retrievers, too clutzy and cute for anyone to believe they belonged to the pack known historically as the Demon Dogs of Denholm.
Yulin stepped forward, a polite smile on his face. “Glint, you are on Mikoto’s schedule for tomorrow. If that is still ….”
Glint simply patted his head and walked on by.
“… convenient,” Yulin finished bemusedly. Really, there was no getting in the way of Wardenclave’s top dog.
Leaning down to look Mikoto in the eyes, Glint asked, “How are you, boy?”
Mikoto shrugged uncomfortably. As a kid, he’d adored the founder of the Starmark clan, with his big voice and his big hands and his big dogs. Glint was impressive—strong and manly. Well, male. When he was little, Mikoto had probably done his share of cavorting, just like these pups, eager to gain Glint’s attention. To look into silver eyes, bright as the star that marked his brow.
Somehow, it was less fun to be in Glint’s focus now.
Conversations always seemed to come around to the future. And who would share Mikoto’s.
Glint was the village matchmaker. Pedigrees were his hobby. He had a reputation for bringing together strong bloodlines. In fact, most young reavers who came to Wardenclave hoped to consult with Glint with regards to their prospects. His stamp of approval—a very official-looking copper foil sticker—was highly coveted.
Mikoto didn’t want to go through folios. Didn’t need to.
He’d made his choice a long time ago. When he was nine.
And this summer, he was going to tell her. Somehow.
“… to make sure it was a good match.” Glint touched Mikoto’s arm, radiating concern. “Are you listening, my boy?”
“He wasn’t,” said Merl.
Glint’s hand was warm. His gaze was soft. “In short, then. It is not good to be alone.”
Mikoto wasn’t. Far from it.
“It took me longer than I anticipated, but I think you will be pleased.”
“With what?”
“With whom,” corrected Glint, sounding unaccountably smug.
What had Mikoto missed? For a panicked moment, he thought he’d agreed to something binding. He darted nervous glances at Merl and Yulin. The former simply shook his head in a way that meant, it’s okay. And the latter was covering a smile.
“Hold out your hands,” ordered Glint.
Mikoto slowly obeyed, watching warily as Glint’s big, brown hand dipped into a deep coat pocket. And brought out a puff of white fur.
Setting it carefully in Mikoto’s waiting hands, Glint simply said, “Take care of each other.”
And walked away.
FOUR
To Catch a Dragon
Sinder’s first instruction for Naroo-soh’s rookie ranks was little more than child’s play. “Find me.”
The battlers weren’t impressed. A hand went up. “That’s all?”
At a glance, Sinder could tell that eighty percent felt insulted. Most of the rest seemed to be trying to figure out if he was joking.
“Where’s Naroo-soh?”
“None of your business.” Sinder smiled sweetly.
“We’re meant to have an Elderbough instructor.” Murmurs of assent rippled through the group.
“You think Naroo-soh was going to take a summer away from the hunt to hold your hands?” Sinder gave them a pitying look. “You’ll get your Elderbough. But I’m the one you should be focusing on.”
Another hand. “May we know your name, sir?”
“Also none of your business.”
Glares. The insulted ones now radiated annoyance. If he could chivvy them into active dislike, they might actually try.
“You’re Naroo-soh’s picks, yes? His up-and-comers? Oodles of promise, just waiting to be tapped?” Sinder raised a hand. “How many of you believe that you’re the one we’ve all been waiting for? With you on the rogue’s trail, we may finally see results.”
While no one raised a hand, they stood a little straighter in their ranks, pride and confidence in their posture.
Poor kids. This was going to be the worst summer of their lives. But if Sinder did his job well, they’d live to see another.
He wanted to sigh, but he plastered on a smirk. “I admire your courage. You’ll need it.”
When it came to capturing the rogue, all the skills and tactics in the world came to nothing if you couldn’t find him in the first place. No easy task.
A dragon in truest form might seem showy, even garish, out of context. But drop them into nearly any landscape, and those markings allowed them to vanish. Even into a seemingly featureless plain. Sinder was on one such plain now, a wide stretch of tundra that wavered with green-gold grasses. Other than the occasional low bush, only the passing shadows of scudding clouds moved. They briefly washed the terrain in shadow, then cranked up the wattage with the squint-inducing glare of high summer sunlight.
Thirty rookies entered the practice field and waited. They