Mikoto and the Reaver Village (Amaranthine Saga Book 4)

by Forthright

  “No.” The boy’s smile was wide enough to reveal fangs. “But the stone did.”

  “Dragons have an especial affinity for both wind and stone, which are rudimentary for all forms of sigilcraft.” Timur grappled out of his boots and sat on the lakeshore in order to roll up his pantlegs. Finding them already damp, he shucked off his breeches and dropped them over a nearby bush. “Amaranthine scholars believe sigilcraft originated with the dragon clans, but some of the lore suggests that they learned it from the stars.”

  Kyrie said, “Mother thinks that sometimes when the stories say star, they mean angel.”

  “Who can say for sure?” Timur pointed out, “The stars are listed among the lost clans of sky, so they could have been Impressions. But nobody seems to know for certain.”

  “Hisoka-sensei might,” said Kyrie.

  Timur grinned. “Cats do love their secrets. Which puts us right back at … who can say for sure? Because everybody—especially the illustrious Spokesperson—rarely says all they could.”

  Mikoto wasn’t sure what to make of the teasing tone. His hesitation must have shown on his face, because Timur wagged a finger at him.

  “Hisoka Twineshaft is an old friend of the family. My respect for him is second only to my fondness.” Turning to Sinder, he made a shooing motion. “Into the water. You need a long soak before I work my magic.”

  Sinder slowly eased back on his haunches. Clearly, he was still in pain. Mikoto checked for—and found—the numbing agent to add to the ointment.

  “Signal if the little fishes start to nibble,” Timur drawled. “Kyrie can chase them away.”

  The dragon’s response was to pick Timur up and toss him into the center of the lake, then slip sinuously after him, Kyrie clinging to his mane.

  With a backdrop of calls and splashing, Mikoto turned his focus to the level of flames and the viscosity of the warming ointment. Familiar tasks. Soothing motions.

  His thoughts returned to the Amaranthine Council.

  In due course, probably for his induction ceremony, Wardenclave would likely play host to some of their members. Yulin probably already knew the schedule. And the guest list.

  The council had expanded its membership to fifteen with the induction of Krail Basqwend during this past spring’s celebration of the Emergence’s anniversary. Krail spoke for a people remembered by humanity as the Naga, making him the first representative from one of the so-called fabled clans. Small and secluded, yet equal to every other voice.

  Would someone someday speak for the trees? Or for any of the other lost clans?

  Maybe if Hisoka Twineshaft really did show up in Wardenclave, Mikoto could ask. If anyone knew the answer, surely it was him.

  Mikoto studied the glowing lines that decorated Sinder’s scales. They were a practical necessity, but Mikoto suspected that Timur had taken the time to be pretty about it. Even Kyrie had contributed a couple of sigils. They were small and simple, but they burned even brighter than Timur’s. Was it because he was part dragon? Maybe his soul resonated more closely to Sinder’s, and that made their bonds stronger.

  Kinship.

  “Will the sigils hold when he takes speaking form?” Mikoto asked.

  “Should do.” Timur stepped back to admire his handiwork. “You awake enough to try, Sinder?”

  The dragon lifted the lid of one eye.

  Mikoto studied his pupil and murmured, “Was my dose too strong?”

  “Not even close.” Timur came to stand beside Mikoto. “He’s content.”

  They’d eased his pain, bound his wounds, and lavished his scales with fragrant oils, massaging it in until they were all redolent of spikenard. And throughout the whole process, Mikoto had encouraged the rapport that would allow Sinder to take from Mikoto’s strength.

  He’d also been keenly aware of Kyrie’s presence—neatly contained, closely warded—and of Ginkgo’s enjoyment. The half-fox sprawled on the grassy bank, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, and a half-smile on his face.

  “I wouldn’t budge either, if it weren’t for all those fish we caught.” Ginkgo sat up and rumpled his wild hair, then slapped his own cheeks. “You’re easy to take, Mikoto. Thanks for the pick-me-up.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Ginkgo moved toward the jumble of kindling he’d collected in a shallow pit near the shore. “I’ll get this going. Make with the shifting, Damsel. There’s no way we’re feeding you in truest form.”

