Mikoto and the Reaver Village (Amaranthine Saga Book 4)

by Forthright

  Tenma turned his attention to the tree. “Do you need us to figure this out, or can you tell us more?”

  Zisa looped his arms around Tenma’s waist and said, “Look at me.”

  Mikoto edged around to the other side so more moonlight fell on Zisa’s face. But he knew he wasn’t seeing the same kinds of things Tenma was.

  The man stood quietly for several moments, then breathed, “Oooh.”

  As much as Mikoto wanted to hurry them along, he bit his lip and waited. Because Zisa said this mattered. And it was about Lupe.

  “What am I?” prompted Zisa.

  Tenma said, “You’re a tree.”

  Mikoto thought he understood, then. “You are an Impression.”

  Zisa’s smile was beautiful. “I am.”

  “Is Mikoto’s friend an Impression?” asked Tenma.

  Zisa hummed happily. “Close, but not quite.”

  A thought occurred. “Is she the one Salali said was coming?”

  “Salali noticed,” confirmed the tree. “Salali knows.”

  Tenma’s gaze bounced between Mikoto and Zisa, as if comparing what he’d found. “Would you mind if I made a call?”

  “To?” asked Mikoto.

  Pulling out his phone and pushing at his glasses, Tenma said, “My friend is an expert on … well, just about everything. May I ask her about Impressions?”

  “No pictures.” Zisa gave a little shimmy of excitement. “Could you use the speaker?”

  Tenma smiled and nodded, but he also waited for Mikoto’s verdict.

  Funny that his first big decision as headman was to allow Zisa the rare treat of a phone call. “May I know who you plan to call?”

  “Someone trusted.” With an abashed expression, he said, “Actually, you may know her already. She’s Timur’s sister, well one of them. I want to confer with Isla Ward.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Conference Call

  “Isla do you have several minutes to spare?” Tenma spoke over his phone. “You’re on speaker, by the way. My friends and I have need of your expertise.”

  “Which one?”

  Tenma hesitated. “Which friend?”

  With exaggerated patience, Isla asked, “Which expertise? I have several, you know.”

  Isla wasn’t twelve anymore, but she still seemed awfully young to have so much confidence. She was as bossy as ever, still eager to share her encyclopedic knowledge on any and every topic, and patient with the gaps in Tenma’s understanding. A force of nature. A friend he could count on.

  “We’re interested in anything you might know about Impressions.”

  “Oh!” Isla sounded delighted. “I like your friends already. How secure are your surroundings?”

  “Unrivaled, I should think.” Tenma searched Mikoto’s face. “Am I allowed to say where we are?”

  “Do,” urged Zisa. “How else can you introduce me?”

  Still, Tenma waited for Mikoto to give some sign. Young though he seemed, even younger than Tenma had been when he started at New Saga, Mikoto was the headman of Wardenclave. He would know how much was too much.

  Mikoto asked, “How secure are your surroundings?”

  “If this is a competition, I might win. Sensei and I are at Lord Mossberne’s home in the heights.” She was smug now. “He gave me your room, Tenma. The east-facing one.”

  Tenma groaned. His friends might forever tease him for Lapis Mossberne’s grateful impulse, especially Isla.

  Isla glibly went on, “A secure line. A secure room. I’ve also begun adding wards, since you sounded concerned.”

  Mikoto nodded and said, “You may explain our circumstances to Reaver Ward.”

  Tenma began, “Isla, I’m at Wardenclave. And that was Mikoto Reaver.”

  “Oh!” Isla’s voice radiated warmth. “It’s a pleasure, Headman. But Tenma, this is wonderful. Have you met my brother?”

  “Just this evening. A nice man.” More softly, he added, “A good father.”

  “Isn’t Gregor a dear?”

  “He is never at a loss for admirers.”

  “And my sister!” Isla exclaimed. “You met Lilya.”

  “I … suppose I did.” Tenma had been rather more interested in Mikoto. He couldn’t recall much about the girl. “Quiet. Very quiet. Not much like you, I think.”

  Sisterly concern overflowed. “This is her first time away from home. I hope she’s not withdrawing. Did she seem unhappy?”

