Mikoto and the Reaver Village (Amaranthine Saga Book 4)

by Forthright

“I’m responsible for him,” protested Ginkgo.

  The new guy, who was right about the same height as Ginkgo, smiled. “As your host, I have a share in your responsibility. He is safe.”

  “You’re Waaseyaa.” Ginkgo allowed the man to hold him back. “Where’s my brother?”

  “With mine. In a sense.” Dark eyes dancing, Waaseyaa said, “Your brother is climbing the tree.”

  Kyrie knew better than to go off by himself without saying anything to anyone. It was a basic rule, especially when in strange territory. And he hadn’t exactly broken it. Fend had seen him slip away.

  Leaving his shoes among the roots, Kyrie touched the tree, which was so big, it was almost like facing a wall of wood. The surface wasn’t rough bark, but smooth and rippling. Like the tree’s trunk was made of many smaller ones that had twined together as they grew, folded together like the braids Aunt Sansa often wove into Lilya’s hair.

  If he used the grooves for footholds, he wouldn’t need to dig his claws into the flawless surface of the wood. It would be a shame to leave marks. Probably rude, too, since this tree was special.

  He searched for the best starting point, only to discover hoop of metal jutting out of the wood. It must have been there for a long time, because the wood seemed to have grown around it. Kyrie tested it. Definitely a rung!

  Peering up, he spied another and smiled.

  Someone else had been climbing this tree. Quite possibly in secret, or at least in private, since the hoop was set with a crystal.

  Wards didn’t work very well against Kyrie, especially when their anchor was purple. He touched the soft lavender crystal, which seemed to whisper its welcome. Reavers favored stones from the amethyst range as wardstones, but Kyrie had discovered that purple stones liked him best. They forgot what they were doing if he was nearby.

  Barriers let him pass right through unless they were reinforced with sigilcraft to exclude him. But that only happened at home. And not so much anymore, since he was old enough to respect boundaries.

  Balancing on the hoop, Kyrie reached for the next. Whoever had created this path was taller, so he had to stretch and scramble until he made it up among the limbs. Then his options multiplied with every branching path. And he began to search.

  The song had ended, but a scent pulled at him. Stronger now, as if one of the barriers had been holding back the fragrance that teased him onward and upward.

  Heedless of how high he’d come, Kyrie searched for the flowers, wanting to know their shape and their color. Then he could tell Ginkgo all about them. Maybe even add a tree like this to their garden at home. That way, he could enjoy this scent all the time. Or at least as often as the tree was in bloom.

  He accidentally found the flowers by walking into them face-first.

  They were unlike any blossoms he’d ever seen before—cupped petals like bells, cascading in clusters. Vividly orange and heavy with pollen, sticky gold dust that tickled until he sneezed. The noise sent several Ephemera zipping away like startled fish. But they came drifting back, as enamored of the flowers as Kyrie was.

  He liked Ephemera. Dad’s glass garden was filled with all kinds.

  But these were new. And wild, of course. So when he offered his fingertips, they scooted away. With a whole summer ahead, maybe he could tame one. Bring it home to give to Dad. Ginkgo would probably help him.

  Six-legged lizards nuzzled into the orange flowers, like they loved this tree.

  Such a lovely tree.

  Being here made Kyrie feel fuzzy and warm and glad … and a little bit sleepy. So he found a forked section right up among the flowers and lay back. Just for a little while.

  Such a lovely tree.

  Kyrie was so relaxed, he didn’t notice that there was someone else nearby until he spoke.

  “You are a long way up.”

  “It is a big tree,” he pointed out.

  The stranger balanced easily on their shared limb. “You like big trees?”

  Kyrie nodded. “Especially this one.”

  “And why would that be?”

  Inhaling deeply, he sighed his contentment. “Feels good.”

  The stranger glanced around, looking unconvinced. “So you say.”

  “You cannot feel it?” Kyrie asked.

  “No.” Peering around at the eager Ephemera, he quietly confessed, “I never could understand the appeal.”

  “Too bad. This tree is lovely.”

  That earned him a smile. “And you love it?”

