of the teleson, then keep themselves intact so that they can get home and
brief us in detail.”
Skandranon took care not to step on Amberdrake’s feet, and snorted in
reply to his statement. “And just how likely do you think that is to happen?” he
demanded. “They’re our children! Do you think there’s even half a chance that
they wouldn’t see themselves as the front line of the White Gryphon defenses
and go confront something dangerous if it appeared?”
He maneuvered Amberdrake into the inside position, between himself and
the cliff, as they started back down toward the city. Drake needed to walk on
the protected inside, since if one of them was to slip on the trail, it had better
be Skan; he could fly and Drake obviously couldn’t.
“I honestly don’t know,” Amberdrake admitted. “My daughter baffles me
more often than my mate does. I sometimes wonder if the midwife switched
babies with someone else when she was born. She doesn’t seem anything
like either of us, and believe me, I have tried to find common ground with her.”
“I know what you mean,” Skan replied with chagrin. “Although Keenath
affects me more that way than Tadrith does. Still. Just because we’ve never
seen either of them act the way we did at their age, it doesn’t follow that they
wouldn’t. If you understand what I’m trying to say.”
“I think so.” Amberdrake picked his way over a rough spot in the trail before
continuing. “Children tend to act differently around their parents than when
they’re on their own. At least, that’s what I’ve observed, both professionally
and nonprofessionally.”
Of course he wouldn’t remember himself being that way; he lost his own
parents and all his family when he was hardly fledged. But he’s right; I went
out of my way to be the opposite of mine. They never wanted to be anything
but followers, and I wanted to be the one others looked to for leadership.
Sometimes I wonder if they weren‘t smarter than I was. “I wish we had some
other way besides the teleson to keep track of them,” he fretted. “It’s very
tempting to wish that Urtho was here to give us another Kechara. . . .”
He couldn’t finish the sentence; the pang of loss he felt even when
mentioning the name of the creator of his adoptive “daughter” was enough to
still his voice for a moment.
“It’s more than tempting to wish she was the way she used to be,”
Amberdrake sighed, “and not just because she’d be useful now. I’d gladly
continue all the evasion and diplomatic garbage we had to concoct for the
Haighlei if it meant she was still such a powerful Mindspeaker. She is such a
cheerful little soul, though; I don’t miss her powers at all if it means we get to
see her alive and happy.”
Kechara had been one of Urtho’s rare “mistakes,” although Skan had never
discovered what his leader, mentor, and friend had intended when he created
her. Had she simply been a first attempt at the “gryfalcon” type, of which
Zhaneel was the outstanding example? Was it possible that she had been a
deliberate attempt to create a gryphon with tremendous ability at mind-magic?
Or had she simply been a “sport,” something Urtho had not intended at all, an
accident that Urtho saw and carried through, then hid away for her own
protection?
Whichever the case had been, little Kechara had been what the other
gryphons referred to as a “misborn.” Severely stunted, slightly misshapen,
with wings far too long for her dwarfed body, her mind had been frozen in an
eternally childlike state. But her pure strength at mind-magic had been without
equal. Adorable little Kechara had been able to reach her mind-voice as far
away as the Haighlei capital of Khimbata, which was how she had discovered
where Amberdrake and Skandranon had been made prisoners long ago. The
madman Hadanelith and his two Haighlei allies had captured them in the last
stage before the attempted assassination of Emperor Shalaman during the
Eclipse Ceremony. Without Kechara, Skandranon would never have been
able to get away in time to save him, and Amberdrake most certainly would
not even be alive at this moment. Impelled by danger to him that even she
had been able to perceive, her mental “shout” had sundered magical shields
and incapacitated Hadanelith’s two allies across all that distance.
Urtho had known just how powerful her abilities were, and had kept her
close-confined in his Tower for safekeeping. He had known that she might be
viewed as a prize to be captured or a weapon to be used, and had thought to
protect her from that fate. But in confining her, he had assumed that she
would not live very long, an assumption that had proved incorrect.
Skan shook his head. “I agree. And I also know that I would never want to
take the chance that another one with worse problems than hers might be
born—we just don’t have the skill and judgment that Urtho did. We all love
her, but Kechara’s flaws were too high a price to pay for her gifts, objectively
speaking. Quite frankly, I think that it is only because she still doesn’t
understand most of what she saw in other people’s minds that she hasn’t
been driven mad by it all.”
He had done his best to make certain she never lost her trusting nature—
and so had Judeth, Aubri, and anyone else in White Gryphon who ever came
into contact with her. In her turn, she served the city and its people faithfully
and joyously. She carefully relayed messages she barely, if ever, understood
to and from all of the Silvers with even a touch of mind-magic of their own. It
was a task they had all tried to ensure was never a chore for her, and she had
loved the attention and approval.
