Whirlwinds and Romance

Nothing was happening. Kyrie couldn’t detect any further tampering with the barriers, and though he strained his ears, no wolf raised an alarm. He didn’t want to, either. Not with Ginkgo’s and Snow’s bonding ceremony set to take place in the Song Circle. It would be soon. Almost next.

Anan gruffly announced, “Tzefira went inside.”

“Should we go inside, too?” asked Kyrie. Because that was obviously what the thunderstorm wanted.

The imp stalked ahead, and Kyrie drifted after, most of his attention still on the peaceful hum of the forest. Michael’s barriers were exceptional. And Dad’s sigils added wily failsafes to their boundaries. Nothing should be able to get past. And yet … there were exceptions. Like trees who could pick and choose where to manifest. And like him. A boy who could coax remnant stones.

It bothered Kyrie that the missing wardstone was purple.

He’d always gotten along best with stones in the amethyst range.

What if his knack for slipping past barriers was inherited?

Had the Rogue come to reclaim his many children? Or was he more the type to want revenge? Greed and grudges were at the heart of many stories about dragons.

Kyrie could not allow his sire to threaten any of the people that were under his protection. So while he allowed Anan to lead him inside, Kyrie wasn’t paying any heed to his surroundings. His mind was caught up with possibilities and plans.

Tzefira wanted to be close to her old friends, so Kyrie was soon crushed between her and Anan on the kitchen sofa. Mikoto had gone off somewhere, and Jacques murmured something about an impromptu bachelor party for Ginkgo. Hosted by Andor and Doran.

Boniface seemed puzzled until star wine was brought up. “To toast the groom, as it were?”

Uncle Jackie said, “They’re probably trying to distract him from Argent’s absence. Last-minute scheduling snafu, but he couldn’t very well leave Isla in the lurch. I offered to go myself, but … non.”

“Timur and Sinder also went with Ginkgo,” said Tsumiko. “They were all friends together last summer.”

Uncle Jackie said, “So long as they return Ginkgo to me in a fit state to stand, Anjou and I will see him beautifully arrayed and gilded in silver. As per tradition.”

“Silver?” asked Kyrie.

“Have you never seen your father decked out in the Mettlebright tradition?”

“No.”

“Full makeup, with the most dramatic silver eyeliner. Gorgeous.”

Kyrie asked, “May I have silver eyeliner? I am a Mettlebright.”

“Do you want it?”

“Opal’s star had red eyeliner, and I liked it.”

Uncle Jackie considered the matter. “Many dragons do go in for that sort of thing. And you’re thirteen in a few days’ time. Seems the right sort of thing to mark your embarkation into adolescence.”

Mother’s small smile was permission.

Tzefira murmured something about clouds and silver linings.

Anan referenced the silvering of the sky whenever lightning deigned to strike.

Uncle Jackie suggested that Anan join them and be adorned, and Anjou exclaimed that he hoped it would be so. But while he went into rhapsodies over how honored he’d be, Kyrie’s attention turned inward.

Dima said, “Wasn’t Bethiel ever-arrayed in blue and bells?”

“Was he?” he asked. He couldn’t recall any description of what Bethiel looked like. Only things about his responsibilities and the many friends he made while carrying them out. Kyrie asked, “What else?”

“Quick to smile. Ready to laugh. Kind to a fault. Always gentle.”

Somewhere deep down, Haizea made a sound. It took him a minute to understand, but once he did, he slipped away. No small feat when one is seated between two imps. But Kyrie ran lightly along a hall, then whispered to the wardstone guarding a locked door. Once through, he was out-of-doors and running. Only when he was well away and tucked between a thicket and the thickest tree did he ask, “Why are you crying, Haizea?”

“My fault,”sighed Dima. “Or his. Where is Bethiel? He has much to answer for! Poor, sweet Haizea.”

“What can I do?” Kyrie asked.

“You? You can do nothing. Least of all elude a sworn storm.”

