Burn the Sky (Wytch Kings, Book 1)

Burn the Sky

Wytch Kings, Book 1

by

Jaye McKenna

Burn the Sky

Published by Mythe Weaver Press

Copyright © 2015 Jaye McKenna

All Rights Reserved

Cover Art by Chinchbug

Copyright © 2014 Chinchbug

All Rights Reserved

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.

Chapter One

Prince Garrik, Heir Presumptive of the Kingdom of Altan, pressed himself against the hard, male body in his arms. With a thrust of his hips, he shoved Kian back against the wall of the small alcove, pinning him in the corner between the wall and the marble statue occupying most of the space. Garrik leaned into the man and worked a hand between their bodies, stroking Kian’s erection through the fabric of his breeches. His other hand found its way under the loose cotton shirt Kian wore, sliding over hard muscle and hot skin.

Ah, gods… Kian groaned and rested his head against the stone wall, brown eyes drifting shut. His hips bucked as he rubbed himself against Garrik’s hand.

Garrik scraped his teeth along the sensitive skin of Kian’s neck and inhaled the scent of his long, dark brown hair. Kian smelled of wind and sunshine, which only served to increase Garrik’s desire.

I want you, he whispered in Kian’s ear, and smiled to himself when Kian groaned again and shuddered in his arms.

Footsteps echoing down the stone hallway made Garrik’s stomach clench. He pulled away and leaned back out of the alcove to peer down the hall. A moment later, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

It was only Jaire. If the slender build and white-blond hair weren’t a dead giveaway, the ever-present book obscuring his younger brother’s face would have clinched it. Absorbed in his book, Jaire stumbled on the edge of a rug, but managed to catch himself before he fell. He straightened up, frowning at the rug, and continued on toward the library.

Garrik turned back to Kian, who had taken the moment’s respite to straighten his clothing and push his hair back over his shoulder.

You only had me a couple of hours ago, Kian murmured. Don’t you ever think about anything else?

Not lately. Garrik leaned in again and ground his own erection against Kian’s, feeling the answering heat there that told him Kian wanted him, regardless of what he said.

With a strangled sound of protest, Kian pressed his hands against Garrik’s chest and pushed him back. The strength and power in those arms took Garrik’s breath away. Kian might have spent the last year as Wytch Master Tevari’s apprentice, but he’d been born a blacksmith’s son. He’d grown up around his father’s forge, and it showed in the size and strength of his body. Garrik licked his lips, unable to stop thinking about how that body felt moving under him, skin on skin, heat building—

"Maybe nobody cares if you’re late, Kian said, but if I’m late again, Master Tevari will hear all about it from Master Ristan, and I’ll be stuck inside copying manuscripts for both of them for the next week."

Garrik pushed his own long, black hair out of his eyes. He stepped back out of the alcove and allowed Kian to move past him.

Kian was right. As Heir Presumptive, Garrik could get away with a lot more than a peasant’s son could, especially around Master Ristan. The tutor had taken to the task of civilizing Kian with grim determination, and took great delight in pointing out Kian’s deficiencies at every opportunity.

Not that Kian did much to improve the situation; he rarely studied, preferring to spend his free time assisting the castle blacksmith. Despite all of Master Ristan’s attempts to civilize him, Kian still looked and acted exactly like the peasant’s son he’d been before his Wytch power had awakened. The polish, as the tutor often lamented, refused to take.

The two of them hurried down the hall to the library. It was only moments after the clock had chimed eight bells, but Master Ristan was already holding court in the large, sunlit room. Or at least, as much of a court as Jaire by himself provided.

Prince Garrik, Apprentice Kian, how magnanimous of you to join us. The royal tutor’s dark, elegantly-shaped eyebrows drew together in a pained expression as he regarded his students’ rumpled clothing and untidy hair. Please, take your seats. We have a great deal of material to cover today.

Kian shot an anguished look at Garrik, who tried not to smile. Coming from a tiny mountain village as he had, this was Kian’s first experience with any kind of formal learning, and Garrik knew he still looked upon reading as a form of torture.