  To his embarrassment, Tenma couldn’t answer. He looked to Mikoto and Zisa, hoping they had something to contribute.

  Zisa leaned closer to the phone. “Your sister has courage and ended the evening with a smile.”

  “Ah, that is good to hear. Who is this, please?

  “I am Zisa.”

  Silence reined for three full beats. “Oh? Oh, dear.” Isla was clearly flustered. “Oh, this is a pleasure! Tenma, you’re not teasing, are you?”

  “You know who he is?”

  “Of course! While the name of Waaseyaa’s tree twin is not listed in any contemporary literature, any student of history can uncover the occasional mention. And, well, I’ve had several opportunities to chat with Dickon Denholm on the subject of trees.”

  “He is one of ours,” said Zisa.

  Mikoto quietly explained, “Waaseyaa’s youngest son.”

  “Baby of the dynasty,” boasted Zisa. “We have a dynasty, you know. That is what Glint calls our family tree.”

  “Yes, I am aware.” Isla’s tone softened. “Papka was recently awarded dynasty status. We’re all very pleased for him, of course, but … well, it’s also a lot of pressure.”

  “Oh? Oooh!” Zisa leaned so close to the phone, his nose nearly touched the screen. “Glint likes linking dynasties. Are you part of ours?”

  “No, no.” Isla veered off into a brief overview of her lineage, which carried down almost exclusively through Northern Europe. Never crossing with the fabled bloodlines that flourished an ocean away.

  “He might consider you, then.”

  Isla’s fell silent. Finally, she ventured, “Pardon?”

  “If you are not descended from Waaseyaa, then you could come and belong to Brother and me.”

  Tenma knew that this was a sensitive subject for Isla and led in with a chuckle. “Are you matchmaking, Zisa?”

  The tree pointed to the screen. “She likes me. I like her. Brother might choose her if he knew she would be nice to me.”

  His expression was so hopeful, so wistful. Tenma had no idea what to say, but Mikoto wrapped his arms around Zisa and said, “Isla is nice, and we need her help. Is it all right if we talk about Impressions now?”

  Zisa leaned into Mikoto’s larger frame. “I like her.”

  “Yes. We all do. And you can tell Uncle all about her later.” Mikoto calmly added, “He will be glad to know you made a new friend.”

  Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Tenma that a tree whose legacy had been all but erased and who lived in hiding might be a little lonesome. Reading between the lines, this would be especially true if his twin’s wife wasn’t nice to him.

  “Complementary genealogies aside,” Tenma interjected. “Isla, what can you tell us about Impressions?”

  “Yes. Right. Quite.” He could hear the relief in Isla’s acceptance of the change in subject. “As it happens, I’ve had access to most of the old sagas. The collection at Kikusawa Shrine remains the most extensive, and thanks to the Miyabe family’s efforts, completely uncensored.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” interrupted Tenma. “By sagas, do you mean stories like the one Kimiko borrowed for her courtship?”

  “The Wolf and the Moon Maiden,” Isla supplied. “And yes. The sagas refer to the oldest heroic tales. Some belong to individual clans. Some are shared freely, usually by storytellers during a Song Circle. Oral tradition is more common, but many clans—like the Dimityblest—are compulsive about written records.”

  “True,” Mikoto offered. “There is a Dimityblest chronicler attached to our fam
ily. He has preserved our whole history.”

  “Really!” Isla’s fascination carried easily over the phone. “I’d love to read a record of Wardenclave’s founding.”

  Before she could be further sidetracked, Tenma asked, “So the sagas are historically accurate?”

  Isla hesitated. “Some think the stories are figurative, but there are just as many who call for a literal interpretation. Scholars like to point out that many of the essentials don’t change, and not only through the compendium of sagas. There are also the songs, which are sometimes called psalms, countless short fables, a handful of lullabies, and the Amaranthine equivalent of nursery rhymes.”

  “I know some of the fables and rhymes,” Tenma said. “When I … do what I do, I’m often repaid in stories. For many it’s all they have to offer.”

  “Oh, I want to hear more about that!”

  “Another time?”