  Kyrie hardly needed to consider. He shyly admitted, “I think I do.”

  “Will you steal these flowers and bottle their pollen?”

  “I would rather come visit every chance I get.”

  The stranger hummed approvingly. “Sensible boy.”

  Slouching a little further into his seat, Kyrie mumbled, “Feels good.”

  “It will not feel good if you topple.”

  Kyrie turned his head to check how high he was, but looking down tilted him sideways.

  “Ope, ope, ope. None of that!” The stranger made a grab. “Messy business, cleaning up fallen boys.”

  All of the sudden, Kyrie realized that he was being cradled like a child, which wasn’t such a great shock. He was a child. But not so little that he wanted to be babied. He would have said so, but he was distracted by his rescuer’s hair, which was sprouting leaves of the greenest green, as vivid as the ones that surrounded them. His smile was nice, and his scent was lovely.

  That’s when Kyrie made a vast leap of logic. “Are you a tree?”

  “I am this tree.”

  Struggling up, Kyrie brushed his lips against the underside of the tree-person’s jaw, just the way Dad had taught him. It took quite an effort. Sagging back in limp delight, he said, “You are my favorite tree.”

  “Do you love me?”

  Such a lovely tree. “I think I do.”

  The tree tapped his nose. “You are adorable.”

  A voice called out somewhere below.

  “Come, and I will introduce you to my brother. Since you will be visiting me every chance you get, he will want to meet you.” His eyebrows lifted slightly. “What name should I give when I introduce you?”

  “I am Kyrie.”

  The tree caressed his hair. “What a beautiful name.”

  “My name is a prayer for mercy,” he explained. Because an Amaranthine usually wanted to know.

  With a delighted smile, he said, “And you are at mine, little dragon.”

  THIRTEEN

  Each Alluring in Their Way

  Kyrie came to himself in a tub of water.

  Ginkgo cradled his head, but his attention was jumping all over the place, as if there were too many people in the room.

  A man with gentle hands and kind eyes was washing Kyrie’s face, so he noticed right away. “I have washed away the pollen,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”

  Then Ginko filled his view, upside down. “Don’t suppose you can sneeze on command?”

  Kyrie had never considered trying.

  “You got a snootful of fresh pollen, little bro.” Ginkgo smirked. “Let’s not tell Dad.”

  The man with the washcloth repeated, “How are you feeling?”

  “Fuzzy.”

  Ginkgo quietly said, “He’s Waaseyaa. Guess you met his twin. Zisa brought you down.”

  Kyrie had, but all backwards. One didn’t usually offer declarations of love before even knowing the other person’s name. “Zisa.”

  “Here.”

  A finger trailed along his arm, then lifted his hand. The person from the tree smoothed his thumb over its back. Or rather, over one of the patches of the lavender-edged scales that showed up in different places on Kyrie’s body.

  He stirred uneasily and realized that they’d put him in the water with all his clothes still on. That was a relief. Kyrie didn’t like for people to see all the ways he was different. Mom called modesty a virtue, but he wasn’t sure he was behaving in a praiseworthy manne
r. He didn’t want to be teased any more than he wanted to be feared. His mother thought him beautiful, but she was his mother. It almost didn’t count.

  Zisa was talking to Waaseyaa, eagerly recounting the rescue.

  Without the haze of pollen, Kyrie noticed more details. Like the lack of fangs and claws. And the usual pointed ears and slit pupils. More interesting was the faint pattern of fine lines that decorated his skin like woodgrain. He wanted to touch it. Maybe for the same reason Zisa’s thumb still stroked across the back of Kyrie’s hand.

  Suddenly, Lilya barged her way between the males and waved some sort of vial under his nose. The smell wasn’t familiar, but it was potent. He sneezed. So did Ginkgo. Twice.

  “His clothes,” she groaned. “Where are our cases?”

  Zisa asked, “Do you still love me without the pollen, merciful dragon?”

  Kyrie felt heat creeping into the tips of his ears.

