Blackfrost (Wytch Kings, Book 2)

Blackfrost

Wytch Kings, Book 2

by

Jaye McKenna

Published by Mythe Weaver Press

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright © 2016 Jaye McKenna

All Rights Reserved

Cover Art by Chinchbug

Copyright © 2016

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or shared with 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, 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.

Blackfrost

Wytch Kings, Book 2

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

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Also Available

Coming Soon

Acknowledgments

Author Bio

Contact Info

Book Description

Chapter One

Prince Ambris of Miraen stared out at the dark tangle of the Blackwood. Over the years, the forest had encroached ever closer to the ruins of the estate, until now it threatened to overtake the charred remains of the north wing. The piles of burnt timbers were still covered with snow, but as the spring progressed, tiny green tendrils of vine would be sprouting, and by midsummer, a mist of green would cover the fallen-in roof.

In a few more years, it would all merge back into the forest, leaving nothing to mark the place where Ambris’s life had taken such a dramatic turn.

Movement in the snow-covered courtyard below the window of his attic bedroom caught his eye, and he watched as the guard patrolling the courtyard was relieved by his night-time counterpart.

There was always a guard in sight of his bedroom window. Overkill, as far as Ambris was concerned, considering that the window was barred and could only be opened a crack.

Ambris let the heavy curtain fall and turned away from the gathering twilight. He had, perhaps, half an hour before old Cyrith brought his dinner and his sleeping draught. It was enough time. He would make it enough time.

He crept to the door and opened it a crack to listen. There was no sound of anyone moving about; the off-duty guardsmen would all be at supper, and Patra would have her hands full getting them fed. Ambris eased the door shut and moved to the center of his room.

Tonight.

He rubbed his pale, slender hands together. Tonight he would face the fire. Tonight, he would master his fear and take back both his freedom and his life.

Face the fire.

He mustn’t dither this time, and he mustn’t allow himself to dwell on all his previous failures. If he thought about it too much, he’d lose his nerve, and who knew how long it would take him to get hold of it again?

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and sought the writhing core of flame at his center.

It sounded like such a simple thing whenever Wytch Master Taretha explained it. Build the pattern in his mind, then wrap it around the surging core of chaos at his center.

He hadn’t counted on it being fire.

Hadn’t counted on the dark, flame-filled memories sweeping him away every time he tried to focus. The moment he drew near enough to his fiery center to begin weaving the pattern, he’d hear his mother’s screams, see her backing away, her eyes wide with horror, her hair ablaze.

Ambris shuddered as his flesh began to twist and writhe. His bones lengthened and changed, piercing his skin. Blood… pain… and the sense of striving for something that was just out of reach, something he couldn’t quite grasp…

White hot agony rippled through him in waves, becoming more intense with every passing moment. There was no backing out now. Once the shift had begun, he could only grit his teeth and endure. Torn apart from the inside out, Ambris fought to hold back his screams.

When he came to, the room was fully dark, and he hurt all over. The floor under him was cold, and the remaining shreds of his clothing were wet and sticky. Every muscle in his body was torn and throbbing, having been stretched beyond its limit. His skin had split in too many places, congealing blood oozing from every wound.

Ambris groaned through a throat that was raw from screaming, and wished for the oblivion of unconsciousness. Where was Cyrith? The healer should have been here by now, should have eased his pain and healed his ruined flesh.

Steps sounded on the stairs. Not the hesitant shuffle-tap-shuffle of the gentle, blind healer, but the light, quick tread that always struck a chord of fear in his heart. Malik, captain of the guard, was approaching.

The footsteps stopped, and the door squeaked open on hinges in need of oiling. Golden lamplight shone in from the hallway beyond the partially open door. A sharp intake of breath was held for a moment, then released on a barely audible chuckle.

Had another accident, did we, Highness? Malik’s voice was a mocking growl that Ambris wouldn’t have dared respond to even if he weren’t in too much pain to speak. Or were we thinking about escape again?

When Ambris didn’t answer, Malik continued, Accident or not, it’s bad timing on your part. Cyrith’s dead, you know. Patra went to fetch him for dinner and found him all stiff and cold in his cot. Dead since this morning, she thinks.

Cyrith dead?

Despair washed over him, magnifying his pain a thousandfold. He whimpered, but didn’t try to speak. Whatever he said would be wrong, would stir Malik’s temper to violence. As it was, Malik had no way of knowing or proving that he’d deliberately chosen to do this to himself, and Ambris intended to keep it that way.

He squeezed his eyes shut as Malik’s steps came closer. Rough hands took hold of his torn, broken body and lifted it none too gently. Bone scraped on bone, and pain flared through him.

The last thing Ambris heard before losing consciousness once more was Malik’s soft laughter.

When he came back to awareness, Malik was gone. Steady, competent hands gently dampened the long strands of his blood-encrusted hair with a wet cloth and smoothed them away from his ruined face.

