Mikoto and the Reaver Village (Amaranthine Saga Book 4)

by Forthright

  Talk about motivation.

  Torloo decided they were ready for night maneuvers.

  Sinder was finally forced to stay on his toes. His pursuers were getting better at limiting his options. Careful steps and the musical hum of crystals. Gruff commands in code and the eerie howl of wolves on the scent.

  Torloo had brought two Kith with him. Torn and Yang were a matched set—light brown, blue eyed, and big enough to look a grown man in the eye. The wolves were packmates, companions, and bodyguards. Or possibly babysitters. Not that the kid needed babying.

  No doubt Adoona-soh felt better knowing her youngest wasn’t alone. Few wolves embraced a loner’s status. But Sinder was in a position to know that Torloo’s buddies probably weren’t a gift from his mom. They’d been selected by his sire, for they had the Trebellair coloring.

  Everyone was in fine form tonight. The encircling ranks were driving him toward a narrow place, likely in hopes of penning him in. It might have worked if they’d had the support of wards, but most battlers sucked at barriers.

  Sinder streaked through the trees, circumventing the bulk of their ranks. Slowing to a stroll, he listened carefully, alert to movement in the treetops. One of the reavers had an owl Kith, and she was a regular stealth fighter. Hisoka should bring in more for support. It’d be in Sinder’s next report.

  Something hit him. Not hard, but not in a good way.

  He’d been made.

  Bolting away, Sinder strained his senses for the position of his pursuer. It should have been easy. Even if a reaver was warded, their stones and sigils whispered in ways that every dragon knew. For sigils were written upon the wind, resonating with the songs of stones. But Sinder was at a loss. And that meant he wasn’t dealing with a warded battler.

  There’d been a ward in the ranks after all.

  Sinder leapt into a tree and quickly shed his tunic to check the back. A sigil shimmered against the cloth. Probably a tracer. He left it there and fled through the treetops. Which smacked of desperation, but it was also Sinder’s best out.

  Quick, but less quiet than he would have liked. And far from graceful.

  Leaves smacked. Twigs scratched. Bark bit. Pausing to listen, he peered back over his shoulder and caught the telltale gleam of a sigil creeping over pale skin.

  He hung his head and wished—not for the first time—for Juuyu.

  His partner made short work of any form of sigilcraft.

  This was exactly why Hisoka frowned on solo missions. And why Boon was in deep shit. And why Sinder needed to either shed his skin—not ideal—or go to ground. Camouflaged, there was a slim chance he could outlast the night.

  Right then, a wave of dizziness washed over him. A moment later, he hit the ground, and pain lanced through his side. Sucking in a shallow breath, he forced his way onto his feet and focused on a silent retreat.

  Was his pursuer aware that he was flightless? That little detail was not on the approved lesson plan. With wavering steps, he made for one of the grottoes he’d located during earlier reconnoiters. Not the best of bolt holes, but it was closest, and that’s what counted.

  Sinder crawled through a rocky narrow, tumbling into a den with an earthen floor. Perhaps it had once belonged to wildcats or wolves. It might have been a good hideaway if he wasn’t so certain that the sigil that continued to spread was beckoning to its crafter.

  Clutching at his side, he waited to see the source of his humiliation.

  A scant minute passed. A few low words and a stealthy scuffle preceded Michaelson into the den.

  “Go away,” he muttered.

  “Not until I remove that sigil.”

  Lovely. He was immune to Sinder’s words, as well. “Sassing back to dragons? You are one annoyingly over-qualified rookie.”

  Michaelson lofted a couple of crystals, which took on a soft blue glow. He sighed and said, “You don’t remember me, do you.”

  “Should I?” Sinder studied the young man. Caucasian. With dark eyes and hair, which hung in loose curls almost to his shoulders. In need of a shave. Built like a tank.

  The battler shook his head. “Dragons don’t rely so much on scents. Colors and sounds are what trigger your memories, and my voice has changed.”

  Sinder frowned. He didn’t need lessons in being a dragon. He’d already been trying to pin down the man’s voice, which was deep and lightly accented. As if English weren’t the only language in his arsenal.

