The White Gryphon

Eleven

Amberdrake worked the last of his bonds loose, and stood up, hands and feet still tingling. He wished he could ignore the sensation; the best he could do was to keep from making too much noise about it.

Now—-find those others Hadanelith mentioned. There are probably two; maybe more, but he talked as if there were only two.

If anyone had ever described Amberdrake to his face as a courageous man, he would have laughed. He had never considered bravery to be one of his chief attributes; that was for others, not for him. He was able to recognize bravery when he saw it, but it was never a quality he would have granted to himself. He was often afraid, and knew it, and did not scruple to show it. Not that brave people weren’t afraid, but they were able to get beyond their fear to act. Amberdrake knew, in his heart, that fear often paralyzed him.

Thinking on it, he would not have granted himself physical bravery, the kind of bravery that made Skan and Zhaneel fly off and risk their lives, over and over, as if such risk was no worse than a cold bath on a winter morning.

And right now, he felt as if he were the biggest coward in this whole shattered world. As Skan vanished out of sight, all Amberdrake wanted to do was find somewhere to hide until the whole mess was over. He wished he could find a nice, secure room and lock the door so that no one could get at him. That would be the sensible course, really—what could he expect to accomplish?

There’s no way I can just hide when the most powerful and dangerous of our enemies are both here, somewhere, wherever that is. Something has to be done about them. They may be engrossed with whatever magic they’re controlling, or they may be confident they’ve already won, or—

With no real Mindspeaking ability of his own, he would not know whether Skan arrived in time to save the King and Winterhart until long after the fact. The light grew dimmer with every passing heartbeat—and Hadanelith was due to strike at the darkest part of the Eclipse. No one knew he was here except Skandranon and Kechara. Assuming that Kechara wasn’t watching Skan, she would know what was happening on his side of this little battle, but otherwise he was on his own.

And somehow I doubt she’ll be able to tear her mind away from her “Papa Skan.”

Was this how Skan felt when he went off on one of those famous solitary missions? Lonely—and deserted—and completely terrified?

Not terrified, not Skan. He’s been scared, but always confident in himself.

Kechara might be able to call for help if things went wrong and she was watching him, but that also assumed that she had enough understanding of what she saw to tell the others if Amberdrake was in trouble. She had shown a surprising grasp of abstracts lately, but—well, she was tired, and stressed, and under a great deal of pressure, more than she ever should have had to bear. Little Kechara was more toddler than warrior.

No. I’m on my own here. His insides knotted up as he acknowledged that. I have to find those so-called “friends” of Hadanelith’s, and I have to neutralize them before they can rescue him. If all that means is that I occupy their attention until he’s secured against magic, then that’s what I’ll do.

That certainly sounded brave enough. He only wished that it was going to be as easy as it sounded.

But they were all running out of time; he’d better find Hadanelith’s co-conspirators before the full Eclipse fell!

He gathered up what “weapons” he could find—the ropes he’d been bound with, and a length of metal bar. He picked them all up so quietly that there wasn’t even a scrape of metal against the floor, even though he knew objectively that the noise was negligible. At least while he was concentrating on keeping quiet, he could convince his body to move, and not freeze like a frightened tree-hare. He crept toward the door, listening with all his concentration after he made each step. His hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the bar. He closed his eyes and swallowed, willing his hands to stop shaking, but they wouldn’t. Finally he reached the doorway; he plastered himself flat against the wall next to the door, and listened again, this time holding his breath.

Nothing. Not even a distant murmur of voices. No matter how thick the walls were, this close to the door he’d surely hear something if there was anyone out there!

Wouldn’t he?

Carefully, he reached out to the door handle, and eased the door open a crack, his teeth clenched as he waited for the hinges to groan. That would be just my luck. But the hinges were silent, and he heard nothing, and there was no sign of a guard on the other side.

Meanwhile, the logical part of his mind was still worrying away at the problem of who Hadanelith’s co-conspirators were. This is—probably—a suite in the Palace, which means that one of Hadanelith’s friends must belong to the Court. But who could it be? Unfortunately, Amberdrake had no idea who was quartered where; probably only the Chamberlain would know that. He’d been under the impression that this section of the Palace was about empty. The rooms were not very desirable; they were all too near the outer walls, and the sentries and far-off noise of the city disturbed the nights. There were only a few gardens shared among the suites here, and the entire section was a little too damp during the winter. The only people who lived here, so he’d thought, were those too lowly in status to complain about the rooms they were granted. That seemed to fit with someone of low rank, perhaps exacting revenge for being overlooked and slighted, and finding a shortcut to exalted status as well.

But that didn’t mean that someone who was quite high in status couldn’t commandeer a suite or two, especially if they were empty. The conspirators’ knowledge of the movements of the courtiers seemed to be that of someone familiar with the ebb and flow of the court.

Then there was Hadanelith’s assertion that one of his “friends” could take the Lion Throne, which also argued for a high status. Yet, all the King’s Year-Sons were in the guard of his fellow rulers, which would make it rather difficult for one of them to be there and here at the same time.

