The Golden Griffin (Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  “What about men from the Free Kingdoms? Or even the sultanates?”

  “Perhaps,” Thibert said with a frown. “But that would take time.”

  Yes, and money. Kallia had already drained the coffers and had resorted to selling the khalifate jewelry to pay her guardsmen. Whelan had told her he could raise a thousand gold marks and eight thousand silver marks from Arvada, but she didn’t want to risk angering the Eriscoban lords by so blatantly plundering their treasuries. Not when Whelan had his own army to equip.

  “Wait a moment,” she said. “You’ve got men working at the palace. I can hardly avoid the clanking of chisels and hammers.”

  “I can’t spare those men,” Thibert said. “The viziers need their apartments. And if I don’t repair that outer wall, assassins will find their way in.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” She made her decision. “But better an assassin in the palace than an enemy army in my city. You will bring all of your men here until the city wall is repaired.”

  He sputtered. “But the palace—”

  “The palace will wait.” Kallia hardened her tone. “That is my decision.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes, my khalifa.”

  “How long will it take you to finish here?”

  Thibert lifted his head and rubbed his chin. Like Boroah, his face was free of whiskers, while his sideburns connected in a shaggy mass to his mustache. “Three weeks, perhaps, if we’re lucky.”

  Kallia frowned, unable to believe his estimate. “You can tear down the wall again and rebuild it in three weeks?”

  “Tear it down? Brothers no. But I can finish repairing the breach in three weeks. If the engineers tear it down again, it will take six weeks, minimum.”

  “Unacceptable,” Kallia said. “I won’t leave the wall in such a poor state. We have to tear it down and start over. And you must finish by the Harvest Festival. A fortnight from today.”

  He shook his head. “I’d need twice the men. And more journeymen.”

  “Requisition whatever labor you need, but as for journeymen, there are none to be had. If you and the other masters must work through the night, you will do so.”

  “Yes, Khalifa. May you live forever.”

  She touched his shoulder. “Thank you, Master Thibert. Balsalom depends on your skill. Make the wall strong enough to last for a thousand years.”

  Kallia returned to the litter, then, having second thoughts, declined to climb back in. The slaves lifted the poles on either side of the litter and heaved it into the air, following in case she changed her mind. The mounted guardsmen drew ahead of the litter to clear the way. Workers stopped to gawk as she passed.

  Sofiana walked next to the khalifa. “You handled him.”

  “Did I? Or did he just agree with everything I said while intending to carry on the same way as before?”

  “He’d never do that. You could have him killed.”

  “I could, if I were a despot. I am not. And Master Thibert knows it.”

  “That’s why your people love you.”

  Maybe so, but there were times that Kallia wished she could wield power with a ruthless edge. They were at war, had only just avoided complete enslavement. She hadn’t retaken Balsalom by negotiating with the enemy, she had done it by waging a bloody revolt.

  They followed the walls, which led through the small markets that stretched north and east from the Grand Bazaar. People gaped when they realized who she was. Spice sellers and carpet hawkers fell silent. A man sitting on a rug piled high with bread sprang to his feet when she approached with her retinue.

  On the next street people lined in front of barrels of olive oil to get their pots filled for the Feast of the Olives, while others carried huge baskets of green or golden brown olives. A man in red robes played a sitar in the shade of the merchants tower and accepted olives as well as coins as payment for his music.

  Two women threw sprigs of olive leaves at the khalifa’s feet. One man with reddish teeth and a wad of khat in his cheek begged her attention. He held a flask of olive oil in trembling hands. The guards tried to push him back, but Kallia stopped them.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Oh Khalifa, light of the world. Bless this oil, I beg you. My daughter is gravely ill.”

  Kallia took the oil and put a hand on his cheek. His skin was leathery. She pulled the stopper from the bottle and touched a drop to his brow. “May she live to see another spring, and may the Sky Brother kiss her face with warm sun and heal her pain.”

  “Bless you, Khalifa. Bless you!”

