The Black Gryphon v(mw-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  He coaxed her down off the table and into taking a short walk with him since she seemed restless and kept fidgeting when he talked with her. After that, the conversation seemed to flow a little better; she bounded ahead or lagged back with him as he strolled through the gallery of “models.” She paid them no attention whatsoever, which didn’t much surprise him. She must be as used to them by now as he was to the messenger-birds or Amberdrake’s eye-blinding clothing.

  But suddenly, as they drew opposite the “Skandranon” type of model, she looked from it to him and back again, as if she could not believe her eyes. She blinked, shook her head, and looked again.

  “That you” she said, as if she’d had a major revelation.

  “Oh, it does look something like me,” he replied casually. “Just a bit.” He left it at that, and she promptly seemed to forget about it.

  A moment later, she made a dash into another room, and once again, the lights came up as she entered. She headed straight for a bowl sitting beside what must have been her bed, a nicely made nest of bound straw lined with soft, silky material. There was a box with a pile of brightly-colored objects in it; toys, probably. The top ones looked like the normal sorts of balls and blocks that young gryphlets were given to play with as nestlings, before they fledged. She grabbed for a clawful of something brown and moist—then, like a child suddenly remembering its manners, she shyly offered him some of it—her food, presumably. It did not look like much, and Skan declined, although Kechara wolfed it down with every evidence of enjoyment.

  I can’t tell how old she is, he thought, watching her eat. She did manage that fairly well; gryphons were not the daintiest of eaters at the best of times. She has no idea of the passage of time, she can’t see the rising and setting of the sun from in here. She eats when she’s hungry, sleeps when she’s tired, and Urtho comes and goes at unpredictable intervals. But if I were to guess—misborns don’t tend to live very long, and I’d guess she’s near the end of her “normal” lifespan.

  The notion revolted him as much as the food had. All her life had been spent in close confinement, never feeling the free wind, only seldom seeing the sky, the sun, the moon and the stars.

  When she was bred for the skies, and only accident and bad fortune made her the way she is, and not like Zhaneel—

  —or like—me—

  He ground his beak a little in frustration. Then there was the other side of the rock. How could she live outside? Maybe that was precisely why she was in here, because she couldn’t live outside the Tower. Misborn were also notoriously delicate, prone to disease, weaknesses of the lungs and other organs.

  Maybe only living here in complete shelter made it possible for her to live at all.

  This may be kindness, but it has a bitter taste.

  He noticed that all of his earlier bleeding had stopped, and that reminded him of his own internal time sense. He was surprised at how long he had been in here with her. “I must go, Kechara,” he said at the first break in conversation. Such as it was.

  She blinked at him for a moment. Then she asked him something completely unexpected. “You come back?” she asked hopefully. “You come play again?” And she looked up at him with wide and pleading eyes.

  Oh, high winds and rock slides! She may not know the emotion for what it is, but she’s lonely. What can I tell her?

  He ground his beak for a moment, then told her the truth. “I don’t know, Kechara. I have to talk to Father first. He makes the rules, you know.”

  She nodded, as if she could accept that. “I ask Father, too,” she said decisively. “I tell him I need you to play with me.”

  Then, as he paused at the door, she reared up on her haunches and spread her forelegs wide. It was such a weird posture that at first Skan could not even begin to imagine what she was up to. But then he understood. She was waiting for a hug, a human hug. The kind she always got from “Father” when he left her.

  That simple gesture told Skan all he needed to know; whatever Urtho’s motives were in keeping this little thing here, they were meant to be kindly, and he gave her all the affection he could.

  It was awkward, but somehow Skan managed. Then he gave her a real gryphonic gesture of parting, a little preening of her neck hackles.

  It would have been much worse if she had put up some kind of a fuss about his leaving, but she didn’t; she simply waved a talon in farewell, and turned and trotted back to her nest room, presumably to play by herself.

  She’s learned that fussing doesn’t change anything, he decided, as he walked stunned through the book rooms and touched the door to the staircase to open it. She’s learned that people come and go in her life without her having any control over where and when they do it. Poor thing. Poor little thing.

  The lights dimmed behind him as he made his way down the stairs; slowly, for staircases were difficult for gryphons to descend, although climbing them was no real problem. When he got to the bottom, he was very tempted to try one of the other doors in the antechamber.

  Stupid gryphon! Don’t tempt your luck. You’ll be in enough trouble with Urtho as soon as you bring up Kechara.

  Oh, dear. That made another problem. How do you bring up Kechara without revealing you got into a locked room? And if you got into a locked room, how much else would he guess you got into?

  The guard nodded to him and grinned as he left. “Damned hard for you critters to manage staircases, eh?” he said, as Skan realized that some of his injuries from the spat with Kechara must surely be visible.

  And he hadn’t come in with fresh scratches on him.

