The Mage Wars

by Mercedes Lackey

  “But…” Skan protested weakly. “We don’t lay eggs. How can that—”

  Tamsin ignored him. “He borrowed from the snow-tigers as well; they would have litters four times a year in a warmer climate, but they only have one because the male’s body temperature is so high that his seed is sterile except in the winter. So Urtho designed you males so that your body temperature is normally so high that your seed is dormant, just like theirs. So your half of the ‘ritual’ is that business of sleeping and meditating in the cave for two days while the female fasts. That drops your body temperature enough that your seed becomes active. A very simple spell ensures that the male’s temperature stays lower than normal until after the mating-flight is over. And this is the only bit of magic Urtho performs that actually accomplishes anything. It’s such a minor spell that even an untrained Healer could do it—or there are drugs and infusions we could give you that have that effect, temporarily.”

  “Or you could sit on a chunk of ice,” Cinnabar added gleefully, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Another breath of breeze entered the open tent-flap and made the flame of the lantern flicker for a moment.

  “Thank you,” Skan said with as much dignity as he could muster. “But I doubt I shall.”

  “Seriously though, that means that in the total absence of Healers or herbs, a male gryphon could keep his seed active simply by mating in the winter like a snow-tiger, or by sleeping for two days in a cave and then flying very high during the mating-flight, where the air is cold even in the summer,” Tamsin said. Then he laughed. It had been a long time since Skan had heard the Healer laughing with such ease. It was a good sound. “But as hot-blooded as the Black Gryphon is, he may need to go to the northernmost edge of the world!”

  Cinnabar joined her lover in laughter, and even Skandranon wheezed a slight chuckle. It had been a long time since Tamsin had researched anything that concerned creation, rather than destruction. For this brief time, perhaps he had been able to forget the war and all it meant. “Oh, and there’s the mating-flight itself. The better the flight, the easier it is for—ah—everything to get together. Gets the blood and other things moving. And with a strenuous flight… there,” he said, and proffered a sheet of notes, “the better the flight, the more likely that there will be more than one gryphlet conceived. But that’s basically it.”

  Skan sat down heavily, right in the doorway. Hard to believe, after all the mystery, all the bitterness, that it could be so simple. “But that’s all?” he asked, too surprised to feel elation yet.

  That’s it.” Cinnabar shrugged, and idly braided a strand of hair. “The rest is simply Urtho’s own indulgence in theatrics—which is considerable. He is quite an artist. Most of his notes were involved with that and only that. I promise you, though, that unless those guidelines are strictly adhered to, you gryphons will be sterile as always.” She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with dark, thoughtful eyes. “He designed you very well, and I think you ought to know that his notes said precisely why he made you sterile unless elaborate preparations were made.”

  Skan waited for her to elaborate, but she was obviously enjoying herself in a peculiar way, and intended to make him ask why.

  “Well, why did he?” the gryphon growled. Some of the anger he had felt at Urtho was back. “Not that I can’t think of a number of reasons. We are supposed to be warriors, after all, and it’s difficult to wreak destruction away from home while there are gryphlets in the nest to tend to.”

  “You have a flair for the dramatic yourself. ‘Wreak destruction?’” Cinnabar teased.

  Skandranon tried to ignore her. “He might not have wanted to discover himself neck-deep in fledglings. That would mean a strain on food supplies, and hungry gryphons could decimate wild game over a wide area. Also, we’re his creations; he might have wanted more control over which pairings produced offspring.”

  That breeding program. He might have wanted nothing but pure “types.” He wouldn’t have wanted hybrids, I would imagine. Breeders usually don’t.

  “He might only have wanted the control over us that holding this ‘secret’ had.” The bitterness he felt in discovering Kechara’s plight and the records of the “breeding program” showed more than he liked. “So. Was I close?”

  Cinnabar’s expression was understanding, and her tone softened. She leaned forward, earnestly. “Skan, it was for none of those reasons. Here it is, in his own words—let me read it for you, and I think you might feel a little better about all of this.”

