He settled back, watched the stars wheel, so content it was almost disconcerting.
Ellis found Milo’s hand amidst the sea of linens, set warm fingers around it. Squeezed.
“Beautiful.”
But he was looking at Milo.
Chapter 7—Sforzando
: sudden stress on a note or chord
Winter slid in soft and quiet. The rain was merely rain, not the sharp icy spicules whipped into shards by the brutal winds that normally battered the coast and made Highwinter into more survival than celebration. The dragons hunkered in their caves at the springs, sleeping more than waking, emerging only once or twice a week for their trips to the forge, rather than the daily visits they made in warmer weather. There’d been no need thus far for Milo to de-ice between scales or build and maintain a trail of bonfires in a pasture to warm a dragon that had stayed out too long and needed help returning to its nest.
Winter at Old Forge was usually a time of battening down and keeping the fires going, trying not to die on the inevitably slippery access road on the rare trips down into the village proper, and playing his violin until his fingers ached only out of sheer, bloody monotony. So it was a pleasant change to be able to make trips to Brookings every few weeks to meet Ellis without the usual concerns about leaving his duties.
Glynn was a help Milo hadn’t known he’d wanted. She’d been right—the dragons had got used to her quickly, likely owing to Nain’s past permissiveness. If they hadn’t acknowledged her as kin thus far, they never would; Glynn had cried for two days when Milo coached her to toss her stone, and the old razorback merely watched it drop and walked away. But they tolerated her well, and never gave her so much as a threatening glance. Milo wasn’t sure they’d ever allow her right up close without him near, and she was conscientious about respecting their spaces. Still, she was able to carry out day-to-day care and maintenance with no trouble and no danger, and that was more than Milo had ever expected.
He’d always known what his future would be, and he’d never felt particularly tied down by it. He loved what he did and he loved the dragons. He knew he’d spend his life right here at Old Forge, fighting with the furnace, patching ancient crenellations and merlons, digging birds’ nests out of chimneys, as well as everything that came along with running a preserve. He’d known since he was learning at Nain’s knee what he was in for and never really wished for something different. But he couldn’t deny that having Glynn there to look after things when Milo wasn’t was freeing. Milo expressed his gratitude by applying to increase Old Forge’s stipend and subsequently increasing Glynn’s allowance.
Brookings became something quite special to Milo. The festivals were nice and all, and the people of Brookings did take their food quite seriously. But it was, of course, Ellis who made the place into somewhat of a homecoming every time Milo met him there.
“I’ve signed an annual lease on the room,” Ellis said as he and Milo lingered in the inn’s tiny dining room, empty dishes scattered across the tablecloth and the heat of the crackling hearth rosing his cheeks to dusky merlot. It was the first time they’d been able to meet since after the Highwinter fairs. “The holder of the place was quite reasonable, and she even—”
“Wait, you what?” Milo dropped his spoon and nearly upended his dish, which would have been a right shame—it was stewed apples and currants, doused in cinnamon and crowned with cream, and it was proper bliss. “Ellis, I can’t pay for a room I’m only in for a few days a month. Even half would be—”
“Which is why I signed the lease.” Ellis grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and shrugged. “It was getting difficult to arrange to have the room free on only a week’s notice, and I’ve grown to like the place.”
“Well. Yes, but.” It wasn’t like Milo could disagree, but still. “Ellis, I can’t let you—”
“Oi, boyo, you don’t let me do anything.” It came with a softer smile, and so without the sting it might have had otherwise. Ellis leaned over the table and lowered his voice, though it was raining old women and sticks outside, so they were the only ones here. “Milo,” he said, easy and intimate, his gray eyes intent as they locked onto Milo’s. Milo wasn’t sure what to expect—sometimes Ellis dipped down into sop that should be cheesy and melodramatic, but nonetheless made Milo weak-kneed and melty—so when Ellis said, “I’m rich, I do what I want,” and his grin edged even more smug, Milo could’ve cheerfully thumped him.
