The Gryphon Highlord

by Connie Ward

  "How's Belvemar doing?” he asked

  "Holding his own."

  "I never doubted he'd pull through. He's tough.” Ragsey crooked a thumb at the anteroom. “I just came in to get a herbal balm. Did Biddy leave you the key?"

  Nodding, I set aside the book and accompanied Ragsey to the annex where Biddy housed her medicinal remedies. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, as I unlocked the cupboard, “but Biddy's salve is the only thing that soothes my back after a long day in the saddle."

  "No bother."

  Once Ragsey had selected a jar of ointment labelled in Biddy's chicken scratches and I'd locked up the cabinet again, I led him to the door. There he turned to apologize once more, his boyish grin in place. “I'm really very sorry for being such a pest. I hope you'll forgive me."

  "There's nothing to forgive."

  "Good. Maybe we'll see each other again soon."

  "Maybe,” I said, smiling to myself as I closed the door.

  Biddy returned soon after, looking cheerful and spry as she carried in an armful of supplies. She went straight to Belvemar's side and held a hand to his brow. “No improvement, huh?"

  "Oh, I don't know. He ate a whole bowl of broth and he seemed to enjoy the book I read to him. His spirits were good and he talked—"

  "No, I mean the infection. I think it's spreading."

  "I wouldn't know,” I mumbled.

  "'Course not. Never mind. That's for me to worry about.” She trotted into the anteroom with her bags. A moment later she exclaimed, “All right, who filched a jar of Biddy's peppermint balm?"

  My word, but she was observant. I hastened to explain. Irritably, she muttered, “Well, I hope he paid you."

  "Um, actually, he didn't. I never thought to ask him for anything."

  "Damned soldiers,” she huffed, slamming her bags onto the cupboard. “Always trying to cheat old Biddy out of her fair share. Always trying to get something for nothing...” Then she was off, frothing like a rampager at the bit, unpacking her bottles and jars with furious energy.

  "Well ... I'd best be going."

  I sidled nearer the door, hoping to slip out unnoticed, with limited success. Repachea was there, quick with a winsome grin. “Ahh, just the little lady I was looking for."

  "Uh..."

  Taking my elbow, he leaned around me to shout at Biddy, “I'm borrowing Ruvie for the rest of the day if that all's right with you?"

  "...and another thing. I'm getting just a wee bit sick and tired of having to tramp through this cesspit making all these deliveries. What's wrong you people? Your legs are young than mine!"

  Repachea responded to Biddy's tirade with a shrug and a wink, then tugged on my arm. “C'mon. I've arranged a little diversion."

  Since no one had bothered to ask my consent, I allowed the captain to drag me from the infirmary and out to the stable yard, curious to see exactly what his definition of diversion was.

  "I don't suppose you've ever ridden solo before?"

  The question startled me, for it was ridiculous in the extreme, until I remembered that I was a fugitive librarian of little means, accepting sanctuary from people not much better off than myself. “Uhm, well, I..."

  Not too articulate for a keeper of books. I should work on my vocabulary skills some.

  "That's what I thought,” he replied, stopping us before a spirited black gelding, saddled and bridled and snorting its impatience. Repachea leapt lithely to its back and extended me a hand. “Up, my girl. We don't have all day."

  I hesitated, not at all certain this was a good idea, and stole a glance around the yard whereupon I noticed several other pack animals, loaded with sacks and bundles of all sizes, and recalled Repachea's mercy mission. Apparently, he was taking me along for company.

  Reaching for his hand, I let him pull me up behind him onto his blowing mount and made myself comfortable. He wheeled the beast and signalled our escort to head out, just as Sestus came huffing and puffing from his quarters. “Don't worry, Sestus, old man,” Repachea called out cheerfully, forestalling any objection my benefactor may voice. “I'll have her back before dark."

  I had time to give Sestus a brave smile before Repachea prodded his mount into an easy trot, pack mules and escort in tow.

  * * * *

  We reached the village in good time, though we did not have benefit of a teleportal. Repachea had not exaggerated about its degree of destitution. A knot of villagers, among them frail, old men and dirty, rail-thin children, emerged from their huts, sheds, and nearby fields to greet us. The outlaw leader dismounted, breezy smile in place.