Ah, pet, I’m so sorry. It was Patra, the housekeeper, sounding genuinely distressed. Poor old Cyrith never woke up this morning, I’m afraid. Malik’s sent for the Wytch Master, but I’ve no idea how long she’ll be. I’ve brought you some blackseed, for the pain. Do you think you can drink it?

He tried to speak, but the pain was too great, so he opened his mouth just a crack, hoping that Patra would understand. Her hand slipped beneath his head to lift it, and she held a small vial to his lips.

When he’d swallowed it all, Patra set his head back down carefully and continued her gentle ministrations.

The blackseed seemed to take forever to do its job, but eventually, a warm glow worked its way through him, starting at his shoulders and slowly spreading until it encompassed his whole body. The pain ebbed away, and Ambris finally sank down into a deep, drugged sleep.

* * *

Kian slipped into the castle’s kitchen and sidled up to the long work table. Melli, the head cook, was busy at the stove and had her back to him. The sweet, buttery scent of the flat-cakes she was tending drifted through the air and made his stomach rumble. Kian reached out to steal one from the covered serving platter that sat on the table.

Don’t think I can’t see you, Kian, Melli said, her blonde ponytail whipping around as she turned to pin him with a glare.

He jerked his hand back and made a sincere effort to look contrite. Sorry, Mistress Melli.

No, you’re not. Anyway, those are for the king’s table. There’ll be plenty for everyone after the family’s been served.

Enough for all the rest of you, anyway, Kian said gloomily. I’ll be missing breakfast this morning. Master Ilya expects me in the workroom shortly to help him with one of his potions.

Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you? Melli set her hands on ample hips, the twinkle in her bright blue eyes belying the stern look she gave him.

Kian did his best to appear innocent, knowing full well the effect his big, dark brown eyes had on women and men alike. Why, no, Mistress Melli. Would I do such a thing?

Ai, you would, whenever you’re wanting something to eat, which seems to be most of the time. She waved her wooden spoon at him. Go on, take a plateful and have a seat at the end of the table. Can’t have you going hungry, now, can we?

Before she could change her mind, Kian snatched up a plate and loaded it with flat-cakes. He slathered them with fresh butter and poured a generous helping of honey over them before taking a seat at the end of the table.

The first bite was pure bliss; Melli’s flat-cakes tasted like his mother’s, and always reminded Kian of the home and family he’d had to leave behind when his Wytch power had awakened nearly three years ago.

Mmm… wonderful, as always, Melli, he said with his mouth full.

Melli rolled her eyes. No wonder Master Ilya despairs of ever civilizing you.

He hasn’t even tried. Kian gave her a rueful grin. As apprentice to Wytch Master Ilya, one of Kian’s most-hated duties was learning the rules of etiquette he would be expected to conduct himself by when his apprenticeship was over and he was assigned to work in one of the noble houses of Skanda.

Hmph. Melli turned back to the stove to flip the flat-cakes again. Speaking of civilized behavior… She waited until she’d finished with the cakes before turning to face him. Next time you decide to have a tumble with one of my serving maids, could you find somewhere a bit cleaner than the stable? Leyka came in with bits of straw in her hair right before she was to serve at the king’s table. I had to send one of the guardsmen in her stead.

Kian couldn’t help the dreamy smile that curved his lips. Leyka was a sweet, lovely girl, and was always willing to lie with him. If he hadn’t known that he’d be leaving Altan as soon as his apprenticeship was finished, he might have allowed himself to get attached to her.

Melli made an impatient sound in her throat, and Kian realized she was waiting for a response of some kind. I don’t suppose Garrik would have minded a bit of straw.

"That’s Wytch King Garrik to the likes of you, my boy, or His Majesty. Honestly, Kian, he allows you far too much liberty. You’ll not get away with being familiar with your betters anywhere else. Some of them would have you whipped for it."

I’m not as stupid as everyone thinks, you know, Kian said with a scowl. I can behave when I have to.

You’ll pardon me for being a bit dubious, won’t you? Melli asked drily.

Kian shot her another grin and finished his breakfast. He was just licking the last of the honey from his fingers when the kitchen door slammed open and Prince Jaire burst in.

Melli, have you seen Kian? The boy sounded breathless, and there was a note of almost-panic in his voice that had Kian on his feet before Jaire had even caught sight of him.

I’m here, Your Highness, he said, noting the prince’s red-rimmed eyes and pale face with alarm. Are you ill?

I don’t know, Jaire said, glancing at Melli, who was watching him with a concerned frown. Can you walk to the dining room with me?

Ai, certainly. Kian set his empty plate on the stone counter next to the kitchen sink, and followed Jaire to the back stairs that led up to the family dining room. He could feel Melli’s eyes on his back until the door had swung shut behind them.

As soon as they were alone on the landing, Jaire fixed worried grey eyes upon Kian. I can hear someone crying.

Crying?

Jaire tapped his head, which Kian took to mean he was sensing someone’s distress with his Wytch power rather than actually hearing a sound. It kept me awake all night. I wondered if any of the servants were ill.