Instead, Milo picked up his spoon and shot a wad of cream across the table. It landed almost perfectly across Ellis’s mouth.
Ellis gaped. Then he sniggered. “You’d best be cleaning that up.”
Let no one ever say Milo Priddy was one to waste an opportunity when it was handed to him.
He leaned across the table and obliged. Thoroughly.
SPRING ON the north coast of Kymbrygh wasn’t easily discernable from winter but for the creeping warmth beneath the frosted winds. Frozen mud thawed to knee-deep muck that too often turned a trip across a pasture into a fight to keep one’s boots.
Milo kept as much as he could to the road on the way down to the main gate, giving Poppy a chiding chirp every now and then when she tried to pause for a taste of the new spring grasses and crocus popping up along the berm. Last week’s rain had washed out the public access road to the forge outside the fences, and the ore delivery couldn’t wait. Milo really didn’t have time for any of this, but had no choice but to make the time to meet the wagon at the main gate and escort it up the private drive. Migration season meant a lot more dragons wandering the pastures, and since the private drive was well within the preserve’s perimeter, a chaperone for visitors was needed for obvious reasons.
The wagon was already waiting by the time Milo crested the little knoll that looked down on the gate, though Harri wasn’t waving his hat at Milo in greeting as he usually would do. He was standing beside his little mule team as though at attention, and giving Milo a curious look.
Milo saw why immediately. And couldn’t help the bit of hope that sprang up in his belly.
The colonel was in full uniform, standing in front of a motorcar with the Home Guard’s coat of arms painted in gold on its doors. A lieutenant—also in uniform—waited behind the wheel.
“Milo.” The colonel tapped at the bill of his hat.
“Colonel-in-Chief Alton. Haia. It’s… nice to see you.”
No one ever came to the gate unexpected. It was too far from Old Forge for a bell to be of any use, and the wards didn’t allow anyone onto the preserve unless Milo or his mam were there to let them through. The view from Ty Dreigiau stretched all the way down to Whitpool, but the trees along the outer fences blocked the road, and even if they didn’t, one would have to be looking to know someone was loitering at the gate. Showing up out of the blue would only result in a very long, likely fruitless wait.
Milo dismounted and let Poppy wander toward where the clover was beginning to sprout around the fence posts. He tried not to look too eager, too hopeful. Because service in the Home Guard wasn’t required but it was expected; maybe the colonel was here because he’d rethought acquiescing to whatever screws Ceri had put to him to hand over that exemption Milo didn’t want. There was a new push for enlistment, and no one doubted it was due to the growing unrest on the continent. If war was as inevitable as it was starting to look, perhaps whatever deal Ceri had made with the colonel was off.
The colonel wasn’t a particularly imposing man. Tall and fit, smooth olive skin puckered in a tight swirl beneath one down-tilted hazel eye, the scar tissue stretching white from cheekbone to ear. It might have been off-putting in someone else, called to mind war and violence and things best unspoken or forgot. It seemed more to point up the colonel’s natural serenity, a contrast between appearance and demeanor that was perhaps subtly but still easily discerned. Milo had only met him a handful of times, but the colonel had always been pleasant—if not exactly friendly and cheerful, then at least amicable; if not entirely unrese
rved, then at least somewhat approachable.
Today he was expressionless, giving nothing away.
Eventually, Milo remembered his manners and greeted Harri then released the wards on the gate before creaking it open. Harri gave Milo a questioning look as he steered his wagon through. Milo could only shrug. When Harri pulled up to wait for his escort, very obviously looking anywhere but backward, Milo turned to the colonel and lifted his eyebrows.
“I wasn’t told to expect you. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I’m here to see your mam.”
“Oh.” Milo hoped his shoulders didn’t slump too noticeably. Still, though. Even if the colonel was here to take back the exemption, he’d have to speak with Ceri first. Right? Milo tipped a tight nod. “All right, then. You’re in luck. She’s home. Although....” He eyed the car and then the road. It would fit, but. “I need to escort Harri to the forge, and we can’t go any faster than his mules can haul the wagon. You can follow us, but it’s a choice between a very long walk or a very slow drive. Or you can wait here and Mam or I can come back for you.”