Skan reflected that it was odd, the way the Haighlei had acted concerning
her. For them, a creature with the mind of a child and the ability to read
anyone’s thoughts would have been a blasphemy. For a year or two after the
Eclipse Ceremony, Skan was fairly certain the Kaled’a’in had been able to
keep Kechara’s existence secret from their allies— but eventually they surely
had discovered just what she was. There had been many, many circumspect
little hints, diplomatic tail-chases and discreet suggestions. Finally an official
communique from High King Shalaman had come, advising the “permanent
elimination of the long-range communicator of White Gryphon”—referring to
Kechara—making it clear by its phrasing that it was not an idle request, and
that not doing so would have grave consequences. Skandranon, Zhaneel, and
Amberdrake went to Khimbata to appeal to Shalaman in private, and returned
to White Gryphon with a delegation of mages led by Advisor Leyuet. Between
various nervous ceremonies of state, “Papa Skan” explained to Kechara that it
was time for her to rest from her work, and that they were going to make sure
nobody was ever scared of her. Kechara trusted Skandranon completely, of
course, and gleefully greeted the delegation. The grim-faced Haighlei, who
were steeling themselves to meet a monster and fight against its horrible soul-
invading power, instead fa
ced a little creature who only thought they were
very funny and demanded their absurdly elaborate and colorful hats to play
with.
Well, that’s the Haighlei for you. I suspect one could probably get away with
just about anything, so long as it was wrapped in the proper historical
protocol. Come to think of it, the reason Shalaman was so incensed about
those murders in his Court was because the assassinations hadn’t been done
with the proper protocol! Perhaps if we could have found a way for Kechara to
be put into Shalaman’s service under their religion, she could have kept her
powers—but that wouldn’t really have been true to her, either, and it would
only have made her into the tool, the bargaining chip that Urtho feared she’d
be used as. It would have destroyed her loving innocence if she were used
against one of us and realized it. At least this way she could stay at home and
play. At least she can still talk to all the gryphons, as long as they’re within the
city limits.
“Well, what are we going to do, old friend?” the aging gryphon asked, as
they picked their way steadily down to the topmost level of the city. This level
was the receiving platform for everything lowered down from the cliffs above,
or sent up from the city to the cliffs. Work crews were already unloading
pallets of food from the farms, and would continue to do so all day. “What do
we do about the children, I mean?”
“What can we do?” Amberdrake asked, with only the faintest hint of
irritation. He led the way to the broad white-painted stairs that formed the
back slope of the White Gryphon’s “head.” “Nothing. This is their job; the job
they chose. They’ve been assigned to it by their superiors, who have judged
them capable. Like it or not, they have grown up, and I’m afraid we had better
start getting used to that.”
Skan ground his beak and prowled after him, talons clicking on the stone
ramp alongside the stairs, which was easier for a gryphon to handle than
steps. “I don’t like it,” he said finally. “But I can’t tell you why.”
Amberdrake stopped suddenly, turned, and faced him, looking down at his
friend with a troubled expression as the gryphon stopped a step later and
looked up. “I don’t either, and I haven’t any real reason to feel this way. I wish
I could say that I have a premonition about this—because this feeling that
there is something wrong makes me look like a nervous old aunty—”
“But?” Skan prompted. “You’re worried you don’t have the correct dress to
play aunty?”
Amberdrake chuckled, then sighed. “But I am afraid I haven’t had anything
of the sort, and there hasn’t been a solid sign from anyone who does have
Foresight that something is going to go wrong with Blade and Tad. I know
what I would say to any of my clients who felt this way.”
Skan looked into his friend’s eyes, and shook his head. “Let me guess.
What we are feeling is a combination of old war reactions, and unhappiness
because this fledging of our youngsters is a sure sign that we are getting old.”
“Too true. And who wants to know that he is getting old? Not I, I can
promise you.” Amberdrake’s expression was as honest as it was rueful. “I’ve
been keeping my body limber and capable for decades now, through all kinds
of strain, as loose as a down-feather and as tight as whipcord as needed,
but—it’s all been to last as long as possible during the pace of time. One
never bothers to think about growing old as one is growing older. Then
suddenly it is there, looming in your face. Your bones and joints ache,
youngsters are expressing concern that you are overexerting yourself, and
when you try to insist that your experience means you know more than they
do, you find them exchanging knowing looks when they think you don’t
notice.”
