by Forthright
“Find you?”
“You’ll find me over and over,” Sinder said. “Anyone can find me. Briefly.”
“Catch you?”
Sinder arched a brow. “Define catch. Because catching me unawares isn’t the same as keeping me.”
Kyrie backed up and used the language he’d heard earlier. “Track and restrain.”
“Let’s find out if you can,” urged Sinder. “And don’t look so down. I want to test your skills, but it’s really just a game. Maybe you’ll have fun.”
“I will not hurt you,” Kyrie promised.
“I won’t give you the chance.” Sinder’s expression softened, and he gently ordered, “Close your eyes and count to three.”
The instant Kyrie’s eyes were closed, he knew Sinder was away. Even so, he dutifully spoke to the sudden emptiness at his side. “One … two … three.”
Kyrie’s pursuit began at a stroll. Everything had happened in such short order, he needed time to think.
His unintended snooping among the maps had given him sufficient grasp of the terrain. Sinder’s greater familiarity with these treed slopes and rocky outcroppings would definitely give him an advantage, but Kyrie wasn’t without resources. Use every tool. That’s what Sinder had said. So Kyrie pondered his kit.
Surprise was a tool.
Maybe he was wrong about the spikenard and sigils giving him an unfair advantage. Sinder’s swift dismissal made Kyrie feel a little less guilty for failing to mention that Sinder still carried Timur’s crystal. The one that anchored the healing sigilcraft. He’d swallowed it.
What else did he have to work with?
Surprise was a tool. So was patience. And he wasn’t ready to dismiss scent. Not when the winds were so willing to carry them.
Sigilcraft was one area in which Kyrie excelled, and it seemed unlikely that Sinder knew the extent of Kyrie’s skills. Especially since he rarely displayed all he could do.
“Kyrie?” murmured Torloo.
He turned to face his friend. A true tracker. The one with experience in leading the hunt. Kyrie mentally added another item to his list. Teamwork was a tool.
With a small shake of his head, Kyrie said, “I am merely organizing my thoughts.”
Reveille dropped into a crouch and set his hands into a position that communicated patient expectation. Torloo also took a passive position. “Where you go, we will follow.”
“What if you lose sight of me?”
Torloo tipped his head to one side. “That would be interesting. Do not let us distract you from the trail at your feet. Even if we lose your trail, we can pick it up again.”
“Or his,” said Reveille in a calm undertone. “If we cannot find you, we will focus on your prey.”
Kyrie accepted that with a nod.
He took a moment to confirm the hand signals he’d learned from Annika. And by mutual assent, they put away their words. Because silence was also a tool.
Taking a deep breath, Kyrie opened himself up to the winds. Wider than he ever had before. The green crystal in his armband tuned itself to his desire, amplifying it. Breezes quickly gathered. Soft warbles lured them into contact. Soft words coaxed them into collusion.
With a parting breath that lifted his hair, his invisible allies whirled away. Almost immediately they flowed back, each bringing little offerings, each hoping to please him.
They told him of barriers within barriers. They carried the scents of spikenard and sweat. They whispered of warriors and wolves, his competition in the race to find Sinder. And one very clever wind—she was a south wind, he knew—brought to his attention a faint chorus of crystals.
Tiny, yet true.
Kyrie listened closely, trilled encouragingly. And their answer was symphonic.
Slowly opening his eyes, he met Torloo’s puzzled gaze and Reveille’s unchanged attention. And smiled. “I need to run.”
“Which way?” murmured Torloo.
Kyrie thought his friend already knew the answer. He pointed confidently in the opposite direction, where Sinder’s course through the trees was setting off whispery chimes.
Torloo offered an approving nod. “How did you know?”
Would they believe him? Few ever did. But he told the truth. “Every tree in this forest has a voice.”
Sinder stood at attention on a rocky outcropping, listening to the sounds of a waking forest, watching for movement amidst the trees. The dawn patrol was still conducting careful sweeps on the opposite slope, far enough away to allow Sinder to focus on Kyrie.
