Sure enough, brown eyes narrowed in Galahad’s direction. “When I said you were capable of starting tornados, knight, I didn’t expect you to prove me right quite so quickly.”
Galahad made a face. “It was a sandstorm, not a tornado. And why are you blaming me for it?”
“Who else would I blame?” Trystan roared. “It’s your fault. That man I ripped in half was correct on that score. It’s always your fault. You throw yourself headlong into danger --Unarmed and with no plan in your empty blond head-- and bedlam ensues.”
“He does not even have a sword?” The sandman lamented with a sad “tsk.” “Gryphon, your man will not survive if you allow this kind of ridiculous behavior.”
Trystan made a “finally someone understands my pain” sort of sound. “You see, knight? Why do you not comprehend what is obvious to all others?”
“I used to kill people professionally.” Galahad scoffed. “I’ve undoubtedly had more training than anybody else in Lyonesse. I’ve won every battle I’ve ever fought. You can relax, because I know what I’m doing.”
Trystan wasn’t convinced. “You have not won every battle, knight.”
“Sure, I have. Ask anyone.”
“What about the pigs who nearly barbequed you? Shall I ask them? They had you tied to a pole, when I arrived. You somehow count that as a victory?”
“Oh, that wasn’t a battle.” Galahad snorted dismissively. “And I probably would have pulled through it okay. I was getting my second wind.”
“You were forty seconds from death when I arrived. Which was still better than this mess.” He waved a hand at all the various pieces of Grundys.
The sandman wasn’t done complaining about Galahad, either. “The sun here is too harsh for his kind, as well, gryphon. The knight is going to be baked in no time.”
“I won’t get sunburned.” Galahad said, but no one was listening.
The sandman reached down and took the hat off a dead Grundy for him. “Put this on.”
Trystan snatched it from him, before Galahad could take it. His eyes fixed on the sandman, like he was back to thinking up ways to kill him. “I care for this man.” It was a warning coated in icy death. “Not you. Only me.”
The sandman held up his palms in conciliation and took a step back. “I was just trying to help keep your knight alive.”
Trystan relented. Slightly. “Well, the lunatic needs all the help he can get, that is obvious.” He unceremoniously dropped the hat over Galahad’s hair. “Here.”
It smelled. The fact that he kept the ratty thing on his head was proof of Galahad’s devotion to this man. “I don’t like hats. I always lose them.”
Trystan ignored that, too, adjusting the brim. “It begins to make sense now, why I could never predict your battle strategies in the War. You had none. It’s no wonder I was forever confused by your actions.”
“I had plenty of great strategies!” Galahad defended. “Remember when I led your guys in a big clockwise circle and got them all stuck in that briar patch…?” He stopped, a sudden thought popping into his head. “Hey, why do you think clocks go clockwise? Who decided that?”
Trystan covered his eyes with a palm and sighed.
The sandman smiled, amused by Trystan’s frustration. “I envy you, gryphon. You possess a true gift.”
“I possess a true pain in the ass. …At least until I kill him and free myself.” Trystan went back to glowering at Galahad. “That plan makes sense. You are determined to die anyway, so I might as well have the fun of finishing you off, yes? Afterwards, I can go looking for Mount Feather and live with the old clans, forgetting that wingless knights even exist. I have no idea why I don’t.”
“Because you’re not a fool.” The sandman intoned. “And only a fool would let such a mate slip through his fingers.”
Trystan glanced at him sharply.
Galahad’s eyebrows climbed, suddenly liking the sandman a lot.
“I had a woman with a heart like his, before the War.” The sandman held Trystan’s gaze. “She drove me crazy with her desire to save the world. When I was with her, I had everything. Without her…” He trailed off and his sigh was filled with sorrow. “I have nothing.”
Trystan remained silent, but his eyes were intent.
“You do not want to be where I am, gryphon.” The sandman pointed at Galahad. “For your own sake, do what you must to guard this man. Hold him. Tight. Believe me, the world is dark without beings like him to brighten it for us.”
