Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (Mercedes Lackey) читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Introduction

TRANSMUTATION

THE FEAST OF THE CHILDREN

DEATH IN KEENSPUR HOUSE

DAWN OF SORROWS

HORSE OF AIR

A Change Of Heart

ALL THE AGES OF MAN

WAR CRY

STRENGTH AND HONOR

THE BLUE COAT

SAFE AND SOUND

SONG FOR TWO VOICES

FINDING ELVIDA

DARKWALL’S LADY

NAUGHT BUT DUTY

LANDSCAPE OF THE IMAGINATION

Raves for the Previous Valdemar Anthologies:

“Fans of Lackey’s epic Valdemar series will devour this superb anthology. Of the thirteen stories included, there is no weak link—an attribute exceedingly rare in collections of this sort. Highly recommended.”

—The Barnes and Noble Review

“This high-quality anthology mixes pieces by experienced author and enthusiastic fans of editor Lackey’s Valdemar. Valdemar fandom, especially, will revel in this sterling example of what such a mixture of fans’ and pros’ work can be. Engrossing even for newcomers to Valdemar.”

—Booklist

“Joseph Sherman, Tanya Huff, Mickey Zucker Reichert, and Michelle West have quite good stories, and there’s another by Lackey herself. Familiarity with the series helps but is not a prerequisite to enjoying this book.”

—Science Fiction Chronicle

“Each tale adheres to the Lackey laws of the realm yet provides each author’s personal stamp on the story. Well written and fun, Valdemarites will especially appreciate the magic of this book.”

—The Midwest Book Review

NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY

available from DAW Books:

THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN

ARROW’S FLIGHT

ARROW’S FALL

THE LAST HERALD-MAGE

MAGIC’S PAWN

MAGIC’S PROMISE

MAGIC’S PRICE

THE MAGE WINDS

WINDS OF FATE

WINDS OF CHANGE

WINDS OF FURY

THE MAGE STORMS

STORM WARNING

STORM RISING

STORM BREAKING

VOWS AND HONOR

THE OATHBOUND

OATHBREAKERS

OATHBLOOD

BY THE SWORD

BRIGHTLY BURNING

TAKE A THIEF

EXILE’S HONOR

EXILE’S VALOR

VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:

SWORD OF ICE

SUN IN GLORY

CROSSROADS

Written with LARRY DIXON:

THE MAGE WARS

THE BLACK GRYPHON

THE WHITE GRYPHON

THE SILVER GRYPHON

DARIAN’S TALE

OWLFLIGHT

OWLSIGHT

OWLKNIGHT

OTHER NOVELS

THE BLACK SWAN

THE DRAGON JOUSTERS

JOUST

ALTA

SANCTUARY

THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS

THE SERPENT’S SHADOW

THE GATES OF SLEEP

PHOENIX AND ASHES

THE WIZARD OF LONDON

And don’t miss:

The VALDEMAR COMPANION

Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little

DAW Book Collectors No. 1346.

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

First Printing, December 2005

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

—MARCA REGISTRADA

HECHO EN U.S.A.

eISBN : 978-1-101-52437-4

http://us.penguingroup.com

Acknowledgments

CROSSROADS: AN INTRODUCTION

by Mercedes Lackey

Once there was a computer programmer with ambitions—one might say delusions—of being a writer.

Actually she’d had ambitions for a very long time. As a kid, she had written Andre Norton pastiches and illustrated them too (and somewhere she still has some of those illustrations) and occasionally told them as bedtime stories to the kids she babysat. As a teenager she continued to write, submitting short story after short story to her high school literary magazine (and she has some of those somewhere as well). And in college she created an ongoing story arc about a team of psychic spies that she wrote as letters to amuse a friend.

She actually went so far as to take a creative writing honors course with the one college professor who was interested in science fiction and fantasy. His advice: find out what you like, break it down to see what you like about it, then do that. It was good advice, and she’s been following it ever since.

Writing kind of went by the wayside for a while as she (OK, I) struggled to make a living. But when things weren’t quite so hard, I went back to the writing, pounding stuff out on an old typewriter for fanzines. Good heavens, someone even had a set of those things they asked me to autograph recently. I was joking when I offered to buy them back; but truth to tell, I have a lot of affection for those old zines and stories. I had a lot of fun writing them.

But then one day, at the point where I was actually that computer programmer, something switched over and I decided to get serious.

A novel of Valdemar was not the first book I tried to write. Actually, the germs of that first book became the books I co-wrote with James Mallory. But it was the second. And Arrows of the Queen was the first one I actually finished.

By that time I had written and actually sold several Tarma and Kethry stories—also in the same world—and some Darkover fiction. Most sold to Marion Zimmer Bradley, but some also sold to fantasy magazines. That was the point where C.J. Cherryh volunteered herself as my mentor, looked at the book, said “Commit trilogy,” and it all proceeded from there.

I was incredibly lucky to hook up with Elizabeth Wollheim and the folks at DAW with this first effort. It has been a great relationship all the way.

Even better, the whole world seems to have inspired other people to want to come play in it. Each person has had his or her own take on it that has made it just that much more varied and interesting, and come up with things that made me smile, made me cry, and sometimes made me say, “Boy I wish I had thought of that!”

Two volumes of Valdemar short stories have been published already, and you hold in your hands the third. It’s been a great trip so far, and even better for having all these wonderful folks along for the ride.

TRANSMUTATION

by Larry Dixon

Larry Dixon is the husband of Mercedes Lacky, and a successful artist as well as science fiction writer. He and Mercedes live in Oklahoma.

Prologue

VALDEMAR weathered the Mage-Storms, and all the nations and peoples of Velgarth worked to stabilize in the aftermath. In the north of Valdemar, Darien and his compatriots returned from their quest to find Darien’s parents. Errold’s Grove, Kelmskeep, and the newest Hawk-brother Vale, k’Valdemar, forged ahead alongside the western refugees while in the east, ancient Iftel opened its borders for the first time, and to the south Hardorn and Karse were no longer the threats they once were.

The trouble now, though, was from within. A trade baron named Farragur Elm and a coalition of major tradesmen, distributors, and warehousers seized all resources in the vicinity of Deedun and created a putative secessionist movement, using the entire—stolen—livelihoods of the region’s workers as leverage. The strong arm of the plan was a mercenary force, once under Haven’s pay, hired over to Elm’s side. The Crown sent Heralds, Guard Regulars, and Cavalry to test the situation. In the first engagement with the mercenaries, Cavalry officer Hallock Stavern was mortally wounded, and dragged back to camp—whereupon he was put in medical isolation as an untreatable casualty. He heard a commotion outside, and discovered that a gryphon, sent from Kelmskeep in the north to scout the situation, dove in and smashed a mercenary attack against Valdemaran troops—but was himself gravely hurt. The gryphon, given only the crude medical treatment available and expected to expire soon, was housed with Stavern. They shared each others’ company with stories of their homes and loves. Hallock told the gryphon, Kelvren, about his wife Genni. Charmed by the tales of Genni’s love for the man, Kelvren is soothed, but then Hallock critically weakens—and would have died, if not for Kelvren’s desperate Healing spellwork to save him.

It came at a great cost, though, because aside from his terrible wounds going septic, Kelvren was sliding into an agonizing death as a result of using literally all of his magic capacity to heal Hallock—and it was not coming back. . . .

Darkwind k’Treva handed over a strip of paper. “Here’s trouble.”

Elspeth turned away from the Lord Marshal and read the paper’s battlefield shorthand aloud. “Gryphon, male. Defended First Company Sixteenth. Wounded. Recovered from field. Initial aid bad. Disposition: Gryphon near death, from attempt to heal Guard officer by spellwork. Healers unable to aid further.” She frowned as she put that dispatch aside from the rest, and tapped her command baton thoughtfully on her chin. “We’d better tell Treyvan and Hydona.”

“Mmm. You know how they are. Protective,” Darkwind observed. He leaned forward against the most massive of the many strategic planning tables in the Haven palace. It held charts far more detailed than the great map inlaid on the wall in the main court room. “They’ll be concerned. You remember those parental instincts of theirs from when we first met. With Jerven and Lytha getting older, they treat every other gryphon as clueless little fledglings to be herded about and taught not to fall into wells.” He murmured to a page, who nodded and left immediately.

Less than half a candlemark passed before there were results.

“Unbarrr the way,” a deep voice boomed from behind the double doors as palace guards hastily tried to open them. An imposing male gryphon shouldered into the room, causing the guards to stumble back as the heavy doors swung against them. Truth be told, he liked the feeling of people trying to get out of his way. And no wonder people did, considering both of the resident gryphons’ reputations and relative power—and sheer presence. Treyvan had a wicked beak and formidable talons that were, at the moment, sheathed in wood-and-leather coverings to protect the Palace’s floors. He was golden brown, with shadings of pure metallic gold and darker sable, with golden eyes the size of fists. Completely aside from being a predator the size of a horse, Hydona alone could wither a tree just by staring at it, or should the mood strike her, restore it to life. Treyvan was smaller, just as powerful magically, but faster, stronger, and more direct in action. Together, they put forth a presence in Haven felt in more ways than just the body heat they radiated. Treyvan’s crested head flicked side to side, then homed in on the main table and its dozen or so planners and pages. “Who isss it?” he demanded, with no preamble.

Elspeth retrieved the dispatch slip and looked it over for any new clues she might have missed in the dozens of lines of code. She finally shrugged, holding the paper up. “It doesn’t say. Dispatches can be annoyingly vague, I’m sorry. It’s just how they are,” she offerred.

“And concsserrrned about all grrryphonsss isss how I am. No morrre than that?” Any excuses about field vagueness clearly did not placate the beast that stalked toward the largest planning table. Respected friend of the Crown’s or not, Treyvan had long ago established that he wasn’t someone to obstruct, for any reason. Lesser commanders, analysts and staff alike, parted to make room. Elspeth handed over the dispatch, and Treyvan accepted it delicately with the tips of his talons.

“It might be from one of the Vales due west of there, but that would be more than a hundred miles. It wouldn’t have any good reason to be in this region, would it? Maybe it got lost,” a lieutenant suggested, but that only gained him a loud click of Treyvan’s beak, snapping a warning. “He,” Treyvan said sternly. “The grrryphon isss a ‘he,’ not an ‘it,’ sssoldierrr. Flesssh, bone, blood, beak,” and he clacked his own for emphasis, making a sound like branches snapping, “talonsss,” and he flicked up thumb and forefingers of his right “hand,” causing subtle magical sparks to split off, “and mind asss sssharrrp asss any herrre.” A nearby sergeant visibly winced, and tapped the lieutenant’s shoulder. They made themselves scarce, each giving a weak salute to Elspeth before fleeing.

Darkwind snorted a barely suppressed laugh. “Another stellar triumph for interspecies diplomacy, Treyvan. Good work.”

The gryphon Adept ground his beak and clicked it softly. “He ssstrrruck sssomething that annoyed me. I cannot abide usss being thought of asss lesss than yourrr equalsss. Hissstorrry ssshowsss that—” he growled.

Darkwind interrupted, “Maybe he thought of you all as something more than equals. You don’t call an Avatar or sacred vision ‘he’ or ‘she.’ Unless you’re very good friends. I’m sure he was just overwhelmed by the dazzling thought of—”

Elspeth rolled her eyes and sighed, giving a wave of reassurance to the staff as they backed off. The Lord Marshal raised a brow, then drifted to another table, shaking his head. A few adjuncts stayed. Elspeth snapped her fingers. “You two. Featherheads. Come visit my world,” she said, and loudly tapped her baton on the map.

Treyvan loomed beside Darkwind and studied the map, twitching his massive wings a few times. “K’Valdemar Vale,” Darkwind surmised, and tapped a fingertip on the map symbol. “He might be from there. Firesong’s new roost. They’re near Kelmskeep, they’ve got a wing of gryphons, and they’re threatened by the land grab. Assuming Kelmskeep and k’Valdemar are on good terms, they may have gotten gryphons to fly scout. Bondbirds can only do so much. Range and stamina would all be improved by a healthy gryphon.”

Elspeth folded her arms. “Yes. Well. It sounds like all aid available’s been given to him,” and she eyeballed Treyvan, “and it’s failing. We only have so many Heralds and Healers, and they’re more concerned about the hundreds of troops digging in. I don’t much like the news from the north.” She reached out and tapped her baton against the largest of the table maps. “It’s more delicate than you might first think. For reasons we still don’t understand, these insurgent leaders feel justified in seizing power and using force. But if we go in and squash that dissent—militarily—we send a poor message to the rest of Valdemar.”

“And allies and rival states,” Darkwind pointed out. “The famed free country of Valdemar, open to refugees and the oppressed—its population pounded into submission.” He leafed through other dispatches, laying them out to match their approximate places of origin on the map. “But we have heard the Bell ring twice since this began. This situation cannot stand, but handling it poorly could do great long-term damage socially.” If anyone was aware of things in the long term, it would be one of the Hawkbrothers who’d think of it.

“Socially, yes, but our agents report the situation began economically. We’ve just sent the Skybolts and what regulars we can spare. Turning in on ourselves, after so many outside threats—it doesn’t feel right. The timing of it. I don’t think we know enough about action at the front . . .” she trailed off, seeing Treyvan—pacing. His raptorial eyes, crystal-sharp, appeared to be focused on nothing in particular, as if he was preoccupied. “What is it?” she asked of him, while a clerk handed her a new stack of notes to be signed.

The gryphon turned his attention back to the others by the table, explaining for the adjuncts’ benefit. “Therrre arrre many waysss forrr a grrryphon to die,” he began, rolling his Rs and hissing the sibillants in the accent all gryphons bore when speaking Valdemaran. “Assside frrrom the usssual overrrcasssting risssksss, frrrom headachesss to unwanted combussstion, overrrworrrk of magerrry can lead to deadly maladiesss, in grrryphonsss. It isss why we take sssuch carrre. The more unssskilled the casssterrr, the morrre enerrrgy isss usssed forrr a ssspell. The ssspell purrrpossse—itsss dirrrective ssstrrructurrre—trrriesss many posssible sssolutionsss to compensssate forrr the lack of prrrecssisssion. Each attempt usssesss powerrr, and then demandsss morrre forrr the next attempt to begin. Without knowledge of the ssspecif—”

“The point?” Darkwind asked, cutting off what might have become one of Treyvan’s infamous lectures on magic theory.

Treyvan shot Darkwind an indignant glance. “You humansss have lesss rrrisssk in magerrry becaussse you can live without it. We live by magic powerrr morrre than food and drrrink. It isss one of hundrrredsss of rrreasssonsss why even cssenturrriesss afterrr ourrr crrreation, we rrrequirrre trondi’irn forrr conssstant help jussst to sssurrrvive. We arrre sssusstained by the converrrsion of magical enerrrgy jussst to live, brrreathe, and move. If a grrryphon pushesss too farrr, vital sssystemsss will ceassse theirrr functionsss. Even losssing too many featherrrsss can kill a grrryphon, becaussse we mussst collect the frrree-field, orrr asss Masssterrr Levy callsss it, parrrticulate magical enerrrgy thrrrough them into the featherrr corrresss, sssocketsss, and frrrom therrre into the interrrlacssed sssyssstemsss of . . .”

“That point you were getting to, Treyvan?” Darkwind prompted again.

“Hurrrhhh. Free-field enerrrgy isss denssserrr sssincsse the Ssstorrrmsss, and ssso, easierrr to sssift frrrom the airrr. A grrryphon ssspellworrrkerrr, asss the dissspatch indicatesss thisss one isss, could heal himssself, if he could heal anotherrr. But the changesss sssincsse the Ssstorrrmsss have made mossst of Valdemarrr—hazy. Like a fog, magically. And any . . . dozen . . . thingsss could be wrrrong, jussst frrrom indissscrrriminate ssspellworrrk alone.”

Darkwind nodded. “Indi’ta kusk, for example. Tcha’ki’situsk. In k’Leshyan, gryphon heavy injuries translate to ‘ruins.’ Most deep injuries cascade into worse bodily failures, and are ultimately lethal. If it is, say, a nullment ruin, hirs’ka’usk, then even what we consider ‘normal’ organs will falter as a result of the magic conversion organs waning.”

“Small wonder our Healers are lost. Magical organs? Converters? More unpronounceable words?” Elspeth could only shrug. “We don’t know who the gryphon is or what the injuries are, and we have a thousand other problems right now. What are we going to do about it?” Elspeth and Darkwind both glanced meaningfully at the Gryphon Adept while stacks of fresh dispatches were handed over.

The gryphon narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t do sssomething, I will.”

“You probably should, sheyna,” Darkwind answered bluntly, sensing an opportunity and taking it. “Consider yourself assigned. We’re in deep right here. All of our heavy magic work is going to be stopping a very uncivil war. And if there are no objections, if you can go north, I want you to take a writ of authority and your badges of rank with you, and help out up there. At least establish a teleson link if you get the chance. We are only getting so much back by Herald and courier. I’d like your eyes, and your power, up there. Your gryphon’s your priority, but the rest—best discretion.”

Treyvan nodded firmly, and let his hackles smooth down as he turned to exit. The two door guards he’d bullied through before flung open the doors as the gryphon closed in on them. Treyvan eyed each of them, and paused—then rumbled, “Sssorrry about earlierrr,” and stalked briskly down the hall.

In a word, Kelvren was miserable. The rain persisted, and the too-small tent he’d been allocated had long since fallen down over him. The tent poles had slanted forward to begin with, and when the wind picked up they’d fallen all the way. It left his rump and tail out in the rain, and the canvas of the tent draped over his head like a very soggy, ill-designed cloak’s hood.

He’d managed to inch his hindquarters up enough that they weren’t mired in the mud, but that was it. The trouble was, he felt so heavy. Not lethargic, like he’d been drowsing in the sun. That was different. This was simply the feeling that his wings weighed too much, and that his muscles weren’t up to the task of moving him. If he still had his teleson set, he could call for help. He could have called for help before he was even wounded—but it was long lost back where his skirmish took place and was probably since crushed under horse hooves. Kelvren was a weak Mindspeaker to begin with. The teleson amplified what he was able to muster, and without it, he probably couldn’t Mind-speak past his tail.

The Healer that had tended to him after he’d saved Hallock Stavern’s life had long since departed to the Front—and she hadn’t known even the basics of gryphon anatomy. She’d confessed to Birce she’d used draft animal Healing techniques on him, in fact. The indignity of it! She’d better not tell that to anyone else or she’d have Silver Gryphon Kelvren to answer to. And she didn’t want that, he told himself.

His secret bravado was fading away with every minute of this storm. He feared some sort of awful infection from his wounds was causing his inertia. The day seemed hopeless, and tomorrow he’d be weaker still. He could feel it. This was no way for a hero to end. He thought again about a famed tapestry picture he’d admired as a youth, back at the city of White Gryphon. It was many centuries old, of Skandranon, the Black Gryphon, wings spread, standing majestically atop Urtho’s Tower with all the people of the Kaled’a’in looking up at him adoringly. The moon and stars shone behind the hero and made a halo around his body.

That, young Kelvren Skothkar had beamed, just days before joining the Silver Gryphons for training. I want to be like that. I want to be a legend.

It seemed like it might work, too. He trained hard, and emulated the ancient hero in every way that he could—superb flyer, vicious fighter, fine strategist, stupendously skilled lover—well, at least he thought so—and when the choice was to be bold or prudent, he went with bold. And reputation was vital—everyone knew who Skandranon Rashkae was in ancient times, even the dreaded enemies Ma’ar and the makaar. Kelvren didn’t precisely boast, but he always made certain everyone knew who he was, and knew every deed. He knew he’d be a hero if he tried hard enough. A glorious legend!

