Chapter One
The war had started badly for the Northern Alliance.
In Castle Rhivana’s library, Prince Shaine of Rhiva stared at the piles of books rescued from the ruins of the summer palace. He’d spent the past few days scouring both the remains of the small library and the vaults under the blackened timbers for any tomes that might have been missed. All that remained now was to decide what to do with them all.
Of course, with the war everyone’s top priority, the weapons and armor had been retrieved immediately. Shaine seemed to be the only one interested in saving the books. Hundreds of them, he’d found, which made him hopeful, though there was no guarantee any of them held the information he sought.
No guarantee you’re clever enough to know it when you see it, either.
No. He mustn’t think that way. Those were Anxin’s words. Poisonous words designed to undermine Shaine’s confidence, reinforce his doubts.
Anxin was dead, but Shaine still had to remind himself of that sometimes. Horrible enough that the Wytch Master had seized control of his body, but to have left Shaine awake and aware of every awful thing he was forced to do, every hurtful word he was compelled to speak… Anxin had made him a prisoner in his own body. No matter how hard Shaine had fought or how loudly he’d screamed, he’d never been able to wrest control from the Wytch Master for more than a few, brief moments every now and then.
Never long enough to tell anyone.
Not that any of them would have believed him. Only Mikhyal. His brother would have helped him, if only he’d known. Sometimes Shaine thought Mik was the only person in the world who cared what happened to him.
No, boy, he doesn’t care, either. He hates you just as much as the rest of them do, but he’s too polite to say so.
The pain of his fingernails driving into his palm banished the imagined voice and jolted Shaine back to the present. He unclenched his fist and blinked at the piles of books.
Even now, weeks after Anxin’s death, he wasn’t truly free. The Wytch Master still haunted his dreams, and Shaine often heard the echo of his voice, particularly when he was unsure of himself.
Trauma, the healers said, and told him he might never be completely free of it. Sometimes, he wished—
“Are you all right, Shaine?”
Shaine started and turned to see Prince Jaire of Altan entering the library. Behind him came Jaire’s personal bodyguard, Brax, bearing yet another crate of books. Jaire had arrived only a few days after the summer palace had burned, and had spent the last week helping Shaine put things in order while Father and Mikhyal were busy plotting the Northern Alliance’s next move.
“Fine,” Shaine said quickly. “I was just… just thinking about what a lot of work it’s going to be cataloging all of these.”
Jaire gave him an encouraging smile. “Well, this is the last of them, if that helps at all.”
“Are you sure that’s all of them?” Shaine watched the prince out of the corner of his eye as he tried to determine whether the smile on his face was real or pasted there out of pity. After all the things he’d done to undermine his father’s plans for alliance and rebellion, it was hard to believe anyone would choose to spend time with him.
Who would want to spend time with a traitor? And not just a traitor to his king, but to his family. You tried to kill your father and your brother, didn’t you, boy?
Shaine bit down on the inside of his cheek and focused on Jaire.
“…don’t think we could possibly have missed anything,” Jaire was saying. “I’m glad Brax was with me. I don’t think my dragon form is anywhere near strong enough to manage even one of these crates, but Brax didn’t even blink when we strapped three of them on his back.”
Brax grinned and shook long, blond hair out of his eyes. “Not my fault I’m the biggest dragon yet.” He glanced about the room in search of a place to set the crate. “Looks like all the tables are full. Where d’you want this, Your Highness?”
Shaine waved a hand toward the back wall, where the rest of the crates were stacked. “Put it with the others, if you’d be so kind. I’ll have to sort this lot out before I have room to unpack more.”
Brax carried the crate to the back of the room and set it with the others, while Jaire drifted over to the nearest table and ran a hand reverently over a stack of leather-bound volumes yet to be sorted. “You’ve no idea how much I envy you the task of going through all these,” he said, a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes. “Hidden away for all these years… imagine all the treasures you’ll find.”
Behind the prince, Brax cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but we’re due back in Altan today. His Majesty was very clear about that.”
Jaire wrinkled his nose. “I suppose you’re right.” He gave Brax a look that was half annoyed and half resigned. “And I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you to forget your orders.”
Brax gave him an easy grin. “No, Highness. No point at all.”
“You’re a most excellent bodyguard, Brax, and I feel entirely safe with you, but I could wish you weren’t quite so loyal to my brother.” Jaire turned to Shaine. “Much as I’d like to stay, Brax is right. It’s bad enough having to prepare for my own wedding. I don’t know what Garrik was thinking, scheduling four royal weddings in a week. It’s insane. Especially with the Wytch Council making these random attacks.”
