The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  They returned to the tables and picked at a few choice dishes, neither of them saying much. Erian tried desperately to think of something to talk about, but his mind had gone blank.

  “The wine’s good,” he blurted at last. “Would you like me to pour you some?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Elkin. She took the cup he offered her, and sipped from it. “This wine came all the way from Amoran, you know. I was waiting for a good time to bring it out of the cellars. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s very good,” said Erian.

  “They make it in Syama,” said Elkin. “Have some yourself, why don’t you?”

  Erian did. “It’s very sweet. I’ve always liked sweet wines. Do they put honey in it?”

  “I think so, yes.” Elkin finished the cup and grinned wickedly at him. “I’m not supposed to drink too much wine, you know, but I do anyway, on special occasions.”

  “Why not?” said Erian.

  “Oh, because I’m so delicate, you know,” said Elkin, pouring herself another cupful regardless. “And I am Mistress here, too. Who knows what stupid decisions I might make?”

  Erian laughed. “I don’t think anyone would say anything. They all admire you, my lady. Every griffiner I’ve spoken to since I got here has told me you are the best Eyrie Mistress they know of.”

  “Have they really?” she asked seriously.

  “Yes. And I think so, too,” Erian added.

  She gave him an amused look. “Is that so?”

  He cursed himself yet again, and put the cup aside. He’d drunk too much. If he said or did something truly appalling in front of her . . .

  “Well?” Elkin prompted.

  “Uh, yes,” said Erian. “I do.”

  She watched him for a while, sipping at her wine. “So,” she said, once the silence had begun to be uncomfortable. “Tell me about yourself, Erian. And”—she picked up a strayberry and turned it over in her fingers—“I don’t mean in the way you did when we first met. Tell me something real.”

  Erian felt hot all over. “Oh, well . . .”

  “Go on,” said Elkin. “I’m interested. I want to know you better.”

  “Well, I ...”

  And then, quite suddenly, he was telling her everything. He talked about his conception, when Lord Rannagon, on his way back to Eagleholm after the war in the North, had stayed for the night at a small village called Carrick, where a peasant girl named Belara had caught his eye and shared his bed for the night. Rannagon had left the next day.

  She had tried to lure him back after she discovered that she was pregnant, but never had any response from him, and eventually died birthing the boy, leaving him to be brought up by her parents.

  “So I grew up without a father,” said Erian. “But they told me who he was, and told me stories about him, and I grew up believing—well, I always thought it made me special. He was my hero. I used to imagine meeting him; I’d try and think of all the things I would say to him and what he would say back. For a long time I believed that he’d come and see me one day; he’d come on his griffin, Shoa, and we’d fly back to Eagleholm together, and I’d grow up there, and . . .” He trailed off.

  “But he never came?” Elkin said sympathetically.

  Erian smiled sadly. “He did. He did come. He came and saw me several times. And he didn’t take me away, but—but he was kind. He called me ‘son,’ brought me presents. Shoa even let me touch her once. Later on I found out he was doing it secretly, flying out to Carrick on a pretext so people wouldn’t know. And then he stopped coming. But he gave orders to an old griffiner in the village to be my teacher. He taught me griffish and how to read and write and handle a sword and a bow. He never told me why, but I knew my father had got him to do it—paid him or bribed him somehow.”

  “You were lucky,” said Elkin. “Not many griffiners would do that.”

  “I know.” Erian smiled. “That’s how I knew that he cared about me. I always knew it. And when I was sixteen I knew it was time. My grandparents expected me to get married, take over the farm and settle down there, but I wouldn’t. They told me I was mad—stupid—but I knew I wasn’t meant to be a farmer. I knew griffish, I knew things peasants didn’t know, and the gods must have a different plan for me. And my father must have one, too. I kept expecting him to come and see me again, but he didn’t, and so I decided that I had to go to him. So I went to Eagleholm, and I found him there. He pretended he wasn’t happy that I’d come, but later on he said he knew I would. I asked him if he thought I should become a griffiner, and he said that wasn’t for him to decide. But he told me only nobles become griffiners, and that just because I was his son I shouldn’t get ideas above myself. He said he could get me a job in the city—maybe as a guardsman—but that was all he was willing to do. He told me he was sorry, but that having me there was an embarrassment and he was already in trouble with his sister for acknowledging me, even if it was only in secret.” Erian rubbed his head. “Once he’d finished saying that, he gave me a piece of paper and told me to go and not come back.”

