The White Gryphon

Skan raised his head and tested the air coming up from below. Saltwater, kelp, and fish. New fish, not old fish. The fleet must be coming in.It had taken him time to learn to recognize those scents; time for his senses to get accustomed to the ever-present tang of saltwater in the air. No gryphon had ever seen the Western Sea before; his scouts hadn't even known what it was when they first encountered it.

Huh. "My" scouts.He shook his head. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for— but I should have seen it coming. Amberdrake certainly tried to warn me, and so did Gesten and Winterhart. But did I listen? Oh, no. And now, here I am, with a city named after me and a thousand stupid little decisions to make, all my time eaten up by "solving" problems I don't care about for people who could certainly solve those problems themselves if they tried.Now he knew what Amberdrake meant, when the kestra'chern said that "my time is not my own."

And I don't like it, damn it all. I should be practicing flying, or practicing making more gryphlets with Zhaneel....

Instead, he was going to have to return for another blasted Council session. They could do this without me. They don'tneed me. There is nothing I can contribute except my presence.

But his presence seemed to make everyone else feel better. Was that all that being a leader was about?

:Papa Skan,:said a sweet, childlike voice in his head, right on cue. :Mama says it is time for the meeting, and will you please come?:Even without a mage-made teleson set to amplify her thoughts, Kechara's mind-voice was as clear as if she had spoken the words to him directly. It was another of the endless ironies of the current situation that the little "misborn" gryfalcon had become one of the most valuable members of the White Gryphon community. With magic—and thus, magical devices—gone unreliable, Kechara could and did communicate over huge distances with all the clarity and strength of teleson-enhanced Mindspeech. She was the communication coordinator for all of the leaders—and, more importantly, for all the Silver Gryphons. The Silvers were a resourceful policing organization formed of the remnants of the fighters and soldiers who had made it through the two Kaled'a'in Gates, rather than through the Gates they'd been assigned.

Kechara's ability, combined with her eternal child-mind, would have caused her nothing but trouble in the old days, which was why Urtho had hidden her away in his Tower. But now—now she was the answer to a profound need. No one ever questioned the care lavished on her, or the way her special needs were always answered, no matter what else had to be sacrificed. She, in turn, had blossomed under the affection; her sweet temper never broke, and if she didn't understand more than a tenth of what she was asked to relay, it never seemed to bother her. Everyone loved her, and she loved everyone—and with Zhaneel watching over her zealously, making sure she had playtime and naptime, her new life was hundreds of times more enjoyable than her isolation in Urtho's Tower.

:I'm coming, kitten,:he told her with resignation. :Tell Mama I'm on my way.:

He stood up and stretched his wings; the wind rushing up the cliff face tugged at his primaries like an impatient gryphlet. He took a last, deep breath of the air of freedom, cupped his wings close to his body, and leaped out onto the updraft.

The cliff face rushed past him, and he snapped his wings open with a flourish—and clacked his beak on a gasp of pain as his wing muscles spasmed.

Stupid gryphon— stupid, fat, out-of-condition gryphon! What are you trying to prove? That you're the equal of young Stirka?

He joined the gulls gliding along the cliff face, watching the ones ahead of him to see how the air currents were acting, while his joints joined his muscles in complaining. Like the gulls, he scarcely moved his wings in dynamic gliding except to adjust the wingtips. Their flight only looked effortless; all the tiny adjustments needed to use the wind instead of wingbeats took less energy, but far, far, more control.

And a body in better condition than mine. I should spend less time inspecting stoneworks and more time flying!

He couldhave taken the easier way; he could have gone up instead of down, and flapped along like the old buzzard he was. But no, I let the updraft seduce me, and now I'm stuck. I'm going to regret this in the morning.

As if that wasn't bad enough, by the time he got halfway across the bay, he'd collected an audience.

His sharp eyes spared his bruised ego none of the details. Not only were there humans and hertasiwatching him, but someone had brought a dozen bouncing, eager young gryphlets.

A flying class, no doubt. Here to see the Great Skandranon demonstrate the fine details of dynamic gliding. I wonder how they'll like seeing the Great Skandranon demonstrate the details of falling beak-over-tail on landing?

But with the pressure of all those eyes on him, he redoubled his efforts and increased the complaints of his muscles. He couldn't help himself. He had always played to audiences.

And when he landed, it was with a clever loft up over their heads that allowed him to drop gracefully (if painfully) down onto the road rather than scrambling to get a talonhold on the wall edging the terrace. He made an elegant landing on one hind claw, holding the pose for a moment, then dropping down to all fours again.

The audience applauded; the gryphlets squealed gleefully. Skan bowed with a jaunty nonchalance that in no way betrayed the fact that his left hip felt afire with pain. Temporary pain, thank goodness—he'd been injured often enough to know the difference between the flame of a passing strain and the ache of something torn or sprained. He clamped his beak down hard, tried to look clever and casual, and waited for the pain to go away, because he wasn't going to be able to move without limping until it did.

Stupid, stupid gryphon. Never learn, do you?

The burning ache in his hip finally ebbed; he continued to gryph-grin at the youngsters, then pranced off toward the half-finished Council Hall before any of the gryphlets could ask him to demonstrate that pretty landing again.

* * *

Amberdrake took his accustomed chair at the table, looked up at the canvas that served as a roof, and wondered how many more sessions they would meet here before the realroof was on. Right now the Council Hall was in a curious state of half-construction because its ambitious architecture absolutely required the participation of mages for anything but the simplest of tasks to be done. The mages hadn't been able to manage more than the most rudimentary of spells for the past six months, not since the last mage-storm.

That left the Council Hall little more than the walls and stone floor, boasting neither roof nor any of the amenities it was supposed to offer eventually.

But the completion of the Council Hall was at the bottom of a long list of priorities, and Amberdrake would be the last person to challenge the order of those priorities. Just—it would be very nice to look up and see a real roof—and not wonder if the next windstorm was going to come up in the middle of a Council session and leave all of them staring up at a sky full of stormclouds.

The Kaled'a'in mage Snowstar, who had once been the mage that their Lord and Master Urtho had trusted as much as himself, took his own seat beside Amberdrake. He caught the Chief Kestra'chern's eye and glanced up at the canvas himself.

"We think the next mage-storm will return things to normal enough for us to get some stonework done," Snowstar said quietly. "This time the interval should be about nine months. That's more than enough time to finish everything that hasto be done magically."