“We’re sorry for your loss.” Galahad told the sandman. The creature’s grief was real and vast, so it seemed appropriate to offer condolences. “Aren’t we, Trys?”
“Yes.” He said softly and it sounded like he actually meant it.
The sandman moved his hand and a pouch somehow appeared in his palm. “Here.” He tossed it to Galahad. “I fulfill my debts, whether or not repayment is required. Use this to protect yourself, the next time you’re in trouble and save the gryphon from my fate.”
Galahad caught the small pouch, clumsily, because he was still tied to the saddle. He examined the parcel and realized the sandman had given him sleeping sand. Jesus, that was super rare and super valuable. The finely milled dust was infused with the sandman’s powers and it worked on everyone. It was natural magic, so even Galahad would feel the effects. A few grains would send someone into a deep sleep for hours. More than a few grains and they’d never wake up, at all.
Galahad had no clue what he was going to do with it, but it was still a thoughtful gift.
He looked up, wanting to say thanks, but the sandman was already gone. He deteriorated into a mist of dirt, floating away into the desert. It was actually very pretty to witness. Galahad turned to watch the trail of dust drift away, the sun glinting off the particles.
…And that’s when he noticed the Grundy with the gun.
The brother who’d been napping when he’d first walked up, the one who’d been impaled by a shovel when the elves attacked, was still slightly alive. He’d rolled onto his side. Using his last ounce of strength, he pointed a revolver at Trystan’s back. Before he died, he wanted to take out the man who’d killed Solomon.
His finger squeezed the trigger and Galahad stepped forward, into the line of fire. His hands came up, blocking as much of Trystan as possible, and then the bullet hit. The force of it had Galahad staggering backwards into Trystan.
Trystan’s head snapped around, taking everything in with one sweeping glance. “P’don.” He dragged Galahad closer, scanning him up and down. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
For a second, he wasn’t sure.
“Galahad, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Galahad gave his head a clearing shake and held up the saddle. “It was a small caliber. The leather stopped the bullet. I’m okay.”
Trystan stared down at the hole in the side of the thickly padded saddle, like he was trying to wrap his brain around a complex puzzle. “You knew that would happen? When you stepped in front of me, you knew the saddle would shield you?”
“…Sure.” Galahad tried to sound confident, but he could tell from Trystan’s answering growl that he wasn’t successful.
“Son of a bitch.” Trystan made a wrathful sound and his gaze whipped over to the last Grundy, but the man had already slumped over dead. “Son of a bitch.” He looked back at Galahad, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Do not ever --ever-- do that again. I would never choose my life over yours. What the hell were you thinking?!”
“I was thinking that without you,” Galahad shrugged and told the truth, “I’d have nothing.”
Trystan looked up at the sky and squeezed his eyes shut. Trying to calm down. A long moment past.
“Trys? You okay?”
“I was at the Battle of Flags.” Trystan opened his eyes to look at him, picking up the earlier conversation like nothing else had happened. “We weren’t expecting Uther’s men to cut us off like that. Not so close to the village. I thought your side
would kill us all and that would be the end of me. It was a clever maneuver, knight.”
Galahad brightened. “Thanks.” Finally some positive feedback on his tactics.
Trystan wasn’t done. “Afterwards, I questioned whether I had been overestimating you as an opponent. I thought you must be the biggest imbecile in creation for letting us escape, after you trapped us so effectively.”
“Thanks.” This time the word was sardonic.
“No one else, on any side of the War, would have stopped their advance. And all others of your kind would have ridden their enemies down, slaughtering men, women and children. Only you would have let us get away.”
Now, Galahad was getting annoyed. “I just didn’t want to shoot retreating gryphons for no damn reason, when we could possibly reach a peace agreement or…”
Trystan cut him off. “You misunderstand me.” His hand came out to grip the back of Galahad’s neck and Galahad’s insides tightened in pleasure. “Only you would care about having an honorable victory, instead of an easy one. Only you would choose a path without personal glory, out of kindness and hope. Only you would willingly accept demotion for showing mercy to an enemy. Only you, knight.”
