Mikoto and the Reaver Village (Amaranthine Saga Book 4) Read online

  Amaranthine Saga, Book 4

  Mikoto and the Reaver Village

  Copyright © 2020 by FORTHRIGHT

  ISBN: 978-1-63123-080-6

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or shared in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author. Which is a slightly more officious way of saying what I’ve always asked. Play fair. Be nice. But by all means, have fun! ::twinkle::

  TWINKLE PRESS

  FORTHWRITES.COM

  because I like to hold your interest

  Table of Contents

  Only Son

  Five Mentors

  Colt Alpenglow

  To Catch a Dragon

  Night Maneuvers

  I Spy

  At the Heart of Wardenclave

  Making the Rounds

  Clay Pit

  Share and Share Alike

  Big Brother

  Treeborne Boy

  Each Alluring in Their Way

  The Stuff of Dynasties

  First Day

  Mathematically Impossible

  Eastern Bride

  Snow

  Bonds of Blood

  Persons of Interest

  Asking the Right Questions

  Conference Call

  New Moon Night

  Scream

  Free Day

  Woodland Wander

  Window Dressing

  Trade with Me

  The First Rule of Dragons

  Ulterior Motives

  Beckonthrall and Bethiel

  Strategic Alliances

  The Most Important Thing

  Wonders Never Cease

  Secret Apprentice

  Ears to Hear

  Invisible Friend

  Breeding Pairs

  No More

  Bygones

  Smart Cat

  Lights Out

  Set Straight

  By Your Deeds

  Practically Family

  Likeness

  Blessing

  Every Tool

  Sacred Places

  Show Me

  Family and Familiar Faces

  News from Home

  Some Excitement Next Door

  Levels of Stupidity

  Gain the Sky

  Woo the Wind

  Intimate Gatherings

  Unions and Reunions

  My Half

  ONE

  Only Son

  Everyone seemed to think that Mikoto was ready to step into his father’s place. Like it was only natural. An orderly progression. Seamless as the change of seasons. Gabriel’s season had ended, leaving his son with a considerable legacy. And an overly considerate assistant.

  The soft clap of clasping hands prefaced Yulin’s light inquiry. “Are you avoiding me, young noble? Or is it the day’s roster that troubles you?”

  Mikoto bit his tongue and kept his face turned toward the early morning mists hanging thick among the trees on the neighboring mountain. He’d been quiet, even careful, when slipping out the gate in the back garden. Yet he’d been followed. Again.

  All he wanted was a little normalcy. Simple things, like starting the day with a run. Maybe some sparring. Breakfast with the Guard. Or with their newcomers, if he’d been so lucky. But suddenly, Mikoto had a schedule. And a minder.

  It wasn’t fair to blame Yulin. He was only doing his job.

  This Amaranthine had been Father’s administrative assistant. And his father’s before him. And so on, all the way back, almost to the beginning. According to the family chronicle, Yulin had worked alongside every village headman since Gerard Reaver’s grandson. Yulin did it all, and he did it flawlessly—secretary, accountant, correspondent, clerk, archivist, liaison, errand boy, and interpreter. As such, Yulin had a place in all of Mikoto’s childhood memories. Father’s shadow.

  In the tradition of his clan, Yulin’s designation was scribe. Scribe Yulin Dimityblest, son of Linlu Dimityblest, one of Wardenclave’s less-famous founders. A moth.

  “If you need escape, excuses can be made,” offered Yulin. “You are grieving.”

  Which was true, but not the whole truth.

  Mikoto’s attention drifted woefully over the forested peaks and passes that made up the Denholm range. For nearly a week, an allotment of battlers had been entrenched on those slopes and on the plain beyond. Safe inside the oldest—and most formidable—barriers in the world, they were undergoing special training. All very secret. And like everything that went on in Wardenclave, all very exclusive. But Father had pulled some strings, begged a favor, gotten permission for Mikoto to tag along. Then undid all those plans by dying.

  Disappointment was its own kind of grief, one that prickled with guilt and regret.

  Mikoto had a battler’s build and bloodline. When he was nine, Father started letting him slip in among the other kids, attending camp like any other up-and-coming reaver, pretending he didn’t live there year-round.

  He’d taken every possible course their camp offered to young battlers—survival, tracking, climbing, close combat, ranged attack, stealth, and strategy games. Mikoto had gained proficiency in half a dozen traditional weapons. Had consistently ranked in the end-of-summer games. Had even been tapped for an Elderbough apprenticeship.

  Father had been proud. Actually, the entire village was proud. But it had always been an indulgent, extracurricular sort of pride. Mikoto was a boy playing games. A kid with a hobby that would have to fall by the wayside. Because Mikoto was Gabriel Reaver’s only son.

  Heir to a piece of history.

  Headman of Wardenclave.

  “I wanted ….” Mikoto trailed off with a shrug. His plans for the summer had been twofold—impress the instructor and impress the girl. The former was supposed to lead to the latter. So losing the first meant losing everything. Unless he could come up with another plan.

  Yulin said, “You were looking forward to this summer.”