Unless a Year-Son is using magic to transport himself? Oh, surely that would have been noticed! Or—could he have found someone to impersonate him, and crept back here? That’s even more far-fetched a notion than the use of magic to transport him. Impersonators are less reliable than magic—

Or were they? He clenched his eyes closed as he thought about Hadanelith impersonating him, closing in on Winterhart, cutting once to the side, again, up—

Pull yourself together, Amberdrake. Think. Think about what you have learned. Lifebonded pairs can feel each other. If she was hurt, you’d feel—

He’d feel sick, he realized with a lurch of his stomach. What if it wasn’t fear for himself that was making his hands shake so? What if this was the side effect of feeling his beloved Winterhart die, somewhere far away?

And what if it isn’t? Think, Amberdrake—alive or dead or dying, would Winterhart admire you for shaking and hiding? You have to act. No matter what happens to Winterhart or you, you have to act for the good of White Gryphon.

Amberdrake eased the door open a little more; there was still no reaction indicating someone out in the hallway. He turned his intellect back to narrowing down or eliminate possible suspects; he had a particular suspicion of his own, and he devoutly hoped it was wrong.

But the doubt kept recurring—could it be Palisar? It was a horrible suspicion, no matter how you looked at it. It was an unworthy suspicion, because he knew very well he would never have entertained it if Palisar hadn’t been so openly hostile to the foreigners. But if the Haighlei had customs and rituals for everything, perhaps the Speaker was prohibited from hiding his true feelings, even if it would mean giving himself away to those he plotted against.

But he kept wondering . . . for certainly there was no one better placed than Palisar to know everything about the movements of every courtier in the Palace. Who better to know exactly what was going on, and who better to know which courtier was vulnerable and which was not? Add to that the fact that Palisar was a priest, a trusted priest. Who better to ensure that the chosen victim was alone? If Palisar sent messages to each of the women who’d been murdered, telling them he needed to talk to them alone, wouldn’t they have made sure to send every servant off on errands to obey him? He was the King’s Advisor, and it might be presumed that the King had a message he wished to send discreetly. He was a priest, and it might be thought that as a priest he had something of a spiritual nature to discuss. Both of those would require absolute privacy.

And he’s a mage—there’s another thing. If he’s anything like our mages, he’s been frantic with frustration at the way magic has been rendered unreliable. Our people have tried every way short of blood-magic to bring things back under control, and even Snowstar admitted to me that the temptation to resort to that is a great one after you’ve had your spells abort one too many times. What if Palisar has gotten his hands burnt too many times by the storms? What if he didn’t resist that temptation to resort to blood-bought power?

Granted, every single one of those arguments could be applied to every single priest-mage among the Haighlei, but still—Palisar disapproved of the foreigners, of change in general, and possessed everything required to be the one holding Hadanelith’s leash.

I don’t know how the succession goes around here, but as a powerful Advisor, he could have some blood-ties to the King. If he has royal blood, he could see a chance at the throne he wouldn’t otherwise get.

Amberdrake touched the door again, easing it open still more. Now it was held ajar enough he could squeeze through it if he wanted to.

I don’t want to, but I don’t have a choice. He shivered, and clenched his trembling fingers tightly around the iron bar he carried. Even if Skan made it to the Ceremony in time to stop Hadanelith, if Hadanelith got away somehow, things would be worse than they had been before the Ceremony. It would still look as if Amberdrake had been the one trying to kill the King.

They’re going to want to kill me on sight! The King is going to have orders out to strike first and bring back the body, and I doubt he’s going to listen to anything Skan has to say!

Not that Amberdrake could blame him, in the abstract.

What am I doing, just standing here? I have to do something to keep the conspirators from rescuing Hadanelith. Good answer, Drake—and as soon as you magically transform into a squad of mercenaries, it will be no worry at all.

The room began to darken visibly. The last part of the Eclipse must be starting. His time was running out; Hadanelith would strike any moment now! And what if the mages—or mage—wasn’t here, but was somewhere else entirely?

For a moment, he panicked, then logic asserted itself. Hadanelith’s not predictable enough to be left unsuper-vised. He was gloating, so he wouldn’t see a need to lie. He is insane, but he was never known to lie. He implied they were here, so they have to be here, probably scrying the Ceremony to see when to snatch their assassin back again.

That made good sense. It also meant that he’d better do something now.

Something physical? Against two or more people? Not a good idea. I’m not a fighter. I do know self-defense, but that isn’t going to help me attack someone. What do I have left? Bluff?

Well, why not? It couldn’t hurt. It could buy time, and as soon as everything is over, Skan can send me help. While I’m bluffing them, they aren’t going to be doing anything but watching me. If Skan can catch Hadanelith, the time I buy could give the King’s people a chance to shield him against rescue.

Assuming one of them isn‘t Palisar— He shook his head angrily, with cold fear a great lump of ice lodged just below his heart. If he kept on arguing with himself, he wouldn’t get a chance to do anything! Time was slipping away, and the Eclipse wasn’t going to delay for anyone or anything.

He pushed the door open, to find himself, not in a hallway, but on the top of a set of stairs. This must be one of the corner towers of Fragrant Joy, where the “suite” was a series of rooms on a private staircase. Very handy, if one was expecting to send an accomplice out over the rooftops at night. And very convenient, if you wanted to isolate a madman in a place he’d find it hard to escape from.