  A moment later, Sinder was kneeling in the protective circle of Timur’s arms.

  “Steady on,” said Timur.

  “I’m feeling much better, thank you. Stop fussing. It’s insulting.”

  But the burly battler didn’t leave off until he’d checked every sigil still gleaming faintly against Sinder’s pale skin. Once satisfied, he unceremoniously thrust a too-large hoodie over the dragon’s head and went to help Ginkgo. “Food will do you good. You’re hungry, yes?”

  Sinder struggled to pull the length of his hair free of the hoodie and came to sit beside Mikoto. Kyrie hurried forward and quietly set to work braiding. Sinder sat still, head bowed, and let him.

  Curiosity brought Noble sniffing, and Mikoto scooped up his puppy.

  Timur returned, this time with a squat thermos. “Get this down. It’s a restorative. It’ll clear your head.”

  Sinder made no move to take it.

  So Timur unscrewed the lid himself, releasing a burst of fragrant steam. Citrus and spice. Mikoto caught another, richer scent and knew that Timur had added a generous splash of liquor. By the look of things, enough eggs had been added to make it more custard than liquid.

  “Do you have a spoon?” asked Mikoto.

  Kyrie immediately volunteered, “I can feed him.”

  Sinder grumbled, “Give a guy a chance. He pollinated me, you know.”

  “This will clear your head,” Timur patiently repeated. And to Mikoto, “Make sure he takes every drop.”

  With a longsuffering sigh, Sinder took the thermos and took a long swallow. Then another. “Bauble my halls, Timur. You’re better at this stuff than my own mother.”

  Timur simply tugged at Sinder’s eyelids, checking his pupils, and ordered, “Every drop.”

  “Heard you the first time.” But Sinder was smiling now. The restorative must have been especially potent. Mikoto had to wonder if Merl would want the recipe.

  Not until the dose was more than half-downed did Sinder speak again, this time to Kyrie. “Did you save up any questions for me?”

  “Yes.” The boy came to sit before Sinder and Mikoto, creating a triangle that didn’t exclude anyone. “Will I have a tail when I get older?”

  Sinder took another mouthful while pondering his answer. “Horns and antlers and every kind of spike and ridge can come in as a dragon ages. But tails are different. If you were meant to have a tail, I think you would have been born with one.”

  Kyrie bounced right to his next question. Although it was more of a remark. “Lapis has wings.”

  “And …?”

  “You do not.”

  “Yet.” Sinder kept his gaze fixed on the steam rising from his dose. “I aspire to wings.”

  “How old do you have to be?” asked Kyrie.

  “While horns and the like come with age, wings are a matter of power. Given your markings, I think you can hold out some hope. Especially since you live in close proximity to so many potent souls.” Sinder asked, “Haven’t you ever undergone some kind of assessment?”

  “There is no need. I am in good health.” Kyrie glanced at Ginkgo before adding, “Dad does not approve of the kinds of tests people propose. Reavers are curious about crossers, but not for the right reasons.”

  Sinder made a derisive sound. “There’s a big difference between learning more about your inheritances and being turned into a test subject.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” Kyrie explained, “Many crossers are fostered at Stately House.”

  “I know. I’ve been there.” Sinder smiled arou
nd another slow sip.

  “But …!” The boy plucked at his sleeve. “When?”

  “You were still a baby. I only held you once.” With a small shrug, he admitted, “I was all awkward, and your father was so looming. You liked my partner better.”

  Kyrie turned to ask Ginkgo, “You knew Sinder?”

  “Nope. Not to speak to.” The half-fox said, “Dad has his share of secrets. Usually, he’s protecting somebody, so I try not to meddle. Much.”

  Mikoto would have liked to ask a few questions of his own, but this was Kyrie’s moment. So he held his peace and held his puppy. Noble was happy enough to have so much of his attention.

  “Are we related?” asked Kyrie. “Even a little?”

  “Not closely, but that doesn’t really matter. By the custom of our clans, we are dragons of the heights, and that makes us brothers.”

  “Lapis has a home on a mountain.” Kyrie softly added, “I thought it was because he liked stars.”

