Shadowspire (Wytch Kings, Book 3) Read online

  Shadowspire

  Wytch Kings, Book 3

  by

  Jaye McKenna

  Published by Mythe Weaver Press

  Distributed by Smashwords

  Copyright © 2017 Jaye McKenna

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Chinchbug

  Copyright © 2016 Chinchbug

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Words of Caution

  This story contains sexually explicit material and describes sexual relations between men. It is intended for adult readers.

  Shadowspire

  by

  Jaye McKenna

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Also Available

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  Contact Info

  Book Description

  Chapter One

  Prince Jaire of Altan was in hiding.

  From behind the potted plant near the balcony of the Grand Hall, he scanned the crowd for the vision in emerald silk otherwise known as Lady Bria of Irilan. Midsummer Faire — three days of competitions, games, and feasting — culminated this night, Midsummer’s Eve, with a dance. Thus far, Jaire had managed to avoid the lady in question by hiding in the foliage.

  The plant was just tall enough and full enough to provide cover for a slender prince of less-than-impressive stature. A glance at the ornate brass-and-crystal clock mounted high on the hall’s east wall told him it was not yet ten, which meant it was still far too early for him to retire to his suite.

  Had Jaire been a princess rather than a prince, he might have performed a graceful swoon across one of the little couches strategically placed around the edges of the ballroom. If his performance were convincing enough, he could expect to be surrounded by a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, given a cool drink, and escorted off to bed. Alas, princes were not allowed such an easy escape, unless they wanted to become the prime topic of courtly gossip across the northern kingdoms for months to come.

  There was no sign of Lady Bria, thank the Dragon Mother. Given the warmth of the evening and the sheer weight of the silk creation draped over her slender form, Jaire had to wonder if she’d already performed her swoon and withdrawn from the festivities.

  “She’s over there, near the dessert table,” said a deep voice behind him.

  Jaire twisted around to see his brother, Wytch King Garrik, edging behind the plant to stand beside him.

  “She appears to be far too busy eating to have noticed you. Probably had to starve herself for a month to fit into that dress. I’ll cover for you if you’d like to disappear. I think you’ve put in enough of an appearance to satisfy decorum.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” Jaire said, “but I did promise her a dance.”

  “Why ever would you do that?”

  Jaire wrinkled his nose. “She hunted me down at the archery competition. I didn’t have much choice without being rude. I thought if I could hide for a bit longer, I might get away with just one dance, rather than be trapped for the rest of the evening.” He eyed his brother’s broad shoulders with a scowl. “This plant isn’t big enough to hide you, Garrik. You’re going to give me away.”

  Garrik chuckled and ruffled Jaire’s hair. “If you’re planning to dance with her anyway, what’s the problem?”

  Jaire peered through the foliage to see that the dark-haired vision in emerald silk had finished grazing at the buffet table and was making a beeline for his hiding place. “That’s torn it,” he said, jabbing a bony elbow into Garrik’s side. “Thank you so much, Your Majesty, for letting the entire ballroom know where I am. I haven’t quite worked myself up to this yet, you know.”

  “It’s hardly my fault,” Garrik said with a grin. “It’s that bright white hair of yours. It’s like a beacon — makes you easy to spot.”

  “No, it’s that great, hulking brother of mine,” Jaire muttered as he edged past the Wytch King and into the crowd.

  By the time Lady Bria intercepted him, she’d put on her simpering smile. “Why, Prince Jaire, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Long, dark eyelashes batted at him coquettishly. “I was so hoping you hadn’t forgotten our dance. It’s simply the highlight of every gathering.”

  At thirty, Lady Bria was ten years his senior, and Jaire found it highly unlikely she wanted him for anything more than the social standing her betrothal to a prince would grant. He was well aware that his slight form and bookish ways didn’t draw feminine attention the way his brother’s broad shoulders, deep voice, and impressive sword work did.

  Jaire plastered a polite smile on his face and said, “It’s my pleasure, Lady Bria. Shall we?” He held out his arm and braced himself for the emotional onslaught. A sensitive empath, Jaire found it much more difficult to block out the emotions of others when they were actually touching him. He visualized one of the more complex shielding patterns he knew, but it wasn’t enough; the moment the lady linked her arm through his, he felt it: searing, scalding fury, none of which showed on her carefully schooled features.

  That, at least, hadn’t changed. Though it certainly hadn’t stopped her from pursuing him with relentless purpose, either. Seven years ago, when Garrik took the throne of Altan, Jaire would have guessed he’d be married to her by now, but the last time the subject of his betrothal to Lady Bria came up, Garrik had given the Wytch Council a resounding no, and Jaire hadn’t heard another word about it in the four years since.