Thunder cracked overhead, loud enough that Kyrie felt it in his bones, followed by a deep roll that held notes of displeasure. Oh. He’d gone without a word to Anan. Stricken, he huddled on his knees in the snow, face in his hands, a dragonish display of contrition.

Slow stomps crunched in the snow, and the air popped and sizzled. For the first time, it occurred to Kyrie that Anan had more destructive potential than most of the people in his acquaintance. And having been nested in Kyrie’s very soul, he probably knew all the things that would hurt most, should he wish to make a point.

Then large hands closed around his shoulders, and he was looking into Anan’s worried face.

“This is a thing you must not do,” the storm ordered. “Never do this.”

“Does it hurt?” Kyrie whispered, suddenly sure he’d inflicted pain. “Why must you be near? Did I enslave you after all? Are you bound to my side?”

“Near is my choice.” Anan took one of Kyrie’s clenched hands and pressed it open. “I descended for you, little terror. Have you already wearied of the responsibility?”

To his amazement, Anan grimly checked his other hand. Or more accurately, he checked to make certain his marks were still there. As if they could ever fade. Kyrie treasured them too much to neglect them.

“You were worried?”

“You hid from me.”

“Haizea has been too quiet. I do not think it is natural for a whirlwind to be so still.” Kyrie quietly added, “She was crying. I only wanted privacy to ask why.”

Anan frowned. “And how did she answer?”

Kyrie could only shake his head. “I have not done anything that I know of, but … could there be something I left undone? I do not wish to be guilty of neglect. Will you mediate for me?”

“I can do it!”

“Dima?” Kyrie asked.

“Anan may be your favorite, but that doesn’t mean he’s always best. Not for this.”

Kyrie wanted to protest. Anan may have reached him first, spoken first, descended first. But did that mean he was Kyrie’s favorite? Had he slighted the other two winds? Was that the problem here? He ventured, “I would be glad if you can help, Dima. Please?”

“You’re a safe harbor, but can you be home? I think not.”

“If my help is no longer needed, you are free to go. If you can go …?” Kyrie admitted, “I have heard that bonds can form accidentally.”

“If I wished to stay, I could. But I’m not the sort to share.”

Kyrie thought he agreed, which meant Dima knew it, too. Because he couldn’t hide anything from her. Or from Haizea. But it seemed he could hide from Anan now that they weren’t sharing space. That’s why he’d been able to get away from the eldermost storm. It also meant that he needed to speak his mind if he wanted Anan to understand him.

But he was curious about something else. “Would you want to stay, Dima? With someone else?”

“I might. If I found someone suited. But more to the point, Haizea is waiting. And I can be plainer. She’s waiting for Bethiel.”

“I want my friend,”came Haizea’s small voice. “If he is a friend. He abandoned us.”

Kyrie asked, “Should we talk to him? Find out why?”

“No. I do not want to know that I was not missed. That I was not worth finding. That I was never loved.”And in the barest of whispers, a confession. “I love him. More than anyone.”

“True words,”praised Dima. “I don’t like that they pain you.”

All at once, Kyrie wished that Tzefira had followed Anan. Because Haizea might be heartbroken. And if anyone could understand this longing for love, it would be her.

“The boy sees now. Look how his heart has broken for you.”

Haizea sighed. “He is not the one I wish to move.”

“Haizea.” Anan looked away as if embarrassed by what he had to say. “Do you want Bethiel to hold you?”

Little tendrils of wind whirled around Kyrie.

The thunderstorm grumpily declared, “An impossible hope.”

Such heartless words. Kyrie trembled along with Haizea. But then Anan caught and held his gaze, speaking to the old friend harboring close to Kyrie’s heart. “Can he hold you in the way you want to be held if you do not first descend?”

Kyrie saw the difficulty, felt the sudden spark of hope. “Oh, that would make a good story. Do you think–?”

But before he could finish the thought, there was a dainty woman kneeling before him in the snow. She had a round face, wideset blue eyes, and an abundance of loose brown curls.

