Alliances

Chapter 19

Alhana’s plan was a rousing success. The caravan of elves passed by the bandit-held town of Mereklar without alerting anyone to its presence. The climb up Redstone Bluffs wasn’t an easy one, but after the horrors of Nalis Aren, the physical exertion in clean, cool air seemed almost refreshing.

High atop the rocky terrain, near where Nalaryn’s band had seen griffons in flight, Porthios located a suitable campsite. The caravan settled on a plateau, a semicircular table of red stone two hundred yards long and a hundred wide. Below its southern, rounded edge was a sheer, thousand-foot drop into a boulder-filled ravine. The site could be approached by only a single path, making it an admirable defensive position.

The day after making camp, the elves mustered in the predawn chill on the flats outside camp. Nearly every able-bodied elf would take part in the griffon hunt. Alhana, Chathendor, Samar, and a guard of forty warriors would remain behind with the sick and wounded. The rest were divided into smaller groups. Alhana’s dismounted guard was broken into bands of fifteen to twenty. Kerian and Hytanthas divided the Bianost elves between themselves. Borrowing from the arsenal cache, the Lioness distributed bows aplenty among the teams. Even if they found no griffons, any suitable game was to be brought down for food.

Porthios was not present during their preparations. He was averse to strong daylight, and the cold was particularly hard on his damaged physique. Knowing that, Kerian still was annoyed by his absence. Leaders led by example. Whatever Gilthas’s failings, he had taught her that much.

She found a thin patch of dirt and drew a simple map with one finger. The royal guards would head west. That was the largest area and the roughest terrain, but the guards were the youngest and most fit of the elves. She and some of the Bianost volunteers would head north. The balance of the elves, led by Hytanthas and including Nalaryn and his Kagonesti, would explore the south range.

The hunting parties asked her what to look for. Kerian had ridden a war griffon but had never hunted the creatures in the wild. Alhana provided the necessary information.

“Obviously, look for griffons in the air. Failing that, look for parallel claw marks on rocks, especially high peaks. You might also see shreds of animal hide, heads, or hooves—griffons don’t eat those parts. A goat carcass wedged in very high rocks is a griffon larder. If the griffon isn’t about, he soon will be.

“Scat is white and chalky. Castoff feathers and tufts of hair may be found around scratching rocks.” She smiled at their expressions of surprise. “I was raised among griffon riders in Silvanesti. My kin includes some of the greatest griffon hunters in the land.”

Hytanthas asked how to recognize griffon nests.

“They’re called aeries, and they’re made of slabs of stone lined with fur and feathers shed from their own hides. They build them at the highest points possible. If you find an aerie, mark the spot and return. Do not approach it. Griffons will slaughter any creature that comes within eyesight of their aeries.”

“How many live in each aerie?” asked Kerian.

“One, unless there are hatchlings. Griffons mate for life, but life-mates don’t share the same aerie. They’re too fiercely territorial to live together.”

Kerian gave her a considering look, and the former queen returned it pointedly. The description might fit Kerian and Gilthas or Alhana and Porthios equally well.

Geranthas, former animal healer in Bianost, rubbed his sunburned nose and asked, “How do we capture them?”

“We leave that to the Great Lord,” Alhana said. “Our only task is to find the aeries.”

Before the bands broke apart and went their separate ways, Alhana added one last warning. “These are carnivores we’re hunting, predators. In their eyes, we’re not much different from their usual prey. If the chance presents itself, they will carry off one of you as readily as a mountain goat.”

On that somber note, the hunting parties dispersed. Kerian put the rising sun on her right and signaled her party to follow. She led them down the gravel-strewn path.

Alhana’s guard walked slowly into the western ridges. Many had bows strung and arrows nocked already, and they kept eyes to the sky for swooping predators.

The last band, with Hytanthas and Nalaryn, waited until the others were gone from sight among the boulders and rock walls before setting out. Although the mountains were unfamiliar territory for the Kagonesti, they knew a successful hunt began with a quiet departure. Hytanthas was happy to follow their advice. He was a city elf, born and raised in Qualinost, although for most of the past ten years, he’d lived in the field on one campaign or another. War he knew too well, but hunting was a mysterious art.

