He slowly peeled Keenath from his foreleg, as the young gryphlet cackled with high-pitched glee and his brother pounced on Skan’s twitching tail.
“You want to be irresponsible?” Zhaneel asked, with a half-smile he didn’t understand, and a rouse of her feathers.
“Well,” he replied, after a moment of thought, “Yes! The more people pile responsibilities on me, the less time I have for anything else! All of my time is taken up with solving other peoples’ problems, until I don’t have any time for my own! And look at me!” He shook himself indignantly. “I’m fat, Zhaneel! I’m overweight and out of condition! I can’t think of the last time I sat around chatting with Amberdrake and Gesten just because I enjoy their company, when I spirited you off for a wild storm ride, or just flew off somewhere to lie senseless in the sun for a while! Or for that matter, to lie on you a while. And the longer this goes on, it seems, the less time I get to even think!”
Zhaneel reached out a foreclaw and corralled her younger son before he reattached himself to his father’s leg, nodding thoughtfully. “But the city is almost finished, except for the things that people must do for their own homes, which you cannot be responsible for,” she pointed out. “So—surely they must not need you as much?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Except that the more things get done, the more they find for me to do. As the months go by, the things are always less vital, but they’re frozen without my word of approval or decree. It’s as if they’ve all decided that I am the only creature capable of making decisions—never mind that I’m only one member of a five-person Council!”
As she fixed her eyes on his, he struggled to articulate feelings that were not at all well defined. “I don’t know if this is some twisted joke that fate has played on me, Zhaneel, but I’m beginning to feel as if I’m not me anymore. It’s as if the old Skandranon is being squeezed out and this—this faded, stodgy, dull old White Gryphon is taking his place! And it is happening in my body, and I can only watch it happen.”
As Tadrith raced around to attack Skan’s other side, Zhaneel cornered him as well, tumbling both gryphlets together into a heap of cushions, where they attacked each other with exuberant energy, their father utterly forgotten. She sat down beside him and nibbled his ear-tuft, with an affectionate caress along his milky-white cheek. “The wars are over, my love,” she pointed out with inar-guable logic. “There are no more secret missions to fly, no more need to dye your feathers black so that you do not show against the night sky—no more real need for the Black Gryphon. We all have changed, not just you.”
“I know that,” he sighed and leaned into her caress. “But—that was more than a part of me, it was who I was and I miss it. Sometimes I feel as if the Black Gryphon died—with—with Urtho—and now all I have left is a shell. I don’t know who or what I am anymore. I only know that I don’t like what’s happened to me.”
Zhaneel clicked her beak in irritation. “Perhaps you do not care for what you are, but there are many of us who were very pleased to see a Skandranon who had learned a bit of responsibility!” she said crisply. “And we would be very annoyed to see that particular lesson forgotten!”
She glared at him just as she would have glared at a foolish young brancher for acting like one of the fledglings.
He shook his head, trying to bite back a hasty retort and instead make her see what he was talking about. “No, it isn’t that,” he replied, groping for words. “I—it’s just that it seems as if I’ve gone to the opposite extreme, as if there just isn’t any time for me to be myself anymore. I’m tired all the time, I never have a moment to think. I feel—I don’t know—thinned out, as if I’ve stretched myself to cover so much that now I have no substance. My duty has consumed me!”
The slightly frantic tone of his voice was enough to make both the youngsters look up in alarm, and Zhaneel patted his shoulder hastily. “You’ll be all right,” she told him, clearly trying to placate him. “Don’t worry so much. You gave a lot of yourself in the journey here. You lost almost all of your strength when you were trapped in the Gates. You just need more rest.”
That’s always the answer, any time I complain that I don’t feel like myself.
“And that’s just what I’m not getting,” he grumbled but gave up trying to explain himself to her. She didn’t understand; how could he expect her to, when he didn’t really understand what was wrong himself?
The gryphlets came galloping over to him again, and he settled down on the floor and let them climb all over him. What was wrong with him, anyway? He had everything he had ever wanted—a lovely mate, a secure home, peace—and he was the leader he had always dreamed of being. Shouldn’t he be content, happy?
Well—except that he wasn’t the leader he had dreamed of being, back when he fought against the sky, makaar, and all the death-bolts an army could hurl at him. The stories he was raised on, of heroes and hopes, said nothing about the consumption of the leader by his duties. He had dreamed of dramatically-lit skies against which his glorious form would glide across the land he protected, and below him the people would cheer to behold him and flock to his presence.
Maybe the problem was simply that he was, at best, a reluctant leader when it came to peacetime solutions, and his discontent with that situation spilled over onto everything else.
Zhaneel nibbled his ear-tuft again, then disappeared into the depths of the lair, presumably with some chore or other to take care of now that he was keeping the youngsters out of her feathers for a while. Skandranon might be caught in chasms of distress, but he would always have affection for his little ones. He loved them day to day as much as he had enjoyed conceiving them. He fisted his claws and bowled the little ones over with careful swats, sending them back into the pile of cushions. They squealed and chirped, rolling around and batting at him in boundless exuberance—for the moment—and he wished that he could be as carefree and happy as they were.