  He would know. He’d probably handled the arrangements.

  Mikoto said, “I am selfish.”

  “No, brave noble. You are merely young.” Yulin stepped closer. “Your progenitor was young once, too. He understood.”

  When it came to Father, young was impossible to visualize. He’d been sixty-five and already silver the year Mikoto was born. But understanding? Yes. Gabe Reaver had known what was important to his son because they talked. Not at great length. But always honest. Bedrock stuff.

  “He knew what you needed.” Yulin’s fingers caught the hem of Mikoto’s tunic. “You trusted him with your hopes, and he, in his turn, entrusted them to me.”

  Mikoto finally looked at the person who represented everything he’d lost and everything that would be required of him.

  Like all Dimityblest moths, Yulin was short and slight, with hair mottled in a powdery range of creams and browns. The patterns were reminiscent of the clan’s night-flying counterparts. A whole family in camouflage.

  Yulin was a lot of things—quiet, efficient, pleasant, and darned near omnipresent. But what threw Mikoto straight out of his peevish mood was a pair of large, putty-colored eyes. Because Yulin was close to tears.

  Was it his fault?

  Or did Yulin have the same excuse he’d offered. You are grieving.

  Mikoto blinked hard. He hadn’t cried once since they’d found father. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He left that to his mother and his sisters, his half-sisters, and his nieces. Not because they were girls, but because Mikoto was himself.

  Expressi
ng wasn’t his forte.

  He tried to think what to do, but his emotional vocabulary—if you could call it that—was limited to vague hums, sympathetic grunts, and the occasional shoulder clap. His father had been so much better at connecting with people. Knowing what to say. Being in charge.

  Resorting to a half-hearted pat, Mikoto mumbled, “You okay?”

  “Time takes its toll, but it offers a way forward.” Yulin whisked away a tear. “I daresay I will be okay. With your help, noble son.”

  Mikoto was used to Yulin finding new ways to tack noble onto his name. It was a moth-ish joke, playing off the kanji for Mikoto’s given name, which was written with characters that implied nobility, lordship, and even divinity. Today, the endearment felt more like a taunt. Mikoto hadn’t asked for status or its obligations.

  Yet they were his. So he asked, “What can I do?”

  “Work with me.”

  Mikoto cast one last, longing look at the slope where, even now, battlers might be learning new skills. “I know my duty.”

  Yulin’s laugh was like rustling leaves, and his light touch was a plea. “The heads of the clans acknowledge your succession. Wardenclave is in your care.” His words carried weight, as if this morning, this very moment, marked Mikoto’s induction. “However, it has been suggested that your years are insufficient, compared to the full scope of the responsibilities that are your inheritance.”

  “I am not ready.” It was an honest relief to hear someone else say it.

  Yulin’s gaze softened. “That is why you have been made an apprentice.”

  Mikoto longed for an outlet for all the tension that was building. “Whose?”

  “Wardenclave’s.”

  TWO

  Five Mentors

  Across all classifications, reavers received training suited to their inherent strengths, usually in classrooms or in summer courses like those offered at Wardenclave. Group training. But an exceptional young reaver might be tapped for apprenticeship, either by a senior within the same specialty or by an Amaranthine mentor.

  Selection was an unparalleled honor that opened many doors. One of those being the gates of Wardenclave. Glint Starmark’s standards for attendees were the highest, so their village mostly welcomed in reavers with prestigious connections.

  No one could help their parentage. Pedigree was a matter of record. But the only guarantee that came with good breeding was more breeding. Those with rank could expect excellent offers for maternity, paternity, and matrimony. And monetary incentives that encouraged large families.

  Pedigree was about potential. But having promise assured nothing. That’s where individual effort came into play. Those who worked hard were more likely to turn heads. And to gain the patronage of a powerful mentor.

  “I do not understand,” said Mikoto.

  Mentors took one apprentice at a time. And apprentices only ever had one mentor. One-on-one. Personal attention. Mutual dedication. If the mentor was Amaranthine, the bond was so close that the apprentice could wear their mentor’s crest and colors. It was the stuff of stories and dreams, for few could aspire to such intimacies.

  It was different for Mikoto. Almost backward.

  “How can I be apprenticed to a village?”

  “You are the future of Wardenclave. You must build on its foundations.” Yulin’s fingers fluttered. “I am speaking of the Five.”

  Mikoto had grown up with the Five. Not the world-famous Five who’d brought about the Emergence. Theirs was the original Five—the five founders of Wardenclave. The Amaranthine who had allied themselves with Mikoto’s ancestor.

  Starmark.

  Fullstash.

  Duntuffet.

  Alpenglow.

  Dimityblest.

  The clan leaders still considered Wardenclave home. Visitors were often impressed by them. Historians could get especially starry eyed. But to Mikoto, these guys seemed pretty normal. They were nice folks. Good neighbors. Family friends.

  “I do not understand,” Mikoto repeated.

  “You are the first headman to take charge before his fortieth year. And you are the first to be inducted because of his predecessor’s death.” Yulin’s voice softened with sadness. “Traditionally, you would have been mentored by your father.”