The Kagonesti fanned out ahead of him and his Bianost followers. Periodically, a Wilder elf would pause to examine a stone or an outcropping of lichen. When one stopped, all stopped, even those not in a direct line of sight. It was a startling thing to witness. Hytanthas and his followers found themselves watching the Kagonesti instead of looking for traces of griffons.

Ahead of Nalaryn’s people, a series of sawtooth peaks rose, each one higher than the last. Narrow tracks wound between the sharp pinnacles, some of the trails barely wide enough for a single elf. Hytanthas was forced to divide his followers into smaller groups, the better to filter through the rugged landscape. One band he gave to Vanolin, the second to Geranthas, and the third he led himself.

The last of the Kagonesti disappeared among the sun-washed rocks. When none reappeared immediately, the volunteers grew anxious. Hytanthas reassured them.

“They’re still there. We just can’t see them.”

He was nervous too, but thought it better not to let the townsfolk know. He braced his bow and carried it ready in one hand. The other hand he rested atop the quiver of broadheads bumping against his thigh. That made him feel better.

An hour passed. The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, its brilliant light barely warming the high bluffs. Vanolin’s band veered right around a grouping of jagged boulders. Geranthas’s people paced Hytanthas until a hulking, wedge-shaped ridge rose between them. Geranthas led his party around the left side, while Hytanthas circled the other way.

With no warning, a Kagonesti female appeared in front of Hytanthas. He flinched.

Hazel eyes crinkling in amusement, she put a finger to her lips. He remembered her name was Laurel. “Our chief would speak with you,” she whispered.

She led Hytanthas toward an impossibly narrow opening in the rocks. At Laurel’s request, he signaled the Bianost elves to wait for him there.

Laurel entered the fissure. She moved with astonishing ease and swiftness, bending and bowing to avoid sharp protrusions. Hytanthas’s clothes snagged and ripped. Dirt fell into his eyes. He felt like a great blundering human. All elves were not created equal, he decided.

Abruptly, they emerged in the open, but in deep shade cast by a ledge projecting overhead. Nalaryn and one other Kagonesti were there. Nalaryn gestured with his chin, directing the young warrior’s gaze upward.

On a pinnacle sixty feet above them was perched a fortress. Slabs of stone, some as long as an elf, were laid in courses, like the logs of a human cabin. Gaps in the walls showed tufts of tawny fur and white feathers: a griffon’s aerie.

There was no sign of activity. The occupants must be out hunting. Hytanthas started toward the pinnacle. Nalaryn put a hand on his chest, halting him. In the quietest whisper he could manage, Hytanthas said, “I must check. If the nest is old and abandoned, it’s no use to us.”

“It is not old,” Nalaryn said. He lifted his nose to the wind and bade Hytanthas do likewise. “The griffon is away, but the aerie isn’t abandoned.”

Nalaryn never said a thing unless he was absolutely certain. Hytanthas grinned in triumph, and they went to bring the news back to camp.

One by one the hunting parties returned, breathing heavily from their exertions in the thin air. Kerian’s group had been unsuccessful. The single nest they’d found was obviously long abandoned. The royal warriors had better luck. In the western approaches to the Skywall Peaks, they found an entire colony of griffons. Fifty-two aeries were in plain sight, and there could be more on the range behind. When menaced by a pair of wild griffons, the guards drove the animals off by clanging swords on breastplates. They saw other griffons battling in the sky, fighting with beaks and forelegs.

“Forelegs only?” asked Alhana. “That’s mating combat.”

The talons of a griffon’s eagle forelegs were dangerous, but not nearly so lethal as the more powerful leonine claws on its hind feet. Forelegs were used for sparring, not serious combat.

The guards described the griffons as having golden-brown plumage, except for a few of the larger males, who had head and neck plumage in black and bronze. The more observant warriors estimated the beasts at eight to ten feet in length, with wingspans of twenty feet.

“Those aren’t Royal griffons, but Goldens, a different breed.”

The royal cavalry of old Silvanesti traditionally rode the larger, white-plumaged griffons, which had come to be known as the Royal breed.

“Can Goldens be tamed?” Kerian asked.

Alhana said, “I don’t see why not. They’re smaller, but fierce fighters and superb flyers. In the archives, they’re said to be swifter in flight than Royals, though less hardy.”