He stalked noiselessly down the staircase as the light grew dimmer and dimmer, listening for the sound of voices. The hand holding the iron bar was beginning to go numb, he was squeezing it so hard. He passed one room without hearing anything, but halfway down to the ground floor he picked up a distant, uneven hum that might have been conversation. A few steps downward, around the turn, and he knew it was voices. A few more, and he distinctly caught the word, “Hadanelith.”

He clenched his free hand on the stair-rail, grimly, as his knees went to jelly. It was the other conspirators, all right. Two of them, just as he’d thought, from the sound of the voices. Unless there were others there who weren’t speaking.

He pushed the thought that he might be struck down the moment he crossed the threshold resolutely out of his mind. If he thought about it, he’d faint or bolt right back up the stairs again. His throat was tight, and his breath came short; every muscle in his back and neck was knotted up. Every sound was terribly loud, and his eyes felt hot. He forced himself onward. One step. Another. He reached the bottom; there were no more stairs now. He faced a hallway, with several doors along it. He knew which one he wanted, though- It was the first one; the one that was open just a crack, enough to let light from inside shine out into the hall.

The staircase was lit by a skylight with frosted glass at the top; it grew darker and darker in the stairwell, until by the time he reached the door he wanted, it was as dark as early dusk. The voices on the other side of the door were very clear, and it was with a feeling of relief that left him light-headed that he realized neither of the two speakers was Palisar.

It didn’t sound as if there was anyone else there; he took a chance, braced himself, and kicked the door open. It crashed into the wall on the other side; hit so hard that the entire wall shook, and the two men sitting at a small, round table looked up at him with wide and startled eyes. Bluff, Drake!

The room was well-lit by three lanterns; a smallish chamber without windows, it held the round table in the middle, some bookcases against the walls, and not much else. There were more things on the shelves than books, though he didn’t have the time to identify anything. The men had something between them on the tabletop—a ceramic scrying-bowl, he thought. So his guess had been right!

“Put your hands flat on the table, both of you!” he boomed, using his voice as he’d been taught, so long ago, to control a crowd. He hadn’t used command-voice much until the journey west; now it came easily, second nature. “I am a special agent for Leyuet and the Spears of the Law! You are to surrender!”

The two men obeyed, warily and not instantly. That was a bad sign. . . .

“We know everything,” he continued, stepping boldly into the room. “We have Hadanelith in custody, and he is being quite cooperative. You might as well save all of us time and trouble, and do the same. We know he was working for you; we also know that he was the only one who committed those murders. Since you didn’t actually commit the crimes themselves, His Serenity the Emperor might be lenient enough to grant you your lives if you show remorse and confess.”

Was that a good enough bluff? Do they believe me? They still looked shocked and a bit surprised, but the signs of both reactions were vanishing rapidly. Too rapidly.

At that moment, the last of the light faded behind him. Hadanelith was about to strike! He had to keep their attention off that bowl and on him! Or, eliminate the bowl itself—

Oh, gods. What do I do if they try something? He repeated himself, nearly word for word, taking another step forward every few seconds. And meanwhile, he kept straining his senses, hoping for some warning if either of them moved, hoping to have an instant or two in which to act.

And do what?

Skandranon felt a deep-in-the-flesh pain he hadn’t felt in a decade, and it radiated out from him badly enough to make Winterhart, Silver Veil, and anyone else sensitive wince. He had been starved and dehydrated, trapped in an unforgiving position for many hours—days!—regardless of his bodily needs, and then forced to fly and fight at a moment’s notice. His wingtips shivered with the strain of burning off his body’s last reserves.

I am useless now, physically—I’II be lucky to reach our quarters without collapsing. So all I have left is my mind and words.

So he muttered about this and that while the last of the Eclipse Ceremony went on, purposely keeping his voice omnipresent. When at last it felt right, and Palisar was speaking to the assembled sea of people, the Black Gryphon caught Shalaman’s attention.

“Amberdrake freed me to save you, before freeing himself,” he rumbled. “He may still be in great danger from Hadanelith’s accomplices.”

Shalaman’s countenance took on a new expression, one that the gryphon instinctively knew as that of the King on one of his famous Hunts. To Skandranon’s amazement, he unclasped his ceremonial robes and let them fall, leaving only his loose Court robe, then snatched a spear from one of Leyuet’s men. “You tell me where,” Shalaman said, steely-eyed and commanding, while his personal bodyguards fell in behind him.

The Black Gryphon nodded, then closed his eyes, reaching out with hope. :Kechara? Kechara, love-please hear me.:

:Papa Skan!:

The voice was there as clear as always, with only a little more than usual of the odd echo that usually accompanied fatigued Mindspeaking. :Papa! Are you having fun?:

Skandranon couldn’t resist a huge mental smile. Kechara wouldn’t understand what was going on if he spent two lifetimes trying to explain it to her. What was important to her was “fun” or “not-as-much-fun.”

:Papa? Are you hurt? You feel like you have an “ow.“:

:Yes, dear heart, I got hurt a little. I’m very tired. Kechara, love, I need you to look for Amberdrake. Find Amberdrake and help him. Can you do that for me?:

There was a pause, and then, :All right! I miss you!:

Then Kechara was gone from his mind.

King Shalaman straightened up and repeated himself. “You tell me where.”