Was everyone as unhappy as he was? He didn’t think so. In fact, he wasn’t quite certain when his current discontent had begun. It was simply that today, he was devoting concentration to realizing it was there, and just how deep it festered.
As arduous as the journey here had been and as fraught with danger and uncertainly, his job had actually been easier then than it was now. He’d only needed to offer encouragement, to keep peoples’ spirits up. He could step up and make a rousing speech, inspire hope, and tell well-timed stories. He was the cloud-white cock of the walk at critical times. Judeth had been in charge of protecting the army of refugees, Gesten and Amberdrake in charge of keeping everyone fed and sheltered. Lady Cinnabar had taken over anything remotely concerned with the health of the group. All he had been asked to do was to provide a figurehead, a reminder of the old days, and what the best of those days had meant.
Skandranon snorted to himself. In other words, vain gryphon, your job was to be their living legend.
Now he had to make decisions—usually difficult, uncomfortable decisions. Worst of all, he was the only “authority” anyone could agree on to arbitrate in disputes between nonhumans and humans—and even though the disputants might agree on him as arbitrator, they were seldom entirely satisfied with him. Humans, he suspected, always were sure he was favoring nonhumans, and the nonhumans were always convinced he would favor humans because of his special relationship with Amberdrake. Annoying, but there it was. And that just led to another source of discontent for him; if people were going to insist he solve their conflicts, the least they could do would be to pretend that they liked the solution! But no matter what he did or did not do, someone would grumble about it!
It almost seemed as if the easier life became, the more trouble people caused! In the beginning, when White Gryphon was nothing more than a collection of tents perched on the terraces, people just never seemed to have the energy or time to quarrel with one another.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe the problems are coming because people have too much spare time?
Sure
ly that was too easy an answer. . . .
And it wasn’t true for everyone, either.
Maybe it was just the curse of civilization. I know that Urtho’s army had all the troubles that plague any big gathering of people. It stands to reason that once people aren’t completely absorbed in the business of trying to get the basic necessities, they’ll go back to their old ways. Look at that Hadanelith creature, for instance! I’ll bet ten years ago he was playing those same games down among the perchi; I’II bet the only reason he didn’t get caught then was because his clients just didn’t come back to him for more, rather than complaining about him. Or else—his clients just didn’t come back from the battlefield.
Or maybe Hadanelith hadn’t been old enough, ten years ago, to ply any kind of trade; Amberdrake hadn’t mentioned his age. That could be why he had been able to fake being trained—if he had lied about his training he could just as easily have lied about his age and experience. Most of the kestra’chern attached to Urtho’s armies had not wound up with the Kaled’a’in Clan k’Leshya; instead they had gone through the Gate that had taken the noncombatants from the purely human forces. That only made sense, of course; why should they have gone where the skills they had trained for would not be needed? The Kaled’a’in Clan k’Leshya had chosen to go with the gryphons and the other nonhumans because of their own special relationship with Urtho’s magically-created creatures—but the other Kaled’a’in Clans had not gone to the same refuge for purely pragmatic reasons. It was best not to put all the refugees in one place. If the Kaled’a’in were to survive as a people or even as a vestige of a people, it was best that the Clans split up, to distribute them over too large an area to wipe out. That Amberdrake was here was partly the result of his own friendship with Skan, and partly the fact that he had joined k’Leshya himself; besides him, there were only the k’Leshya kestra’chern and perhaps a handful of others.
So when there was leisure again, and people began to look for some of the amenities of the old days, there were some things—like trained kestra’chern, for instance—that were in short supply.
Which means that the more subtle unethical people will have the opportunity to revert to type, an opportunity that hasn’t been there until now. That makes sense. Probably too much sense, actually. Urtho might have been the most principled creature in the known lands, but there were not too many like him, in his army or out of it. I suppose, given how many people were pouring through whatever Gate was nearest there at the end, that we shouldn’t have expected that everyone with us was of an angelic nature. We shouldn’t have expected anything. We were just glad to be alive at the time. And later—everyone was too busy to get into trouble, even the potential workers of trouble.
That only depressed him more. Perhaps he was overly idealistic, but he had really hoped that they had left things and people like Hadanelith behind them. I suppose there is going to be crime now, theft and assault, fraud and chicanery, who knows what else. He sighed. More work for the Silvers; I’d thought Judeth was just creating make-work for them, but maybe she had more vision than me.
Or maybe she had just had less blind optimism.
Or maybe she is just smarter than the White Fool.
