<If he’s wearing a blood-chain, I’m surprised you can sense him at all,> Jaire said.
<The bond runs far deeper in the mythe than any human-made device can reach,> Dirit said. <Only death can cut him off from me entirely.>
Only death… Tristin shivered. It wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t. There were too many things he still needed to say to Mikhyal, too many hours they hadn’t spent together, too many dances left to dance.
<There!> Dirit launched himself from Jaire’s head to fly out in front of them, pointing to a clearing just ahead. <See the shelter? Circle it. Keep low, and don’t get too close. You don’t want the Wytch Master sensing you. I’ll go down and have a look.>
The little dragon disappeared before either of them could protest.
With a silent curse, Tristin followed Jaire in and circled the clearing, gliding just above the trees. The shelter was close to the road, with a fenced pasture behind it for the horses. The carriage sat maybe thirty paces away from the shelter, and the guardsmen had arranged their bedrolls around it. Ten paces beyond the carriage was a campfire.
<I suppose there will be sentries,> Tristin said, studying the heavy canopy. Not even the excellent night vision of his dragon form could pierce through the dense treetops.
<Probably,> Jaire replied. <We should wait for Dirit. He’ll tell us how many we’re dealing with.>
Dirit appeared just after the first low growl of thunder rolled across the sky. He perched on the end of Tristin’s snout and said, <We are badly outnumbered, so we shall have to be sneaky and underhanded.>
<If it saves Mikhyal’s life, I’m quite willing to be sneaky and underhanded,> Tristin said.
<So am I,> Jaire agreed, though his mind-voice wavered, as if he wasn’t quite certain of that.
<Anxin and Shaine are asleep inside the shelter,> Dirit reported. <There are six sentries hidden in the trees around the clearing, about twenty paces out, and six more sleeping beside the carriage. Not that His Royal Highness is going anywhere. I couldn’t rouse him.> Dirit sounded worried. <He’s wearing that horrible collar, and they’ve chained his ankle to a heavy ring fixed inside the carriage.>
<Can you get rid of the sentries?> Jaire asked. <The same way you got rid of the bandits?>
The little dragon nodded. <I can, but they are too far apart for me to take them all together. I shall have to deal with them one at a time, very quietly. The man who shot down His Royal Highness is with the group by the campfire. One of you will have to deal with him, for I cannot. He is completely cut off from the mythe.>
<I can take the ones by the campfire,> Tristin said.
<You must wait until I’ve finished,> Dirit cautioned. <If the Wytch Master wakes up, he will sense the disturbance I make in the mythe. He will not be able to stop me, but he will come and have a look. You may have to fight him.>
<What about going after the Wytch Master first?> Tristin suggested.
<Bad idea,> was Dirit’s response. <He’s warded and shielded. A direct attack will wake him, and he’ll warn the sentries. And I may not be able to get through his shields.>
<What if I land and spray fire all over the shelter?> Tristin asked.
Dirit laid his ears back. <Can you guarantee you won’t roast His Royal Highness in a moment of mindless battle lust? Or start a forest fire, trapping him inside the carriage? In case you weren’t paying attention, he’s unconscious and he’s chained. He won’t be able to escape the carriage on his own.>
Tristin shuddered as he thought back to the last time his dragon instincts had swept him away. During the tense confrontation on top of Dragonwatch, Prince Jaire had put himself between Tristin and Wytch Master Faah, intent on keeping Faah alive for questioning. In his mindless fury, Tristin had very nearly flamed them both.
As if following his thoughts, Dirit said sternly, <You must keep your head this time, Prince Tristin of the New Flower Bed. The moment you hear screams, you must land and do your best to defend the carriage without turning the forest into a fire trap. Use your claws and teeth.> Dirit snapped his little jaws for effect. <And be careful. These men are all Drachan soldiers. They are the best the Council has, and they will fight like it. Don’t worry about me — your dragon fire cannot touch me.>
<This is a terrible plan,> Tristin said.
<What if we—> Jaire started.
