But most of the Gryphons had been destroyed since then. In the dark ages that followed the Third Shining, they were lost through the ignorance of pilots who were no longer properly instructed in the command of their skittish craft. Physically, the Gryphons were quite frail, no more than a skeleton and membrane containing the crystals and fluids necessary to establish the controlling link between pilot and craft, and carry the canisters of nerve gas or virus or mutagens dispatched in the Ascendants’ rains of terror. Not until the Second Ascension and the establishment of the NASNA Academy were the lost arts of biotic aviation restored. Then the first generation of Aviators were trained in the arcane methods of controlling fougas and aviettes and man-powered Condors, the solex-winged shuttles of HORUS and, most beautiful and lethal of all, the Ninth Generation Biotic Gryphons, all that remained of the imposing defense structure of the short-lived Military Republic of Wichita.
Of that squadron, only these twelve had survived. Formally, they belonged to the Ascendant Autocracy; but in truth each answered only to its Aviator—the dozen finest of the Ascendants’ troops. And while their pilots were faceless and nameless, grim histories hidden behind their sensory enhancers, the Gryphons were not. Skittish and deadly by turns, it was as though they absorbed into their very fabric—half biological material and half machine—the natures of the men and women who did not control them so much as give them impetus and inspiration for flight.
And so they had been given heroes’ names, and heroines’: Astraea and Zelus and Mjolnir, Argo and Kesef and Tyr, Chao-is and Cavas and Hekatus, Ygg and Nephele and Mrabet-ul-tan. And like heroes between their labors they waited in restless sleep, until Need came to wake them.
As ziz approached the Gryphons stirred, swiveling on their slender metal-jointed legs until their sharp noses faced her. Filaments lifted from their foresections, silvery threads with a pale rosy blush where microscopic transmitting crystals coagulated in a nucleic broth. They wafted through the air above ziz’s head like the nearly invisible tentacles of a seanettle, and for an instant she felt one brush her temple. From the front of the Gryphon nearest her an optic emerged on its long tether, and scanned her silently. She stopped, suddenly afraid.
Once when they were children Nasrani and Shiyung and an Orsina cousin had come here and entered one of the aircraft. ziz had been with them. She was usually the bravest; but something about the Gryphons made her lose heart. At the last minute she refused to join the others as they crept into the cockpit. Instead she stood watching as first Shiyung’s and then Nasrani’s face appeared in the curved glass foresection of the craft, and as they waved at ziz she yelled back, threatening to call their parents; but then Shiyung had fled shrieking from the craft. Nasrani and the feckless cousin had followed her a moment later, pale and shaken. Minutes later when they sat side by side in the gravator Nasrani giggled uncontrollably, exhilarated by the experience; but he never did tell her what had happened inside.
Now ziz stood gazing up at the first Gryphon: a machine that resembled nothing so much as a huge and delicately appointed insect. Its sides were a silvery blue that would disappear when in flight; its solex wings were retracted, folded in upon themselves like a bat’s. She could hear the soft churning of its biogenic power supply, feeding from the narrow tanks behind its legs. As she stared at it the others moved closer to her, clicking loudly. Their legs scraped the concrete, their wings rustled with a papery sound that belied their strength. She smelled the ozone smell from their solex shields, the soupy odor of power supplies. In a minute they would circle her and she would lose her nerve. Abruptly she turned to the nearest one, raised her hand and cried aloud a single word command, a name. The other Gryphons did not stop, but the one she faced obediently bent its legs and lowered a small metal ladder for her to climb.
Once inside she realized she should never have used the ampule. She felt as though her heart would explode inside her; she knew her contact with the Gryphon would be affected by the drug. But she couldn’t waste time now. Outside the ledge shook precariously from another tremor, even as she crouched to sit in the cockpit and the other Gryphons clicked noisily, their legs moving up and down as they sought to keep their balance.
Inside there was barely enough room for the standard crew of three. She took the pilot’s seat, cradled in warm leather as it folded about her. In front of her the windshield curved above the Gryphon’s pointed nose. A simple array of instruments was set beneath the window—visual altimeter, old-fashioned computer astrolabe, a line of blinking green lights. The color of the lights seemed an evil omen to ziz, but she refused to contemplate that either. Instead she pulled her hair from her face, stared at the ceiling with its shining meshwork like webs of frozen rain, and commanded the Gryphon to join her.