  But the guard had just offered him a fabulous excuse for his appearance, and he seized it with gratitude. “More than damned hard,” he grumbled. “I must’ve slipped and fallen once for every dozen steps. And would the others wait? Hell, no! They were in such a hurry to scuttle off with their Healer-stuff that they didn’t even notice I was lagging!”

  The guard laughed sympathetically and patted Skan on the shoulder. “Know how you feel,” he replied. “With this gimpy leg I can’t even climb one staircase good anymore. Never much thought about how you critters managed until I got that crossbow bolt through the calf.”

  Some chat might not be a bad cover at the moment, and I don’t really have anywhere to go . . . Tamsin and Cinnabar will be deciphering the text they copied and putting it into terms we gryphons can use. They’ll be so busy with that they wouldn’t know if I was there or not.

  “Kyree and hertasi can manage all right,” he replied. “But us, the dyheli, the tervardi—staircases are hell, and other things are worse! You’d think with all the veterans hurt that can’t walk that they’d put in some ramps. But no—”

  The guard sighed. “Well, that’s the way of the world, everybody sees it according to what he needs. If a man don’t need a special way up the stairs, why, he don’t think nobody else needs it, neither.”

  Skan snorted. “You figured that right, brother! And my bloody aching head agrees with you, too!”

  “Best run along and catch up with those Healer friends of yours, an’ make ‘em patch you up,” the guard advised. “Maybe then they’ll think twice before they rush off an’ leave you alone!”

  Skan laughed and promised he would do that; the guard limped on his rounds with a friendly wave as Skan headed back toward camp, and Healer’s Hill.

  All right, I’d better get this all in order. We’ll get the fertility spell straight; I’ll pass it on to the rest. Then, once I know everyone has it—I’ll come to Urtho and tell him what I did. That’s when I bring up Kechara. That would take a few days at the best, and his conscience bothered him about leaving her alone in there for so long—

  But she’s been alone in there for all of her life. A few days, more or less, will make no difference.

  There was an additional complication, however. What if Urtho made a visit to his—well—pet? If Kechara happened to mention Skan—

  I’ll have to hope that she doesn’t. Or if she does,
Urtho just thinks she’s talking about the models.

  Complications, complications.

  Stupid gryphon. You’re trying to do too much too fast. But doesn’t it need to be done? If not you, then who?

  The walk down to the camp was a long one. There weren’t many people out at this time of night. Most of the ones still awake were entertaining themselves; the rest had duties, or were preparing their gear for combat tomorrow. It was a peculiar thing, this war between wizards; the front lines were immensely far away, and yet the combat troops bivouacked here, below Urtho’s stronghold, in the heart of his lands.

  It was the Gates that made such things possible, the Gates and the gryphons.

  The first meant that Urtho could move large numbers of troops anywhere at a moment’s notice. There were even permanent Gates with set destinations that did not require anything more than a simple activation spell, something even an apprentice could manage. Because of this, Urtho’s troops were highly mobile, and the problem of supply lines was virtually negated.

  Of course, that was true for Ma’ar’s men as well. The defender had the advantage in a situation like this. A mage setting up a Gate had to know the place where he intended it to go, and Urtho or his mages knew every inch of the territory he was defending. Ma’ar’s mage could only set up Gates where they had been, places that they knew, so Ma’ar’s Gates would always be behind his lines.

  There had even been one or two successful forays early on in the campaign where Urtho had infiltrated troops behind Ma’ar’s. That, however, would only work once or twice before your enemy started setting watches for Gate-energies, in order to blast the Gate as it was forming. This tended to cost your mage his life as the energies lashed him at a time when he was wide open and vulnerable. That was why Urtho’s forces didn’t do that any more, and there wasn’t a mage in the entire army who would obey an order to do so.

  Not that Shaiknam hasn’t tried. But only once.

  The gryphons were the other factor that made this war-at-a-distance possible. Aloft, they could cover immense stretches of territory, and their incredibly keen vision allowed them to scout from distances so high that not even the makaar would challenge them unless they were in the very rare situation where they were at a greater altitude than the incoming gryphon. Makaar were not built for the winds and the chill of high altitude; there were gryphons who were, though they were not the best fighters.

  And there were gryphons built for long-distance scouting who had ways of overcoming their physical shortcomings that made them poor choices for combat. The one who could do it best was Zhaneel.

  One gryphon, anyway. Maybe . . . one day, more.

  As Skan took to the air for the brief flight to Healer’s Hill, his sharp eyes picked out the glow of the tent snared by Tamsin and Cinnabar. Hard at work already. They may even have it by the time I get there. Good.

  The Black Gryphon used a thermal to kite in that direction, appreciative that the night was so clear and calm. He noted that Amberdrake’s tent was also aglow.

  Hard at work, too? He chuckled. Well, the night usually is when most of his work is done. He bears the hearts of many, mine included. He is there when he is needed, even this late at night. I shall not tease him about it.

  This time!

