Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 03 - The Silver Gryphon.txt

by The Silver Gryphon [lit]

  any comments. Skan kept glaring around the table as if daring any of them to

  say that this was not the sort of emergency for which the Council should be

  called.

  No one did, but Snowstar did have something to say that put the entire

  situation into a perspective that Amberdrake greatly appreciated.

  “Has anyone ever gone missing this way before?” he asked, without

  looking either at Skan or at Amberdrake. “I know that there have been a

  handful of accidents among the Silvers, but I don’t ever recall any of our

  Silvers on Outpost Duty ever disappearing before. Judeth, you haven’t even

  had any fatalities in the Silvers since we encountered the Haighlei, and all of

  those were on the trek to find the coast. If this is a new development, I think it

  is a very serious one.”

  Aubri opened his beak, then looked at Judeth, startled. She was the one

  who replied.

  “Actually—you’re right,” she said, sounding just as surprised as Aubri

  looked. “The fatalities among young gryphons since we founded the city have

  all been among the hunters, not the Silvers, and the accidents causing injuries

  among the Silvers have all been just that—accidents, usually caused by

  weather, and not a single death from something like a drunkard or fight. To

  date we haven’t had a single case of Outpost Patrols going missing. They’ve

  broken limbs, they’ve gotten sick, we’ve had to send help out to them, and

  one set of humans even got lost once—but they had a teleson and we knew

  they were all right, we just couldn’t find them for a while. We’ve never had

  anyone just vanish before. . . .”

  Her eyes were the only part of her that showed how alarmed this new

  observation made her, but Amberdrake was savagely pleased at the way that

  her eyes went blank and steely. He knew that look. That was General Judeth,

  suddenly encountering a deadly enemy where she had been told there was

  open ground with no threats.

  “I kept thinking this was—sort of one of the hazards of duty—but that was

  under war conditions or while we were making our way here,” Aubri muttered,

  so shamefaced that his nares flushed a brilliant red. “Snowstar, you’re right!

  We’ve never lost a Silver since—since we allied with the Haighlei!”

  You two have been making the mistake of thinking that the Silvers were the

  extension of the old army—but they aren’t and our situation is completely

  different than it was before the wars. And how could I have been so blind not

  to have seen your blindness?

  “Then I believe this does qualify as a full-scale emergency,” Snowstar said

  firmly. “When two highly-trained individuals drop completely out of sight, for no

  reason and with no warning, it seems to me that the danger is not only to

  them alone, but possibly to the entire city. What if they were removed so that

  they could not alert us to some enemy who is moving against us? How can

  we know that if we don’t mount a rescue, in strength and numbers?”

  Heads nodded all around the table, and Amberdrake exchanged stricken

  glances with Winterhart, who had come in just in time to hear that. He felt cold

  all over, and she had paled. He could have done without hearing that. He was

  perversely glad that Snowstar had thought of it, for it certainly swayed even

  the veterans on the Council to their cause, but he could have done without

  hearing it.

  Either Snowstar really believes that, or the self-proclaimed nondiplomat

  Snowstar just made a shrewd play in our support. Or both.

  A heavy and ominous silence filled the Council Hall, and no one seemed

  prepared to break it. Skan was as frozen as a statue, and beside him,

  Zhaneel simply looked to be in too much shock to be able to think. Winterhart

  stood beside her Council seat, unable to sit, clutching the back of it; her

  knuckles were as white as her namesake. Amberdrake himself felt unable to

  move, every limb leaden and inert.

  Judeth cleared her throat, making all of them jump. “Right,” she said

  briskly, silence broken. “We have the original pair flying a search pattern;

  we’re putting together more search teams. Does anyone have any further

  suggestions?”

  Skan opened his beak, but Snowstar beat him to it. “I’ll organize the mages

  and start distance-scrying,” he said immediately. “We’re probably too far

  away, but those who can scry for them should at least try. We’ll look for the

  traces of the magic on all the items they had with them; even if something

  made them crash, those traces will still be there. I’ll also pick out mages for

  the search parties.”

  Once again, Skan opened his beak—then glared around the table, to make

  certain that he wasn’t interrupted this time. “We should send a message to

  Shalaman,” he said belligerently. “His people know that forest better than we

  do. We should make him—I mean, ask him—to send out parties of his

  hunters.”

  “That’s good,” Judeth approved, making a note of it. “I can put anyone

  who’s been posted to that area on search parties, but if we can field Haighlei

  who are trained to hunt the forest in addition to our own people, that will be

  even better. Anything else?”

  Search parties, magic, the Haighlei. . . . Thoughts flitted through Drake’s

  head, but he couldn’t make any of them hold still long enough to be examined.

  Judeth looked around the table to meet shaking heads, and nodded.

  “Good. We’ve got a plan,” she said firmly. “We should assume that

  whatever has happened to these Silvers could endanger the city, and make

  finding them a top priority. Let’s get to it.”

