Little Terror

Before Kyrie could think it through completely, he was coaxing his way past the barriers surrounding his dad’s conservatory. Visits to this inner sanctum were rare. And always chaperoned. Which meant he was out-of-bounds and probably breaking trust, yet he kept going.

A minute. That was all he needed.

Wending through the hidden garden that flourished behind beveled glass, ironwork, and illusions, he spared a glance for the sky beyond. Pink and gold were gaining. The sun would soon rise. Christmas morning had arrived.

His birthday.

His and Lilya’s.

They were thirteen.

This year, Kyrie’s present from his parents had come as a surprise, probably because his father had settled on something at the last minute. He was to be given a room of his own, outside his parents’ suite. Because he wasn’t a little boy anymore.

Dad had probably expected gratitude, not the opening of negotiations.

But there was Anan to consider. While Kyrie didn’t like to imply that the eldermost storm wasn’t housebroken, there had been enough inclement incidents to give weight to his argument. Yes, a room would be nice, but a house would be better. For everyone.

In the end, the decision had required a whole committee’s input and agreement. Kyrie’s four parents worried over precedents, and Ginkgo and Uncle Jackie brought up attainment. Fend and Anjou were called upon to give their opinions, and even Boon and Sinder weighed in. Kyrie would get his house. Building it would be a summer project.

He had swayed them.

He had surprised them.

People were often surprised by his actions, but he rarely surprised himself. Kyrie was careful and cautious. He made plans and then he implemented them. But stealing into the conservatory felt … different. Reckless. Maybe even a little dangerous.

Part of him—probably half of him—obeyed instincts that pulled more strongly than ever before. Was it because he was entering adolescence? Or maybe something had changed because he’d taken in three storms? He was storm-touched and storm-kissed and storm-kept.

Could Sinder help him sort through these sudden, strange impulses? Like now, as he plucked several clusters of forget-me-nots, which Dad managed so there were always some in bloom. Taking them felt right, even necessary. But were they important enough to risk Dad’s disappointment in him? And why was he making so many excuses?

He wouldn’t be gone long.

He wouldn’t be going far.

But as he fled with his posy, he could hear the sounds of a storm building in the house at his back. He was being foolish. He could not outrun the wind. Yet he kept going. Leading the storm away? Or just following another instinct? Was he being selfish? Was it allowed, this once? As a birthday treat?

Kyrie ran faster, adding long leaps that blew back his hair, cooling his face.

Maybe … maybe he wasn’t thinking too clearly. Why was that? Was he starstruck or imp-addled? Something was definitely strange.

And then Anan was upon him like a crash, except that he didn’t thunder. His grip was gentle, and his eyes held concern. “Where do you think you are going? And why are you scattering flower petals?”

He looked at his stolen bouquet. Why hadn’t he protected it better? More than half the petals were missing, leaving it limp and ragged.

“I told you not to go without me.”

“But the danger has passed.”

Anan dropped into a low crouch and peered up into his face. “Am I only needed for emergencies, then? You’re done with me?”

Kyrie shook his head.

Reaching out, Anan pried one of his hands away from the bouquet he now cradled to his chest. The storm silently inspected his mark, rubbing his thumb into Kyrie’s palm, perhaps checking to see if it had come loose. A fanciful notion. That’s not how sigils worked. If it was going, it would fade, not fall off.

“Are you in pain?” Anan asked softly.

Kyrie blinked and peered around, disoriented. “No …?”

“Mmm. Restless?”

“A little …? I was going.”

Anan slowly straightened. “Where are we going?”

“That way. Not far.”

“Show me.” And Anan took his hand.

Kyrie grabbed hold, suddenly grateful that he wasn’t alone.

“Tell me what this is, little terror.”

But he didn’t know what this was. Only that they were going the right way. “Can you hear it?”

“What am I listening for?”

“My anchor stone.”

“Is that what draws you?” Anan seemed doubtful.

Ginkgo caught up with them then. He barged right in, and Anan let him. “Hey, little bro. What’s up?”

He showed his ruined bouquet. “I thought … flowers.”

“Okay, sure. Can I come, too?”

