Mikoto supposed it was his turn. “I have been working alongside a healer since I was old enough to sneak off. Merl Alpenglow is my best friend, my brother.”
“Fandriel’s foresight, you’re a welcome surprise.” Timur shoved several implements into Mikoto’s hands. “Prep four full measures. Once he’s had a wallow in the lake, daub it on thick and hot.”
“Four measures,” he confirmed, calmly lining up ingredients in the order he’d need them.
“Steady hands and a sweet soul. Looks like I’m the fortunate one, having you here.” Timur scratched at the stubble on his chin. “If you can also handle Sinder’s tending, I can focus on closing the smaller wounds with sigils. It’s the dragon way.”
Mikoto was eager to see that sort of treatment but only asked, “Is there an ideal temperature?”
Timur rattled off an acceptable range while poking through a small pouch on a cord around his neck. Withdrawing a pale green marble—undoubtedly a remnant—he addressed Sinder. “Ever had a wound warded? Medical barriers? Sigil-soothing?”
Sinder’s claws gracefully formed a no. It hadn’t even occurred to Mikoto that hand signs were an option. In hindsight, he felt silly.
“Advanced sigilcraft wrought upon the body.” Timur held up the green marble. “This will anchor my sigils. You can keep it under your tongue, or you could swallow it. Either way, I’ll need it back. Eventually.”
There was a teasing light in Timur’s eyes.
Sinder extended a clawed hand to accept the crystal. He held it up to catch the light, studying it for several long moments, then took it into his mouth.
“Did you swallow it?” asked Kyrie, sloshing around to peer curiously into Sinder’s face.
The dragon’s brow ridges arched, but he kept his own counsel on the matter.
“Oh.” Kyrie’s giggle had a fluting quality.
“Did he say something?” asked Mikoto. He’d lived among the clans long enough to know that not all communication was verbal.
“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.