Page 26 of Raven’s Fight

Eight signatures at minimum. Rotating. Briefed on how we track. Covering trails. Not crossing the line. Patient. And growing — two or three yesterday, four or five today.

They're building toward something.

"Get everything you can," I say. "I want samples from every fresh position on this line before we go back."

We work the line until midday and come home with eleven sealed samples between the three of us. I don't stop at the courtyard. I take them straight up to the study.

Finlay opens the door before I knock.

This is a Finlay thing. Whatever a phoenix uses to sense an approach makes doors somewhat redundant around him. He stands in the doorway of his study in his shirtsleeves, which is the most informal I have ever seen him, a pen still in his hand and ink on two fingers. He takes one look at Dax behind me with the collection kit and steps back to let us in.

The study smells of old paper and something burning that isn't burning — the trace of phoenix fire that clings to surfaces in a room he uses regularly. His desk is covered in correspondence in a way that suggests either a very organized system or complete chaos. I cannot tell which. I've decided not to ask. Some things are better as mysteries.

"Tell me," he says.

I give him the whole report. The rotation. The trail-covering. The fact that they've been briefed on blink hound tracking. Eight signatures minimum, and more today than yesterday. The timeline that ends at the Purge.

He listens with his arms folded and his head slightly tilted, the pen still in his hand, making no notes. He doesn't need to. Nine hundred years of intelligence work means he's filing this faster than I can say it. I've watched him do it before — the way information goes into him and gets sorted as it lands, invisible, but readable in the quality of his attention.

When I finish he unfolds one arm and holds out his hand for the kit. Dax passes it over. Finlay opens it with practiced efficiency, lifts out the sealed bark sample, and breathes across it slowly. Not dramatically. Clinically, the way you breathe across something when you want the scent undiluted and are taking your time with it.

His expression doesn't change. But the pen stops moving in his hand.

"Fire drake," he says. "The non-shifting kind."

"You're sure?"

"The musk is specific. Fire drakes make heat through a chemical process in the respiratory system, and the by-product carries a compound that doesn't appear in any other species' scent. It's been documented since the third century, in the field notes of phoenixes who crossed the western passes." He sets the sample down carefully, with the particular care of someone handling a thing he doesn't want to contaminate. "The interior fire drakes haven't been seen east of those passes in two hundred years. They can't make the crossing on their own. The open water is cold enough that their chemistry stops working properly — they'd lose heat faster than their bodies could replace it."

"Which means someone brought them."

"Which means someone transported them," he corrects, precise as always. "Across open water. Which takes resources, planning, and a vessel able to handle a species that runs hot." He looks at me. "This is not somebody taking an opportunity. Somebody spent real money and real planning on this."

"Someone with resources and a reason."

"And someone who knows exactly where Blackhaven's line sits," he says. "Which means either they scouted this territory thoroughly before setting the watch, or somebody told them."

The room is quiet a moment. Outside, somewhere in the lower courtyard, I can hear two of my pack running a drill — the fast stacked blinks we use for fighting up close, the displaced air carrying even through the study window.

"Write it up," Finlay says before I can say anything else. "All of it. The full patrol record, the position maps, where each sample came from, today's increase in numbers. When Raven lands she gets the complete picture. Nothing summarized."

"Already done. Maren's logging it now."

Something moves in his expression. Not quite approval — the slight easing of a man who has just had one worry taken off him.

"Good." He picks up his pen again. "She'll need it tonight. Before she sleeps. Give her time to hold it overnight before the next thing wants her attention."

I look at him. "You know her schedule better than she does."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I've had nine centuries of practice learning what the people I care about need. Some habits are useful." He turns back to his desk. "Thank you, Keir."

I take the dismissal. It's a good one.

✦ ✦ ✦

Raven lands at dusk.

I'm on the upper flight platform when she clears the peak. She banks into her descent with her wings angled for speed rather than display, which means she's thinking rather than presenting, and she lands and shifts in one practiced sequence. Nova hits her in roughly two seconds, because Nova has been watching the landing approach for twenty minutes and refusing to be distracted by anything, including me offering her the dried fruit she likes.