Then her gaze dropped. Untidy pale hair fell across her delicate face, and she drew back against the… shelter, he thought, odd though that seemed… the shelter of a slim brown griffin that curved its body behind the girl and curved a wing across her shoulder.
Behind the girl stood Kairaithin. Anasakuse Sipiike Kairaithin. The name slid through Bertaud’s mind with a strange familiarity. Kairaithin still wore the shape of a man, yet he did not look like anything human. He stared back at Bertaud with pitiless calm, as though the stillness of the desert had settled in his eyes. He looked… satisfied. As well he might, Bertaud thought bitterly. But the griffin mage did not, at least, seem angry.
Bertaud got to his feet, slowly. But not painfully. Recalling his battle, if one could so describe it, with the white griffin, this seemed miraculous. He looked around again, incredulously, at the stone hall, at the waiting griffins, at the girl leaning against the griffin at her back, petting it as though it were a cat… at Kairaithin.
“Man,” said Kairaithin, and waited, starkly patient.
Bertaud met his eyes with what pride he could find. The griffin mage stared back, something strange and not human in his eyes… a kind of hard, fierce humor that was not the humor of a man. Bertaud bent his head slightly before that black stare, acknowledging the griffin’s power. “Lord.”
Kairaithin tilted his head in satisfaction. “I would have brought you to this place without spilling blood out on the sand.”
“And what place is this?” Bertaud steadied his voice with an effort.
“The hall of the Lord of Fire and Air.” Kairaithin walked past Bertaud toward the bronze-and-gold griffin Bertaud had seen first. As he moved, he changed: rising, swelling, extending in all directions, the true form of the griffin emerging from the shape of the man.
He made a splendid griffin: large and heavy, with powerful shoulders and eyes blacker than the desert sky at night. His dark coloring made him yet more impressive: His wings, so heavily barred with black that little red showed through, mantled above a body the color of the dark embers at the heart of a fire. He said to Bertaud, But here you are come, in the end, are you not, man?
His voice as a griffin was very much like the voice he had as a man. It had the same hard humor to it. It slid into Bertaud’s mind like a lion slipping through the dark.
Bertaud thought of too many things to say, and thought better of saying any of them.
The lord of the griffins stirred, hardly more than a slight ruffling of bronze feathers, an infinitesimal shift of his head. But he drew all eyes. His strength and anger beat through the hot air. He said, in a voice like the sun slamming down at noon, Bertaud, son of Boudan. Do you serve the King of Feierabiand?
Bertaud closed his eyes for a moment. He said carefully, “Yes.” And added, “Lord.”
The griffin tipped his head to one side, unreadable eyes fixed on Bertaud’s. Sipiike Kairaithin considers you might usefully bear a message from me to the King of Feierabiand.
“I might,” agreed Bertaud and, because he did not care to be taken lightly, “If I judged it useful; I am my king’s servant, and none of yours.”
The gold-and-copper griffin tossed its head back in what seemed a silent shout of intermingled laughter and anger; the red-and-gold one was merely angry. So was the griffin king, hard hot anger like a gust from a desert sandstorm.
His own pride held Bertaud still. The girl was not so proud. She drew aside, the brown griffin with her, and tucked herself down into a small space at the foot of one of the twisted pillars. Bertaud was sorry he had frightened her, and at the same time, incredulous that she should be in this place, in this company. He wanted badly to take her aside and ask her a thousand questions. He wished he was certain he would survive long enough to speak to the girl. He was not even confident he would survive the next moment.
Peace. Peace, said Kairaithin, sounding harshly amused, and all the griffins settled, slowly. Man, take more care.
“Do you take care for my pride?” retorted Bertaud, a little more sharply than he had intended, and made himself stare back without giving ground.
Are you free to come and go in this hall? The griffin waited a heartbeat, pitiless eyes holding the man’s. Then take more care.
After a moment, Bertaud bowed his head. “Lord.”
Your folk died well, said the gold-and-copper griffin by the king. His voice was swift as fire, fierce, proud… not kind, precisely. Generous, perhaps. Bertaud stared at him, wondering what death a griffin might find good.