“Alas. It is life’s cruelty, I say. One moment we are fretting because we are
not considered old enough to do anything interesting, then we turn around
and younglings barely fledged are flying off to do the interesting things we
can’t do anymore!” Skan shook his head, and looked out over the ocean. “And
we are supposed to accept this gracefully! It is hardly fair. I protest! I believe
that I shall become a curmudgeon. Then at least I can complain, and it will be
expected of me.”
“Too late for that.”
Skandranon snorted, “Then I shall be an exceptional curmudgeon. I’ve
earned the title. The Curmudgeon King.”
“Endured Where E’er He Goes. May I join you, then? We can drive the
youngsters to distraction together.” Amberdrake seemed to have thrown off
some of his anxiety and, to his surprise, Skan realized that he had relaxed a
bit as well.
“Certainly,” the Black Gryphon replied with dignity. “Let’s go down to the
obstacle course, and make loud comments about how we used to run it better
and in half the time.”
“And with more style,” Amberdrake suggested. “Finesse and grace, not
brutal power.”
“Naturally,” Skan agreed. “It couldn’t have happened any other way—as far
as they know.”
“So, just how worried are you?” Winterhart asked Zhaneel as soon as they
were out of the range of Skandranon’s hearing. As a trondi’irn she had a very
good notion of just how sensitive any given gryphon’s senses were, but she
knew Skan’s abilities in excruciating detail. For all that he was suffering the
onset of the ailments of age, he was a magnificent specimen with outstanding
physical abilities, not just for his age, but for any gryphon male.
“About Skan, or about the children?” Zhaneel asked, with a sidelong glance
at her companion.
“Hmm. Both, of course,” she replied, returning Zhaneel’s glance. She’s just
as observant as I thought. “Skan, first. He’s the one we have to live with.”
“As we must live with Amberdrake, heyla?” Zhaneel nodded shrewdly.
“Well. Come and sit beside me here, where the wind will carry away the words
we do not wish overheard, and we will discuss our mates.” She nodded her
beak at a fine wooden bench made of wave- and wind-sculpted driftwood, and
sat down beside it on the cool stone rimming the cliff.
Winterhart sank gracefully down into a welcoming curve of the bench, and
laid one arm along the back of it. “Drake is very unhappy about all this. I think
he expected Judeth and Aubri to assign Blade to something like bodyguard
duty, or city-patrol. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that they might send
her out of the city, much less so far away.”
It didn’t occur to me, either, but it should have. I’ve known that Blade
wanted to get away from the city—and us—for the past year. Maybe if Drake
hadn’t been so adamant about her living with us until she was a full Silver. . . .
Keeth and Tad had been able to move out in part because Skan had lent
them his resources to excavate a new home to trade for an existing one.
Sensing Blade’s restlessness, Winterhart had tried to persuade Drake to do
the same for Blade, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
; “Why should she need to move out?” he’d asked at the time. “It’s not as if
she has any need for a place of her own. We give her all the privacy she
would have anywhere else, and it’s not as if she could feel embarrassed to
bring a lover here!” Then he had sighed dramatically. “Not that there’s any
interest in that quarter.
The way she’s been acting, a vow of celibacy would be an improvement in
her love life. Where could we have gone wrong? It’s almost like she doesn ‘t
want to listen to her body.”
Winterhart could have told him—that children were always embarrassed by
the proximity of their parents when trying out the first tentative steps in the
dance of amorous life, and inhibited by their parents when learning for the first
time what kind of adults they would become—but she knew he wouldn’t
believe her. He would have, if Blade had been anyone else’s child, but not
when he was her father. A parent can sometimes be too close to his child to
think about her objectively. When it came to seeing someone else’s children,
a parent could see a larger canvas, but with their own—all they would see
were the close daily details, and not grasp the broad strokes. Amberdrake,
brilliant as he was, couldn’t grasp things like Blade not wanting to be around
parents as she learned her body’s passions. And if Blade had actually come
out and asked him for a place of her own, he would probably have given in
and made it possible. But she was too shy and too proud, and now, in
retrospect, Winterhart could see that requesting assignment to outpost duty
had probably seemed the only way she could get that longed-for privacy.
“Skandranon is fretting, but not to pieces, I think,” Zhaneel said, after a long
pause during which she gazed out seaward. She might have been watching
the fishing fleet; her eyes were certainly sharp enough to make out details in
things that were only moving dots to Winterhart. “I hope that as he realizes the
children are capable, he will fret less. Part of it is inaction. Part of it is that he
wishes to do everything, and even when he was young, he could not do half
of what he would like to do now.”
That observation surprised a faint chuckle out of Winterhart. “It is odd how
our youthful abilities grow larger as we age, isn’t it?” she replied. “I am
Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 03 - The Silver Gryphon.txt Page 10