  I slid from the gelding's back to stand behind Repachea, just on his periphery, uncertain of my business here, watching as people clustered anxiously around him. The escort began unloading the mules so I went to assist them. Turning with an armload of goods, I found myself ringed by eager villagers. I passed out loaves of bread, crates of eggs, and baskets of fruit, all generously put together by volunteers from Idyll.

  When we were done, a man too weakened by malnutrition to open a jar handed it back to me. How the men of my Royal would chuckle to see, if they could, the illustrious Gryphon Highlord with a jar of beets between her knees as she tugged on a stubborn lid. How that fop Chiverly would sneer in disgust to see the Princess Kathedra wrestling with an ornery mule over a sack of carrots, only to end up pitched face down into the dust of the road.

  For a moment I had to step back from the frenzy, the emotion. While it was true that I had delivered mercy missions of my own to starving villagers, I had done so from the back of my horse, a prudent distance removed, watching my men distribute the food and feeling noble, feeling smug, with my good deed. But today was different, a stark contrast. A mother to a brood of six touched my sleeve and thanked me with her eyes. A greybeard squeezed my hand in silent acknowledgement, too moved to speak. Their gratitude was a palpable thing, and it humbled me to think that by doing something so simple, I had made these people so happy.

  I looked at Repachea, efficiently directing the distribution of supplies, and recognized for the first time the nobility in him, observed the glow of compassion on his face, even hidden by a week's growth of black stubble. His jokes, his conceit, and his easy going manner had blinded me to the lines of care and hardship etched onto his features, and he a man still under thirty.

  I might have broken down on the spot had Repachea not approached to kneel beside me.

  He watched, an indulgent smiling playing about his lips, as a trio of scruffy young boys took great fun in breaking up the wooden crates for kindling. Then he turned back to me and said in his most sprightly voice, which seemed all the more ominous considering the subject, “These people are what I'm all about, Ruvie. Sadly, they and thousands like them are caught in the crossfire between us and the Regent. Sometimes they become forgotten by Royalist and Crusader both. I come from a village such as this, prosperous at one time but made impoverished by the effects of the revolt. Ginger fights for an erroneous chance at revenge. Sestus too, though he hides behind his banner of the liberator. The others prattle on about glory and justice and freedom. But this is what I do. It's one objective the Princess Kathedra and I had in common. And now she's not even in the equation. That leaves just me to care about what happens to these people. I fight for them, and them alone. I will allow no further harm to come to them by either side, for any reason."

  The smile had faded, and the cheerful tone had gone flat. Piercing me in his earnest gaze, he said, “So, if you betray me, if you give me reason to doubt your allegiance, rest assured it will be the last thing you do."

  His warning chilled me to the bone; I took it to heart. I rode back to Idyll with a far different man than with whom I'd ridden out. Or at least my perception of him was different.

  If I had been harbouring any thoughts that Repachea, as a rake and a jester, amounted to little more than a brash young insurgent, eager to find eternal glory on the end of a Royalist blade, then they were promptly banished. He would make m
e a foe every bit as terrifying as Ginger. But also a staunch ally. Loaded with convictions and principles, Repachea possessed a selflessness and gallantry that a woman in my position would find impossible to dismiss.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the end of my first month in Idyll, I had begun to sift through the mess of documents, maps, communiqués, and scribbled notes that encompassed the Citizens Risen Up to Stand Against a Dread and Errant Regency's strategic hardware in an effort to put the map room into some semblance of order. My initial task was to verify the information already assembled. No easy feat. It seems the Crusader intelligence is as dull as Gryphon's. I spent most of my time correcting misinformation and deleting discrepancies. The Crusader spies had collected an alarming amount of knowledge, but for a hindrance here, a dead end there, had been unable to implement into their grand strategy.

  Slowly, methodically, I began to fill in the blanks.

  I toiled by torch glare in a corner of Idyll's former dungeon, which was one of the few areas of the castle still intact. While serving as a workstation it was also capable of housing the present population in the event of a Royalist siege. Here the physical evidence of Crusader plots and activities are safe from prying eyes and inquisitive ears. This is what Repachea so reverently referred to as second level clearance.