Instead, he was like this. Mud was splattering up onto his chin and breastfeathers from the constant rain splashing the soil in front of the tent. Miserable. There was constant, throbbing agony from his wounds. The whipstitching felt like a line of fire. No one was coming to help him either. His friends at Kelmskeep and k’Valdemar had to be searching for him—but he was weak, and without a teleson he couldn’t tell them where he was—and there were none with the soldiers, not a mage or Herald or even a hedge-wizard, who could Mindspeak or send word. He was angry, and anger was turning into one of the things that kept him going. They didn’t bring him enough food, for one thing. There was no one to come clean him, no one to see to his needs. No one to groom him. No one to admire him. All the basics of gryphon well-being were absent.

And he was stuck on the ground.

Murky as the sky was, he couldn’t help but gaze up at it. A Tayledras proverb said, “When once you have tasted flight, you forever after walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will ever long to return.” Never before was it so heartbreakingly true. If he had bothered to count the number of times he’d twitched his heavy wings, gathered up his shaky haunches to leap, and almost surged forward to flight—but stopped, knowing he couldn’t—he would probably feel even worse.

He’d been on his feet earlier in the day, when the downpour ceased for a while. He’d shambled around through the underbrush and high grasses of the hillock they’d put him on. Well away from the troops, the townspeople, their homes, their goods, and their horses.

As if I’d eat the horses, anyway. Of course I wouldn’t. Unless they were offered.

Someone down there had probably seen him eyeing the corral, too. He felt like someone was always looking his way. He saw no smiles when he caught the locals at it either. It definitely did not fulfill the ever-so-vital requirement a gryphon had: to be admired. This was more like—well, it was what it was—being kept purposely at a distance. Twice today he’d felt an overwhelming emotional wave, like a sour crop forcing its way up, that he simply wasn’t wanted here. He swayed on his feet then and sat down abruptly, cracking the bushes underneath him when he thought about it. It just didn’t feel right to be like this. They had to know what he’d done for Hallock, and what he’d done for Valdemar—didn’t they? Didn’t that count for anything?

It counted for something. He just hadn’t realized, when he was walked to the tent and given an uncooked pork haunch, just how true what they’d said was.

It’s the least we can do.

Apparently, it was.

He’d been put out here, with pleasantries about having free space to roam around and no crowding. How diplomatic a way to tell him he’d been literally put out to pasture. It took an effort to even heave a sigh when he thought about it. He had belly cramps. He attributed them to the food, the weather, and to his discontent. And, he itched. He felt like he was getting parasites under his feathers, and didn’t have the spare strength to gnaw and scratch at them. And now, here he was—the brave skydancer—soaked, stuck, under a tarp, having a thoroughly unwanted mud-bath.

It just couldn’t get much worse, he thought, except there is a Tayledras saying that thinking those words is the first sign that it will definitely be worse.

There was so much noise from the rain and thunder that he didn’t hear someone approach until they were close enough to startle him. He felt suddenly furious at himself that instead of lurching to his feet ready for a threat, he only flinched. His eyes must have looked especially intense, as a result, because the boy who came toward him immediately backpedaled. The boy had on loose, heavily patched pants and over-large boots, and the rain sluiced off of his wide-brimmed—and also quite patched—sun hat. Right now the hat only seemed to serve as a way of directing rain down his back. He carried a sack in both hands that for all the world appeared to contain—and be completely covered in—mud. He looked about as gaunt as Kelvren felt, and his untanned skin had irregular patches of very dark brown, like the hide of a wild horse or domestic cattle. It wasn’t like anything Kel had seen before on a human. Then again, like seemingly everything else in this part of the world, the dark splotches could have just been caked mud.

“Sir Gryphon, sir? ’S time for your feeding. Is that all right, sir? You hungry?” The boy’s voice was strained with fear, and the words were obviously forced out between nearly clenched teeth. In fact, those teeth chattered a little from the rain as the wind picked up. “Come to feed you? Sir?”

“Hurrrh, yesss, come. Clossserrr. I won’t eat you. What did you brrring?” The insult the boy delivered was galling. Come to feed him, like he was some animal in a pen? Did they have any idea who he was? What he was? He tried to stand, but instead just felt pinned by the soaked canvas. “Thessse polesss fell down. Come help with them firrrssst.”

The boy looked around for a dry place to put his load, and since there was none, he settled on a thick clump of tallgrass to cradle the sack. It was still in the rain but out of the immediate muddy water. Hitching up his pants, he clumped through the sludge to the edge of the canvas, pulled it up, and met Kelvren’s eyes full-on. Apparently up this close to a gryphon for the first time, the boy looked like a squirrel who just that moment realized that the pretty shadow closing in on him was an owl. Ten heartbeats passed before the boy moved another inch.

At that precise moment between ten and eleven heartbeats, the canvas weakly arched over Kelvren’s head collapsed completely from the weight of the rain on it, leaving only the curve of a muddy beak sticking out.

Kelvren closed his eyes and sighed. From the miserable to the absurd. I did wonder, the gryphon thought, and now I know. It does get worse.

Treyvan walked to the recital chamber Hydona was using as a classroom. The sunlight from the dormers glinted on seven knifeblades, and illuminated the swirls of dust from feathers and age stirred up by the belt-fed brass overhead fans and the wings of the three gryphons already in the room. Sixteen people, a few in Herald’s Whites, were in a loose semicircle strewn with books, folios, and large multicolored drawings. They all seemed comfortable, propped up on dozens of mismatched pillows, and Hydona looked most comfortable of all lying on her belly on a short stage. Behind her, the two gryphlets, Jervan and Lytha, were doing their best to hover without flapping their wings. The lift that gave gryphons their ability to fly was in their bones, and it was a discipline to try and hover solely by mental control without moving any air by wings. Lytha looked to be a prodigy, almost a yard from the floor, with all four feet dangling down as if she was held in midair like a boneless cat. Jervan only managed to get his forelegs and wings to stay up without too much effort. He held himself in place and cried out, “Rrrampant!” then used his new position as an opportunity to bat at his sister’s tail more easily.

Treyvan swept in and told Jervan, “Leave yourrr sssisssterrr alone orrr I’ll feed you to the Companionsss,” reached out, and bumped Jervan with a wingtip. The gryphlet’s wings snapped out straight from his sides, changing his center of balance in his partial levitation. He fell over backward, whistling high-pitched laughter, while his sister joined in—but she sounded smug.

“Tyrrrant,” Hydona trilled as her mate approached. “Come to conquerrr?” she teased as Treyvan tapped beaks with her and then turned his head upside-down to accept an ear nibble. “You sssee, ssstudentss, you mussst be prrreparrred to maintain yourrr worrrk durrring any dissstrrraction.” The seven knives she held suspended point-down in midair between the stage and the students didn’t waver. In fact, it appeared that she paid no attention to the knives at all. “Thisss isss why you essstablish sssolid anchorrr pointsss when beginning worrrk. Rrrelative posssitionsss mean rrrelative forrrcsse. When you know the posssitionsss well, you can then concssentrrrate on what might affect thossse posssitionsss. Contrrrol isss in how you sssenssse the changesss in thossse posssitionsss. and compensssate. Thisss isss why ssso many trrraditionsss ussse diagrrramsss and patterrrnsss in magic; they arrre waysss of trrracking posssitionsss asss powerrr isss moved and changed. In thisss way you can usse finessse, and lesss powerrr, by accurrrate percsseption. Morrre awarrrenesss meansss using lesss brrrute forcsse.”

“Unlesss you like brrrute forcsse,” Treyvan teased.

“Unlesss you have a mate that interrruptsss you conssstantly durrring yourrr prrracticsse. Then brrrute forcsse isss authorrrized, and you may ussse the knivesss on him,” she replied in the same tone. Gryphlets cackled from behind her, and most of the students laughed outright.

“You wound me,” Treyvan complained.

“I wisssh,” Hydona replied, and chewed on his other ear. “But I need you arrround ssso I don’t torrrment the ssstudentsss asss much. What isss wrrrong?” Her tone changed from mocking to concerned as she sat up on her haunches.

“An unknown grrryphon’sss been grrrounded, up norrrth,” Treyvan admitted. “He isss at one of the sssupply line villagesss but therrre isssn’t anyone who knowsss what’sss wrrrong with him. Rrreportsss sssay he isss without magic, and not doing well.”

“You ssshould go,” Hydona answered immediately. Gryphlet heads popped up from behind the stage. “I’ll sssee to yourrr ssstudentsss and herrrd thossse two without you forrr a while.”

“Hurrrh. Arrre you sssurrre you want me away?” Treyvan prompted.

“You can go away asss long asss you need to, loverrr,” Hydona purred. “becaussse I know who you’rrre coming back to.”

The rain had finally let up to just a haze and the boy had gotten the tent back up while Kelvren wobbled away through the field to relieve himself. He limped back, wings dragging in the tallgrass, and crawled into the tent. The gryphon bumped a wing and dislodged one of the four poles doing so, but the boy quickly sloshed around to prop it back up. Kelvren was almost turned completely over onto his stronger side, trying to get to some of his worst itches with his beak or talons when the boy said, “I’ll get your food, sir. Just wait right there.”

Kelvren openly growled.

“I’ll be herrre. Why would I want to leave thisss palace?” the gryphon snorted. “All the sssilk tapessstrrriesss and dancssing girrrlsss arrre rrreason enough to ssstay.”

“It’s not so bad, sir, just depends what you compare it to. That’s what I always tell myself.” He returned with the sack and plopped it on the slightly less muddy tent floor.

“Not ssso bad? I am sssoaked to the bone. I can barrrely walk, I look terrrible, and I have beetlesss and twigsss underrr my wingsss. Do you underrrssstand? Beetlesss and twigsss.”

“Ticks, too, probably,” the boy shrugged. He undid the knots on the sack and left it open like a feedbag in front of the gryphon. “We get a lot of ticks around here. When it rains, they climb as high as they can up on the grass.” The boy took his hat off and shook it toward the outside—an exercise in futility if there ever was one, since the hat had so many open patches in the weave, he may as well have been wearing an angler’s net on his head.

Kelvren itched all over again, thinking about that. “Thanksss,” he growled, but the boy must have thought he was referring to the food.

“Y’welcome sir. I have to wait for the sack when you’re done, so please don’t tear it up much. I don’t have too many.”

Kelvren nosed into the bag and tasted at it with an extended tongue. He hadn’t expected prime cuts, but it looked and tasted as if he was getting the least wanted body parts from whatever animals they had at the time. There were a couple of knuckle joints, and what looked like some backstrap from a—well, he wasn’t sure. Could be pork. Could be horse. Could be deer. Could be tax collector. He hoped for horse. A short leg here, a few feet of entrails, six chicken feet and a hoof. Well, that part was identifiable at least.

It might be best just to eat it all, without looking too closely.

The boy was as far back against the side of the tent as he could manage, knees folded up to his chest and hands holding the hat in front of him. He stared at the gryphon.

Kelvren pulled his face out of the sack and regarded the boy. “Don’t be afrrraid,” he said, blood dripping continuously off his beak.

“Yes, sir. No, sir. Not afraid, sir.”

“Hurrrh,” Kelvren growled, and got another few pounds of the stuff down his gullet. “Ssso. Why sssend you up herrre? What did you do wrrrong?” the gryphon asked. He was only half joking.

“Lot of the town figures you’re really dangerous, sir. And they need all able bodies down there, but I don’t really count so much, and some of the folk, they want to stay with what stock they’ve got left to ’em in case you went down there, you know, on a rampage or somethin’. Monsters always rampage, they said.”

Kelvren narrowed his eyes and peered out of the tent, letting his mood smolder for a long while. “Alwaysss,” he growled.

“That’s what I’m told, sir.”

“Ssso. I am a rrrampage-to-be, and they sssend a boy to brrring me food? You mussst be verrry brrrave.”

“Not so brave, sir. I get the work no one else wants, and I go with it. Gets my mum and me a little coin. Privy needs cleared out, fence strung through swamp, cleanup after calving, I’m who they get. Like I say, isn’t so bad depending what you compare it to. There’s folk out there losin’ limbs and eyes and all. I figure I’m doin’ all right. An’ if somethin’ happened to me, they said they’d just get someone else, so it’s all proper.”

“You’rrre herrre becaussse they can do without you if I ate you, and you’rrre—content with that?”

The boy shrugged and smiled. “Not like I want to get eaten, sir, but if I did get all killed, I’d still have had a life. Been told I shouldn’t have, enough times, I figure I’m lucky havin’ even a short one.” He pinched the edges of his hat, staring at the water drips that fell from it while Kelvren finished the remains in the bag. “It might not be such a bad thing, anyway. They say you go to a really nice place when you die, where everything’s warm and pretty. It’s supposed to be a place where folk really like you no matter what. You probably know how it is, bein’ a monster and all. No one can really be welcome everywhere.”

Kelvren nudged the bag a few inches sideways toward the boy. “Ssso I am learrrning.”

The boy picked up the bag and knotted the cords. “An’ anyhow, I have my mum, an’ she’s good to me no matter what, even now that all’s this happened. She said we were just about to get rich, too, which woulda been nice. Still, all the army trouble can’t go on forever.” He wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers. “Uh—thanks for not tearing up the bag or eating me,” he said cheerfully, and put his soggy hat back on.

“Anytime,” Kelvren replied, still mystified by the boy’s logic.

The boy smiled, and waved back as he tromped out through the muddy field toward his town.

“This haze is . . . intolerable,” Treyvan growled in Kaled’a’in, lashing his tail in anger. “I can’t do any better with my distance viewing, and that Herald with that FarSeeing Gift just left for the Deedun front. The Storms haven’t so much made things unreliable as they’ve made them . . . hurrh . . . unfamiliar. This all would have worked five years ago and now it is giving us nothing. All we know is where the target is. And just a glimpse.”

“Did the glimpse show you anything useful?” a small voice crooned from below Treyvan. The gryphon turned his hawklike gaze down past his magic instruments to the hertasi in the vast room with him. The little lizard creature looked up at the gryphon with a wide-eyed but unafraid expression.

“Rrrhhh. A Changecircle near by a Valdemaran Guard camp. A gryphon body in a tent. Head down, wings flat.” Treyvan pondered. “Signs of heavy injuries but tended to. Looked like Far Westerner, but he was no gryphon I know. I couldn’t read an identifying radiant—” Treyvan snapped his head up suddenly. “No radiant aura, Pena. No distinctive life glow to Mage-Sight. No wonder it was so hard to find him. He wasn’t shielded, there was just nothing there to shield. I was looking for gryphon aura traits, but I must have passed him by a dozen times since he seemed to only come across as a common animal from such a search.”

The hertasi looked alarmed. She obviously knew what that meant. “Hirs’ka’ursk you think? He’ll be dead soon,” is all she could think of to say.

“We’ll see about that,” Treyvan growled, with an undertone of determination, and stalked to a massive cabinet. He reared up onto his haunches, laid both claws flat on the upper corners, and dug his thumbtalons into the sockets in the trimwork. He twisted them and spoke “hiskusk,” and the sound of long metals rods shifting and clanging into place sounded from inside. The cabinet unfolded. Mage-lights inside gleamed off of teleson sets, a massive leather and brass harness, steel fighting claws, a narrow breastplate and more. Treyvan pulled out and shouldered on one side of the harness, while the hertasi rushed in to clip and buckle the other side of it. More hertasi rushed in after three sharp whistles from the gryphon, and preparations for a flight gained momentum quickly. Three telesons were wrapped and packed into a flat case, and at a nod from the gryphon, the fighting claws were packed as well. Treyvan called out instructions of what must be brought, and side pouches were stuffed with arcane materials and clipped to the harness. Before long, a swarm of the little lizards were readying him for flight and unlacing his talonsheaths. When Treyvan reached the outdoors, he shook his wings and tested the harness for fit. Another pair of hertasi affixed his ornamental breastplate and cinched it tight, while another one added several more pouches to his flight harness. “Pena. That downed gryphon is going to need a trondi’irn. Get Whitebird ready for travel right now. Tell Hydona I am going north.”

Pena, the senior hertasi, turned to her charges still inside. “Get Whitebird ready for travel right now. Tell Hydona that Treyvan and I are going north.”

Treyvan gave Pena a look of disbelief, even as she turned to clamber into heavy insulated clothing. He opened his beak but was stopped short by the senior hertasi poking a stubby finger up at him. “You know how this works, Treyvan. If you need supplies, you can’t stop mid-spell to go fetch them. You get caught up in your magic and you know it. You don’t get fed enough, you get cranky. And if you got hurt yourself, who would see to you?” Pena nodded firmly, slapped her tail once on the pavestones for emphasis, and pulled her hood and glass goggles on as they were handed to her by another hertasi scampering by. “Now just pay attention to where you fly and give me a smooth ride, understand?”

Hallock Stavern, leaning on a greenwood stick that was either a too-short crutch or a too-long cane, glared at the clerk in the tent with him, and stabbed a finger on the papers and palimpsests heaped on a table that was obviously once a door. It still had the handle and hinges. “Now you listen to me, I want answers, son, and I want them now. Is help coming from anywhere for the gryphon? Anyone, anywhere? I’ve got the rank to push you into Karse in your shorts if you so much as—”

The clerk held up a hand, looked up at the officer, and snapped completely. “No, you listen to me, you overbearing bastard. The dispatches were sent and there is nothing new from Haven. Nothing. Nothing. You understand? Look at this.” He slammed his ink-stained hands on the stacks of documents. “This is what I have to deal with. Every bleeding soul in this camp, and three other camps, want messages, and they’re all demanding them of me. Send me to Karse naked if you want. Please! It will get me out of here, but until you get twenty more clerks to replace me, you will damned well wait like everyone else! Sir!”

Hallock rocked back slowly. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, as the clerk sat down. After a long moment he replied, “I should damn well promote you for talking to me like that, son.”

“There’s no need to wish a curse on me, sir,” the clerk replied. “I know what the gryphon did for you. We all do. But no news is no news. When I know something, there’ll be a runner sent for you.”

Hallock frowned but had to accept it. “I’ll be making the rounds of wounded, then. But I’ll come back. Good luck.”

The clerk didn’t even look up as he resumed scrawling notes on teetering piles of papers. “Same to you, sir.”

Hallock caught himself rubbing at the wide scar on his forehead, then hobbled his way out into the mess of the encampment. Woods had been cleared on either side of the main trade road, which had become the main thoroughfare of a tent city—well, a city designed by a drunken mob, maybe. There were no straight lines to get anywhere, and tents clustered around every tree that was too heavy to clear cut. Ropework between those trees appeared to have been done by myopic giant spiders during fits of seizures, and anything from canvas to blankets had been strung up as shelter. The poor tinder gained from the smaller felled trees made the cook fires underneath the canopies smoke and struggle for life. The main local source for firewood was a nondescript sort of scrubby, scrawny bush with annoying short thorns. It grew all over for miles, except for a former Changecircle at the edge of the camp. No one wanted to even set foot on that Circle, even though it was set perfectly atop a circular mound that probably had the best drainage, and view, of any of this mud-ridden swamp.

The most orderly part of the whole encampment was on either side of the wide road to the river’s edge, where the grain mill was. The miller moved in with a family in town, and volunteered his home as a command post. Most of the officer corps had settled into the mill tower, which was the tallest building for many miles around. The rooms above the grindstones served as operation planning rooms for security reasons. In truth, it was mainly because the rooms were warm, dry, and had fireplaces—some comfort despite the incessant grind of the millstones.

Hallock should technically be in there now, but the drone of the mill gave him a headache. So did the thick concentration of junior officers arguing tactics, where they tried to justify staying inside where they were “needed.” Most of the staff at the mill mean well, but they didn’t seem to understand: an army can not be administrated—it must be led. After the southern border wars, the turmoil of the Storms and the strife the Changecircles brought, one leader after another retired from service. Few command veterans had stayed in field service after all of that. Stavern’s First, his commander of the Sixteenth Regiment, had been the most experienced field commander the Guard could send northward at the time. He knew the protocols as the woman’s subordinate, but he hadn’t known her well. She’d fallen when Hallock had. The morning that he’d been cut loose from the Healer’s tent and the yellow ribbon removed from it, he heard the horns sounding the mourning notes. She had been buried already.

And here he was.