  “I’ll give you a hint.” Beckoning with the fingers of both hands, Michaelson quietly ordered, “Touch my nose.”

  “We have met.” Sinder’s thoughts raced. “We met when you were a child?”

  “Only once, so it’s no wonder you don’t remember.” He showed his palms. “May I touch?”

  Sinder tried to do the polite thing, only to reveal a bloodied hand.

  “You’re injured.” Crowding close, the reaver ordered, “Show me.”

  “Is this the part where I’m meant to assure you that it’s just a scratch?”

  He snorted. “This is the part where I check for broken ribs.”

  Michaelson’s hands were blessedly warm as he probed. Sinder bit his lip to keep from whimpering. “Kith partner, sigil crafter, and field medic? Where did Naroo-soh find you?”

  “Hang on, Sinder. I need my kit, and Fend is carrying it.”

  He knew his name. Said it kindly.

  They’d met once. But where? Sinder didn’t know anyone else called Michaelson, but reavers chose their own surnames. Oh. What a dunce.

  “You’re Michael’s son.” And since the world was full of Michaels, he added, “First of Wards.”

  “Spot on.” And there. He had his father’s smile.

  “Your mother’s a battler.” Sinder lifted his arms, giving the man access to his injury.

  “And a healer, fortunately for you.” Michaelson doused him with something that stung, then began wrapping. “I spent a couple of summers with the mares before being bundled off to Mum’s people.”

  Sinder tried not to squirm. “Are you allowed to congratulate yourself for binding up wounds you’ve inflicted?”

  “No.” Those dark eyes sought his. “I’m truly sorry, Sinder. I wasn’t even sure the sigil would work.”

  “It works.”

  “Can you describe its affects?”

  “In excruciating detail.” He shivered miserably. “So I’m an experiment?”

  Michaelson removed his vest and peeled out of his tunic. “Hands up again.”

  Sinder lost the urge to be snide as warm cloth settled around him. It was just such a relief.

  The man smoothed the shirt over his back, pulled free his thick braid, chafed his arms—all the fussing made Sinder miss Colt. “You have a lot of scars,” he remarked.

  “Old mishap with a skylight.” Sinder shrugged, then wished he hadn’t. “What’s the diagnosis, Healer Michaelson?”

  “Bruised, but not broken.” He shrugged back into his vest, buckling it over a hairy chest, then checking his pockets. “I recommend a dose for the pain, and you’re overdue for a long sleep. A proper tending wouldn’t go amiss. Best thing for it, really.”

  Sinder was having a hard time keeping up. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Michaelson looked away. “About the sigil.”

  Tugging up one sleeve, Sinder watched the progress of the pattern across his skin. It was sort of pretty, like molten body art. But it also made him uneasy. “Weren’t you going to remove it?”

  “About that.” The reaver met his gaze pleadingly. “Would you mind if we let it run its course?”

  Sinder made a grab for him, claws hooking into the fabric of his vest. “What’s it doing to me?”

  Michaelson took his hands and moved them to his face, pressing them to either side in a dragon’s show of faith. “This one’s not so bad. A trap nested within a tracer. It’s singing you a lullaby.”

  This one. Which meant there were other ones. Worse ones. Sinder wasn’t sure he liked the so
und of that. “It’s supposed to put me to sleep?”

  “If it works right.”

  “Seems right.” Slumping sideways, he asked, “What if it malfunctions?”

  “I’ll dismantle it.” Michaelson’s arm eased around him, pulling him close. “I’ll be right here, making sure.”

  Sinder wondered if this is what it felt like, falling under the spell of a dragon’s words. Helpless to protest. Stupidly trusting. Still, he managed to frame another protest. “What if it triggers a long sleep?”

  “I’ll take full responsibility.” He smiled his father’s smile and added, “I cannot offer you a harem or heights, but my home is yours for as long as you need it.”

  “Swear it.”

  “By all four winds,” he said gravely.

  Sinder thought that was a nice touch, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted. “Upon your name. Swear it on your name.”