Galahad’s jaw dropped, shocked that Trystan had just said such a beautiful thing to him.
“So this?” Trystan gestured around the town again, still not letting Galahad go. “All this must stop.” He gave him a small shake. “You must stop risking yourself. The War took the rest of your breed. You are the last and you must survive.” His eyes met Galahad, his gaze intent. “At least one hero should be left in the world.”
Chapter Fourteen
Battle of Pen Rhionydd
Start of the Second Looking Glass Campaign
Inside the zoo, Trystan had no idea what was happening in the rest of Pen Rhionydd.
He had no idea that Lyrssa Highstorm’s forces had overrun the city and were burning the wingless supply depots. He had no idea that Uther’s forces were retaliating with bombs and guns. He had no idea which side was winning or losing or if it even mattered. Even later, he didn’t know all that happened outside the cage that held him.
But he recalled exactly what the other gryphons in the zoo did in their last moments.
He carried it all with him, using the memories to help guide him for the rest of his life. Bits and pieces of it would return to him at odd moments, letting him know he was on the right track. The gryphons who raised him were always with him. They were his clan.
Even Fisher.
“Do you know why Uther locked us up in here, boy?” Fisher got to his feet and hobbled closer to Trystan. “It wasn’t to preserve our species, or whatever that plaque out there says.” He waved a disparaging hand to the sign on the front of the cage, which described the “Primitive Peoples Exhibit” to visitors. “No. It’s because he wants our secrets.”
“We don’t know where the Looking Glass Pool is.” Trystan argued. “Why would he…?”
“It’s in Atlantis.” Fisher hissed, cutting him off. “That is where our people built Listeneise. Inside of that building is our oldest holy site. The first temple. Uther knows some of that, which is why he’s burning all of our temples. He’s looking for the secrets hidden in the first one. He won’t find them, though.” His eyes were sly. “I made sure of that.”
Trystan tilted his head, not knowing what to believe. Fisher wasn’t an entirely reliable source of information. Sometimes he talked to the grass. “You’ve been to this place?
“I’ve been everywhere. I’ve seen fire that lives and horses that swim. I’ve seen statues older than time, in fields of the stony dead. I’ve peered into the Looking Glass Pool.” He leaned down, crouching next to Trystan, his bones creaking. “And it looked back at me.”
Trystan blinked.
“I couldn’t go into the pool to get the graal, though. Oh no. It would have killed me, for sure.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t my mission. I’m not the ya’lah. No one is.”
Trystan’s heart sank. “No one?”
“No one is enough.” The old man’s head tilted at a slightly-wrong angle. “Count higher.”
“Huh?”
“All of Atlantis is below the sea, you know.” Fisher was getting spacey again, losing his grip on the real world. That happened a lot. “It was an accident that I found Listeneise. The voices of dead gryphons spoke to me that day. Showed me a path. Told me to leave a path, so he can follow it to the graal.”
Trystan was reluctantly fascinated now. Fisher said many strange things, but this tale was actually pretty good. “What kind of path?”
“I drew it all out on a few maps and hid them in foreign libraries, far from Uther’s reach. Maps go in libraries. Smart people go in libraries and look at them, even with wizards around. And a shield, just as the voices told me…” He stopped. “Or ‘her.’ Not just ‘him.’ I said ‘him,’ but it could be ‘her.’ Any gender can be a ya’lah.” He nodded, like that all made sense. “‘Them.’ I left a path for them to follow.” His head tilted, at a strange angle. “Yes. In the end, it will be them.”
“You just said there was no ya’lah.” Trystan argued. “Were you wrong?”
“I’m never wrong.” Fisher sounded insulted. “My mate was a ya’lah. She died defending our children and our clan. Then, they died, too. That was seventy-two years ago, before the Wingless War. She was the one who spoke to me the clearest, that day over the water. It’s why I knew to listen. I remembered her voice, even after such a long time…” He trailed off and stared at nothing for a moment.