She winced as a web floated down to cover her face. It felt cool and slightly moist, and her cheeks and temples prickled as it settled there. Her nostrils filled with the smell of ozone, so strong that she sneezed. Other webs descended to touch her wrists and throat. If she had been an Aviator wearing proper flight attire they would have affixed themselves to her genitals and thighs as well, so that every gesture, every throb of need or desire, would feed back into the craft’s control system, and the Gryphon would calculate all of this in a nanosecond before responding to any command.
If ziz had been properly interfaced with her craft, it probably would not have responded to her at all; would have dismissed her as not being flight-ready. But ziz had come armed with a few purloined commands, and these the Gryphon did not refuse.
A moment when ziz knew nothing. There was a rushing in her head that grew to a roar, then faded. She had a nearly uncontrollable impulse to flee, but thought of Nasrani— he would not have fled!—and grit her teeth. Then,
OrsinaGoAltitudeDestinationTimeFlightNexusKesefOhFourNineteenHoursKesefWaitingWaitingWaiting
She cringed, pressing herself deeper into her seat’s leather folds. Blood filled her mouth where she had bitten the inside of her cheek. The barrage of words and commands continued, along with a stream of images burning across her mind’s eye: clouds, a slash of ocean, flames, and a face black behind its enhancer. Kesef was the Gryphon’s name; the unknown words cues for flight setup and takeoff. ziz’s mind reeled as the Gryphon began another query loop—
KesefOrsinaLevelTwoWindsFiftythreeKnotsSoutheastSolarActivityRangeOhSevenOhDangerousCraftAlertKesefWaitingWaitingWaiting
An impossibly blue sky filled her mind, fringed with green that reminded her of her dream. Her mouth filled with the muddy taste of nucleic fluid, her eyes burned from trying to focus on the incomprehensibly alien presence she was linked with. Without realizing it her hands clawed at her face, and she felt part of the web tear beneath her fingers, fragile as silk, and felt the Gryphon’s voice grow dimmer. She would go mad if she stayed like this—
She groped at her side until she found a pocket, slid her fingers inside, and drew out a morpha tab. An instant later and she had slapped it clumsily onto her wrist, ripping a piece of the web. The image of green mountains grew faint, then a moment later flared back again. Another moment and she felt the morpha’s first warm calm waves lapping at her spine; a minute later and she could breathe easily once more.
“Kesef.”
She pronounced the name thickly, was rewarded with a spurt of pleasure that nearly overwhelmed the morpha. She knew it wasn’t necessary to speak commands aloud, but when she tried to think them the Gryphon’s presence overwhelmed her.
“Kesef—I need—meet you—hour’s time by Lahatiel Gate—east face—tell no one—”
The shining vision of mountains vanished. After a moment she saw the Lahatiel Gate, the eastern face where a small balcony jutted above the beach, barely large enough for a Gryphon to land. She focused on the image, concentrating until she felt Kesef’s response—
OrsinaKesefOhFiveSeventeenLockgridFiveLevelTwoSecurePathZeroClearedKesefNextCommand
“That’s all!—”
ziz gasped, tried to clea
r her mind of the Lahatiel Gate, flashed for a second upon the Compassionate Redeemer pacing in its cage, bit her lip, thought of nothing but blackness, whispered aloud, “Finished— finished—done—”
Her mind went blank. A jolt as she felt the seat gently pushing at her; she had been unconscious. She blinked her eyes open to see the web wafting up from her face, the others floating toward the ceiling like a fine gray mist. Her cheeks felt warm and stung as though she had been slapped. Outside grayish sunlight slanted in long bars across the ground. As she clambered from the Gryphon, struggling with the ladder as her legs wobbled on its narrow steps, the other crafts once more sent their filaments through the warm air to dart about her face. She swiped at them feebly, her head still thick from morpha, and staggered to the gravator that would bring her to the Lahatiel Gate. She did not look back to see the Gryphon Kesef unfurl its great shining wings, raising them in arcs of ebon-gold and green to feel the morning sun.