  A searching look. A small smile. “So be it. I swear to bring you safely home. Upon my honor and upon my name—Timur Michaelson, partner to Fend, lately of Stately House, guest instructor at Wardenclave, and heir to the secrets of the Order of Spomenka.”

  Oh. Double dunce. First the legendary Junzi, now a throwback Spomenka?

  He warbled a protest and knew how pitiful it sounded.

  The man gathered him up like it was nothing. “Rest easy, Sinder Stonecairne. I’ve got you.”

  SIX

  I Spy

  Sinder woke on what could only be described as a sleeping platform. Which immediately brought wolves to mind, except for the distinct lack of shag. Boon’s alcove always looked like it’d been paved in roadkill. This bed, while similarly spacious, was more sensibly fitted with smooth sheets, downy blankets, and a lavishly embroidered coverlet—greens, golds, and enough oranges to warm the heart of any Farroost.

  But this wasn’t a phoenix’s nest. Sinder had enjoyed Harmonious’ hospitality often enough. This added up to dog.

  Turning his head, he noted a net of sigils, the basic sort intended to keep out noise and nuisances. Within that shimmering curtain, a big chair had been pulled up beside his bed. And upon that chair dozed Timur Michaelson, who had bathed and shaved in the indeterminate interim. His plain cotton T-shirt was battler teal, and when Sinder lifted his head, he glimpsed pajama pants.

  His movement, though slight, woke his guardian.

  “Hello,” Michaelson murmured, sitting forward and extending a hand. “Any ill effects?”

  Sinder allowed the brush of fingertips, even though he was pretty sure he hadn’t dreamed up the late-breaking news flash with regards to the Order of Spomenka. “You’re a dragon slayer?”

  “Family tradition.” Timur quietly added, “You had a right to know.”

  “A ringer among the rookies? Who knew about …?” He faltered, because he knew the answer. “Twineshaft arranged it?”

  Timur glanced toward the door, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Sensei knows, sure. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “So it’s pure coincidence that you’re part of an intensive on tracking dragons?”

  “I’m filling in for Boon.”

  Sinder snorted. “Torloo is filling in for him.”

  With a gesture that begged for patience, Timur said, “Boon was also scheduled as a camp instructor. I’ll be working with the academy kids. But I’m mainly here because Argent arranged it.”

  “You?”

  Timur seemed confused.

  Sinder eased onto his side, testing muscles and gritting his teeth against several new aches and twinges. “No offense, Michaelson, but you can’t expect me to believe you’re Mettlebright’s spy.”

  “Are we spies, then?”

  “I never said that,” he muttered, grateful the room was warded.

  “Believe what you want. I can’t deny that I’m here for … reasons.” Timur’s lips quirked. “But they’re largely familial.”

  “But not entirely familial,” he challenged. Sinder wasn’t sure what kind of confession he expected to wrest out of the man. Why was he running at the mouth? And then it clicked. “What did you dose me with?”

  “Huddlebud. You had a second dose two days ago. I can brew a tea that’ll wash away any lingering effects.” Timur came to perch on the bed’s edge. “The room’s been warded the whole time. Nobody heard.”

  Sinder’s eyes widened. “What did I say?”

  “This and that. Nothing worth repeating.” Timur chuckled as he added, “Though I would like my phone back. Eventually.”

  He found it under his pillow.

  Timur’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “You were cuddling it like a teddy bear.”

  Sinder clutched it to his heart. “Wardenclave doesn’t have wifi.”

  “Denholm does.” As if on cue, the phone vibrated.

  “We’re in Denholm?” Sinder glanced at the screen. Someone with the handle BeastieBestie had texted, I could walk faster than this bus is rolling.

  “No, we’re at the heart of Wardenclave.”

  Something in the way he said it made Sinder take a closer look at his surroundings. That dose must have been fresh as flowers. Then again, Sinder was used to leaving setting details to Juuyu.

  Daytime, roundabout mid-high. Bedroom, probably guest. And downright palatial, by Wardenclave standards. “They gave me a tent.”

  Timur laughed. “I have a little cabin, same as the other instructors. But this was both more secure and more convenient for … reasons.”

  Sinder wasn’t letting that go. “You know I know Inti, right?”