  That oblique designation, however, did not grant me access to everything I wished to know. It frustrated me to be fed these tantalizing morsels, which whet my appetite but did not sate my hunger. For instance, I learned there are six outlaw leaders. Ginger, Repachea, and Belvemar I already knew, and I had heard of the captain Gregaris, whom Sestus had implied headed a force in Pixley, which was Fleurry's next destination.

  As Repachea had mentioned, there are two more teleportals, but their location remains a mystery. That information, I assume, is accessible only to those with first level clearance, men like Sestus and Ragsey. Information I may be able to obtain from Repachea if only I can swallow my distaste. Each teleportal has its own guard and is activated by a passkey identical to the one Sestus used in the barn. In addition to Sestus, each outlaw leader also possesses such a key, the usage of which is governed by strict rules, rules that if broken carry stiff penalties. Sestus had broken the cardinal rule by loaning his to an unauthorized person. But Erol, apparently, was no snitch.

  Of course, the Umagi wizard who originally erected the teleportals did not require a passkey, nor did the mages who shared the responsibility of maintaining the energy necessary to sustain the operation of each teleportal. According to Sestus, the keys were created simply for the sake of convenience.

  In essence, I became little more than a glorified housekeeper. It was honest work, however, and kept me out of trouble, as Sestus would say. Repachea was being kind when he'd called it a dump. Dishevelled and cluttered, the place was in sore need of a meticulous hand. I don't know how they found the map table half the time, let alone Royalist outposts. In librarian-like fashion, I straightened out the confusion, developed a system of organization, and had genuine fits of hysteria when someone, usually Ragsey or Repachea, messed it up. I tacked maps to the walls and rearranged mismatched markers, to the chagrin of scouts and messengers alike. I dusted and sorted and filed and tossed anything extraneous into the fire. My efforts drew praise from everyone. Everyone except Ginger, who was cross because I'd unintentionally consigned to the flames his unfinished treatise on the importance of dragonfly wings in the preparation of illumination spells. I mean, really. I thought it was a joke!

  Thus, my time became divided between working in the map room and visiting Belvemar. The wounded captain showed sign of neither improvement nor decline. He seemed to hover in stasis, much like myself. Unlike Biddy and Sestus, however, I maintained hope for his survival. Weeks had passed and still Belvemar clung to life, which was miraculous in itself.

  True to his word, Sestus introduced me to a variety of ways by which I could learn to master my Teki powers, including meditative studies, mental exercises, and something he called ‘crystal intervention'. He gave me a small, rough-around-the-edges gemstone, purple in colour, worn smooth on one side, bearing a definite thumbprint impression.

  "It's an amethyst,” he told me, a tad sheepish. “Such stones are renowned for their ability to create inner peace and harmony, as well as influence psychic abilities. As you can see, I've sought its intervention on many occasions. The adepts scoff and sneer at what they deem tripe, saying that a Teki who professes true mastery of his or her powers does not require such mundane tools. Anyway, I find that it has helped me in moments of anxiety, or dare I say, panic. I've kept it in my pocket all this time, ever since my father gave it to me at the age of ten. But you know what? I can't recall the last time I needed to use it. Consider it yours now. Put it under your pillow at night, if you like. Use it in any fashion that helps."

  His kindness touched me, and even helped to alleviate my disappointment, for I'd been looking forward to pouring over spell books and experimenting with actual magical devices, which had been beyond my reach since Uncle had declared them contraband. Crystals and meditation seemed, well, boring. But I accepted Sestus's advice with grace and the promise I'd try his methods. I even fashioned a little wire cage for my amethyst and fixed it to a slender chain, so I could keep it in the pouch at my belt, within easy retrieval should I feel the need.

  Though I had Sestus's benign influence to guide me, those early days in Idyll were still tough. It was a rocky adjustment for me to make after spending all my life conditioned to the strict social structure of Castle Gryphon. One thing remained unchanged; I was an outcast here as well, an outsider who had to carve her own little niche before she could fit into Idyll's community and be accepted as one of its own.

