Page 1 of Mikoto and the Reaver Village
ONE
Only Son
Everyone seemed to think that Mikoto was ready to stepinto his father’s place. Like it was only natural. An orderly progression. Seamlessas the change of seasons. Gabriel’s season had ended, leaving his son with aconsiderable legacy. And an overly considerate assistant.
The soft clap of clasping hands prefaced Yulin’s lightinquiry. “Are you avoiding me, young noble? Or is it the day’s roster thattroubles you?”
Mikoto bit his tongue and kept his face turned toward the earlymorning mists hanging thick among the trees on the neighboring mountain. He’dbeen quiet, even careful, when slipping out the gate in the back garden. Yethe’d been followed. Again.
All he wanted was a little normalcy. Simple things, likestarting the day with a run. Maybe some sparring. Breakfast with the Guard. Orwith their newcomers, if he’d been so lucky. But suddenly, Mikoto had aschedule. And a minder.
It wasn’t fair to blame Yulin. He was only doing his job.
This Amaranthine had been Father’s administrative assistant.Andhisfather’s before him. And so on, all the way back, almost to thebeginning. According to the family chronicle, Yulin had worked alongside everyvillage headman since Gerard Reaver’s grandson. Yulin did it all, and he did itflawlessly—secretary, accountant, correspondent, clerk, archivist, liaison, errandboy, and interpreter. As such, Yulin had a place in all of Mikoto’s childhoodmemories. Father’s shadow.
In the tradition of his clan, Yulin’s designation wasscribe.Scribe Yulin Dimityblest, son of Linlu Dimityblest, one of Wardenclave’s less-famousfounders. A moth.
“If you need escape, excuses can be made,” offered Yulin. “Youare grieving.”
Which was true, but not the whole truth.
Mikoto’s attention drifted woefully over the forested peaksand passes that made up the Denholm range. For nearly a week, an allotment ofbattlers had been entrenched on those slopes and on the plain beyond. Safe insidethe oldest—and most formidable—barriers in the world, they were undergoingspecial training. All very secret. And like everything that went on inWardenclave, all very exclusive. But Father had pulled some strings, begged afavor, gotten permission for Mikoto to tag along. Then undid all those plans bydying.
Disappointment was its own kind of grief, one that prickledwith guilt and regret.
Mikoto had a battler’s build and bloodline. When he wasnine, Father started letting him slip in among the other kids, attending camplike any other up-and-coming reaver, pretending he didn’t live thereyear-round.
He’d taken every possible course their camp offered to youngbattlers—survival, tracking, climbing, close combat, ranged attack, stealth,and strategy games. Mikoto had gained proficiency in half a dozen traditionalweapons. Had consistently ranked in the end-of-summer games. Had even beentapped for an Elderbough apprenticeship.
Father had been proud. Actually, the entire village wasproud. But it had always been an indulgent, extracurricular sort of pride. Mikotowas a boy playing games. A kid with a hobby that would have to fall by thewayside. Because Mikoto was Gabriel Reaver’sonlyson.
Heir to a piece of history.
Headman of Wardenclave.
“I wanted ….” Mikoto trailed off with a shrug. His plans forthe summer had been twofold—impress the instructor and impress the girl. Theformer was supposed to lead to the latter. So losing the first meant losingeverything. 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 steppedcloser. “Your progenitor was young once, too. He understood.”
When it came to Father,youngwas impossible to visualize.He’d been sixty-five and already silver the year Mikoto was born. Butunderstanding?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 ofMikoto’s tunic. “You trusted him with your hopes, and he, in his turn, entrustedthem to me.”
Mikoto finally looked at the person who representedeverything he’d lost and everything that would be required of him.
Like all Dimityblest moths, Yulin was short and slight, withhair mottled in a powdery range of creams and browns. The patterns were reminiscentof the clan’s night-flying counterparts. A whole family in camouflage.
Yulin was a lot of things—quiet, efficient, pleasant, anddarned near omnipresent. But what threw Mikoto straight out of his peevish moodwas 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 aregrieving.
