by L. L. MacRae
Amsel tilted his head, mirroring Hailathlyl’s bird-like movement, then shrugged, getting back into business. ‘We don’t have much time, Calidra, Varlot. If you’re travelling to Fellwood, we should go together. We can go faster on Hailathlyl, and it isn’t safe to be on foot in Bragalia.’
‘I can keep us out of trouble if it finds us again,’ Varlot argued. He eyed the griffin with increasing uncertainty.
Amsel shook his head and gestured to Hailathlyl, who gently laid down on the browning grass, lowering her head as she did so. He stroked the feathers above her eyes with the back of his hand, earning him a loud purr, before walking to the harnessed saddle at her back. ‘She is strong enough to carry us all. Even you, Varlot,’ he added with a wry grin, ‘come. We will be in Fellwood in a couple of hours.’
Varlot shook his head, but he clearly wasn’t willing to be shown up in front of Amsel, and didn’t retreat despite his obvious hesitancy. He fumbled with the fastenings on his cloak, paying more attention to them than Amsel or the war griffin.
Hours were better than days, especially as Calidra was already late and apparently the Myr had entered her home country. But hours would put her squarely in front of her mother far sooner than she had prepared herself for. That alone kept her rooted to the spot.
All of a sudden the sun seemed to beat down on her too much, and she became aware of her skin prickling under it. Her breathing grew shallow.
‘Calidra?’ Varlot broke her from her thoughts and fear.
‘Hmm?’
‘You okay?’ He put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.
Although she’d never enjoyed accepting help, which proved she was weak enough to require it in the first place, she leaned against his hand. Varlot was strong, much stronger than she was. She imagined he could probably carry her in one arm and not even break a sweat.
So when her knees trembled, her legs threatening to buckle under her, she knew Varlot would keep her standing.
‘Want a hand up?’ Varlot suggested.
Even though she wasn’t sure she could entirely trust him, didn’t know his true interest in Fenn—or in helping her, for that matter, other than for coin—he was all she had at that moment. She nodded. The trembling had reached her arms, now, a surge of emotion and panic roiling inside her, fuelling her paralysis.
She couldn’t stumble now. Not in front of Varlot. She couldn’t stand the idea of being weak in front of him.
‘We’ll have a better view of everything from up there.’ Varlot supported Calidra as they walked over to the waiting griffin. ‘Amsel spotted us easily enough. Maybe we’ll get a glimpse of Fenn and Jisyel, too?’
Her eyes widened at the suggestion. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes!’
Amsel, already sitting in position and waiting patiently, offered Calidra a hand. She took it, climbing up the harness, stepping neatly over the griffin’s back and into the saddle. Surrounded by a raised wooden rail that provided a small amount of safety, Calidra gingerly sat down, not wanting to cause the griffin any discomfort or irritation. The saddle itself was made of soft leather, thickly cushioned, and dressed in ornately stitched designs, traditionally in Olmese reds and greens.
Another flavour of home, of her mother.
But she couldn’t deny it was almost comfortable. Hailathlyl was easily large enough to carry five or six people, and though Calidra had ridden a griffin once as a child— and fallen off, though not from a great height—she was not nearly as afraid as she thought she would be.
Her feet found a broad wooden ledge in place of stirrups, her legs bent more than would be comfortable on a horse, but the griffin was an altogether different creature. Hailathlyl let out another squawk, her feathers ruffling in the stiff breeze that fluttered across the open land.
She fumbled with the straps, clipping herself in, as Varlot joined them in the seat behind her. ‘Good thing we travel light,’ Varlot mused, tightening his cloak all the way up to his throat.
Amsel laughed. ‘Hailathlyl is for war. She can carry six Olmese, fully armed and armoured, and their supplies.’ He patted her neck affectionately.
‘Someone approaches. Porsenthian.’ Another beak snap and the griffin’s enormous head turned sharply to face Meadowhill.
From her vantage point, Calidra could see some distance, all the way to Meadowhill itself. Her gaze drifted the river as it flowed downhill, and spotted a single person wandering up the path alongside the water. ‘Jisyel?’