In the midst of their discussion, Hytanthas’s party returned. He and Nalaryn related their discovery of the aerie. Nalaryn confirmed there was fresh evidence the aerie was being used. The news brought Alhana to her feet.

“A female! This is wonderful! She’ll be in her mating season. We must capture her first. We won’t need to scale every peak in the range to take more.” Hytanthas asked why. Alhana blushed, and it was Kerian who enlightened him.

“We can use the female to lure male griffons into our net traps.”

The ancient method of capturing griffons consisted of baiting a trap with a live goat or sheep covered in strong netting. When a griffon swooped in to take the bait, its legs would become entangled in the net. A female griffon would make even better bait, albeit for a different reason. When a would-be swain became trapped, elves would spring from hiding to rope it and tie down its wings.

“The head must be hooded very quickly,” Alhana warned. “Griffons will fight to the death—their own, or yours—as long as they can see an enemy.”

Among the Bianost elves were weavers and riggers. Geranthas promised to get them working on nets and lassoes, Vanolin offered to set others to making hoods. The two elves hurried away, and Alhana called after them, “The hoods must have drawstrings at the bottom. Long drawstrings!”

A shadow detached itself from between tall boulders. It was Porthios. Neither Kerian nor Alhana noticed his arrival until Hytanthas hailed him.

Alhana began to tell him what had been discovered, but he stopped her with an upraised hand. “I heard,” he said. “We must capture the female immediately.”

Kerian pointed out the problem. The construction of ropes and nets, even with the best will in the world, would take time.

In reply, Porthios reached behind the boulder towering next to him and hauled out a thick hank of coiled fiber. “I have rope. And a net.”

Kerian stared. “How? Where did you get it?”

“I made it.”

Excitement erupted. Porthios, Kerian, Hytanthas, and the Kagonesti made ready to depart, to capture the female griffon.

Alhana would have sent a company of guards with them, but Porthios declined her offer. The warriors would be much too noisy for the plan he had in mind, he said.

Porthios handed Alhana a scrap of parchment, asking that she dispatch elves to locate the items listed. She assured him she would see to it, and see to the swift completion of the efforts of the Bianost artisans. Even as she finished speaking, he was moving rapidly out of sight. Kerian and the rest followed.

They covered ground quickly, slowing only when Nalaryn led them into a narrow crevice between two enormous boulders. Kerian unbuckled her sword belt and slipped sideways into the crack. At its end, she found herself in a small, oblong canyon with high sides.

Nalaryn warned her not to emerge from the cleft. The Kagonesti he had left on guard clung to the shadowed sides of the canyon like bats to a cave wall. Spying their chief, one detached from the wall and sidled over. It was the female, Laurel.

Wordlessly, she pointed skyward. Kerian lifted her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.

On the highest prominence in sight was a massive aerie. A Golden griffon was there, asleep, wings folded over its back. Its golden-brown feathered head, with wickedly curved beak, was tucked under the leading edge of its right wing. Laurel explained it had alighted not long after her chief’s departure, settled comfortably into its aerie, and slept undisturbed ever since.

A sleeping griffon was an unexpected windfall. Awake, it would be nearly impossible to approach, but asleep, they might have a chance. It must have fed heavily to be sleeping so soundly.

Porthios passed the rope and net forward to Kerian and Nalaryn. Porthios had explained his plan to Nalaryn during the journey to the aerie. By gestures, the chief relayed the plan to his clansfolk and to Kerian.

The idea was simple enough but would require not only the Kagonesti’s athleticism, but every ounce of their fabled stealth. Nine of the most agile, most silent, would work their way around to the far side of the aerie. Carrying the net and rope on their backs, they would scale the pinnacle and bring the net over the sleeping griffon. Once they anchored the net on the far side of the aerie, the net would be hauled tight by elves waiting in the canyon.

“That’s your plan?” Kerian gasped. “They’ll be killed!”

“Only if they’re clumsy.”

At a signal known only to themselves, the nine Wilder elves, with Nalaryn in the lead, left the shadows and started forward. Kerian’s hands, resting on the rock wall, tightened convulsively. Without realizing it, she took a step forward. Porthios had no trouble reading her thoughts.

“Go with them,” he said.

“I’m not light-footed enough.”

“You’re Kagonesti, aren’t you?”