  Ten

  Amberdrake did not notice that Skan wasn’t behind them on the stairs until they reached the outside of the tower, beyond the antechamber. That was when he turned to say something to the Black Gryphon—

  And the Black Gryphon wasn’t there.

  They were already beyond the immediate perimeter of the Tower. Amberdrake swore under his breath. It was too late to go back and get him; the doors probably wouldn’t admit them a second time, and the guard would wonder what was going on when they returned, looking for Skan.

  A light breeze blew at Amberdrake’s back, and camp sounds carried up from the tents below. It would be better to go back to his tent and go on with the plan as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Gryphons had a hard time with staircases. With luck, the guard knew that. Maybe he would figure that Skan was still inching his way down, step by painful step.

  Not that Skan had any trouble with staircases, spiral or otherwise. He was as graceful as a cat under any circumstances. It was the dancing that did it; Amberdrake had seen him climbing trees, eeling through brush and scaling the outside of tower walls with equal ease and panache. But Amberdrake was one of the few people who knew that.

  Amberdrake lingered in the shadows as Tamsin and Cinnabar hurried on ahead. He waited on the off chance that his friend might simply be sauntering along as if time had no meaning. He’s been known to do that. . . “It’s image,” he says.

  Skan still did not appear. Whatever he was doing, it was not just a case of lagging behind. Where the hell is that idiot featherhead? he thought with irritation. Caught up in his own reflection somewhere?

  Far more likely that he had found some book that had caught his eye and was leafing through it, oblivious to the time. Amberdrake could only hope that it was something as innocent as a book that had detained him.

  But time was running out, for Amberdrake at least. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, the Black Gryphon would have to make his own excuses, and bail himself out of any trouble he got into. Amberdrake could not wait any longer. He had an appointment; a last-minute appointment set up by Urtho himself. This was not a client to keep waiting.

  Especially not tonight. If he broke that appointment, or was even a tiny bit late for it, someone might put that together with Tamsin and Cinnabar’s request, ask the guard who had been with them, and put two and two together and figure they had all been up to something. And that someone would probably be Urtho.

  Skandranon was a big gryphon; he could take care of himself. If he had been asked, that is exactly what he would have said.

  The way back to camp was as clear as the night sky; with no one in sight anywhere close. That meant there was no one to take note if he broke into a sprint and wonder why he was running—or at least not close enough to recognize a distant runner as Kestra’chern Amberdrake. He took off at a lope, and didn’t pause until he was just within sight of his own tent.

  I’m in better shape than I thought, he thought, with pardonable pride, as he composed himself before making his “entrance,” right on time. I’m not even out of breath.

  Fortunately, his hertasi assistant, Gesten, would have everything he needed for this client prepared for him ahead of time. It had been a very long time since Amberdrake had performed the simple chores that surrounded his profession—getting out the massage table, warming the oils, putting towels in the steamer, preparing incense. Simple chores, but time-consuming. Things it would be impossible to take care of before a client came, if the kes-tra’chern in question happened to be doing something he didn’t want anyone to know about. For instance, in case a kestra’chern absolutely had to snoop around in the Great Mage’s Tower.

  Thank goodness for hertasi.

  The client was not waiting, which could mean a number of things. She could simply be late; she might be a little reluctant to go to a kestra’chern; new clients often were, until they realized how little of a kestra’chern’s work had to do with amorous dealings. That was fine; it meant he had time to change into his work clothes in peace. He could have done a massage in his current outfit, but he didn’t want to. He had a reputation to uphold, and much of that reputation involved his appearance. Clients should see him at his very best, for that was what he always gave them.

  So he pushed the draperies aside and slipped into his private quarters; quickly shed the clothing he had on and donned one of the three appropriate massage-costumes that Gesten had laid ready for him. Tunic and breeches again, but of very soft, thick, absorbent material in a deep crimson with vivid blue trim. The cut was more than loose enough to permit him to take whatever contortion was required to give his client relief from stressed or sore muscles. And in the soft lighting of the tent, it looked opulent,
rich, special. That would make the client feel special as well.

  He braided his long hair up out of the way, but fastened the ends of the braids with small chiming bells which would whisper musically when he moved. He had found that the rhythmic chiming that followed the motions of the massage soothed his clients.

  The new client still had not appeared when he moved back to the “business” side of the tent, so he double-checked on Gesten’s preparations. Not that he had any doubt of Gesten’s thoroughness, but it never hurt to check. The laws of the universe dictated that the one time he did not check, something would be missing.

  The bottles of scented oil, already nicely up to temperature, waited in their pan of warm water. The hot stones had been set in the bottom of the towel-warming chest, and the steam that rose from the cracks in the upper portion, carrying with it the scent of warm, clean cloth, told him that all was in readiness there as well. The massage table had been unfolded and covered with a soft pad, of course, and a crimson chair was beside it in case the client was too stiff or sore to be able to get on it without assistance.