Another squawk from Hailathlyl, this one sounded impatient. ‘Male Porsenthian. Inquisitor.’
‘Is it Torsten?’ Varlot asked, now strapped in himself. ‘We should go.’
‘Unfortunately Hailathlyl hasn’t met many Inquisitors to tell them apart. But I agree. We should be in the air now and on the way. Just in case there’s trouble.’
‘Didn’t you say you were talking to Inquisitors? About the Myr?’ Calidra asked, holding onto the harness straps to avoid clutching at the griffin’s feathers.
‘My brothers and sisters are. I won’t interfere. My own orders take me to Fellwood.’
Calidra squinted, trying to see for herself. But no matter how hard she stared, her eyes would never be as sharp as a griffin’s. ‘We’re looking for someone also on their way to Fellwood. Friends of ours. Jisyel and Fenn. They’re…’ she hesitated, ‘Porsenthians. Can Hailathlyl see them?’
‘If they are under us when we are on the way, Hailathlyl will see them, yes.’ Amsel nodded, certain. He watched the Inquisitor a moment longer, then let out a sigh of irritation. ‘Hold on. Hailathlyl, fly.’
Amsel’s instruction was clear, and the griffin reacted as if struck by lightning. Calidra felt Hailathlyl’s muscles bunch underneath her, the only physical warning something was about to happen, then they were shooting high into the air. Tears streamed down her cheeks as they cut through the wind like a knife. Dimly aware of the enormous wings beating to either side of her, Calidra was glad of the rail surrounding the harness. She gripped onto it so tightly her fingers went numb, and though she was desperate to wipe her eyes of tears, she dared not unclench her muscles, quite certain she’d left her stomach somewhere on the grasses below.
How long they climbed, she couldn’t tell. It was one, long, exhilarating blur. But when she felt able to breathe again, the wind no longer screamed around her. They’d levelled out, the griffin’s broad wings soaring on a thermal of warm air that gently kissed her face.
Rushing wind buffeted her, and she could barely hear anything over it, but the flight was altogether less aggressive than take off had been.
Carefully, slowly, she released the handrail one finger at a time. Her skin was dry and stiff, and she massaged her hands, trying to get the feeling back. Behind her, Varlot said something, but his voice was lost to the wind. Even turning to face him was uncomfortable, she’d strapped herself in so tightly, so she just shook her head. Conversation would have to wait.
Once their flight was gentler, she peered over the edge to get her bearings—and nearly brought up her breakfast.
Water, she knew she didn’t like. But up until now, she’d never had any problems with heights. Although she couldn’t guess at their altitude, the drop below made her grasp onto the rail with renewed terror.
Meadowhill sat in the distance astride the river, and the Inquisitor below was a dark smudge on the green and brown landscape. How they were supposed to see anyone from such a height was beyond Calidra, but she supposed Hailathlyl had done most of the seeing. She’d have to rely on the griffin’s incredible eyesight if they had any chance of coming across Jisyel and Fenn on their way to Fellwood.
If Amsel was correct, and they’d be there in a few hours, it didn’t give them much time to look.
But it did give her an idea.
If the worst happened; if they arrived in Fellwood and there was no sign of Jisyel or Fenn, she would get a search party together. She’d ask Amsel to lead from the sky. On the back of Hailathlyl, they could cover more ground more quickly than any scou
ting party, even on horseback. And they were much more used to scouting from so high.
Her mother would probably be against the idea, but Calidra disregarded the concern. Griffins obeyed their Olmese riders. It wasn’t something that her mother could forbid. Calidra would have to simply ask Amsel nicely. If he was a cousin of hers, perhaps the familial obligation would get him to agree.
It was a poor way of behaving—forcing someone to go out of their way to help you—but if Fellwood was empty, Calidra wasn’t sure how she was going to cope.
And at least she would be doing something.
Hailathlyl descended after several hours on the wing, the mountains growing closer ahead of them. Calidra had quickly recovered after the beginning of their flight, had almost enjoyed it for the last hour or so, once the fear had dissipated.
But as they came down, realisation dawned.
It was time to face her mother.
And she was facing her without Jisyel.