It was a day of blood and fire, said the griffin. He seemed to mean, in some odd way, to offer comfort. Though they were overmatched, your people fought bravely. You may have my name, to speak as you choose: It is Eskainiane Escaile Sehaikiu.
“Thank you,” said Bertaud, which seemed due. “Did you… are they all… do any still live?”
Certainly not, said the griffin. Eskainiane… Eskainiane Escaile Sehaikiu. His quick fiery voice held surprise, somehow even reproof. We would not so offend their courage as to leave them living on such a day.
“What?”
The griffin blinked, a slow sliding of feathered eyelids across amber-colored eyes. Their dishonored blood would cry out of the sand that drank it in. We would hear their names in our dreams, in the voice of the wind through our wings.
“Men are not griffins,” Bertaud protested. He wanted to shout it. He managed a calm tone, somehow.
The coppery griffin looked at him with unhuman eyes that might have meant well, yet failed entirely to comprehend him. Blood is blood.
We have no need to take our counsels with men, the white griffin said, breaking in with angry impatience. His voice came like a knife edge against Bertaud’s mind, like fire whipping through the dark—nothing like the blatant power of the king’s voice nor the subtlety of Kairaithin’s nor the brightness of Eskainiane’s.
To Bertaud, this griffin’s voice was like a physical assault. He shut his eyes to keep from flinching from it, found his physical balance compromised, and shamed himself by staggering. He steadied himself only with difficulty because there was nothing close enough to catch hold of. It was very nearly as disorienting as his first encounter with Kairaithin, and he had believed himself past that strong a reaction.
We shall do as we please and as we must, and let this human king send men against us if he does not care for what we do, said the white griffin, and again his voice seemed to Bertaud like a blow, although the griffin was not even looking at him.
We would do better, Tastairiane Apailika, to have a care for what men might do, said Kairaithin. Or why are we here building a desert in this foreign land?
Peace. The king’s powerful voice slammed down across the whole hall, silencing all dissent. Bertaud swayed with the force of it. Man. Bertaud, son of Boudan. Will you bear a word from me to the ear of your king?
“Certainly,” Bertaud said, staring at him, trying to keep his voice steadier than his undependable body. “If you ask me. What word, O Lord of Fire and Air, would you have me take to my king?”
We forbid men from our desert. We will tolerate no intrusion into the country we have made. In return, we will not hunt men. What will your king say to this word?
Bertaud said honestly, “He will not accept it. He will bring a thousand men against you, or hire Casmantian mercenaries if he must, and drive you back across the mountains.”
He expected anger, hotter and more dangerous than before. Strangely, it did not come. The griffins spoke among themselves… He could distinguish words and phrases and the odd uninterpretable image. But it was like listening to a quick interchange in a foreign language one barely knew: He knew he missed far more than he understood.
The griffin king said, What then will he offer?
It dawned on Bertaud that he was, in fact, negotiating with the griffins… just as Iaor had desired, although not from the position of strength they had both expected. But negotiating. He saw that the griffins had made, not an ultimatum, bu
t a first offer. Like merchants bargaining over a length of cloth or a jeweled ring. He was astonished. He said instantly, “My king will forgive your incursion into his land, if you go at once. You may depart in peace.”
That is not acceptable, said the griffin king. We will hold this country hereabout for four seasons, until the heat of the summer rises again, and hunt as we please among the pastures of men and the woodlands of these hills.
The overwhelming power of his voice made it seem, again, like an ultimatum or a threat. Forcing himself to disregard this impression, Bertaud countered, “You must go south, to the lowlands beyond Talend, where there is little farmland to be ruined. You may stay in that country until the leaves turn, provided you hunt only in the forest and the hills, leaving be the pastured beasts.”
There was a short pause.
We will stay in this desert we have made, stated the griffin king. But we will stay only three seasons, until the light dies and then quickens anew in the rising year. But we must hunt, and there are no desert creatures here for us.
