Ginkgo nodded and peered at the village situated below. From here, their song circle was more obvious, as well as the bustle of activity around the cabins.
“That way,” said Kyrie, pointing.
“Yeah?” Ginkgo indicated the next few mountaintops over. “What’s that way?”
“No idea.” Timur waved to the north. “Denholm, which is an undisclosed city, is just beyond the rise. It’s the hub of all Dimityblest industry. In fact, it’s where the scribes write the communiques that link reavers worldwide.”
“Which other Dimityblest industries?” asked Lilya.
As the girl rattled off the diverse products for which the moth clans were famous, Ginkgo hung back to wait for Kyrie, who still gazed to the east.
“Eight different flowers.” He spoke with a confidence that tended to sway the susceptible. But he also spoke from experience. Kyrie was Ginkgo’s best helper in the gardens of Stately House—inside and out. When the kid’s nose wasn’t in a book, it was usually in a flower.
“Any you recognize?”
“All new.” Kyrie eagerly begged, “Can we go find them?”
“Don’t see why not.” Ginkgo hated to admit it, but he wasn’t picking up anything. “Eight, huh? How can you sort scents you’ve never encountered?”
“The wind helped.” Looking up into the thick foliage overhead, he tentatively asked, “Do you hear that?”
Ginkgo swiveled his ears. “The birds?”
“Someone is singing.”
Being only half Amaranthine, Ginkgo knew his senses weren’t on par with someone of full blood. His little brother was also a crosser, but the mix was different. Dragon blood gave Kyrie a whole different set of aptitudes. Ginkgo dabbled in illusory sigilcraft. But there wasn’t a trap or ward he’d ever created that Kyrie couldn’t unmake with a touch.
The boy always blamed the wind. Probably thanks to all the dragon lore Tsumiko read to him. She’d been delving into Amaranthine history, scriptures, and songs ever since taking Kyrie to her heart as a son. She was as diligent as a Dimityblest scribe, especially when it came to the tales of dragons.
“What kind of someone?” asked Ginkgo.
Kyrie tipped his head to one side, then the other. “Someone new.”
“Maybe it’s the tree?”
His little brother brightened. “Maybe.”
“We’re due for an introduction.” Ginkgo offered his hand. “Let’s say hi.”
They caught up to Timur in the kitchen of a modest house. He had his arm around the shoulders of someone who looked like a young samurai who’d mislaid his swords. Wavy black hair swept back from a broad face with strong cheekbones and a stronger jaw, but his quiet demeanor failed to intimidate. Largely due to the puppy in his pocket.
“This is my new sparring partner, Mikoto,” said Timur.
By the look on the young man’s face, this was news. And good news, at that.
“He’s headman of Wardenclave, so mind your manners.”
Not that Timur was showing even a smidge of respect. And Ginkgo judged that Mikoto appreciated the oversight.
Lilya greeted him in Japanese, which was understandable. Conversations at Stately House veered from Japanese to English to French without a moment’s notice. Liberally sprinkled with Russian, usually for emphasis. But Japanese was default, and Mikoto looked the part.
To Ginkgo’s surprise, Mikoto answered in kind, greeting them with polite formality. “It is my honor to welcome you on behalf of Wardenclave. May the coming season find you stronger for your efforts and richer for the bonds we will share.”
Nice words, nice guy, if a bit serious for Ginkgo’s tastes. But he was the sort Kyrie usually sidled up to. Quiet, conscientious types. Probably because they were slightly less susceptible. The kid clammed up fast around folks who couldn’t help themselves.
Pleased, Ginkgo turned to urge his brother forward, only to realize his hand was empty.
Lilya, who had a sense for these things, blurted, “Where’s Kyrie?”
Before he could break for the door, a hand hooked his arm. “Wait. He has not gone far.”
“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.