  But he was gone.

  Yulin said, “Gabe left you to us.”

  Mikoto swallowed hard. “How could he have? It was sudden.”

  “Your progenitor lingered as long as he could. He lived to meet a great-great-granddaughter, but he knew he would never see your fortieth year.” Yulin heaved a shaky sigh and repeated, “Gabe left you to us. Well, to me. But the others demanded their share, and you can only benefit from their council.”

  “I … I really do not understand.” Mikoto knew this should have been a great honor, but he hated the idea of being pulled in five directions. “Am I supposed to report to all of you? Will I be assigned courses? Apprentices usually live with their mentor. How can I …?”

  “No, my good noble.” Yulin’s hands sought his and supported them. “We will not add to your responsibilities. We will take them for a season, then share them for a season, then return them when the season is right, and you are ready.”

  “So I am not in charge?”

  “You are.” Yulin gave his hands a squeeze. “But you will delegate the majority of your duties to a staff of volunteers. Us.”

  Mikoto realized something that maybe should have been obvious. “Do you speak for the Dimityblest clan?”

  “Yes. Until such time as my progenitor returns.” Yulin got straight down to business. “I will be with you, and I will deal with all aspects of public relations. Your induction will undoubtedly garner the interest of the international press.”

  Reflexively, Mikoto grabbed Yulin’s wrists. The moth smiled and matched the gesture in a silent pledge.

  “Naturally, our first priority must be to our guests. The summer courses begin in a week, and this year’s attendees include some special cases. We need to check with Merl, who will manage the instructors, their schedules, and any supplies they require. He is the Alpenglow designate.”

  Mikoto blinked and breathed easier. “Merl is one of my mentors?”

  Yulin flashed a sweet smile. “At my request, since you and he have established a certain rapport.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “I am here to make things easier for you.”

  “Who else?”

  “Salali, of course. And Bram stands by any Duntuffet, so you have your pick of the warren.” Yulin gestured back in the direction of home. “Merl has promised an array of your favorites if you are willing to break your fast with him.”

  Mikoto nodded. Then hesitated. “What about the Starmark designate?”

  “Ah.” Yulin went up on tiptoe to deliver a fleeting kiss to Mikoto’s cheek. An apology of sorts. One that made the answer quite plain. It would be Glint himself.

  THREE

  Colt Alpenglow

  Wardenclave had been part of the Emergence, chosen for its historical significance. The New World village where an alliance between Amaranthine and reavers was first forged still flourished. A rustic locale where reavers sent their kids to summer camp. It made a good story. Both Hisoka Twineshaft and Harmonious Starmark made sure of that.

  Mikoto had been five when the film crews first arrived. Journalists with their questions and angles and human interest. Politicians with their skepticism and their constituents and their upcoming elections. Tourists with their bravery and their bucket lists and their billfolds.

  They were always so amazed when they passed through the outer wards, which hid an entire mountain range. Denholm’s unveiling was used to prove the existence—by their very absence—of whole swaths of wilderness under Amaranthine protection. So while peacemakers and lawgivers were hammering out treaties, cartographers and cryptid hunters and conspiracy theorists hunted for more hideaways.

  Like it was a children’s game. Hide and seek.
<
br />   Better than the alternative. Seek and destroy.

  As headman of the reaver village, Mikoto’s father had welcomed every group and escorted them around the campground. It was picturesque, with quaint cabins marked by bronze nameplates. All as original as possible, updated and renovated just enough to allow each generation their modern conveniences.

  The circle with its amphitheater seating. The lodge draped in clan banners. The veritable zoo occupying their Kith shelter. Pastureland that now served as training grounds. Gabe Reaver had hosted countless tours, often with Mikoto at his side. And somehow, despite the abundant evidence, it never occurred to these wide-eyed humans that barriers could exist within barriers.

  They saw a quaint village but missed the city.

  They saw the forest but never noticed the tree.

  They saw enough, but only enough. Never all.

  Again, it was different for Mikoto. The close-kept secrets of Wardenclave were his inheritance. Part of a blood-bond passed down from father to son. But also in the tuning of the many illusions and barriers maintained by sigils, wardstones, and Salali Fullstash.

  So when Mikoto rounded the bend that took him and Yulin out of the forest, he plainly saw the village, the city beyond, and the tree that dwarfed it all. Maybe after breakfast, he should go see Waaseyaa.

  “He is waiting,” murmured Yulin.

  Mikoto needed a moment to realize that the moth was referring to Merl. Waving to his friend, Mikoto jogged across the Circle Green. Merl met him at his garden gate, forearm raised. Without a word, Mikoto crossed it with his own. Like the meeting of blades between sparring partners. Or the opening crack of quarterstaffs. Or … well, it was their version of a fist-bump, really.

  In truest form, Colt Merl Alpenglow was all muscle, a thickset draft horse who shared his sire Hannick’s coloring—a coat of butterscotch gold, lightly dappled with the same rich ginger of his mane and tail. In speaking form, Merl was fair-skinned, and he pinned his pudding-hued hair in a bun that was more practical than fashionable, at least by horse standards.