  Sinder’s brows arched. “Perhaps he does.”

  “I … do not think that is the reason.”

  “Males like Lapis and me are not granted mates. Or more accurately, we are not permitted to attract a dragoness, since the generations before ours have gathered harems for themselves.” Sinder drank deeply and sighed. “One in five become fathers. They are the strongest and best, so their sons and daughters are also strong.”

  “You cannot have a family?”

  Sinder shook his head. “My family is made up of a small brotherhood of celibate dragons.” His voice took on a lilting quality. “The Fathers are strong, but the brothers are not weak. We are learners or healers or crafters or questers. We keep all our clans’ stories and sing all our clans’ songs.”

  “Lapis says he is a scholar.”

  “He is.”

  “Which are you?” Kyrie asked.

  “Well, I’m not exactly a dragon of the heights anymore. That’s where I’m from, but I have things to do.” Sinder’s claws tapped lightly against the side of the thermos. “This summer, I’m playing dangerous games with battlers.”

  “You were. You’re done.” Timur traded Sinder’s empty thermos for a portion of fish.

  “No. I have a job to do, and I’ll finish my job.”

  Timur’s tone held menace. “I won’t let them turn you into a test subject.”

  “You can’t stop me. You shouldn’t try. This is way over your head.” Sinder’s gaze was unwavering. “If you want to help me, keep me on my feet. I don’t want to delay the battalion’s training.”

  Mikoto’s interest levels spiked. “You are training battlers?”

  Ginkgo snorted. “Timur, take pity and recruit the boy. He doesn’t like being left out.”

  Timur’s fury bled away. “Not my decision to make. None of them are, yes?”

  “Yes.” Sinder firmly redirected the conversation. “Kyrie, did you have another question for me? I see one shining in your eyes. It must be the last. For now. Because while I promised you answers, I promised Mikoto a story, and such things take time to tell.”

  “Is it a story of dragons?” asked Kyrie.

  “A story straight out of the heights,” Sinder promised.

  The boy admitted, “I do have a question.”

  Sinder simply beckoned for it.

  “Do we have any Kith?”

  “Have you ever asked Lapis?” Sinder’s expression turned inscrutable.

  “I have,” admitted the boy.

  “What did he say?”

  Kyrie mumbled, “That it is a great secret.”

  “I can say with considerable authority that he understated the matter.” Leaning toward the boy, Sinder gravely said, “It is a very great secret.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Beckonthrall and Bethiel

  “In long ago days, when dragons were enemies of all the world, including one another, one brave soul departed from the valleys of war, climbing into the austere heights of a lonesome mountain. The place he settled wasn’t good for hatching eggs or succoring young, but Persiflage Beckonthrall—for that was the brave soul’s name—felt as if he’d become part of the sky. The nights were clear, and the stars were close. The winds came and went in a rush, and the stone at his feet sang with remnant songs.”

  Sinder had barely begun his story when Kyrie realized he knew it. Or at least a version of the tale. The one he’d learned from Mother was sprinkled with questions along the way, so that the listener could interact with the teller. A kind of catechism intended for young dragons. With every retelling, woven as it was with rote questions and answers, its lessons were reinforced.

  A lonesome dragon.

  A merciful angel.

  A careless wish.

  A miraculous outcome.

  Kyrie could even guess why Sinder had chosen this particular story for Mikoto, and that made the telling even more interesting. Settling back, Kyrie watched Mikoto face. The story had drawn the headman in. That was only natural. Few could resist the words of a dragon.

  “He labored alone, coaxing brilliant crystals from the mountain and gaining wisdom from their songs. Unwilling to waste stone, he fashioned a home for himself—columns and arches and chambers and halls. Over time, he embellished every room, lavishing them with all his attention and affection, for there was no one else with whom he could share them.”

  There was a lesson there. Mother always paused upon this point. Beauty upon beauty. Yet the loveliness echoed. A soul longed for more.

  Sinder went on. “To fill the halls, Persiflage took to singing. He harmonized with the stones he’d collected, and he sang the ballads of beginnings. When he ran out of old lyrics, he began to compose new ones. Rich in detail. Threaded with longing. Captivating in unforeseen ways, for the very stars bent low to hear him.

