing the opening. While it was large enough to accommodate even a man of Garrik’s size, it wasn’t big enough for a man in dragon form. Not even for Ilya, the smallest of the dragon shifters Jaire knew.
“Oh, yes. The timing will be crucial, but I’ve been in far tighter spots than this.”
Vayne gave Jaire one last, lingering kiss, then dropped the blanket and climbed up onto the window sill, where he crouched, staring out into the night. He twisted around to look back at Jaire, and their eyes locked. Jaire let his own gaze trace the dragon-prince’s face, memorizing every line to hold close to his heart in Vayne’s absence.
“I’ll return as soon as I can,” Vayne said.
“I know.” Jaire’s voice was barely a whisper.
The leap and the shift were almost simultaneous, and Jaire watched in open-mouthed wonder, wishing it wasn’t so dark. The night swallowed Vayne up before he’d completed his second wing-beat, and Jaire backed slowly away from the window feeling empty and lost.
He brought his fingers to his lips, imagining he could still feel the lingering warmth of that last kiss.
How long would it take Vayne to reach Altan?
How long until he returned?
Jaire’s mind, always far too busy, decided to follow the trail of worst-case scenarios, until he fixed on the idea that if he were moved elsewhere before Vayne returned, it would all be for naught.
With an uneasy glance at the section of wall where the mythe-gate was set, Jaire crept back into Kian’s room to keep watch over him.
* * *
Unable to sleep, Jaire sat beside Kian far into the night. Though he was glad of the light in his prison, the mythe-stones mounted in the ceiling glowed the same soft yellow all the time, and made it difficult for him to fall asleep.
It must have been close to midnight when Kian’s eyes flew open and darted about wildly. His terror was like a spike of ice through Jaire’s chest.
“Kian, it’s all right. I’m here with you.”
“Where…?”
“Still trapped in Shadowspire, I’m afraid. But we’ve got some help.”
“Ambris…”
“Is fine, I’m sure. It’s still the same day.” Jaire glanced toward the dark window, and added, “Just.”
“But I told them—”
“Don’t.” Jaire put a hand on Kian’s shoulder. “Everything’s changed, so before you go drowning yourself in guilt and despair, listen to me. All right?”
Kian’s eyes looked suspiciously bright, but he sat up and leaned back against the pillows. “Nothing has changed, Jaire. I told them everything. They know what happened at Blackfrost. And they know Garrik’s been hiding me and Ambris.”
“I know that. But it’s going to be all right. Vayne has gone to Altan to warn them.”
Kian closed his eyes briefly, and his head fell back against the headboard with a dull thud. “Vayne,” he said flatly. “I thought you said he was trapped in the mythe.”
“He…” Jaire hesitated, biting his lip. “After the Drachan came for you… he told me that I must try to free him by breaking the amulet. So I did. I thought it hadn’t worked at first, but then after I got you settled, I was standing by the window wishing I’d never agreed to help him, and he just… he rose up out of the mist like something out of those fantastic tales Garrik used to read to me. Only it’s not a tale. He’s real. He’s a dragon shifter, and he’s gone to Altan to warn Garrik and bring back help.”
Instead of being relieved or excited, Kian merely stared down at the blankets. His doubt sliced through Jaire’s mind, sharp as a knife. It hurt, knowing Kian didn’t believe him. Like everyone else, Kian still thought of him as the fanciful, emotional boy he’d once been, with his head in the clouds and his heart on his sleeve.
“He broke the glass and tore out the bars of the window in the main room,” Jaire said quietly. “To get in here.” To get to me… He tucked that thought away for later, when he was alone. It warmed him, and he couldn’t help the tiny smile that played about the corners of his mouth.
“What else did he do?” Kian’s question cut through the warm glow, and Jaire cocked his head.
“What do you mean?”
“Someone’s done something. To me, I mean. I feel… it’s not… and you’re not a healer.”