  “Right. Yes. Where was I?” Isla seemed to be drumming her fingers. “Taking corresponding histories into account, the Impressions predate Amaranthine culture. Many of the classic tales involve encounters between the Amaranthine and the Impressions. And in all, the imps inspire awe. They’re beautiful, desirable, and often depicted as existing just out of reach.”

  Zisa shook his head and said, “I am here.”

  “So you are!” Isla agreed. “We cannot deny the existence of the clans of earth, sky, and sea when people like you confirm the truth.”

  Tenma’s attention skipped ahead. Isla knew how his abilities worked, so he simply asked, “Why would I look at a human and see the same kinds of colors only found in Amaranthine?”

  She hummed. “Logically, it means that they aren’t human. Or that they’re not entirely human. Or it could mean that you are changing.”

  That last one hadn’t occurred to Tenma.

  It was so simple, he wondered why not.

  Isla lowered her voice and asked, “Can you see Zisa’s colors?”

  “Yes.” Smiling at the tree, Tenma added, “He’s glorious.”

  “Can we assume that means you will now recognize another tree if you were to meet them? In much the same way you’re able to differentiate members of different clans?”

  “Maybe.” Tenma asked, “Aren’t there supposed to be many kinds of trees?”

  She hummed again. “Who is the human involved?”

  “Me,” said Mikoto.

  Isla immediately countered, “Well, that makes no sense. Your bloodline can easily be traced.”

  “An original Reaver,” agreed Tenma. “Yet I see colors.”

  “Wait.” The drumming quickened, then a sharp sound carried through. A snap. “Do you still see swapped colors? Or a shared color when two souls accept a bond?”

  “Yes, of course. That hasn’t changed.” Tenma rather enjoyed picking out colors in a crowd. In a way, he was matchmaking, only after the fact.

  “Could you be catching an echo of Mikoto’s attachment to someone?”

  “Closer,” crooned Zisa. “So very close!”

  Mikoto shook his head. “Lupe is human.”

  Zisa reached up to touch the young man’s cheek. “She is,” he assured.

  A new idea rushed at him. “Isla, are imps and the Amaranthine … compatible?”

  “Oh, yes. Many of the old stories are romantic, even erotic.”

  Tenma shook his head. “I meant … are there crossers?”

  She took a moment to react. “What in interesting question! I’m not sure. I’m not even sure how to find out!” The sound of scribbling accompanied her muttering. “If Impressions are compatible with Amaranthine, and Amaranthine are compatible with humans …! Well, reavers are compatible. And Mikoto is undeniably a reaver. Hmm.”

  Tenma’s attention jumped from face to face, trying to read the others’ expressions.

  Mikoto looked more and more like a frightened boy. For his part, Zisa hung on their every word, eager for them to understand.

  Isla rambled on. “How would something so ethereal … ah, but the wolves! And in the tales of stars … of course! Tenma, this is brilliant.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it, really. This single shift in premise could have monumental repercussions. In a good way, I think.”

  Tenma sighed. “You’ve always been a big picture kind of girl.”

  “I’m sorry. Well, not sorry, exactly. This is all so exciting. But I understand that this isn’t why you called.” He could almost see her straighten up and clasp her hands. “Did you have a more specific question?”

  “Yes. And I’d like Zisa to share his answer with you.” Tenma eased the phone closer to the tree. “What changed the day everything changed?”

  The tree looked up and away. Night breezes toyed with leaves festooning his head, and he smiled at the stars. “Mikoto would have died if she hadn’t shared her breath.” He placed his hand on the young man’s chest. “She blew wind into your lungs, and she saved you.”

  “Wind?” Mikoto rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced around.

  Little gusts were puffing around them. Tenma’s skin prickled into gooseflesh.

  On the other end of the connection, Isla echoed, “Wind? Zisa, are you saying you know of a wind imp?”

  The breeze grew more agitated, and Tenma tried to catch a glimpse of it. But he had no idea where to look. But this hint was better than the others, and Zisa hadn’t told them they were close or closer. This was their answer. “Isla, do you know any helpful stories about wind?”