Kyrie simply walked on, sodden slippers crunching through snow. Warm cloth settled over his shoulders. Ginkgo’s usual blue shirt was comforting. It was cold. He should have noticed.

When he could feel the stone below, he stopped. “It is here. The place. He is here.”

“Who’s here?” prompted Anan.

When the silence stretched, Ginkgo answered. “This is where Hajime buried Shisoku.”

One by one, Kyrie plucked tiny blue petals and let them fall upon the snow.

The flowers were mangled and scattered, but each petal was tiny and perfect.

Like the mothers.

Like their children.

As the last fell, Ginkgo turned Kyrie toward him. Concern showed on his face, but his ears were pricked forward, like he was on the scent of something. “Trust me?”

“I do.”

“Let’s bring Damsel in on this, okay? Timur, too.”

That sounded good. A keening sort of noise slipped free before Kyrie could stop it. He twisted the flower stems between his hands, wringing them.

Anan acted first. “Hajime,” he called, confining himself to a half-roar. “You heard him.”

Several beats passed, and Anan had begun to grumble, but then there were familiar scents and soft sounds and red petals mingling with the blue.

Sinder took Ginkgo’s place. “Hey, little cousin. Okay, wow. Fraught much?”

“I do not feel well.”

“Too much birthday cake for breakfast?”

Kyrie just stared at him.

“Sorry. Lame joke. I’m taking you seriously, I swear.” Sinder asked, “How do you feel? Besides not well. Can you describe what’s going on?”

“I am … not myself?”

“Okay, sure. I don’t think there’s any great mystery here. Well, I’d love to know why … but I think we can cover other important stuff, like who and what and when and where. Actually, I’d be interested to know why here?”

Kyrie offered the twist of stems to Sinder. “I brought flowers. For the stone. Forget-me-nots are the emblem of dragon-slayers. We became dragon slayers, that stone and I. We felled a giant.”

“Yeah, you did good. Actually, Fend said you were perfect, and he doesn’t give compliments lightly.” Sinder ventured, “So you wanted to thank this remnant stone.”

“And to keep my promise. This stone is my tribute. My oath is made.”

“You know about that, do you? I’m impressed. Tributes are pretty tightlipped about membership to their little club.”

“I hear things.” Kyrie didn’t apologize. He wasn’t sorry.

“Understatement. And it might explain some of this. I mean, big-time vows can trigger some pretty interesting consequences. Especially when imps are involved. Lucky for you, I have just the thing for an occasion like this. Big fella. Total pro. Authentic Spomenka. And as an added bonus, he’s a healer who makes house calls.” Sinder turned Kyrie so he could see and added, “He knows his stuff.”

Timur had dropped to one knee. Smile warm, hands on offer, he said, “Good morning, Kyrie. May I touch?”

Kyrie gave in to instinct and flung himself into Tumur’s bulk. Here was knowledge and kindness and a sheltering calm. Timur who understood sadness and sacrifice. Timur who was stronger for it.

“Easy there,” Timur soothed. “I’m right here, and I’ll stay right here until you’re steady. No need to throttle. Or to invest your soul.”

“Sorry,” he whispered, mortified.

“It’s instincts, yeah? You know what you need even if you haven’t thought it through. I can guide you, but first … grab that blanket, Ginkgo?”

“Got it. Hey, should we get him indoors?”

“No. This is fine. We’re out of the wind, and we can see the sky.”

“We are not out of the wind,” said Kyrie. “Anan is warning it off.”

“For which I’m grateful,” said Timur.

A soft blanket swathed Kyrie, and then Timur’s fingers were probing and pressing. Kyrie closed his eyes with a sigh, his tension ebbing.

Sinder said, “I know, right? Best of the best.”

“It’s all right, Kyrie.” There was a reassuring lift to Timur’s voice. Like he might be smiling. “I think I know what we’re facing, so you can relax. Leave everything to me. It’ll be an honor to attend you.”

Ginkgo spoke again. “Won’t his being a crosser make a difference? When it was my turn, I needed both Dad and Tsumiko.”