It wasn’t that Kian was stupid; Garrik found the young man’s observations of the castle’s inhabitants to be dead-on and rather amusing. Kian simply had no interest in history. He’d rather be riding or fishing or working the forge. Garrik got the impression that Kian resented the Wytch power that had awakened in him some years later than was normal. It might have gained him a place in the Wytch King’s household, but at twenty, Kian had already been settled into his chosen path when he’d had to leave his small village for training.

If you will cast your minds back to yesterday’s discussion, Master Ristan began, you will recall that today we begin an exhaustive study of the Irilan Alliance, the terms of which still govern Altan’s relations with its eastern neighbor, Irilan. Prince Garrik, perhaps you can tell us briefly why the Irilan Alliance is historically significant.

Garrik’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t actually read the introductory material Master Ristan had assigned them yesterday. He’d meant to, but then he’d caught sight of Kian working in the forge across the castle yard, and he’d had to stop to admire the play of strong, hard muscles under darkly tanned flesh… and then Kian had seen him, and when he’d finished up, he and Garrik had slipped into the armory for a quick tumble. One thing led to another, and they’d ended up spending the evening together on the pretense of studying.

Unfortunately, not much studying had occurred, unless one counted Garrik’s very careful study of Kian’s responses to various pleasurable acts, which Master Ristan most certainly would not.

Um… well… I know it was… a long time ago… Garrik mumbled. He wouldn’t admit it to the tutor, but the only reason he knew that much was because the Irilan Alliance was responsible for his father betrothing him to Lady Bria of Irilan when he’d been but four years old.

Master Ristan let out a long-suffering sigh. I see. His disapproving gaze traveled to Kian. I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking if you have any idea, Apprentice.

No, Master, not much point at all, Kian agreed cheerfully.

Prince Jaire? Since your brother and Apprentice Kian clearly had better things to do than read about the Irilan Alliance, perhaps you can enlighten them?

Garrik and Kian exchanged a relieved look. One thing they could always count on was that Jaire would have done the reading.

Sir, the Irilan— Jaire’s voice broke on the words. He flushed a brilliant scarlet, and Garrik struggled to keep a straight face, knowing his brother would be mortified if he broke into laughter. With his fair skin and white-blond hair, Jaire’s cheeks practically glowed when he became flustered. The boy stared down at the table and cleared his throat, then started again. The Irilan Alliance began with the Irilan Treaty, an agreement between Wytch King Jivin of Altan and Wytch King Evrik of Irilan, signed nearly three hundred years ago. It’s important because it was the first step toward ending the wars between the Wytch Kings, and it led to the eventual formation of the Wytch Council.

"Very good, Prince Jaire. It’s nice to know that someone did their reading last night. Master Ristan’s disdainful glance cut across to Garrik and Kian, then pinned Jaire once more. What can you tell me about Wytch King Jivin? What was he known for, aside from his role in formulating the Irilan Alliance?"

He wasn’t ever supposed to be the Wytch King, Jaire said, his pale grey eyes growing distant. He was crowned after the death of his older brother, Chalin, who could turn into a dragon. But Chalin burned all the fields and forests around the castle and they had to kill him, and that’s why Jivin got the throne and not Chalin. Well. He was dead, so he couldn’t have taken the… throne… anyway… Jaire trailed off as Master Ristan’s eyebrows slowly climbed up toward his hairline.

Garrik glanced at Kian, who was watching Jaire with interest. When Garrik caught Kian’s eye and frowned slightly, the apprentice shrugged, apparently as much in the dark about this particular facet of Altan’s history as Garrik was.

Jaire, people can’t turn into dragons, Garrik said, hoping to draw Master Ristan’s ire away from his younger brother. That’s just in stories.

Jaire had always had a vivid imagination, and while he was a much better student than Garrik or Kian, his head was full of both stories and facts, and the two sometimes got a bit muddled together.

Indeed, Prince Garrik is quite correct. For once. The tutor peered at Jaire, wrinkling his brow. Did you, in fact, do the reading, Prince Jaire?

