Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "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 'Whyyyy-yyy?'—just give them this."

  Skan took it from him, and quickly committed the contents to memory. As soon as he had finished reading it, he tucked the paper away in his neck-pouch for safekeeping. "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 soon 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, to whom she had formerly deferred 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 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 any
one 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."

  Vikteren raised both eyebrows. "So you're the victim—sorry—the volunteer who'll take him the bad news and get nailed to his workroom wall?"

  Skandranon's nares flushed deep red. He could have done without hearing that. "Urtho is my friend. And right or wrong, it was my idea to steal the secret. I should be the one to face Urtho, and not a messenger. The gryphons are all agreed that I will be the one to tell him that he no longer controls us through our wish for progeny. They believe I am the one who can best express this without causing him to react badly."

  "You mean, they think he's less likely to remove portions of your hide than that of any other gryphon," Vikteren observed. "They're probably right."

  "I can only hope," Skan muttered. "I can only hope."

  Will Zhaneel know where the knowledge came from when it is passed to her? He sighed. I wish I dared tell her myself....

  Amberdrake had taken to finding Zhaneel for a few moments every day just to talk, if he could; this evening was no exception, and this evening, for a change, he had quite a bit of free time. That was just as well; all the recent improvement in her spirits and morale had triggered a partial molt, and she had a number of new blood-feathers with feather-sheaths that needed to be flaked and preened away. He hadn't done that for any gryphon except Skan since his days as an apprentice and a feather-painter. The simple task was oddly soothing. Feeling the hardness of the feather-shaft against the softness of the insulating down, the pulse of her heartbeat just under the deep red skin, and the incredible heat a gryphon's body generated was always exhilarating.

  "He was there again today," Zhaneel told Amberdrake, as he helped her groom her itching feathers. "I saw him. He looked thin."

  Amberdrake did not need to ask who "he" was, and the kestra'chern smiled to think of the mighty Skandranon watching Zhaneel from afar like a lovesick brancher in a juvenile infatuation. "He is thin," Amberdrake replied. "That's partially because he's recovering from his injuries. We haven't been letting him exercise as much as he'd like; he always overstresses himself too soon after he's been hurt. But I think he might benefit from one of your classes; should I see if he's interested?"

  Interested? He'll probably claw his way through anyone who stands in his way to get in!

  "Oh...." Zhaneel's nares paled. "I... he...."

  "Don't let him overawe you, my dear," Amberdrake said sharply. "He is just a gryphon, like any other. Yes, he is beautiful, but he has as many faults as he has virtues. You are an expert on these new tactics of yours. He is not." Amberdrake tapped her gently and playfully on the beak. "Furthermore, if you are interested in him, don't show it. He has females flinging themselves at him all the time. You need to establish yourself as different from them. Pretend you think of him with simple admiration for what he's done, but no more."

  "I do not know...." She looked at him over her shoulder, doubtfully. "I do not know that I can do that. He is Skandranon. How can I not show—" Her nares flushed with embarrassment.

  "Why not?" he countered. "Zhaneel, you are every bit as good as he is. You know that; Trainer Shire and I have told you that daily. Haven't we?"

  "Ye-es," she said slowly.

  "So just be yourself. It isn't as hard as you might think. Haven't you always been yourself with me? Let your respect show, and let him guess at the rest." Amberdrake carefully crumbled a bit of feather-sheath from around a newly-emerging wing feather. "Try to think of him the way you think of all those admiring gryphons who are showing off for you on your obstacle course. You don't treat any of them specially."

  She blinked at him in perplexity. Amberdrake sighed; lessons in the games-playing of love never went easily. It was a concept totally foreign to Zhaneel, but eventually she grasped it.

  "The quail that escapes is always fatter than the one you catch," she observed. "I will try, if you think that will work."

  "Since no one has ever succeeded in playing that particular game with Skan before, I suspect that it will," Amberdrake replied with amusement. "And what's more, I think it will serve him right. It will do him good to think that he suddenly can't have any lovely lady he wants. Should surprise him that there's one who is immune to all his charms."

  He brushed Zhaneel's feathers down with a slightly oiled cloth, both to pick up the feather-sheath dust and to shine the feathers themselves. "There," he said, stepping back. "You look wonderful. Sleek, tough, competent, ready for anything."

  Zhaneel bobbed her head with modest embarrassment. "Or anyone?"

