Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-101

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Socially, yes, but our agents report the situation began economically. We’ve just sent the Skybolts and what regulars we can spare. Turning in on ourselves, after so many outside threats—it doesn’t feel right. The timing of it. I don’t think we know enough about action at the front . . .” she trailed off, seeing Treyvan—pacing. His raptorial eyes, crystal-sharp, appeared to be focused on nothing in particular, as if he was preoccupied. “What is it?” she asked of him, while a clerk handed her a new stack of notes to be signed.

  The gryphon turned his attention back to the others by the table, explaining for the adjuncts’ benefit. “Therrre arrre many waysss forrr a grrryphon to die,” he began, rolling his Rs and hissing the sibillants in the accent all gryphons bore when speaking Valdemaran. “Assside frrrom the usssual overrrcasssting risssksss, frrrom headachesss to unwanted combussstion, overrrworrrk of magerrry can lead to deadly maladiesss, in grrryphonsss. It isss why we take sssuch carrre. The more unssskilled the casssterrr, the morrre enerrrgy isss usssed forrr a ssspell. The ssspell purrrpossse—itsss dirrrective ssstrrructurrre—trrriesss many posssible sssolutionsss to compensssate forrr the lack of prrrecssisssion. Each attempt usssesss powerrr, and then demandsss morrre forrr the next attempt to begin. Without knowledge of the ssspecif—”

  “The point?” Darkwind asked, cutting off what might have become one of Treyvan’s infamous lectures on magic theory.

  Treyvan shot Darkwind an indignant glance. “You humansss have lesss rrrisssk in magerrry becaussse you can live without it. We live by magic powerrr morrre than food and drrrink. It isss one of hundrrredsss of rrreasssonsss why even cssenturrriesss afterrr ourrr crrreation, we rrrequirrre trondi’irn forrr conssstant help jussst to sssurrrvive. We arrre sssusstained by the converrrsion of magical enerrrgy jussst to live, brrreathe, and move. If a grrryphon pushesss too farrr, vital sssystemsss will ceassse theirrr functionsss. Even losssing too many featherrrsss can kill a grrryphon, becaussse we mussst collect the frrree-field, orrr asss Masssterrr Levy callsss it, parrrticulate magical enerrrgy thrrrough them into the featherrr corrresss, sssocketsss, and frrrom therrre into the interrrlacssed sssyssstemsss of . . .”

  “That point you were getting to, Treyvan?” Darkwind prompted again.

  “Hurrrhhh. Free-field enerrrgy isss denssserrr sssincsse the Ssstorrrmsss, and ssso, easierrr to sssift frrrom the airrr. A grrryphon ssspellworrrkerrr, asss the dissspatch indicatesss thisss one isss, could heal himssself, if he could heal anotherrr. But the changesss sssincsse the Ssstorrrmsss have made mossst of Valdemarrr—hazy. Like a fog, magically. And any . . . dozen . . . thingsss could be wrrrong, jussst frrrom indissscrrriminate ssspellworrrk alone.”

  Darkwind nodded. “Indi’ta kusk, for example. Tcha’ki’situsk. In k’Leshyan, gryphon heavy injuries translate to ‘ruins.’ Most deep injuries cascade into worse bodily failures, and are ultimately lethal. If it is, say, a nullment ruin, hirs’ka’usk, then even what we consider ‘normal’ organs will falter as a result of the magic conversion organs waning.”

  “Small wonder our Healers are lost. Magical organs? Converters? More unpronounceable words?” Elspeth could only shrug. “We don’t know who the gryphon is or what the injuries are, and we have a thousand other problems right now. What are we going to do about it?” Elspeth and Darkwind both glanced meaningfully at the Gryphon Adept while stacks of fresh dispatches were handed over.

  The gryphon narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t do sssomething, I will.”

  “You probably should, sheyna,” Darkwind answered bluntly, sensing an opportunity and taking it. “Consider yourself assigned. We’re in deep right here. All of our heavy magic work is going to be stopping a very uncivil war. And if there are no objections, if you can go north, I want you to take a writ of authority and your badges of rank with you, and help out up there. At least establish a teleson link if you get the chance. We are only getting so much back by Herald and courier. I’d like your eyes, and your power, up there. Your gryphon’s your priority, but the rest—best discretion.”