Shaine hesitated. He still wasn’t certain if Jaire’s attempt to draw him into conversation was genuine, or if the prince was just being polite. After all, Shaine’s brother was marrying Jaire’s cousin. That did make them family, of a sort. Protocol demanded an effort be made to get along, regardless of one’s personal feelings.
When Jaire simply waited in expectant silence, Shaine offered, “My-my father said it was a stroke of brilliance on your brother’s part. When it’s over, all the kingdoms of the Northern Alliance will be tied to Altan by marriage.”
“Ai, I thought the same, myself,” Jaire said. “If he’s planning to set himself up as some sort of high king, he’s certainly off to a strong start.”
Shaine’s father, Wytch King Drannik, had said almost the same thing at dinner last night, though he’d had a wry smile on his face when he said it. “Do you think he is?”
Jaire shook his head. “I doubt it’s even occurred to Garrik. He doesn’t think that way, and it’s the last thing he’d want. If no one’s pointed it out to him by now, I’ll make sure to mention it. He’ll probably be mortified.” The prince lowered his voice and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Garrik doesn’t have much of a head for politics, you know. Ilya and I do the best we can with him, but he still doesn’t have the patience for the finer points of diplomacy.”
Shaine wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut.
Prince Jaire gave the books one last, longing look. “I suppose I should be going if we’re to arrive back in Altan before nightfall.”
“You… you can come back,” Shaine said shyly. “To help, I mean. If… if you can spare the time. I imagine I’ll be at this for quite a while, yet.”
“Really?” Jaire brightened at that. “I’d love to have a chance to see what’s here.” His happy smile turned into a grimace. “I don’t suppose there’ll be time, though. Still, if you find any interesting history books, I’d love to borrow them.”
“Of course.”
Jaire beamed. “Maybe you can bring a few with you when you come to Altan for the weddings. You are coming, aren’t you?”
Shaine stared at him. In the month since Anxin’s death, he’d made a point of avoiding gatherings of any sort. Dinner with his father’s Court was bad enough. Everyone on the staff knew what Anxin had done to him, and though none of them acted as if they hated or feared him, Shaine was certain they whispered about him when none of the royal family were present. Certainly they all knew that Lady Kirali’s father had come to speak to Drannik and broken their engagement. Having never had much interest in the ladies, Shaine had been more relieved at that than anything, though the castle gossips made much of the fact that it had been Kirali’s father and not Wytch King Drannik who had withdrawn from the arrangement.
The people of Rhiva were probably as relieved as he was that he wouldn’t be taking the throne. What kind of king would he have made? He hadn’t even been strong enough to fight off a single Wytch Master.
Exactly, the voice of doubt — which sounded unnervingly like Anxin at his worst — purred in his mind. You’re weak and you’re stupid. You’d make a terrible Wytch King, and they all know it.
“I… I hadn’t really… I mean…” Shaine stammered.
“Of course, it’s up to you,” Jaire said quickly. “Not everyone’s comfortable in front of the entire Court. I’m certainly not, though I’ve had to learn to act like it. And look at poor Tristin. Public appearances still horrify him. He had a hard enough time swearing fealty to Garrik at my betrothal. I don’t know how he’s going to get through an entire wedding ceremony.”
Shaine swallowed hard, then smiled a little as he recalled last night’s dinner conversation. “Tristin suggested it might be best if Mikhyal were to get him very drunk right before the ceremony. Father wasn’t amused at first, but then Tristin started going on about all the things that would go wrong if his nerves got the better of him. By the time he’d finished, the Grand Hall was in a shambles, Tristin was tangled up in the chandelier, and half the wedding guests had been singed by dragon fire. Even Father was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.”
“That’s Tristin for you,” Jaire said with a broad grin. “Fortunately for everyone, things never go half as badly as he imagines they will.”
The prince’s smile seemed genuine enough, and Shaine had enjoyed his company over the past week, despite the imaginary Anxin’s constant reminders that he was only there out of pity.
“I’ll try to be there.” The words popped out of Shaine’s mouth before he could censor them, surprising him.
Jaire’s face lit up. “I shall look forward to seeing you, then.”
“And any books I can bring,” Shaine said, covering his confusion with a wry grin.
“Well, of course!” Jaire winked. “But I’d look forward to seeing you even if you weren’t bringing any books.” He gave Shaine a nod and another bright smile, and left the library, Brax at his side.
* * *
It wasn’t until Jaire and Brax were gone that the tension finally drained out of Shaine’s shoulders. On the whole, he was more comfortable alone, and felt much better until he remembered that he’d all but promised to attend the wedding celebrations in Altan.
He doesn’t really want you there. None of them do.