Rather than snap back an acid retort, she simply eased out of the crevice. Nalaryn glanced at his leader. Porthios’s nod was enough for him. If the Great Lord wanted the Lioness to go, then go she must.

Nalaryn and three elves attached the leading edge of the large net to the peg buttons on their tunics and started up the rock face. Three more elves, plus Kerian, picked up the net’s trailing edge and followed. The last two elves flanked the group, making certain the net didn’t snag on anything.

It was an agonizing climb. Despite their legendary dexterity, with the need to search for hand- and footholds, and to move in utter silence, their progress was extremely slow. Porthios had made the net from hemp line, tied with big square knots—strong and tough but very heavy. Each time an elf advanced, he or she heaved the net upward with shoulders, brought up legs, then paused to breathe, mouth wide so as to make no sound.

One of the flanking elves suddenly hissed a warning and Kerian looked up. The leading elf on the far right, moving a bit faster than the rest, had outpaced his comrades. The net went taut and tugged on the elf on his left. Caught off-balance and dragged upward, the lagging elf was pulled off his feet.

“Anchor!” was all Kerian had time to hiss before the fellow lost his footing completely. He knocked his head against a rocky outcropping and ended up dangling from the bottom edge of the net, gripping it with one hand.

The rest of the group braced themselves, absorbing the shock of his weight. After a heart-stopping instant, the dangling elf found secure footing and released the net. He was injured and unable to continue, so he climbed back down to the canyon floor. Filled with shame, he crept into the shadows.

All this took place in mere moments, and in almost utter silence.

As soon as he’d released the net, Kerian began crawling up under it to take his place. Reaching the spot he’d vacated, she took hold of the edge and started up, taking up the slack. When the rope mesh was taut over the cliff face again, the elves resumed their climb.

It was only mid-afternoon, but with mountains all around, the climbers would lose the best light before long. At their backs, the sun was going down behind the high western peaks. The east-facing sides of the mountains were darkening, silhouetted against the brilliant sky.

Nalaryn reached the base of the aerie first. The view inside was blocked by feathers, branches, and small stones that filled the spaces between the slabs of stone. He signaled his companions, and the climb resumed. When all the leading elves were poised below the rim of the aerie, Nalaryn unhooked the net from his tunic and very slowly lifted his head above the topmost gray stone slab to peer inside.

The griffon’s eye, large as a pomegranate, was aimed squarely at him. The leathery red eyelid was slightly parted, revealing the pupil, black within the black iris, only inches from Nalaryn’s nose.

For the stolid Kagonesti who hadn’t hesitated to pledge his life to a mysterious masked leader or storm a city full of mercenaries, it finally was too much. Nalaryn threw himself backward, away from the griffon’s great eye.

Kerian saw him jerk back then fall as if struck by an arrow. Her mouth opened, but she knew she mustn’t make a sound, just as she knew Nalaryn was going to die on the rocky floor of the narrow canyon below. Horror turned to astonishment when she saw Nalaryn’s foot catch in the net. Immediately she and the others braced themselves, but his back still slammed into the spire. His weight jerked the female elf next to him off the aerie. With an astonishing midair twist, she caught the bottommost slab of the aerie as she fell. Nalaryn was not so fortunate. The impact had knocked him unconscious and he hung upside down, foot entangled in the net, below her.

All of them waited for the griffon to spring out and tear them to pieces. It did not. Silence continued to reign over their high perch. Relieved but with hearts pounding, Kerian and the last elf with her on the aerie lowered Nalaryn to the elves below. The two of them moved toward each other, causing the center of the net, where Nalaryn was snagged, to sag down. The female elf who been pulled off by Nalaryn’s fall descended with him, keeping him from hitting the stone spire.

Kerian and a Kagonesti called Breakbow watched as Nalaryn was disentangled and taken to safety. Then they climbed to the rim and carefully raised their heads high enough to see over.

No wonder Nalaryn had been shocked. But Kerian had seen Eagle Eye, her Royal griffon, in just such a pose, deeply asleep, yet with his eyelids half open.

“Asleep,” she mouthed, barely making a sound.

She and Breakbow parted, working their way to opposite sides of that end of the aerie. Lifting the leading edge of the net as high as possible, they sidled forward, bringing it over the sleeping griffon. So close to the beast, they had to take even more care to make no noise, yet every gust of wind was like a slap in the face, and arms and legs were exhausted after the long, slow climb.