  He put his hand beneath her beak and raised it.

  "I tell you again, you are a match for any gryphon that ever existed." He nodded approval as she lifted her head again. "Never forget that, and remember who told you. I am a kestra'chern. I know."

  "I shall try," she promised solemnly.

  "Good." Amberdrake tossed the cloth into a pile of things for Gesten to clean up and sort, pulled the tent flap aside, and gestured to her to walk beside him. "Care to take a stroll with me? I have time, if you do."

  But she shook her head, "I would like this, but truly, I must go. I have a mission to fly in the morning." She glowed with pride. "A real mission, and not make work for a misborn."

  His heart plummeted. It had been so easy to think of those exercises of hers as mere games, and to forget that they were intended to make her fit for combat. It had been possible to pretend that she would never go where so many others had been lost. "A long one?" he asked, trying not to show his apprehension. There was no more reason to be apprehensive about her than about any other gryphon. Less so, in fact, for the makaar could not anticipate her moves as they could those of a gryphon with conventional training. Wasn't that what made Skan so successful, that the makaar couldn't anticipate what he would do next?

  Nevertheless, a chill he knew only too well settled over him. That is what makes Skan so much of a target as well. Eliminate him, and you strike a terrible blow at the gryphons as a whole, for it makes them more predictable.

  Once again, someone he knew and cared for would be going away, making herself into a thing the enemy could strike at and—

  And this was a war, however he might like to forget the fact. It was Zhaneel's responsibility to obey her orders, wherever they took her, a responsibility for which she had been bred and trained.

  And she was so pleased, so happy about this assignment; so very proud that she had been entrusted with it. How could he spoil it with his own fears and nerves?

  He couldn't, of course. So, as always, he tried to ignore the way his insides knotted up around a ball of ice in the pit of his stomach, and smiled and praised her, as he had smiled and praised every fighter he had sent out to this war. And despite the anxiety he felt, he did mean every word.

  That was his duty, his responsibility. Give them confidence; relax them. Make them forget the past if they must, and remind them of what their reasons for fighting are. Show them that they have a life beyond the fighting, a life worth saving.

  "It is a high-flight mission," Zhaneel continued, blissfully unaware of the way his heart ached, and the pain in his soul. "The place where Skandranon found those stick-things. I am to carry the thing that Urtho made, which undoes them, and fly a pattern while I make it work; the rest of Sixth Wing East is to rain them with smoke-boxes. Then the fighters come, under cover of the smoke."

 
So she would be above the general level of the fighting, presumably out of reach of any ground weapons. But makaar?

  They'll have to fight their way through Sixth Wing to get to her, he reminded himself. She's carrying one of Urtho's magic boxes, which makes her nonexpendable. They'll protect her.

  If they can. If the makaar don't get through. If the magic really does work on those lightning-sticks.

  If, if, if. Who commanded this mission anyway? If it was General Shaiknam—then even carrying a precious magical artifact, Zhaneel was considered expendable by virtue of the fact that she was a gryphon.

  "Urtho planned this," Zhaneel continued, thereby easing some of his unspoken fears. "He commands the mission, and General Sulma Farle is the field commander. And I am to carry the magic thing because I have true hands to make it work. If it is triggered too far away, it will not work, Urtho says."

  "Then fly high and well, warrior," Amberdrake told her, patting her shoulder with expertly simulated confidence. "I shall have fresh fish waiting for your return, and a victory feast."

  Zhaneel's tiny ear-tufts rose at that. "Fresh fish?" she said, clicking her beak in anticipation. "Truly?" She adored fresh fish—by which she meant, still alive—and liked it better when they wiggled as she swallowed them. Where she had acquired this particular taste, Amberdrake could not imagine; most gryphons preferred raw, red meat, and none but she liked their fish still living.

  Maybe there's some osprey in her somewhere. Or there are some eagles that have a liking for fish. Or maybe it is only because it is Zhaneel. "Truly," he promised. "A victory feast between friends, though I shall have my fish nicely cooked."

  Zhaneel made a little hiss of distaste to tease him, but readily agreed to the celebration.

  What Amberdrake had not told her was that it was not going to be a victory dinner for two, but for four. Zhaneel, himself, Gesten—and Skandranon. Though he would not tell Skan either. This should be very amusing, at the very least, and with luck it would come off well.