Shaine clenched his jaw. Not real. Anxin’s gone. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me.
“You’ll want to start with this one.” The voice came from somewhere behind him, and Shaine spun around to see a small silver dragon, about the size of a house cat, perched atop the crate Brax had just brought in.
“Didn’t you leave this morning?” Shaine asked, peering at the little dragon. “I thought Mikhyal and Tristin were off to Altan for a wedding rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Change in plans,” Dirit said, settling himself on top of the crate and beginning to groom his long, flowing white whiskers. “Though I imagine we’ll be off somewhere by tomorrow. There was another attack by the Wytch Council last night.”
“Where?” Shaine’s heart thudded painfully. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Miraen. No one was hurt, but they managed to burn some of the unharvested fields south of Mir.”
Shaine shuddered at the thought. The Wytch Council had been using mythe-gates to move troops in and out of the northern kingdoms, striking fast and then disappearing before the Northern Alliance could respond. After their success in destroying Rhiva’s summer palace, High Wytch Cenyth had turned her attention to Castle Altan. There, she’d suffered defeat by dragon fire, and it had been hoped that would put an end to the attacks. It clearly hadn’t, and striking the fields made brutal sense; there were far too many to defend them all, and depriving the Northern Alliance of food for the coming winter could force them to surrender.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” Dirit continued. “I’m here to direct your attention to this particular crate.” He tapped top of the crate with a delicate black claw.
“You don’t have to make up stories, you know,” Shaine told the little dragon. “I know Mikhyal sent you to check on me.”
“Well, I never!” Dirit’s whiskers drooped. “I don’t have to manifest so you can see me, you know. It’s not very comfortable, what with all these things and textures feeling so odd upon my feet. I could just sneak and spy if I wanted, but I choose to display good manners and show myself.”
“You don’t seem to have any trouble manifesting when there are blackberry tarts to be had,” Shaine pointed out. “Or anything else you like to eat.”
“I am wounded that you think so little of me.” Dirit pressed a claw to his chest and flung his head back dramatically. “Wounded, I tell you.”
“I really wish you’d all stop treating me as if I’m made of glass. I’m not, you know.” Yes, he’d been through a lot in the last year or so, and was still finding his feet, but having everyone cosset him only helped to remind him of things he wanted very much to forget. “Anyway, I don’t have room for any more books at the moment. Whatever is in that crate, it’ll have to wait.”
Dirit flattened his ears and fixed gleaming black eyes on Shaine. “I found these,” he said, drawing himself up. “They would have been overlooked if I hadn’t been there to sniff them out. They were under a false bottom in one of the cabinets, and they reek of the mythe. Hidden from the Wytch Council all these years, they were. Hidden so carefully, they must contain valuable secrets, don’t you think? Secrets the Wytch Council might prefer stayed buried…” Dirit spread his wings and flitted across the room to land on top of the pile of books Shaine had been inspecting. “Secrets you might use to fight them.”
Shaine’s stomach lurched. He’d spoken to no one of his determination to find some kind of weapon to help the Northern Alliance destroy the Wytch Council. “How did you know—”
“Goodness, is that the time?” With a twitch of his eyebrow tufts, Dirit faded from sight.
“Good riddance,” Shaine muttered under his breath as he turned back to the endless piles of books. He picked up the nearest one and rolled his eyes. A History of the Lumber Industry in the Southern Kingdoms. Useless. Why would anyone bother putting that in the vaults?
His eyes strayed to the crate Dirit had pointed out. Despite the disinterest Shaine had expressed, Dirit had piqued his curiosity. A crate full of books hidden away for nearly three centuries… That sounded promising. And given that Dirit’s mission was to protect the line of Rhiva — which really meant Shaine’s brother, the heir — the little monster might well have been telling the truth. Although the fact that he seemed to know what Shaine was after suggested he wasn’t telling anything like the truth about his so-called good manners.
Had he been reading Shaine’s journals?
Annoyed at the thought of having his hard-won privacy invaded by Dirit, who would certainly pass on anything he learned to Mikhyal, Shaine did his best to ignore the crate. The titles of the rest of the books in the pile he was checking were no more promising than the first, and it wasn’t long before his curiosity got the better of him.
He glanced about for any sign of Dirit. When he saw no sign of the little dragon, he made his way to the crate. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look.
* * *
The air was so cold it burned.
A ripple of unease drifted through the pack-sense, and Vorri snuggled deeper under his furs and tried to go back to sleep. The unusual cold and the growing tension made it impossible to slip back into his dream. Finally, he pried his eyes open and squinted at the morning light filtering in through the curtains. His parents’ voices, clipped and tense, drifted up to his loft bedroom.