  She bent over the notes and read them quietly, aloud. “‘Too often have I seen human parents who were too young, too unstable, or otherwise unfit or unready for children produce child after doomed, mistreated child. I will have none of this for these, my gryphons. By watching them, and then training others what to watch for, I can discover which pairings are loving and stable, which would-be parents have the patience and understanding to be parents. And in this way, perhaps my creations will have a happier start in life than most of the humans around them. While I may not be an expert in such things, I have at least learned how to observe the actions of others, and experience may give me an edge in judging which couples are ready for little ones. Those who desire children must not bring them into our dangerous world out of a wish for a replica of themselves, a creature to mold and control, a way to achieve what they could not, or the need for something that will offer unconditional love. For that, they must look elsewhere, and most likely into themselves.’”

  Cinnabar paused, giving him a moment to absorb it all; then continued. “‘The reasons for bearing young should simply be love and respect for the incipient child, and for the world they will be born into. If it took more effort to produce a child than the exercise of a moment’s lust, perhaps there might be less misery in this world. Perhaps my gryphons will be happier creatures than their creator.’”

  Cinnabar looked back up at him expectantly. Skan simply sat where he was, blinking, surrounded with silence. The sounds of the camp seemed very distant and somewhat removed from reality. Or, perhaps, eclipsed by a more important reality.

  Skandranon’s internal image of Urtho had undergone multiple drastic changes over the course of the evening. But this…

  Elation—and a crazy joy—began to grow in him again. Simple, uncomplicated joy; the same joy that he’d had in his friendship with Urtho, and had thought he had lost. This is more than I ever hoped to hear. A reason, a good one, a sound one. One even I can agree with. He wrote that in his own hand, to himself and no other. The whole secret makes sense. And look how even with all those precautions in place, a mistake can happen. One happened with Zhaneel; her parents died, and she was neglected by others who thought her to be misborn. I had no idea he had put such thought into this…

  “Urtho is—wiser than I thought,” he said at last, his voice thick with emotion that he simply could not express. “He was right to guide us so.”

  “Oh, I dare say you all can do well enough on your own,” Tamsin told him, with a twinkle in his eye. “If nothing else, all this takes considerable effort on the gryphons’ part, and a pair will probably think carefully before all that effort.”

  Skandranon squinted his eyes shut tight and took a deep breath, then shook his body and flared his breast and back feathers. “There’s no ‘probably’ about it,” he told Tamsin, with some of his humor returning. “We can be as lazy as any other race. There will be more young, but not that many more, not at first. For one thing—with the war, there is rarely the leisure to make such extensive preparations.”

  Cinnabar smiled, and nodded her understanding. Tamsin sighed. “By the way,” he said, “it’s obvious from the notes that a male or female can’t be overweight if they want to produce a youngster, and a mating-flight has to be damned impressive in order to get everything moving well enough that fertility is assured. If you don’t put everything you’ve got into that flight, well, you won’t get anything out of it except a bit of exercise.” He raised his eye
brow suggestively.

  “Sometimes exercise can be very beneficial,” Skan replied, with dignity.

  “Well,” Lady Cinnabar replied, with a face so innocent that Skan knew she was intending to prod him. “You should know. I’ve heard you’re probably the biggest expert in gryphon exercise that has ever lived.”

  “I?” Skan contrived to look just as innocent as she. He would never miss a chance to boast a little in good company. Anyone as well-known as he had detractors to belittle any and all of his traits; so it was up to him to say otherwise, wasn’t it? “I suppose, since I am an expert dancer, attractive, and skilled in aerobatics, you might be correct about that.”

  Tamsin’s shoulders shook with silent laughter; Cinnabar simply smiled serenely, and released the bit of hair she had been braiding. “I’d have been worried about you if you’d said otherwise, Skan,” she said gravely a heartbeat later. “In all of this, it would be easy to lose yourself.”

  “I won’t say that I am not feeling like a feather in a gale, my lady. But I have to maintain who and what I am. And since I am irresistible, it is only responsible for me to say so to reassure you all that I have not been overwhelmed.