Skandranon met the King’s eyes and understood. It was The Haighlei Way. He opened his beak to say, “Follow me,” then stopped himself. No. That was not what a King would say to another on his own ground.

Skandranon took a deep breath, refolded his wings, and summoned his last bit of endurance. “Run beside me, King Shalaman, as you run in your great lion hunts, and I will guide you. But we must make haste.”

Amberdrake knew, as he flexed his grip on the silk rope and the bar, that his words and acting had failed him. The novelty of his speech was gone. Bluff or not, his status as just one man would catch up with him. Despite what history would show, for better or worse, now was the time for him to throw himself on fate’s mercy.

He flung the coil of rope at the table, then pulled, twisting his body sideways with all the strength he could muster.

There was a splash and a scrape, and a moment later, a resounding thunk as the scrying-bowl struck the floor. Amberdrake continued his twist and brought the iron bar down on the bowl to shatter it into a dozen pieces.

That was it, Drake—your one move. He came to rest on one knee, looking up at the two. But at that moment, he heard—well, it wasn’t precisely a voice in his mind, and he didn’t quite hear it—

It was a sense of presence; not words, just feelings, and the aura of boundless cheer and playfulness overlaid with weariness, but bolstered by endless curiosity.

Kechara? he thought, hard, trying to project the image of herself back to her.

Feeling of assent. Before he could respond, she sent him a new sensation; intensified curiosity. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was asking, either. “What are you doing?” was as clear in feelings as in words.

He was breathless with relief—dizzy with the feeling that he was, at last, no longer alone.

But how had she figured out how to reach him? She was using his strongest Gift, that of Empathy, to speak with him without Mindspeech! Where had she gotten that idea?

Fear rose screaming inside him. He didn’t have any way to explain what he was doing—not without words!

Do what Skandranon would do, Drake—do without words—without focused intellect—let her feel it—let her in!

He had never, ever, lowered his barriers completely with anyone but Winterhart, for an Empath always has to fear being lost in another’s emotions—but how could he ever fear little Kechara? There wasn’t an unkind bone in her body! He dropped every barrier he had to her, and let her come directly into his mind, just as the light began to creep back and the Eclipse to pass off.

He felt his body slip away from him—felt his back and arms go limp—

One of the two men at the table slid noiselessly out of his chair and seized something from a bookcase against the wall. As the man turned, he came fully into the lamplight, making what was in his hand gruesomely plain.

Amberdrake’s stomach lurched, and he sensed Kechara recoiling as well, mimicking his reaction, though she couldn’t have any idea what they were both looking at.

It was a wand, crudely fashioned from bone. It could have been made of animal bone, but somehow Amberdrake knew that it wasn’t. No, this was not just any bone, but a human bone, the large bone from the thigh. From one of the earlier victims? Probably. Probably the first. We‘II never know who, I suspect. Somehow that just made it worse.

This grisly relic must be the mage’s primary power-focus, the place where he was storing all the power stolen from those Hadanelith had murdered for him, and all the people he had murdered on his own.

Amberdrake stared at it, his gorge rising and bile collecting at the back of his throat. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t even think. He could only stare at the nauseating thing, as the mage took in his shock and paralysis, and smiled, slightly. The light strengthened, and the mage moved the wand in front of him, holding it between his palms, and his smile deepened. The other man leaned back in his chair and chuckled. That was when Amberdrake realized that neither of these two had been fooled for an instant. His heart and courage plummeted. They knew he was alone.

This mage was about to level a magical blow at him—and he didn’t even have the defenses of a mouse.

He tried to move, and discovered that he couldn’t; the bar dropped from his numb fingers and clattered on the floor. This was no spell. It was nothing but pure, overwhelming fear.

I am going to die.

It wasn’t even a guess. It was a fact.

:BAD MANS!: Kechara screamed into his mind.

He reeled and dropped to both knees beside his iron bar, momentarily “blinded” and “deafened” by her mental shout, so strong it was clear even to someone who was not a Mindspeaker. Both of the men facing him went stiff with surprise, as if they “heard” it too. Instinctively, he threw up his shields again—which was what she had been waiting for.

:Bad, bad mans!: she screeched again, this time accompanying her angry scream with a building mental shriek, aimed at the two facing him. It came like a windstorm that would not stop building, filling his ears.

The two conspirators were not expecting anything of the sort. Neither was Amberdrake, for that matter. He was so used to thinking of Kechara as a child, as a complete and total innocent, that he had underestimated her entirely. He had forgotten that she had more than enough experience to recognize a “bad man” when she saw one.

Both of Amberdrake’s opponents collapsed on the spot.

:Ow,: said Kechara, with a mental wince—and her presence vanished from his mind.

Ow, indeed. For one moment, he took the time to shiver in awe at her power—and to be very glad that she had the guidance of all of her friends who loved and cared for her. Mow he understood why Urtho had kept her locked up in his Tower for so very long. Her range in Mindspeaking was impressive enough to have made her valuable, but this demonstration of her full potential had been considerably more than impressive. With that kind of mental power, she could have been so dangerous—

Danger. He hadn’t been mindblasted by Kechara, but he couldn’t move either. He had just experienced, with certainty, imminent death, and he could only sit among the pieces of broken pottery and stare at the still bodies of the two conspirators.