“He said he blurred your memories of the interrogation,” Jaire told him. “He didn’t take them away, but he said… he said it would feel like it happened a long time ago.”
“Ai,” Kian murmured. “It feels… distant. Not so sharp and raw. But… it was still just this morning?”
“Ai.”
“So Ambris and Garrik…”
“Are in danger,” Jaire said. “There’s no getting around that. And if Faah can use mythe-gates the way that horrible Taretha could, then he could have his Drachan in Altan by now. That’s why Vayne didn’t stay until you woke up. He had a short sleep, ate some dinner, and left. I… I’m worried that he might not have the strength to reach Altan. We don’t even know how far away it is. Shifting might heal him, but it can’t replace lost energy, and if he’s been trapped in the mythe all those years, I can’t imagine there are no ill effects from suddenly being forced back into the world.”
“Mythe-shock?” Kian asked quickly.
Jaire sucked in his bottom lip. “I… I don’t know. I’m not a healer. I wouldn’t sense that, but he was tired and trying to hide it. I wanted him to rest more, but…” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t wait beyond nightfall. He said he had to warn Garrik and Ambris.”
Kian leaned back against the pillow, a frown knitting his dark eyebrows. “Why would he care about Ambris? And me? He’s never even met us.”
“He was… he was there, Kian. In the shelter, the night after the snake bit me. He… he sang to me.”
“You kept calling his name.”
“I think…” Jaire stared down at his hands as his cheeks heated. “I think I might… I mean, I like him. A lot. Even though… even though I wasn’t certain he was real until today.”
Kian didn’t say anything to that, but when they went downstairs and Jaire showed him the window and the broken stone where the bars had been, he went very quiet.
When they sat down to dinner, Kian insisted on sharing his portion with Jaire. The stew was cold, but neither of them had eaten anything all day, and it was soon gone, along with the bread.
Chapter Eight
The jagged peaks of the Iceshards went on and on. Had it not been for the familiar patterns of the stars and the slow progression of the moon, Vayne would have been certain he’d spent the night flying in circles. Shadowspire was much farther north than he’d assumed, and far too deep in the mountains to make any sort of overland rescue possible. It would take weeks for a rescue party to traverse the rugged terrain on foot.
And by that time, it would surely be too late.
By the time the endless fields of stone and ice finally gave way to gentler slopes dotted with fir trees, dawn was beginning to stretch faint pink fingers of light across the sky. Vayne’s breath hitched as he finally caught sight of the Dragon’s Spine and realized
he was also much farther west than he’d thought. Shadowspire, it seemed, lay beyond the kingdoms of Skanda, north of the Westlands.
With a snarl of frustration, Vayne banked, turning toward the rising sun, and headed for the mountains. The kingdom of Altan lay just on the other side.
His vision blurred with fatigue as he continued the long flight. A cold wind picked up, and Vayne struggled against it. He really ought to land and rest, but he had only to think of the fear he’d seen in Jaire’s eyes to know that resting wasn’t an option.
It was mid-morning when Vayne finally reached Castle Altan. He must have been spotted, for a small crowd had gathered in the courtyard. Vayne’s vision was so blurred with fatigue that he couldn’t focus on any of the upturned faces. He touched down heavily on the flagstones and shifted, only to find his legs refused to support him.
He went down hard on sun-warmed stone. Moments later, hurried footsteps moved toward him, a blanket was thrown over him, and a familiar voice said, “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
“Jaire…”
“What about Jaire?” The voice became sharp, and Vayne pried his eyes open to see Wytch Master Ilya kneeling beside him.
“Are we alone?”
The Wytch Master raised his voice. “Back off, all of you. Give the man some space. Can’t you see he’s exhausted himself?” A moment later, he murmured, “As alone as we will get for the moment. Speak quietly, and tell me what you know of Prince Jaire.”
“He’s being held in a tower called Shadowspire, deep in the Iceshards, north and west of here.” Vayne’s voice cracked with fatigue. “Kian is there with him. The Wytch Council knows your king is sheltering Kian and Prince Ambris. If he does not relinquish the throne to his cousin Tristin… they will hurt Jaire.”
