Clutching at his side, he waited to see the source of his humiliation.
A scant minute passed. A few low words and a stealthy scuffle preceded Michaelson into the den.
“Go away,” he muttered.
“Not until I remove that sigil.”
Lovely. He was immune to Sinder’s words, as well. “Sassing back to dragons? You are one annoyingly over-qualified rookie.”
Michaelson lofted a couple of crystals, which took on a soft blue glow. He sighed and said, “You don’t remember me, do you.”
“Should I?” Sinder studied the young man. Caucasian. With dark eyes and hair, which hung in loose curls almost to his shoulders. In need of a shave. Built like a tank.
The battler shook his head. “Dragons don’t rely so much on scents. Colors and sounds are what trigger your memories, and my voice has changed.”
Sinder frowned. He didn’t need lessons in being a dragon. He’d already been trying to pin down the man’s voice, which was deep and lightly accented. As if English weren’t the only language in his arsenal.
“I’ll give you a hint.” Beckoning with the fingers of both hands, Michaelson quietly ordered, “Touch my nose.”
“We have met.” Sinder’s thoughts raced. “We met when you were a child?”
“Only once, so it’s no wonder you don’t remember.” He showed his palms. “May I touch?”
Sinder tried to do the polite thing, only to reveal a bloodied hand.
“You’re injured.” Crowding close, the reaver ordered, “Show me.”
“Is this the part where I’m meant to assure you that it’s just a scratch?”
He snorted. “This is the part where I check for broken ribs.”
Michaelson’s hands were blessedly warm as he probed. Sinder bit his lip to keep from whimpering. “Kith partner, sigil crafter, and field medic? Where did Naroo-soh find you?”
“Hang on, Sinder. I need my kit, and Fend is carrying it.”
He knew his name. Said it kindly.
They’d met once. But where? Sinder didn’t know anyone else called Michaelson, but reavers chose their own surnames. Oh. What a dunce.
“You’re Michael’s son.” And since the world was full of Michaels, he added, “First of Wards.”
“Spot on.” And there. He had his father’s smile.
“Your mother’s a battler.” Sinder lifted his arms, giving the man access to his injury.
“And a healer, fortunately for you.” Michaelson doused him with something that stung, then began wrapping. “I spent a couple of summers with the mares before being bundled off to Mum’s people.”
Sinder tried not to squirm. “Are you allowed to congratulate yourself for binding up wounds you’ve inflicted?”
“No.” Those dark eyes sought his. “I’m truly sorry, Sinder. I wasn’t even sure the sigil would work.”
“It works.”
“Can you describe its affects?”
“In excruciating detail.” He shivered miserably. “So I’m an experiment?”
Michaelson removed his vest and peeled out of his tunic. “Hands up again.”
Sinder lost the urge to be snide as warm cloth settled around him. It was just such a relief.
The man smoothed the shirt over his back, pulled free his thick braid, chafed his arms—all the fussing made Sinder miss Colt. “You have a lot of scars,” he remarked.
“Old mishap with a skylight.” Sinder shrugged, then wished he hadn’t. “What’s the diagnosis, Healer Michaelson?”
“Bruised, but not broken.” He shrugged back into his vest, buckling it over a hairy chest, then checking his pockets. “I recommend a dose for the pain, and you’re overdue for a long sleep. A proper tending wouldn’t go amiss. Best thing for it, really.”
Sinder was having a hard time keeping up. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
Michaelson looked away. “About the sigil.”
Tugging up one sleeve, Sinder watched the progress of the pattern across his skin. It was sort of pretty, like molten body art. But it also made him uneasy. “Weren’t you going to remove it?”
“About that.” The reaver met his gaze pleadingly. “Would you mind if we let it run its course?”
Sinder made a grab for him, claws hooking into the fabric of his vest. “What’s it doing to me?”
Michaelson took his hands and moved them to his face, pressing them to either side in a dragon’s show of faith. “This one’s not so bad. A trap nested within a tracer. It’s singing you a lullaby.”
This one. Which meant there were other ones. Worse ones. Sinder wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “It’s supposed to put me to sleep?”
“If it works right.”
“Seems right.” Slumping sideways, he asked, “What if it malfunctions?”
“I’ll dismantle it.” Michaelson’s arm eased around him, pulling him close. “I’ll be right here, making sure.”
Sinder wondered if this is what it felt like, falling under the spell of a dragon’s words. Helpless to protest. Stupidly trusting. Still, he managed to frame another protest. “What if it triggers a long sleep?”
“I’ll take full responsibility.” He smiled his father’s smile and added, “I cannot offer you a harem or heights, but my home is yours for as long as you need it.”
“Swear it.”
“By all four winds,” he said gravely.
Sinder thought that was a nice touch, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted. “Upon your name. Swear it on your name.”
A searching look. A small smile. “So be it. I swear to bring you safely home. Upon my honor and upon my name—Timur Michaelson, partner to Fend, lately of Stately House, guest instructor at Wardenclave, and heir to the secrets of the Order of Spomenka.”
Oh. Double dunce. First the legendary Junzi, now a throwback Spomenka?
He warbled a protest and knew how pitiful it sounded.
The man gathered him up like it was nothing. “Rest easy, Sinder Stonecairne. I’ve got you.”
SIX
I Spy
Sinder woke on what could only be described as a sleeping platform. Which immediately brought wolves to mind, except for the distinct lack of shag. Boon’s alcove always looked like it’d been paved in roadkill. This bed, while similarly spacious, was more sensibly fitted with smooth sheets, downy blankets, and a lavishly embroidered coverlet—greens, golds, and enough oranges to warm the heart of any Farroost.
But this wasn’t a phoenix’s nest. Sinder had enjoyed Harmonious’ hospitality often enough. This added up to dog.
Turning his head, he noted a net of sigils, the basic sort intended to keep out noise and nuisances. Within that shimmering curtain, a big chair had been pulled up beside his bed. And upon that chair dozed Timur Michaelson, who had bathed and shaved in the indeterminate interim. His plain cotton T-shirt was battler teal, and when Sinder lifted his head, he glimpsed pajama pants.
His movement, though slight, woke his guardian.
“Hello,” Michaelson murmured, sitting forward and extending a hand. “Any ill effects?”