Well, that’s the Haighlei for you. I suspect one could probably get away with just about anything, so long as it was wrapped in the proper historical protocol. Come to think of it, the reason Shalaman was so incensed about those murders in his Court was because the assassinations hadn’t been done with the proper protocol! Perhaps if we could have found a way for Kechara to be put into Shalaman’s service under their religion, she could have kept her powers—but that wouldn’t really have been true to her, either, and it would only have made her into the tool, the bargaining chip that Urtho feared she’d be used as. It would have destroyed her loving innocence if she were used against one of us and realized it. At least this way she could stay at home and play. At least she can still talk to all the gryphons, as long as they’re within the city limits.
“Well, what are we going to do, old friend?” the aging gryphon asked, as they picked their way steadily down to the topmost level of the city. This level was the receiving platform for everything lowered down from the cliffs above, or sent up from the city to the cliffs. Work crews were already unloading pallets of food from the farms, and would continue to do so all day. “What do we do about the children, I mean?”
“What can we do?” Amberdrake asked, with only the faintest hint of irritation. He led the way to the broad white-painted stairs that formed the back slope of the White Gryphon’s “head.” “Nothing. This is their job; the job they chose. They’ve been assigned to it by their superiors, who have judged them capable. Like it or not, they have grown up, and I’m afraid we had better start getting used to that.”
Skan ground his beak and prowled after him, talons clicking on the stone ramp alongside the stairs, which was easier for a gryphon to handle than steps. “I don’t like it,” he said finally. “But I can’t tell you why.”
Amberdrake stopped suddenly, turned, and faced him, looking down at his friend with a troubled expression as the gryphon stopped a step later and looked up. “I don’t either, and I haven’t any real reason to feel this way. I wish I could say that I have a premonition about this—because this feeling that there is something wrong makes me look like a nervous old aunty—”
“But?” Skan prompted. “You’re worried you don’t have the correct dress to play aunty?”
Amberdrake chuckled, then sighed. “But I am afraid I haven’t had anything of the sort, and there hasn’t been a solid sign from anyone who does have Foresight that something is going to go wrong with Blade and Tad. I know what I would say to any of my clients who felt this way.”
Skan looked into his friend’s eyes, and shook his head. “Let me guess. What we are feeling is a combination of old war reactions, and unhappiness because this fledging of our youngsters is a sure sign that we are getting old.”
“Too true. And who wants to know that he is getting old? Not I, I can promise you.” Amberdrake’s expression was as honest as it was rueful. “I’ve been keeping my body limber and capable for decades now, through all kinds of strain, as loose as a downfeather and as tight as whipcord as needed, but—it’s all been to last as long as possible during the pace of time. One never bothers to think about growing old as one is growing older. Then suddenly it is there, looming in your face. Your bones and joints ache, youngsters are expressing concern that you are over-exerting yourself, and when you try to insist that your experience means you know more than they do, you find them exchanging knowing looks-when they think you don’t notice.”
“Alas. It is life’s cruelty, I say. One moment we are fretting because we are not considered old enough to do anything interesting, then we turn around and younglings barely fledged are flying off to do the interesting things we can’t do anymore!” Skan shook his head, and looked out over the ocean. “And we are supposed to accept this gracefully! It is hardly fair. I protest! I believe that I shall become a curmudgeon: Then at least I can complain, and it will be expected of me.”
“Too late for that.”
Skandranon snorted, “Then I shall be an exceptional curmudgeon. I’ve earned the title. The Curmudgeon King.”
“Endured Where E’er He Goes. May I join you, then? We can drive the youngsters to distraction together.” Amberdrake seemed to have thrown off some of his anxiety and, to his surprise, Skan realized that he had relaxed a bit as well.
“Certainly,” the Black Gryphon replied with dignity. “Let’s go down to the obstacle course, and make loud comments about how we used to run it better and in half the time.”
“And with more style,” Amberdrake suggested. “Finesse and grace, not brutal power.”
“Naturally,” Skan agreed. “It couldn’t have happened any other way—as far as they know.”
* * *
“So, just how worried are you?” Winterhart asked Zhaneel as soon as they were out of the range of Skandranon’s hearing. As a trondi’irn she had a very good notion of just how sensitive any given gryphon’s senses were, but she knew Skan’s abilities in excruciating detail. For all that he was suffering the onset of the ailments of age, he was a magnificent specimen with outstanding physical abilities, not just for his age, but for any gryphon male.
“About Skan, or about the children?” Zhaneel asked, with a sidelong glance at her companion.
“Hmm. Both, of course,” she replied, returning Zhaneel’s glance. She’s just as observant as I thought. “Skan, first. He’s the one we have to live with.”
“As we must live with Amberdrake, heyla?” Zhaneel nodded shrewdly. “Well. Come and sit beside me here, where the wind will carry away the words we do not wish overheard, and we will discuss our mates.” She nodded her beak at a fine wooden bench made of wave- and wind-sculpted driftwood, and sat down beside it on the cool stone rimming the cliff.