  He often wondered what Garrik had said to the Council representative, but although he’d questioned his brother repeatedly, the most he ever got out of him was a grim smile and a reaffirmation of the promise that Garrik would not force Jaire into an alliance marriage.

  At thirteen, Jaire had been very pleased at that. Now, at twenty, he wondered at the wisdom of Garrik’s continued refusal to use his marriage for political advantage. He’d broached the subject more than once in recent months, but Garrik refused to be drawn into discussion.

  The musicians were just transitioning from a lively folk dance to a more somber, stately piece, and the circle of dancers had broken up and was rearranging into couples. Jaire cursed himself for hiding for so long. He’d hoped to avoid the slower, more formal dances where he’d have to put his arm around her waist. At least during the folk dances, they wouldn’t be dancing close enough to make the height difference between them so apparent.

  Lady Bria was nearly as tall as Garrik, and when Jaire put his arm around her waist, he found his chin about level with her rather prominently displayed bosom.

  Unfortunately, the lady’s anger made it impossible for him to focus on the complex steps of the dance. He gritted his teeth as another hot wave of fury washed through him, and struggled to ke
ep his attention on his feet. If he’d been thinking, he’d have drunk down a dose of anzaria before the ball. The medicine would have blocked his emotion-sensing ability completely, and made the dance a lot more comfortable.

  Except then he wouldn’t be able to judge the mood of the crowd, or the true intentions of the nobles who pulled him aside to put a quiet word in the ear of the Wytch King’s brother and newest advisor.

  “I can hardly wait for the betrothal negotiations to begin,” Lady Bria said in a high, breathy voice. “My uncle is going to make the formal request at Court the day after tomorrow. Just think, Jaire, one day, we’ll have a dance like this at our wedding. Probably in this very room.”

  Jaire gulped and blinked up at her.

  Betrothal negotiations?

  Surely if the Wytch Council had brought that up again, Garrik would have said something.

  The soft, dreamy expression on Lady Bria’s face was completely at odds with the simmering anger invading his mind and percolating through his body. “I do hope you like the betrothal gifts we brought,” she continued. “I chose them myself, from Irilan’s treasury.” She let out a breathy sigh and batted her eyes again. “Oh, Jaire. I can hardly wait for Castle Altan to be filled with the sounds of our children’s voices. I’m so pleased the Wytch Council still thinks we’d be a good match. And even though it’s been a bit of a trial, I’m glad your brother made us wait. I’d much rather marry a man than a boy.” Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink as she simpered down at him.

  Bile rose in Jaire’s throat at the thought of having to do that with her, especially knowing how she felt about him. He’d never be able to do what was necessary to give her children, not with her anger and contempt burning through his flesh with every touch. Jaire stumbled as he lost track of the dance steps, crunching Lady Bria’s slippered toes under his boot.

  She let out a delicate sound of discomfort, and Jaire let go of her and took a step back as a bolt of pure rage slammed into him, turning his vision momentarily white and setting up a deep, throbbing ache in his head.

  “I… I’m terribly s-sorry, Lady Bria. I lost count.”

  He had to marvel at her skill as an actress. Not a hint of the fury crackling in the air around her showed on her face as he escorted her to the closest of the elegant little couches lining the edges of the dance space. Jaire tried to ignore the storm of emotion battering at his defenses and focus on playing the part of a gentleman. He saw her settled, fetched her a glass of wine and a plate of dainties, and offered them to her along with his most profound apologies.

  As far as any onlookers were concerned, she accepted his apology most graciously, but Jaire knew she wasn’t the least bit mollified. Her anger and exasperation pounded at his defenses, threaded through with an undercurrent of fear that almost sent him bolting to the safety of his own rooms.

  When one of her cousins drifted over to see what was wrong, Jaire took his leave as quickly as was polite and slipped out of the ballroom. His head hurt, and the small plate of sliced fruit and cheese he’d eaten a few hours ago had settled into a heavy lump in his gut.

  If Lady Bria still believed they were to be betrothed, what in the Dragon Mother’s name had Garrik been telling the Wytch Council?

  And why had no one breathed a word of it to Jaire?

  As he headed for his suite by way of the secret passages riddling the thick stone walls of Castle Altan, Jaire rehearsed the things he planned to say to his brother in the morning. As one of Garrik’s advisors, it would not please him to learn he’d been lied to, whether Garrik was trying to spare his feelings or not.

  * * *

  Prince Vayne of Irilan glided through the mythe on glittering emerald wings. Below him, brilliantly striated rock formations twisted into impossible shapes he’d once thought beautiful. Now, he barely gave them a glance as he focused on the bottom of the canyon.

  It had changed again. The vast, black lake was gone, and in its place stood a thick, tangled forest.

  Curious, and always hungry for something new, Vayne banked in a lazy circle and spiraled downward to land gracefully at the edge of the trees. They grew so close together that his dragon form would never fit, so he shifted smoothly to his human body.