“Drake?” a voice called from above, after an indeterminate amount of time. All he could tell, when such matters came to mind through the shock, was that it was fully light again outside. “Drake? Are you all right? Where are you?”

“Down here, at the bottom of the stairs!” he croaked back. A few moments later, Skan, Aubri, and Zhaneel came tumbling breathlessly down the staircase, following the sounds of a great many hard-shod feet from the presumed direction of the outer door.

“Drake!” Skan bellowed, as soon as he caught sight of Amberdrake, making him wince and shake his head as his ears rang. The gryphon grabbed him with both foreclaws, seizing him and staring at him as if he was afraid that Amberdrake would vanish or crumble into dust in the next instant. “Drake—Kechara said you were in trouble, then she just—just blanked out on us. We thought something had happened to both of you! We thought you were—”

“Kechara was right, I was in trouble,” Amberdrake interrupted, before Skan could work himself up into hysterics.

Not that he hasn’t earned a few hysterics. For that matter, so have I!

With a dazed look he was certain made him look very silly—as if vanity could matter at a moment like this—he peered around at the people filling the area. That was when he recognized King Shalaman.

“This one—” he pointed at the larger man “—is your blood-mage. He was just about to level me with a magical attack, when—I broke their scrying-bowl and they fell down.” Amberdrake shrugged. He and the gryphons exchanged hasty warning glances; they all knew Kechara was somehow involved, and they also knew about the prohibition on Mindspeaking. It would be a great deal better for all concerned if the Haighlei never learned about Kechara.

Shalaman said nothing, staring unflinchingly through slitted eyes at one of the motionless—but still living—bodies.

“Gods save us!” one of Shalaman’s bodyguards stammered. “That is the Disgraced One. The Nameless One.”

“Who?” Skan said, “What? What are you talking about?”

“This is the One With No Honor,” Shalaman said levelly. “My brother.”

The “Nameless One” was bundled up like so much trash, put under as many magical bindings and coercions as the priests could get to work, and then hustled off to some unknown destination. His compatriot was not even treated with the respect one gives sewage. Somehow, Amberdrake had the feeling that this was going to be the most pleasant portion of their experiences with the priests. . . .

Neither Amberdrake nor Skandranon were permitted to leave, although Aubri and Zhaneel were told politely to return to the main part of the Palace with Shalaman and his bodyguard, and wait for them. Amberdrake wasn’t particularly worried; actually, he was wearied, not worried. In many ways, he and Skan were the heroes of the moment; you don’t mistreat your heroes, not even when they’ve learned something politically delicate, so he didn’t have any fear that the “escort” was a thinly veiled guard. In the meantime, he leaned against Skandranon, resting in the glossy black feathers.

Eventually, Leyuet himself arrived, and with him, Palisar.

Skan pulled himself up to his full height as they came through the door, and leveled a stern eye on both of them. “All right,” he said. “I assume that we are still here because we now know something that is delicate. So you wanted to speak to us in relative privacy, with no other ears about but those of the Spears. So—speak. You can start with this so-called Nameless One, and what he did to get that way. The sooner we know, the sooner we can eat and bathe and sleep and climb our mates, in whatever order feels right at the time.”

“I understand. I would rather not speak of this one,” Palisar said with distaste as he took a seat. “Hadanelith has already revealed to us that this piece of trash called himself Noyoki, which means No One, and we would all wish he had been no one.” Palisar’s brows knitted together as he frowned. “He is a blot upon the honor of his family. Still, you have earned the right to know all, and Shalaman has ordered us to reveal it to you. I will not swear you to an oath, but I would ask that what we tell you goes no farther than your respective mates. The fewer who know the whole of this, the better.”

He looked pointedly at the two Spears still in the room. They took the hint, and left, closing the door behind him firmly. Amberdrake leaned forward, expectantly.

“The ‘Nameless One’ is Shalaman’s brother,” Leyuet began, but Palisar interrupted him with a wave of his hand.

“Half-brother,” the priest corrected. “Shalaman’s mother was King Ibram’s First Consort, and—let us continue to call him Noyoki—this man Noyoki was the last son of the Third Consort, who would be ashamed to have given birth to him were she still alive.”

“She was a good woman,” Leyuet agreed. He rubbed his temples wearily; by now he must have a headache that matched Amberdrake’s. “There is no blame to her for giving birth to a creature without honor. Perhaps if others had the rearing of him—well, it may be that we shall never know. Perhaps he was without honor from the beginning. Perhaps he was born with some lack of understanding of honor.”

Palisar raised a skeptical eyebrow but did not comment upon that observation. “Noyoki was selected as a child as one who had many powers,” Palisar continued. “He was sent to the priest-school, just as others of his kind have been and will be. He then misused his magical powers and supposedly was rendered magically impotent. Somehow this did not take place, and you may be certain we will find out what it was that prevented the removal of his powers, and why it was not discovered that he had been left potent.”

“I should warn you, out of my experience with northern-style magic,” Skan rumbled, “Even if your priests had done their job, it is still possible that with enough will and focus, Noyoki might have been able to use the power released by blood-magic to work some kinds of spells.”

