Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 03 - The Silver Gryphon.txt

by The Silver Gryphon [lit]

  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 in-audibly; 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 sli
cing 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.

  Despite that lack of direct sunlight, the undergrowth was surprisingly thick.

  As was to be expected, all kinds of fungi thrived, but there were bushes and

  even smaller plants growing in the thick leaf litter, and ropelike vines that

  wreathed the trees and climbed up into the light. Anywhere that a tree had

  fallen or the course of a stream cut a path through the trees, the undergrowth

  ran riot, with competition for the light so fierce that Blade swore she could

  actually see the plants growing larger as she watched them.

  She was the team “expert” on plants, and half of the ones she had

  examined at their campsites were new to her. And they hadn’t even done any

  exploring; the only plants she saw were the ones she found in the course of

  setting up camp! Tad couldn’t even begin to imagine what she’d find when

  she began looking in earnest—and he began taking her up into the canopy.

  He couldn’t identify half of the calls they heard from above them. He

  couldn’t even have told her if those hoots and whistles were coming from the

  throats of furred animals, birds, or reptiles. It was all just a further reminder of

  how little had been explored here. Now he understood why the Haighlei were

  so careful about what they did here; not only were there scores of completely

  unknown hazards in this forest, but careless handling of the woodlands could

  destroy a priceless medicinal herb or some other resource without ever

  knowing that it was there.

  That’s all very well, he reminded himself, as he eased himself out of the

  tent and ambled over to fall on his breakfast with famished pleasure. But it is

  difficult to be philosophical on an empty stomach. Later, perhaps. . . . He

  devoted himself single-mindedly to his meal. This would be the light one; he

  would eat heavily when they camped and he could digest while resting. A full

  gryphon could not fly very well.

  A hungry gryphon did not take long to finish a meal, and Tad was famished.

  He polished off the last of his kill in short order, saving the tasty fungus for

  last. While he ate, Blade put out the fire, buried their trash in the wet ashes so

  that it would decay properly, and packed up the gear they had taken out as

  well as everything inside the tent. Tadrith would leave the bones of his meal

  for the forest scavengers, who would no doubt be glad of the windfall. When

  they took off, the only signs that they had been here would be ephemeral; the

  firepit, the bones, and the pressed-down foliage where they had walked and

  set the tent. In two days, three at the most, the forest would begin to reclaim

  the site. In a month, it would be gone. Not even the bones would remain.

  No vultures, not in a place like this. Probably rodents, or perhaps some

  type of swine or canine. He preened his talons fastidiously, and stropped his

  beak on the log that had played host to their fungi. Well, I believe it is time to

  do my part again.

  He strode over to the tent, concentrated for a moment, then extended his

  power with a deft touch. He let the mage-energy reach for the trigger point of

  the tent-spell where it lay just under the center of the canvas roof. Obediently,

  the canvas tent folded in on itself, starting from the top. The sturdy, flexible

  poles, once holding the canvas rigidly in place, now became the slightly

  stiffened ropes they really were. Without a hand to aid it, the tent folded, and

  refolded, as if it was a living creature. Within a few moments, where the tent

  had been, a boxy package of canvas sat ready to be put in the basket.

  Now, as it happened, in accordance with Aubri’s advice, the tent could be

  erected without magic, although new poles would have to be cut for it, since

  the rope supports obviously required magic to become “poles.” Clearly, this

  was a great deal easier, however. Once the spell was triggered, the supports,

  which were nothing more than magically-bespelled pieces of thick rope sewn

  into special channels along the seams of the tent, stiffened in a particular

  order, unfolding the tent and setting it up at the same time. Since the shape of

  the supports was dictated by the shape of the channel, it was possible to have

  a tent that did not require a center-pole or guy-ropes, and only needed to be

  staked down in seven places to keep it from blowing away in a wind.

  Of course, if there had been no mage about to trigger the spell, the tent

  would have required a center-pole as well as corner-poles, and guy-ropes at

  each corner.

  This was standard issue among the Silvers now. Tad could never have set

  the spell himself; that required the hand of a Master. But even an Apprentice

  could trigger it, so any expedition coming out of White Gryphon that would be

  camping always had at least one mage along.

  The spell that made the tent collapse and fold itself up was a more

  complicated one, but again, it only needed an Apprentice to trigger and feed

  it. Tad could handle that sort of spell easily, and enjoyed doing so. Perhaps it

  was analogous to the way that a human felt when whittling or chip-carving

  wood. There was an odd, suffused warmth of satisfaction at having created

  something by use of a tool, which was a
different sensation from the visceral

  feelings of hunting by claw or flying by wings. Perhaps it was the ability to

  affect things outside one’s own momentary grasp that made one feel

  civilized?

  Tad picked up the neat bundle of canvas and rope and deposited it in the

  carry-basket. Blade was already stretching out and untangling the ropes of his

  harness. No matter how carefully they stowed the ropes the night before, in

  the morning they always seemed to have gotten tangled. How that could be

  was another of those mysteries he was certain he would never be able to

  solve. There were times when he suspected a supernatural explanation.

  The harness had to be stowed out of reach of rodents or other creatures

  that might like to gnaw on leather—and it had to go somewhere where

  dampness would not get into it. There was only one place that answered that

  description, and that was the tent itself, so although the ceiling of their

  temporary dwelling was fairly high, enough of it was taken up with the harness

  resting in a net suspended from the corners of the roof that Blade could barely

  stand upright inside.

  But if that minor discomfort meant that they could trust the harness not to

  have suffered damage in the night, it was a small price to pay. Both of them

  were agreed on that. “I’ll share my bed with it if necessary,” Blade had said

  firmly.

  “I thought that sort of thing was your father’s specialty,” he’d jibed back,

  only to be flattened by a swung harness-girth. Apparently Blade was not

  amused!

  Blade finally got the ropes sorted out; now she stood dangling the harness

  from one hand, beckoning with the other. It was time for Tadrith to go to work.

  The harness took some time to get into, and Blade made certain that it was

  comfortable for him. This was not the token harness of soft deerskin every

  gryphon in the Silvers wore, displaying his or her badge, and carrying the

  pouch in which they kept small necessities. Every strap must fit snugly, but

  without chafing. Large feathers must be moved so that they lay on top of the

  leather, or they would be broken off. Tadrith could do none of this for himself;

  instead, he must stand as patiently as a donkey while Blade rigged him up.

  The air warmed marginally, and now the usual morning fog began to