“…all wilted,” Ma said. “We’ll gather what we can and dry them, but that will be all until I can get another crop in. And if this is a taste of what the winter is going to be like, I don’t dare start another crop until spring.”
“How much do you have set by?” Da asked.
“With what we’ll salvage from the garden, enough to see us through the winter. Last winter was so mild, I thought…” She trailed off, and Vorri shivered. The bitterly cold air told him exactly what had happened: the valley had gotten cold enough in the night that frost had killed the medicinal plants in the herb garden. “Svirrin, it’s only autumn. If it’s this cold now, what will it be like by midwinter?”
Da’s reply was too quiet to hear.
Steeling himself, Vorri flung back the furs and quickly pulled on his warmest clothing: leather trousers and a long-sleeved, rough-woven shirt. In the cottage’s main room, a fire burned in the hearth, and Ma and Da had pulled chairs up close to it while they talked and sipped hot tea.
Ma offered him a mug of tea. Her pale grey eyes were troubled, but she managed a faint smile as he joined them. “I’m sorry, Vorri, did we wake you?”
“No, Ma, I think the cold did. Sounds like it killed our plants, too?”
“Only the feverbane. The rest of the plants are hardy enough to withstand a light frost, but if it gets much colder…” Ma shook her head and gave Da a worried look.
“If you want to get the drying racks set up, I’ll go and gather what I can before breakfast,” Vorri offered.
“Thank you, Vorri,” Ma said. “We’ll need all we can save to see us through the winter.”
Vorri’s heart thumped painfully in his chest as he thought of the fields the pack depended on for food. “What about the rest of the crops, Da?”
“Your grandfather’s touring the fields now,” Da said. “He’ll stop by here when he’s finished.”
Vorri headed back up to the loft to fetch his boots and fur-lined cloak, then took one of Ma’s wide, shallow baskets out to the herb garden. The frost had left the feverbane plants limp, their white flowers drooping nearly to the ground. Vorri dropped down on his knees and drew the knife from his belt. He cut the stems and lay the plants in the basket, pausing every so often to sweep his gaze across the valley toward the snow-capped peaks scraping the sky.
Though the surrounding mountains were locked in ice year-round, nearly three hundred years ago, the pack’s mythe-weavers had channeled and shaped the mythe, creating a shield to protect the valley from the elements, keeping it warm enough to grow crops even when the fiercest winter storms raged outside.
Ten years ago, when Vorri was fifteen and had only just learned to shift, a terrible mythe-storm had torn through the mountains, damaging the shield, and now…
Now it was failing.
By the time Ma called him for breakfast, Vorri had gathered half of the frost-stricken plants. He hefted the basket and carried it in. He’d get the rest after breakfast. Then he’d have to tie the plants in little bundles and hang them from the drying racks Ma would have set up in the loft.
When he entered the kitchen, it was much warmer, and Grandfather sat at the table sipping tea with Da. Grandfather’s eyes were bright enough, and his mind was quick, but his body was slender and frail. He’d been a boy when the pack had been driven out of the kingdom of Rhiva, some two hundred and eighty years ago, and he’d been pack leader for two hundred and twenty of those years.
“What about the stores?” Da was asking as Vorri set the basket down at the bottom of the ladder.
“We’ll get through,” Grandfather said. “We’ll be relying on the hunters more this winter, though.”
Da nodded. “We may have to range farther afield to find enough game to support us. We’ll need to scout out new hunting grounds.” As leader of the hunt, it fell to Da to schedule the hunts close enough together to ensure there was sufficient food for the pack.
“See to it,” Grandfather said. “I have no worries about this winter; it’s next winter that concerns me. And the one after that.”
“How fast is the shield failing?” Da asked.
Grandfather’s expression was grave. “I wish I knew. We’ve no one left who can make an accurate assessment. We hoped the shield was repairing itself, but… well, we’ve never had frost in the valley before, and it’s not even winter yet.”
Vorri’s stomach churned. If the shield failed, snow and ice would cover the village and fields. “Can’t we fix the shield?” he asked.
Da and Grandfather exchanged a long look, and Grandfather nodded once. Da said softly, “There’s no one left who knows how, Vorri. We lost them all during the storm.”
“All of them?” Many had died when the mythe-storm swept through the valley, twisting and warping everything it touched, but Vorri hadn’t realized all of the mythe-weavers who knew how to fix the shield were gone.
Why had no one said anything?
“Ai,” Grandfather said softly. “Those who were most attuned to the energies of the shield also proved to be the most vulnerable to the effects of the storm.”
“We’ve kept it quiet to prevent a panic,” Da added. “And it did seem, these last few years, as if the shield was healing itself. But frost in the valley is a clear indication that it’s not. I fear we will have to make plans to move. And soon.”