  She handed back the oil. Other hands thrust bottles in her face. Men, women, and children alike kissed her hands and wept on her sandled feet, while she took their oil, touched their heads and blessed them.

  “Jewel of the West,” a woman cried. “Veyrians killed my husband and dragged my sons east in chains. Please, I have nothing.”

  At Kallia’s urging, the captain of her guard gave the woman a coin, and this only made the crowds press harder. She made her men give away every coin they carried, promising to recompense them when they returned to the palace. Soon they had no more money, and she grew anxious to keep moving toward the Great Gates. The guards cleared the path.

  Behind her, people exclaimed their wonder that they had seen their khalifa on this day, of all days. The Harvest Festival was still a fortnight away, when the city would stop working and celebrate the year’s final milling of grain. But a second, equally important festival began that night and continued for the next three days. The Feast of the Olives. It celebrated the founding of Balsalom almost three hundred years earlier.

  There had been no food as the survivors of the Tothian Wars gathered that first year. Survivors came from the surrounding khalifates, hoping that the legendary bounty of Aristonia would feed them. But Aristonia had taken the brunt of the final battles and would never recover, while her greatest city, Syrmarria, lay in ruins. The Famine Child stalked the survivors, taking hundreds. Winter approached.

  And then, a miracle. Outside Syrmarria’s walls, a grove of olive trees—miraculous survivor of the battles—grew a crop of olives more bounteous than any had ever seen. For months, the people had lived on nothing but olives cured in lye. Olives sustained the survivors through the winter. Those survivors had rebuilt Syrmarria and renamed it Balsalom.

  Kallia arrived at the Great Gates. Moments later, a trumpet called to the north, from the direction of the barracks. The sound of boots and iron-shod hooves rang against stone. Whelan was on the march. Kallia waited behind a cluster of her guards.

  “Tell me,” she said to Sofiana. “How are your lessons? What does Gustau have you studying?”

  The girl threw her hands into the air. “Who can keep track of it all? Culture, history, law. It’s all a jumble.”

  Kallia imagined Gustau setting into the girl with his relentless drills. At least Sofiana didn’t have to suffer through etiquette training yet. Then she’d have plenty to complain about.

  “You must be learning a lot.”

  “My muscles are growing soft. I went hawking with Scree two days ago, and the next day I was so stiff I could barely walk. I can’t wait to cross the desert with your sister. That will be more to my liking.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  Sofiana looked up at the men working above the gates. “At least I’m not one of those poor fools. What a way to spend your life.”

  “Any word from your friend?”

  “What friend is that?”

  “The Balsalomian. Darik.”

  Sofiana lifted her eyebrows. “He’s not my friend. And frankly, I don’t see what my father and the wizard see in him. He’s a lucky idiot, that’s all.”

  Kallia laughed.

  “You know where he is?” the girl continued. “He’s riding with Uncle Roderick and the Knights Temperate. Having all sorts of adventures, I’ll bet.” Sofiana gave a disgusted look. “Probably even flying griffins with that silly girl who trips all over hersel
f every time she sees him.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “So? What’s to be afraid of?”

  Sofiana pulled a dagger from her shift and inspected the blade. The guards scowled at her, but Kallia smiled and gave a gesture for them to turn away.

  “You’re never afraid?” Kallia asked. “Not even this morning?”

  “Who has the time?”

  “What about during the battle at the Citadel? Don’t tell me you weren’t the tiniest bit afraid. I know I was.”

  Sofiana shrugged and put the dagger away. “Maybe a little. But when you’ve fought in as many battles as I have, you don’t scare easily.”

  “Is that so?”

  Sofiana suddenly brightened. “I’ve killed two other men, not counting this morning. I shot a bandit when I was still a child.”

  “Only a child—so, eleven years old?”

  “I was way younger than that. Nine, I think. The bandit knocked Uncle Whelan senseless with his club and was mocking me.” She clenched her fist. “A crossbow bolt through the neck shut the bastard up quickly enough.”

  “All right then,” Kallia said with a little cough. Time to turn this bloodthirsty conversation to something else. “Gustau must teach you something useful.”