  Elkin sighed. “That was cold of him.”

  “Not as much as it sounds, my lady,” said Erian. “I realised later on that people must have been listening in—Shoa was listening, and I know she didn’t like me. But the paper—once I was outside I looked at it, and it was a map to the hatchery. There was writing on it. It just said ‘Let the gods and the griffins decide.’ And I went to the hatchery, and—”

  “And all your dreams came true,” Elkin finished.

  “They did, my lady,” said Erian. “They all did. And it was thanks to my father, and I am never going to forget that.”

  “Or forgive the one who took him from you,” said Elkin softly, as if she had read his mind.

  Erian felt his heart clench. He picked up the cup of wine and drank it, more quickly than he should. He didn’t want to talk about that now. “Senneck wants me to marry,” he said hastily, and thoughtlessly.

  Elkin looked inexplicably unhappy. “Yes, I thought she would. If she wants you to succeed, then a good marriage would be an important part of it.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Erian. “At least, not like that. I want to marry the one who’s right for me. I want to marry because I’m in love, not because Senneck wants me to be rich. Anyway,” he added bitterly, “what woman here would want me? I might be a griffiner now, but I’m still a bastard.”

  Elkin reached out as if to touch his arm, but withdrew. “I understand,” she said. “Kraal wants me to marry, too. So do most of my griffiners—mostly the men, for some reason. Erian, it might not look that way, but I know just how you feel. You don’t think anyone would want you, but my trouble is almost the same. Every unmarried man here wants me, and even some of the married ones would probably be glad to separate themselves from their wives for my sake. There are quite a few I could choose, but—I don’t like it. Why should I marry just for the sake of convenience? Don’t my feelings count? I give everything I have for my Eyrie and its lands, but I still own my body and heart, and I don’t want to give them to the first well-bred idiot who puts himself in my way.”

  Erian blinked. “Er . . .”

  Elkin winced. “Oh gods. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I should go.”

  Without even thinking, Erian reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Elkin.”

  She looked at him. “Don’t do that.”

  He let go. “Elkin, I just wanted to say that I ...”

  “Yes?”

  “I really enjoyed dancing with you tonight,” said Erian.

  She smiled sadly. “That’s nice. I’m glad you did.”

  It was growing late. Around them the crowd had dispersed; many griffiners were leaving, and only a few were still dancing. The griffins, unused to being awake at night, had begun to order their partners back inside.

  Erian looked at Elkin, and struggled desperately to find the thing he should say to reach through to her and express how he felt. “Elkin, I . . .”
>
  Something in her was pulling away, but she kept her gaze on him. “Yes?”

  “Elkin, Lady Elkin. I was thinking, have you ever . . . ? I mean, it’s so beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

  Elkin glanced quickly over her shoulder. “Yes. It is. The moon will be full soon.”

  “It’s the same colour as your hair,” said Erian. “Isn’t it?”

  “The same colour as Kraal’s feathers,” said Elkin “Yes. I’ve always liked that. We’re alike in that way I think. It’s the same with you and Senneck, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Erian laughed weakly. “We’re both the colour of dirt.”

  “Straw,” Elkin corrected. “But I was thinking of your eyes. Sky blue. It’s a nice colour, isn’t it?”

  Erian felt close to trembling. “Yes, yes, it is.” Your eyes are like the colour of nothing I’ve ever seen before. He wanted to say it aloud but couldn’t put it into words and it sounded stupid and clumsy in his head. He stayed quiet, his whole body screaming out for him to do something, anything, while the moment slipped inexorably away from him.

