by Forthright
K – you are doomed
L – are you sick?
To K – I will be brave
To L – injured in the line of duty
Will you rescue me?
Where are you?
Not sure
Guest room. Your room.
Two beats. A third. Then Ginkgo responded.
Warded?
Yes
Hosts?
No sign. I’ve been asleep
Should I be worried?
Yes and no
Do they teach little dragons about trees?
Clearly, this Mettlebright was privy to more information than Sinder had bothered to dig up. Had it been a mistake, taking this assignment at face value? Or had he been relying too much on Boon being here?
“O Captain, my Captain,” he muttered. “Wherefor art thou?”
Even though his pause had to have been a giveaway, Sinder played it safe.
Every clan knows their songs
Risky business, sleeping under trees
Oh, and Sinder …?
Damn.
Yes?
Let Timur know we’re an hour out
Will do
Sinder rewarded the half-fox by sending a pouting selfie. And a parting shot for the kids.
Codename: Damsel
When Timur returned with a tray, Sinder scrolled back up to the picture of universal disgust. “This? This is what you’re going to do to me?”
Timur smiled lopsidedly. “Too right. Mum’s recipes are dastardly, but I brought afters. You must be hungry.”
He sat up to receive the tray. There was a plate of roasted vegetables, crusty rolls, and cheese. And a fat turnover that smelled of honey, nuts, and cinnamon. Sinder realized that Timur’s barrier must be blocking sounds and smells, which required unusually intricate wardsmanship. Skills like these bounded on the illusory. Rather foxish in nature, now that he thought about it.
“First this.” Timur held out a brimming teacup. “It’s cooled enough. Try to take it in one go.”
Sinder made a face.
“You don’t want any huddlebud left in your system when meeting our hosts.”
Sinder chugged, coughed, and wheezed, “Vile.”
Timur shrugged and borrowed from his mother again. “What is good is hard. But is good.”
Breakfast could only be better. Sinder started in on the food. According to the date on Timur’s phone, he hadn’t eaten in four days, so this tray was going to be the first of many. Mumbling around a mouthful of pastry, Sinder said, “Ginkgo seems to think my virtue is at risk.”
He passed along the phone. Timur scanned the whole conversation, smiling all the while. Finally, he said, “You have been sleeping under a tree. Practically inside it. One of the reasons we’re so safe here is because most people have trouble remembering that here exists. We’re in Waaseyaa’s home.”
Sinder had been briefed on this part. Twineshaft was very interested in the Amaranthine trees of Wardenclave. He chewed more slowly, then asked, “You know about tree-kin?”
“I do now. Glint introduced me when I first arrived.” Timur admitted, “Three weeks later, and I’m still getting used to it. And them. Especially Zisa.”
“Zisa.” Sinder made the logical leap. “The tree half of their twinship?”
Timur nodded and leaned closer. “Fair warning. If you have personal boundaries, he’ll be inside them before you can say, ‘Kiss me again.’”
Sinder slowly shook his head.
Timur simply nodded.
EIGHT
Making the Rounds
The more Mikoto learned about his role as headman, the less he felt up to the task. Some things were honorary, like having a part in the annual Founders Day festival, playing host to important guests, and having his picture in glossy brochures and online articles. This was all part of being the son of the son of the son—through the centuries—of a historical figure.
But Gabe Reaver’s day-to-day responsibilities had been much more prosaic. Head of Wardenclave’s community association. And camp director.
The former was now under Duntuffet prevue, and the latter was being handled by Merl Alpenglow. They had it covered, so for the moment, Mikoto’s primary responsibility was a scampering tuft of white fur.
The puppy was a big hit with Hana and with the nieces. Not so much with Yulin. Glint’s gift had piddled one too many times in the moth’s archive. So Mikoto’s in-house mentor had prioritized long walks. He called it “making the rounds.”
It was more freedom than Mikoto had expected. But the puppy was a bigger handful than he would have guessed. Not literally, of course. He was more of a scant handful, barely large enough to count as canine. Especially in a village where Kith-partnered battlers rode their dogs.