In truth, Calidra had only felt able to face her mother with Jisyel by her side. Now she had to endure it alone, like she was a helpless girl again; a child, unable to stand up for herself.
Hailathlyl slowed as she brought them down upon Fellwood, and the surging wind lessened somewhat, enabling her to hear Amsel’s careful instructions to the griffin.
Fellwood hadn’t changed much in eight years, although it was difficult to tell from above. Groves of peach trees surrounded the palatial villa at the town’s highest plateau—her childhood home. A white marble wall surrounded the grounds, keeping the distinction between the Laird’s residence and the rest of Fellwood clear. Calidra vividly remembered the day that a group of desperate beggars had scaled the wall, broken into the grounds and held her sister for ransom.
That day had ended in blood.
She was certain there’d still be a smear of old blood, darkened over the years, along part of the wall. But she didn’t want to look. That was from a previous time. A previous life, almost.
Her sister wasn’t there anymore. Malora had died somewhere further north, in Porsenthia, after she’d fallen in with the wrong crowd and ended up just where their mother had said she would. A natural consequence of going against her wishes.
Calidra blamed herself. If she’d been a better sister, if she hadn’t driven Malora away, perhaps she wouldn’t have…
She gritted her teeth. She should be upset about the death of her father, not guilting herself for something that had happened years ago.
The villa was far too large for one woman to live in alone—even with the retinue of servants to cater to Furyn’s every whim. Calidra wondered if her time away had softened or sharpened her mother’s temper.
As they flew above Fellwood, Calidra stared blankly at the opulent golden pillars and statues carved on the edges of the villa’s grounds. A cold truth settled in her stomach. The same one that she’d had for years, and part of what had driven her away. Her family’s wealth was false. So was the power that had grown from it.
They were no more fit to be Lairds than anyone else in Fellwood.
Sigya Malora, the people had called her sister. Blessed by Chyram, the Spirit of Gold, whose shrine was nestled deep in the mountains. Chryam rarely offered any blessings to people—it only happened once every handful of generations.
Malora hadn’t even been interested in joining his order, yet the dragon had selected her, out of everyone else, and given her a boon.
Calidra peered over the griffin’s side. Dozens of people streamed into the streets, staring up in awe and wonder as they flew overhead, hands shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun. Griffins weren’t exactly an unusual sight, but a war griffin probably was. She stared back at the many faces, hoping to recognise Jisyel or Fenn among the gathered crowds.
They circled as they descended, flying over much of Fellwood, but definitely drifting towards Calidra’s home. She knew it was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. She could have a lifetime to prepare for coming home and she’d never be ready.
Once they were over the marble wall surrounding the grounds, the gasps and stares thankfully disappeared. Now, they were on private ground, where they wouldn’t be gawked at. Calidra only saw a handful of staff dotted around, and a pair of them darted inside the moment they spotted the griffin, no doubt to alert her mother.
‘I hope Lady Vantonen is here,’ Amsel said.
‘She’ll be here,’ Calidra replied, almost wishing there was too much wind again to hear him.
Hailathlyl brought them down in the middle of the gardens. It was the most logical place—the courtyard was narrow, lined with trees and flowers chosen for their aesthetic rather than practicality. Manicured lawns made up a significant part of the gardens, watered four times a day to keep the grass lush and green. Although tall hedges divided up the gardens into neat sections, there was plenty of space even for a griffin as large as Hailathlyl to comfortably land.
Landing was less bumpy than Calidra thought it would be, but by the time she’d managed to get out of the harness and stand on solid ground, she wondered if she’d simply lost all feeling from the waist down. Her legs stung as her nerves woke up again, and she shook out her feet, wincing as she did.
‘That was quite the experience!’ Varlot slapped Hailathlyl’s side affectionately. ‘Never in all my days did I expect anything like it! I have to hand it to you, Amsel. Your griffin is astounding!’
Amsel beamed at the compliment, and nudged the griffin with his full weight. ‘You have a new fan, Hailathlyl! Guess there’s some hope for the Porsenthians after all!’
‘Perhaps.’ The griffin sat down and began preening herself.