  Treyvan nodded firmly, and let his hackles smooth down as he turned to exit. The two door guards he’d bullied through before flung open the doors as the gryphon closed in on them. Treyvan eyed each of them, and paused—then rumbled, “Sssorrry about earlierrr,” and stalked briskly down the hall.

  In a word, Kelvren was miserable. The rain persisted, and the too-small tent he’d been allocated had long since fallen down over him. The tent poles had slanted forward to begin with, and when the wind picked up they’d fallen all the way. It left his rump and tail out in the rain, and the canvas of the tent draped over his head like a very soggy, ill-designed cloak’s hood.

  He’d managed to inch his hindquarters up enough that they weren’t mired in the mud, but that was it. The trouble was, he felt so heavy. Not lethargic, like he’d been drowsing in the sun. That was different. This was simply the feeling that his wings weighed too much, and that his muscles weren’t up to the task of moving him. If he still had his teleson set, he could call for help. He could have called for help before he was even wounded—but it was long lost back where his skirmish took place and was probably since crushed under horse hooves. Kelvren was a weak Mindspeaker to begin with. The teleson amplified what he was able to muster, and without it, he probably couldn’t Mind-speak past his tail.

  The Healer that had tended to him after he’d saved Hallock Stavern’s life had long since departed to the Front—and she hadn’t known even the basics of gryphon anatomy. She’d confessed to Birce she’d used draft animal Healing techniques on him, in fact. The indignity of it! She’d better not tell that to anyone else or she’d have Silver Gryphon Kelvren to answer to. And she didn’t want that, he told himself.

  His secret bravado was fading away with every minute of this storm. He feared some sort of awful infection from his wounds was causing his inertia. The day seemed hopeless, and tomorrow he’d be weaker still. He could feel it. This was no way for a hero to end. He thought again about a famed tapestry picture he’d admired as a youth, back at the city of White Gryphon. It was many centuries old, of Skandranon, the Black Gryphon, wings spread, standing majestically atop Urtho’s Tower with all the people of the Kaled’a’in looking up at him adoringly. The moon and stars shone behind the hero and made a halo around his body.

  That, young Kelvren Skothkar had beamed, just days before joining the Silver Gryphons for training. I want to be like that. I want to be a legend.

  It seemed like it might work, too. He trained hard, and emulated the ancient hero in every way that he could—superb flyer, vicious fighter, fine strategist, stupendously skilled lover—well, at least he thought so—and when the choice was to be bold or prudent, he went with bold. And reputation was vital—everyone knew who Skandranon Rashkae was in ancient times, even the dreaded enemies Ma’ar and the makaar. Kelvren didn’t precisely boast, but he always made certain everyone knew who he was, and knew every deed. He knew he’d be a hero if he tried hard enough. A glorious legend!

  Instead, he was like this. Mud was splattering up onto his chin and breastfeathers from the constant rain splashing the soil in front of the tent. Miserable. There was constant, throbbing agony from his wounds. The whipstitching felt like a line of fire. No one was coming to help him either. His friends at Kelmskeep and k’Valdemar had to be searching for him—but he was weak, and without a teleson he couldn’t tell them where he was—and there were none with the soldiers, not a mage or Herald or even a hedge-wizard, who could Mindspeak or send word. He was angry, and anger was turning into one of the things that kept him going. They didn’t bring him enough food, for one thing. There was no one to come clean him, no one to see to his needs. No one to groom him. No one to admire him. All the basics of gryphon well-being were absent.

  And he was stuck on the ground.

  Murky as the sky was, he couldn’t help but gaze up at it. A Tayledras proverb said, “When once you have tasted flight, you forever after walk the earth with your e
yes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will ever long to return.” Never before was it so heartbreakingly true. If he had bothered to count the number of times he’d twitched his heavy wings, gathered up his shaky haunches to leap, and almost surged forward to flight—but stopped, knowing he couldn’t—he would probably feel even worse.

  He’d been on his feet earlier in the day, when the downpour ceased for a while. He’d shambled around through the underbrush and high grasses of the hillock they’d put him on. Well away from the troops, the townspeople, their homes, their goods, and their horses.

  As if I’d eat the horses, anyway. Of course I wouldn’t. Unless they were offered.