All things considered, there had been worse things than Reive’s own execution. That dinner party on Thrones, for instance, when a ’filer had gotten into an argument with a member of the Toxins Cabal, over the relative virtues of vivarium-raised fugu opposed to oleander shoots as a means of poisoning a guest. Or the unfortunate dream inquisition when Shiyung Orsina commanded the marabou Scintilla Foot, who was lame and had very poor vision besides, to dance the morgavella on a splintered-crystal tabletop. Or the time she’d gotten lost on Powers and gone for three days without eating.
Actually—they had left the coppery passageway and seemed to be finally arriving at the Lahatiel Gate, and she had had a good deal of time in which to reflect—the only really terrible part had been their journey through the medifacs. Even prison had not been so bad—uncomfortable but not unbearable. Except of course for Ceryl—with a pang Reive recalled her friend’s face bruised and shining with sweat, and felt once again the tears welling inside her; but she consoled herself by thinking how Ceryl had never really been happy, even her pleasant chambers and her position in the Orsinate’s pleasure cabinet had failed to ease her melancholy dissatisfaction with the world.
As if echoing her thoughts a rumble shook the passage, followed by a loud crash. In front of her the dwarf staggered, caught himself, and glanced back in concern at Reive. They were both walking now. Their guards had walked a few feet in front of them; it was obvious their prisoners would not escape. Reive raised a hand reassuringly to Planck and continued onward. She peered about curiously, wondering exactly where they were, and if Ceryl had ever been here. It was blessedly cooler, that was one good thing. She tugged at the front of her linen smock, feeling the sweat dry between her breasts.
“Are we near the Gate?” she whispered. The dwarf stopped to wait for her. His guard trudged on, kicking at drifts of desiccated rose petals and orris root that had been strewn along the ground.
“This is the Path of Atonement,” the dwarf said dryly. The guards glared back at his sarcastic tone, but the dwarf only stared at them with cold blue eyes. “That gateway back there, with the lashes on the doors, that was the Expiation Perron, and in a little while we’ll be at the Narthex of the Redeemer. And that— ”
He paused dramatically to clear his throat and eye the guards with disdain. “ That is where we will meet with the margravines.”
Reive nodded, anxious to seem as though she understood any of this. Rudyard’s words were unfamiliar to her—perron? narthex?—but the thought of seeing the Orsinate again was somewhat stimulating. She knew she should be terrified, at the very least more than apprehensive about her part in the upcoming ritual. But the truth was that everything about the Seraphim fascinated Reive, and horrible as the Orsinate were the margravines held her spellbound. The Compassionate Redeemer was another matter, of course; but then she knew little enough about it. Perhaps it would turn out not to be so horrible. Perhaps ziz would have a change of heart, and adopt her as the Orsinate’s proper heir….
Such dreamy thoughts—abetted by the narcotic fumes rising from vents in the floor, and intended to calm sacrificial victims traveling to the Narthex—made the gynander lose track of time. More than once Rudyard stopped, staring wearily at his feet; once Reive distinctly heard him mutter something about the inferiority of ostrich leather when wet. The attendant group of Aviators who had preceded them had long since disappeared in the sloping corridors. Reive found herself admiring the artwork covering the high curved walls, scenes painted in metallic colors showing penitents in dark suits and white shirts bowed before tall figures wearing the conical crowns of the Orsinate.
“We really didn’t kill Shiyung,” she said as to herself. She paused to examine a lapis-crowned figure at the end of one panel. It gesticulated frantically at the Redeemer with one hand and made the ward against Ucalegon with the other. She sought vainly for some familial resemblance to the present Orsinate, but found nothing remarkable. “We saw him do it—the rasa. ”
“I know.” Rudyard Planck’s tone was weary, but as he stopped to wait for Reive to catch up with him his eyes were kind. “You don’t seem capable of that sort of thing. Which makes it all the stranger that you’re a pure Orsina. Assuming, of course, that you are.”