A new stripe tacked on the sleeve.

A new ribbon under the badge.

Brevet promotion. First of the Sixteenth, Captain Hallock Stavern.

A senior officer, maybe, but still one of the regulars in his heart.

Filthy and unpleasant as the cantonment was, at least here he was with the Guard. He hadn’t gained his previous rank by nepotism or bribery, he’d gained it by genuinely believing in what the Guard could be, and his soldiers knew. Just the fact that he was in the muck, waving off occasional offers for help, and took his time checking in on the units didn’t go unnoticed. If he had to plod along on a crutch to see to the soldiers’ well-being, rather than pass by in a driven carriage, then that’s how it would be done, and the mill be damned.

He stopped in at one of the larger tents, an open-front, thirty-pole affair where cots and poorly strung hammocks were every one filled with the wounded. The most open section of the ill-set compound tent held a score of uniformed women and men with boiling pots of water, sorting rough buckets of more-or-less straight wood. Six of those in the hammocks were unconscious, but two were snoring, so that was a good sign. The ones awake were, healthily, complaining of officers and strategies. These twenty-some souls were the barely ambulatory Guard soldiers who were left over from most of the northern clashes. As was the Valdemaran tradition, if they weren’t fit to ride or march, they had been put to work. Those that still had full use of their hands were engaged in basic fletching. All Guards that were rated for field combat knew how to make arrows, bolts, and spears of several types, of whatever native materials could be scrounged.

Supply trains were on the way from the south, and a wagon or two arrived every few candlemarks during the day. Proper, larger tents were being unloaded even now by a mix of the Guard and the local, but now largely unemployed, populace. Harvest crews would never come, so the large households that depended on them for their crops now faced hardship. The stalks and rushes from the grain harvests wouldn’t be collected, and peddlers who sold the baskets and other wares made from them would have no goods, and so on down the line.

The locals were being compensated for their goods and work, but a government chit didn’t change the fact that so soon after the terrors of the Storms, when hope was building up again, their livelihoods had been smashed.

Still, where there is life there is hope, he thought as he looked around the convalescents’ tent. And here I am alive to see it. And I’ll see Haven again and walk its streets again with Genni.

“First. Sir.” The senior officer of the tent gave him a salute with her one unbandaged hand. Even that was unexpected; most decorum went out with the slop in places like this. “Good t’see y’back with us,” she said, and it didn’t take a genius to read the subtext.

“Thanks, Corporal. You being seen to well here?”

The obvious answer came right on cue. “Well as can be expected, sir.” A couple of others chuckled—no matter what region you were from or what Valdemaran dialect you spoke, some answers are utterly predictable. Things sobered up quickly as she spoke her mind. “Whole thing’s been a bit of a toss, honestly. It’s not a proper deployment, we say, ’cause we’re moving against, well, our own really. Ain’t a one of us feels right bein’ here ’cause of moving on fellow Valdemarans. We ought not be fightin’ our own.” The senior enlisted man nearby coughed, discreetly trying to wave the corporal down from making some kind of blunder. She gave him a rude gesture with a few fingers. “ ’Ey, it’s true. We talked ’bout it an’ that’s how we all lean. First’s got the right t’ know how we feel, even if we are stuck as gimps.” She looked back to Hallock. “Might be a black mark on m’record to say all that, sir, but just the same, I’d as soon not get promoted in the Guard over fightin’ my own countrymen.”

Hallock leaned a little less on his stick and eyed everyone there who’d meet his gaze. “It’s not exactly treasonous to say this kind of thing, but it bends some regs. Someone with less ribbon than me might bust down hard on you over what you just said. So why tell me this, of all people?”

Hallock felt himself unexpectedly moved from the words that followed. Right here were all of his country’s virtues summed up in a few minutes of hesitant confession. The corporal spoke up first.

“Because you’re here, sir. I mean, we coulda writ it up, an’ sent it all official. Or could’ve gotten a clerk t’pass it’round in rumor-mail. But fact is, sir,” she hesitated, but then saw others nodding. “Fact is, sir, we get put off duty roster, there ain’t much use for us. ’Cept as idle hands an’ cot-warmers—but we ain’t got idle minds, an’ we’re still Guard even if we get stuck off t’ bleed-in-place.” Another soldier grunted at that particularly derogatory term for convalescents.

“We told you, ’cause you came here to us. Not us to you. An’ that means a bunch to us gimps.”

Murmurs of agreement came from around the tent. A junior enlisted footman added, “You bein’ so close to bein’ one yerself, sir, we figured you’d understand better than the mill.” The group nodded to that as well. “Isn’t everyone gets magic-saved by a—” and he looked around for suggestions. “By one of those. Gods and spirits got t’have plans for you, sir, that kind of thing just doesn’t happen to regular folk like us. We figure y’gotta be somethin’ amazing for that t’happen.”

Hallock steadied himself on his staff again, and licked his lips. “There is something amazing, at that, but I’ll tell you what,” he began. “We were under orders and got hit hard. A gryphon none of us had ever met struck out of the sky like a thunderbolt and near laid down his life to help Valdemaran soldiers just like me and you. Then he near killed himself just so I could get home to see my wife.” He looked to each of them, completely holding their attention. “Every one of you here lost blood, bone, or tooth defending your fellow soldiers. You didn’t even know their names, but you bled for ’em just the same, so they could get home to their families.” He shook his head and leaned on his walking stick more heavily. “You’re lookin’ the wrong way here. You think I’m special because a fury shot out of the sky and fought to save Guard? To save me? Hell, no.” He paused for a few breaths, looking at each of them again. “You’re all amazing because you’re like him.”

Kelvren slept far longer than he’d intended, and it was a sleep with unsteady dreams. These dreams were more like sharp images, that struck and faded like the pluck of a bowstring, leaving afterimages and the memories that spun off from them. The worst were ones of his body coming apart, splitting open from each of the wounds he’d suffered until he floundered, drowning, in a deep pool of all his blood. The other dreams were less grisly—there was sky, in most of them, in the deep blue of chasing dawn, or the dazzling blaze of white only seen when emerging from one cloud towards another in bright day. There was the view of the Londell River, and Lake Evendim, and the descent into Errold’s Grove. Some memories were sexual—which was no unusual thing for a gryphon, especially him. He’d been on quite a few backs over the years. Skydancing, solicitous crooning, laughter, and intimate nibbling were well recalled, then they’d fade away until another of those bowstring images shocked into his mind. His friends at k’Valdemar—Darian and Snowfire, and Steelmind and that insufferably enigmatic Firesong. And his trondi’irns, who made him feel so good, and got him prepared so finely for his assignations—and then it was back to the sex dreams again.

“Sir? Time for your feeding, sir.” The boy with the mottled skin was back, looking under the flap of the tent.

Kelvren rolled onto his belly, startled. He immediately regretted it, crushing his sheath. He yelped and then kept his eyes closed a while, seeing only dazzle.

“Sir? You all right? You made a funny noise.”

Kelvren coughed twice and answered, “Funny forrr you. Not ssso funny forrr me.” He winced and slowly opened his eyes. “I may have brrroken sssomething I’ll need laterrr. Urrrh. Food?” he asked, ears flicking forward. “Or isss it what you brrrought lassst time?”

“Uhm. It’s not the, ah, exact same as last time. Some of it’s new colors. And I brought some bread that didn’t turn out right, but they didn’t want me to tell you that. They figured, if you didn’t know it was burned, you’d maybe think it was a treat.”

Kelvren’s eyes went to slits and he stood up on all fours, but kept his head down as he exited the tent. As he came out into full sun, despite the haze left from the heavy rain before, he swung his head to bear dead on the village.

“A trrreat. I am wearrry of thisss disssrrressspect. You. Boy. What isss yourrr name?”

“Boy. I mean, that’s what most people say to call me, is Boy. My full name’s Jeft Roald Dunwythie. The Roald part’s named after the king, o’ course. No relation. But like I say, most everyone here knows me as Boy. So I’ll answer to that if you want.”

“Hurrrh. Do you like being called Boy?” Kel asked.

“It’s not as if I have to like it, sir. Boy’s what they call me.” At the gryphon’s unblinking gaze, he finally admitted, “No, I don’t much like it. My mum gave me a proper name and, if it’s good enough for her, it should be good enough for anyone else. If things was right. But things ain’t so perfect in this life. They are as they are.”

Kelvren turned away. Half a minute passed before he returned his gaze to the young man. “Jeft Rrroald Dunwythie, if you learrrn nothing elssse frrrom me, I wisssh it to be thisss. Hold it clossse to yourrr hearrrt and never forrrget it. It doesss not matterrr what otherrrsss call you, asss much asss it matterrrsss what you anssswerrr to.” The gryphon limped away heavily, and stamped some tallgrass down on the other side of the tent for several minutes. He shook out his feathers, feeling renewed strength despite his restless innards. His anger and pain were transitioning into resolve, and a Plan. “And asss sssoon asss I am done making rrroom, we arrre going down therrre to get my next meal. If they expect a rrrampaging monsssterrr, they’ll find out I am not that. They’ve ssseen me hurrrt and delirrriousss, but I ssswearrr to you—they’ll neverrr forrrget what I am like when I am hungrrry, annoyed, and deterrrmined.”

Kelvren Set into the first part of his Plan. Principles of magic, he thought, learned early on. Transmutation. Turn what is useless into what is usable. He hobbled toward, and then past, his companion. If I cannot preen for beauty, then I will preen for effect. He laboriously groomed—badly—wincing several times from the persistent agony of his wounds. He took a few deep breaths and stared up at the sky when he was done. If I am going out of this life, he thought, I am not going as a disrespected animal shoved away to rot. If I die, I am damned well going to do it with a full belly, and the satisfaction of knowing I ruined some idiot’s day.

The gryphon limped around to face the young man. Bandages askew, feathers at all angles, and his stitches exposed, he looked to be in poor shape to anyone’s eyes.

“Brrring your sssack, Jeft. Time forrr fun.” Jeft did just that, crashing along through the tallgrass and brush to catch up. “Why arrre you ssso disssresspected that they give you the worrrssst jobsss?”

“It’s my face, I think. I’m not any different from the other younglings here, ’cept my face.”

“What isss wrrrong with yourrr facsse?” Kel asked, pausing ostensibly for Jeft to close in on him, but in reality, it was because he was having trouble moving well. His right side haunch folded up on him, and jarred his lanced shoulder badly, eliciting a short whine. “It looksss fine to me. You have good marrrkingsss.”

“That’s just it there, sir, these, uh, markings,” he confirmed as he stopped beside the gryphon, pointing at the splotches that randomly covered his face. “People think my face is really ugly. They say it’s ’cause my mum married a far-southerner, and he had bad blood in him, an’ so I came out like this, all ugly from both sides, they say. And there’s nothin’ can be done about it, so I just do what I do.” He hoisted the heavy bag up again.

“And yourrr fatherrr?”

“He died. He was one of the traveling harvesters, an’ when he went away up northwest, he got crushed by one of those big carts, they said. Mum took it hard and still hasn’t gotten better after that. Anyway. He’s in a better place now.”

Kelvren levered himself up gingerly, mulling that over, then snorted at the flies pestering his wounds and resumed his trek. “I am . . . sssorrry you—hurrh!—have—kah! sketi!—lossst yourrr fatherrr,” he said breathily, tripping on brush. “I have not ssseen mine in fifteen yearrrsss. We sssend messsagesss but—ah. It isss not the sssame as sssharrring sssky with him.”

“Sky’s prob’ly where my father is,” Jeft smiled. “We always did like talking about birds, me and him, so’s maybe he’s a bird now. He’d like that a lot ’cept, I guess he couldn’t get stew an’ scrapings as a bird.”

Kelvren could see that soldiers and villagers were taking notice of them as they closed the distance to the encampment. Kel angled toward a recently cut tree stump and suddenly fell against it.

“Sir? Master Kelvren, sir? What’s wrong?” Jeft dropped the bag and crashed toward the gryphon. “You’re bleedin’ again, sir, an’ that, uh, sewin’ they did on you’s torn up some. Sir?” He waved at the flies, to little effect, and then Kel could feel the boy’s hand on his eartufts. “Sir? You hear me? Can I help? Sir?” He was sounding desperate.

Slowly Kelvren opened an eye, toward Jeft. “Hurrrh. It isss—all forrr effect,” he wheezed, and smiled as best he could. “Ssso brrrave. You rrrun towarrrdsss me when the rrressst of yourrr village would rrrun away.”

“Well—I was scared, too!” he blurted, and then confessed, “I mean, if you—I—I’d be in a lot of trouble. Mayor said you were my problem now, an’ I bet they’d whup me if you died.” He pulled back his hand and wiped it on both of his eyes, under the brim of the sun hat. “It—I just don’t want you t’die, all right? An’, an’, if y’need a healer, or somethin’, I’ll run get you a healer—” Jeft looked all around, and saw a dozen Guard soldiers were headed their way at a brisk walk. “I, uh—I think maybe help’s coming, sir?”

Kelvren rumbled softly. “Yesss. Ssso they arrre. Heh.” He closed his eyes, to rest. “Let the gamesss begin.”

Hallock heard a commotion from the town while walking around the last of the convalescents’ tents. In a Guard encampment it wasn’t unusual to hear occasional incidents ranging from fist brawls to dirty-song competitions, or some poor soldier getting dressed down at top volume. This was the first one Hallock had heard, though, that began with shouting and running, and finally, laughter—and not all of it human. There was just that one loud, descending burbling voice that mixed in with the rest, but it put Hallock into motion. Quick-walking with the stick in his hand, he rounded the mill road and followed it toward the sounds—which came from the main mess tents.

He saw a mix of backs in Guard uniforms and locals’ work clothing, and then a flick of a large feathery wing above them. Then there was another ripple of laughter. He pushed his way forward, finally collaring a lieutenant to help him reach the center of it all.

There he found someone who appeared to be a town official, judging by his necklace. He was getting up off his knees, where apparently he’d been vomiting into a large sack—though on second thought, yes, it appeared he had been vomiting because his head had been in the sack. Now the man was coughing furiously into a handkerchief and attempting to wipe his face down. Some of his attendants were trying to calm down a few Sixteenth and Guard regulars who were still shouting and provoking the man.

Kelvren sagged sideways against a trestle table, with one wing slack on the ground and his bandages askew and seeping. The platter on the table was filling up. Soldiers brought their own bowls over to pinch off a bit of meat or bread and set it down on the platter. When they spoke something to Kelvren, the gryphon nodded or smiled—but even from this far away, Hallock could tell that the creature was exhausted. Kelvren reached for a bowl and some of the food on the platter, but his taloned hands shook too much to keep hold of the bowl. A strange-looking boy stuck close to the gryphon, and was there in an instant to catch the bowl and load it up with food.

“First!” someone called out, and the air filled with a mix of expletives, intakes of breath, and “Sir!” aimed nowhere in particular. All Firsts were Captain in rank. Over a hundred Guard soldiers instantly Weren’t Involved And Were Doing Something Else When It Happened. Whatever “it” might have been. Some soldiers saluted and then swiveled around in the mud to find who they were supposed to be directing it at. “It’s Stavern!” someone else called out, and then a small cheer followed. “Welcome back, sir!” called a junior rider, who jostled around the retreating official to reach Hallock. He saluted again, apparently just to make sure he’d been seen saluting at all, but was also grinning. “Your gryphon friend there, well, we’ve just been taking care of him, sir. He wasn’t getting treated none too well, so, we just helped him out some.” The rider shooed people out of the way to get Hallock over to Kelvren’s side.

The gryphon swayed a little, and his eyes pinned and dilated several times as he recognized Hallock. “Ah! My fine frrriend Hallock Ssstaverrrn,” he purred. “How isss the belly?”

“Feels tight.”

“Hurrrh. Mine, too. Thessse arrre good people, thessse sssoldierrss of yourrrsss. Know the value of a good meal.” A couple of dozen chuckles from all around told Hallock that he was missing something.

“Kel, you look—”

“I know how I look,” the gryphon growled threateningly, then mellowed the next moment.

“Then I hope you don’t feel like you look.”

Kelvren swallowed, twitching his ears and keeping his eyes closed as a bowlful of food went down his gullet. He sighed loudly and opened his eyes again to lock onto Hallock’s own. “Well-known fact. Feeding a grrryphon isss good luck.” He sighed. “Thisss sssketi-chunk therrre, the . . . what isss it called. Officsse warrrmerrr. That,” He indicated the retreating official and his staff, with his beak. “Ssseems he left orrrderrrs that I wasss to be given a sssackful a day of the ssscrrrapsss unfit forrr the ssstewpot. I took insssult.” He swung his head around to indicate the soldiers in the mess tent with him, several of whom were still coming by to drop bits of their ration into what had become the gryphon’s food tray. “Ssso in the ssspirrrit of equality between alliesss, I came herrre and sharrred the sssack with him. He looked well fed, and ssso in the ssame ssspirit, added sssomething to the sssack himssself beforrre leaving, I think.”

A couple more soldiers laughed outright, then stifled themselves at Hallock’s withering look. The rider turned Hallock aside and whispered confidentially, “He was in awful shape when he came limping down, sir. An’ we knew what he’d done for you o’course. So when he asked so polite for help, well, we couldn’t refuse. We brought ’im here to get him fed, an’ sent word for the—-well, anyway, things just went as they went. Some of the regulars, well, they crowded the mayor there, and—”

“Mayor? That was the mayor?” Hallock sighed. He put up a hand to halt the explanation. “So some of you pulled the sack of—scrap—over the mayor’s head.”

“And pulled the ssstrrring,” Kelvren finished with a hint of triumph. “Policssy change wasss enacted immediately upon esscape from the feed bag.”

Hallock frowned and asked, “Wait. Why would the mayor have anything to do with whether you got fed, anyway?”

The rider interrupted. “I know that one, sir. Guard feeds Guard, and buys meat and grain from whoever’s nearest. The gryphon’s a foreigner, so’s when the accounting’s done, the hospitality comes from the local senior diplomat. That’s the mayor. I figure he thought the gryphon was gonna die soon anyhow, so why use the good meat he can sell to the Guard instead?”

Hallock nodded, and unhappily took in Kelvren’s disheveled appearance. “I see. So. You. It was regulars that did it all, right?” The rider nodded. “You. There. Regular. It was horse that did it all, right?” The woman nodded. “All right, then. Clearly, there were no witnesses, and no laws or regulations provably broken.” He waved a hand around loosely to dismiss the whole affair. “As you were.” He angled in close by Kelvren, who reached up with a shaky taloned hand and pulled him close in against his head. Hallock was pressed against the gryphon’s warm, feathered neck, cheek and jaw.

“It wasssn’t too much, Hallock Ssstaverrrn. I jussst—wanted the sssame rrressspect of any Valdemarrran warrriorrr. Not . . . hurrh, what would Darrrien sssay . . . the firrrst sssalt frrrom the table. “His stoic demeanor faltered. “Therrre’sss nobody forrr me herrre.”

Hallock squeezed a few of the neck feathers, each wider than his spread hand. “I’m here, Kelvren. And believe me, there are many here who admire you for what you’ve done for me.” Hallock saw that where the gryphon’s feathers had been cut away in clumps along his side and flanks, bandages had fallen away and seeping wounds glistened. “You have wounds coming open again, Kel, we need to get you out of here. You look like you are in terrible pain.”

Kel held him there for a few more heartbeats, then patted the man’s back before pulling back to meet eyes again. “A good meal helpsss, and the good will of otherrrsss. And ssseeing you, my good frrriend. What would Genni think of thisss day, mmm?” The gryphon shifted his weight, flinched, and let the wing he was trying to move lay where it was. “I do hurrrt, yesss. And I need a placsse to ssstay. And to get clean.”

The gryphon lowered his head to the table, and let its weight rest on the curve of his beak while he kept his eyes closed. He sagged a little more with each breath. Hallock held out his hand and rubbed the gryphon’s mud-crusted brow ridge. “I know somewhere you can stay, my friend. We’ll take you there.”