  “I owe you most profound thanks, my friends,” he quickly continued, changing the subject before Cinnabar could ask him who he was supposedly irresistible to. “I could not have done this alone. And that is perhaps the first and last time you will have heard the Black Gryphon admit he could not do something.”

  “Indeed!” Tamsin’s brows rose. “Quite a concession, your highness. We were going to ask for all your possessions as payment, but that concession is rarer than—”

  Cinnabar elbowed her lover sharply. “He’s serious, dolt,” she scolded. “About the thanks, that is.”

  “So much so, that I cannot think how to properly repay you,” Skan told her softly. “It will not only be me that owes you a tremendous debt, but all of us.”

  But Cinnabar only shook her head. “Don’t think of it as owing anyone,” she replied. The expression in her face was affectionate. “Think of it simply as a gift between friends. Perhaps the greatest gift that we could ever give you—and it was a privilege to do so, not a burden.”

  He regarded her with surprise. He had not known that she felt that way—oh, he had known that they were his friends, but he had never realized just how much that word could mean. “Why?” he asked, making no secret of his surprise.

  Cinnabar looked thoughtful for a moment. “Tamsin, Amberdrake, and I are greater admirers of your folk than you know, I think. It is the same with nearly all the Trondi’irn as well. One cannot deal with gryphons without feeling that admiration; there is so much about you that is good.”

  Skan ground his beak, torn between pleasure and embarrassment. It was one thing for him to boast about gryphons in general and himself in particular—it was quite another thing to hear such effusive praise coming from the sweet lips of Lady Cinnabar, who had traveled the world, been entertained in the highest Courts, and seldom praised anything or anyone.

  “Still, you are an aggravating lot,” she continued, her expression lightening with mischief, “and an abundance of equally aggravating nestlings is exactly what you all deserve to teach you proper humility!”

  Skan snorted and drew himself up to his full height, until his crest flattened against the canvas roof of the tent. “Indeed,” he replied. “We shall be put in our place, if you would be so kind as to teach me that ‘simple Healing spell’ of yours, then tell me what herbs are needed. I will start circulating the information among the others.”

  “All ready, my friend.” Tamsin flourished a neatly-lettered paper at him. “Memorize this, follow it through to the letter, and the joys of parenthood will be yours! And any other gryphon that you want to condemn to years of nestling-feeding, baby-chasing, and endless rounds of ‘Whyyyyyyy?—’just give them this.”

  Skan took it from him, and quickly committed the contents to memory. As soon as he had finished reading he tucked the paper away in his neck-pouch for safe-keeping. “Have either of you heard anything from the mages yet?” he asked.

  Both shook their heads. “I know I won’t be able to sleep until I do,” Tamsin said, in all seriousness. “What happens with the mages is very likely to affect what happens to you and the other nonhumans.”

  “I know.” Skan tongued the point of his beak for a moment. “Well. I have a reasonable idea. Shall we lie in wait for Vikteren? He will want to know what happened to us as much as we want to know what happened to him.”

  Tamsin rose, and offered his hand to Cinnabar. “Let’s go ambush the man.”

  * * *

  They found Vikteren coming to look for them, on the path halfway between the Tower and Healer’s Hill, weary and not terribly coherent. And in the end, it turned out that the resolution wasn’t much of a resolution at all. Vikteren was exhausted by the time the meeting broke up, and all he would say to them when he met them was, “Well, we have a solution of sorts. Nobody’s entirely happy, so I guess it must have been a good compromise.”

  That was enough for Tamsin and Cinnabar, particularly since Cinnabar knew she would hear Urtho’s version soon enough, but not enough for Skan.