<Too late,> Tristin told him. <He’s gone. Let’s tighten our circle. If you see movement below, you can be sure it’s an enemy. The only man we care about saving is chained inside that carriage.>
* * *
Thunder rumbled overhead as they closed in on the shelter. If Dirit had begun killing the sentries, there was no indication of it. Tristin scanned the treetops, thankful for the cloud cover and the heavy canopy, even if it did make it more difficult to see what was going on below.
A cry came from inside the shelter, a scream of rage and desperation.
<That was Shaine,> Jaire said. <He’s terrified… and the Wytch Master is furious… Tristin, I think Anxin has some kind of hold over him.>
Shaine’s cry had alerted the guardsmen bedded down around the carriage. They erupted out of their bedrolls and had weapons ready in the blink of an eye.
Before Tristin could protest, Jaire swooped down to land on the roof of the shelter. At the sight of the dragon, the men guarding the carriage reached for their crossbows. A barrage of lightning from Jaire forced them back behind the carriage.
While they were occupied with Jaire, Tristin circled the clearing once more and landed on the other side of the carriage from the guards, his only thought to protect Mikhyal.
The moment he’d landed, Jaire took to the air, raining lightning down around the guardsmen who were using the carriage for cover. Two crossbow bolts flew past Jaire, narrowly missing him. Another round of lightning sent the men shouting and scurrying into the forest.
Mindful of Dirit’s warning about setting the forest alight, Tristin held his fire, trusting Jaire to keep the guardsmen occupied while he freed Mikhyal. He was still determining the best way to extract the prince from the carriage when another scream came from the shelter. The door flew open, and a half-dressed figure tore out, sword gripped tightly in his hand.
“Mik! Mikhyal!” The man sounded desperate.
Shaine.
Jaire spit lightning again, hitting the ground behind Shaine, just missing him, then spit another barrage into the forest. Tristin spun around and planted himself between the carriage and Shaine, all the while growling low in his throat. Shaine skidded to a stop, eyes wide with horror. “Please…” he started, holding out a hand toward Tristin. “Don’t hurt him!”
A moment later, a man dressed in the black robes of a Wytch Master strode from the shelter. “Shaine!” he barked.
Shaine reacted as if he’d been slapped. He jerked to attention and made a choking sound in his throat. His eyes remained fixed on Tristin, desperate and imploring, but he didn’t move forward.
Anxin’s eyes narrowed as they fixed on the dragon guarding the carriage. The Wytch Master barely hesitated before a glowing green ball appeared in his hand. He raised his arm and hurled it directly at Tristin.
Tristin flinched and tried to dodge out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough. The ball exploded against his side, sending thousands of tiny shocks radiating through him. Roaring in pain, Tristin reared up on his hind legs, only to see the Wytch Master readying another ball of light. He drew in a breath to blast Anxin with his flames, but there in front of the Wytch Master, still rooted to the spot, was Mikhyal’s brother, eyes still fixed on Tristin.
Please… Shaine’s desperate plea echoed through Tristin’s mind.
With a shout of triumph, Anxin released the ball of light. The moment it left the Wytch Master’s hand, one of Jaire’s lightning bolts intercepted it, and it exploded in a shower of green and yellow sparks.
Anxin scowled and readied another attack, t
his time turning toward Jaire. Tristin had only a moment to make the decision. The primal sense of struggle he’d sensed when he’d touched both the throwing knife and the Wytch Sword flashed through his mind.
Shaine?
Praying to the Dragon Mother that he was right, he charged forward and launched himself over Shaine to land in front of Anxin. His claws gouged deep furrows in the dirt as he skidded to a stop and let loose a great gout of fire.
Anxin’s robes caught fire immediately. The Wytch Master screamed and began beating at the flames. A moment later, lightning rained down from above, wreathing his body in mythe-light. He twisted and writhed, fighting to escape, as Jaire continued to bathe him in lightning.
All at once, Anxin’s scream cut off, the lightning stopped, and the Wytch Master crumpled to the ground in a heap of smoking fabric. At the same moment, Shaine dropped to his knees and let out a cry that sounded like equal parts anguish and triumph.