Kelvren lifted his head and looked sidelong at Hallock, with a slight grin. “You know what I sssaid beforrre. Pain sharrred isss . . . pain halved. I sharrred half of my pain with the mayorrr . . . and I feel much betterrr now.”

Hallock gathered up a squad and they helped Kelvren trudge from the mess tent through the cantonment, a pair under each wing and one at each shoulder. Soldiers came out from almost every tent and watched the slow progression. Some came over to ask if they could help—everyone seemed to know who the creature was, or at least what he’d done. Jeft followed along, looking worried each time the gryphon slipped or groaned. When they passed one of the corrals, several horses pressed in closer to see what this curiosity was. “Why aren’t they terrified?” one of the soldiers wondered. “He’s a huge predator, shouldn’t they be bolting?”

“We do not . . . ssscarrre mossst crrreaturrresss . . . unlesss we intend to. It isss . . . a peculiarrrity of usss,” Kelvren wheezed. His exhaustion was showing, and he stopped to rest.

“You have a lot of those,” Hallock teased. “Hoy, look. That dapple gray, that’s Dughan, my mount when my forehead got redecorated.”

Kel made an effort to look over, but still his head hung low.

Hallock tried to keep the gryphon’s mood light. “I’m ordering that you be fed well. Some of the men were suggesting we make up a fake squad, to allocate the food for you. It’s an idea with some merit—but I think I carry enough weight now to have you cared for outright.” He spoke instructions to a runner and then sent her on her way ahead of them. When they arrived near the convalescents’ tent Hallock had visited earlier, the sorting barrels had been pushed to the back and several cots had been folded and pushed aside. Nearly everyone was awake, and every eye was wide. Enlisted men spread out a canvas tarpaulin on the cleared space, and the squad gingerly guided the gryphon in. Kel all but collapsed on the spot, and sprawled sideways onto his good—or rather, less injured—side, panting. An unhappy private, nearly pinned by the gryphon’s fall, crawled out from under that side’s wing.

“Healer Birce will be here soon,” Hallock reassured Kelvren, knelt down beside him. “Devon, too, on his usual rounds. They’ll fix up those plasters for you when they check everyone else.” He waved over a folding stool and set it in front of Kel’s beak, patting the canvas. “Here . . . a place for your head.” He grunted, and lifted Kel’s head to rest flatly upon it.

After a candlemark of reassuring talk and gawkers coming to see the beast that saved the captain, the Healers arrived to tend to all the self-named “gimps.” In the hours that passed, a couple of dozen soldiers asked the captain if they could touch Kelvren, and after the first one scratched at his brow ridges for half an hour, Kel consented to all.

The cloud cover broke and Treyvan and Pena found themselves in searing sunlight. They’d made a short Gating to shorten their flight time, but then found themselves with a strong tailwind and Treyvan calculated it’d be quicker to fly directly for as long as that lasted. Despite the desperate circumstances, Treyvan found himself feeling good about it. He hadn’t been on a truly long flight since the return to Haven from the Plains. Now feeling the sun on his back, the magic tingling through his feathers, watching the terrain roll on below, he exulted in the glory of flight.

:Pena,: he Mindspoke. :You don’t need a rest soon, do you? I have good thermals ahead.:

:Oh, no, you go on ahead. I’m thinking about new tunnels around the Collegium and the embassies, and where to tap a new hotspring. And where to set in a new baking oven.: Treyvan felt the hertasi pat his back. :An idle mind is my workshop. But, Treyvan, aren’t we due to make another Gate attempt?:

:Soon,: he replied. :If I recall my maps right, we should be in range of a clean Gating within the candlemark. I’ll try to anchor high up to correct for any targeting drift. We can fly the difference from there. I’ll find us a good landmark by the main road, mark it with a lasting mage-light, and send word to Whitebird by teleson. We’ll set an arrival time. When she gets there, I’ll try another Gate to bring her in to where the gryphon is.:

:Aren’t you the clever one!: Pena chuckled in his mind.

:Just trying to keep up with you,: Treyvan answered, and laughed out loud as he soared higher.

Kelvren dozed off and on, as best his wounds would let him. The humans were given drugged drinks to reduce their pain, but Birce was not willing to risk mixing such stuff with a gryphon’s unknown anatomy. It was very hard to get good rest when parts of your body were simply screaming at you and throbbed with every breath. Still—the attention, the full belly, and the company gave him new strength. When he was able to, he answered questions and shared scores of stories about his exploits and his people with dozens of eager listeners. He related the story of Hallock’s Healing, but felt a pang of wistfulness when Hallock’s wife Genni was brought up, because Kelvren was acutely aware he had no mate to go back to should he survive this. And by this age, he should.

The night swallowed up the sky, and he lost all track of time between naps. Most of the rest of the convalescents were asleep, their night dosages in full effect. He raised his head, looking up to the starry sky, seeded by sparks from the camp’s fires. He whimpered softly.

This wasn’t what Skandranon was like—he would never have been laid up with such injuries, wasting away. And they have to be looking for me—Darien and Firesong and the others; they must be able to send me help or bring me back. I know that great legends usually involve great funerals—but I don’t want to die.

“Sir? Y’there, sir? You awake?” He heard Jeft’s voice at his side and turned an eye that way without lifting his head. “Oh, good, you’re awake. Sir, I, uh, my mum wanted to see you. I fetched her here.” The young man waved someone in. A woman in trews and blouse carrying a large basket knelt beside him, and licked her lips.

“My lord gryphon,” she said in a voice gentled down as if talking to a scared child, “Jeft’s talked so much about you, I wanted to see you myself. You—” and she glanced at where Jeft stood back by Kel’s flank, “—you’ve treated him well, better than most people ever have. I—wanted you to know it is appreciated. He’s never really had many friends, and even then they didn’t consider him an equal. But then here you are, this—wonder dropped into our lives—and you talk to him as a person. Not as a servant. You’ve done us a great honor.”

Kel listened to every word and raised his chin up then laid his head sideways. “The honorrr isss mine, Lady. . . .”

“Ammari. Not a Lady, though, my lord gryphon. I am just a seamstress and artisan.” She looked down at her hands when she said this. There was something in her tone that was deeply sad for a moment.

“Hurrrh. Jeft isss a brrrave—” and he paused, “I won’t sssay ‘boy.’ But he isss brrrave. Sssmarrrt.” He brought his head up and shifted his weight from his sideways slouch, which sent lightning shots through his body from each stitch and scab deep into him. “Urrrh. Ssso. Welcome to my palacsse.”

Ammari pulled back the cloth cover from the basket, and hesitantly pulled out a scrub brush. “Jeft said that—that you didn’t look—uhm, that you needed some cleaning up. And he knew you were in pain. When he gets hurt, he comes to me, so he thought if you were in pain—I should come to find you.” She asked, apprehensively, “You won’t bite me if I do this badly, will you?”

Kel smiled but took his time to answer. “Haven’t the ssstrrrength to bite, Ammarrri. You have no fearrrsss frrrom me. But. You arrre herrre forrr morrre than tending to my filth.” He glanced back to where Jeft was pinching and toying with the tattered feathertip of one of his primaries. “And it isss not jussst about him, isss it?”

Ammari swallowed and nodded to Kel. “It’s—about both of us. I’ve never been like this before—I feel so lost. My husband—” She caught Kel’s eye. He nodded. “You know, then? Jeft must have told you. I’ve been alone with Jeft all this time, and we work so hard, but—when all of this happened, it just—it’s just been too much for us. I’ve been trying to find work here at the camp—honorable work, I mean. But it’s so hard.” She reached out to Kelvren’s face, but let her touch fall instead along his neck. His hackles looked black in the dim light. Flakes of dirt crumbled away off of feathers. “I’m sorry—words don’t come easily about this. I feel selfish being here, when you’re so badly hurt. But, with what happened—you’re magic. And—magic does bad and good in this life, and you—you’re good magic. Everyone talks about what you could do. What you did do. I don’t know where else to turn, and Jeft thinks so much of you.” Ammari pulled her hand back and wiped her eyes, where tears had welled up. “I just—is there any work I could do for you—is there anything you can do to help us?”

Kelvren let out a long, descending sigh and rested his head again. “Sssoldierrrsss have been coming herrre all day. My flessh issss brrroken, but my earrrsss arrre sssharrrp. They come to sssee the oddity—the thing that sssaved sssome of them. Sssome come in, want to touch featherrrsss orrr talonsss. They want to have sssome luck rrrub off on them. Hurrrh. Foolisssh—they want luck frrrom sssomeone who had all of thisss happen to him?” He snorted.

“Lord gryphon, any of those injuries would have killed a man. You survived how many? A dozen? Two? Cut, shot, stabbed, lanced through, even? And still you can speak? Even walk?”

“Hurrrh. I am ssstill dying,” Kelvren replied distastefully.

“Lord gryphon, we are all dying. But if you’ll forgive me for being so bold, sir, until you are dead, you are still living.”

Kelvren stayed silent for a while, and Ammari started brushing out feathers while Jeft picked away at the larger clumps of dirt around Kel’s hindlegs. “You know, my husband would have loved to have been here with you. He loved birds and kept feathers when he found them out on his travels. Yours would be a prize, if you dropped one.”

Kel looked sidelong at the woman.

“Jeft sssaid that you werrre about to be rrrich. What of that? Isssn’t money what sssoothesss illsss in Valdemarrr?”

Ammari smiled a little—a flicker of pride, then the sadness again. “When the Changecircle came—we—had just lost my husband. I was unconsolable. I ran into the circle in my grief. I just—clawed at the ground, crying out for someone to bring him back. Somehow. I knew there was magic there—else how could it have appeared?—but by morning, there was still no help. I clawed at the ground while I cried—I cried so much.” She paused in her work. “When daylight came, I saw that my hands were—different. There was something in that soil that made my hands glimmer in the light.” She resumed brushing. “My man was not back. But maybe he provided for us in his own way. I found a way to sift this from the soil and bind it, so that it would adhere to cloth and leather. No one but Jeft and I would go into the circle—so it remained ours alone. Almost all the money I had I spent to buy the land the circle was in. I made jars and jars of my solution. And there it sits.” She sighed. “Before all of this strife, traders were going to carry some to Haven, and Deedun, and—well, you understand. I staked all I had on a luxury item, and now no one wants it and no traders will come for it.”

Kelvren rumbled a little and then asked, “Thisss—sssubssstancsse of yourrrss. Do you have any to ssshow me?” The glint of speculation was in his eyes.

Ammari set the brush down and brought out a kerchief from her blouse. Even in the meager light, it shone with an irridescence like oil on water in bright sunlight. Jeft beamed when he saw it. “My mum’s special. She’s smart. An’ I helped, with the makin’ of the stuff.”

Kel admired the cloth as Ammari twisted and turned it around, showing its shimmer. “And thisss—ssubssstancssse. Isss it expensssive? Doesss it poissson, or ssstink, or come off easssily? Doesss anyone elssse know of it?” He added, with a hint of shrewdness, “And doesss it bind to featherrrsss?”

By noon of the second day, Kelvren’s plan was in motion. Through Hallock, he arranged the purchase of several jars of Ammari’s mixture. It positively blazed in the full light of day. Small wonder she knew it would make her wealthy! With his guidance, several of the convalescents trimmed away particular stray and partial feathers from around his wounds, painted them with the bright substance, and set them aside to dry.

Transmutation, he thought. Though I fade, I still have resources. When he had time to rest, the pain actually sharpened his thoughts—it was only when he moved that it overwhelmed him completely. I can turn what little we have into something important, whether I can fly—or even walk—again. He had to be of use—he couldn’t bear to slide off into oblivion meekly. So, then, what was there to do? Assuming he couldn’t move, he had to somehow use what he was rather than what he could do. He was unique in the camp—an oddity. He had reputation here, even a growing mystique.

The elements were there: the soldiers’ superstitions about how he was good luck. A tent full of invalids making arrows. And to bring it all together, Ammari’s secret, beautiful mixture, that shone like—

Magic.

The history was told lovingly, in the way only someone who loved tales, and had actually experienced a part of them, could tell a story.

Far off to the west, there was a city made of hope and light. It was made to honor its peoples’ savior, and named for him. White Gryphon was built of terraces and sweeping walkways carved from a white cliffside overlooking a perfect bay. In the centuries since its founding, its wings had gradually spread out around the bay, enfolding it as a loving protective bird would cover its nestlings from cold or rain. Its wings, in fact, truly did appear to be wings—canopies and promenades swept in complex curves on a massive scale, to outline individual feathers when seen from the sea and barrier islands. The city center was a huge complex of overlapping towers making the hackles, breastfeathers and lower mandible. The highest and widest complex, crested the whole of the city in a stylized beak, with its eyes and ears facing north. In summer, the sunrise cast the shadow of a raptor across the bay waters, and at noon the eyes of the beast were completely concealed by shadow. At sunset the water reflections shimmered upon the creation and the sun’s colors blazed upon it while the thousands of small lights and fires came up one by one to greet the stars for the oncoming night.

To the immediate east was the more conventional side of the city that had sprawled out as more housing, workshops, and trade centers were needed—but past that, the terrain became terrible indeed. Forest that became impassable. Trees as broad as eighty men thrust up to a canopy three hundred feet tall, above treefalls and hidden rivers as deep as oceans. Deadly ravines lurked under simple ground cover, and nightmarish beasts hunted anything that ventured in.

Past that came hundreds of miles of marshlands and desert, two entirely different kinds of forest, and then mountain ranges and a jungle. Then grassland, and finally after all of that, the other great forest. The Pelagirs.

Gryphons need the help of trondi’irn, though, like me, sometimes gryphons learn some healing along with other powers. Yet, one pair endured the venture for over six years, alone, blazing a trail eastward from White Gryphon, until they found their city’s long-lost brethren.

“. . . That pairrr was Trrreyvan and Hydona. When I call them the Grrreat Onesss, it isss becaussse they arrre the brrravessst explorerrrsss of ourrr time. And they arrre herrre, in Valdemarrr. They helped everrryone sssurvive the Ssstormsss. And Hallock Ssstaverrrn knows them. Essscorrrted them around Haven—perrrrsssonally!”

Jeft looked up at Kelvren in amazement, having utterly forgotten the bow-wrapping he’d been tasked with, tangled between his fingers. The few other locals and Guard in attendance, and all of the convalescing soldiers had similar expressions. It wasn’t just that they had a six-hundred-pound, taloned, killing fury telling them fireside stories, it was that these stories were uplifting. His tales fired the imagination in ways no one had expected. Most of the soldiers would probably never see active duty again, but instead of being stuck with the wasting-away grousing of lousy encampment and the same old blather, this creature they’d first thought would be an intrusion instead had become needed because all of his tales were new.

“And you got here because of that trail they found?” one of the horsemen asked. Kelvren nodded. “An’ so did all these strange allies that came with th’ Hawkbrothers?” Kel nodded again. “An’ these trondi-urn people could fix you up?”

There was a collective holding of breath as that question halted the mood.

“Yesss. But that isssn’t to be. Ssso. Let usss sssee just how tough I rrreally am, mmm?” The gryphon tried to play it off. “We ssspend time togetherrr herrre. It isss a good exchange. You learrrn about farrr-away landsss and amazing culturesss. I learrrn about mud and sssmoke.” People laughed. “And fletching. I finally get to sssee some arrrowsss that arrren’t going into me.” There were a few chuckles at that, and someone in the back cracked, “Oy, I never really aimed at you, y’know!” The jovial mood was returning.

“Hah! You asssume you could!” he retorted. “I have dodged arrrows, you know. Jussst not enough of them. The one the city was named for, Ssskandrranon, talesss sssay he could fly thrrrough whole brrrigadesss of archerrrsss and emerrrge unssscathed.”

“You ever notice that the older a story gets, the more invulnerable the heroes are?” one of the enlisted women snickered.

Kelvren answered in complete seriousness, “Oh, no. No, thisss isss trrrue. Thessse thingsss . . . they arrre important for usss. Grrryphonsss—we need to be known. Trrreyvan and Hydona, Kuarrrtess and Ussstecca, and Tusssak Kael the Elderrr. Zhaneel the Ssswift and Aubrrri the Ssstalwart, and Kecharrra—herrr name came to mean “beloved” in ourrr language. They have meant asss much to usss by legend asss they did in life, and accomplisssh asss much by legend asss by deed. Ssskandrrranon Rrrassshkae isss known to all of usss becaussse he wasss that amazing. And now—he isss known to you.”

Kel’s facial feathers fluffed and he held his head high for a few moments. With his stories, he had done his part to make his heroes immortal.

Above the mill, at midday, there was suddenly a bright flash. What appeared to be a hole in the sky, rimmed by an everchanging glimmery edge, showed through to a landscape of low grass beside a wide roadway. The light came from a column of mage-light the height of two men on the other side of the hole, bright enough to be noticed by people below. A hulking shadow eclipsed the light, and observers below shouted and pointed up. The shadow burst through the hole and huge wings snapped outward to stop its arcing fall. It flapped ponderously to level its flight before circling over the encampment. Whatever it was, it wanted its outline to be clearly seen before landing.

Treyvan spied the Command flag at the mill, circled the Guard camp four times, and glided to land in the road between the rows of carriages. The door guards readied pikes and called for reinforcements, and a junior officer went pale when he popped his head out. Treyvan stood with his wings up, then sat on his haunches to be received. Pena stayed on his back, as yet unseen, and appeared to be simply another bundle of cargo.

Then a familiar figure stepped into the road from the mill’s entry. Hallock closed on the gryphon and hailed. “Ambassador Treyvan! This is unexpected! It has been too long since I saw you last.” He gestured for the door guard to go back to vigil, and waved off questions from junior officers, still walking forward with the aid of his walking stick. “Welcome. Are you here about Kelvren? He’s in a bad way. Because of me, I fear, I was the one he Healed.”

“Kelvrrren, you sssay? The wingleaderrr frrrom k’Valdemarrr?” Treyvan’s knowledge of gryphons was encyclopedic. He could recite the names and positions of hundreds. “Hurrrh. Wherrre isss he? Frrriend of Firrresssong’sss. A badly wounded grrryphon isss harrrd to find by ssspell. If Firrresssong hasss not aided Kelvrrren, the sssituation mussst be grrrave indeed.” Treyvan turned to accompany Hallock, and paused for Pena to dismount. She peeled off her helmet and goggles, and tucked them under an arm while she walked alongside the others. Hallock filled in the senior gryphon on what he knew of Kelvren’s condition, talking continuously until they neared the convalescents’ tent.

They heard singing. Not just from inside, but from the eighteen soldiers standing outside, lacquering sheaves of arrows. In the middle of the song, a gryphon voice—thin and strained—nonetheless boomed a line, and made the others grin. The soldiers outside halted singing one by one, and moved backward as one as Treyvan, Pena, and the captain approached. Only a few remembered to salute. They had come to know Kelvren, a terribly wounded gryphon—but this was a fully healthy gryphon stalking toward them, bedecked in regalia of rank, all but dwarfing the captain beside him, with a little lizard creature padding along beside them.

:I can hear you,: Treyvan Mindspoke toward the gryphon he heard. :I have come to help you. And a trondi’irn is on the way.:

Inside the convalescents’ tent, the singing went quiet voice by voice. Kelvren turned his head from side to side, and upward, as if searching for something. Something was about to happen, and everyone in the tent could sense it. Kelvren cut short a whimper of pain as he rolled himself over to his belly. “I hearrrd—” Kelvren croaked, and then his eyes fixed outside, locked onto an approaching shadow. A large shadow.

Captain Stavern stepped around the edge of the tent, nodded behind him, and then came someone Kelvren thought he would never see in his lifetime.

The breastplate adorned by the badges and bars of rank, the impeccaby tooled harness, and the teleson headpiece around the feather-perfect gryphon’s brow ridges and forecrest, crafted to be as much a crown as anything—it could be no one else.