  “Only Persiflage did not realize it.

  “Not until a summer’s eve when a star drew near and spoke. He gave the name Bethiel and asked, ‘Why do you sigh?’”

  “Wait a sec,” interrupted Ginkgo. “I thought Bethiel was one of the seven angels. Or was it ten?”

  “Who can say how many angels there might be?” Kyrie was quoting his mother, who knew a lot about such things. “But yes, he is commonly numbered among the angels who visited the Amaranthine clans in times past.”

  “Like Soriel of the Dawning,” interjected Mikoto. “And Cadmiel of the Echoing Song.”

  Timur said, “Bethiel is a frequent figure in the lore of avian clans and dragon clans. Those who fly and those who live in high places.”

  “Yes, this is that Bethiel,” acknowledge Sinder. “And if you want tales of Cadmiel or Auriel or Fandriel, we can trade tales on other nights. But Beckonthrall met Bethiel. And that’s when his story gets … interesting.”

  “Please, continue,” urged Kyrie. Sinder’s storytelling was even better than Mother’s, for his voice changed with each part, giving personality to the players. Solemn and sonorous for the lonesome dragon. Warm and winsome for his angelic visitor.

  Sinder composed himself and took up the narrative.

  “‘Why do you sigh?’ asked Bethiel ‘Why are there tears upon your face?’

  “‘I am unloved,’ complained Persiflage.

  “‘Not so. You are greatly loved.’

  “The dragon supposed that Bethiel was referring to the Maker’s unwavering ways. But that was little comfort. He clarified. ‘I am alone.’

  “‘Not so,’ repeated the angel. ‘Your companions are as constant as they are inconstant.’

  “But Persiflage knew every handsbreadth of his home. He began to suspect that this was no star and no angel, but a trickster come to mock his pain. ‘Am I blind, then?’

  “‘Not so,’ Bethiel said yet again. ‘If anything, you are deaf.’

  “‘What am I meant to hear?’

  “The angel held a finger to his lips, and Persiflage fell silent. For long moments, he listened. But the only sound was the wind sighing through empty halls. Nothing had changed.

>   “Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Persiflage opened his arms and said, ‘You are here, and for that I am grateful. Come inside and enjoy what hospitality I can offer.’

  “‘Answer me this,’ countered Bethiel. ‘Why do you—a dragon—take humanity’s guise?’

  “Persiflage thought the question odd, but he craved conversation. ‘I like this form, this size, this voice. Is it not the same for you, starry one?’

  “Bethiel asked, ‘Who taught you this form?’

  “‘My father.’

  “‘And did you wish to learn?’

  “‘Very much.’ Persiflage smiled. ‘I wanted to be like him. To become his companion.’

  “‘Was it easy?’

  “‘Not at first, but his words helped me. He guided me into his arms, which is where I wanted to be.’

  “‘Well said, dragon.’ And Bethiel turned to speak to empty air. ‘He can teach you the way.’

  “‘Who is there?’ Persiflage asked softly.

  “Touching a finger to his lips, the angel urged, ‘Listen.’

  “Again, the dragon tried to hear. Again, he shook his head. ‘My voice, your voice, and the whistle of a lonesome wind among the stones.’

  “Bethiel said, ‘Your songs are pleasing, and your prayers have been heard. An answer is all around you. Woo the wind to your side.’”

  Mikoto blurted, “What?”

  Sinder arched his brows. “What?”

  The headman’s voice was barely a mumble. “That is what Timur’s sister said, too.”

  “Naturally. It’s in all the stories.” Sinder waved his hands. “Beckonthrall’s story is the first and most famous example. He’s become a byword. Along the lines of ‘be careful what you wish for.’ Because in his enthusiasm, he wooed all four winds at once, which resulted in quite the tempest.”

  “Four brides,” said Kyrie. “East, west, north, and south.”

  Ginkgo whistled softly and eyed Mikoto speculatively.

  Sinder shrugged and skipped ahead. “It’s said that the Waning never touched Beckonthrall’s household. His children arrived in every color known to creation. His sons became our fathers, and his daughters the jewels of the harems they graced.”