  “I learned about how to make poisons,” Sofiana said. “Did you know that the dart frog has skin so deadly it can kill you if you do so much as touch it? But if you scrape the mucous from its back you can make a poison to slip into a man’s tea or wine that he’ll never taste until he’s coughing up blood.” She nodded. “That could be useful.”

  The vanguard of Whelan’s army rode into view. They were about fifty armored men, among them a dozen tall, bearded men from Eriscoba with blue and gray eyes. They rode huge war horses and wore straight, two-handed swords. The rest were dusky-complexioned men from the khalifates on smaller desert ponies and armed with scimitars.

  Next came a company of mounted bowmen, followed by at least two hundred spearmen on foot, then another hundred or so with mixed weapons and armor. Once this group had passed, a procession of heavily laden camels trudged down the road, followed by more spearmen.

  As the army passed through the gates toward the Tothian Way, people streamed in from the rest of Balsalom to watch and cheer. They threw olive sprigs at the feet of the marching boots. The guild towers rang their bells.

  Sofiana was apparently still thinking about poisons. “How is your injury? Is it clean?”

  “I don’t think it was poisoned, thankfully.” Kallia had to shout to be heard. She rubbed at her arm. “It was only a nick, but I’d rather not let my physics know. They’ll have me bedridden for a month.”

  “Kallia!”

  She looked up to see Whelan riding along the side of a company of foot soldiers.

  It had only been a few hours since he’d slipped from bed to ready his march, yet in that time his wife had faced an assassin’s blade, and his daughter had killed a man. But she could tell by his happy expression that none of this had reached his ears. Good.

  A second man rode by Whelan’s side, a tall Eriscoban with leather armor and a green jerkin. Tied to his horse was a battle-ax and a shield painted with an outstretched hand that dripped blood. It took Kallia a moment to recognize the man as Whelan’s brother Daniel. He was stronger, had regained much of his strength. He’d been deposed as both king and as Sofiana’s father, but if he harbored any resentment over his diminished station, he didn’t show it.

  The two men pulled to the side and dismounted. Kallia’s guard cleared a path for them to approach. Sofiana hugged both men, each of whom appeared equally delighted to see her.

  “Are you well enough to ride with us to the Way?” Whelan asked Kallia. “Or should I hold up while your litter carries you?”

  “I’m pregnant, not dying. I’ll ride.”

  “In that case, up you go.”

  Whelan handed Scree to Daniel. The man winced as the falcon dug its claws through his gloves. Whelan helped Kallia mount, then climbed in behind her.

  Sofiana climbed onto Daniel’s horse and took a glove and the falcon. “I heard that Chalfea is marching an army to Veyre.” Her voice was high with excitement. “It’s going to be a huge battle.”

  Whelan grinned and urged his horse forward through the gates. “Still think you can turn that girl into a lady?”

  “Eventually, yes,” Kallia said. “But after our latest bloodthirsty conversation, I don’t expect overnight results.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sofiana was boasting about the time she shot a bandit in the neck.”

  Whelan gave her a playful smile. “That’s not boasting. Did she tell you about the Veyrian she shot in the thigh at Arvada? He fell off his horse and two knights finished him off.”

  Sofiana turned in the saddle from where she sat with Daniel, a delighted expression on her face.

  The clamor diminished when they gained the open ground beyond the city walls. The army stretched from the gates all the way to the Tothian Way. There it passed through irrigated fields and past mills for grinding grain. To the north lay the gaunt skeletons of towers of silence where the bodies of thousands of fallen Balsalomians still lay exposed to the elements. The Nye River passed beneath the city walls near where the towers met the Tombs of the Kings, these just visible from this distance.

  “I have something to tell you, Ninny,” Whelan said to his daughter. “And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”

  “Yes, I know. You’re leaving me behind.”

  “And you’re not upset?”

  “A little bit. But Kallia has other plans for me.”

  “Oh, she does?”

  Kallia explained about Marialla and the Sultan of Marrabat.