At last they completed the traverse. Ropes were attached to the edge of the net and sent down to the Kagonesti waiting below. Kerian and Breakbow returned to the west side of the nest, the side they had climbed, to anchor that side of the net. Once all were in position, Kerian gave the command.

“Now!”

The elves in the canyon below hauled on the ropes. Simultaneously, Kerian and Breakbow braced their feet on the cliff face and pulled on their side of the net. The griffon trumpeted in alarm. Its powerful hindquarters worked as it tried to launch itself skyward, but the net had it trapped, and it toppled forward.

“Keep pulling!” Kerian shouted. She and Breakbow released their hold while the Kagonesti in the canyon continued to pull, and the griffon’s own momentum carried it headfirst over the side of the acne. Yodeling in distress, it plunged down the sloping rock face. Elves scattered ahead of it, and it landed with a heavy thud. Kerian prayed they hadn’t killed it.

They had not. Although stunned by the fall, the griffon was very much alive. The Kagonesti had wrapped it well with the rope, and Porthios was studying the captured beast as Kerian and Breakbow reached the bottom of the spire. The griffon’s baleful eye darted from one elf to another, always focusing on whomever was speaking. Its unblinking attention was unsettling. The Kagonesti sidled away, out of its line of sight, leaving only Hytanthas, Kerian, and Porthios near the enraged beast.

“Very good,” Porthios said. “When we have as many griffons as we can manage, I will perform the tath-maniya.”

Kerian had never heard the term, but Hytanthas said, “The Keeping of the Skyriders? That’s from the days of Silvanos Goldeneye, isn’t it? The chronicle of my ancestor, Tamanier Ambrodel, mentions the rite to tame griffons magically.”

“One forgets yours is an ancient and noble lineage.”

Hytanthas bristled at Porthios’s casually rude tone, but Kerian shot the young elf a warning glance. To Porthios, she said, “You know this rite? Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“We had no griffons. Now we do, and I am telling you.”

It was the Lioness’s turn to feel hackles rise. She asked whether he’d ever performed the rite. He reminded her no one had, not since the days of the Kinslayer Wars, when the great demand for griffon cavalry had made it necessary.

“Were you a scholar or a warrior in Silvanesti?” asked Hytanthas, curious to know how Orexas had come by his obscure knowledge.

Porthios could hardly say he had been much more, and in Qualinesti, not Silvanesti. His throne was lost; his identity scorched away. Orexas was as good a name as any for a walking corpse.

“I was taught the rite as a youth.” Not a lie, merely an incomplete truth. “It isn’t long or complicated. We’re dealing with the minds of beasts, after all.”

Kerian snorted. She thought a great deal more of the mind of her Eagle Eye than she did of most people she knew, elf or other.

Specific ingredients were required. The parchment Porthios had left with Alhana contained a list of them. A liquid concoction must be made, which the would-be rider and his animal must drink.

“And we must shed blood.”

“Whose blood?” Kerian wanted to know.

Porthios glanced at Hytanthas. “Does it matter?” he asked in a particularly sepulchral tone.

Hytanthas began to protest, certain he was talking of sacrificing one of the griffons they would catch. Porthios walked away and Hytanthas followed, still peppering him with questions. Kerian frowned.

If she didn’t know better, she would swear Porthios was teasing them.

The elves took the female Golden griffon (suitably pinioned and muzzled) to a convenient flat-topped spur and tied her to a stake. Hidden in ravines on both sides of the spur, camouflaged by dirt-colored drapes, Kerian and Alhana’s warriors waited, ready to pounce on any griffon drawn to the female bait. In two days they caught eleven Golden griffons, ranging from small yearlings to an elder male almost as big as a Royal griffon. Kerian had feared the trap would frighten off other males once a few had been seized, but just the opposite happened. Even when airborne griffons saw the elves capture one of their kind, they came back anyway. Their ardor was so great, they ignored the danger.

Alhana suggested an alternative view, that the males were glad to see a rival taken, and came back because they were certain they were too clever and powerful to be caught. Kerian asked if she’d learned that from her childhood among the griffon-breakers of Silvanost.

“No,” Alhana said dryly. “It’s just how males think.”