  With a quick nod, Timur rejoined, “And you know where he is.”

  That hung in the air between them for several moments. “Right. Well,” muttered Sinder. “The less said, the better.”

  “Now you sound like Boon,” Timur accused.

  Sinder hung his head, at a loss. Finally, he asked, “How much do you know?”

  “More than I’m supposed to, but not enough to be dangerous. I’m trying to reassure you. We have people in common. You can trust me.”

  “Me, trust a Spomenka?” Sinder gave him the side eye. “That would be preposterous.”

  Timur nodded. “Almost as preposterous as having a phoenix for a partner.”

  Sinder flopped back and waved an accusing finger. “You’re a harrowing, hulking security risk.”

  “Not a bit of it. But I am here for security reasons.” He reached over and unlocked his phone with the touch of a finger. “How are they coming?”

  More text messages from BeastieBestie.

  I could walk faster than this bus is rolling

  Unpaved roads = first line of defense

  Lilya says to bring Fend

  Smoother, faster ride

  Next came a selfie that made Sinder sit up. Dark green seats and windows with a tundra view confirmed that the sender was on a camp bus. “The reavers are coming in already?”

  “In a couple more days. Glint gave permission for an earlier arrival.” Timur craned his neck to see the photo. “This room’s for them.”

  The selfie showed a grinning male in a faded blue shirt that set off his eyes. His rumple of silver hair would have sent Juuyu into fits, but Sinder was more interested in his ears. Silver fox ears perched atop his head, marking him as a crosser. And a celebrity one, at that.

  He was crammed into a seat with two children. A girl with long brown hair had her arms wrapped around the shoulders of a boy who clung to her waist. There was no mistaking his dark red eyes. Or the spotting and scales.

  “Argent’s kid?”

  Timur leaned on an elbow to better share the screen. “They’re both his—Ginkgo and Kyrie. And Lilya’s one of my sisters. This is their first camp. My being here and needing Ginkgo made it easier to get all the assorted parental permissions.”

  “I can’t believe Argent let Kyrie out of his sight.”

  “He trusts Ginkgo. And me.”

  “Kith partner, sigil crafter, field medic, and baby minder.”

  “Gink
go’s the baby minder. I get to play big brother.” Indicating the phone, he said, “Go ahead and let him know you’re keeping his bed warm while I brew that tea.”

  Sinder’s fingers were itching to do just that. He missed technology. Liked to chat. “How will he react, knowing I’ve commandeered what’s obviously meant to be a secure line?”

  “He’s a fox at heart. He likes intrigue.” Timur laced his next words with more of his mother’s accent. “You can be Hisoka’s spy. He will be Argent’s. And I will play the Russian spy. Yes?”

  “Unbelievable.” Sinder couldn’t keep a straight face. “Do you like intrigue?”

  “Terrible at it, actually.” Timur whispered, “Between you and me, Fend is the brains of the operation.”

  “You admit your Kith is smarter than you?” He was liking this reaver more by the minute.

  “Part of why we’re such a good team.”

  Sinder’s curiosity piqued. “How do you communicate?”

  Timur tapped his nose. “Whatever do you mean? Kith are intelligent, loyal, and make good pets. Everyone knows that.”

  “You’re very good.”

  “Not at everything.” His expression briefly closed, but his smile was soon back, if a bit sadder. “For instance, you’re going to hate my tea.”

  SEVEN

  At the Heart of Wardenclave

  Sinder tapped and flicked his way through the contents of Timur’s phone, assuring himself that all was secure before he toyed with Ginkgo.

  I’m not Timur. Who am I?

  Two beats. A third. Then Ginkgo responded.

  Fend: the world’s first typing Kith.

  You may rule out felines. Try again.

  Friend or foe?

  Both/and

  Depends on the game

  L – girl or boy?

  K – half or whole?

  All male, yet a damsel in distress

  He’s threatening me with tea

  Should I be worried?

  They sent him a selfie in which all three of them offered expressions of—what he hoped was—exaggerated distaste. Ginkgo might not know who he was, but he must have decided this was a family-friendly mystery.