Completely against his will, Kelvren shuddered all over. Breath seized in his throat. He blinked his eyes out of their stare and lowered his head. The fletchers and attendants dropped their work completely or set their tools aside, all eyes on what—who—had just walked across the threshold of the tent’s oiled-canvas floor. Then everyone who stood or sat went down to one knee and bowed their heads in recognition when Kelvren spoke the words—

“My Lorrrd Trrreyvan.”

The power of the senior gryphon’s arrival could be felt radiating into the tent, like sunlight sinks into the skin on a summer day.

“Rrrissse, all,” Treyvan said. Kelvren’s head felt light, as if he was about to pass out. Treyvan stepped to within arm’s reach of the stricken gryphon, and then bowed his own head in turn. “Wingleaderrr Kelvrrren Ssskothkarrr of k’Valdemarrr. The Crrrown hasss sssent me to sssee to yourrr well-being.”

What Treyvan said next made Kelvren certain he was hallucinating.

“You arrre firrrssst grrryphon on sssite in thisss engagement. I name you Wingleaderrr of thisss forcssse asss sssoon asss you arrre fit forrr duty.”

Motes of light swam in Kelvren’s vision. This must be a fever dream. It was Silver Gryphon standing practice that whoever was on scene first was automatically the senior of that engagement—“Incident Command”—the reasoning being that they knew the situation, by being there first, better than any who followed. It held, regardless of rank, until there was a formal exchange of power. It meant that he was now empowered to command Treyvan. One of the Great Ones! It was mindboggling.

Enough so that Kelvren passed out on the spot.

Much happened while Kel was adrift. The supply tent across the mud path from the convalescents’ tent was emptied out so Treyvan could always be near Kelvren.

Treyvan used several spells—though relatively minor, they were impressive to watch, because to enhance his precision he used simple light effects to burn off any excess energy. He used Magesight and sweeps of power to discover which of Kelvren’s magic-conversion organs were still alive and responsive, and several probes to test the state of the still-unconscious Kelvren’s injuries. Jeft stood by his gryphon friend’s side and asked—very possessively—exactly what Treyvan was doing. Treyvan explained that he was taking away Kel’s pain and deepening his sleep, to help him regain strength—and to keep him from trying to move and make his wounds worse.

Jeft wasn’t the only one who acted proprietary about Kelvren. To the inhabitants of the convalescents’ tent, this was their gryphon.

Hallock Stavern called a muster on the main road, and each company stood in formation while he introduced Treyvan and Pena. He made it very clear that unless it directly contravened “high end” regulations, the gryphon was to be treated as captain—“or better.” He held up the proof that the Crown wished it so, and added that the little lizard with him was Treyvan’s personal assistant. Treyvan made a formal pass by each company. He nodded to each company’s senior officer and gave them polite greetings—but it was also calculated so they got a very clear view of his rank markings by being close up to him.

Birce and Devon stood humbly while Treyvan thanked them personally for their good work, and astonished them when he suggested to Hallock that they be listed for commendation.

Treyvan explained to the mill officers how a teleson worked, and contacted Haven with one to report on Kelvren. The overworked clerk that Hallock had needled before was set in front of the device, and thanks to the link he might actually have some sleep possible in his near future.

Pena was well on her way to becoming the most popular creature in the camp. Once word had been spread that any fast-moving lizards in camp weren’t to be shot at, she’d become a blur. Not only were Kelvren’s needs being tended to and materials brought to Treyvan, her abilities as a chef transformed the dull fare the convalescents ate into events to be savored. She bolted into the woods and returned with foraged materials half a candlemark later that by the end of the day made a basic stew bear delightfully complex tastes. The condition for off-duty soldiers getting any of her dishes, though, was that time must be spent assisting the convalescents and Treyvan. They never wanted for help.

Ammari spent more of her waking hours in the tent with the “gimps,” as they’d now laughingly begun referring to themselves. One of the southerners pointed out—wisely—that a word is only truly an insult if you take it as such. Making it a joke, instead of derogatory, takes the power out of it, and makes it your power instead.

It reached its zenith when one of the fletchers asked Jeft to bring another basket of arrowshafts, and Ammari heard her son answer back, “That’s Boy Jeft to you, gimp!” The whole group fell about laughing.

That laughter was what awoke Kelvren. He blinked a dozen times, cleared his mind, and found the pain that had been his constant, unwanted companion had dulled its screaming to barely a whisper. He still felt unbearably heavy, but lifted his head, and found Treyvan was there, and real.

Treyvan spoke to him with respect. “Wingleaderrr Kelvrrren. You have sssurrrvived woundsss that would kill thrrree grrryphonsss. I am imprrresssed by yourrr willpowerrr—and yourrr durrability. And yourrr compasssionate sssacrrrificsse.”

Kel smiled a little at that. Praise from Treyvan! “Wasss it not what ssshould be done? Hallock Ssstaverrrn had hisss Genni to rrreturrrn to. Hisss mate. I have no mate, but I have wissshed it ssso. I would not let him lossse hisss, if it cossst my own life forrr it. He lived the drrream I have. It ssshould not perrrisssh. You—you have Hydona. Can you underrrssstand?”

Treyvan nodded gravely. “I would claw out the hearrrt of the sssun if it meant keeping herrr sssafe. And my young—the sssame forrr them.”

Kelvren looked into the middle distance, as if caught in daydream. “It would be good to have sssuch perrrfect daysss as Hallock Ssstaverrrn and you have had. And young, yesss.”

“In time, Kelvrrren. In time. Yourrr legend grrrowsss.”

“Legend?” Kel looked bemused. “Legend.”

“Yesss. I know that I will tell of you. And you ssshall rrrecoverrr. Whitebirrrd—ourrr trondi’irn frrrom Haven—isss on herrr way. In the meantime, if yourrr mind isss clearrr enough, I would like to know yourrr wissshesss.”

Kelvren choked out a chuckle. “I want nothing lesss than to give incssident command overrr to you!”

Treyvan smiled reassuringly. “Verrry well, but I name you my rrresssident advisssorrr. I am currriousss—what arrre thessse people doing with yourrr cassst-off featherrrsss? They trrreat them with—rrreverencsse.”

Kelvren rumblechuckled. “Ssstorrriesss, my Lorrrd Trrreyvan. Belief, and ssstorrriesss.” He sobered and continued. “I told everrryone in thisss camp that would lisssten about ourrr people, ourrr herrroesss, and the deedsss we have accomplissshed. I wasss all but csserrrtain I would die sssoon. I had to tell ourrr ssstorrriesss. Yourrr tale wasss one I told. My Lorrrd Trrreyvan, you arrre one of the Grrreat Onesss. When you arrrived, I thought I wasss feverrred. When you deferrred to me, I thought I wasss mad. Beforrre you arrrived, I knew my end russshed towarrrdsss me. I knew that I had to end making a differrrencsse.” He paused to rest for a few moments, then resumed after several deep breaths. “The sssoldierrrsss trrruly believe that to sssome degrrree, I am invincssible. They sssaw I sssurrrvived thessse woundsss, and knew I prrrotected theirrr own. They believe that what I am—what I do—isss magic of a mossst potent kind. Ammarrri and Jeft—they paint thessse featherrrsss of mine in Ammarrri’sss liquid light. The fletcherrrsss—they sssnip thessse parrrtsss of my ssshed featherrrsss and bind them in with the norrrmal featherrrsss. And they shine—to thessse peoplesss’ eyesss, they look magical. And the sssoldierrrsss who recsseive thessse arrrowsss believe they arrre now gifted with sssome of my powerrr.”

Understanding dawned on Treyvan, and he sat up straight.

“If thessse sssoldierrrsss go into battle with thessse arrrowsss they will feel morrre confident. It will rrreinforcsse theirrr brrraverrry. It could be enough to help them win, if it comesss to that.” He glanced around the parts of the camp he could see, and spoke more softly. “My lorrrd Trrreyvan. I will confide my beliefsss. We arrre not like otherrr crrreaturrresss, who wonderrr if a deity even carrresss if they exissst,” Kelvren continued. “We grrryphonsss werrre not crrreated by godsss, we werrre crrreated by a man. We werrre made forrr a purrrpossse. We werrre not crrreated to fight warrrsss, though we have. We werrre not made to rrressscue, to thwarrrt, to chassse, or kill. I believe we werrre made to inssspirrre. With all my bonesss and hearrrt I feel that to inssspirrre isss the ultimate of what Urrrtho wanted of usss.”

Treyvan cocked his head, his attention completely absorbed by what Kelvren told him.

“This isss what I wasss made forrr. When I sssaw ssso much missserrry herre—felt it frrrom them, felt my own life fading—I had to combine the worrrssst cssircumssstancssess in sssome ssspecial way—I needed to trrransssmute ssso many bad thingsss into good thingsss. It became clearrr to me when I came down frrrom that hill jussst to eat. Sssoldierrrsss wanted to sssharrre theirrr food with me. They wanted to sssupporrrt me, touch me forrr luck. I rrrealized. What bound it all togetherrr wasss wonderrr. They believed in sssomething grrreaterrr than they had the day beforrre, jussst becaussse I wasss herrre. And ssso.” He gestures with a few taloned fingers toward the industrious fletchers. “I put sssimple plansss into motion, and theirrr belief imbued the motion with powerrr, and it moved on itsss own.”

“Without a single spell left to you,” Treyvan murmured, incredulous.

Kelvren closed his eyes and with some effort, pushed himself up to a sitting position, wings still flat on the floor. “Thessse people arrre watching usss. What they sssee rrright now will matterrr to them the rrressst of theirrr livesss, and they will tell theirrr children and the hissstorrry will sssprrread. It may be—a minorrr legacssy—but I hope that even if I fall, it will be in the tale that I trrried. Even if I die, I will not have not failed, becaussse to the lassst I did not give up. I am sssomething extrrraorrrdinarrry to them. Therrre arrre no enchantmentsss on the arrrowsss, but the arrrowsss arrre not falssse. They arrre magic becaussse the sssoldierrrsss believe in them.”

The arranged time for Whitebird to arrive was nearing. Treyvan sent word to the mill that, to bring in his trondi’irn, he would open a Gate to connect partway to Haven, and that anything they needed to send through in half a minute could pass through after his specialist from the other side arrived. He caught Hallock biting his lower lip as he sat by the slumbering Kelvren.

“What trrroublesss you, Firrrssst?”

“It’s the Gate. A doorway to just step through to be closer to Haven.”

“Clossserrr to yourrr Genni,” Treyvan shrewdly noted.

Hallock nodded. “Closer to my Genni. I miss her so much, it’s impossible not to think of being with her every moment. And returning to her is precisely what Kelvren diced his life on. I could just resign my command, and step through a door to be a few days’ ride from her. But I can’t do it.” He looked Treyvan in the eyes. “I do have a command here, and I owe it to my troops. But as much as that—I have to be at Kelvren’s side.”

Treyvan was silent for several minutes, finally saying delicately, “You mussst rrrealize he isss unlikely to sssurrrvive thisss.”

Hallock held a fist in his hand. “I’m not knotting a yellow ribbon for him yet.” He gestured out toward the rest of the camp. “And I have my soldiers to take care of. They just lost their First, and I’ve replaced her. It would be too much for me to leave now. I can’t risk them getting someone with no field experience in my place.”

“You arrre a good leaderrr, Hallock Ssstaverrrn. The grrreatessst of leaderrrsss arrre at the forrrefrrront of battle, wherrre the powerrr of theirrr prrresencssse can be felt by thossse they command. He isss a parrrt of hisss forcsse, not ssseperrrate frrrom them. The Haighleigh sssay that a wissse chief isss a man who sssaysss “I was beaten,” not “My men werrre beaten.” You sssee the rrreality of battle widely, immerrrssse yourrrssself in it, and ssset yourrrssself apart frrrom thossse who debate it asss theorrry frrrom afarrr.”

“This may be so,” he agreed, “and thank you for the compliment. But just the same, I have to admit there’s a lot of me that wants to go through that Gate of yours.” He turned toward Kelvren. “But I’m not leaving him.”

Three light wagons laden with injured troops, and a courier on back of a pony were lined up, two horselengths behind Treyvan. The gryphon mage sat in front of a rope laid out on the road, which marked where the Gate aperture would be. He stared toward it, but not at it—as if he looked past it deep into the earth. He spread his wings and flapped them slowly, drawing his arms up and tracing talons through several motions, culminating with a wide gesture of two halves of a wide circle.

A short crack of thunder came from in front of the gryphon, and made everyone flinch. The horses looked none too happy, but didn’t run. Then the air simply opened up. Forest, grass, and another road were brightly lit by a column of light on the other side of the Gate, and rippled while the edges of the Gate stabilized. Foreclaws still up, Treyvan sidestepped to its right and called out, “Now!”

The light was eclipsed by three horses running toward the hole, and then they were there in the camp, swerving off to the side at a gallop. “Go!” Treyvan called, and the horses pulling the line of wagons churned hooves toward the Gate and went through. The courier on the pony surged through the hole last, and then the Gate was allowed to collapse. Treyvan dropped back to all fours, swaying and panting.

Two of the horses bore trondi’irn Whitebird, her assistant, and a heavy load of supplies. Whitebird’s appearance was striking—she dressed in a half dozen shades of blue, and her hair was past shoulder length and as snowy as the third “horse” that had come through. A swarthy man in a Herald’s uniform was astride a mare Companion, and dismounted to speak earnestly with Captain Stavern. Treyvan walked briskly toward the convalescents’ tent, and the trondi’irn fell in behind him.

Whitebird let her assistant take the horses as she walked the rest of the way to the tent. When she saw Kelvren dozing, she stared, mouth open. “Oh, you poor thing,” she gasped.

She rushed to Kelvren’s side, resting her hands on his shoulder, his wing, and down his flank. She leaned in to smell him, taking in his scent from beak to rump. A minute later, her assistant came in laden with cases and pouches. They extracted instruments and vials from them and took samples from the wounds, judged the colors they turned, and set them aside on a complex anatomical chart. Kelvren roused from slumber—barely—and rolled a glassy eye sideways to view the two new people.

“Oh, good,” he murmured, and then drifted back to sleep.

Whitebird glanced at Treyvan with an unreadable expression, then stood to stand near him. She spoke in Kaled’a’in. “Trey—this looks very bad. He has such strong infections I can smell them. I don’t know how he’s lasted this long unless it’s divine providence or pure willpower. We’ll get to work on him immediately, but I’ll be honest with you, it’s definitely a ruin.” She wiped down her hands with a wet cloth that smelled of vinegar. “Right now, it looks like hirs’ka’usk, and if you don’t find a way to rejuvenate his magic, he’ll be lost to us in days. I can give him medicine and prime his body for a rejuvenation, but if you can’t infuse him with power, the best I can hope to do is stabilize him as he is. No strength, no flight—for a life of a few months.” The elder gryphon rumbled and nodded, and Whitebird bent to her work on Kelvren. “I’ll be here for four or five candlemarks.”

“She’s beautiful,” one of the men behind her said. “I think I’m in love.”

“Grow some wings and I’m yours,” Whitebird answered without looking up. “Until then, get me some hot water.”

Ammari, Birce, Hallock, and Whitebird’s assistant Rivenstone sat on folding chairs, huddled with Treyvan in the tent across from where Whitebird still tended to Kelvren’s wounds. Jeft stayed by her, fetching whatever Pena did not.

“Whitebirrrd and I have conferrred with Firrresssong and Hydona by telessson. What we attempt—we do not know what the rrresssult will be. If we take a longerrr-terrrm path, therrre isss a ssslight chancsse he will rrrecoverrr, but find hisss flight limited orrr gone. If we attempt thisss—rrrejuvenation—he will jussst asss likely die frrrom it.”

Ammari asked, “Why?”

Rivenstone answered her. “When his inner channels are opened up, it will be a surge through the feather roots—where gryphons collect ther energy and begin its conversion. The sudden rush of power into—by now—sensitized vessels might well boil out as heat. Or rather, boil in, and—ah—cook him. If we can keep the inrush to a steady flow, we may be able to draw it out of him before it becomes too much.” He steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees. “I must be honest with you all. No gryphon has ever been drained so completely as Kelvren has.”

Treyvan laid out a spread of pages from one of the trondi’irn’s books. “We only have thisss frrrom the hissstorrries—an infusssion method unusssed sssince Ssskandrrranon’sss time. What effect it will have now, we can barrrely prrredict.” He looked off to the northwest. “Firrresssong isss bessside himssself—he wantsss ssso much to be herrre. He carrresss morrre about Kelvrrren than Kelvrrren prrrobably knowsss. He sssaysss everrryone frrrom Lorrrd Brrreon to the Ghossst Cat Clan wantsss Kelvrrren back. He sssaysss the Clansss arrre holding rrritualsss and lighting firrresss to guide Kelvrrren home to them.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.

“So,” Hallock began. “The questions are, do we try this method, can it be done, what is required for it to be done, and what will we do if it fails or succeeds?”

“If it fails,” Rivenstone answered, “he will be his own funaral pyre.”

“But the firrrssst quessstion isss what the rrressst hinge upon. Kelvrrren hasss rrresssolved that even if he diesss he hasss done well. I doubt he would want to lingerrr in a living death. Ssso I sssuggessst that we procsseed.”

The others agreed. “We will need a sssite to prrreparrre,” Treyvan stated. “And I confesss, it isss no sssmall rrrisssk to me. We need a placsse clossse by, but sssafe from casssual interrrferrencsse—becaussse in a matterrr of a day, I mussst consstrrruct a node.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Finally Hallock asked, “What’s a node?”

“A confluence of magical power,” Rivenstone replied. “Like streams run to a lake, a node is where lines of force converge. But since the Storms, those lines have been largely dispersed. If Treyvan tried to use his personal power, he could wind up like Kelvren is, and Kelvren still wouldn’t be healed. So he has to use an outside source of power—a node. There aren’t any nodes around here, so we need a place to make one. Safely. Quickly.”

Ammari raised her hand shyly. “Uhm. Will a Changecircle do?”

Being gryphon through and through, Treyvan was very physical about his magic—but to human eyes he looked utterly mad while he worked. He had gotten volunteers to go into the Changecircle and dig holes in specific places, with the deepest in the very center, a man’s height in depth. He dropped particular stones in the holes and covered them up, and paced around the Changecircle, muttered to himself, then did things his gathered audience found inexplicable. Many times he leaped ten feet in the air and suddenly dove down, thumbs locked, as if trying to push a stake into the ground with his forefeet; other times he would slink along the ground and turn his head side to side before jumping up to circle in the air over the site.

Shafts of light erupted from the ground periodically, equidistant around the circle. Treyvan walked around each one, then drew glowing lines in midair toward the center of the circle, and subdivided them. More shafts of light shone, higher this time, where those lines crossed, and then wavered. Treyvan growled and leaped on one that was brighter than the rest, and the others became evenly brighter.

He warned loudly that no one was to enter the Changecircle for any reason, and took to the air, flew a circuit across the Changecircle, and then arced back to the convalescents’ tent, where Kelvren was awake after his trondi’irn’s drug-enforced sleep. Treyvan murmured to Pena, who dashed off after something. Hallock intercepted Treyvan.

“Kel was just giving me his opinions about this political and military situation, in case the worst should happen,” the captain said. “And I have to say, I’m impressed. You should hear this.” He looked down at the notes he’d written. “ ‘In this conflict the Guard is already beaten, because they do not want to fight their fellow Valdemarans. And this insurgent militia, brought to bear arms against the Guard and Heralds, are also beaten for the same reason. In their hearts—regardless of blades, arrows, and horse—they cancel each other out. Therefore, the battle is between the mercenaries and the callous bastards who incited this, who owe no allegience to this country and have no affection for it—and those mercenaries hired by the Crown, who do feel affection for this country, but hold no pressing regard to spare that militia or their hired counterparts. So to make this conflict collapse, the motives must be attacked, without swords and arrows piercing flesh, and thus make the mercenaries cancel each other out. Create a collapse within this insurgents’ power structure, and the mercenaries fold up. Then may Valdemarans be brothers again, and meet in taverns to give thanks and apologize to each other, rather than soak their beloved soil in the blood of their brothers.”