  A frown spread across Whelan’s face. “I don’t like it,” he said when she’d finished. “It could be a trap.”

  “Yes, but for my sister, not for Sofiana.”

  “The Sultan of Marrabat has a reputation.”

  “I know that,” Kallia said.

  “What kind of reputation?” Sofiana asked.

  “Never mind, Ninny.”

  “Don’t ‘never mind’ me,” the girl said. “Anyway, if it is dangerous, I can help. I’ll protect the princess.”

  “She might at that,” Kallia said to Whelan. “Your daughter is smart and resourceful. Don’t underestimate her.”

  “I don’t have to underestimate her to not want her in danger.”

  “Pfft,” Sofiana scoffed. “How dangerous could it be?”

  Whelan gave her an exasperated look. He turned back to Kallia. “It’s not safe.”

  “It’s not safe here, either. Anyway, Fenerath is still in Marrabat after his negotiations with the sultan. He plans to remain until the wedding. He’ll keep an eye on her. And my sister will, too.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Daniel held up his horse and pulled in alongside them. “What if I stayed with her?”

  “You’d do that?” Whelan asked. “What about the war?”

  “This army needs one warrior king, not two.”

  The brothers looked at each other without speaking. Only weeks earlier, Daniel had been the lord of the Free Kingdoms. He’d fallen under the spell of wights, who’d almost broken him into the service of the dark wizard. Only by abdicating the throne had he freed himself.

  Kallia didn’t need an explanation. There had been hard feelings between the brothers. One of these men had been married to the queen. The other had fathered the queen’s child: Sofiana. Their brother Ethan had sided with Whelan in his exile. Their other brother, Roderick, with King Daniel. There had almost been bloodshed between brothers.

  But what did Daniel mean, exactly? Was the loyalty of the Eriscobans still divided between them?

  “It is your choice,” Whelan said.

  “It isn’t cowardice.”

  “Of course not. Then you will go to Marrabat?”

  “With your permission.”

  “Granted,” Whela
n said. “And gladly. I’m happy that you’ll be there to keep her safe.”

  Sofiana snorted. “I don’t need anyone to keep me safe. I’ve killed three men, you know.”

  “Three?” Whelan said.

  “Well, I—”

  “I’m sure she’s counting the one she unhorsed at Arvada,” Kallia said, quickly.

  “Yes, that,” Sofiana said. “I hit him in the leg.”

  “Ha. I’ll give you a half kill on that one. But surely the Knights Temperate who finished him off had something to do with it, too.”

  Sofiana shot Kallia a grateful look when her father and uncle turned their attention back to the army marching down the road toward the Tothian Way. And she looked delighted at the decision. Not a hint of hesitation in her expression.

  As far as she was concerned, she was going to march into Marrabat and force the city to submit to her will.

  Chapter Twelve

  Darik had thought himself unchanged from the waist up except for a bit of fur spreading up his belly and back. But the transformation into a goat-man continued beyond that.

  The first thing he noticed was improved balance. He sprang over fallen logs on his goat legs, scrambled easily up steep rocky slopes, and had little difficulty in keeping up with Markal.

  Smells were stronger, too. And different. Animal scents—bears, mountain lions, wolves—lingered on trees and rocks and made him want to flee. In other places he smelled elk or deer urine, and higher up, the droppings of other goats. These weren’t disgusting, but made him curious instead.

  And any growing plant smelled delicious, from grassy meadows filled with the rich, heady scent of wildflowers to the twigs and leaves of bushes and trees. He could tell the dangerous mushrooms from the delicious ones, while others smelled unwholesome, but strangely enticing. Eat those, he knew, and he’d have a very strange time of it. When Markal reached the edge of the first major rockfall and spent a moment looking for Narud, Darik tore up a handful of weeds and popped them in his mouth. They tasted surprisingly good.

  What if he’d managed to complete the transformation? Would he have also thought like a mountain goat, too? And were there spells to change into any animal you liked? How about a mammoth? No, even better would be a griffin. What a strange and wonderful thing that would be.