That would probably be the better choice, actually. Ceri clearly hadn’t been expecting any visitors, so it was only polite to alert her before Milo dumped them in the dooryard. And if this was about what Milo hoped it was, he’d prefer Ceri be in the best mood possible.
But the colonel said, “We’ll follow you,” curt, and headed back to the car, so Milo could only give Harri a nod and wait for the car to drive through the gate. Once it did, and once Milo reset the wards and coaxed Poppy away from her late-morning snack, Milo mounted back up, situated himself between Harri’s wagon and the colonel’s car, and started the little caravan back up the road.
And if he couldn’t stop hoping while he kept Poppy on task and scanned for stray dragons overhead, well. There were worse things.
HE WAS a little less optimistic when he left the lieutenant in the car and the colonel and Ceri in the kitchen. The colonel was still laconic and pokerfaced; Ceri was tight-lipped and clearly angry while she politely—though still rather loudly—put the kettle on and pulled out some biscuits Milo knew were at least a week old and would likely have been goat treats already had Glynn not been in school this morning.
Milo had been dismissed, in no uncertain terms and rather rudely, actually. His mam’s harsh “Go, Milo,” still rang in his ears as he made his way back over to the forge to help Howell unload.
He should be out in the pastures. With the transients that migration brought, there was always a hissing match to break up, or a brooding cow to check, or whatever nonsense territorial dragons got up to when left to themselves. And with someone still messing with random wards every now and then, Milo had taken to making the rounds to check them once a week, rather than his mam’s customary once a month. He’d even been forced to inform the Wardens of the problem, and now they did regular patrols as well. Clearly it wasn’t enough, since the tinkering didn’t stop. Milo had no choice but to keep as much of a watch as he could himself. All of it ate into his time, and he found he couldn’t spare much lately.
But he couldn’t really wander off too far until he’d taken Harri and the colonel back down to the main gate. And he was feeling rather nosy just now. Maybe the colonel had said something to Harri about why he was here while they’d waited at the gate.
“…getting scarce,” Harri was saying as Milo stopped to pat one of the mules, searching his pockets for treats but coming up empty; Poppy had been especially recalcitrant on the trip back up from the gate and had needed a lot of coaxing to stop being a git. “The mines are going harder than ever, hiring so many on they had to set up a tent city outside Makework. But most of the ore’s going over to Werrdig, and they won’t say why.”
Howell frowned as he lifted the tarp over the wagon’s load to inspect it, but it didn’t look like he was unhappy—only thoughtful. “Looks like everything’s here.”
“O’ course it is.” Harri was mildly indignant. “I would’ve told you if I didn’t have the full order. I’m saying don’t be surprised if that starts changing.”
“It better not.” Milo let go of Poppy’s rein and took a step closer. “They can’t short a preserve. The orders come from Parliament itself.”
Harri gave Milo a tight once-over. “So do the ones that are sending the bulk of the ore Hampton Seam produces to somewhere in Werrdig.” He turned back to Howell. “I haven’t said anything to anyone else. I don’t want to traffic in rumors. But”—he paused to give Milo another glance, narrow-eyed, assessing—“Cadwyn’s on the utility crew at Hampton. She says the guards they’ve just hired on look an awful lot like soldiers to her eye.”
Howell’s face blanked then closed down altogether. He shot Milo a look, as though wondering exactly what Milo had parsed from that.
Milo was afraid he’d got all of it.
Something is always brewing Ceri had said, troubled and restless, and she would know.
An ally had been invaded. Sabers were rattling all up and down the continent. Metal ores were suddenly getting harder to come by.
And with the Colonel-in-Chief showing up like he had....
Spies aren’t only for wartime, you know.
This unexpected visit wasn’t about Milo. It wasn’t about the Home Guard.