Unexpectedly, the girl stood up. The slim brown griffin rose with her, gazing at the larger griffins over the girl’s shoulder. It seemed the girl, unlike Bertaud, had been able to follow the speech of the griffins, for she said in a low voice that was hardly more than a whisper, “Kiibaile Esterire Airaikeliu, Minas Ford and Minas Spring and Talend—and Bered—all the small towns and villages will give your people a dozen cattle. Two dozen. We will drive them into the high desert you have made and give them to you. So you can leave be the animals we value more.” She glanced quickly and nervously at Bertaud. “Lord, it would be better so.”
Bertaud stared at her. So did the griffins, but though Kes blushed and dropped her eyes away from his, she did not seem to mind their savage attention.
Six for each month that we stay, said the king of the griffins, to the girl. And we will not withdraw until the light quickens in the next year. He swung his fierce head around and stared at Bertaud out of fierce black eyes. Agree, man, if you are wise.
The memory of a hundred men butchered like oxen suggested a stiff refusal, followed by a punitive expedition—even if Iaor had to hire Casmantian mercenaries to help deal with the griffins Casmantium understood better than Feierabiand. But the sober knowledge that it was they themselves and none others who had been responsible for leading their men against a foe they had calamitously underestimated, argued otherwise. And he, who might have overruled Jasand, was most to blame.
Kairaithin had tried to bring him here, before the… battle. The attempted battle. If he had come—if he had not let Diene’s fears overrule his own inclinations—Bertaud deliberately shut down that thought. It was one to endure on sleepless nights. Not, by any means, one to entertain while in the midst of serious negotiations.
He said, “There are small villages and homesteads through all this country.”
We will not trouble them, said the griffin king.
“And you have ruined enough land. Your desert is wide enough.”
The griffins stirred. The red-and-gold female opened her beak and made a low, aggressive sound. The king did something that was like a silent, motionless hammer blow, and she was suddenly still. All the griffins were still.
We shall contain the desert as we can, said Kairaithin. It is a considerable concession, man, he added impatiently. Agree, if you would be wise.
Bertaud inclined his head. “Subject to my king’s approval, I do agree. However, the king’s honor will demand suitable recompense for the damage and trouble you have caused him.”
The honor of men, said the white griffin, contemptuously.
“If you seek peace with Feierabiand,” Bertaud said flatly, “you will recognize that we have our own honor, even if it is not the same as yours.”
Kiibaile Esterire Airaikeliu did not, at least, strike him down immediately where he stood for his temerity. Bertaud thought the white griffin would have liked to. But the griffin king did not move, and Kairaithin said, We shall consider what you say. Perhaps you may have a suggestion regarding what your king might find suitable remuneration.
For a moment Bertaud’s mind went entirely blank. He could think of absolutely nothing Iaor might consider acceptable that griffins might supply. It seemed, in fact, a question for mages. If a mage could be found who did not despise the desert and actually knew something of its creatures. He said temperately, “I shall inquire. When I bring your word to him.”
“Rubies,” said Kes, again breaking in unexpectedly. “Fire opals. Sparks of gold.”
Bertaud stared at her. But Kairaithin said, We might indeed part with these echoes of blood and fire, if these would please your king. If he is wise, he will indeed ask for such small tokens. Will you permit me to take you to him? Will you give him this word?
“Yes,” said Bertaud.
At sunset, then. Kairaithin stood and stretched himself like a great cat. He shook his feathers into order. He was suddenly gone: The hot, close air seemed to hesitate an instant before closing into the space where he had been.
One by one the other griffins rose and paced to the edge of the open hall and dropped off the edge of the cliff into the wind. The white griffin went first. Bertaud found himself surprised by the strength of his own relief at that creature’s departure. Then the red-and-gold griffin, and the gold-and-copper one, and last the king.
Their departure left Bertaud alone in a hall of twisted red stone and sand, with a girl who spoke to griffins with amazing familiarity and a slim-bodied brown-and-bronze griffin. The relief of the departure of the other griffins was so great that it took him a moment to realize the brown one was still present, for all it was the size of a small horse and undoubtedly capable of tearing an unarmed man in half, if it wished. Which it did not seem to. It stood by the girl like a dog, or a friend. She had her hand on its neck, as though for comfort and support—in fact, precisely as though it were a dog. Or a friend.