Evading wolves had become a fairly routine challenge, but the prospect of dragon pursuit had him keyed up. He needed to take care, needed to focus.
Something that would have been so much easier if not for Timur and Mikoto having a murmured conversation at the foot of his vantage point. “Do you mind?” he grumbled.
Timur shook his head. “He’s not coming.”
“He is,” argued Sinder. “That’s rather the point of this exercise.”
“Kyrie’s father is a fox. Do you really think he’ll come at you, full charge, yodeling a battle cry?”
“I used to do that,” confessed Mikoto.
Timur chuckled. “Me, too.”
“I suppose you think you were cute?” Sinder could picture it, though. Little battlers could be adorably idiotic. Easy pickings.
“I’ve improved somewhat.” Timur’s grin was probably meant to be modest.
Mikoto, who’d been sketching a map into the dirt with a stick, asked, “Could you catch Sinder?”
“I have caught him.” Timur eyed Sinder speculatively. “I’d like to try again.”
“What do you use for restraints?” Mikoto’s posture was respectful, his expression interested. “If the goal is to catch and keep, how do you confine a dragon?”
With a final scan of the surroundings, Sinder dropped into a crouch beside Mikoto. “Primer time. It’s not as if you need enchanted chains or anything. Rope works if it’s heavy enough. Or better yet, woven cords reinforced by an ambuscade. Way back when, they’d work crystals into the weave.”
“I am not familiar with such equipment.”
“Specialty stuff.” Ever since the Junzi had come to light, Sinder had developed a morbid fascination for the accoutrement of dragon slayers. The fabled Four Storms were one-of-a-kind, but there were records of plenty of more humdrum ways to ensnare dragonkind.
“They’d encase wardstones in rope. Which was crazy. Not only did it cost a fortune to synchronize enough crystals to properly lasso a winged dragon, but the resulting rope would be incredibly heavy.”
“Weighted ropes?” mused Mikoto.
“Impractical in the extreme. Understandably obsolete.” Sinder glanced at Timur, who was quietly studying his own hands. “Even if there were any of these ropes still lying about, they’d be moldering. Historical significance falls by the wayside when a financially-strapped family can unravel them in order to sell off the wardstones.”
Timur lifted his gaze … and smirked.
Sinder’s confidence wavered. “Wielding them would require both physical strength and a ward’s finesse.”
Both of which Timur had in abundance. Dunce and double dunce.
“Surely not,” Sinder muttered, all accusing.
“They’re really more like whips.” Timur was enjoying this way too much. “And there are still a few artisans who carry on the crafting of traditional weapons. Innovating on them, as well.”
Mikoto glanced between them. “You have seen this weapon?”
“Most of the length is about this thick.” Timur held out his thumb. “Leather grip. Weighted tip. And heavy as a bag of rocks.”
Sinder muttered an oath. “You keep one lying around?”
“Hardly.” Timur scratched behind his ear. “Battlers take better care of their weapons.”
Mikoto’s fascination doubled. “You know this weapon.”
“I have the strength and a ward’s aptitude.” Timur lifted muscular arms
and described a flowing circle over his head. “Mum started me in on ropework when I was still just a kid. Been focusing on those kinds of weapons ever since—whips, flails, chains, nets. Fend and I started practicing with the real thing this past winter.”
All eyes turned to the feline, who greeted their interest with a curled lip.
Sinder wasn’t used to being uninformed. “Well that’s … certainly something that could have been mentioned sooner.”
“Like you said, they’re specialty weapons. None of the battlers in this allotment were chosen for that kind of training.”
Mikoto sighed. “I would like to try.”
“Any foundation for this type of weapon?” Timur was clearly asking to be polite.
“Yes. My favorite is a chain scythe.”
Timur gave him a hard look and a harder pinch. They were soon grappling on the ground like a couple of children. Finally pinning him, Timur asked, “You ride, yes? Ever done mounted maneuvers?”