  * * *

  The young mage promised Skan an explanation after he had gotten some rest, and Skan made certain to assail him again the next day. When they headed for Zhaneel’s obstacle-course, Vikteren was able to elaborate a little more on what had evidently turned out to be one of the most anarchic meetings ever perpetrated in Urtho’s ranks. “There was a lot of complaining, a lot of yelling, a lot of talking, but I can pretty much boil it down in a couple of sentences. We bitched and moaned, named names, and pointed fingers. That took up most of the night. Urtho said the mages don’t know strategy, so they’re in no position to dictate it. But he agreed that we had some points, that there were certain leaders who acted as if troops were expendable, and that he would take care of it. And in the meantime, the mages were to retain their assignments, but now to report directly to that Kaled’a’in Adept Snowstar, who would report directly to him. That’s where we left it.” Vikteren shrugged. “Snowstar wasn’t really pleased about being appointed like that, but he’s the most organized Adept next to Urtho that I know, so I figure he’s the logical choice. He has a huge staff of attendants to keep records, and a dozen messenger-birds. Anyway, the mages bitched about so little actually being done, but the generals bitched too, about giving up any of their power, so I guess we came out ahead.”

  “I would say you did.” They settled down on a little rise in the shade. Skan had come here to watch Zhaneel again, but Vikteren was not participating in this run; she was supervising other gryphons on the obstacle-course. Vikteren was not up to helping her and all these others in what was still unofficial training.

  Of course, according to rumor, that would change. Trainer Shire was pushing for it, and he had the backing of some of the mages, who saw this as an excellent place to train apprentices in combative magics. But until this training became official, anything Vikteren did here was going to be with strictly limited resources.

  Neither of them knew what had gone on in Zhaneel’s “little talk” with Winterhart, other than the fact that Zhaneel appeared much more confident—and that she had told Aubri that the Trondi’irn Winterhart actually “had a point” worth considering. The “point,” it seemed, was that gryphons who were unsuited to her style of attack-and-evasion tried to emulate it, and that she and the trainer needed to supervise them before they hurt themselves. So now Zhaneel actually found herself in a position of authority, which had to be a unique experience for her.

  It seemed to be doing her a great deal of good, at least from what Skan could see. He observed that there were a number of positive changes in her. She walked, stood, and even flew with more confidence, more energy. She looked others straight in the eyes, even humans, who she had formerly deferred to with abject humility. Her feathers were crisp and neatly preened, her coat shone with health
.

  In short, she was the most desirable creature he had ever laid eyes on in his life. However, he wasn’t the only gryphon to make that particular observation.

  It did not escape his notice that the other male gryphons exerted themselves—and posed—whenever she happened to look their way. It was also apparent that she was perfectly well aware of their interest.

  It was enough to make him grind his beak in frustration.

  She treated them all impartially, which was some relief, but she wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to him, which was no relief at all. He was sitting quite prominently in the open, after all. He was always conspicuous to gryphons, especially in the daylight. Surely she saw him. Had she forgotten already how he had defended her to Winterhart?

  “So, how are you coming with spreading your little secret around?” Vikteren asked, idly braiding grass-stems into a string.

  “It spreads itself,” Skan replied, watching as Zhaneel demonstrated a tuck-and-roll maneuver, and wondering if his poor flesh and bones had healed enough to permit him to join her pupils. His dancing-skills would surely help him in becoming a star pupil. What had become of that shy little gryfalcon who had so aroused his protective instincts? The instinct she aroused now was anything but just protective! “I told the eight wingleaders and their mates. They in turn told four more gryphons each, and so forth. As Tamsin said, it is an absurdly simple thing, once you know how much was simple misdirection. I expect that in three days, every gryphon here will know.”

  And that includes Zhaneel. But the information I want to give her—I must find a way to get her alone. I need to tell her what she really is.

  “Has anyone asked how you came by this?” The young mage glanced at him sideways. “Or are you playing stupid?”

  Skan laughed, and raised his ear-tufts. “I seldom need to play stupid! If anyone asks, I have half-a-dozen different tales to explain how I learned this information. None of them are true, and all of them are plausible. The greater truth is that this is so important to us all that no one is likely to question the origin, so long as Tamsin and Cinnabar can verify that it is accurate. And it is so important that I do not believe there is a single gryphon who will even tell his hertasi that he is privy to the secret. At least, not soon. No one wishes Urtho to learn that we have this knowledge until I am ready to tell him.”