  “Entire libraries are dedicated to wind lore, and I’d wager Lapis knows every ode and epic.” With a little laugh, Isla said, “If you want to woo the wind to your side, all you really need is a dragon.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  New Moon Night

  Sinder saw no reason not to report for training exercises at his appointed position. Torloo was taking advantage of the new moon to push the rookies through more night maneuvers. From what little he could hear, they were definitely up to something. New code words. Different team comps. For some reason, they’d gone to groups of five instead of three.

  Fine by him. All he had to do was evade.

  Thanks to Tenma and Timur, Sinder was feeling much more like himself. Refreshed. Elated. Maybe a little keyed up, but he’d have every opportunity run off the excess energy. Torloo was getting more serious, too. Limiting how much Sinder knew in advance. Forcing more realistic outcomes.

  The training wheels were off.

  Sinder dodged a swooping owl, only to find his way barred by a lone battler with a crossbow. He dove for cover, but a second archer was in position. The first dart grazed his shoulder, and he took to the trees.

  Sheltering in the boughs of an evergreen, he did a swift self-check and cursed. A sigil fizzed against the fabric. Improperly anchored, Sinder was able to dispel the thing. For a few moments, Sinder wrestled with the sting of betrayal. This was Michaelson’s handiwork.

  But … not really, or it would have worked.

  Which meant they were applying his tactics. Or adapting them. Which was the whole point of these exercises.

  A wolf howled, and another answered. They were flanking him, and he hadn’t even noticed.

  Dropping to the ground, Sinder flashed through the woods at speed. Not quite worried, but no longer comfortable with his chances. He kind of wished Michaelson was here, but the man had been sound asleep when Sinder stole away.

  And what good would it do to have him here? Timur wouldn’t be on his side.

  Another dart whizzed past Sinder’s nose, stopping him in his tracks. That’s when two more hit his upper arm. They pattered to the ground, having delivered their shimmering sigils.

  Sinder caught one up and inspected it as he ran.

  Blunt tips. They weren’t meant to break skin, though there would be more bruises.

  Embedded crystals. And that was going to be a problem.

  “Are they insane?” he muttered. Hallow was obsessed with tuned crystals, so Sinder had been
exposed to every variation known to carry Cadmiel’s song. That’s why he knew that this rookie scheme might actually work. But not necessarily in the way they hoped.

  Another dart found its mark, smack dab in the center of a spreading sigil. Targeted. Good for them. Bad for dragons. This one bit deep. Scenting the air with Sinder’s blood. Bowing him over with a pain that wasn’t entirely physical.

  A red remnant. He really hated the red ones.

  Sinder was frightened beyond clear thinking. Sweating and swearing, he stumbled onward. He needed to get away from his pursuers before any of them died.

  Ginkgo’s phone chirruped impatiently, startling him from a light doze. He snatched it up and squinted at the time, already thumbing to accept the call. “I’m here.”

  “Where is Sinder?”

  “This second? Not sure.” Ginkgo eased from the bed and padded to the window. There wasn’t much to see in the dark.

  Another voice carried along the line. Someone else. Sounding worried. Ginkgo’s ears twitched. “That Hallow?”

  “Yes. We have cause for concern. I will need you to check. Now.”

  Ginkgo lifted the sash on the window and slipped outside. “On my way next door.”

  “What about Timur?”

  “They’re rooming together. See? I made good on my promise.”

  An impatient grunt. An ominous silence.

  Ginkgo eased open Zisa’s door and half-stumbled into the tree’s waiting arms.

  “Sinder here?” Ginkgo whispered.

  Zisa eyed the phone in his hand and shook his head.

  From the bed in the corner, Timur quietly called, “Ginkgo?”

  Hallow must have grabbed the phone because his voice came sharp and clear. “Get to him. Immediately. His crystal’s vibrating nearly to pieces, and its song tells of pain.”

  “On it,” he promised, signaling urgently. Timur’s feet hit the floor. “Juuyu?”

  Sinder’s partner was back. “Get to him,” he begged. “For I cannot.”

  “On our way.” Ending the call, Ginkgo hurried to the bed and scooped up Gregor, who’d been tucked between Timur and Mikoto. “I’ll sneak him in with Kyrie and Lilya. Don’t wait on me. I can catch up.”