  Someone down there had probably seen him eyeing the corral, too. He felt like someone was always looking his way. He saw no smiles when he caught the locals at it either. It definitely did not fulfill the ever-so-vital requirement a gryphon had: to be admired. This was more like—well, it was what it was—being kept purposely at a distance. Twice today he’d felt an overwhelming emotional wave, like a sour crop forcing its way up, that he simply wasn’t wanted here. He swayed on his feet then and sat down abruptly, cracking the bushes underneath him when he thought about it. It just didn’t feel right to be like this. They had to know what he’d done for Hallock, and what he’d done for Valdemar—didn’t they? Didn’t that count for anything?

  It counted for something. He just hadn’t realized, when he was walked to the tent and given an uncooked pork haunch, just how true what they’d said was.

  It’s the least we can do.

  Apparently, it was.

  He’d been put out here, with pleasantries about having free space to roam around and no crowding. How diplomatic a way to tell him he’d been literally put out to pasture. It took an effort to even heave a sigh when he thought about it. He had belly cramps. He attributed them to the food, the weather, and to his discontent. And, he itched. He felt like he was getting parasites under his feathers, and didn’t have the spare strength to gnaw and scratch at them. And now, here he was—the brave skydancer—soaked, stuck, under a tarp, having a thoroughly unwanted mud-bath.

  It just couldn’t get much worse, he thought, except there is a Tayledras saying that thinking those words is the first sign that it will definitely be worse.

  There was so much noise from the rain and thunder that he didn’t hear someone approach until they were close enough to startle him. He felt suddenly furious at himself that instead of lurching to his feet ready for a threat, he only flinched. His eyes must have looked especially intense, as a result, because the boy who came toward him immediately backpedaled. The boy had on loose, heavily patched pants and over-large boots, and the rain sluiced off of his wide-brimmed—and also quite patched—sun hat. Right now the hat only seemed to serve as a way of directing rain down his back. He carried a sack in both hands that for all the world appeared to contain—and be completely covered in—mud. He looked about as gaunt as Kelvren felt, and his untanned skin had irregular patches of very dark brown, like the hide of a wild horse or domestic cattle. It wasn’t like anything Kel had seen before on a human. Then again, like seemingly everything else in this part of the world, the dark splotches could have just been caked mud.

  “Sir Gryphon, sir? ’S time for your feeding. Is that all right, sir? You hungry?” The boy’s voice was strained with fear, and the words were obviously forced out between nearly clenched teeth. In fact, those teeth chattered a little from the rain as the wind picked up. “Come to feed you? Sir?”

  “Hurrrh, yesss, come. Clossserrr. I won’t eat you. What did you brrring?” The insult the boy delivered was galling. Come to feed him, like he was some animal in a pen? Did they have any idea who he was? What he was? He tried to stand, but instead just felt pinned by the soaked canvas. “Thessse polesss fell down. Come help with them firrrssst.”

  The boy looked around for a dry place to put his load, and since there was none, he settled on a thick clump of tallgrass to cradle the sack. It was still in the rain but out of the immediate muddy water. Hitching up his pants, he clumped through the sludge to the edge of the canvas, pulled it up, and met Kelvren’s eyes full-on. Apparently up this close to a gryphon for the first time, the boy looked like a squirrel who just that moment realized that the pretty shadow closing in on him was an owl. Ten heartbeats passed before the boy moved another inch.

  At that precise moment between ten and eleven heartbeats, the canvas weakly arched over Kelvren’s head collapsed completely from the weight of the rain on it, leaving only the curve of a muddy beak sticking out.

  Kelvren closed his eyes and sighed. From the miserable to the absurd. I did wonder, the gryphon thought, and now I know. It does get worse.

  Treyvan walked to the recital chamber Hydona was using as a classroom. The sunlight from the dormers glinted on seven knifeblades, and illuminated the swirls of dust from feathers and age stirred up by the belt-fed brass overhead fans and the wings of the three gryphons already in the room. Sixteen people, a few in Herald’s Whites, were in a loose semicircle strewn with books, folios, and large multicolored drawings. They all seemed comfortable, propped up on dozens of mismatched pillows, and Hydona looked most comfortable of all lying on her belly on a short stage. Behind her, the two gryphlets, Jervan and Lytha, were doing their best to hover without flapping their wings. The lift that gave gryphons their ability to fly was in their bones, and it was a discipline to try and hover solely by mental control without moving any air by wings. Lytha looked to be a prodigy, almost a yard from the floor, with all four feet dangling down as if she was held in midair like a boneless cat. Jervan only managed to get his forelegs and wings to stay up without too much effort. He held himself in place and cried out, “Rrrampant!” then used his new position as an opportunity to bat at his sister’s tail more easily.