Reive shrugged. Their guards had stopped a few yards ahead, beneath a great archway that led into an open area where several brightly clad people were milling about, occasionally peeking expectantly down the Path of Atonement as though waiting for guests. Reive turned, craning her neck to determine who else was following them. She saw nobody. It was not until she and Rudyard stood within the arch, and she could see the excited expressions on the other faces, that Reive realized the anticipated guests were themselves.
“Well!” A tall woman strode toward them, hands clasped, her wrists tinkling with bracelets of tiny glass and silver bells. She had an aquiline nose and cheeks scarified with exquisitely delicate wards against the Healing Wind. “We were afraid something had happened to you!”
She wore long white robes trimmed with gold and green, and a tall chromium mitre that marked her as Archbishop of the Church of Christ Cadillac.
“I will be performing the ceremony this morning,” she explained, waving her hands in a manner suggesting she was blessing them. “Others will assist me—the mullah Alfreize Neybah and High Sister Katherine Mullany—but I’ll be reading your last rites and so on and assisting at the autopsy afterward. If there is one,” she ended with an apologetic smile.
Behind her stalked another, very tall woman in a pale fern-colored jumpsuit, faded and spotted with age but of very fine cut. She looked embarrassed to be wearing green. Reive recognized her as one of the members of the Committee for Ecclesiastical Freedom and Punitive Delight, often to be seen on the ’files.
“The margravines will be glad to know you’re here—the ceremony can begin now, we haven’t found Nasrani but he’ll just be sorry he was late, that’s all,” the second woman said breathlessly. She frowned a little as she looked down at Rudyard’s soiled clothes, then shaking her head turned to Reive.
“This is an immense honor, young person,” she said. She smiled approvingly at the gynander’s shaven skull. “For you, for all of us—there hasn’t been a morphodite offering since Sylvia Orsina’s time. We are all so grateful that we’ve lived to see it—not that any of us wanted to lose Shiyung,” she added hastily as the Archbishop’s long nose began to twitch.
“I think the margravines are growing impatient,” she said, coughing gently. The floor shook again and a fine rain of dust and debris fell from the steel rafters. The Archbishop grimaced and readjusted her mitre, revealing a red line where it pressed cruelly into her skin. “This way, please.”
Reive straightened herself, brushing grit from her scalp, and tried not to look pleased by the Archbishop’s deference. Glancing at Rudyard she saw he was staring sullenly at the Archbishop’s back, but when he saw her looking he gave her a brave smile.
They followed the Archbishop and the other woman, who turned out to be a precentor and quite beside
herself at the honor she was to be accorded in chanting the Redeemer’s hyperdulia prior to its release. There were other ecclesiastical types roaming about—several mullahs in moss-green turbans, more representatives of the Church of Christ Cadillac, a number of galli from the Daughters of Graves, even a few of the Orsinate’s own Saints, parading about on stilts and wearing bright green masks of the Redeemer, as well as the entire membership of the Chambers of Mercy. But despite the crowd the space seemed empty and hushed, the stilts making even tick-ticks upon the floor, the other participants whispering as they looked over at Reive and Rudyard and the Archbishop. As they entered the Narthex, with its bronze arches and golden fanlights glowing high overhead and the stench of burnt roses ineffectually masked by clouds of frankincense and steaming bowls of galingale, Reive glimpsed the Quir, the leader of the Daughters of Graves, peering from behind the portable aluminum screens that protected him from impious eyes. When Reive turned to stare he winked at her and waved.
“We’ve never been here before,” she admitted, whispering to the dwarf beside her. The Archbishop had stopped to confer with one of the Orsinate’s personal hagiographers, who waved a vocoder in an agitated fashion.
Rudyard Planck looked up, his blue eyes sad. “I’m sorry you’ve lived to see it now, Reive. It’s not a very happy place, at least not from our perspective.”
“You’ve been here before?”
He nodded, patting an unruly auburn tuft of hair back into place and then straightening his cuffs. “Oh, yes. Once every ten years, and then of course there was the year their parents died—”
He flicked his fingers toward another doorway that Reive assumed must lead to where the margravines waited. “There were two major sacrifices that year. Of course we’re seldom so fortunate that a successful assassination falls upon the eve of Æstival Tide.”
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