The girls had been quick to suggest names. All of them cutesy. But Mikoto firmly rejected them. He wasn’t leaving something so important to them. Plus, he’d wanted a name with more dignity. Which had brought Yulin to mind. And then the name was suddenly there and perfectly right. A doggish name that was already an endearment. Noble.
Yulin had been amused. And pleased. Mikoto could tell.
Noble was quick and clingy, which put him constantly underfoot. While Mikoto made his rounds, the bouncing, twirling pup kept getting tangled in his own leash. Mikoto finally resorted to keeping Noble in the pocket of the long, sleeveless vest he was still getting used to wearing. Worn over Mikoto’s usual summer tunic, the vest bore the crests of Wardenclave and its five founders. It marked him as headman.
So with a puppy in his pocket and time on his hands, Mikoto turned onto the narrow path that led into the pasture behind Glint’s compound. And the enormous tree overshadowing it. The way in was a secret and well-warded, but not against family. Or against the headman. And Mikoto was both, for Waaseyaa’s most recent wife had been Gabe Reaver’s eldest sister.
“Uncle,” Mikoto greeted.
Waaseyaa had ruddy brown skin and the straight black hair of many First Nations people. He was arrayed in a fawn-colored tunic trimmed with orange embroidery that was a sure sign of Glint’s longstanding affection and protection. Waaseyaa always wore this same tunic. Or one similar. Maybe he had a trunk filled with nearly identical shirts. Or maybe his clothes endured because he did.
“Hello, Mikoto.” Waaseyaa sat amidst his tree-twin’s roots, his hands occupied with a child who couldn’t have been two yet. The little boy was a determined climber. “I remember when you were much the same as this one.”
“Not sure I do.” Mikoto’s glance flitted to the large feline sprawled nearby. “Except that you were patient with my hairpulling.”
Waaseyaa kept his hair in a braid that was remarkable for its length. If he wasn’t in the habit of looping it around his shoulders, the trailing end would have dragged on the ground.
Mikoto awkwardly asked, “Is he one of yours?”
“Not of my line. His father is one of the instructors.” Waaseyaa pulled the toddler into his arms. “Timur needed a hand, and both of mine were free. This is Gregor. And that one is Fend, Timur’s partner.”
Showing his palms to the Kith, Mikoto asked, “Where is Zisa?”
“Sulking.” Waaseyaa looked up into the tree’s canopy. “He cannot be as hospitable as he would like when the guest room is warded against him.”
Mikoto addressed himself to the tree. “Would you like to meet my new puppy?”
Zisa’s arms slipped around him from behind, hugging tightly as he hid his face against Mikoto’s back. His question came out muffled. “You came to see me?”
“I did. You and Uncle.” Mikoto patted one of the arms locked around him. “Glint gave me a puppy. He seemed to think I needed company.”
Zisa lifted his head and Mikoto smiled into eyes the same shade of yellow-green as the tree’s leaves. He’d never minded getting close to Zisa. Uncle had explained things a long while back, and Mikoto liked being trusted with the truth. Zisa loved to give, but he’d never take. And the
more you accepted him, the less he flirted.
“Your house is farther than Brother lets me go.” Zisa kissed his cheek. “Visit more, and I will be good company.”
“I will.” Turning in Zisa’s embrace, he looped an arm around the tree’s waist for a sideways hug. “But you are expecting more interesting company. I saw it on the schedule. You are someone’s cabin assignment.”
“Really?”
“Right there on Merl’s spreadsheet. Cabin: Zisa.”
The tree looked to his twin, all dimples and delight. “Hear that, Brother? I am a cabin!”
“I can understand why Argent Mettlebright is so protective.” Waaseyaa caressed little Gregor’s mop of curls. “He asked nicely. How could we refuse?”
“Did you know we have company already?” Zisa asked coyly. “There is a dragon inside. He is beautiful.”