Dirit appeared, hovering in the air in front of Tristin. <Oh, excellent job on the Wytch Master! That’s it, then. His men have all been neutralized. They were all Drachan, you know. They’re not anymore. Now they are nine tidy little piles of bone, all polished and arranged very nicely, and three lightning-blasted corpses, compliments of Prince Jaire.>
Tristin glanced at Jaire, who had returned to the roof of the shelter, and was scanning the forest for any sign of threat. <Perhaps keep that last bit to yourself, hmm, Dirit?> Tristin suggested.
<Of course. Our tender-hearted prince might not appreciate the knowledge that he’s made his first kill.> Dirit cocked his head. <He’ll have to get over that in a hurry. There’s a war coming, you know.>
<Ai, I know,> Tristin said sadly. <It’ll happen soon enough… but let’s give him a little time, shall we?>
<Very well, Prince Tristin, Guardian of Tender Hearts. I shall take full credit. What shall we do with Prince Shaine? Shall I make another pretty pile of bones?> Dirit’s ears flattened to his head. <Or… seeing as you’ve managed to roast the Wytch Master, perhaps you’d rather hang onto him for information?>
Tristin stared at Shaine, who was still on his knees, tears streaming down his face, great sobs shaking his slender body. Swirling air currents had him looking up to see Jaire gliding down to land lightly between himself and Shaine.
<Don’t hurt him, Tristin. I don’t think any of this was his fault.> Jaire turned to Dirit. <Is it safe to shift back, Dirit? Or are there more Drachan in the forest? I don’t sense any, but you said one of them was invisible to the mythe.>
<They have all been dealt with, Your Highness,> Dirit said. <I counted them myself.>
<Thank you, Dirit. I don’t like to think how that would have gone if you hadn’t been here.> Jaire shifted back to human form just as the first raindrops began to fall. “I felt something break when Anxin died. There was a connection of some sort running deep in the mythe between him and Shaine, but it’s gone now.” Jaire quickly untangled himself from his harness and dug into his saddlebags for his clothing. “Are you all right?” he asked Tristin as he pulled on his shirt and breeches. “Anxin hit you with something.”
<Tell him I’m fine, Dirit,> Tristin said. <It still stings a bit, but I don’t think it’s done any permanent damage. And if it has, it will heal when I shift. If you’re certain Shaine is no danger to you, I’m going to see to Mikhyal.>
Dirit repeated his words to Jaire, who patted Tristin’s flank and gave him a sad smile. “Shaine is no danger to us. You can’t feel him the way I can. He’s devastated. Go and see to Mikhyal. I’ll see what I can do here.” Jaire knelt on the ground beside Shaine and began speaking to him in soothing tones.
Tristin turned his attention to the carriage. The door was locked, but its hinges didn’t look strong enough to impede a determined dragon. Tristin wrapped his claws around the bars of the window and pulled. With a loud squeal of straining metal, the door came free. He tossed it aside and turned his attention to the interior of the carriage. His dragon body was far too big to fit inside the opening, but he could see Mikhyal, sprawled in the corner, naked and vulnerable. He shifted back to human form, entered the carriage, and crawled to Mikhyal’s side. “Mikhyal, wake up,” he whispered, pulling Mikhyal into his arms. “It’s Tristin. It’s all right, I’ve come for you.”
While he was cradling Mikhyal and wondering how he was going to remove the chain from his ankle, Dirit flitted in, two keys clenched tightly in his little jaws. Tristin held out a hand and Dirit dropped them in his palm.
The moment the metal touched his flesh, Tristin flinched and adjusted his shielding pattern. The keys carried the same traces of empathic resonance he’d felt on the Wytch Sword and the knife that had struck Drannik. He frowned at Dirit. “Shaine gave these to you?”
“He gave them to Prince Jaire. One is for the carriage door, which it doesn’t look as if you’ll need, and the other is for the chain.”
“But they feel like… oh, dear… that means Shaine was the one who threw that knife at Wytch King Drannik. You didn’t leave him alone with Jaire, did you?”
Dirit didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “You needn’t worry. Prince Jaire is convinced that Shaine is entirely free of the Wytch Master’s influence.”
A small, glowing ball of mythe-light appeared above Tristin’s head, and he quickly located the lock and used the key to free the prince. To his disappointment, Tristin wasn’t strong enough to carry Mikhyal himself. Dirit had to fetch Jaire to help. Between the two of them, they dragged Mikhyal’s limp body from the carriage. They were only halfway to the shelter when a brilliant flash of lightning split the sky. Rain pelted down, drenching them.