“I remember my mother’s voice.” Trystan said quietly. “She used to sing to me.”
Fisher jolted himself out of his memories. “When my ha’yan died, I started traveling everywhere, looking for gems and magic. People say I was obsessed, but that wasn’t it. I just had nothing else to do. No bright hopes or true path.” His eyes went wide. “A ghost!”
Trystan glanced around. “A ghost?” Fisher was always talking about ghosts, but Trystan never saw them. “Where?”
“Right before you. I’m a ghost. Without dreams, people become ghosts, boy. They’re dead in a living world.” His milky eyes met Trystan’s. “Don’t be like me.”
Trystan was slightly disappointed by the lack of a poltergeist haunting them. “Okay.” He agreed distractedly. “So, if there’s no ya’lah, what’s the point of anyone searching for the graal with your maps? It won’t do them any good, even if they find it. Only the ya’lah can break the curse.”
Fisher ignored that logic, stuck on his tangent about ghosts. “Find a dream and follow it, boy. And when you’re lost and your dream follows you…? Tell it not to look at the horizon. Look straight down.” He slowly pointed at the ground and Trystan’s eyes followed the gesture, half-expecting to see an island appear beneath them.
The whole exchange made very little sense, even when Trystan reflected on it later, but it would see him locked in prison for three years.
Once Uther and Marcus realized that Trystan was the last one alive from the zoo, everything would change. They would inadvertently kill Fisher before he could lead them to Atlantis, evidence of his travels uncovered long after the Battle of Pen Rhionydd. They would reason that Trystan might harbor Fisher’s secrets. They were right. Rather than kill Trystan outright when they captured him, they would be determined to learn everything that the old man had said. But, even when they tossed him in prison, Trystan would never tell them any of this conversation. He gave Uther nothing of his clan, even when he’d seen no value in Fisher’s words.
He would one day tell Galahad, though.
“Trystan,” Elaine landed beside them, resolve lighting her face, “we must speak, child.”
“Fisher says no one is the ya’lah.” Trystan reported, not wanting to believe it. “Do you think that’s so, Elaine?”
She flashed the old man a frown. “You told him that?”
“It’s true!”
She shook her head. “We do not have t
ime for this nonsense.”
“This is the only time we have left.” Fisher scoffed. He got to his feet and limped back over to the tree. “The last time for any of us.” He settled down against the trunk, not perturbed by their fate. “It’s a good day to die, yes?”
“Not for Trystan, it isn’t. He has other days ahead.” Elaine petted the top of Trystan’s head, as she spoke. “We are going to get him free of this place.”
“But, I want to be with you.” Trystan protested. “I don’t want to go out there.” The world beyond the walls of the enclosure was foreign to him, now.
“This is not your path, Trystan.” Elaine’s hand cupped his cheek. “Your path is long and important and far from here. You have stories left to tell. Lives left to touch.”
The booming sounds outside were getting progressively louder.
The other gryphons landed on the floor of the cage, like there was nothing else to observe outside the glass of the dome. As Trystan watched, they began hacking off their warrior braids with the rock-edged tools they’d created, just in case they ever needed weapons. Warriors never cut their braids, so all their hair was thick and over a foot long.
What was happening?
“I don’t want to leave.” Trystan repeated, a little wildly. “Don’t make me leave.”
Elaine began weaving the braids together. “Ban, speak with him.” She urged. Her blonde hair was short, now. It looked wrong.
This was wrong.
Ban came over and scooped Trystan up. “You have to be strong, child.” His thumb traced down the center of Trystan’s face from his forehead to his nose. “You are likely the last of your clan. You must survive.”
Trystan’s arms wrapped around his neck, holding tight. “You are all my clan.”
“If the curse did not stand in between us, I would have adopted you, Trystan.” Gryphons were generally born without emotions, but something shook Ban’s voice. “I promise you, you would be my son. All of us would do the same. All of us claim you as our clan. And, in doing that, we vow to always keep you safe, no matter the cost. You must live now and be the last of this clan, too.”
Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4) Page 23