“Hurrrh. The Shin’a’in sssay, ‘therrre are only two powerrrsss in a warrr—the sssworrrd and the ssspirrrit, and the sspirrrit will alwaysss win out.’ If Kelvrrren wasss a warrrlorrrd, we would all sssurrrely be in trrrouble,” Treyvan said in all seriousness. “Hisss ability to find powerrr in the mossst minorrr of thingsss isss unnerrrving.”

Hallock looked back toward Kelvren. “I think he really needed to tell me all of that. It seemed very important to him, even though it exhausted him to say it.”

“He wantsss morrre than anything to feel effective,” Treyvan observed. “But, I sssuppossse, ssso do we all.” Pena arrived by his side and offered an unlatched case which Treyvan delicately reached into. He pulled out a fist-sized sphere of glass, perfect in every dimension. With a calculating look he asked Hallock, “Do you know what a Heartstone isss?”

It was dusk.

Whitebird set the last of the empty bottles and cups aside, then arose from her knees beside Kelvren. “Those should strengthen you,” she said encouragingly, “and keep you going through what’s to come. Everyone is ready.”

Kelvren stood up on all fours for the first time in days. He shook all over from the muscle strain, but he did not buckle. Whitebird folded her arms, squeezing herself in worry. Ammari shuffled close from the rear of the nowemptied tent. Kelvren pulled his shoulders back and raised his head to look her in the face. “Thisss isss a tale that tellsss itssself,” he rumbled wearily, forcing a raised-crest smile. “Pena hasss sssomething forrr yourrr ssson. If my ssstorrry endsss this night—hisss ssshall go on. I have a favorrr to assk of you, Ammarrri. Yourrr—liquid light—sssparrre a few jarrrsss for Genni Ssstaverrn. Frrrom me.” He lifted his head up to his shoulders’ height, and Ammari cupped his lower jaw in her hands and rested his beak against her bosom. She tucked her chin down and kissed him on the curve of his beak. “You’ll be all right, Kel—you will be.”

His breath was hot against her body, and he trembled as he turned aside and took his first step toward the circle. “If I am not, I ssshall fly with yourrr husssband firrrssst of all.”

Whitebird, Rivenstone, and Pena stepped in instantly to help him from the tent, but he warned them off. With wingtips dragging, Kelvren trudged to his fate on the hill.

Spectators had gathered, but guards kept them a hundred feet from the Changecircle. They parted to let him through as he approached, and several murmured encouragements to him.

All of the “gimps” were there among them.

Treyvan awaited him several horselengths from the edge of the faintly-glowing Changecircle. “It isss not too late to refussse thisss,” he said to Kelvren in Kaled’a’in. “You may ssstill live if we use the other method.”

“Live. But not fly, or rrrun even? Neverrr climb a back again? I’d rrrather die,” he chuckled weakly. “No—I must try this.”

Treyvan shrewdly asked, “You already have plansss for what you will do if thisss rejuvenation ssssucceedsss, don’t you?”

Kelvren smiled slyly. “Oh, yesss. A few. If you’rrre in a fairrr fight, you didn’t plan it properrrly. If this worksss, it will mean more than if I lingered on. It will be a gloriousss life—or a gloriousss death.” He dipped his head solemnly. “Thank you for giving me the chancsse at eitherrr, my lord Treyvan.”

Treyvan bowed his head, mirroring Kelvren’s own motion. “The sssite has been prepared. You must go in alone, and lie down in the exact centerrr. When I rrreleassse the sssequencsse, you mussst rrraise your wingsss if you can, and breathe deeply. In that inssstant, cassst your ssselfhealing ssspell. If you can ssstand, then ssstand. If you can—” He paused, obviously trying to hide something. “If you can fly then, fly. Ssstraight up, as far as you can.”

Kelvren said the obvious. “If I can’t fly then, I burn.”

Treyvan looked down. “Yesss,” he said softly.

Kelvren stared at the center of the circle. His heart beat harder as he stepped across the circle’s edge, and more than a hundred people held their breath.

Pena stood at Treyvan’s side, with a look of dismay and sorrow on her face. “He doesn’t know it’s a Heartstone—does he,” he asked Treyvan.

The gryphon mage looked down at her with a look of resignation. “No. He doesssn’t know.”

Pena’s eyes glittered from the reflected lights that were starting up from the ground as Kel approached the circle’s center. “It is probably best that he doesn’t.”

Whitebird and Rivenstone walked up beside them. “Treyvan’s made a minor node,” Pena explained to Whitebird and Rivenstone, “But it’s channeled into a Heartstone—a purposely fragile one. It’s why Treyvan used glass. When the spell reaches its height, it will consume itself. Even a tiny Heartstone will release its power in a saturated burst.”

Treyvan nodded. “I didn’t tell him. I completed the node hoursss before I buried the glasss sssphere. And the control pointsss I burrried, arrround the rrressst of the cssircle, are not to draw the power in from outssside. They are to contain the power and dirrrect the burst upward from the center. If his sssyssstem ressstartsss—he will absssorb it. If it doesss not—hurrrh. He will only feel pain forrr a few ssseconds.”

Ammari and Jeft approached the four that were speaking Kaled’a’in. “What’re you all talkin’ about?” Jeft asked.

“We arrre—wishing Kelvrrren luck.” He stepped toward the circle and spread his wings widely as Kelvren neared the center. “It isss time.”

Pena ushered the humans back to where the Herald and his Companion stood even with the soldiers, locals, and patients who came to see the fate of their gryphon. Dusk descended further, making the light from the Circle even more apparent. Kelvren neared the center and walked around the packed earth there, until he faced the crowd.

He lay down on his belly, and carefully and deliberately folded his wings.

Treyvan stepped to the edge of the Circle, sat on his haunches, and pulled his wings straight back behind him. Faint beams of light broke through the ground around the perimeter. The light of the nearer control points visibly pulled toward him as his wings swept slowly back. Treyvan spread his arms wide, curled his claws toward the sides of the Circle, and swept his wings forward again. The light pushed back and caused the next nearer points to flare brighter.

Kelvren watched Treyvan—and then looked at every one of the gathered crowd. A sharp eye could see that tears ran from his eyes and dripped from the hook of his beak.

He laid his head down flat on the ground and his wings slumped.

The sixty control points around the perimeter blazed fully now, all of them matched columns of light tapering to a foot high. Treyvan went back to all fours and walked a horselength farther from the crowd, and stopped again at the edge of the Changecircle. He sat up, raised his forearms higher than before, and swept his wings back then forward again, harder. All the perimeter lights swayed inward and another ring of them blazed up from the ground in unison. Another massive flap of his wings, and a third ring shot up and steadied, encompassing Kelvren. Arcs of energy extended from one light to another, seemingly randomly, and then all at once they made a stable, steady pattern which looked like a stained glass rosette.

Treyvan held his own breath for a moment, and said in Kaled’a’in, “Wind to thy wings, sheyna.”

Treyvan snapped his wings open.

A boom of thunder struck the crowd.

Inside the circle, a rising ring of light closed in on Kelvren in the center.

And consumed him.

Daylight surged upward from the circle’s center, and the briefest shadow of wings flickered in it before everyone watching was blinded by it. Treyvan’s irises pinned to width of a finger. He peered resolutely into the light.

There was movement.

There was the shape of a gryphon—getting to its feet. Standing. Its wings were unfolding, and raising up.

Except it was not a shadow against light.

It was light, and everything else was shadow compared to it.

Treyvan stepped back, one step. Two. The figure in the center rose up onto its hindfeet. It was Kelvren, but he was radiating light like nothing Treyvan had ever seen before. His body color wisped away, replaced by a glow from inside the feather shafts themselves. The edges of every feather gleamed and rippled in a yellow-white radiance, like the edge of burning paper. His eyes more than glowed—they shone outward in tapered rays of light, wherever he looked.

Kelvren raised a hindfoot, then the other, and stepped up into the air. Calmly, he shone there, suspended off the ground, watching everyone.

And with a single wingbeat, the gryphon of light shot up into the air as a streak, and was gone. He went up higher, until he was a bright speck in the sky amidst the stars.

No one could say a word.

The mote of light descended a minute later.

It shone even brighter than before, and swept over the encampment, making shadows shift as if a new sun was lighting the night up. Kelvren’s flight was effortless.

He backwinged once, and with the lightest of touches, settled atop the mill with his wings spread wide, and regarded everyone below.

Hallock, Pena, Ammari, Whitebird, Rivenstone and Jeft staggered, stunned, to Treyvan’s side. “What—just happened?” Ammari asked.

“I have no idea,” Treyvan admitted.

“Just look at him,” Whitebird gasped. “He’s beautiful.”

“That’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen,” Hallock said.

“He looks just like that tapestry back at White Gryphon,” Rivenstone gasped.

“That’s my gryphon,” Jeft said.

The gryphon of light stayed atop the mill for ten minutes, then he sprang up from the mill’s roof and dove to alight in front of the crowd, banking in to brake and hang in midair without a single wingbeat. His eyes swept them, one by one, and murmurs of astonishment came from nearly everyone.

Kelvren spoke.

“I have become—sssomething morrre than I wasss beforrre—but my hearrrt and allegiancssesss arrre unchanged. Ssso hearrr me,” his voice boomed. “I know what I mussst do. The forcssesss at Deedun know little of magic. Theirrr sssoldierrrsss arrre mossst likely bewilderrred by magic; and by now, they know what a sssingle grrryphon can do. I believe they will rrressspond to what they can sssee, and by that, even the sssimplessst of magic is made magnitudesss ssstrrrongerrr. He who isss afrrraid isss half beaten.” He lifted his from the ground and fanned his wings as he rose, suspended in midair. “I will ssstrrrike, and I will ssshed no blood. And I do it in the name of the Guarrrd, the Herrraldsss, and the Crrrown. Forrr all of you. Forrr all of usss. Forrr Valdemarrr!”

The crowd erupted into cheers and shouts.

The light from Kelvren’s eyes flared brighter, and swept over to Treyvan. “You underrrssstand,” he said, his voice seeming distant. Kelvren gazed upon the rest, where they’d gathered with the convalescents. The illumination surrounded them all, sharpening the shadows. “My frrriends—I will neverrr forrrget you.”

And with those last words, Kelvren rose, did a wing-over, dove down from four winglengths up and slammed his claws down to the ground. The earth trembled, and loose earth momentarily heaved up to knee height. The resulting crater ignited into a white, scintillating brightness. When Kelvren leaped into the sky, the sunlike glow stayed. Then with several massive wingbeats, the gryphon powered away from the crowd, driving up debris and dust, and with each downstroke his brilliant wings surged brighter. Below him, a jagged incandescent line two wings’-width wide crackled up from the shimmering focal point, and split away from its origin. The shimmering swath on the ground directly followed his flightpath. He swept through his skies, leading the line of sunfire from the Changecircle, through the camp, to the great Trade Road. He followed the Trade Road precisely, and the brilliance followed him on the ground. With each wingbeat Kelvren absorbed more magical power from the air, and the swath trailed him as light, following every twist. He coursed faster with each wingbeat than any gryphon he had ever known of. He flew for hours, tracing the Trade Road below, leaving a trail of light all the way to Deedun.

And it did not fade.

Mercenaries and militia alike looked up in astonishment, uncertainty, or stark terror at the figure that shot past them by the time an arrow could be nocked.

Candlemarks passed, and the path of coruscating light etched into the road still did not fade.

Only when he reached Deedun did Kelvren backwing and hover in midair in front of the tallest of the High Keep’s towers. He stared at it, and concentrated.

The citizens of Deedun saw, line by line, the crest of Valdemar, three stories high, burn itself into the wall of the keep’s tower, and blaze like daylight across the city.

And like the wide line of light the length of the Trade Road, it too, did not fade.

Kelvren turned his gaze across the city. Citizens, guards, militia, and mercenary alike were coming out of buildings, all lit by the bright path that came from the far distance through the center of the city. Kelvren knew that with the sheer power he’d put into his mage-light spell, the crest of Valdemar would not fade away for a month or more.

He smiled.

Then the gryphon of light soared into the sky, becoming a bright star, and went home.

Captain Hallock Stavern and the Sixteenth Cavalry, three companies of Guard Regulars, and Kerowyn’s Firebolts advanced steadily along the Trade Road. The militia they met offered no noteworthy resistance, and laid down arms almost apologetically. The Herald with the Crown’s forces adjudicated the conditions of surrender, town by town, and left the locals with their pride. The mercenary company hired by Farragur Elm and his cohorts all but disbanded, demoralized by the showy display of magic they could not possibly match.

Kerowyn held her Firebolts back from taking the city. She was of the opinion that it would be damned unseemly for a merc company to take over the city rather than the Crown’s Guard regiments—especially since so much of the troubles had been caused by other mercs.

When the Guards rode in and liberated Deedun, “Chancellor of Prosperity” Farragur Elm and his several of his insurrectionists barricaded themselves in the High Keep. Others guilty of the thefts that financed the power grab were, over time, discovered, arrested, and jailed. In time, Elm himself was dragged, screaming obscenities, from the very tower that Kelvren had marked.

Treyvan conferred with Whitebird and all the mages he knew, still amazed by what had happened. They finally deduced what Kelvren had done. When the power of the Heartstone dissolution surged upward into him, Kelvren Healed himself, but there was too much chaotic raw power, flooding in too quickly. Kelvren used the simplest, but most stable, spell that any mage knew—mage-light—and quelled the chaos of raw power into a tuned current. Instead of ending the spell, as mages normally did when they had enough light, he let it flow through him. The ordeal of having no magic in his body had left his channels and conversion organs needy, and they filled to capacity, then into his bones, then into the feathers themselves. Then with so much free-floating energy in the air, his every movement brought in more.

The road of light was far more than a psychological ploy. The rate he cast it matched the rate the power was absorbed as he flew, and it burned off enough energy for his system to stabilize.

Firesong reported by teleson that Kelvren returned to k’Valdemar the night after his rejuvenation, still as bright as a sunrise. He flew over the Clan fires, Kelmskeep, Errold’s Grove, and the Vale purely for effect.

And so the mill was gradually emptied of officers, and the village was freed from the Guard camp, and trade was reestablished along the great glowing Road. The light faded slowly over the fortnight since Kelvren’s flight, but it wouldn’t leave anyone’s memory anytime soon.

Before long, it was time for Treyvan, Whitebird, Rivenstone and Pena to go back to Haven. They said their good-byes, and with a small bow, Pena gave an oilskinwrapped package to Jeft.

Jeft opened it up, and inside were three gryphon feathers, bound with strips of leather, a folded scrap of paper, and a small leather pouch attached to them. Inside the pouch were six gold coins. His mother read the message.

“Jeft Roald Dunwythie. My friend. If you grow tired of being ‘Boy,’ with this, you will be welcomed into Hawkbrother lands and accepted as our own. Your mother will be welcome also. So speaks Wingleader Kelvren Skothkar of k’Valdemar Vale, Ally of the Crown of Valdemar.”

Ammari felt tears in her eyes, and she hugged her son as strongly as she ever had. They gazed up at the encompassing sky, and listened to the birds together.

And by the end of that month, Captain Hallock Stavern returned triumphantly to Haven, and to the arms of his beloved Genni.

Darkwind handed over a paper slip to Elspeth. “Mmm. Oh this is good. Repercussions from the Kelvren affair. Says here, some mayor demands reparations for the gryphon’s presence in his village. Cites him as a hazard, detrimental to the town’s morale, and an insult to the dignity of his office.”

Elspeth browsed the slip, shrugged, and handed it off to a passing clerk to be handled. “Sounds like a healthy gryphon to me. What’s next?”

THE FEAST OF THE CHILDREN

by Nancy Asire

Nancy Asire is the author of four novels,

Twilight’s Kingdoms, Tears of Time, To Fall Like Stars,

and

Wizard Spawn

. She also has written short stories for the series anthologies

Heroes in Hell

and

Merovingen Nights,

and short stories for Mercedes Lackey’s anthologies

Flights of Fantasy

and

Sun in Glory

. She has lived in Africa and traveled the world, but now resides in Missouri with her cats and two vintage Corvairs.

THE evening service had ended and the night candle burned brightly on the altar. From the steps leading to the Temple, Pytor watched his fellow villagers as they went off to what would normally have been a well-earned meal after a long day in the fields. As priest of this small Temple for fifteen years now, he knew each of them as well as he knew his own kin. Unlike so many other priests, he had come home after being elevated from an acolyte to a fully practicing member of the Sunlord’s representatives on earth. Born in the village of Two Trees, he had returned, drawn by the quiet of the place and a family history that spanned generations. He had offered to come after the old priest who had served Two Trees since before he had been born had died. Not for him was the life some priests craved—cities and towns were too crowded, too noisy, too full of people who sought status and power. He was more than satisfied to minister to his villagers, people he had known since birth.

But as he watched the last of his neighbors leave the Temple, Pytor suddenly shivered, though the summer evening was far from cold. This evening, one of the most terrifying situations he had ever faced as a priest had loomed before him, one that could presage even more horrible times to come. But he had made his choice and now he must weather its outcome.

“Pytor.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his sister who waited for him to close the Temple for the night and join her for dinner. Sunset light revealed the concern on her face, the searching look in her eyes. He was going to have to tell her; he had no choice. She would find out soon enough.

Then what would she think of him? Would she see him as a failure? Less of a priest? And could he live with that?

“Selenna.” He smiled, turned and led the way back inside. Shutting the doors, he doffed his ceremonial robes, and led the way to the room that served as his residence. Attached to the back of the Temple, it was the only home he had known for fifteen years, a simple place that contained everything he owned in this world.

:Tell her,: that suddenly ever-present voice in his mind whispered. :You’ll have to tell her eventually and the best time to do it is now.:

“I’ll have dinner ready in a moment.” she said, bustling around with preparations for their meal. She glanced over her shoulder. “Take care of your cats first. You know they’re waiting for you.”

He smiled somewhat sheepishly. Not only his sister, but the villagers teased him unmercifully about his fondness for the feline kind. He had always loved cats, a love fostered, no doubt, by growing up surrounded by at least two or three cats living in and around the house, not to mention those that had taken up residence in the barn.

“Here,” Selenna said, extending a plate full of cold and finely chopped sausage left over from the midday meal. “Should keep ’em quiet ’til they go out mousing.”

Pytor took the extended plate, smiled his thanks, and opened the door to the yard behind the Temple. Sure enough, he was greeted by a group of his cats, their tails lifted in expectation. Here was Tom, the big brown-andwhite tabby; Puss, the all-white cat with green eyes shouldered forward, followed by the dainty little girl, Patches. And there, sitting back as if to say he was above all this pushing and shoving, was the newcomer. Pytor had named the recent arrival Sunshine, because he sported a coat of the oddest shade of gold, a color rare enough in these parts to have attracted attention. Sunshine looked up at him, the fading light turning his eyes into fiery points of topaz.

:Tell her now,: that voice whispered again. To set things right between you, she has to know.:

Pytor put down the plate and stepped back, letting the cats gather around their meal. Sunshine finally took his place at the plate, eating with a daintiness his companions lacked. There was something strange about that cat. Ever since he had wandered into the village several months ago, odd thoughts had filled Pytor’s head. Thoughts that could, in this day and age, lead to inquisition or, even worse, the cleansing Fires.

Thoughts that had finally blossomed into the actions he had taken this evening.

He shook his head and went inside. Selenna was patiently waiting for him to join her. How could he tell her? How could he explain what troubled him so? Would she understand?

“Pytor.” Selenna reached across the table and patted his hand. “You be too worried ’bout this. From what you told us tonight, we got no choice. You know that.”

“I do,” he responded. “I just don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Can’t you see? It’s not simply that we’re disobeying the new laws. We could be putting our very souls in peril.”