Well, whatever the reason, General Judeth had done her work well. The Silver Gryphons, with their silver badges and ornamented bracers to show their station to even the most drunken of viewers, were as well-trained as they were well-equipped. Fortunately for Skan’s peace of mind, the stylized silver-wire badges they wore, created by a displaced silversmith who was tired of never being able to make jewelry anymore, bore no resemblance to Skandranon, White or Black. After all, there was only so much adoration a sane mind could accept. The former soldiers had applied their military training to other matters under Judeth’s supervision, and at the time Skan had only felt relief that she was giving them something to make them feel useful.
I thought that gradually we’d be able to phase all those old warhorses out, that once we knew we weren’t going to need protection against whatever is out there in the wilderness, they’d become mostly decorative, rescuing children from trees and the like. Silly me. So now we have police; and it looks as if we are going to need them.
No wonder that Judeth had insisted that the Silvers always travel in pairs, with one of the pair being a Mindspeaker—and no wonder she had politely requisitioned Kechara’s talents and service. Skan hadn’t thought much about that, either, except to be glad that Judeth was giving poor little Kechara something to do to make her feel useful. He’d been too grateful to care, since that got her out from under Zhaneel’s feet most of the day. The eternal child, she’d been fine until Zhaneel gave birth to the little ones—and the sheer work caused by the presence of three children in the lair, one of them half the size of an adult, was just a bit much for Zhaneel.
Even the addition to the household of another hertasi, a young lizard named Cafri, who was Kechara’s best friend, playmate, and caretaker all rolled into one, had not helped until Judeth had come to Skan with her carefully-phrased request. Now Kechara went up to a special room in the Silvers’ headquarters in early mom-ing and did not return until after dark—not that Judeth was abusing her or overworking her. The “special room” was very special; it had a huge open high-silled window, a fabulous balcony, was cooled by the breezes in summer and warmed carefully in winter. It was also crammed full of all the toys the grandmothers could make. There were playmates, too. The mated gryphons among the Silvers brought their own offspring to play there as well. It was just that Kechara of all the “children” would be asked from time to time to Mindspeak a message to someone. She would stop whatever she was doing, happily oblige, then get back to her latest game.
Mindspeech seemed to take no effort whatsoever on her part which, in itself, was rather remarkable. She often forget to say things with words, in fact, projecting her thought or feeling directly into the mind of whoever she was “talking” to, particularly when she was impatient. Acting as message-relay for the Silvers did not bother her in the least—in fact, she was rather proud of herself, insofar as Skan could tell, because she had a job, and none of her playmates did.
:Papa Skan?: said that cheerful little voice in his head, suddenly, and he wondered with startlement if she had somehow picked up his thoughts about her and assumed he was trying to talk to her. :Papa Skan, Unca Aubri says you need to know something.:
He sighed with mingled relief and resignation. Relief, because he didn’t want to have to explain what he had been thinking to Kechara, and resignation because Aubri had been assigned to the unpleasant task of ejecting Hadanelith from White Gryphon. Something must have gone wrong. . . .
:What does Uncle Aubri want, sweetling?: he asked carefully, keeping his own feelings out of what he sent. She was quicker to pick up on emotion than thoughts.
Her reply was prompt and clear. :Unca Aubri says to tell you he’s up on the cliff and that there’s a ship that isn’t ours, and it’s coming in to the docks and he wants you to come where he is right away please.:
His head snapped up. A ship? A strange ship? Friend or foe? :Tell him I’m coming, sweet,: he replied quickly. :Can you please tell Uncle Snowstar and Uncle Tamsin what you just told me? And ask Cafri to run and tell Judeth the same thing?:
:Yes, Papa Skan,: she said with a giggle, largely because she really liked to Mindspeak with “Uncle” Tamsin. She told Skan it was because “he has a furry mind, and it tickles,” whatever that meant. :There, Cafri is gone, I’ll talk to Uncle Snowstar now.:
Her “presence,” as strong as if she had been in the same room with him, vanished from his mind. He leaped to his feet and called to Zhaneel, who came quickly out of the rear of the lair.
“Aubri’s seen a strange ship coming in to the docks,” he told her hastily, and her golden eyes widened as the hackles on the back of her neck stood up a little.
“Who?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We don’t know. I’ve had the Council summoned; we
’ll have to go down and meet it, whoever it is. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
She nodded, and shooed the twin gryphlets into the nursery—which just happened to be the most defensible room in the lair. She knew; she was a child of the Mage Wars, after all. They dared not assume this was a friend, or even a neutral party. They must assume the worst. “Stay safe,” was all she said, over her shoulder, her eyes wide with worry that she would not voice. “I love you, Skandranon Rashkae.”
“I love you, Brighteyes,” was all he could say—then he was off, out the door of the lair and onto the landing porch, using the low wall to leap from. A wingbeat later, and the White Gryphon was clawing his way against the wind to the top of the cliff, where Aubri was waiting.
Amberdrake shaded his eyes and stared at the bobbing sail just beyond the mouth of the bay, even though he knew he would not be able to see anything. Even if he had not been half-blinded by the sunlight on the water, the ship was too far away to make out any kind of detail.
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