Milo waited until Howell and Harri were deep into a debate over whether mines even needed guards in the first place before he quietly sidled Poppy away from the forge, and started back to the house.
THE COLONEL was just stepping out the backdoor when Milo arrived, Ceri standing in the doorway behind him with her arms crossed over her chest and glaring at the colonel’s back. The colonel looked… well, Milo still couldn’t tell. Although he’d really like to learn the trick of keeping his emotions concealed like that; Ceri always said Milo should never play poker, and Ellis was of the firm opinion that Milo couldn’t lie to save his life because everything he was thinking was all over his face.
Three dragons drifted by overhead, coasting along the thermals from the ocean and gliding out over the waves in a loose arrow. Milo squinted up, taking automatic inventory, but it was only the two horned ringtails that had arrived a few days ago, and the white broadwing that had started the fight over a deer carcass the other night. The transients would all be gone in a few weeks, heading toward their summer roosts, and Milo had hope that at least three of his winter charges were recovered and healthy enough to go with them. The preserve had acquired another razorback, apparently having bred well before season, fat and clumsy and looking as though she’d barely made it over Tirryderch; Milo might end up stuck with a brooding cow this summer, and—providing all went well with the hatching—a new calf to look after come winter. Which would really cut into his jaunts to Brookings, so Milo couldn’t help hoping the cow managed the rest of her trip. Since Old Forge was the last stop on this path before—
“Ow!” Milo was thumped from his meandering by a sharp jab at his shin, just above where the top of his boot would’ve blocked it had Ansel not had such impeccable aim for a rooster that could barely see anymore. “Ansel, you stroppy little knob.” Milo nudged at him with the toe of his muddy boot. “Go on, then, or I’ll have you for dinner.”
It wasn’t as though Ansel was good for much else these days. Though he’d probably be too stringy anyway, just to be the same contrary arsehole in death he’d always been in life.
“Majestic, I’ve always thought.”
“Majestic is absolutely not the word I’d use,” Milo muttered and looked up from his tiff with Ansel to see the colonel, hands in pockets, ambling toward him. It took a moment to realize the colonel’s gaze was pointed at the sky and not Ansel, who’d backed off some but only enough to get Milo to forget about him long enough for another sneak attack. Milo followed the colonel’s gaze. “Oh. Dragons. Right.”
The three dragons had ventured out farther over the water, circling past the oyster boats and fishing coracles, and tightening their formation. Definitely on the h
unt for something big. It was too early for whales, and too close to shore anyway. A stray pod of dolphins, maybe?
“Yeah, I’ll give you majestic.” Milo gave the colonel a wry smile. “But I feel compelled to add temperamental, cantankerous, and too often patience-wearingly fussy.”
The lieutenant had never left the car. His gaze was nailed firmly to the dragons out over the ocean, his hands were knuckle-white on the steering wheel, and the car’s door was firmly shut. He must not be from Whitpool.
Ceri watched Milo and the colonel from the doorway, posture still rigid. The wind off the water was getting warmer but still biting, and she wasn’t wearing a shawl or even a jumper. Still, she didn’t move.
The colonel chuckled. He stopped right next to Milo, eyes still on the sky.
“Ever hear from the dragonkin on the other paths?”
“Sure.” Milo shrugged. “I mean, most everything goes through Llundaintref, but when I can’t get—”
Milo cut himself off. He probably didn’t need to be telling the Colonel-in-Chief of the Home Guard that Milo sometimes made a habit of circumventing protocol in favor of faster answers.
The colonel seemed to know anyway. He pulled his gaze from the hunting dragons—yep, definitely found some dolphins—and over to Milo. He lifted an eyebrow, sardonic.
“Yeah, all right.” Milo huffed. What could anyone do, anyway? Sack him? “Sometimes going through channels is too slow, and I can’t wait for an answer. So I keep in touch with the dragonkin on the other paths. If a dragon shows up here shedding scales and with its fire sputtering, I need to know what it’s been into. If I wait for it to go through channels, the dragon might be dead by the time I get an answer.”
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