She snorted, a very unladylike noise but one that spoke of her practicality. “You’ve said over and over we could put our souls in peril if we don’t do this. That we must stand up for what we know Vkandis Sunlord wishes for his children in this world. How could he look down on us and be pleased if we let the children be put to the Fires?”

And there it was . . . the lurking fear that had plagued him. Only five days left now before the Feast of the Children, when a priest came to the village all the way from Sunhame to test the children.

Test the children. What a bland way to put it. In the old days, that was exactly what it had been. Priests went from city to city, town to town, and village to village to test children for their talents. Talents that were now becoming spoken of in whispers as “witch powers” and were said to be evil in the sight of the Sunlord. But Pytor knew better . . . by the Light of Vkandis, he knew it was not so.

Even when he had studied for the priesthood, things had started to change in Sunhame. The Son of the Sun was no priest he would have chosen, had he had been Vkandis Sunlord, to be the God’s representative on earth. And through the years, the Son of the Sun’s actions had proved him right. Far more interested in temporal power, Hanovar had gathered priests around him who told him exactly what he wanted to hear, all eager to increase whatever powers and positions they thought were rightfully theirs.

“What we’re doing—” He started and abandoned his words, and tried again. “It goes against what I’ve been taught. Our allegiance to the Son of the Sun is paramount. But I know what’s going on in the priestly circles is not what I was led to believe Vkandis wants for his children. How could he wish to destroy those of us he granted these powers to at birth?”

“More the reason,” she said in her quiet voice, “to give’em a chance to grow into those powers in a place they won’t have to live in fear. Najan be our cousin. He’s told of the place we’re going. It be not that far off, and he’s lived there over a year. Two Trees be close enough to the border so we can make it there in three days. A few priests be there already. You know that. Other families followed’em. They be afraid of what could happen to their children who have talents when the Feast of the Children comes. What be so different ’bout this time?”

He cleared his throat. “It’s you . . . I don’t know how I could live without you. We’re all we have left of our family, what with Father gone, Mother dying last year, and your husband the year before. Both you and I are childless. If anything happens—”

“You be avoiding my question,” she said and smiled slightly. “What be so different ’bout this time? And who be the one to say I won’t come back? Once the children be safely ’cross the border, Najan will take care of ’em and I can come home.”

Here it is, Pytor thought. Here’s where I tell her or trust Vkandis to keep my secret.

“You know I have confidence in you and Najan. And it’s not that the children will be too close to the border of Valdemar. Neither Karse nor Valdemar seems too concerned with what goes on in that territory.” He sighed. “What I’ve not told you, is this: the priest who’s coming to Two Trees is Chardan.”

For a moment his sister’s face went totally blank. Suddenly, sadness replaced the emptiness of her features, a sadness that spoke more than anything she could have said.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Chardan. My friend from my earliest days of study in Sunhame. The one I swore an oath to, promising there would never be anything between us. I’ll have to lie to him, Selenna, about those children. Lie! And in doing that, I’ll have to break my oath to him.”

To say nothing of what might happen if Chardan detected the lie.

“But what happened to Durban?”

Durban, the Red-robe priest who had become a Black-robe, who had come year after year to Two Trees and who, despite his talents as a demon summoner, had seemingly possessed a soft spot in his heart for the inhabitants of this small village. Durban had never pressed too hard and, Pytor suspected, had consciously overlooked those children who might be growing into their talents.

“Durban died a few months past,” Pytor said. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew—”

“I’d worry ’bout the upcoming Feast,” she finished his dying sentence. She stirred the greens on her plate, her face gone still and thoughtful. “But it wouldn’t have changed things, Pytor. I always worry ’bout the Feast.”

He glanced up at the ceiling. “What am I to do? How can I lie to Chardan?”

:There’s nothing wrong in doing such a thing if it’s done for Vkandis and for the love of his children,: that voice whispered in his head. :Don’t take more upon yourself than you ought.:

If he had not known better, he would have sworn his sister had heard the same voice. “Which be worse?” she asked. “Lying to an old friend and betraying a childhood oath, or doing what you know be best for the children of this village?”

“Oh, you’re clever,” he said, “throwing my own words back at me. Yes, Selenna, there’s a higher power to answer to here than a childhood oath. But if he doesn’t believe me . . . what if he tries to go into my mind—”

“Now why would he do that? He be your friend,” she stated. “You been tested, time and again. Not once, ever, did you show a hint of any so-called witch powers.”

“But times are different now, and that difference can turn friend against friend. Remember what happened with Zarvash and Tomasio?”

“Never did think Zarvash worthy of much more than pig slop,” Selenna responded bluntly. “He be an evil, grasping man. He’d betray his own mother if it meant a few more gold pieces in his pouch.”

“That’s true, but he did report Tomasio to the priesthood, and Tomasio went to the Fires.”

:There are worse things than going to the Fires,: the voice in Pytor’s head murmured. :The Sunlord sees all and rewards accordingly.:

Pytor rubbed his forehead, attempting to dispel that inner voice. “Well,” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “I guess there’s nothing to be done for it now. We’ve cast our fates to the Sunlord’s mercy. You and the children will be leaving at first light tomorrow. Vkandis willing, you’ll be over the border before Chardan is close to Two Trees.”

“And I’ll be back, Pytor,” she said, squeezing his hand in hers. “Don’t worry ’bout that. I can take care of myself. And Najan . . . Oh, don’t look so horrified. He’s always been a free spirit, a trader and tinker by nature. He comes, he goes. No one knows where he’s been, or that he lives’cross the border. But I can find him.”

Pytor knew that for truth. Though a woman wasn’t supposed to travel unless accompanied by a male relative, those rules weren’t strictly enforced out here in the back of beyond. A woman could make a trip by herself, if she thought the need was great.

After Selenna had returned to the house she and her husband had shared, Pytor was left alone with his own misgivings. Now that his plan had been set into motion, he could foresee a hundred ways it might go wrong. Not for one moment did he believe the new thinking emanating from the Son of the Sun. Once an eagerly anticipated ceremony, the Feast of the Children was turning into a day every family dreaded. In years past, it had stood as a marker of the passage from childhood to adulthood; the child making that passage tossed some valued possession of theirs into a fire to signify entry into a new phase of life. Now they, themselves, could be thrown to the Fires.

Unless, of course, they could be suborned by the priests into becoming one of the newly powerful Black-robes, those summoners of demons and possessors of a magic Pytor suspected did not flow from the hands of the Sunlord. He wore his own robes of red proudly; the last thing he wanted was to be seen as a figure that inspired fear, not love.

He stepped outside to retrieve the cats’ plate. Tom was gone, and Puss and Patches were stalking something in the grass over by the bushes. Only Sunshine remained, cleaning his whiskers. When Pytor picked up the plate, the cat looked up, a satisfied expression on his face. Pytor reached down and stroked the cat behind his ears, the simple act settling his emotions.

“Where did you come from?” he asked conversationally. “Who’s missing you? You were far too well cared for to be homeless.”

Sunshine’s response was a throaty purr.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” Pytor continued, finding nothing odd in holding a conversation with a cat. “I can’t see Jovani, Chelsah, Bhobar, Lispah or the twins go to the Fires. And I know they would.” His heart gave a sad little jump in his chest. Chardan wouldn’t hesitate a moment to make the decision to rid the world of those children. As much as he cared for his old friend, Chardan was no Durban.

The admission pained him. Oh, Sunlord, how it pained him. But he had seen the change come over Chardan years ago, as Chardan had become intent on ascending through the ranks of the priesthood and assuring himself a position of power in the future. Pytor simply could not understand what had happened to his childhood friend. The world was far too much with Chardan, and the dark side of that world seemed to be winning.

And that fact made Pytor’s decision to shield the children even more important.

:The Sunlord requires much of us,: his inner voice said, warmth present in its tone, :but not more than we can give. There’s no limit to his love for us. He only wishes us to love him in return and share that love with all his children.:

And, as a priest, he should know that better than most. Pytor smiled. His sister was right. He must place his trust in Vkandis, certain he had made the correct decision.

If things went wrong . . . well, there were more terrible things than death.

The following day passed in a blur. Selenna and the children had left for the north, but not as early as planned. A sudden summer storm had boiled up during the night and drenched the countryside, delaying a morning departure. Normally, the villagers would have hailed this storm as beneficial, but with travel held to narrow country roads, most merely lanes, rain seemed a bad omen. Choosing not to see it so, at the morning service Pytor had blessed the rain as a gift to the surrounding fields. He further assured the children’s parents that Vkandis had given everyone a bit more time to say farewells.

It had been extraordinarily difficult to stand at the edge of the village and watch Selenna and the six children set off to the north, though his sister, ever the practical and enterprising one, led the small caravan.

The families of the departing children had seemed lost now that their children had gone. He had said comforting words, made comforting gestures, but had no comforting thoughts for himself. And now, of course, he must rehearse his explanations—if such were ever needed—as to the absence of the six children. Two Trees was hardly a large village, and the yearly census would show there were fewer children to be found if anyone came looking.

And that was exactly what Chardan would be doing.

Chardan.

Pytor bowed his head. What could he say to Chardan? The ready responses he and Selenna had concocted had seemed more than sufficient at the time, but would they hold up under Chardan’s questioning? The fact all six children were cousins could explain why they had set off to visit a dying grandmother before the God took her. Such an event could preclude mandatory presence at the Feast of Children. The children’s parents had agreed to journey to the grandmother’s home to flesh out the deception, leaving not more than three hours after their children had departed. And now, in a village far emptier than it had been in the morning, Pytor wondered if it was enough.

Chardan was no fool, and Pytor was uncertain as never before how he would react when he looked his childhood friend in the eyes and had to lie.

Morning dawned as one of those glorious summer days when all seemed right with the world. Some of the gloom had lifted from Pytor’s heart overnight, and he felt considerably more confident in the outcome of his plans. Even Pytor’s cats sensed his increased optimism: when he went outside to feed them, everyone, even Sunshine, had gathered close and rubbed his ankles thoroughly before settling down to their breakfast.

And now, he fell back into his priestly routine. He cleaned the Temple, thoroughly swept the yard around it, and made sure he had a sufficient supply of night candles. As he inventoried what few medicines he kept in a small chest in his room, he thanked the God he had a more than competent midwife living but one village away.

With fields in constant need of weeding and watering, the remaining children of Two Trees would be off helping their parents. The village, therefore, lay strangely quiet, save for the occasional barking of an exuberant dog. In the past, this had been a time when Pytor had devoted his waking hours to contemplation and study of the Writ. It should have been again, but, far back in the depths of his mind, he still worried about what could happen when Chardan arrived.

Sunset, and another evening service passed without incident. The night candle lit, Pytor sat down to supper, missing his sister’s company. By now, she and the children should be nearly halfway to their destination if the roads and lanes held firm. This knowledge, of course, only emphasized it would be all too soon that Chardan came knocking at his door. Suddenly, the sausage he was chewing tasted like dust. His heart beat faster, and he closed his eyes. Calm . . . he needed calm. If he could achieve a state of serene composure, if he could maintain that state through Chardan’s visit, then his deception would be complete.

The door to his room stood open, admitting the evening breeze. He drew another deep breath and cast a wary eye on what remained of his supper. His appetite had gone and the thought of finishing what lay on his plate upset his stomach. Ah, well. The cats would thank him for the extra portions.

As if called, he felt the soft sensation of fur against his ankles. He leaned down to pet the head of his visitor, and started. It was Sunshine. Sunshine, the stand-off cat, the one so far as he knew had never entered a building. Yet there he was, sitting now at Pytor’s feet, staring at him with the total inscrutability of his kind. Pytor rubbed Sunshine’s head again, glad of the diversion from his gloomy thoughts.

:You worry too much,: the voice said in his head, the voice he had not heard in several days. :Vkandis protects those he loves. Have faith in your God. Has he let you down yet?:

Pytor smiled. No, the God had never let him down, but then he had never been party to a deed that, at least in these days, seemed to fly in the face of what the God demanded. Three days remained until Chardan arrived. Three days to perfect his attitude of calmness in the face of possible exposure as a renegade priest. Only three days.

:And all our days are held in the God’s hands,: the voice said. :What are you, man, in the scheme of unfathomable eternity?:

He bowed his head and silently acknowledged his doubt as proof of his own mortality. He could no more understand what Vkandis had in store for the world than an ant could of what a man planned as he walked across the fields.

He had no choice. He had cast dice in this game and must wait on the outcome of their tumbling.

The following day held nothing but rain. Unusual for this time of year, the rain fell slow and steady, keeping the entire village indoors. What was good for the fields unnerved Pytor. This should have been the last day of his sister’s journey with the six children, but now he was not sure. What fell from the dark sky today had more than likely fallen to the north the evening before. This could delay crossing the border into the no-man’s land that lay between Karse and Valdemar.

A sodden gathering had waited for him in the Temple to begin the evening service. As he threw himself into the ritual in an effort to diminish his own fears, Pytor sensed the unease that gripped the villagers at his back. And now, held to his room by the gently falling rain, he prayed again. One more day and he would have to face Chardan. One more day and his sister and the children would surely be safely across the border and out of reach of the Black-robes who would consign the children to the Fires for no other reason than they were different.

A seething emotion welled up in Pytor’s chest that he recognized instantly. It was anger, pure and simple anger. How dared those charlatans decide who lived and who died, especially the very young whose lives were new and full of promise? How dared they? Nowhere in the Writ that Pytor was familiar with was there any mention of such depravity . . . nowhere! Once again, he was confronted by the fact the priesthood was changing, that earthly matters were swiftly supplanting heavenly ones, all in the name of temporal power!

Despite the weather, he left his room and stood outside, his face lifted to the darkening evening sky. The rain felt good on his flushed face and its coolness served to calm his mood. No good would come by railing against what he could not change. Again, he knew he had no choice. He must trust in his God, and rest sure in the knowledge he was doing the God’s will.

Hoofbeats broke the stillness of the village the following late afternoon. Pytor looked up from weeding his small garden, amazed to see Iban riding his way, his old plow horse dark with sweat.

“Sun’s Ray,” Iban got out. His breath coming fast, he slid off his mount’s broad back and sketched a brief bow. “Horsemen to the south.”

Pytor glanced over his shoulder as if he could see beyond the edge of the village.

“Who?” he asked, struggling to remain calm.

“Don’t know,” the farmer said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Don’t look like nobody ’round here. Be four of ’em, and they got a wagon with ’em.”

Pytor felt the blood leave his face. Chardan! A day early! That was the only answer. Or could it be—

“Traders?” He was proud his voice remained steady.

“Don’t think so, Sun’s Ray. Not enough of ’em. And from what I seen, they be dressed in black, all of ’em.”

Chardan.

Pytor closed his eyes briefly. Now, not only would he have to face Chardan, but a day before he was ready.

“Make sure everyone knows the priest from Sunhame has come sooner than expected,” he said slowly. “And, for the God’s sake, remember what you’re all to profess to. Do you understand?”

Iban’s sun-browned face paled at Pytor’s words. “Aye, Sun’s Ray. I’ll tell ’em. You can trust us!”

And the farmer scrambled up on his horse’s back before Pytor could add another word, off to warn the villagers that auspicious company was arriving,

“Well met, Pytor, well met.”

The voice was as he remembered it . . . cool, deep and utterly confident. Pytor bowed slightly as Chardan dismounted in front of the Temple. Not much else had changed about his childhood friend either. Unless one noticed the even finer cut to his black robes, the glint of more gold than was seemly for a priest to wear, and the subtle hint that the food in Sunhame was tempting beyond belief.

Pytor took Chardan’s hand in greeting. “I’m sorry to be so ill prepared. You came earlier than expected.”

Chardan waved a dismissive hand. “All the more time to talk to you, old friend.” He glanced around, his eyes cataloging the cottages that stood around the Temple. “Besides, I’m not used to all this riding about. Simply put, I want to get this over and return to Sunhame. You really should change your mind and join us there. Nothing can be accomplished here in this backwater. You’re made for better things that this.”

Pytor said nothing.

“So,” Chardan said, again taking a slow look at the village. “Everyone’s out in the fields, I take it?”

“They are,” Pytor replied. “We have no inn here, as you well know. I’m not sure where—”

“I’m sure your villagers can make room for my three companions. As for me, I can suffer a night in your bed, old friend. Durban said you always took to the barn when he was here. Sorry to put you at such inconvenience, but I’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”

Pytor smiled what he hoped was his most disarming smile. Tomorrow. Oh, by the mercy of Vkandis, let me be strong until tomorrow night.

The noontide sun beat down like a burning hammer. That alone could account for Pytor being slightly lightheaded, but what he faced now was enough to cause cold sweat to gather on his brow. He hoped Chardan would mistake it for honest sweat produced by the heat, and not an indication of guilt.

Pytor had managed to make it though yesterday afternoon with no sign of his growing unease. Chardan had presided over the evening service, the villagers reacting to the senior Black-robe’s presence with suitable awe. But the night Pytor had spent in the barn had been one of the most unnerving in his life. He had spent most of the night in prayer and rose fuzzy-headed before dawn to participate in the morning service. Now, standing before the Temple in the blazing noon sun, he prayed again for the strength he felt he sorely lacked.

“Where are the rest of the children?” Chardan asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

The children who had remained, who had never given any evidence of talents or powers, shifted slightly. Their parents, who had grouped themselves on the other side of the Temple’s doorway, kept their expressions as neutral as they were able.

Pytor drew a deep breath, forced himself to meet Chardan’s eyes, all too aware the three junior Black-robes were watching him carefully.

“According to my records, old friend, there should be six more children living in this village.”

“There are,” Pytor said, struggling to keep his voice as devoid of emotion as Chardan’s. “They’re all cousins. Unfortunately, their grandmother is dying, and they left with their parents to be with her before Vkandis calls her home.”

There. He had done it. Lied. Actually lied to someone he had pledged faith to.

“Hmmm.” Chardan glanced down at the list he held in his hands, a list Pytor suspected contained the names of everyone who lived in Two Trees, their ages and their sex. “Interesting. And your sister, Pytor? I missed her company last night. Where is she?”

This line of questioning caused Pytor’s heat to jump in his chest. “Visiting our cousin Najan,” he replied, his mouth gone dry.

“The itinerant trader? And why would she go visit him now?”

Pytor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what goes on in a woman’s head?” It was a safe response for a man to give, though Selenna would have excoriated him had she heard.

“Hmmm.”

Pytor held his face to an expression of polite attention, certain Chardan watched his every move from the corners of his eyes.

“Well,” Chardan said at last. “Since impending death of a family member grants adults and their children exemption from the Feast of the Children, I suppose we’re done here. Once again, old friend, I congratulate you on the condition of your village and the souls you minister to. We could have been treated no better in the larger towns we sometimes visit.” He folded the paper he held and lifted his right hand in blessing. “Go with the love of the God who watches over all,” he said, his voice deepening into stentorian depths. “Turn to his Light and away from all things dark, and flee in peril of your very souls from anything that verges on the edge of witchery! May the blessings of Vkandis Sunlord be upon you all!”

The villagers and their children responded, as was custom and ritual, “May it be so.”

For a moment, Pytor’s knees threatened to give out. Relief flooded his heart. Could it be over? Could he have actually—

“Pytor,” Chardan said, his voice pitched so only Pytor could hear. “A word with you, if you please.”

It was not over. Not by a long shot. With legs feeling heavy as lead, Pytor followed Chardan to the rear of the Temple. His four cats lay in what shade they could find, sleeping deeply in preparation for their nightly hunts. Chardan glanced at them with an expression of extreme distaste.

“Don’t know why you keep such creatures around,” he said. “Too independent, though I suppose they’re good for killing mice. Now,” he continued, “you and I need to have a talk. What are you hiding, Pytor?”

Pytor stared at Chardan, his heart in his throat. How did his old friend know—The answer came with that thought. Old friend. How could he keep a secret from someone he had regarded as a brother, with whom he had shared his most intimate thoughts? There was no hope for it. Another lie, piled up on top of the ones he had told already.

“I can’t hide anything from you, Chardan, you know that.”