  That is not to say I was lonely. Far from it. Indeed, I had next to no privacy at all. Between Ragsey's friendly chatter, Repachea's sly innuendos, and Sestus's and Biddy's constant bickering, I feared for my sanity. My only source of tranquillity was the time I spent with Belvemar, and he slept through most of my visits.

  To make matters worse, Repachea suggested that as a meek and mild librarian living the life of a fugitive in a Crusader outpost, I should learn how to defend myself. To my horror, Sestus agreed with him, pointing out that it did seem a logical argument. Repachea, I'm sure, had an alternate agenda. Nevertheless, I bowed to their wishes, thinking it an ideal way to keep my fighting skills sharp.

  My lessons started immediately, with Repachea as my tutor, of course. I must say the outlaw leader has a curious method of instruction, which involves (in my opinion) unnecessary oratory and constant close physical contact. The man also has a rather high opinion of his skill in swordplay, but it is well deserved, as he demonstrated to me one dismal day on the soggy practice field following an evening's rain.

  To his surprise Repachea took a few nicks and whacks, which his male ego dismissed as beginner's luck. After one particularly close call, he looked at me askance with that crooked grin of his and declared, “I think, my dear, you indeed have some talent for swordplay,” then proceeded to lecture me on the finer points of swordsmanship.

  "As you may or may not be aware there are four S's to the art of swordplay. Speed. Strength. Stamina. And ... and ... bloody hell, what's the fourth?"

  "Strategy?” I offered helpfully.

  "No."

  "Stealth?"

  "Unh-unh."

  "Self-discipline?"

  "Nope, but that's a good one. Ah! I've got it.” He made a grand flourish with his rusty practice sword. “Style."

  Of course. This was Repachea, after all.

  "One needs to fight with precision and dexterity, yes. But a little grace, a little finesse can't hurt. If you can't look formidable, you can at least look elegant.” He waved at Ragsey where the man stood a short distance away pitching throwing stars into a wooden post with frightening accuracy. Stowing his missiles, he trotted over. “Allow me to demonstrate,” Repachea told me.

  I handed over my practice blade t
o Ragsey, who suddenly went white-faced, and adjourned to a nearby stump to watch the proceedings, which if not especially enlightening, were at least entertaining. As for style, I had to agree that Repachea delivered Ragsey's ass kicking with distinctive flare. Then again, I could have dealt Ragsey a good punishment myself. Once Repachea had disarmed his flustered opponent, the demonstration degenerated into a wrestling match. Truth be told, the courier should stick to his throwing stars.

  Repachea emerged from the muddied field, flushed and breathless, but triumphant, leaving his vanquished foe sprawled in the muck, sputtering curses. I flung him his discarded jerkin, which he used to wipe his face. “You see?” he panted cheerfully. “Style is everything. Oh ... hey, Ginger. What's up? You want to have a go at me next, old man?"

  I glanced over a shoulder at the mage who, in keeping with his style, had come upon us unannounced. Without a word to me, he tossed a scowl of disapproval at Repachea and jerked a thumb towards the stable before stalking from the field.

  Repachea gave me an apologetic shrug. “Well, I guess that's it for today, Ruvie. I'd better go see what he wants.” As he moved to pass by me, he said, “You know, you might want to tie back your hair or cover it next time. Having it long and loose like that might be dangerous in a real fight. But on second thought...” He paused to tuck a stray wisp behind my ear. “It's too beautiful to hide away."

  The man never misses an opportunity.

  While Repachea trotted after Ginger, I went to fish Ragsey out of the mud. I must say he took his thrashing with his customary good humour. “You see how I dazzled him with my lightning reflexes, flummoxed him with my fancy footwork?"

  "Yes, well done,” I laughed. “Perhaps you could teach me.” I was about to quiz him, discreetly of course, on the mage's boorish behaviour, when a sudden commotion distracted me. Biddy and Sestus had emerged from the infirmary, squabbling as usual. “What now?” I wondered aloud.

  Ragsey got to his feet, shedding slime and clods of soil. “What? Oh, them. Ignore it."