Ilya’s pale eyes widened. “And are you the Council’s messenger?” he asked, his voice gone cold.
“Aio’s teeth, no… I seek only to warn you… and perhaps bring back help. I am… I am Jaire’s friend.”
The Wytch Master nodded sharply and began barking orders. Dizziness overcame Vayne, and his vision swam. He struggled to focus on Ilya’s bright, coppery hair. It didn’t help, and the fatigue he’d been fighting since dawn finally overcame him.
When Vayne opened his eyes, he was lying in bed in a luxuriously appointed bedroom. Near the window stood three people he recognized: Wytch Master Ilya, Wytch King Garrik, and Prince Ambris. All three of them spoke in low tones, though they quickly fell silent the moment Vayne struggled to sit. Ilya and Ambris approached the bed with the Wytch King trailing behind.
“How do you feel?” Ilya asked.
“I… better.” Vayne met the Wytch Master’s eyes in surprise as he took stock of himself. “Much better. Thank you.”
“Kian and Jaire?” Ambris asked quickly. His golden eyes were bloodshot, and there were fine lines of strain etched around his mouth that hadn’t been there before.
“When I left them, Kian was recovering from a brutal interrogation by a Council Inquisitor, and Jaire was tending to him. I did what I could for Kian. Jaire was… he was frightened, but doing his best not to show it.”
Ambris brought a hand to his mouth and made a tiny whimpering sound. Garrik put a steadying hand on his shoulder, and Vayne was struck once again at how different Garrik was from Jaire. Tall and powerfully built, Altan’s Wytch King radiated the same air of self-confidence bordering on arrogance that Vayne’s father had.
“Who, exactly, are you?” the Wytch King demanded, black eyes glittering dangerously. “And how do you know so much about what has befallen Kian and Prince Jaire?”
“I am Prince Vayne of Irilan, Your Majesty.” Vayne inclined his head, as he would when speaking to someone of slightly higher rank than his own.
The king’s eyes narrowed. “There is no Prince Vayne of Irilan. Ord has three sons, and Vayne isn’t one of them.”
“I am the youngest son of Wytch King Urich,” Vayne explained, “who was put to death by the Wytch Council during what they now call the Irilan Rebellion. I’ve been trapped in the mythe ever since my father received word the Drachan were coming for us. Your brother was instrumental in my escape from exile. If your Wytch Master wishes to verify the truth of my words, I will not fight him.” He bowed his head and lowered the protections around his mind to allow the Wytch Master access to his memories.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Ilya accepted his offer and began to examine his mind. The Wytch Master was skilled enough that if Vayne hadn’t known what to look for, he’d never have sensed his presence.
“Aio’s teeth and tail,” Ilya breathed as he withdrew from Vayne’s mind. “He speaks the truth. Though I cannot imagine how he managed to survive for so long in the mythe without going mad.”
“It was a near thing,” Vayne said. “Prince Jaire was the first to be able to see me in that state, although His Majesty’s cousin, Tristin, who has been imprisoned at Shadowspire for much of his life, could also see me.”
“Tristin?” The Wytch King’s thick black eyebrows drew together. “I know of no Tristin. You had better tell me all of it. From the beginning.”
So Vayne told them.
Garrik’s expression grew darker and darker as the story unfolded. When Vayne finished, there was a long silence before the Wytch King said, “Why now? If they’ve had Tristin all this time, why wait so long? Why not bring him forward after my father died? If the Council had granted him legitimacy, as the eldest son of the eldest son, he could have challenged my claim to the throne.”
“Because High Wytch Nerith wouldn’t allow it,” Ilya said softly. “Ord’s Wytch Master, Ythlin, is Nerith’s granddaughter, and she has been explaining Council politics to me over afternoon tea ever since the Irilan party arrived for the Midsummer Faire.