Mikoto carefully lifted Noble from his pocket. “You think everyone is beautiful.”
“Life is.” Loosing his embrace so he could take the pup with both hands, Zisa exclaimed, “Why, he is no bigger than an Ephemera! What is his name?”
“Noble.”
Zisa tittered. “How will Yulin tell you apart?”
Mikoto smiled and shrugged and … relaxed. He’d expected all the usual condolences, but Uncle and Zisa were simply glad he’d wanted to visit. Maybe that was how tree-kin had to be. Maybe that’s why Mikoto liked coming here so much. They were always present in the moment, always glad to share it with him.
Uncle indicated the place at his side, and Mikoto joined him.
“I know this garment.” Waaseyaa’s fingers lightly caressed the vest’s threadwork. “Is it heavy?”
He nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head. Uncle probably knew about his five-way apprenticeship, and he was tired of explaining it anyhow. So he asked, “You knew them all?”
“The headmen? Yes.”
“They must have looked up to you.”
“No,” said Waaseyaa. “Not all. And not always.”
Mikoto couldn’t imagine it. This person was kind and wise and generous.
“Some of them were afraid of me. Some of them were disappointed in me.”
“Why?”
His uncle looked away. “I think … they would have used my years differently. So instead of seeing me, they saw what I could have been. Or what they could have been, if there had been any way to trade places.”
“They were jealous of you?”
“Not really. They were jealous of parts, but not the whole.” Waaseyaa’s smile was small. “And some of them met me during times when I was unhappy. I am sometimes sad. You understand.”
Mikoto did.
“Some of them got along better with Glint than with me. Or … us.” His gaze settled fondly on his twin, who was chattering softly to Noble. “Not everyone understands. Or accepts.”
“I have always been more comfortable with you than Glint.” As soon as it was out, it felt like a bold confession. Mikoto ducked his head.
“Yes.” Waaseyaa patted his arm. “Glint loves you.”
He grunted.
“It is true. He gave you Noble because he knew you were sad. Puppies are his answer to grief.”
“Has he ever given you a puppy?”
“Many, many times.” Tugging loose the end of his braid, he passed it to Mikoto.
His breath caught all funny, and his throat began to ache. This was how his uncle had always offered comfort, for everything from bossy sisters to bruised knuckles. And once or twice because he’d admitted to nursing a broken heart. Mikoto had never been one to go all weepy, but … that didn’t mean he’d never sought comfort. Or known where to find it.
“Excuse me,” came a voice Mikoto didn’t know. “Sorry to interrupt.”
A man stood in the door to Waaseyaa’s home, practically filling it. Not quite dog clan stature, but close enough to rest an arm on the lintel as he leaned out. He wore battler colors and radiated competence.
“Can we get your healer back here? Colt Alpenglow?”
Mikoto saw the man notice him. Saw the man dismiss him. Knew what that meant among the ranks of battlers. Not a threat. Not a priority.
The man added, “He’s awake.”
For the barest fraction of a moment, Mikoto wanted to drop his uncle’s braid and pretend he was strong or important or immune to the emotions he had no words for. And for a fraction of a moment, he was disappointed in himself. Mikoto tightened his grip and wound Uncle’s braid around his fist, then his wrist. He would not let go. Not now. Not ever.
Waaseyaa accepted that much as he accepted anything. Without remark. Yet at this range, and tangled as he was, Mikoto briefly touched a vibrant bond that soared above them, even to the treetop, and deep into the earth, for Zisa was well-anchored upon this hill. And Waaseyaa was the beacon set upon it.
All of the sudden, Mikoto registered a deep rattle, and he tensed. The big cat was prowling toward him, all slink and sway. Like a black panther, but much larger. And far less threatening, since his alert was a purr.
Mikoto found himself staring into orange eyes.
“His name is Fend,” reminded Uncle in an undertone. The toddler in his arms babbled and laughed, clearly happy to see the big cat.