“Ohhh,” he breathed. “Oh, that was very brave, Haizea.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” grumbled Anan, who actually sounded impressed. Slipping off the fur vest he’d taken to wearing—a gift from the wolves, who liked his wildness—he settled it around Haizea’s slim shoulders and pulled it shut.

Wanting to balance out Anan’s scolding tone and recalling Tzefira’s qualms when she’d come to the point of descending, he said, “Hello, Haizea. You are very pretty.”

Anan scowled. “What do you mean by that?”

“Umm. Haizea has an open countenance, and I have always liked curly hair.”

Brows furrowing, Anan said, “You never said such things to me.”

“Do you feel slighted? I apologize.” Contemplating Anan, he declared, “You strike awe. And sometimes fear. But I find I like how my heart trembles in your presence.”

“Is that even a compliment?”

“I think so. And … since I really do like curly hair, may I touch yours?”

Anan’s expression grew wary. “What for?”

“Curiosity.” Kyrie felt he should be as honest as possible. “And I do not want you to feel neglected. Should I go on?”

“Can you?”

He nodded. “I like the lines of your face and the color of your skin and the deep of your voice and th–”

Anan wrapped one big hand over the lower half of Kyrie’s face. “Enough.” But he seemed happy.

Instead of drawing his hand back, Anan ran his thumb over the freckled scales at Kyrie’s temple. Like he’d been curious, too. He prodded at one of his horns, then let his hand fall away.

Kyrie lifted both hands. “Do you think I am pretty?”

Crouching and bowing his head, Anan answered, “You are a dragon.”

“Only half.” He confined himself to a short exploration of Anan’s wild hair, then stepped back. “And I am not proud of my lineage. If I am a little terror, it may be because my sire is truly terrible.”

Haizea caught the hem of his tunic and whispered, “You are a noble half-dragon.”

Kyrie sometimes wondered if he needed to be good in order to offset the deeds of his father. But no, he’d only learned about the Rogue this past summer. All his life, Dad had encouraged Kyrie to try to live up to Mother’s ideals and to stay in his good graces. Mum was all about courage and tenacity; Papka was more about generosity and creativity. And there was Uncle Jackie, who listened and loved them all … and showed them what it meant to be a gentleman.

But somehow, earning the good opinion of an imp was uncommonly nice, and he flushed with the pleasure of it.

Dima demanded, “Tell him the truth, Anan. He wants your opinion as much as you want his.”

Anan snorted. But then he re-took one of Kyrie’s hands, pressing his thumb into his palm, where his mark spoke for him. Probably spoke for both of them. Still, the eldermost storm handed down a compliment of his own. “Beauty only adds to this one’s ability to sway his foes.”

Haizea wryly asked, “Is that even a compliment?”

Which was funny. Until Kyrie realized Anan was taking her question seriously.

After an appraising look, Anan asked, “If the little terror is pleased, who are you to criticize?”

Dima piped up again. “His foes? Don’t you dare blow past those words so swiftly. This is the first I’ve heard of foes.”

“Then you haven’t been listening,” drawled Anan. “There are whispers on all sides.”

Kyrie tensed when all three storms lapsed into a listening sort of silence. Winds stirred and scattered, then swirled back.

Dima spoke first. “He’s in danger.”

Anan grimly agreed. “He’s in danger, but with us, he can prevail. So, Dima? Will you take up a weapon?”

“I might. If I found someone willing.”

Anan caught Kyrie’s eye and warned, “She will. A typhoon always gets her way.”

Kyrie believed it. “I would be happy if you did, but … will you at least ask nicely?”

“I might,”Dima repeated. Her tone had gone all teasing. Like she was having fun. Which was probably a very good thing, since she must be feeling better. But it might be more than a little dangerous for the one she chose.

Anan helped Haizea to her feet, then grumbled under his breath before simply picking her up.

“I must learn to stand,” protested Haizea. “To walk.”

“You may totter in the snow another day. There are more important matters. Or did you forget the promise we were made?”

“I remember. I know.” She pouted at Anan, but the look she turned on Kyrie was as haughty as a queen’s. “I shall wear a crown. Yield to me the Plum Cascade.”