“Ythlin tells me the Wytch Council has been divided for many years. One faction, led by Taretha, and now Cenyth, fears the royal bloodlines have become too powerful. They wish to breed Wytch power out of the royal bloodlines. The other faction, led by Nerith, wishes to breed for power, strengthening the bloodlines in preparation for a conflict with the Westlands foreseen by Nerith himself in a vision. They have been at odds ever since Nerith came to power. It was because of Nerith that I was allowed to live, though I only learned of that recently. And it is because of Nerith that your father was allowed so much latitude. Had Cenyth been High Wytch when your father was alive, she would have had him replaced. The Council’s decision to allow you to take the throne, but forbid you to marry, was an uneasy compromise between the two factions. Apparently, there was a rather heated debate about whether you should be allowed to live at all.”
Garrik scowled. “The kingdoms would be better off without the Wytch Council,” he said. “The Northern Alliance is sounding like a better idea with every passing day. If the leaders of the Westlands are casting their gazes over the Dragon’s Spine, Altan and Ysdrach will be the first to be attacked, and I intend to be prepared.” He turned to Vayne. “The moment Ilya pronounces you fit, you will guide me to Shadowspire, and we will bring both Jaire and Kian home. I shall have a saddle made for you, and—”
“Garrik,” Ilya said gently, “it took Vayne all night to get here. You cannot fly that distance with anyone on your back, not even Jaire. And if the Council plans to send Drachan into your kingdom, you are needed here. Besides” — Ilya frowned at him — “what of Tristin? Would you really rescue Jaire and Kian, and leave your poor cousin behind, when I might well be able to help him?”
The king turned on his Wytch Master, eyes blazing with dark fire. “If I can only save two of the three, of course it will be Jaire and Kian. I know nothing of this Tristin, and if he is Vakha’s bastard and Faah’s puppet, I doubt I want to. No, I am going, Ilya. I will not leave Kian and Jaire to suffer. Nor will I allow them to be used against me.”
The Wytch Master didn’t seem fazed by his king’s temper. He merely arched one coppery eyebrow and said, “I never said you should. I merely said you are need
ed here, protecting your kingdom and its people. Flying off to Shadowspire is not the answer.”
“Then what is?” Garrik demanded. When Ilya didn’t answer immediately, he turned and strode toward the door. “You have no idea how to rescue them, do you Wytch Master? I am going after my brother immediately, and you cannot stop me.”
“I can get them out,” Vayne said quietly. “All three of them.”
Garrik froze, his hand on the door, and both he and Ilya turned to stare at Vayne.
“How?” Ilya asked. “Garrik cannot possibly carry two. And I’ve seen you in your dragon form; you would not even be able to carry Jaire.”
“I am not proposing to carry them,” Vayne said. “I will teach them to shift so they can carry themselves home.”
“Teach them to—?” Ilya’s face paled.
“I thought you said he wasn’t suffering from mythe-shock, Ilya,” Garrik snapped. “But he sounds as if he’s hallucinating. I have heard enough. Get him to bed and—”
“Enough, Garrik,” Ilya said. “He’s not hallucinating. Tell me what you intend, Vayne.” Pale blue eyes fixed intently on Vayne.
“My father, Urich, was a dragon shifter,” Vayne began, “but I was not. Wytch Master Larana manipulated my mythe-shadow to give me the ability, and burned the patterns required to shift into my mind. She and my father intended to oppose the Council. To that end, they were attempting to build an army of dragon shifters.”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” Garrik growled. “Making dragon shifters? Building an army of them? It sounds like one of Jaire’s tales.”
“Of course it does. The Council feared my father would use such an army to unite the northern kingdoms, much as you are intending to do. After they sent the Drachan to murder my family, they put my cousin Niall on the throne and rewrote history. They declared my father a traitor, but the details of his treason were never revealed. They could not allow what he and Larana were attempting to come to light, so they called it the Irilan Rebellion and buried all knowledge of it.”