“Ahhh, to help with your balance? Sinder and I could do it. Or … well, we could fetch Lilya. But I’m assuming Anan would prefer to do it himself. They’re already bonded.”

Ginkgo said, “Nobody mentioned that it’d gone that far.”

“I’d say they’re pretty entrenched. Anan’s marks shine,” said Sinder. “You’ve got that whole unassailable alliance thing going on, but I’m betting that an imp’s tending packs a wallop. Go easy, Anan Eldermost.”

There was some grumbling and some explanations, but Kyrie was mostly focused on feeling safe and surrounded. It was easier to think now. Maybe he should have asked for Lilya, the person who’d always been closest, who’d always be dearest to his heart. But their lives were steadily diverging. These were the companions on the path at his feet.

Kyrie loved Lilya, but he actually wanted Sibley.

So he called for him.

Not with his voice. Nor was it a thought, like the mind-speak that contributed to a clan’s closeness. But the stone beneath their feet resonated with his wish, and that was good. He would keep his promise to this stone. It would anchor an array. It would help him protect his clan.

“What are you doing, Kyrie?” asked Timur. Because of course Timur would notice. He was a ward like Papka.

“I am resonating.” He shyly confided, “Sibley says that resonance is a kind of love.”

“Yeah, I did say that.” And his younger brother marched up and asked, “Where’d you go?”

“Here.”

“How come?”

“To be in a place with trees and wind and stars and stone.” Until he spoke it aloud, he hadn’t realized this was true.

Anan asked, “What of the tides?”

Kyrie considered this. “I have never met a briner.”

Sinder snorted. “You’re still a kid. Leave yourself a few things to grow into.”

“One thing at a time,” urged Ginkgo. “Can you get a sense of them yet?”

All the words that had been flowing over and around him veered into focus. Kyrie asked, “Is it … wings?”

“Yeah. I think so. You’re coming into your own on the early side.” Ginkgo asked, “Ready for your attainment?”

“Is it too soon?” He looked to Sinder, who was at least two centuries older than him and who’d only found his own wings the summer before.

“Nope,” said Sinder. “There’s no such thing as early or late when it comes to this sort of thing. We find what we need when we need it. For you, it’s looking like now. Or nearly now.”

“Kyrie’s got wings?” asked Sibley.

“He will have, yes.” Timur sounded completely assured.

“Can I see?” asked Sibley.

Timur let the blanket sag lower, and Sinder gently lifted Kyrie’s tunic. “Okay, off,” Sinder decreed. “Bear with the cold. Your Uncle Jackie won’t thank any of us if you rip your nice shirt.”

Kyrie shivered and tried to peer over his shoulder.

Sibley was right there, eyeing him critically.

“What do you see?”

“You’ve got marks on your back. Here and here.” Warm hands pressed firmly against cold skin. “Have you always had them?”

“Yes.”

“You might be the only one, then.” Sibley’s gaze held admiration. “Good for you.”

Anan spoke again. “This is what you wanted.”

Kyrie thought it over, then admitted, “I did. I do.”

“Then take it.”

“I do not know how.”

“Yes, you do.” Anan sat in the snow and beckoned. “Come, little terror.”

Timur helped him go, and Gingko crowded so close, he was practically hanging over Anan’s shoulder. Then Sinder began to sing, and the woods were tuning, and from somewhere overhead, pure voices added encouragement in gentle cascades.

“Come little terror,” Anan repeated. “Do not keep us waiting.”

“Winds almost never stay.” Kyrie pushed at him with gratitude and love, only to gain a grumble.

“This is no time to be generous, child of trees and stars and stone. Stow your mercy and show a dragon’s greed. Take what you need from me. Only from me.”

They were weighty words. Binding words.

Anan continued, and his words took on the rolling cadence, a little like a song, one for which Kyrie had always known the lyrics, for they told his story.

“Your mother gave you your name.

“Your father gave you a house.

“Your sire gave you a clan.

“Your tree gave you victory.

“Your siblings give you purpose.

“But I am Anan Eldermost—darkener of lands and harrower of hearts. I am he who was and is and has become music incarnate. And I will give you the sky.”