Palisar sat up in alarm. ‘Tell me that this is not true!” he exclaimed.

Amberdrake shook his head. “I wish I could, but that is something that is well known in the north. Even with minimal talent or none, some people can focus their will enough to make use of powers that they cannot now or could never sense, or could sense only dimly. With more refugees coming down from the north, eventually this knowledge will come to the Haighlei. This is one of the many things we would have told you, if circumstances had not gotten so tangled. Sooner or later, an unTalented blood-mage will enter your Empires, and he will teach others.”

“We cannot stop it.” Palisar nodded grimly. “Very well. Then we must work to deal with it when it comes. Together. That will be one of the first items on our agenda.”

“Noyoki,” Skan prompted. “I want to hear all of this.”

“What made this man all the more dangerous was that he had not only possessed the ability to work magic, he also had one other, even rarer ability,” Leyuet said gravely. “One we had not seen in decades, even centuries, in this city.”

“Which the priests were supposed to have blocked before they took away his magic,” Palisar continued. “I recall the day that I saw him demonstrate this very clearly. He was able to move things from one end of the city to the other with the power of his will alone.”

Amberdrake nodded; now he had the whole picture. “I heard something about Noyoki’s story, although my informant would not tell me anything about him, when we were warned that the Haighlei do not permit the use of magic by anyone but the priests. But I would never have guessed this other ability of his. Was that what he had been using to cheat with?”

Palisar nodded grimly. “That was why we priests were so terrified of the idea of a dishonorable man loose with that kind of power. That was why we were to have burnt out that ability first, before we ever blocked away his magic.”

“And of course, that was how he got Hadanelith in and out of at least one locked room without a trace, not even a trace of magic,” Skan put in, with a decisive nod of his own. “And of course, how he was to put Hadanelith in place to kill Shalaman, and get him away again. It begins to make sense, now.”

“We didn’t know at the time that he could move anything larger than—say—a water jug, not for any real distance,” Palisar replied, grimacing with chagrin, as Leyuet toyed with the carving on the arm of his chair. “He didn’t openly use it often, of course. We didn’t know such an ability could be strengthened with practice.”

Amberdrake looked at Skan. “You and Urtho talked about such things, do you remember talking about anything like this ability?”

Skan flexed his talons and flared his nostrils as he thought. “Such things can be strengthened up to a point. I suspect he couldn’t move an object the size of a human very often or for a great distance. That would be why he needed to bring his confederates here, and why he only used it when there was no other way to get at a chosen victim. If it’s any comfort to you, it’s as rare among our people as it is among yours.”

Palisar shrugged. “We’ll find it all out for certain in short order,” he replied, his eyes focused on some point beyond Amberdrake. “We do not lightly use those whose abilities grant them the means to see the thoughts of others, but when we do call upon them, they are dealing with those whose guilt is known, and they employ their skills without mercy or regard for the consequences.”

Amberdrake blinked. Was the priest saying what he thought? Are they prepared to use coercive force to strip their minds away?

“Their minds will be broken like eggs before we meet with Shalaman again,” Leyuet confirmed grimly. “And like eggs, the contents will be extracted, and the empty shells left behind. We will not slay them. We will not need to. They will, all three, live out their lives in a public place as examples of what the ultimate penalties may be. And in sifting through their minds, we may, perhaps, learn what made them what they are and prevent such a monster from appearing among us again.”

Amberdrake shuddered at the ruthlessness in the slender Advisor’s words. He knew what a powerful Mindspeaker could do to someone just by accident, having been on the receiving end of Kechara’s first “shout,” and the edge of the second. He could only imagine the sensation of having one’s mind scraped away, layer by layer, until there was nothing left. On the whole—death might have been more merciful.

Did they warrant mercy? Especially after the way they tortured and murdered people? I—I don’t know, and I’m glad I’m not the one making the decision. The sounds of birds singing in the gardens outside seemed unnaturally loud and cheerful.

“That, I think is all that needs be said for now.” Palisar stood up, then, and gestured to them, a wordless invitation to leave this room and return to the main section of the Palace. Amberdrake was not loath to leave.

I think the strength of fear is wearing off. His joints hurt, his muscles ached with the need to lie down. His mind was in a fog. Later, he would have the strength to think about all of this, but right now—

Right now, he just wanted to fall into Winterhart’s arms and rest.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

The walk back was a long one, and it was accomplished mainly in silence. Both Palisar and Leyuet brooded over their own thoughts, Amberdrake was too tired at the moment to really think of anything to say, and Skan moved haltingly, in no mood to talk. It was only when they reached the door of the Emperor’s portion of the Palace that Palisar stopped them all with a lifted hand.

Hot, brilliant white sunlight beat down on them all, but Palisar seemed immune to its effects. “I have some things I must say. I do not favor change,” he said, still frowning, “And I did not want you foreigners here among us. I was certain when the murders began that you had brought the contamination of your people here, and that you were the cause, witting or unwitting, of all our current troubles. But I am not a fool, or blind; the cause was already here, and your people merely gave birth to the tool. Sooner or later, Noyoki would have found another way to reach for his brother—a man does not recruit a notorious thief to his cause if he is planning to build temples. You tried to be rid of Hadanelith without making the punishment greater than the crimes he committed called for. It was not your fault that he fell into the hands of one who readily used him.”