  “Well,” Elkin said at last, and he thought he could hear something like disappointment in her voice. “It’s late. I should go to bed. I have a busy day ahead. As always.”

  Erian wanted to cry. “Yes. We both—yes, I should go, too.”

  “Yes, we should,” Elkin said more sharply.

  And then, just like that, she was gone.

  25

  Arenadd the Conqueror

  Cardock was not the only one to have lost his life in the capture of Guard’s Post. When Arenadd, Skade and Skandar emerged from the room where his body lay and returned to the mess hall, they found a grim sight waiting for them. The bodies of the dead had been brought in and laid down in a row against one wall, and more were coming even now.

  The final tally was chilling: more than forty of their companions had been killed, including Annan, Nolan, Olwydd and several other men who had shared Arenadd’s dormitory back at Herbstitt.

  Arenadd, red-eyed but outwardly calm, silently took all this in and afterward merely said: “What have you done with the wounded?”

  “Morgan found an infirmary, sir. They’ve been taken there.”

  Arenadd nodded. “Is someone looking after them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’m going to look after Skandar and then go and help them. In the meantime, Prydwen, you and Dafydd go and open the southernmost gate. Find the others and bring them back. Garnoc, I want you to talk to everyone here. Find out if any of them know how to cook. They’re to find the storerooms and take stock of what we’ve got, and after that I want them to find the kitchens and make enough food for everyone. Tell them to be as generous as they can afford to be. After all, we’ll be celebrating.”

  Garnoc grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  “Right,” said Arenadd to no-one in particular after the three of them had left.

  Skandar had slumped down in a corner of the mess hall while this was going on, his head hanging low. Everyone was keeping well away from him as usual.

  Arenadd approached him carefully. “Skandar, how are you?”

  The griffin looked up. “Strong. Am strong,” he mumbled, his wings rising briefly before they fell back.

  “Of course,” said Arenadd. “But I think you’ve got a few injuries. Shall I have a look at them? I can make them stop hurting and heal faster.”

  Skandar’s pride didn’t hold out for long; he hissed briefly in protest when Arenadd came closer, but lay still and let him examine his wounds. His face and neck had several deep talon cuts on them, and a beak had laid his shoulder open. A sword had caught him on one knee, which explained the limp, but his wings and other legs looked undamaged.

  Even so, Arenadd didn’t want to leave anything to chance. “You,” he called to a nearby slave.

  The man looked nervous. “Yes, sir?”

  “Go to the infirmary,” said Arenadd. “Get some griffin-tail paste and some bandages, fast as you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man dashed out.

  “Will he recover?” Skade asked.

  Arenadd groaned softly as he subsided onto a chair. “Unless one of those injuries gets infected, yes. If he’ll let me put some paste on them, he should be fine.”

  The man returned a few moments later with the medicine, and after some cajoling Skandar allowed Arenadd to treat him.

  “How do you know how to treat wounds like that?” said Skade, watching him apply the paste and then bandage the cuts as well as he could.

  “Simple enough,” said Arenadd, without looking around. “Nobody back home wanted me to have an official position, so I spent about ten years being pushed around the place. I worked for nearly every part of the government there was; they used to call me ‘the one-year apprentice.’ I worked for the Master of Arms, the Master of Taxation, the Master of Healing—well, the Mistress, really. I even worked for Rannagon himself for a while. See, nobody wanted me to be apprenticed to anyone for too long, because if someone died or was disgraced while I was their apprentice, I’d automatically be given their office. They even thought of making me the commander of the city guard for a while, but the one who was in the position at the time put his foot down about that. But it meant I learnt a lot about a lot of different things. Even carpentry, although that posting didn’t last for too long.”

  “Why not?” said Skade.

  “Oh, I had to help the people who kept the platform in proper repair,” said Arenadd. “You know, the one the city was built on. The planks would rot, and people would steal pieces of them for firewood, so we had to keep fixing it. I was only there for a few weeks. Ow! Skandar, keep still, will you?”