  The man with the bar of soap repeated, “I am Waaseyaa, and this is my brother Zisa. You are in our home, which will be yours during your stay in Wardenclave. Your brother has been explaining how you found your way past the barriers. This time of year, we try to contain the pollen. Otherwise, it would make everyone … fuzzy.”

  “This is nothing,” interjected Zisa. “A token show of color. Hardly worth mentioning. You should see me on a fifth year in full bloom.”

  Waaseyaa murmured, “Yes, you are a sight worth seeing. But the barriers are in place for good reason. Too much of a good thing.”

  Yes, the scent of Zisa’s flowers had been good. Such a lovely tree.

  Kyrie took slow, deep breaths, willing the wind to bring him another whiff. In his mind’s eye, he could see the cascading blooms, thick with granules of pure gold, fluttered on every side by Ephemera. Kyrie didn’t want to forget the scent.

  Was this what it was like for others? For the people who couldn’t resist his words? Kyrie wasn’t sure he liked being both helpless and happy about it.

  “Are you all right, Kyrie?” asked Waaseyaa.

  He stirred to fuller attention, tried to remember what he’d been about to say. There had been a question. Ah, yes. Kyrie sought the tree’s gaze and solemnly answered, “Yes, Zisa. I still love you.”

  Sinder was working his way through second breakfast. Colt Alpenglow was a good sort, having the sense to bring food by the trayful rather than bowlful or plateful. So intent was he on tearing, scooping, and chewing that he didn’t notice the subtle shift in Timur’s sigilcraft until it did something very odd. With a whispery sigh, it swirled and resettled, as insurmountable as ever. But only after letting someone through.

  Identity was no mystery, but his method was a surprise.

  “Are you my knight, come to rescue me from Timur’s kindly clutches?” Sinder indicated the door. “How’d you get past his barrier?”

  The kid blinked and looked back. “I did not notice. I am sorry. Am I intruding?”

  “Not at all.” Sinder gestured to the tray on his lap. “Hungry?”

  Kyrie surveyed the two emptied trays on the bed beside Sinder. “A little, but you need it more.”

  “Share with me,” he urged. Mostly to see if it worked on a half-dragon.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder, then eased closer to the bed. “May I ask you things?”

  “I’ll indulge your curiosity if you’ll indulge mine.” Sinder patted the mattress at his side. The boy obliged him, but for his own reasons. Which suited Sinder well enough. He wouldn’t need to mind his words so closely.

  Argent’s foster son carried all the markers of his diabolical sire. In the course of their investigations, Sinder had encountered no less than eight children with some combination of draconic features. The hair, the scales, the speckling, the eyes. Kyrie’s horns weren’t always handed down, and one child’s legacy had included a tail.

  This boy had no way of knowing that he had siblings. Sinder didn’t doubt that they’d also kept that little detail from Argent. Perhaps for fear of what he might do. Then again, he was a clever old fox. Clever enough to stash his sons in safety for a season.

  What mischief might Lord Mettlebright be up to, even now?

  “Go ahead,” prompted Sinder. “Your curiosity is both understandable and flattering. Though I know I’m not your first dragon.”

  Kyrie knelt beside him and offered his palms. “Lapis comes when his schedule allows.”

  “Not often enough?”

  The boy shook his head. “And I have to share.”

  “How fortunate that Timur has provided us with so much privacy.” He pressed half a pomegranate into the boy’s hand. Plucking out his own half’s ruby seeds with the tips of his claws, he added, “You don’t have to be formal with me. Blurt away.”

  “Do you have horns?”

  “In truest form, yes. Most dragons do, but there’s a whole lot of variation by clan. Horns, antlers, tusks, ridges, even fins.” He cleared his throat. “Horns of your sort usually come in sets. If I may?”

  Kyrie dipped his head invitingly, and Sinder sifted through silky hair. Two pairs of horns curved gracefully from his hairline, up and inward, white as fangs. His questing fingers found a third set that had budded just behind and below. They were still small enough to be mostly hidden by his hair.

  “I’ve seen something like this among the Winnowind and Galestrafe clans. There’s a chance that the coming years will find you with a princely coronet.”