Amberdrake nodded, and waited for Palisar to continue. He’s about to make a concession. I wonder just how large a concession it will be?

“I said that I do not favor change,” Palisar went on. “That is my role, my purpose as the Emperor’s Advisor. I do not intend to alter that. But I do not oppose change when it is obvious that it is inevitable. And I do not place blame where there is none.” He held out his hand to Amberdrake; not grudgingly, but not with warmth, either. It was very obvious that he was not ready to be the friend of the Kaled’a’in, but at least he was no longer their enemy.

Amberdrake clasped his hand with the same reserve. Palisar nodded, with brusque satisfaction, and they all resumed the walk to the Audience Chamber, the one place where all their answers—or at least, the answers they would get for now—would be waiting.

Two weeks later, Skandranon and Amberdrake watched as Makke packed up the last of the myriad of gifts that the Haighlei had presented to Skan and Zhaneel. The Black Gryphon would never again lack for personal ornaments; he had enough jewelry especially crafted for gryphons to allow him to deck himself like a veritable kestra’chern!

“They’re going to make me vain,” Skin remarked, as yet another casket of jeweled collars and ear-tuft cuffs went into the packing crate. The curtains at the window and the doors of the balcony billowed in a soft, soporific breeze.

Amberdrake laughed, as he reclined on the only couch in this room. “No they won’t. You already are.”

Skandranon stared at him with mock effrontery. “I am not vain,” he protested. “I am merely aware of my considerable attributes and talents. There is such a thing as false modesty, you know.”

Amberdrake snorted with derision, and took another sip from the cool drink he held. Skan was pleased to see that the dark circles under his eyes, and the gray cast to his skin were both gone. The first week after the Ceremony had been rather bad for his friend; all the horrors of what might have been came home to him as soon as he got a little rest. According to Winterhart, he’d had four solid nights of nightmares from which he would wake up screaming.

“I’ll be glad to see you back at White Gryphon,” Skan continued wistfully. “It’s going to be very quiet there without you around.”

Amberdrake gazed thoughtfully out the balcony door for a moment before replying. “I don’t want to go home for a while,” he said, very quietly. “There are things I need to think about before I get back, and this is a good place to be working while I do that.” He returned his gaze to meet Skandranon’s eyes. “Snowstar sent word that he doesn’t want to run White Gryphon.”

“Then what I told you a few days ago still applies,” Skan told him, wondering tensely if he was going to have to return only to shoulder responsibilities that he now knew he was ill-suited to handle. “I had to give him the first chance, since he’s been handling everything for me since we arrived here, but—”

“But that’s one of the things I need to think about.” Amberdrake turned the cup in his hands. “Being the leader of White Gryphon is not something I’d take on without thinking about it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Skan said hastily. “But you’d be good at it, Drake! Listen, I’m already a symbol, and I can’t get away from that. I’m an example, and I can’t avoid that, either. But if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that I’m not a leader—or at least, I’m not the kind of leader that Urtho was.”

“You’re a different kind of leader,” Amberdrake said, nodding. “When people need a focus and someone to make a quick decision, you’re good at that. I’ve seen you act in that capacity far too often for you to deny it, Skan. You have a knack for making people want to follow you, and the instinct for making the right choices.”

“That’s all very well, but a real leader needs to be more than that.” Skan sighed as he watched Makke pack away more gifts, this time of priceless fabrics. “I admire those leaders, but I can’t emulate them.” His nares flushed hot with embarrassment. “I get bored, Drake, handling the day-to-day snarls and messes that people get into. I get bored and I lose track of things. I get bored and I go stale and I get fat. I make up crisis after crisis to solve, when there aren’t any. I turn ordinary problems into a crisis, just so I feel as if I’m doing something. You, though—you’re good at that kind of thing. I think it’s just an extension of what you were trained for.”

“What, as a kestra’chern?” Amberdrake raised an eyebrow. “Well, you may be right. There’s a certain amount of organizational skill we have to learn—how to handle people, of course—how to delegate authority and when to take it back. Huh. I hadn’t thought of it that way,”

“And you won’t get bored and fat.” Skan nodded his head decisively. “Judeth says I can have my old job back, so to speak. She’ll put me in charge of the gryphon wing of the Silvers. Provided I can find someone to take over my administrative jobs.”

“Oh, really?” Amberdrake looked as if he might be suppressing a smile. “Fascinating. I wonder how you talked her into that.”

Privately, Skandranon wondered, too. Judeth had been entirely too accommodating.

Then again—leading a gryphon wing took some special talents, and they were talents a mere human wasn’t likely to have.

Sometimes getting them to work together feels like herding grasshoppers. It’s hard to get them to understand that teamwork is necessary off the battlefield.

“We aren’t the only people emigrating out of the battle zone, just the first. She thinks that we’re going to need to help the Haighlei deal with more refugees, and they’re as likely to be from Ma’ar’s army as ours,” he said by way of reply. “She wants to have the wing set up and ready to move the first time there’s trouble. We’re a lot more mobile than you two-leggers; we’ll make a good strike and run force.”

I just hope that all of those damned makaar died with their master.