Still concerned by Porthios’s dire pronouncement that blood was required for the taming ceremony, Hytanthas complained to Kerian until she told him to stop being so foolish.

“Alhana isn’t worried, and she knows more about griffons than anyone here,” the Lioness snapped. “Blood may be required, but I don’t think Orexas intends to kill anything or anyone to get it.”

Her reassurance was too vague for the young warrior, but she saw to it he was kept too busy to harry any of them further about it. To him, she gave the task of feeding the captured griffons. He and three Bianost volunteers tossed deer and goat quarters to the griffons every other day and made certain they had fresh water. The hunting skills of Kagonesti and Silvanesti alike were required to bring in sufficient game.

While the captures continued, Porthios prepared for the tath-maniya. His list of requirements included iron, copper, bronze, wine, and specific flowers. The last were the most difficult to come by, but searchers had scoured the canyons and crevices and found them all: peony, foxglove, ivy rose, and bluecup, an aromatic fungus that grew in shady niches at that altitude. The Bianost arms cache provided the iron, copper, and bronze he required. For the wine, Porthios wanted white nectar, but they had only Alhana’s Qwermish stock, so he would have to make do.

The metals would be used to create a sacred circle. The wild griffon and the elf who was to be its rider were brought into the circle. The flowers and wine were muddled together in a stone cup, then mixed with the blood of a griffon. The brew was fed to elf and beast. The one performing the rite (who must be of royal blood) intoned special words of command. The result was a bond that lasted the life of both rider and mount. The rite had been created by the Brown Hood mages of ancient Silvanesti but had fallen into disuse. Speaker of the Stars Sithas distrusted the Brown Hoods, during his reign a more laborious method of griffon-bonding had been favored. The tath-maniya faded away in the land of its birth, but the knowledge of it was preserved in Qualinesti as part of the training given the heir to the Speaker of the Sun.

When the total number of captured griffons swelled to twenty-nine, the elves ran out of harnesses strong enough to restrain them. Alhana counseled that they proceed with what they had rather than risk losing animals due to inadequate materials. After a few days’ wait for the necessary moonless night, Porthios assembled the sacred circle. Chathendor assisted him. The old chamberlain had trained long ago as a priest of E’li, and he knew how to consecrate ground for many types of rites.

The first griffon to undergo the tath-maniya would be the eldest male Golden, by far the largest beast the elves had caught. He was the hardest to control because of his size and strength. Taming him would ease the strain on the elves’ resources.

Alhana wanted to be the first rider bonded, but her reason for wanting that was precisely the reason the others refused to allow it. She mustn’t be the test case. If something went wrong, she could be injured, perhaps killed. Even Porthios was against it. He spoke a few quiet words to her, and she insisted no more, drawing a little away from the rest of the group.

Kerian was surprised by Alhana’s meek acquiescence and Porthios’s sentimentality. As the others continued to wrangle, she went to Alhana. Before she could ask what had passed between them, Alhana told her, roughening her voice in a parody of Porthios’s hoarse tone. “Save your noble sacrifice, lady. This requires a warrior.”

Kerian protested, but Alhana said, “He’s right.” A rueful smile quirked her mouth. “Though that didn’t lessen my desire to denounce him for saying it. I thought it better to remove myself from the temptation.”

The wrangling had ended. Samar would be the first to attempt the bonding. Kerian did not argue. She intended to have one of the beasts for herself, but she didn’t need to be first. Looking very pleased, Samar went to prepare himself.

The sun would set in a few hours. Above the eastern peaks, clouds billowed, dull purple below and roseate on their tops. Kerian wondered if they presaged rain. Her idle speculation was interrupted by a command from Porthios.

“I need griffon’s blood—one gill. Fresh, not drained from a carcass.” He thrust a clay cup at her.

She jerked the cup from his hand and went. As she walked away, a grin flashed over her face. Her lack of argument had so startled Porthios, he’d nearly dropped the cup.

A gill was only a quarter pint. No animal would die from losing that amount. After the nuisance Hytanthas had made of himself over it, she intended he should be the one to collect the blood.

She found him by the griffon corral. When he saw her approaching, he stood quickly. His three helpers, roused from their naps, slowly imitated him.

“It’s time,” said Kerian, holding out the clay cup. “Orexas needs a quarter pint of fresh griffon blood.”

