Page 4 of Mikoto and the Reaver Village
Better than the alternative. Seek and destroy.
As headman of the reaver village, Mikoto’s father hadwelcomed every group and escorted them around the campground. It waspicturesque, with quaint cabins marked by bronze nameplates. All as original aspossible, updated and renovated just enough to allow each generation theirmodern conveniences.
The circle with its amphitheater seating. The lodge drapedin clan banners. The veritable zoo occupying their Kith shelter. Pasturelandthat now served as training grounds. Gabe Reaver had hosted countless tours,often with Mikoto at his side. And somehow, despite the abundant evidence, itnever occurred to these wide-eyed humans that barriers could exist withinbarriers.
They saw a quaint village but missed the city.
They saw the forest but never noticed the tree.
They saw enough, butonlyenough. Never all.
Again, it was different for Mikoto. The close-kept secretsof Wardenclave were his inheritance. Part of a blood-bond passed down fromfather to son. But also in the tuning of the many illusions and barriersmaintained by sigils, wardstones, and Salali Fullstash.
So when Mikoto rounded the bend that took him and Yulin outof the forest, he plainly saw the village, the city beyond, and the tree thatdwarfed it all. Maybe after breakfast, he should go see Waaseyaa.
“He is waiting,” murmured Yulin.
Mikoto needed a moment to realize that the moth wasreferring 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 crossedit with his own. Like the meeting of blades between sparring partners. Or theopening crack of quarterstaffs. Or … well, it was their version of a fist-bump,really.
In truest form, Colt Merl Alpenglow was all muscle, a thicksetdraft 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 speakingform, Merl was fair-skinned, and he pinned his pudding-hued hair in a bun thatwas more practical than fashionable, at least by horse standards.
“How are you?” Merl’s wideset brown eyes were dark withsadness.
Mikoto shook his head, but said, “Better.”
“May I beg a concession?”
“This once,” he mumbled. Permission to touch.
The colt’s arms enfolded him.
Merl had to be at least eight hundred years old, but when itcame to Amaranthine, age had little to do with affection. Mikoto couldn’tremember it clearly, but Father had told the tale often enough. Apparently, Mikotohad been a quiet kid. Always running off to play alone.
Probably to get away from a houseful of sisters.
But little Mikoto had taken a liking to Merl. Pretty soon,running off had turned into running here, to visit the camp’s healer, whom hebegan referring to as hisbig brother. Everyone else treated it like a child’sgame, but Merl had taken the four-year-old seriously. Treated it as an honor.
Since Mikoto was welcomed, his family encouraged thefixation. He learned how to plant seeds and harvest flowers. About herbs and remediesand the best way to wrap bandages. But soon after he turned seven, Mikotoarrived earlier than usual and inadvertently buckled a barrier, badly startlingthe colt in the midst of a battle dance.
Everything changed.
After that, Mikoto also learned how to stand and how tofall. About wrestling holds and sticks and staffs and staves. Next came bladedweapons and drawing bows. And the knowledge that disrupting barriers was auseful skill in battler games.
Merl brought in more wardstones, worked with Mikoto’scontrol, and guided him through the basics of tending. He recommended the bestcourses to take with each successive camp, then scheduled even better ones.Maybe Merl had been mentoring him, even then. But Mikoto never once felt likean underling. They’d simply been holding onto each other’s secrets.
One a tribute.
One an heir.
The summer Mikoto turned fourteen, he joined a course taughtby the head of the Thunderhoof clan. Mounted battle tactics, straight out ofthe history books. Riders with lances, with spears, with bows. Jumping to andfrom a moving horse. Standing barefoot on bareback. Keeping your seat on steepslopes. Knowing when to rein in and when to risk a leap.
While the registered campers all rode out on Alpenglow Kith,Mikoto competed as Merl’s rider. As two halves of a greater whole. As equals.
And everything changed again.
The familial bond was there, for they’d begun as brothers.But Mikoto didn’t need Merl the same way he had when he was four or seven. Now,they were sparring partners and comrades-in-arms. That summer, the colt hadbecome something more—his best friend.
“How are your sisters?” asked Merl, already herding him upthe walk.