“Then why am I sensing something you’re not telling me? It has to do with the children, doesn’t it, Pytor?”

“Most assuredly not,” Pytor answered, allowing the barest hint of hurt indignation to enter his voice. “Why would I lie to you?”

“I’m not sure. But I sense it. Those six children—when Durban was here, just last year if my notes are right, he said there might be the possibility of those six showing witch powers. Is that what you’re hiding from me, Pytor? Do they possess forbidden talents?”

Pytor simply stared. What could he say? What could he do?

“I’m sorry, my friend. I want to trust you . . . I’ve always trusted you in the past, but this is something I can’t led go based simply on our old friendship. I must go into your mind.”

O Vkandis! Shield me now! He’ll find out for sure and it will be the Fires for me!

“You have every right,” Pytor said, amazed his voice sounded steady. Behind Chardan, Sunshine lifted his head, blinked, and stretched. Wandering over to where Pytor and Chardan stood, the gold cat sat down next to Pytor, leaning up against him in a feline display of affection.

“This won’t hurt, and I’ll be brief as I can,” Chardan said, staring into Pytor’s eyes. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, but witch powers cannot be allowed. Even in those we love and care for. The Sunlord’s people must be pure and turn their faces from darkness.”

A dizzy sensation overwhelmed Pytor. He thought he was going to fall, but another portion of his mind assured him he still stood steady on his feet. But even more powerful than the thrust of Chardan’s mind in his, came the sudden warmth and comfort emanating from the gold cat leaning against his leg. Into his mind, blotting out the rummaging of Chardan’s, flowed a feeling of peacefulness, of affection, forgiveness, and, above all, of a love he could no more understand than fly. A barrier rose in his mind, a flaming bulwark erected between his innermost thoughts and Chardan’s probing. Nothing could hurt him now; nothing could hurt him ever. Wrapped in the hands of a power greater and more indescribable than anything he had ever experienced before, he was only dimly aware of the tears seeping from his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

And, suddenly, he was released and stood fully back in the present day world.

“I’m sorry, old friend.” It was Chardan’s voice. The Black-robe reached out and steadied Pytor. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you. Your mind is clear as sunshine. You’ve hidden nothing from me. Durban must have been mistaken, for you have no suspicions about the six children he mentioned. And I doubt you’d ever try to lie to me. The God knows you’ve never been good at it, even back in our childhood days.”

Pytor drew a deep breath. “You did what you had to, Chardan. You’re forgiven, if I have it in my power to forgive.”

The gold cat meowed softly, stretched again and wandered off to lie down in the shade.

Later, after evening service and lighting the night candle, Pytor sat in his room, only now feeling full strength returning after his ordeal. Chardan and his fellow Black-robes had left Two Trees immediately after Chardan had searched Pytor’s mind. Pytor hadn’t even lit the candles after dinner, preferring to remain in the warm darkness, his mind gone a total blank.

Suddenly, clearly as if seen in bright sunlight, he beheld his sister and the six children safely across the border; they had found Najan and the other people who had fled Karse in the face of growing persecution. They were safe! He had wagered mightily and, through what grace he dared not question, they had all won.

:You trusted in your Lord,: the voice inside his head said softly. :And, as such, you were rewarded. Remember—the God loves all his children, for he made them, each and every one.:

He heard a soft meow and turned to see Sunshine standing in a corner of his room. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Though no candle burned, the gold cat stood surrounded by a glory of light, a wondrous golden halo that cast shadows on the walls. And he grew in size, his coat changing to rich cream, and his face, legs and tail darkening to brick red. For a long moment, man and cat stared at each other, and Pytor could have sworn the cat smiled.

And then, so swiftly Pytor could not comprehend it, Sunshine turned away and was gone.

:Vkandis watches over those whose hearts are pure,: the voice said, fading off to a mere whisper. :Never doubt that the Sunlord loves those who love and care for others! For that is why he made us all.:

DEATH IN KEENSPUR HOUSE

by Richard Lee Byers

Richard Lee Byers is the author of twenty-five fantasy and horror novels, including

Dissolution, The Rage, The Rite, The Black Bouquet,

and

The Shattered Mask

. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. A resident of the Tampa Bay area, the setting for much of his contemporary fiction, he spends much of his leisure time fencing foil, epee, and saber.

THE living eyed me with emotions ranging from hope to dislike. Mouth agape, eyes wide, smallsword still sheathed at his hip, chest hacked to bloody ruin, the corpse stared up at the high ceiling with its painted scene of nymphs and deer. I stooped to see if his eyes still held the image of the man who’d cut him down. They didn’t. That trick has never worked for me, nor, so far as I know, for anyone.

Stout and balding, a man in his middle years like myself, Lord Baltes asked, “Are you learning anything, Master Selden?”

I straightened up. “It’s too early to say.”

Lanky and sharp-featured like so many members of the Keenspurs, Tregan snorted. “Surely it’s clear enough what happened. Venwell had the bad luck to blunder into the thief, who then had to kill him to make his escape.”

“Is that what your magic reveals?” I asked. A talent for wizardry ran in the Keenspur blood, and in addition to serving as his brother Baltes’ lieutenant, Tregan was house mage.

His mouth twisted. “No, actually. The signs are muddled. But it’s common sense, surely.”

“Maybe,” I said, inspecting a floral tapestry spoiled by eight long rust-brown streaks. The murderer had evidently used it to give his weapon a thorough wiping. “I’d like to see the room where the wedding gifts are on display.”

“What will that accomplish?” asked the sorcerer. “The killer took the ruby tiara. It isn’t there for you to examine anymore. We sent for you because Marissa claims you know your way around the stews and thieves’ dens down by Stranger’s Gate. You should be hurrying there—”

“You sent for him because he’s the one who caught the salamander and so kept the city from burning down, and the Greens and Blues from slaughtering one another,” Marissa said. Lithe and long-legged, she’d been the principal sword-teacher to the Green faction as I was for the Blues. “He has a knack for puzzling things out.”

“I hope so.” Baltes waved his hand. “The room is this way.” Tregan, Marissa, and I followed him, and an assortment of his kinsmen and servants traipsed along after us.

The remaining gifts—begemmed goblets, gold plates and trays, rings, bracelets, armor, glazed jars of spice and unguents, furs, and bolts of velvet and silk—glowed in the candlelight. Relatives, political allies, and trading partners had sent presents from as far away as Errold’s Grove.

I’d walked a warrior’s path my whole life long, first as a mercenary, then, primarily, as a master-of-arms, though I still occasionally rented out my blade if the job didn’t require actually riding off to war. So perhaps it was no surprise a splendidly crafted broadsword, with emeralds gleaming in the hilt and scabbard, caught my eye. I hankered to pick it up and try a cut or two, but that would have been gauche and inappropriate.

So I kept my mind on the task at hand, wandered about, inspected the heaps of gleaming treasure, and tried to think of something useful. “Are we certain,” I asked, “that only the tiara is missing?”

“Yes,” Baltes said.

“I need to confer with my colleague,” I said. “We’ll only be a moment.” Conscious once more of the animus with which so many of Baltes’ people regarded me, I led Marissa into the next room.

“What have you figured out?” she whispered, brushing back a strand of her short black hair.

“Nothing for certain.”

“Curse it, Selden, I’m the one who urged them to send for you. Don’t make me look a fool.”

“Believe me,” I said, “I want to unmask the killer and recover the bauble as much as you do, and not just because Baltes will reward me. To lay the feuds to rest for good.”

For years, the fifty noble houses of Mornedealth had divided themselves into factions of ten. Each of the five disliked the others, but the Greens and Blues, the most powerful, detested one another with extraordinary virulence. When the fire elemental’s depredations fanned their mutual hatred and suspicion, their enmity nearly plunged the city into outright civil war.

Strangely enough, that turned out to be a good thing, because it threw a scare into every noble with a particle of sense. In the aftermath, Pivar, a leader of the Blues, led a campaign to quell the factions. The forthcoming wedding represented the culmination of his efforts. When Baltes, a widower, married Pivar’s youngest daughter Lukinda, it ought to lay the rivalries to rest for good and all.

But only if the wedding came off as planned. On the surface, there was no reason why the murder and burglary, no matter how unfortunate, need prevent it. But my gut warned me that, if left unresolved, such an alarming, inexplicable calamity could bring the old malice and mistrust creeping back.

“So,” said Marissa, “what did you want to talk about?”

“First, tell me about Venwell. Did you train him?”

“Yes.”

“Was he an able, seasoned swordsman?”

“Very much so.”

I sighed. “I was afraid of that. Now I need to know how hard I can push these folk. I have things to say they won’t like. I won’t mean to denigrate their honor, but some may take it that way.”

She snorted. “Wonderful. Because they don’t like you.” Understandably so, I supposed, since for years, I made my living teaching Blues how to kill them. “I don’t know that you dare push them very hard at all.”

“Damn it, I have to do the job they brought me here to do. Will you back me up?”

She made a sour face. “Well, I did get you into this, even if I’m starting to regret it.”

“Let’s rejoin the others.”

“What do you have to tell us?” Baltes asked.

“Milord,” I said, “I’m no sage—far from it—but as Marissa told you, sometimes I have an eye for what’s odd about a particular situation. We have several oddities here. For starters, neither the sentries nor the watchdogs outside detected an intruder, nor have we found any sign of forced entry.”

“What of it?” Tregan asked. “As I understand it, there are thieves skillful enough to sneak into any house.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But consider this also. Venwell died of cuts to the chest. He saw his killer. Yet he perished without even trying to draw his blade.”

“Perhaps,” Tregan said, “he froze.”

Marissa shook her head. “No. I schooled him too well.”

“It’s possible,” I said, feeling as if I were about to dive from a cliff, “he knew his slayer. If it was someone he trusted, that would explain why he took no alarm until it was too late, even though the killer had a naked sword in his hand. Similarly, if the culprit was someone who lives here in the mansion—or is currently a guest—he wouldn’t need to sneak past the guards and hounds, or break open a window or door.”

For a moment, everyone just gawked at me. Then a footman said, “But everybody liked Venwell.”

“That may be,” I replied, “but a thief still couldn’t afford to let him report that he’d seen him stealing the tiara.”

“Ridiculous,” Tregan spat. “Ours is a wealthy and honorable house. No one here would steal the gift.”

“Not even a servant?” I asked. “Or the least of your kin, perhaps burdened with gambling debts?”

“No,” Tregan said, “I don’t believe it.”

“Have you wondered,” I said, “why the thief took only a single article? A housebreaker could surely have carried away more. But if the murderer never left, if he needed to hide his plunder here in the mansion for the time being, he might have reckoned that the more he stole, the harder it would be to conceal. Or, if he’s a member of the household, it might have shamed him to take more than he reckoned he truly needed.”

Skinny and sharp-nosed like Tregan but younger, a Keenspur named Dremloc stepped forth from the mass of observers and planted himself in front of me. Here it comes, I thought. At least it looked as if he meant to deliver a formal challenge. I had a fair chance of surviving that, as I wouldn’t if he and all his outraged relations simply assailed me in a pack.

“You Blue bastard,” he said. “I say you’re a lia—”

But just before he could articulate that unforgivable word, Marissa sprang between us. She glared into his eyes, and he flinched. Since she’d trained him, he knew how deadly a combatant she was, and accordingly feared her more than he did me.

“Master Selden,” she said, “is under my protection. Is that clear?”

Dremloc scowled, but also inclined his head.

Baltes turned to me. “Do you have more to say?” he asked.

I had a nagging sense that I should. That I’d missed things a sharper eye and brain might have discerned. But it would have only have undermined his confidence in me to say so. “You’ve heard my conjectures, Milord. They point to an obvious course of action. Search the mansion, find the tiara, and hope its hiding place reveals who took it.”

The assembly growled at the prospect of having their quarters and belongings ransacked. Tregan said, “Ridiculous.” Evidently it was a favorite word of his.

“No,” Baltes said, “it isn’t. Master Selden’s guesses are only that, but they seem plausible. We will search the house, if only to lay the suspicions he’s roused to rest, and you, brother, will try once again to locate the tiara with your sorcery.”

We organized ourselves into search parties and formulated a plan. I cast a final admiring glance at the broadsword with the emeralds in its hilt, then set forth with my companions.

The Keenspur mansion was enormous. It took well into the morning to complete our search, and even so, we didn’t look everywhere. Some hiding places simply seemed too unlikely to bother with, and I wasn’t bold enough to suggest that we rummage through Baltes’ or Tregan’s apartments, even if I’d believed it would serve a purpose.

Our mundane search failed to produce the tiara, nor did Tregan’s divinations fare any better. At the end of it all, standing before Baltes, the magician, and their tired, irritated relations and retainers, I did indeed feel “ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry, milord,” I said. “I thought I’d reasoned my way to the truth, or a part of it anyway, but it appears I was mistaken.”

Tregan sneered. “Will you now make inquiries among the robbers and knaves, as we told you to in the first place?”

“Yes, milord.” I certainly had no better plan.

As I walked to the door with as much dignity as I could muster, I heard Dremloc and another young blade muttering in my wake. “This is like sending a weasel to escort the chickens safely into the coop,” my would-be challenger said.

“What do you mean?” his companion asked.

“I don’t claim to understand any of this, why the tiara was taken or Venwell had to die. But you can bet your last copper a Blue is responsible.”

The seed of suspicion was already sprouting.

For the next week, I went about mostly in disguise, in the costumes of other lands or with false whiskers gummed to my chin, prowling all night and sleeping by day. Reasoning it would be difficult for a woman to wear the tiara in Mornedealth, I began my investigations among receivers of stolen goods who specialized in moving them safely out of town. When that availed me nothing, I moved on to the commoner sort of thieves’ market, and bribed whores and tavern keepers to tell if any of the city’s more accomplished housebreakers had lately boasted of a coup, started spending lavishly, or was lying low to avoid hunters like myself. That was of no use either. If any of the city’s rascals had knowledge of the tiara, it would take a shrewder, subtler agent than me to tease out the information.

Meanwhile, Mornedealth commenced a slide back into the hateful, bloody days of yore. Hotheaded young Keenspurs started wearing green tokens, their friends from other houses followed suit, and the fools among the supposedly defunct Blues would have felt cowardly had they not responded by displaying their own colors. Soon the Reds, Yellows, and Blacks took up the old practice, too. From there, it was a short step to insults, mockery, and scuffles in the street.

Baltes, Tregan, Pivar, and other leaders of the noble houses did their best to quash the unrest, and at their behest, the City Guards assisted. Thanks to their efforts, the quarrels among the resurgent Blues and Greens, and members of the lesser factions, ended short of grievous harm to any of the principals. But it was only a matter of time before our luck ran out, and I feared that as soon as it did, the blood-feuds would resume in earnest.

All because of a crime that, on the surface, had nothing to do with the grudges and rivalries of old. It was perverse, mad, yet it was happening.

In due course, I trudged back to Keenspur House to report my lack of progress.

Somewhat to my surprise, when a lackey admitted me to confer with Tregan and Baltes, I found the latter wearing the broadsword from the wedding gifts. It was contrary to custom to put such a present to use prior to the nuptials, but I could understand why he’d succumbed to the temptation.

I explained what I’d accomplished, or rather, what I hadn’t. It didn’t take long, as accounts of failure rarely do, so long as a man resists the urge to make excuses.

“I’m beginning to think,” said Tregan, sneering, “that your success in catching the salamander was a fluke.”

I was starting to wonder myself, but still had enough pride left to resent his contempt. “Should I infer, milord, that your efforts to solve our problem with wizardry have proved as futile as my own?”

The question made him glare.

“Tell me the truth,” Baltes said. “Is there any point in your poking around the slums any further?”

I sighed. “I can’t be certain, but probably not.”

“Then don’t. Tell me what I owe you for your time, and the steward will pay you on your way out.”

Now that—his assumption that I wasn’t merely stymied but defeated—truly stung me, and perhaps it was the injury to my pride that finally goaded my brain into squeezing forth some semblance of a fresh idea.

“Please, milord,” I said. “I don’t want your coin, not until I earn it. I have a further course of action to suggest.”

He cocked his head. “What?”

“I’d like to take up residence here from now until the wedding.”

“Why?”

I didn’t know myself, really, but had to improvise some sort of answer. “Maybe if I become more familiar with the murder scene, some new insight will occur to me. Or, failing that, maybe I can at least stop the robber from returning and doing any more harm.”

“Nonsense,” Tregan snapped. “You’re reverting to your first idiot notion, that one of our own family, or loyal retainers, is responsible for the atrocity. You want to spy on us in hope of identifying the culprit.”

“No,” I said, and wasn’t sure if I was lying or not. I was halfway satisfied that none of the household was guilty, yet likewise suspected that some secret awaited discovery within these walls.

“You’re aware,” Baltes said, “that the old folly of Green and Blue has flared up again. I’m struggling to put the fire out, and I fear your presence here will feed it. You surely won’t feel particularly welcome.”

“I can tolerate that,” I said. “Please, milord. I want what you and Lord Pivar want, to put the feuds and factions behind us forever. If there’s even the slightest chance that my presence here will help accomplish that, or simply lead to the apprehension of Venwell’s killer, isn’t it worth a try?”

“Perhaps,” Baltes said. “Stay for the time being, and we’ll see how it goes.”

So began my sojourn in Keenspur House. As the head of the family had warned, few of his kin exerted themselves to show me hospitality. It might have been even more unpleasant if I hadn’t kept to my nocturnal habits, sleeping the mornings away and roaming the mansion late at night, looking for clues that had eluded me before, trying to imagine what had happened on the night of the murder.

Any huge old pile, no matter how opulent, can turn into a shadowy, echoing, spooky place after the servants turn out the lamps and everyone goes to bed. So it was with the mansion, and perhaps it was that eerie atmosphere that prompted me to recall Venwell’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, and to infer what they actually signified.

Marissa was wrong. The lad had frozen. Because he’d faced a supernatural assailant, and any man, no matter how well trained a swordsman, can succumb to terror in such circumstances.

Yet Tregan swore the killing had nothing of the mystical or otherworldly about it, and much as he disliked me, he seemed sincere in his desire to identify the culprit, so what was I to make of that?

I returned again to the suspicion that the thief dwelled within the mansion. I thought of our search, and one area we’d neglected. Because the family kept it locked, Baltes had the only key, and thus it scarcely seemed a likely or convenient hiding place. It was, moreover, the sort of place folk rarely visit by choice.

But, though I still possessed no certainties, merely a collection of vague suspicions and intuitions, I decided I wanted to visit it, or at least inspect the entrance. I found an oil lamp that was still burning, lifted it from its sconce, and set off through the hushed, gloomy chambers and corridors. Portraits, busts, and statues seemed to glower as I passed, and suits of plate armor standing on display looked misshapen as ogres.

Then a pair of figures skulked from the shadows to bar my path.

It was Dremloc and his crony. Each was only half dressed, with feet bare and shirt unlaced. But despite the inadequacy of their attire, they’d taken the trouble to arm themselves. The flickering yellow light of my lamp gleamed on the smallswords in their hands.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “I’m here to help your family, I’m Lord Baltes’ guest, and if that’s not enough for you, Marissa would take it ill if you harmed me.”

They didn’t answer, just stalked forward, further into the circle of lamplight, and then I saw what I’d missed before: their eyes were closed.

Happily, I didn’t freeze, though I admit a chill oozed up my spine. Retreating, I set the lamp down on a table, drew my broadsword, and yelled for help. The Keenspurs spread out to flank me, then rushed in.

Somnambulism didn’t hinder their swordplay. The slender thrusting blades streaked at me, and I dodged and parried frantically, meanwhile striving to keep either of my opponents from working his way around completely behind me.

Even if I’d wanted to kill them, I didn’t dare, for fear of their kindred’s retaliation. But neither could I simply defend and defend until one of them got lucky and slipped an attack past my guard. I feinted at the crony’s face, and he jumped back. His retreat bought me a moment to concentrate solely on Dremloc. I parried his next thrust, feinted high, then made a drawing cut to his knee.