“I am proficient. My partner is Merl Alpenglow.”
“We are going to spar. Soon.” Timur let the younger man up and slanted a look at Sinder. “And then we’ll team up against our dragon friend here.”
Sinder stated the obvious. “You have all the markings of a top recruit.”
“That is … nice to hear.”
Timur grimaced. “Don’t suppose Wardenclave would let us borrow you?”
Mikoto simply shook his head.
“Right. Still.” Timur clapped Mikoto’s shoulder. “Over the summer, we can make good and sure that Wardenclave’s headman is fully equipped to defend his home.”
Sinder detected a subtle shift in the wind and straightened. “I think he’s coming.”
“Before things get dicey, I’ll do you a favor.” Timur stood and dusted off the seat of his breeches. Drawing something on the palm of his hand, he showed it to Sinder. “May I?”
It was a sigil. “A barrier?”
“You’re as good as marked. My fault entirely.” Timur pointed.
Sinder groaned and lifted his shirt. “Kyrie tried to warn me. The kid doesn’t miss a trick.”
“Pardon my touch.”
He turned his face away and closed his eyes, signaling submission. Which was a little embarrassing, come to think of it. But it’s how he would have presented himself to any of his older brothers in the heights.
Timur murmured, “Thank you for your trust.”
It was a touching moment—literally—but any thought of brotherly bonding went out the window when jaws closed around Sinder’s calf.
“Fend?” gasped Mikoto.
“Fend!” exclaimed Timur.
Sinder swore. Damned cat didn’t like him much.
The second time Kyrie paused to wait for them, Torloo scolded. “Do not divide your efforts. Give this prey your full attention.”
He found this difficult to accept. Perhaps it was Mother’s influence. He did not like to exclude anyone. “If you are certain?”
“Go.” Torloo’s tail had developed a twitch. “In this game, we can both test our limits.”
A balance he could embrace.
Kyrie did not look back again.
Neither did he go straight forward. For although he knew where Sinder could be found, the trees held their peace, which meant his prey was holding his position. Undoubtedly alert. So Kyrie chose a less obvious approach. Low and swift, he darted his way toward the reavers who were also on the hunt. Circling behind them, he used them as a barrier, then began teasing sigils out of his imagination.
Not the kind Michael set for lessons. Nor the sigils he’d read about in books. Kyrie needed something smaller, swifter, subtler.
Patiently, he fiddled with nuances, rejecting several attempts before he was satisfied. Then he made a dozen. And a dozen more. Anchoring them to his own soul, he sent them whispering away to mark his prey.
Three reavers walked past his sheltering shrub, close enough to brush against its leaves, but they didn’t notice. He eased into the open, moved to the nearest tree, and found the crystal embedded in its bark. A blue. And pleased to be noticed.
He hummed it a little tune, which its neighbors picked up. Kyrie listened to their songs, then taught them one of his own. They wanted to be useful. He knew just what to ask for.
But sudden inspiration struck him dumb.
While the crystals around him waited, he turned the new idea over and over, considering it from every possible angle. It was simple. And beautiful. But also … terrible.
And tempting.
Wasn’t the point of this test to show Sinder what he could do?
But a summer breeze interrupted him, carrying the faint strain of music. Someone was singing again, high overhead. A compelling voice, yet elusive. As if the song wasn’t meant for everyone to hear. It reminded him of the singer he’d been seeking the first time he climbed into Zisa’s branches.
Were they nearby?
Heedless of the battlers and their search formations, Kyrie ran. More winds joined the first, carrying clearer snippets, guiding his way. He pushed the limits of his speed, afraid that the fleeting music would stop before he found its source.
The tree was large, but ordinary, and easy enough to climb. He clambered upward, pushing past summer leaves, and broke swaying into the muted light of an overcast morning. The sun was shrouded, yet something was shining. Or rather … someone.
“Hello?” he whispered, hardly believing his eyes.