They hurried into the shelter, where Shaine waited. He watched with wide, haunted eyes as they dried Mikhyal off and settled him on one of the bedrolls. Mikhyal moaned as they gently arranged his limbs and covered him with blankets. The blood-chain was still locked around his neck, ruby-red stones glowing dimly, tiny flecks of gold swirling deep within them.
Dirit perched on Mikhyal’s chest, twitching his whiskers and looking quite agitated. “We must get that abomination off of him. Quickly!”
“Do you know how to remove it?” Tristin asked Jaire.
“No. Ilya does, though. I can fly back to Altan and fetch him. We could be back here tomorrow afternoon.”
Tristin hated to think of Mikhyal suffering for that long. “We can’t do anything until the storm passes. Then you’ll need to let Wytch King Drannik know where we are and what’s happened. And you should really sleep before you fly all the way back to Altan.” That would take even more time. Tristin lifted a hand to Mikhyal’s forehead to brush dirty, sweat-soaked hair away from his brow.
“I don’t want him to wear that thing for one minute longer than he has to,” Jaire said vehemently. “I wore one once, and it was horrible.”
“I… I can free him.” The soft, trembling voice came from behind them.
Tristin turned to see Prince Shaine take a hesitant step forward. “I can take the blood-chain off of him. I-I know the p-pattern to do it. Anxin showed me. I-I’m the one who put it on him in the first place. I d-didn’t want to, but… I didn’t… I couldn’t…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Anxin forced me. He wanted to make Mikhyal hate me so he wouldn’t try to help me break free.” A fat tear slid down his cheek.
Jaire beckoned Shaine forward. The young man knelt at his brother’s side and reached out with shaking hands to gently rotate the collar a quarter turn. He closed his eyes, brow wrinkling, and a moment later, Mikhyal heard a faint click. The swirling golden flecks within the stones faded and winked out, and Shaine withdrew the collar and offered it to Jaire, who drew back, shaking his head.
“I can’t touch it,” Jaire whispered. “It hurts.”
“Hand it to me, Shaine,” Tristin said quietly.
Shaine gave it to him, and Tristin crossed the room and threw the thing into the fire, vowing to destroy it before they left the shelter.
“Tristin?” The ho
arse voice coming from the bedroll had Tristin turning to see Mikhyal’s eyes fluttering open.
* * *
“Mik?”
Mikhyal knew that voice. It was Shaine’s, but he hadn’t heard his brother sound so young and uncertain since the accident that had stolen him away and left a cold stranger in his place. He groaned and forced his eyes open to find himself in a room lit by flickering firelight. Blankets had been piled on top of him, and the terrible, icy weight that had dragged so painfully at his mind was gone.
“Mik… oh, Mik, I’m so sorry.” Shaine knelt at his side, holding his hand tightly, tears streaming down his face. “Please be all right, you have to be all right, you can’t die thinking I hate you! All those horrible things I said and did… Anxin did something to me when I was recovering from the accident. I’ve been fighting to escape him ever since. Sweet Dragon Mother, please, don’t take him before I can tell him the truth!”
“I’m not dead, Shaine,” Mikhyal whispered.
“Mik!” Shaine bent forward, pressed his face to Mikhyal’s chest, and wept as if his heart would break.
Mikhyal struggled to free his arms so he could get them around his brother. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.” While Shaine sobbed against him, Mikhyal glanced about the room, relief surging through him as his eyes came to rest on Tristin, who was kneeling on the floor next to Shaine.
Tristin smiled sadly. “He speaks the truth. It was his struggle I felt when I touched the Wytch Sword and when I pulled the knife from your father’s back. That’s why there was so much fury and despair in what I felt… Anxin was controlling him, and he was struggling to break free with all his strength.”
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Shaine whimpered. “I’d never have hurt Father if I’d had any choice. Anxin made me take the sword to use as payment to the bandits he hired to attack you on your way to Altan. He said… he said only the line of Rhiva could use it properly, and he wanted it out of the way.”