  Back in the human world, he would have emerged from the shift without a stitch of clothing. In the mythe, however, he still wore the same clothes he’d put on for Court that fateful day, including the shirt with the ridiculous lace cuffs.

  Lightning flashed, and Vayne turned his eyes to the sky. Dark clouds swirled around a slowly-spinning vortex of blue and silver mythe-light. A storm was building, but it looked too distant to be a threat to him. And even if the wind should change, he was never more than a single step away from his shelter. An intense, highly-focused, utterly exhausting step, admittedly, but a single step, nonetheless.

  He turned back to the trees, peering into the murky wood. No telling what might be lurking within. He glanced up at the sky again, then slipped between the trees.

  Too curious for his own good, Wytch Master Larana would have said. Too reckless, his father would have said. Or perhaps, Vayne thought, too bored.

  A flash of mythe-light filtering through the closely woven branches caught his eye, and Vayne made his way toward it. He emerged in a small clearing in time to see a shimmering curtain of light fill the center of the space. The light folded, the air itself writhing and twisting into shapes more complex than his human senses could fathom.

  In the center of the clearing, a figure took shape, coalescing gradually from the shimmering light. It looked much like his own dragon form, though it was longer and appeared to be made of glittering diamond or ice. He could see right through it, except where the mythe-light caught its scales and threw fractured patterns of rainbow through the clearing.

  The crystal dragon’s empty eyes fixed on him, penetrating and intense. Something rippled through his mythe-shadow, a familiar, echoing whisper, and Vayne had the sense that he’d just been examined, right down to the bottom of his soul.

  “Ashna,” he said, recognizing the mythe-shadow of this particular creature. There were many of them roaming the various layers of the mythe, but only a few deigned to speak with him. Ashna was the one he’d known the longest, the one who’d saved him from madness and despair during the early years of his endless exile.

  As the dragon inclined its head, the air shimmered and shifted again, colors running and bleeding until it took the form of a human male. He was tall, with long, black hair and the brilliant violet eyes possessed by only the strongest mythe-weavers of legend.

  “How long has it been since you walked the world of your birth, Human Child?” The dragon’s words curled through his mind, leaving behind an echo of frost and diamonds.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Vayne shifted his weight, dead leaves crunching beneath his boots. If the forest was one of Ashna’s illusions, the dragon’s attention to detail was superb. “Human measurements of time mean nothing here. And as I do not seem to age, I have no reference to measure against.” He stared up at the man. Ashna’s human form was at least a head taller than his own. “Weeks? Months? There seems so little point. I am but a ghost to them. They cannot see or hear me. Going there serves only to remind me of all I’ve lost.”

  “It has been far longer than you think, Human Child.”

  Vayne scowled. “Does it matter? My presence there changes nothing.”

  Ashna cocked his head. “Are you not even curious?”

  “I am weary. I tire of this existence. You told me once you would not help me escape, as I would one day find my own way out. I’ve yet to see it happen.”

  Instead of arguing with him, the dragon merely arched an eyebrow and said, “You humans possess so little patience.”

  “Ashna, I—”

  “Go now. Pay a visit to the human world. And do not be frightened by the changes you find.”

  Changes?

  Before Vayne could ask what the dragon meant, he was wra
pped in a veil of softly glowing mythe-light. When the light faded, he found himself standing before the little shelter Ashna had helped him build so long ago. It stood at the foot of the spire of emerald crystal that marked the place where he was able to enter the human world. The spire shone in his mind like a beacon, always leading him back to his prison no matter how far he roamed.

  “All right, all right,” he grumbled to himself. “I get the point. I’ll go and see.”

  He placed a hand upon the cool, green surface of the crystalline spire and visualized the pattern that would transport him into the human world.

  A world where he was utterly alone, a ghost with no voice, no form, no future.

  Mythe-light flashed and flickered, colors swirled, and the walls and furnishings of a room came into focus around him.

  Vayne drew in a sharp breath. Instead of returning to the human world in Castle Irila’s treasure vault, he found himself standing in the middle of a tastefully furnished sitting room.

  For the first time since he’d been imprisoned, he didn’t recognize the room he’d returned to. The delicate little chairs, the ornately-carved table, the shape of the room itself — all were completely alien. His flare of panic ebbed as he reminded himself that the lack of familiarity didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t in Castle Irila. His father’s generation had added a tower, and over the following years, subsequent generations had added entire wings and gardens, demolished courtyards, and excavated deeper into the ground, each eager to make their own mark upon the family’s ancient stronghold.

  On a polished table, atop a circle of delicate ivory lace, sat the ornate wooden chest containing his father’s amulet. A place of honor, it seemed. Quite the contrast to the dark, dusty corner of the treasury he’d expected to return to.