The girl did not look like a mage. Nor like the kind of vile, treacherous, death-loving creature who would deliberately let a hundred men go to be slaughtered by griffin savagery and desert fire. In fact… in fact, if Bertaud had passed her on the streets of Tihannad, he thought he would not have so much as glanced her way. Though, to closer inspection, she was not without a certain waiflike attractiveness.
She ducked her head as he studied her, closing in upon herself. Her hair fell forward and hid her eyes. The griffin with her stared at Bertaud with pale, fierce eyes, startling in its dark face.
He said, “Kes. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, not looking up.
She was shy. She looked timid as a fawn. And yet she stood in a stone hall above the world with a griffin at her back and had spoken to the powerful, dangerous king of griffins by name.
“Why are you here?” he asked her directly.
The girl glanced up, and dropped her gaze again immediately.
She is a powerful… healer, said the small griffin. Its voice was subtle, soft; it came unobtrusively around the edges of Bertaud’s mind. She made you whole.
Bertaud flashed on the shining white griffin, leaping down from the rock above to come against him after it had cast him down from that height. He had known he was going to die. The memory was vivid enough that he was forced to sit down rather suddenly and lean his head on his hand. He had been badly hurt. He knew that. He remembered a blow that he thought had crushed his ribs, and put a hand involuntarily to his chest. It seemed momentarily beyond belief that he could draw breath, that the bone and flesh under his hand was not even bruised.
And this girl had healed him. So she was a mage, then, after all.
The girl lifted her eyes again, tentatively. “Kairaithin said he wanted you whole. He told me I might use fire to heal you, even though you are a creature of earth. I thought at first I would not find a way to do that. Then I did. It was hard. I thought you might… might die of it. But if I hadn’t done it, you would have died anyway. And then it worke
d after all.”
“Yes.” Bertaud touched his chest again. “Thank you.”
The girl gave him a tiny nod. “I was afraid for you. Even after you were whole. Tastairiane Apailika said… He said you were his prey. But then Kairaithin made him give you to me.”
“He’s very powerful,” Bertaud said, trying for a neutral tone. “Kairaithin. Isn’t he?”
“Yes, lord,” the girl answered faintly. “But he has no power for healing. So he told me. He brought me to see the battlefield after the battle was done.” She met his eyes with what seemed to be an effort of will. “It was terrible to see everyone dead. I was afraid you would die, too.”
But she had healed him. He could not even decide whether he should be grateful. He asked again, trying to sound gentle, “But why are you here?”
She looked at him with a trapped expression. “It would have been wrong to let them die. Wouldn’t it?”
She was asking him? Then it dawned on him what she was saying. “You came up here to heal the griffins?”
The girl nodded.
“And now they will not let you leave them?”
“Kairaithin said he thought there would be a battle. I thought he meant with the Casmantian mages. I was… I didn’t know… I think I didn’t want to know he meant with you. And then he brought me to the place where everyone was already dead. Then I understood. But then it was too late.”
“I see.”
“All the men were already dead! What good would it have done to let the griffins die, too? How could I let them die?”
Bertaud did not try to answer this.
The girl went on, hesitantly, “Kairaithin told me he tried to talk to you, lord. He said the mage you brought with you hated him. He said you shouldn’t have brought a mage. He said she feared him, so that he could not speak to you. Or he would have. I think he would, truly. He brought me to heal you, though he did not know whether I would find a way to do it.” She stopped and glanced at him and then away again, seeming afraid that he might be angry.
Bertaud said with difficulty, not knowing whether he believed it or not, “It’s not your fault.” He walked away, stood at the edge of the hall, looked out over the red desert, and thought about what the girl had said. And what he had answered. He thought it was the truth—both times. What had happened hadn’t been her fault. He knew whose fault it had been. He should have left Diene with the men outside the desert and walked back into it himself… He had not. And so. One dealt with the choices one made. And the consequence they carried with them.
Lord of the Changing Winds Page 13