  “I hardly think that was the proper job for a griffiner,” said Skade. “No wonder they moved you.”

  “Hah, as if they would have cared,” said Arenadd. “No, they would have been happy to keep me there, but ...” He paused, slightly embarrassed. “There was an accident.”

  “What sort of accident?” said Skade.

  “I’m afraid of heights. Always have been. They sent me to the edge of the platform for something or other, and I panicked and stayed there for ages, too terrified to move. In the end, Eluna had to drag me away. It was—uh—very humiliating.”

  “Ah,” said Skade. “I see.”

  “Unfortunate.” Arenadd finished tying the last bandage. “There. All done. Stop shivering, you big coward, you’re fine.”

  Skandar got up and pecked at a bandage. “Not want.”

  “I’m sorry, but you have to wear them for a while. They won’t hurt you. They’ll help make you heal.”

  The griffin flicked his tail. “I go find food,” he muttered resentfully, and limped off.

  “I hope he does not go to the kitchens,” said Skade.

  “I doubt it. He’ll want live food; he’ll probably look for the stables. Or he might—” Thinking of the other possibility, he shivered. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he said loudly. “Now, I’d better go. You should get some rest; I could be some time.”

  “I shall explore the fortress a little, I think,” said Skade. “Perhaps I shall find another gown; this one is nearly in rags.”

  “Good idea,” said Arenadd. “But I don’t know if that’s very likely. See if anyone here knows anything about tailoring; they could sew it up for you.” He gave her a brief smile and left the room.

  Once he had gone, Skade wandered away and began her exploration. She found the kitchens—which, fortunately, Skandar hadn’t—where a group of slaves were already beginning to prepare the food they’d taken from the storerooms. She paused to help herself to some meat and wandered out again, chewing at it.

  The fortress’ interior proved to be bigger than she had thought. She explored various different rooms and found guard quarters, an armoury, a training gallery, a small forge and a treasury containing chests of gold oblong. She opened the various crates and boxes that shared the space with them, and found other item
s: boots, miscellaneous pieces of armour, several cloth-wrapped parcels of whiteleaf, bottles of liquid whose labels she couldn’t read and bundles of clothing. All of it must have been confiscated from travellers caught between the gates and searched.

  Skade rummaged through the clothing until she found some gowns that looked to be about her size. She tried those on and finally chose a simple one made from white wool; its long sleeves and thick weave could help protect her from the cold of the North.

  Feeling much neater, she returned to the lower levels of the fort. Finding nothing particularly interesting there, she decided to go in the opposite direction this time and move further downward. There were a few chambers built below ground, including a wine cellar, cool storerooms for perishable foods and a small set of prison cells.

  Skade examined this last area but found the cells unoccupied. A thought occurred to her, and she returned to the mess hall.

  During her absence, Prydwen and Dafydd had gone to a spot back down the road and had brought back all those who had been unable to fight. Torc and Caedmon had been among them, and now the old man was standing beside the row of bodies, leaning on his stick and looking expressionlessly at them. Nearby, the captured guards were standing penned in a corner, hands tied together, closely guarded by Prydwen, Dafydd and the hulking Garnoc.

  Skade looked briefly at the new arrivals before approaching the three of them. “Look at me,” she commanded.

  They did, and Prydwen betrayed a hint of nervousness before he bowed his head toward her. “Yes, my lady?”

  “There are cells beneath us,” Skade told him. “You should take them down there and lock them up securely.”

  Dafydd coughed, “Lord Arenadd—”

  “Do it,” said Skade. “Lord Arenadd wishes for you to think for yourselves.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Prydwen cut in. “C’mon, let’s go.” He prodded the nearest prisoner with the point of his stolen sword. “Move, ye lousy bastard, and don’t even think of doin’ anythin’ else.”

  Skade watched as the prisoners were herded away, and sighed. “They should be killed.”