Someone was resting amidst the leaves a little ways away, swaying with them. He looked like a man, but he couldn’t have been, sitting with so light a touch, he didn’t bend a single twig.
The face that turned his way was almost too bright to look at, like light reflected on the surface of the sea. It brought to mind the stories of angels, whose countenances were said to have flashed like lightning.
“H-hello?” he repeated, his voice trembling. “Are you the one who was singing?”
He inclined his head, and his hands framed a plea for peace. Without a word, he stood—or seemed to—and drifted nearer.
Kyrie clung to his branch, which was too thin to be steady.
The person offered his hands, but touching palms would mean letting go. One hand would have to do. Kyrie reached, and the shining person smiled. His hand was warm, and his grip offered a welcome support.
Inside Kyrie’s mind, a voice gently inquired, “Does my voice reach you now?”
He nodded, tongue-tied.
“It would be too loud if I spoke. My voice is meant for the skies.”
That was intriguing. All of this was. “Are you an angel?”
Bending closer, he smiled as if he’d been complimented. “No, Kyrie. Not an angel. I am a star.”
FIFTY
Sacred Places
Lilya stared down at a plain circle of white stone, trying to understand the inscription.
PATH
First of Dogs
we walked together
“First of Dogs?” she asked. “But isn’t that you?”
Glint began, “He was my ….” Faltering, he cleared his throat and started again. “Path is … was …. I am not sure how to …?”
Radiance, who stood beside Snow, said, “Path was the first Starmark Kith.”
Lilya had noticed that members of the dog clans were indistinguishable from wolves when in truest form. However, Kith of the wolf clans always looked like wolves, while the dog clans seemed to represent all kinds of dog breeds.
“Who …?” But Lilya stopped. Because it wasn’t hard to guess.
This was one of those secrets that adults didn’t seem to think children understood. But Ever was terrible at keeping secrets.
Looking to Moon, whose arm was draped around Snow’s neck, she revisited an earlier insight. “You are like Laud to Quen. Like Quen to Ever.” Beloved foster parent.
“That is the way of things,” he agreed, sharing a smile with Radiance.
Stepping closer so Glint would have to look h
er in the eye, she asked, “Ever’s Da loves all his sons. Was Path your Rise?”
Glint’s mouth trembled, and he sank to his knees and pulled her into his arms. “So you know about such things?”
“Rise is Ever’s big brother. We all love him.” She wanted to tell him not to be sad, but that would be like telling him to stop caring about a member of his family. “I’m not supposed to know about Kith-sire. But I’ve overheard some things. And Ever explained some other things.”
“Path was both my son and my companion. A packmate and a pactmate. He shared every part of my life, and I miss him more than I can express.”
“Let me,” said Moon. “I will speak for all here.”
“Please, friend,” begged Glint.
“And then I will sing,” murmured Lapis, who stood to one side, cradling Rifflet close.
“You’re a dear,” pronounced Radiance, who was smiling even though her cheeks were wet with tears.
From within the circle of Glint’s arms, Lilya watched Moon step to one side and transform into a large white wolf. He nuzzled Snow, licked her forehead, then settled back on his haunches, lifted his muzzle to the sky, and howled.
Ginkgo was trying not to gawk at his surroundings while Hannick Alpenglow looked between him and Salali. The horse clansman’s manner was patient and ponderous. As if he hadn’t decided how to react to the sudden arrival of guests.
“Salali,” he sighed. “What have you done?”
The squirrel beamed unhelpfully.
In an effort to break the ice, Ginkgo gave his ears a little wiggle, but Hannick’s mellow gaze didn’t stray. Which was kind of impressive.
He flicked them again, just to be coy.
“Burr in your ear?” Hannick inquired mildly. “I can gather a light and forceps.”
“Bid for attention,” Ginkgo admitted.
“You have mine.”
He let his ears droop and adopted a more respectful posture. “I usually impress people.”
“I usually do not.” Hannick faced Salali and immediately looked fondly beleaguered. “Salali, why is this gentleman here?”