  Treyvan swept in and told Jervan, “Leave yourrr sssisssterrr alone orrr I’ll feed you to the Companionsss,” reached out, and bumped Jervan with a wingtip. The gryphlet’s wings snapped out straight from his sides, changing his center of balance in his partial levitation. He fell over backward, whistling high-pitched laughter, while his sister joined in—but she sounded smug.

  “Tyrrrant,” Hydona trilled as her mate approached. “Come to conquerrr?” she teased as Treyvan tapped beaks with her and then turned his head upside-down to accept an ear nibble. “You sssee, ssstudentss, you mussst be prrreparrred to maintain yourrr worrrk durrring any dissstrrraction.” The seven knives she held suspended point-down in midair between the stage and the students didn’t waver. In fact, it appeared that she paid no attention to the knives at all. “Thisss isss why you essstablish sssolid anchorrr pointsss when beginning worrrk. Rrrelative posssitionsss mean rrrelative forrrcsse. When you know the posssitionsss well, you can then concssentrrrate on what might affect thossse posssitionsss. Contrrrol isss in how you sssenssse the changesss in thossse posssitionsss. and compensssate. Thisss isss why ssso many trrraditionsss ussse diagrrramsss and patterrrnsss in magic; they arrre waysss of trrracking posssitionsss asss powerrr isss moved and changed. In thisss way you can usse finessse, and lesss powerrr, by accurrrate percsseption. Morrre awarrrenesss meansss using lesss brrrute forcsse.”

  “Unlesss you like brrrute forcsse,” Treyvan teased.

  “Unlesss you have a mate that interrruptsss you conssstantly durrring yourrr prrracticsse. Then brrrute forcsse isss authorrrized, and you may ussse the knivesss on him,” she replied in the same tone. Gryphlets cackled from behind her, and most of the students laughed outright.

  “You wound me,” Treyvan complained.

  “I wisssh,” Hydona replied, and chewed on his other ear. “But I need you arrround ssso I don’t torrrment the ssstudentsss asss much. What isss wrrrong?” Her tone changed from mocking to concerned as she sat up on her haunches.

  “An unknown grrryphon’sss been grrrounded, up norrrth,” Treyvan admitted. “He isss at one of the sssupply line villagesss but therrre isssn’t anyone who knowsss w
hat’sss wrrrong with him. Rrreportsss sssay he isss without magic, and not doing well.”

  “You ssshould go,” Hydona answered immediately. Gryphlet heads popped up from behind the stage. “I’ll sssee to yourrr ssstudentsss and herrrd thossse two without you forrr a while.”

  “Hurrrh. Arrre you sssurrre you want me away?” Treyvan prompted.

  “You can go away asss long asss you need to, loverrr,” Hydona purred. “becaussse I know who you’rrre coming back to.”

  The rain had finally let up to just a haze and the boy had gotten the tent back up while Kelvren wobbled away through the field to relieve himself. He limped back, wings dragging in the tallgrass, and crawled into the tent. The gryphon bumped a wing and dislodged one of the four poles doing so, but the boy quickly sloshed around to prop it back up. Kelvren was almost turned completely over onto his stronger side, trying to get to some of his worst itches with his beak or talons when the boy said, “I’ll get your food, sir. Just wait right there.”

  Kelvren openly growled.

  “I’ll be herrre. Why would I want to leave thisss palace?” the gryphon snorted. “All the sssilk tapessstrrriesss and dancssing girrrlsss arrre rrreason enough to ssstay.”

  “It’s not so bad, sir, just depends what you compare it to. That’s what I always tell myself.” He returned with the sack and plopped it on the slightly less muddy tent floor.

  “Not ssso bad? I am sssoaked to the bone. I can barrrely walk, I look terrrible, and I have beetlesss and twigsss underrr my wingsss. Do you underrrssstand? Beetlesss and twigsss.”

  “Ticks, too, probably,” the boy shrugged. He undid the knots on the sack and left it open like a feedbag in front of the gryphon. “We get a lot of ticks around here. When it rains, they climb as high as they can up on the grass.” The boy took his hat off and shook it toward the outside—an exercise in futility if there ever was one, since the hat had so many open patches in the weave, he may as well have been wearing an angler’s net on his head.