“That, we will,” Grandfather agreed. “Though I’m not sure where we’ll go. We haven’t the knowledge to build another shield. And I will not lead the pack south into the forbidden lands.”
Vorri licked his lips. To him, the solution seemed obvious. “But why can’t we go there? We came from the forbidden lands. Wytch King Lethrian of Rhiva created our pack. We could ask Rhiva for help.”
Da shot him an annoyed look, but Grandfather answered, “Rhiva is still ruled by the Wytch Council. They won’t help us. They’ll hunt us down and kill us like they did when the Wytch Council first seized power.”
“It’s been two hundred and eighty years,” Vorri protested. “How do you know the Wytch Council still exists?”
“Because we have sent spies into Rhiva,” Grandfather said softly. “The Wytch Council still rules the kingdoms of Skanda with an iron fist. They will not help us.”
“How do you know that if you won’t even ask?” Vorri demanded.
“Ask the Wytch Council?” Grandfather shook his head. “There are a few of us left who remember the Wytch Council quite clearly. They will not deal with us other than to destroy us.”
Vorri was about to suggest they couldn’t know for certain what Rhiva and the Wytch Council would do until they asked, but before he could organize his thoughts into a coherent argument, a wash of concern tempered with bright flecks of determination drifted through the pack-sense.
Kavarr.
That was enough to pique Vorri’s interest; his older brother rarely ventured into the village. When he wasn’t out hunting, Kavarr spent his time in the cavern complex across the valley, where most of the hunters who had been trapped in rhyx form after the storm had made their dens. Da might be leader of the hunt, but over the years, Kavarr had become the leader of the trapped hunters. Though Kavarr answered to Da, his hunters’ loyalty was to him first.
Da rose and went to open the door. Vorri drifted over and watched his brother approach. Kavarr’s rhyx form was much larger and more powerful than Vorri’s. He had fur as black as night and eyes the color of glacial ice, the same coloring as the human form he’d been unable to take for the past ten years. Those eyes were frigid as they raked over Vorri, in direct contrast to the hot waves of anger and envy crashing through the pack-sense.
Kavarr settled on his haunches in front of their father. <One of my hunting parties has dropped out of the pack-sense.> Kavarr’s words rang in Vorri’s mind via the pack-sense. <Savra was with them.>
Da’s alarm hit Vorri hard. Like Kavarr, his sister Savra had been trapped in rhyx form when the storm had hit. Vorri let his awareness drift further out into the pack-sense. He ought to sense his sister’s thread and the threads of her hunting party, even if they were far away on a hunt. Those threads bound the pack together. Awareness of them gave every shifter a sense of belonging, of being connected to every other member of the pack.
Savra’s thread was a faint, muffled whisper of fear; she must be very far away.
“Where were they hunting?” Da asked.
<The southern hunting grounds. Near the forbidden lands. Have I permission to organize a search? I know the spot where they dropped out of the pack-sense. We will begin the hunt there.>
“Yes, go,” Da said. “Be vigilant. But do not, under any circumstances, venture into the forbidden lands. You’ll be killed on sight.”
“Da, I could go, too,” Vorri said. “If they’re searching near the forbidden lands, they might need someone with them who can shift into human—”
<That will not be necessary.> Kavarr’s lips curled, exposing long, sharp fangs. <You will only slow us down.> Without waiting for a response, Kavarr turned and strode stiffly to the door. Vorri opened it for him, and without even sparing his brother a glance, Kavarr bounded off, powerful muscles rippling and bunching under his fur as he tore through the frost-tipped grasses toward the hunters’ caves.
Vorri stared after him, stung by his brother’s rejection. Kavarr hadn’t always hated him. Once they’d been close, but ever since the storm that had robbed him of his human form, Kavarr had resented the fact that Vorri had been spared.
Of Svirrin and Ava’s three children, Vorri alone could still freely shift from rhyx form to human and back again. Which meant Vorri, not Kavarr, would eventually be pack leader after Svirrin. It hadn’t taken long for Kavarr’s resentment of the situation to become resentment of Vorri himself, and now, Vorri felt his brother’s bitter, smoky hatred burning through the pack-sense. He stared down at the ground, vision blurring.
Da sighed heavily, hand falling on Vorri’s shoulder to squeeze gently. “He still loves you, Vorri.”
“I don’t feel it,” Vorri muttered.
“His anger and resentment overshadow it, but he does. He will remember it one day.”
Vorri nodded, but he didn’t believe it. There was no trace of anything like love or affection in Kavarr. Hadn’t been in a long time.