Not that I’ve heard. But then, I don’t see all of them every day. Shall we go and ask around?

Jaire shook his head, then glanced up the stairs, white-blond hair slipping loose from a sloppy, loosely-tied queue. I can’t. Garrik says I must be at breakfast today. The delegation from Irilan will be presented at Court, and he says he needs to talk with me before I meet them. The boy wrinkled his nose and his voice dropped to a near-whisper. I think they want me to marry Lady Bria.

Fools, Kian muttered. Jaire was only just fifteen, and Lady Bria was at least twenty-five. They can send all the delegations they want, but I can’t see Garrik forcing you to marry. Not after everything else he’s done to protect you. Can you?

He doesn’t want to, but… Jaire bit his lip and looked away. The Wytch Council’s been on at him ever since the coronation. They say Altan must have an heir, and since they’ve forbidden Garrik to marry, that leaves me to do it, doesn’t it?

Can’t Garrik name you his heir?

Jaire’s narrow shoulders lifted in a shrug. "He could, but he won’t. And even if he did, the Council would still want me to marry; someone has to take the throne after Garrik. I’m afraid he’s going to make all sorts of trouble for himself when he refuses to do what they want."

Kian bit back a laugh. The Council had thought they had a problem in Wytch King Dane, Garrik’s father. How long would it take before they realized that Garrik was even more stubborn than Dane had been?

I’ll tell you what, Kian said, I’m working with Master Ilya this morning, but after I’ve finished, I’ll go and ask around in the servants’ quarters and find out if someone’s sick or hurting. I’ll check with the captain of the guard, too, though I can’t imagine anyone not seeking out Master Ilya or Mistress Polina if they needed healing.

Maybe it’s someone new, Jaire suggested.

Or someone who’s come from one of the other kingdoms, where the Royal Wytch Master doesn’t deign to heal the servants and the peasants, Kian said bitterly.

Jaire looked up at him with a faint frown. Would they really deny healing to someone who was sick?

The Wytch Council does it all the time. Aeyr’s Grove isn’t considered important enough for a healer. Last year, when winter fever went through the village, we lost twelve people, including the woodcutter’s entire family. If Aeyr’s Grove had its own healer, they might have lived.

I’m sorry. Jaire patted his arm. "Sometimes I think Father was right. The Council does have too much power. The Wytch Kings should have more say in how their kingdoms are run. If Garrik were in charge of the Council, he’d make sure there was a healer in Aeyr’s Grove. And everywhere else one was needed."

Ai, I’m sure he would, Your Highness.

You don’t have to call me that, Kian.

Kian grimaced. I’d better start, if I’m ever to remember to respect my betters. Melli says I’m far too familiar with you and Garrik. She pointed out that if I don’t watch my tongue, I might find myself in a lot of trouble once I leave Altan, and she’s probably right.

Does that mean… Jaire trailed off, lower lip trembling. Does that mean we’re not friends anymore?

Kian glanced up the stairs to make sure no one was in sight, and gave Jaire a quick hug. No, it doesn’t, he said in a low voice. But it does mean I need to be more careful about what I do and say where people are watching.

The clock in the dining room at the top of the stairs struck seven, and Jaire pulled away. I have to go. I promised I wouldn’t be late. I wish I didn’t have to be at Court today. I’d much rather come and watch you and Master Ilya in the workroom.

And I’d much rather come and have breakfast with you and Garrik, Kian said. "Eh. I mean Wytch King Garrik. Anyway, Master Ilya and I are just distilling anzaria. I’m sure it won’t be very interesting."

Maybe not to you, Jaire retorted, and hurried off up the stairs.

Kian watched him go before heading back through the kitchen door. Master Ilya would have sharp words for him if he was late again.

* * *

Kian studied the glittering array of glass tubes and flasks laid out on the work table, then raised his eyes to Wytch Master Ilya, who was perched upon a high stool on the opposite side of the table to Kian.

What do we call the next step in the process? the Wytch Master asked.

Distillation, Kian said, relaxing a little at Ilya’s nod.

Good. You may begin putting the distillation apparatus together. And don’t forget to seal the joins with a little of the salve.

Rather than panicking and going blank as he might have a year ago, Kian thought back to the last time they’d used the distillation apparatus. It had been only a few weeks ago, when they’d brewed a tonic to ease the deep, hacking cough that came along with winter fever. Kian hadn’t been the one to build it, but he’d paid close attention, suspecting he’d be tested at some point.

He glanced up at his mentor to find Master Ilya’s pale blue eyes fixed upon him. To make the task a bit more interesting, there are two pieces of glassware on the table that you’ll not be needing.

Kian suppressed a groan. Master Ilya’s idea of interesting was nothing like Kian’s.

Think about the function of each part of the apparatus, Master Ilya continued. What are we trying to accomplish with a distillation?

Boiling off the water.

And what does that do?