Timur growled something, but Kyrie slipped away. He saw no reason to worry about the village. Sinder should be everyone’s first concern. Saving him would keep everyone safe.
Bent branches and bare roots made it obvious that the area was freshly cleared. Little breezes stank of bare earth, bruised leaves, tree sap, and blood. And in the center of the wreckage huddled Sinder, head low, sides heaving. Glittering green eyes roved along the line of battlers, who ranged around the boundaries.
Sinder could not escape.
Not because Salali’s barrier was strong. Only because Sinder was holding himself back. Keeping to a form that posed less of a threat, should he falter. Kyrie was impressed by Sinder’s resolve—to accept pain rather than deal it.
Behind him, Timur was saying, “I’m glad you learned something of value from this, because you aren’t going to have another chance. This cannot continue.”
Ginkgo said, “Dad’ll bust chops if anyone gets stubborn.”
Mikoto spoke up. “I will file a formal protest. Allow us to find other means of training while Sinder recovers.”
“This can’t continue!” Timur repeated.
Kyrie glanced back, still intrigued. Lilya’s brother always laughed and smiled at home. But that was far away and full of children. This was a face Timur didn’t usually show. But Kyrie approved of his fury. If he was entirely honest, he shared it.
Sinder’s claws raked the ground. Blood matted his mane, and there were splinters the size of pikes in uncomfortable places. Kyrie’s patience for the adult’s conversation faded entirely. Talking things through could be important. Mother liked to say that patience was a virtue. But so was mercy.
He trotted along the line, paying more heed to the barrier than the battlers. It was good and strong, but one of the anchors had a lovely lavender hue. Just what he needed.
Kyrie could have dismantled the whole assemblage with a touch, but that wouldn’t be safe for the humans. Instead, he found a little ripple and pressed his fingers through. Nudging and leaning, he whispered encouragement. Potent words. He didn’t often need them, but this was a very good barrier. Its clashing layers scraped, but he whispered and teased and wiggled past the first layer … only to find no further impediments.
Disappointing, really. If Dad had been in charge, there would have been a series of failsafes and fallbacks. That’s the way foxes were, always making certain they accounted for the unexpected. Then again, this was a rush job, and it worked to keep Sinder in. But whoever made this barrier hadn’t known about Kyrie.
They’d know better next time.
Fiddling with a sigil, Kyrie worked his way across battered ground. Unseen. Ginkgo had taught him this one for sneaking into the pantry, which wasn’t exactly against the rules since Aunt Sansa was generous with everything, even snacks. Sharing cookies at midnight was one of the best ways to help skittish new orphans feel like part of the family. And sometimes … well, sometimes little kids were afraid of Kyrie.
Mother asked him to be gentle and kind and patient. Give newcomers a chance to see past the red eyes and horns and scales, to see how much his other denmates liked and trusted him. And mother was wise, because that’s how it always worked out. Even the worst crybaby—which was Be’el-garva, a little half-cobra—would trail after Kyrie, wanting to hold hands.
The youngsters were cute. Kyrie liked being a big brother.
For now, at least, he was the only half-dragon at Stately House, but Kyrie often wondered if Dad might someday bring home a little cousin. Maybe they would be like Sinder, who looked like new shoots in springtime. Or they might be like Lapis, whose blues shimmered like deep water. And he could be their big brother. But right now, he needed to be a good little brother. Or a good cousin, at least.
With a series of trills, he let Sinder know he was coming. That was only polite.
When the injured dragon’s near eye rolled his way, Kyrie offered a small wave, but he wasn’t sure Sinder recognized him.
Foam dripped from his jaws, flecked with blood, and there was an unhealthy slick upon his scales. With each blink of his eyes, they rolled a little, and their pupils wavered between thin slits and black pits. Could he even see?
Kyrie said, “Hold on, Sinder. I am here.”
Scales shifted, and the dragon dragged his chin, trying to see.
“I am not alone. You are not alone.”
Sinder’s wail made Kyrie’s stomach plunge, but he didn’t stop.
“Let me see.” He used a bossy tone that would have suited Lilya just fine. Words that could compel. “Show me where.”
The answering whine ended in a sob.
Kyrie wrapped his arms around Sinder’s muzzle as far as they would go. He warbled a lullaby that Lapis had taught him, a silly rhyme about the winds in each season. All lovely. All loving.
With a creaky warble, Sinder tried to sing along. But he was still suffering.
“Let me take it from you.” And when Sinder widened his eyes and squeaked alarm, Kyrie said, “I know, but I am only half. And sometimes, that is a very useful thing to be.”
Sinder gave him a direction with a small jerk of his head.
Kyrie had to paw through fur, but it was there, buried. “Take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked one.” And wrapping his hand around the offending bolt, he jerked it free.
Sinder yelped and shuddered.
All of the sudden, the barrier was gone, and voices were shouting. Ginkgo reached them first. “Hold still, Damsel. Let us pull a few of these slivers before you try to move.”
Timur crashed to the ground beside Sinder and spoke right into his ear. “Do not transform. Hear me? Not until I say it’s safe.” And to Kyrie, “Keep him calm. This will hurt.”
So Kyrie stroked the angles of Sinder’s face and made sounds low in his throat. Ones he knew meant peace and home and brotherhood. Because they were the very things Lapis knew he craved.
Timur was talking, too. A growly harangue that sounded more like vows. “No more battle games. No more night maneuvers. No more experimental weapons. No. More.”
Kyrie babbled on, telling Sinder about the garden at home and about nearly falling from Zisa’s branches. About Lilya making him sneeze and the mysterious scent of flowers that the winds brought to tease him.
Then Ginkgo was back. “Their healer’s here with supplies, and Timur’s ready. Nice and easy, Damsel. We’ve got you.”
In a whirlwind that only partially hid a groan, Sinder shifted. On his knees before Kyrie, he reached for him, pulling him against skin that must have hurt—battered and bloodied and bruised.
Kyrie crooned and kissed his cheek, then used his sleeve to blot tears.
“Let me through,” grumbled Timur. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
Once he was sure Lilya’s big brother was close enough to catch him, Kyrie let go of Sinder. Next to Timur, caught in the light of Ginkgo’s crystals, the dragon looked pale and frail.
Sinder tugged at Timur’s vest, his voice was cracked and hoarse from screaming. “Tell them I’m sorry.”
“Zolottse,” Timur murmured, gathering Sinder close. “That’s exactly what they asked me to tell you.”
TWENTY-SIX