Fend’s broad nose touched Mikoto’s forehead, the lightest of taps. And then the purring was loud in his ears, for the feline was rubbing his face against Mikoto’s. Cheek to cheek. First one side, then the other. Over and over, like an affectionate housecat.
Was it a show of preference? That was really very flattering, especially in Wardenclave, where folks took pride in being dog people. Mikoto wondered what Glint would say if he saw this … and smiled.
Fend sat back. Making way for the man, who was definitely taking notice now.
Offering his hand, he cheerfully asked, “Who are you, then?”
NINE
Clay Pit
Tenma had never considered himself impetuous, but there was no other word to describe his sudden urge to walk in the woods. He’d only meant to look around. Familiarize himself with the surroundings. Not strike off on his own.
But there was most assuredly something off in this direction. He’d learned to trust that certainty, even when it led him into strange situations.
Like this one.
He was in the woods below the village, that much he knew. So he couldn’t be very lost. The creek hadn’t been a surprise. In his mind, mountains and springs went together. At least, that’s the way it worked back home. But when he’d reached a wide bend in its course, he found what looked like an exposed clay bed.
The grayish matter was just the sort of thing Goh-sensei liked to work with, and Tenma had thought to bring him a sample. However, in getting a closer look and trying to collect some, Tenma had somehow found himself stuck. And sinking.
Struggling only caused him to sink faster in the miry clay. He was up past his calves, helpless to free himself. Tenma rubbed at his nose, knocking his glasses askew, feeling like a child instead of a grown man.
He would be missed. If he didn’t show up for the noon meal, Goh-sensei would notice and come looking. Unless he grew preoccupied with his work.
An hour might see Tenma sunk. Better to yell for help. There were plenty of Amaranthine in Wardenclave, and their senses were keen. They’d hear his voice, and they’d be strong enough to rescue him from his own foolishness.
A bird called then, sharp and close, and fluttered to the ground near the edge of the clay. Cocking its head to one side, it studied Tenma with a beady eye.
Despite his desperate situation, Tenma was taken by the beauty of the thing. Ever since graduating from New Saga High School, he’d traveled constantly. Usually with Goh-sensei. Until recently, also with Inti. And one of the things Tenma marveled over was the existence of so many birds. What was normal and boring to one region was strange and new to a traveler like him.
This bird had brilliant blue feathers, barred with black and white, and a distinctive
crest atop its head. Striking and, Tenma hoped, overly large for its species.
“Hello,” he called softly. “Good morning.”
Tenma made a basic hand sign, identifying himself as a reaver. Which wasn’t entirely true, but he was part of the In-between now. And he’d always gotten on well with Kith.
“By some chance, are you a friend?”
The bird spread its wings and beat them once, adding a call.
Tenma was convinced. “I’m glad you found me. I seem to have become stuck. Could you send for help?” He waved toward the village. “I’ve only been here a few days. Well, not here. Not stuck for a few days.” He was babbling, but he couldn’t stop. “I only meant I’ve been here at Wardenclave for a few days. So I’m not sure who to ask for. But if this is your home, you’ll know, won’t you? Does Wardenclave have some kind of patrol or security team?”
“Both.”
The voice came from above and behind, and Tenma twisted, trying to see who had arrived.
Someone had settled comfortably upon a nearby tree branch. Had he been watching Tenma struggle?
Lifting two fingers, he repeated himself, this time in Japanese.
Tenma bobbed his head and murmured thanks. He could get by in English, but in stressful situations, his many language lessons escaped him.
The Amaranthine slipped from his perch, landing lightly on bare feet and strolling around so Tenma didn’t need to strain to see him. He wore loose pants of coarse cloth secured by a double row of buttons that marched up his midriff. The throwback style gave him a rustic appearance, like someone who didn’t mingle enough with society to know when trends changed.
Not that Tenma was wearing the height of reaver fashion, which was a mercy. His good clothes wouldn’t have survived this mudpack. It was no loss to further mangle the sturdy denim pants that he wore for work. They were already stained by clay from many seasons at the potter’s wheel.