Jaire’s color deepened as he stared down at the table. "I… I did read part of it, Master Ristan. But I’m sure I read about the dragons somewhere. It was Prince Chalin, I’m certain of it."

Had you bothered to study last night, you would have learned that Prince Chalin did, in fact, die a heroic death battling the Great Forest Fire that swept through the fields and forestland west of here some ten years before the signing of the Irilan Treaty.

The fire that he caused, by turning into a—

Prince Jaire, that is quite enough. Clearly, I shall have to have words with your father once again. It would benefit you greatly, Your Highness, if you were to concentrate on studying rather than dreaming up wild tales. His gaze flicked about the table to take in the three of them, brow wrinkling in a disapproving scowl. Since none of you appear to have read the text, I shall be forced to waste a good portion of the morning reading it to you.

Kian glanced at Garrik and rolled his eyes. Garrik, for his part, leaned back in his chair and prepared to spend the next few hours struggling to stay awake.

* * *

A sharp elbow in the ribs startled Garrik out of a light doze, and he jerked to attention, knocking one of Jaire’s books off the table. It hit the floor with a loud thud. The drone of Master Ristan’s voice stopped, and a heavy silence filled the library.

Jaire’s eyes darted from Garrik to the tutor and back again as he waited for the scolding that would surely come.

Prince Garrik, Master Ristan said, since you are so well-versed in the intricacies of the Irilan Alliance that you do not feel the need to pay attention, I await your analysis of the treaty with breathless anticipation. You are all dismissed. Until tomorrow. He favored Garrik with a scathing look before gathering his books and papers.

Garrik blinked, thinking over the few points he did remember about the Irilan Alliance. Was there anything in the treaty that specifically proscribed the beheading of one’s tutor?

As soon as they were out of the library and out of Master Ristan’s hearing, Jaire began to giggle. Garrik, did you see his face? He looked like he’d been eating one of Melli’s gooseberry pies. You shouldn’t tease him like that, pretending to be asleep.

Who was pretending? Garrik shot his brother a scowl. What’s this about an analysis of the Irilan Treaty? When am I doing that?

First thing tomorrow, Kian said with a grin.

"We’re all waiting with breathless anticipation," Jaire said, doing such an accurate impression of Master Ristan that Kian roared and gave the boy a gentle slap on the back. Jaire’s laughter rang out through the hall, high and clear, and Garrik couldn’t help but smile fondly at his brother.

When Jaire’s giggles finally subsided, he gave Garrik a serious look. "I was paying attention. We can go over it tonight after dinner, if you like. You, too, Kian, if you need help."

Thanks, Jaire, Garrik said, but after dinner will probably be too late to save my skin. I imagine Master Ristan will have words with Father, which means I’d better have a look at the damned book before I’m due at Court this afternoon. No prizes for guessing the topic of tonight’s dinner interrogation. Bloody Irilan Alliance.

I can tell you the important bits in about ten minutes over lunch, Jaire offered. "Master Ristan might be clever, but he does go on. Honestly, you didn’t miss much, falling asleep."

Ai, I’ll take you up on that, Garrik said as they headed toward the family dining room for the noon meal.

Jaire gave him a sideways look from beneath long, pale lashes. I’ll help you under one condition, he said.

Kian snorted. Says the master bargainer. Watch out, Garrik, you’ll lose your shirt and breeches if you’re not careful.

"You’d like nothing better, Garrik muttered under his breath. Kian’s reply was a suggestive leer, at which Garrik rolled his eyes before turning to his brother. What’s your condition?"

Come down to the tunnels with me after lunch. You’ve got time before Court, and I want to reenact the battle between Chalin and the army. I get to be the dragon.

Jaire, I don’t think— Garrik stopped short upon seeing the disappointment in his brother’s eyes. It was the look Jaire often wore after striving — and failing — to attain their father’s approval, and Garrik hated being responsible for that expression of hopeless acceptance. All right, he conceded. The tunnels it is. I suppose I’m playing the army, then?