  The boy searched his face with eyes nearly the same color as the seeds he was toying with. Finally, he asked, “Do you have a tail?”

  Sinder’s curiosity was piqued. “Do you?”

  Kyrie didn’t answer, moving along to another question. “What about … your back?”

  “Something there? May I see?”

  With a small nod, the boy set aside his fruit and turned.

  “May I touch?” checked Sinder.

  “Please,” said the boy, whose cheeks had gone rosy.

  Sinder carefully lifted the boy’s tunic, baring pale skin that looked human enough. But higher up, he discovered nascent ridges protecting his spine. And whorls of lavender that may have been his blaze. But were positioned in a way that suggested … wings.

  “Do you have a blaze?”

  Kyrie nodded.

  “Is this it?” Sinder let the fabric fall back into place.

  He shook his head, turned, and tugged at his collar. “Over my heart.” With a tiny smile, he added, “Just like Ginkgo.”

  “Where has he got to?”

  “Right there.” Kyrie pointed to the barrier, and his whole expression warmed. “I think he is stalling.”

  “To give you time to interrogate the prisoner?”

  “Just … time.”

  “That’s very considerate of him.” Sinder set aside his tray and folded his hands on his lap. “How about this. When our schedules allow, I know a spot. There’s this secluded little lake, perfect for a grooming session. We can compare spots and ridges and horns and tails, and I can hand down wisecracks and wisdom. Rite of passage stuff.”

  Kyrie said, “I want to. Can Ginkgo come?”

  “Okay, sure. Your brother needs to know what you need, right?” Sinder decided not to mention how desperate he was for company. He didn’t really know Ginkgo, but they also had people in common. Maybe even common goals, if Timur’s crack about spies proved true. “Fetch him in, and we can see what he thinks of our plan.”

  Scooting off the bed and hurrying to the door, Kyrie raised both hands, as if grabbing onto something. With a flourishing twist, the barrier vanished, allowing in a mélange of interesting scents and sounds.

  Ginkgo gruffly called, “Watch yourself, Damsel!”

  Belatedly, Sinder recalled why Timur had set such strong wards.

  Some distant part of Sinder’s brain was grateful that Juuyu wasn’t here to see this. Because his partner had lived among Amaranthine trees and had coached Sinder on basic etiquette. Most of which went out the window long before Zisa
drew back enough to smile coyly.

  “Serves me right.” Seeing Timur poised to intervene, Sinder shook his head and asked, “Is this where I’m supposed to say kiss me again?”

  FOURTEEN

  The Stuff of Dynasties

  Mikoto guessed he was in the presence of greatness. Or at least great fame. This was Argent Mettlebright’s family. Or more properly, his denmates, since Michael Ward also resided at Stately House. Mikoto knew the First of Wards by reputation, for Glint mentioned him often enough.

  So much potential.

  Glint had plied the man with proposals for paternity tours. Or a suite in his stable. Anything he wanted in exchange for greater multiplication.

  All for naught.

  Nothing frustrated Glint more than unions formed on the basis of mutual affection. At least, that’s how it sounded when Wardenclave’s matchmaker was grumping.

  If the Eldermost Islands were in need of a new anchor, or when an enclave requested young diplomats willing to marry in, Glint wanted nothing more than to pull out his registries and ledgers and send them the individuals best suited to the task. But half the time, those best suited to some outlying enclave’s need were already making plans of their own.

  They’d formed an attachment at school or at camp. They’d agreed to a marriage arranged by a parent or mentor. They’d eloped with someone from the general populace that they’d met by chance. All disasters as far as Glint was concerned.

  True love mucked up his charts in the worst way.

  It happened all the time, but Michael Ward was a recurring theme. The exception that proved the rule. Because for once, a reaver’s heart had guided him aright. Despite marrying for love, the First of Wards had achieved dynasty ranking by siring a beacon. A girl.

  This girl.

  Mikoto stepped back, dinging his hip against a bureau.

  Glint must be delighted to have lured Michael Ward’s daughter here. A brand new beacon, ripe for arrangement. No doubt he’d lovingly mapped out dozens of potential matches for her, complete with progeny projections.