Winterhart sank gracefully down into a welcoming curve of the bench, and laid one arm along the back of it. “Drake is very unhappy about all this. I think he expected Judeth and Aubri to assign Blade to something like bodyguard duty, or city-patrol. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that they might send her out of the city, much less so far away.”
It didn’t occur to me, either, but it should have. I’ve known that Blade wanted to get away from the city—and us—for the past year. Maybe if Drake hadn’t been so adamant about her living with us until she was a full Silver…
Keeth and Tad had been able to move out in part because Skan had lent them his resources to excavate a new home to trade for an existing one. Sensing Blade’s restlessness, Winterhart had tried to persuade Drake to do the same for Blade, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“Why should she need to move out!” he’d asked at the time. “It’s not as if she has any need for a place of her own. We give her all the privacy she would have anywhere else, and it’s not as if she could feel embarrassed to bring a lover here!” Then he had sighed dramatically. “Not that there’s any interest in that quarter. The way she’s been acting, a vow of celibacy would be an improvement in her love life. Where could we have gone wrong! It’s almost like she doesn’t want to listen to her body.”
Winterhart could have told him—that children were always embarrassed by the proximity of their parents when trying out the first tentative steps in the dance of amorous life, and inhibited by their parents when learning for the first time what kind of adults they would become—but she knew he wouldn’t believe her. He would have, if Blade had been anyone else’s child, but not when he was her father. A parent can sometimes be too close to his child to think about her objectively. When it came to seeing someone else’s children, a parent could see a larger canvas, but with their own—all they would see were the close daily details, and not grasp the broad strokes. Amberdrake, brilliant as he was, couldn’t grasp things like Blade not wanting to be around parents as she learned her body’s passions. And if Blade had actually come out and asked him for a place of her own, he would probably have given in and made it possible. But she was too shy and too proud, and now, in retrospect, Winterhart could see that requesting assignment to outpo
st duty had probably seemed the only way she could get that longed-for privacy.
“Skandranon is fretting, but not to pieces, I think,” Zhaneel said, after a long pause during which she gazed out seaward. She might have been watching the fishing fleet; her eyes were certainly sharp enough to make out details in things that were only moving dots to Winterhart. “I hope that as he realizes the children are capable, he will fret less. Part of it is inaction. Part of it is that he wishes to do everything, and even when he was young, he could not do half of what he would like to do now.”
That observation surprised a faint chuckle out of Winterhart. “It is odd how our youthful abilities grow larger as we age, isn’t it?” she replied. “I am absolutely sure that I remember being able to work for two days and nights without a rest, and that I could ride like a Kaled’a’in and shoot like a highly-paid mercenary, as well as perform all my duties as a trondi’irn. I couldn’t, of course, but I remember doing so.”
“Even so,” Zhaneel agreed. “It will not be so bad with Skandranon as with Amberdrake; our children are male, and one is still left to us. Your little falcon was the only chick in the nest, and female. Men wish to protect their females; it is bred in the blood.”
“And as much as Amberdrake would deny it, he is more worried because Blade is female, you are right.” Winterhart stared out to sea, wondering how she could ever convince her spouse that their “delicate little girl” was as fragile as tempered steel. “Perhaps if I keep comparing her to Judeth?” she wondered aloud. “I don’t think Blade is doing it consciously, but I can see that she has been copying Judeth’s manner and mannerisms.”
“He admires and respects Judeth, and what is more, he has seen her in action; he knows that Judeth took special care in training your Blade, and perhaps he will take comfort from that,” Zhaneel observed, then tossed her head in a gryphonic shrug. “I can think of nothing else you could do. Now, what am I to do with Skan? Concentrate on Keenath, perhaps?”
“Could we get him involved in Keeth’s physical training?” Winterhart asked her. “I’m a bit out of my depth there—and you and Skan did invent obstacle-course training. I’ve started all the trondi’irn on working-under-fire training, but the Silvers’ gryphon-course is set up for combat, not field-treatment. It isn’t really appropriate, and I’m not sure how to adapt it.”
“Ye-esss. I believe that might do. It will give him action, and something to think about. Or at least more action besides climbing my back to give him exercise.” Zhaneel cocked her head to one side. “Now, what of Winterhart? And what of Zhaneel? What do we do to take our minds from our absent children?”
Winterhart shook her head. “You have me at a loss. I honestly don’t know. And I’ll probably wake up with nightmares every few days for the next six months. I suppose we should concentrate on our mates’ worries instead?”
“That will certainly give us something to do, and give them the job of dealing with how we comfort them.”
Zhaneel nodded, then turned, and reached out to touch Winterhart’s shoulder with a gentle talon. She smiled, and her eyes grew softer as she met Winterhart’s gaze. “And perhaps we can give each other the comfort of a sympathetic ear, now and again, sister-in-spirit.”