Jaire’s face lit up in a smile that warmed Garrik’s heart. Ai, well, you and Kian. He looked up at Kian shyly. If you’d like to join us, that is.

I’d like that very much, Your Highness, only I’ve lessons with Master Tevari this afternoon. Kian let out a glum little sigh. Battling in the tunnels is much more to my liking than all this healing nonsense. I don’t suppose the Wytch Master would see it that way, though.

I’d give years of my life for just a fraction of your power, Kian, Garrik said.

And I’d gladly give it to you if it meant I could return home, Kian replied.

The Wytch Council might send you to work there, once you’ve finished your training, Jaire said.

They won’t, Kian said sadly. Aeyr’s Grove isn’t big enough to have its own healer. The Wytch Council will surely send me where I’m needed most. I don’t have a wealthy father who can line their pockets to keep me close to home.

Jaire gave Kian’s arm a solicitous pat. Maybe when Garrik’s the Wytch King, he can ask them to send you home.

Kian smiled down at the boy. I hope so, Your Highness. He shot Garrik an amused look, which Garrik returned with a bitter smile.

Wytch Kings, as Garrik was coming to learn, had little sway with the Council.

After lunch, Kian headed off to find the Wytch Master, and Garrik followed Jaire down the back staircase to the kitchens. They slipped past Melli, the head cook, and into the narrow hallway that led to the wine cellar.

The tunnels had been Garrik’s discovery, and they’d been his alone until Jaire was old enough to keep a secret. He’d stumbled across them one day when he was about twelve and desperate to escape his lessons.

It had been a beautiful spring day, and being out in the sunshine held far more appeal than spending the morning cooped up in the library learning history and manners with Master Ristan. He’d slipped into the wine cellar to hide, and when he’d heard approaching footsteps, he’d ducked behind the last row of wine racks. There, his foot had scuffed against something odd under a rug. When the footsteps had passed by, Garrik had pushed aside the rug and found an interesting patch of floor that turned out to be a cleverly concealed trap door. Always up for an adventure, he’d pulled it open and climbed down the ladder into the darkness below.

He hadn’t dared explore that day — it was too dark, and he had no idea where the tunnels might lead. But in the days that followed, he’d brought a lantern with him and explored the underground network in its entirety. He suspected it had been built as an escape route, back in the days before the Wytch Council had united a handful of warring kingdoms into the empire that was now called Skanda.

Garrik had been most upset at the time to discover that nearly all of the tunnel exits had been bricked up. One of them was flooded, which wasn’t surprising, as it led straight toward the nearby River Lytha. The only tunnel that wasn’t blocked let out on the far side of the orchard just north of the castle, a perfect destination for a young man bent on escaping his lessons. When Jaire was old enough to keep his mouth shut, Garrik had shared his discovery with his brother, and only a few months ago, they’d let Kian in on the secret.

Now, at the bottom of the ladder, Garrik lit one of the lanterns he’d set by the wall, and he and Jaire set off down the tunnel. Jaire tended to get overexcited when they did their reenactments, so Garrik wanted to make sure they were far enough away that their voices wouldn’t carry. It wouldn’t do to have their secret escape route discovered; their father would probably deem it a security risk and have it bricked up.

Jaire’s knowledge of the battle between Chalin the dragon-prince and the army of Altan was impressive, even if the whole thing had come out of the boy’s head. After instructing Garrik on where to stand and what to do, Jaire described the action in great detail as he swooped about, laying waste to the army with his powerful wings and his deadly, fiery breath.

When they finally stopped to rest, Garrik wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at his once-white breeches. They were covered in dirt from the final dragon attack, in which Prince Jaire had pounced upon his brother and taken him down to the dirty tunnel floor.

We’d better be finished now, Garrik said, brushing himself off. I’ll have to change for Court. If my hair is as dusty as my clothes, I might even need a bath.

Jaire wrinkled his nose. I’m glad I don’t have to sit through Court. How do you stand it? All those nobles dressed up in their best clothes, and having to listen to farmers arguing about who has to pay to have the fence fixed and which brother should inherit the farm.

Garrik laughed. "It isn’t