  She stood up and was halfway to the door before anyone else was even

  out of his chair. He didn’t blame her. If the situation was reversed, he wouldn’t

  want to be in the same room with four frantic parents either.

  And he wouldn’t want to face two people who had just threatened to

  blackmail him for not taking the loss of their children seriously enough.

  Everyone else deserted the hall as quickly. Only Aubri paused at the door,

  looking back with uncertainty in his gaze. He opened his beak, then

  swallowed hard, shook his head, and followed the others.

  Skandranon wanted nothing more than to rush off to the rescue of his son.

  Failing that, he wanted to tear the gizzard out of those who were responsible

  for his disappearance. Right now, so far as his heart was concerned, the ones

  responsible were right here in White Gryphon.

  Judeth and Aubri. It was all their fault. If they hadn’t assigned the children

  to this far-flung outpost, both his beloved son and his dear friend

  Amberdrake’s daughter would still be here.

  “I knew that this was a mistake all along!” he seethed at Zhaneel as he

  paced the length and breadth of the Council Hall. “I knew they were too young

  to be sent off on Outpost Duty! No one that young has ever been sent off

  alone like that before! They should have been posted here, like everyone else

  was! Judeth’s getting senile, and Aubri was already there to show her the

  way—and—”

  “Please!” Zhaneel suddenly explode
d. “Stop!”

  He stared at her, his mouth still open, one foot raised.

  “Stop it, Skan,” she said, in a more normal tone. “It is not their fault. It is not

  the fault of anyone. And if you would stop trying to find someone to blame, we

  would get something done.” She looked up at him, with fear and anxiety in her

  eyes. “You are a mage; I am not. You go to work with Snowstar and the

  others, and I shall go to the messenger-mage and send a message in your

  name to Shalaman, asking for his help. At least I can do that much. And

  Skandranon—he is my son as well as yours, and I am able to act without

  rages and threats.”

  With that, she turned away from him and left him still standing with his foot

  upraised and his beak open, staring after her in shock.

  Alone, for Amberdrake and Winterhart had already left.

  Stupid, stupid gryphon. She’s right, you know. Blaming Aubri and Judeth

  won’t get you anywhere, and if you take things out on them, you’re only going

  to make them mad at you. The Black Gryphon would be remembered as an

  angry, overprotective, vengeful parent. And what good would that do? None,

  of course.

  What good would it do?

  All at once, his energy ran out of him. He sat down on the floor of the

  Council Hall, feeling—old.

  Old, tired, defeated, and utterly helpless, shaking with fear and in the grip

  of his own weakness. He squinted his eyes tightly closed, ground his beak,

  and shivered from anything but cold.

  Somewhere out there, his son was lost, possibly hurt, certainly in trouble.

  And there was nothing, nothing that he could do about it. This was one

  predicament that the Black Gryphon wasn’t going to be able to swoop in and

  salvage.

  I couldn‘t swoop in on anything these days even if I could salvage it. I’m an

  anachronism; I’ve outlived my usefulness. It is happening all over again,

  except this time there can’t be a rebirth of the Black Gryphon from the White

  Gryphon. The body wears out, the hips grow stiff and the muscles strain. I’m

  the one that’s useless and senile, not Judeth and Aubri. They were doing the

  best they could; I was the one flapping my beak and making stupid threats.

  That is all that is left for a failed warrior to do.

  For a moment, he shook with the need to throw back his head and keen his

  grief and helplessness to the sky, in the faint hope that perhaps some god

  somewhere might hear him. His throat constricted terribly. With the weight of

  intolerable grief and pain on his shoulders, he slowly raised his head.

  As his eyes fell on the door through which Zhaneel had departed, his mind

  unfroze, gradually coming out of its shock.

  What am I? What am I thinking?

  I may be old now, but I am still a legend to these people. Heroes don’t ever

  live as long as they want to, and most die young. I’ve lasted. That’s all

  experience. I’m a mage, and more skilled than when I was younger—and if

  I’m not the fighter I used to be, I’m also a lot smarter than I used to be! And

  what I’m feeling — I know what it is. I know. It was what Urtho felt every time I

  left, every time one of his gryphons wound up missing. I loved him so dearly,

  and I breathe each breath honoring his memory — but he was a great man

  because he accepted his entire being, and dealt with it. I am not Urtho — but I

  am his son in spirit, and what I honor I can also emulate. There‘s plenty I can

  do, starting with seeing to it that Snowstar hasn’t overlooked anything!

  He shook himself all over, as if he was shaking off some dark, cold shadow

  that was unpleasantly clinging to his back, and strode out of the Council Hall

  as fast as his legs would carry him.