* * *
One small problem with finally being on duty. Rising at unholy hours. Tadrith sighed, but inaudibly, his partner sometimes seemed to have ears as sharp as a gryphon’s. As usual on this journey, Blade was up at the first hint of light. Tad heard her stirring around outside the tent they shared; building up the fire, puttering with, breakfast, fetching water. She was delightfully fastidious about her person, bathing at night before she went to bed, and washing again in the morning. It would have been distinctly unpleasant to share a tent with anyone whose hygiene was faulty, especially now that they were away from the coast and into the wet forest. It was very humid here, and occasionally oppressively hot. Blade was not just being carried like living baggage; the basket shifted in every change of wind, and she had to shift her weight with it to keep it from throwing him off. This was work, hard work, and she was usually damp with sweat; by the time he landed for a rest, she was usually ready for one, too.
He, of course, was not burdened by the need to wash in order to get clean, and most humans expressed pleasure in a gryphon’s naturally spicy musky scent. He couldn’t fly with wet wings, and there usually wasn’t time to bathe before night fell when they stopped. He had decided to forgo anything but dust-baths until they arrived at their outpost. So he felt perfectly justified in lying in warm and sheltered comfort while she went through her bathing ritual and tended to the camp chores.
There wasn’t anything he could do to help her anyway. He couldn’t fetch water; raptoral beaks were not well suited to carrying bucket handles. He shouldn’t have anything to do with the campfire; gryphons were feathered and feathers were flammable.
He had done the larger share of work last night, when it came to chores. He had brought up enough wood to feed the fire until this morning, and provided part of his kill to feed them both at breakfast. He would take the tent down, just as he had put it up; the fast way of erecting it required magic, and although he was no match for his father in that area, he was a minor mage in simple object-moving spells. So he had done his share of the camp chores; this was not lazing about, it was the just reward of hard work.
He closed his eyes, and listened to water splashing and Blade swearing at how cold it was, and smiled. All was well.
Because they were already working so hard, he was bending a personal rule and using magic to hunt with. He used it to find a suitable animal, and to hold that animal in place once he found it. They couldn’t afford energy wasted in prolonged hunting, not now; he had to have the tent up, the wood in camp, and his kill made before dark. Back at White Gryphon, he could afford to be a “sportsman;” there were plenty of herd beasts and fish to feed the gryphons, and wild game was rightfully considered a delicacy. Once he arrived at Outpost Five, there would be time enough on each scouting patrol to hunt “properly.” But he would consume more food than they could carry on this trip, and that meant hunting with absolute efficiency, using every trick at his disposal.
Finally, the sounds of fat sizzling into the fire made him open his eyes and bestir himself again. That was breakfast, and although he personally preferred his meat raw, there were other things to eat besides meat. Though primarily carnivores, gryphons did enjoy other delicacies, and Blade had found some marvelous shelf-fungi last night when he had been bringing in wood. A quick test had proven, them to be nonpoisonous, and a quick taste showed that they were delicious. They had saved half for breakfast, still attached to its log just in case detaching it might make it decay.
Fresh venison and fresh mushrooms. A good night’s sleep and a fine day of flying ahead of us. Life is good.
“If you don’t come out of there, sluggard,” Blade’s voice warned from beyond the canvas, “I’m going to have all of this for myself.”
“I was simply granting you privacy for your bath,” he replied with dignity, standing up and poking his beak out of the tent flap. “Unlike some other people I could mention, I am a gentleman, and a gentleman always allows a lady her privacy.”
Perhaps it was technically morning, but out there under the trees it was gloomy as deepest twilight. Blade was slicing bits of fungus into a pan greased with fat; he saw that she had already set aside half of the remainder for him. It sat on top of his deer-quarter, from which she had sliced her breakfast steak.
She had dressed for the heat and humidity, in a sleeveless tunic and trews of Haighlei weave—though not of Haighlei colors. The Haighlei were quick to exploit the new market that White Gryphon provided, weaving their cool, absorbent fabrics in beiges, grays, and lighter colors, as well as black and white. The people of k’Leshya could then ornament these fabrics to suit their own cultural preferences. The results varied as much as the root-culture of the wearer. Those of Kaled’a’in descent embroidered, belled,
and beaded their garments in a riot of shades; those who had been adopted into the clan, those outsiders who had ended up with k’Leshya and the gryphons, were usually more restrained in their garments. Blade, consciously or unconsciously, had chosen garments cut in the style of the Kaled’a’in, but in the colors of her mother’s people. In this case, she wore a subdued beige, with woven borders in cream and pale brown. As always, even though there was no one to see it, the Silver Gryphon badge glinted on her tunic.
Around them, but mostly above them, the birds and animals of this forest foraged for their own breakfasts. After three days of travel, they were finally into the territory that the Haighlei called a “rain forest,” and it was vastly different from any place he had ever visited before. The trees were huge, incredibly tall, rising like the bare columns of a sylvan temple for what seemed like hundreds of lengths until they finally spread their branches out to compete with each other for sun. And compete they did; the foliage was so thick and dense that the forest floor was perpetually shrouded in mysterious shadow. When they plunged down out of the sunlight and into the cover of the trees, it took some time for their eyes to adjust.
The Mage Wars Page 79