He stared at the container. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He took the cup and drew his sword. Before she could stop him, he vaulted into the corral—not the section that contained the smallest, yearling griffon, but the portion in which resided only mature beasts. All the griffons were asleep, lying with heads tucked under their pinioned wings. The elves had hobbled both sets of their dangerous feet and tied their beaks closed with broad leather straps.

Kerian hissed at him to stop, but it was too late. At Hytanthas’s abrupt entrance, griffon heads rose in unison, and the creatures watched him with predatory eyes. Disdaining the rest, Hytanthas made straight for the eldest male Golden. The male snorted deep in its chest. The sound gave Hytanthas pause but only for a moment. He lifted his sword.

“This may hurt,” he advised the beast, “but it’s in a good cause.”

He leaned in, sword extended, intending to draw blood from the animal’s neck. The griffon had other ideas. Hobbled, pinioned, and muzzled, it nonetheless resisted, butting Hytanthas square in the chest with its massive head. The young elf went over backward and landed hard on the stony ground.

Kerian stood over him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Following orders,” he gasped.

She helped him sit up. Nothing seemed broken, so he stood carefully. They both regarded the proud griffon.

A vast bowl of purple-black clouds had formed over the range where the elves were camped. Around its lower edges, blue sky showed, but overhead the cloud mass appeared solid. It shimmered with lightning, but no thunder followed. A particularly bright flash reflected red in the big griffon’s eyes. Even Kerian was moved to prudence.

“Choose another,” she urged. “This one’s too strong.”

“He’s got an iron head too.” Hytanthas rubbed his ribs. “But he’ll bleed for me. Why shouldn’t the strongest in the herd bleed for the rest?”

He picked up his sword and circled the alert beast. It lay on its left side, heavy leonine haunches lashed together.

“Don’t worry, Ironhead,” Hytanthas said soothingly. “You’ll barely feel this.”

With a single overhand swing, he made a shallow cut through the fur and skin pulled tight over the beast’s thigh. Dark blood spurted. The griffon raised its beak skyward and screeched against its gag.

Hytanthas held the cup to the wound. Blood flowed fast into it. When it was brimming, he pulled it away. He called to his three helpers to tend the griffon’s wound, then he and the Lioness jogged away.

When they reached Porthios, he was standing at the edge of his sacred circle, stone bowl in hand, murmuring ancient words. Chathendor, acting as his assistant, stood at his side. Alhana was present but a few yards away. She’d donned a waterproof cape, expecting rain. Against the dark gray material of the hood, her face looked even paler than usual.

Hytanthas handed the cup to Porthios. “Don’t spill it,” he cautioned. “I’d hate to have to bleed that one again.”

Continuing his invocation, Porthios poured the blood into the stone bowl that contained the muddled flowers and wine. With a crudely formed pestle, he stirred the thick mixture.

Samar appeared in full regalia, down to spurs and a gilt-edged mantle. Behind him six warriors worked to guide a balky male griffon toward the circle. A smear of dried blood stained the animal’s leg.

“Come forth, the first pair to be bonded!”

Chathendor stepped aside to allow Samar to pass. The griffon smelled Hytanthas nearby and charged directly toward him, almost trampling Porthios in the process. To his credit, Porthios stood his ground. The warriors caught the griffon’s bonds and dragged him to a halt. The beast settled a bit, and the elves withdrew. Chathendor closed the circle again. Samar stood as near as he dared to the unruly griffon.

“In the name of E’li and Astarin, Matheri and Quenesti Pah, and by the grace of the Blue Phoenix, we join this warrior to this steed!” The words were punctuated by a fresh glare of silent lightning. Everyone but Porthios looked up. Even Ironhead lifted his beak to the startling display.

“Let it be done!”

Porthios put the bowl to Samar’s lips. Samar sipped, eyes clenched against the incredibly bitter taste of the potion. Then, as Porthios bade him, Samar turned and slit the griffon’s muzzle strap with his knife.

This was the most dangerous part of the rite. Griffons had been known to pluck the eye from a springing mountain lion. A slash of that cruel beak, and Samar would die.

Lightning flashed again. Ironhead screeched to the heavens. Seizing the opportunity, Porthios dipped a hand into the cup and flung droplets of potion into the gaping maw.