Varlot roared with laughter. ‘Spirits take me, if only I’d had one of them in the war!’
Calidra wandered away from the others, just a few steps to get some feeling back into her legs and feet, massaging her arms and wrists while she looked around. The gardens were much as she remembered them. A few more plants. The trees had grown broader. One new statue in the corner. Nothing of any significance.
The flower gardens were on the far side of the lawn, white and blue and pink, bringing colour to the landscape. Beyond those were the tea gardens, sun gardens, and the water gardens, if her mother still had those. She could smell the fragrant teas even so far from them. Some were worth more per gram than gold. Trust her mother to keep her wealth after Malora had left.
Bees and insects buzzed happily in between the bushes, seeking out nectar, and a golden hummingbird darted out of view the same instant she spotted it. It was so calm, so peaceful, completely shut off from the problems of the world.
Archways of delicate silver provided a path between the tall hedges that lined each of the gardens, and Calidra peered through the nearest one. Her breath hitched at the sight of the vast, cream villa beyond. A single storey feat of architecture and beauty, funded by falsity.
Her home. She’d not seen it in eight years.
And, strolling down the white stone path straight towards them, was Furyn.
‘Amsel. Varlot. She’s coming.’ Calidra dashed back to the others. Immediately, she brushed away the dirt on Varlot’s cloak and almost went to do the same to Amsel before she stopped herself. ‘S—Sorry! I just…She likes things tidy. Presentable.’
Varlot frowned at her, but she turned away, taking deep breaths to calm her fraying nerves. It didn’t matter what they thought of her behaviour. It was too late now.
Quillaja, her mother’s handmaiden, passed through the arch first. Tall and slender, with impeccable manners and a calm confidence that Calidra had always been in awe of, the Olmese woman had been at her mother’s side for as long as Calidra could remember. Her cool gaze passed over them, taking in Varlot, Amsel, and even the war griffin without reaction. But her hardened exterior cracked the moment she saw Calidra. Quillaja gasped, eyes widening in shock, the smallest of smiles on her plump lips; then she recovered herself and slipped back into neutrality. Ever professional.
Calidra latched onto that smile and braced herself. Furyn walked five or six steps behind her handmaiden, so graceful she seemed to float, her long, red robes trailing behind her.
‘I present Lady Vantonen. Welcome to Fellwood, friends,’ Quillaja introduced, lowering her gaze and interlacing her fingers, holding them loosely in front of her. Words spoken, she stepped back, allowing her mistress to come forward and address them as she chose.
Varlot dropped to one knee and lowered his head.
Amsel inclined his head, crossed one arm over his chest, and bowed low.
Calidra stood stock still—a rabbit caught in the gaze of a fox—and did nothing.
‘Welcome to Fellwood.’ Furyn extended her arms, her long sleeves giving her the effect of having wings. Impressive as usual. ‘It has been some time since we had a griffin rider, or a griffin as fine as this one, in my home. You are most welcome here, my countryman.’
Hailathlyl snapped her beak and purred loudly, her long, cat-like tail swaying from side to side.
Calidra ignored the sting of hurt at being ignored by her mother in the first instance. Then again, it would have been rude to ignore the guest.
Furyn gestured for Amsel to rise, then she considered Varlot. ‘It is rare for a Porsenthian to come here. Rarer still on the back of a griffin, even one as famous as yourself.’
‘Indeed, but these are strange times.’ Varlot straightened up. ‘Lady Vantonen. I am reporting here, as requested by the Laird. I have also escorted your daughter, Calidra. I’m sure we can discuss the additional fee for this extra task.’ He produced a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and offered it to her.
Furyn plucked from within her robe a pair of seeing eye glasses on a thin silver chain and read the paper carefully. ‘Varlot Keir himself. How interesting. I laughed when my husband said he’d contracted you. Why would a man of your standing bother yourself with the needs of Bragalia? And yet, here you are. Such a formidable fighter.’
‘At your command.’
Furyn’s gaze lingered on him. ‘A wasted journey, I’m afraid. My husband requested this contract, but as he has now passed, there is no longer any need for it.’