“And the more cooperative we show ourselves, the easier it will be to get the diehards like Palisar to fully accept us,” Amberdrake acknowledged. “Well, she’s right, and you’re right, and I have the feeling that we aren’t out of the woods yet.” His expression turned thoughtful. “You know, the mage-storms are settling down to squalls and dying out altogether, and one of these days magic will go back to being what it used to be. Ma’ar and Urtho weren’t the only powerful Adepts up there, just the two most powerful. And right now, there probably aren’t too many places that are pleasant to live in the North.”

Skandranon thought about that for a moment, and he didn’t much like the taste of it. Amberdrake was right; there had been plenty of mages up there, and not all of them died or were burned out in that last conflagration. Most mages had either joined forces with Urtho or with Ma’ar; there was no point in worrying too much about those who had been with Urtho, but those who had been with Ma’ar couldn’t all have been eliminated.

And there had been a few mages, Adepts all, who had opted to sit out the conflict between Urtho and Ma’ar—to wait and watch from within hiding, and see precisely who won before making moves of their own. And where were they?

No one knew. No one would know, unless they came out of hiding. When a wizard chooses to go into hiding, there isn’t much that can pry him out until he’s good and ready to come out.

But no other mage had ever had anything like the gryphons. They had proved to be Ma’ar’s downfall.

We could surprise someone else, too.

Well, that didn’t matter at this very moment. What did matter was that there were two tasks facing the people of White Gryphon that needed to be finished. They needed to complete their city and learn how to run it—and they needed to learn how to live in this new situation and society.

I can take care of contingency battle plans for dealing with possible enemies, if Drake can take over the city. Skan chuckled to himself. The old team. Just like before. With Gesten putting us both in our place.

“Well, right now, what if we agree to wait until I have the permanent delegation here set up and running smoothly?” Amberdrake asked. “If I manage that—well, perhaps—my skills might be up to administering a city.”

“I’ll agree to that!” Skan said readily.

People are already deferring to him. Judeth does, and so do the rest of the Silvers. The Haighlei are—I think they’re rather in awe of the way he could play so many roles, too.

“Besides, I need to be here to help Silver Veil interview her replacement,” Amberdrake continued, but this time with an amused sparkle in his eye. “We both agreed that, on the whole, I am not particularly suited to the position since Leyuet would never be able to unburden himself to someone he thinks of as being god-touched, but she’s willing to talk to anyone from White Gryphon that I send for. I have a candidate or two. Jessamine, for one. She’s competent, and she would be a complete change of pace from Silver Veil—which would make it impossible for anyone to ever compare the two.”

Skan sighed with relief when he realized that Amberdrake was not even thinking about taking the job himself. That had been a private worry of his; that Amberdrake would decide to stay here as Silver Veil’s successor, with Winterhart in charge of the actual ambassadorial delegation. In many ways, it would be a good positioning of resources. Winterhart was admirably suited to such a task—and if Amberdrake was in the position of Imperial Kestra’chern, his people would be very well appraised of whatever situation currently prevailed in Shalaman’s land.

But I want him home, Skan thought stubbornly. We’re a good team, and I need him back home where he belongs.

Besides, he needs to take over from Lionwind, as well as taking over the city. The Kaled’a’in are more than they were before, and Lionwind is still acting as if they were just one of the Clans, with no outsiders among them to change things. I think he realizes that, too.

In fact— Hmm. There were some stirrings in that direction, before we left. It seemed to me that Lionwind was spending an awful lot of time with the shaman. Maybe he’s thinking that he ought to move on to something else, too.

Change or stagnate. Keep moving or die. That always seemed to be the choices facing Urtho’s folk.

But if we change, we grow. If Drake takes all this leader business on, it will make him grow. He’s been stagnating, too.

This was going to wake him up, and that would be good, not only for him, but for Winterhart. She’ll be his partner, just like always— Now that’s interesting. She really wasn’t suited—or trained—to be his partner when all he was doing was speaking for the kestra’chem. But as the full administrator? Oh, they’ll handle that job together like two trained horses in harness!

“Winterhart would probably enjoy sharing the administrative things out with me,” Amberdrake mused aloud, in an unconscious echo of Skandranon’s thoughts. “She’d been wasting her talents, really, until we got here. She was trained to rule, not only a household, but a full estate with a substantial number of retainers. It would be a shame to let that kind of training and skill go to waste.”

“You’re going to do it, then.” Skan could hardly conceal his glee.

Amberdrake gave him a wry smile. “Sounds as though I’ve talked myself into it, haven’t I? Well—yes. We will do it. Provided we don’t make total fools of ourselves, setting things up here.”

“Good!” Skan settled back to watch Makke pack with a much lighter heart. Everything was settled—and exactly as he wanted!

And now he would be able to get back to doing what he did best—being the Black Gryphon, and all that entailed!

I won’t be stagnating, either. We’ll have to figure out how to work with the Haighlei forces; we have no idea what may be coming down out of the north. We gryphons really should put some thought into organizing ourselves in some way—

He gryphon-grinned at Amberdrake, and the kestra’chern’s wry smile softened into a real one.

And Skandranon Rashkae sat back on his haunches and pulled himself straight up in a deliberately statuesque pose against the sunlit sky, content with himself and the world. Life was good.

And his heart had never been quite so full of light.