The beak snapped shut and the creature froze for an instant. Then he lunged for Porthios, ready to rend him limb from limb. Porthios darted backward, plainly shaken, and Chathendor quit the circle altogether.

“It didn’t work!” Kerian cried, giving voice to the anguish on every face.

“It must!” Porthios made a fist. “The ritual was flawless!”

Samar was backing away from Ironhead. In seconds the griffon would likely slice its bonds with its beak and wreak havoc on its tormentors, or fly away and be lost forever.

Porthios felt someone draw the stone bowl from his hand. Alhana stood so close, he could feel her breath against his mask as she whispered, “You are royal, husband, but… much changed. I prayed you would succeed. But I am a daughter of Speakers, and I know this ritual too. You must allow me to try.”

It was plain Porthios loathed the truth of her words, but he was indeed “much changed.” He relinquished the bowl.

“Do you remember my words?”

“I remember everything.”

Wind whipped over the plateau, tearing at Alhana’s cape. Lowering her head against the gust, she advanced to the circle’s edge. Samar and Chathendor both pleaded with her to keep back. Black hair swirling around her head like an onyx corona, Alhana commanded Samar to resume his place. He did so with alacrity.

Awkward on hobbled legs, but determined nonetheless; Ironhead came at Samar. Alhana commanded the griffon to halt. Its aquiline head turned, and the beast advanced on her instead.

Alhana tilted her face to the roiling clouds and repeated the pronouncement word for word.

Once again, lightning flared. Ironhead didn’t salute it with a cry. He hissed at the intrepid queen.

As had Porthios before her, Alhana dipped her fingers in the potion and flung droplets into the beast’s mouth. In the uncertain light, it was difficult to follow their flight, but the change in the griffon’s manner was abrupt and amazing. It ceased stalking Alhana, stood immobile for a handful of seconds, then bent its forelegs, lowering its head to the ground. The proud Golden griffon was bowing to the Queen of Silvanesti.

Samar went to Ironhead but still hesitated to touch the griffon. The sound of Alhana’s laughter startled him and everyone else present.

“Don’t be afraid, Samar! He accepts you!” she cried. Despite the laughter, her eyes swam with tears.

Samar put a hand on Ironhead’s shoulder. The griffon did accept his touch, and it was Samar’s turn to laugh. He cut the creature’s remaining bonds. Wings and feet free, Ironhead stood by his newly-made rider, head held high.

A joyous shout went up. Alhana turned a radiant face to Kerian. “Oh, I had forgotten! It has been so long since I heard them.” Alhana touched her temple with one hand. “I had forgotten how wonderful it is!”

The Lioness showed her own jubilation by slapping Hytanthas’s shoulder so hard, the young warrior staggered.

Only Porthios did not join the celebration. He stood silent and dazed, his arms hanging at his sides.

Frantic cries interrupted the moment of Alhana’s triumph.

Elves from the camp came streaming toward those gathered at the sacred circle. “Look up!” they yelled. “Look in the sky!”

Those who’d witnessed the bonding became aware of new sounds: the clash of arms, the shouts of elves, and the screams of horses. They looked up.

The great vault of clouds had grown as opaque as polished slate. Lightning flickered and danced around the outer rim, but in the center a wondrous sight had appeared. The elves beheld a battle in the sky, vivid in every detail. Horses with human riders swarmed over a small band of elves, who fought with their backs to a crude stone spire. One elf stood on the tower’s steps, a few feet above the rest. Sword in hand, he directed a futile defense.

“Planchet!” Kerian cried, her shout echoed by Hytanthas and Alhana.

Kerian scanned the mad scene for Gilthas, She didn’t see him, but in the chaos only Planchet stood out clearly. As the nomad horsemen pressed in, hacking with their guardless, curved swords, the elves’ line grew thinner and thinner. Around Kerian, Alhana’s guards were shouting encouragement and advice to the phantom combatants, but no one in the cloud-scene appeared to hear them. All any of them on the wind-scoured bluff could do was watch as the besieged circle of elves was slowly worn away.

The end was inevitable. The circle disintegrated, engulfed by the human horde and a sea of hostile swords.

Instantly, the vision vanished. Although every eye strained to see more, the dense clouds showed only occasional flickers of silent lightning.

Kerian and Alhana, Hytanthas and Samar, even Porthios, were left regarding each other in open-mouthed shock.