I’m not Timur. Who am I?
Two beats. A third. Then Ginkgo responded.
Fend: the world’s first typing Kith.
You may rule out felines. Try again.
Friend or foe?
Both/and
Depends on the game
L – girl or boy?
K – half or whole?
All male, yet a damsel in distress
He’s threatening me with tea
Should I be worried?
They sent him a selfie in which all three of them offered expressions of—what he hoped was—exaggerated distaste. Ginkgo might not know who he was, but he must have decided this was a family-friendly mystery.
K – you are doomed
L – are you sick?
To K – I will be brave
To L – injured in the line of duty
Will you rescue me?
Where are you?
Not sure
Guest room. Your room.
Two beats. A third. Then Ginkgo responded.
Warded?
Yes
Hosts?
No sign. I’ve been asleep
Should I be worried?
Yes and no
Do they teach little dragons about trees?
Clearly, this Mettlebright was privy to more information than Sinder had bothered to dig up. Had it been a mistake, taking this assignment at face value? Or had he been relying too much on Boon being here?
“O Captain, my Captain,” he muttered. “Wherefor art thou?”
Even though his pause had to have been a giveaway, Sinder played it safe.
Every clan knows their songs
Risky business, sleeping under trees
Oh, and Sinder …?
Damn.
Yes?
Let Timur know we’re an hour out
Will do
Sinder rewarded the half-fox by sending a pouting selfie. And a parting shot for the kids.
Codename: Damsel
When Timur returned with a tray, Sinder scrolled back up to the picture of universal disgust. “This? This is what you’re going to do to me?”
Timur smiled lopsidedly. “Too right. Mum’s recipes are dastardly, but I brought afters. You must be hungry.”
He sat up to receive the tray. There was a plate of roasted vegetables, crusty rolls, and cheese. And a fat turnover that smelled of honey, nuts, and cinnamon. Sinder realized that Timur’s barrier must be blocking sounds and smells, which required unusually intricate wardsmanship. Skills like these bounded on the illusory. Rather foxish in nature, now that he thought about it.
“First this.” Timur held out a brimming teacup. “It’s cooled enough. Try to take it in one go.”
Sinder made a face.
“You don’t want any huddlebud left in your system when meeting our hosts.”
Sinder chugged, coughed, and wheezed, “Vile.”
Timur shrugged and borrowed from his mother again. “What is good is hard. But is good.”
Breakfast could only be better. Sinder started in on the food. According to the date on Timur’s phone, he hadn’t eaten in four days, so this tray was going to be the first of many. Mumbling around a mouthful of pastry, Sinder said, “Ginkgo seems to think my virtue is at risk.”
He passed along the phone. Timur scanned the whole conversation, smiling all the while. Finally, he said, “You have been sleeping under a tree. Practically inside it. One of the reasons we’re so safe here is because most people have trouble remembering that here exists. We’re in Waaseyaa’s home.”
Sinder had been briefed on this part. Twineshaft was very interested in the Amaranthine trees of Wardenclave. He chewed more slowly, then asked, “You know about tree-kin?”
“I do now. Glint introduced me when I first arrived.” Timur admitted, “Three weeks later, and I’m still getting used to it. And them. Especially Zisa.”
“Zisa.” Sinder made the logical leap. “The tree half of their twinship?”
Timur nodded and leaned closer. “Fair warning. If you have personal boundaries, he’ll be inside them before you can say, ‘Kiss me again.’”
Sinder slowly shook his head.
Timur simply nodded.
EIGHT
Making the Rounds
The more Mikoto learned about his role as headman, the less he felt up to the task. Some things were honorary, like having a part in the annual Founders Day festival, playing host to important guests, and having his picture in glossy brochures and online articles. This was all part of being the son of the son of the son—through the centuries—of a historical figure.
But Gabe Reaver’s day-to-day responsibilities had been much more prosaic. Head of Wardenclave’s community association. And camp director.
The former was now under Duntuffet prevue, and the latter was being handled by Merl Alpenglow. They had it covered, so for the moment, Mikoto’s primary responsibility was a scampering tuft of white fur.
The puppy was a big hit with Hana and with the nieces. Not so much with Yulin. Glint’s gift had piddled one too many times in the moth’s archive. So Mikoto’s in-house mentor had prioritized long walks. He called it “making the rounds.”
It was more freedom than Mikoto had expected. But the puppy was a bigger handful than he would have guessed. Not literally, of course. He was more of a scant handful, barely large enough to count as canine. Especially in a village where Kith-partnered battlers rode their dogs.
The girls had been quick to suggest names. All of them cutesy. But Mikoto firmly rejected them. He wasn’t leaving something so important to them. Plus, he’d wanted a name with more dignity. Which had brought Yulin to mind. And then the name was suddenly there and perfectly right. A doggish name that was already an endearment. Noble.
Yulin had been amused. And pleased. Mikoto could tell.
Noble was quick and clingy, which put him constantly underfoot. While Mikoto made his rounds, the bouncing, twirling pup kept getting tangled in his own leash. Mikoto finally resorted to keeping Noble in the pocket of the long, sleeveless vest he was still getting used to wearing. Worn over Mikoto’s usual summer tunic, the vest bore the crests of Wardenclave and its five founders. It marked him as headman.
So with a puppy in his pocket and time on his hands, Mikoto turned onto the narrow path that led into the pasture behind Glint’s compound. And the enormous tree overshadowing it. The way in was a secret and well-warded, but not against family. Or against the headman. And Mikoto was both, for Waaseyaa’s most recent wife had been Gabe Reaver’s eldest sister.
“Uncle,” Mikoto greeted.
Waaseyaa had ruddy brown skin and the straight black hair of many First Nations people. He was arrayed in a fawn-colored tunic trimmed with orange embroidery that was a sure sign of Glint’s longstanding affection and protection. Waaseyaa always wore this same tunic. Or one similar. Maybe he had a trunk filled with nearly identical shirts. Or maybe his clothes endured because he did.
“Hello, Mikoto.” Waaseyaa sat amidst his tree-twin’s roots, his hands occupied with a child who couldn’t have been two yet. The little boy was a determined climber. “I remember when you were much the same as this one.”