  What I honor in Urtho‘s deeds, others have also honored in me. Urtho

  could embrace every facet of a situation and handle all of them with all of his

  intellect, whether it angered him personally or not. That was why he was a

  leader and not a panicked target. He could act when others would be

  overwhelmed by emotion. If I think of this disappearance in terms only of how

  I feel about it, then I will miss details that could be critical while I fill my vision

  with myself, and that could cost lives. Let the historians argue over whether I

  was enraged or determined or panicked on this day! I can still be effective to

  my last breath!

  It was not clear at first where the Adept had run off to, and by the time Skan

  tracked him down, Snowstar had managed to gather all of the most powerful

  mages together in his own dwelling and workshop. Skan was impressed in

  spite of himself at how quickly the Kaled’a’in mage had moved. It was

  notoriously difficult to organize mages, but Snowstar seemed to have

  accomplished the task in a very limited amount of time.

  There were seven mages at work including Snowstar. They had been

  divided into pairs, seated at individual tables so that they didn’t interfere with

  each other, each pair of them scrying for something in particular. One pair

  looked for the teleson, one for the tent, one for the basket. Snowstar was

  working by himself, but the moment that Skan came near him, he looked up

  and beckoned.

  “I’m looking for Tadrith myself,” he said without preamble, “I was waiting for

  you to help me; the blood-tie he has with you is going to make it possible to

  find him, if it’s at all possible. You will both feel similar magically, as you

  know.”

  “If?” Skan said, growing cold all over. Is he saying that he thinks Tad is—

  dead? “You mean you feel he is already dead—”

  Snowstar made a soothing gesture. “No, actually, I don’t. Even if Tadrith

  was unconscious or worse, we’d still find him under normal circumstances.

  The problem is that I’m fairly certain that they’re quite out of our range.” The

  white-haired Kaled’a’in Adept shook his head. “But ‘fairly’ isn’t ‘completely,’

  and under the impetus of powerful emotions, people have been known to do

  extraordinary things before this. As you should know, better than any of us!

  I’m more than willing to try, if you are.”

  Skan grunted in extreme irritation, but reined it in. “Stupid question,

  Snowstar. I’d try until I fell over.”

  Snowstar grimaced. “I know it was a stupid question; forgive me.

  Fortunately, that won’t matter to the spell or the stone.” He gestured at a small

  table, and the half-dome of volcanic glass atop it. “Would you?”

  Skan took his place opposite the chair behind the table; he’d done scrying

  himself before, once or twice, but always with another mage and never with

  Snowstar. Each mage had his own chosen vehicle for scrying, but most used

  either a clear or black stone or a mirror. He put his foreclaws up on the table,

  surrounding his half of the stone with them. Snowstar placed his own hands

  on the table, touching fingertip to talon-tip with Skan.

  After that, it was a matter of Skan concentrating on his son and supplying

  mage-energy to Snowstar while Snowstar created and loosed the actual spell.

  Some mages had a visual component to this work, but Snowstar didn’t. It took

  someone who was not only able to
see mage-energy but one who was

  sensitive to its movement—like a gryphon—to sense what he was doing.

  Skan felt the energy gathering all around them and condensing into the

  form of the spell, like a warm wind encircling them and then cooling. He felt it

  strain and tug at the restraints Snowstar held on it. And he felt Snowstar

  finally let it go.

  Then—nothing. It leaped out—and dissipated. It wasn’t gone, as if it had

  gone off to look for something. It was gone as if it had stretched itself out so

  thin that a mere breeze had made it fragment into a million uncoordinated bits.

  Snowstar jerked as if a string holding him upright had snapped, then

  sagged down, his hands clutching the stone. “Damn,” he swore softly, as

  harsh an oath as Skan had ever heard him give voice to. “It’s no good. It’s just

  too far.”

  Skan sagged himself, his throat locked up in grief, his chest so tight it was

  hard to take a breath. Tad. . . .

  A few moments later the others had all uttered the same words, in the

  same tones of anger and defeat— all except the pair trying to reach the

  teleson.

  They simply looked baffled and defeated, and they hadn’t said anything.

  Finally Snowstar stopped waiting for them to speak up for themselves and

  went over to them. “Well?” he said, as Skan followed on his heels.

  Skan knew both of them; one was a young Kaled’a’in called Redoak, the

  other a mercenary mage from Urtho’s following named Gielle. The latter was

  an uncannily lucky fellow; he had been a mere Journeyman at the beginning

  of the mage-storms following the Cataclysm, but when they were over, he was

  an Adept. He was more than a bit bewildered by the transition, but had

  handled it gracefully—far more gracefully than some would have.

  “I can’t explain it, sir,” he said, obviously working to suppress an automatic

  reaction to authority of snapping to attention and saluting. “When I couldn’t

  reach Tadrith’s device, I tried others, just to make certain that there wasn’t

  something wrong with me. I’ve been able to call up every teleson we’ve ever

  created, including the one out there with the patrol looking for the missing

  Silvers. I got the one we left with the garrison at Khimbata, which is farther

  away than Tadrith is. I got all of them—except the one we sent out with