Andre Norton - Gryphon's Eyrie

I thought of my own rite of manhood—when my father, Ulric of Ulmsdale, had ceremoniously given me the sword I still wore. I knew well how it felt to pass in the space of one day from untried youth to man—remembered how the heavy weight of new responsibility had seemed to press upon me, leaving me feeling even more of a boy, far less than a man…

It was almost as though Guret read my thoughts, for his voice grew subdued till I must strain to hear him.

“At times, it seems to me that the Festival cannot come too soon, and I wish it were tomorrow. And at others, it seems that it is rushing toward me like a wasp-stung horse, and that I stand frozen in its path…”

For long moments I was silent, debating whether I should attempt to answer the half plea I heard in the youngster’s voice. Always, except with Joisan, I had kept my own counsel, standing apart from others… but can one live forever so? Even as I told myself to hold to silence, I heard my own words:

“It seems to me that only those who have no understanding of what makes a true man rush headlong. Those like yourself, who doubt and consider, are those who prove to be the wisest, the most mature…”

“Perhaps you are right. Lord,” he replied thoughtfully.

We rode on in silence, hearing only the rushing of that great river. I found myself wondering if the stream flowed into some distant sea far to the south. This land was wide, in all our wanderings, Joisan and I had seen only a small portion of it.

“From whence did you and the Cera Joisan come, in lord?” the boy asked.

“From overmountain.” I turned in my saddle, pointing ;it those heights which I could no longer see but always felt—although, thanks to my lady, that once-compelling pull remained at bay.

“ We came from those mountains, too.” Guret frowned. “Last winter the Council decreed we should move on, though the harvest was rich, our horses fat. One of our scouts was slain—by something in the mountains. Then we made haste, even riding through snows belly-deep in the passes.”

Some-thing about his words raised a prickle of unease. For the first time in days I thought of Galkur—whose touch meant death and defilement such as no human spirit should bear…

I shivered suddenly, convulsively, and the sudden tightening of my legs made Nekia dance beneath me.

“What are those lands like, overmountain? What manner of people live there?” Guret had not noticed my reaction. “I have asked the traders when they came, but even they had not traveled so far. I would like to roam this land, see what lies beyond our small territory.”

I thought of the Dalesmen whom I had companied with in war, sat beside at feastings—those same men who had drawn away from me with sidelong looks barely hiding their distrust, their fear, once I had thrown aside the special boots my father had given me, made to conceal his heir’s “difference.” But such memories were not fit for sharing with this eager-eyed youth… Instead, I let my thoughts run back farther in time, back to the two Dalesmen who had accepted me, even as now the Kioga appeared to…

“The land of High Hallack is wide, and gently rolling eastward, which is why it is called the Dales by its people. Each lord has his Dale, with his menie of armsmen to defend it. One of my father’s armsmen was Jago, my tutor in the skills of war and arms. Yet he taught me more than swordplay…

“The Dales were not always tenanted by humankind, but bear traces, even as Arvon does, of others, those we call the Old Ones. They lived in Hallack long long ago, and our legends say that when first our people came into the Dales, they were already empty of their presence. But traces of them remain, and some men and women who thirst for knowledge and wisdom try to seek out such ruins. Such a one was Riwal, the Wiseman, who roamed the Waste in search of things he had little hope of understanding, yet was driven to try. I accompanied him on many such searches, and once we found a wondrous talisman from ages past…”

I continued, telling more than perhaps I had intended, for Guret listened so intently. When I finally stopped, he protested that he must hear more.

“Yes, more, Lord Kerovan!” A voice echoed shrilly from behind us. I turned to see a smaller child, a girl, heels beating a steady rhythm on her fat gelding’s sides in her effort to keep up with us.

“Nita!” Guret’s chagrin was plain. “How long have you been there? You know it is ill-mannered of you to listen to speech not intended for your ears!”

She raised a small, defiant chin, and in doing so, her likeness to the boy became even more pronounced. “It was Lord Kerovan’s story, it is for him to scold me if he is angered.” She turned dark eyes to me, suddenly sobering. “Are you angered, m’lord?”

I found myself chuckling, and sobered, making an effort to keep my voice stern. “No, I am not, but your brother has the right of it. It is not well-mannered to listen to others, unless they know you are doing so.”

“Well”—she smiled serenely—“you must let me ride beside you from now on so I can listen freely, for truly, Lord, your story was among the finest I have ever heard.”

I glanced sideways at the scowling Guret, then noted with relief Obred’s upraised hand, our signal to halt. “No more stories now. Perhaps another time.”

The Kioga leader beckoned me toward him, and I touched heels to Nekia’s sides, drawing up beside him. “What think you, Kerovan? Do we try it? This is the narrowest it has been.”

I looked to the river, judging those brown depths, noting the swirls and eddies betokening a strong current. “Single file, perhaps, with each rider leading his or her mount, until forced to swim.”

“Aye.” Turning to the others, he shouted instructions, and we began the passage.

I was the first, leading Nekia, until suddenly the bottom disappeared from under our hooves, and I found im self swimming, catching hold of the plunging mare’s tail, speaking to her as calmly as I could, “Easy, girl. Just a few more… easy…”

The silty water lapped my chin, and sputtering, I kicked harder. Before me Nekia surged up, water streaming from her saddle and flanks, then my own questing hooves found purchase—

A shrill scream rent the air, coming from behind me, fading even Wore I could turn, ending in a bubbling gasp. Slapping Nekia’s rump as hard as I could, I turned back, knowing the mare won free onto the bank.

Striking out back toward the other bank, I held my head high, striving to see what had chanced. Something large thrashed in the shallower water, grunting in panic, and I could hear shouting. My searching eyes fastened on a smaller form bobbing helplessly in the grip of the current, swiftly disappearing downstream. I flung myself after that figure, swimming as rapidly as I might, until I, too, found myself gripped by the main thrust of that current.

Stroking hard to keep my head up, my eyes fixed on the now feebly struggling victim, I knew a brief gratitude that my mail and weapons were securely fastened to Nekia’s saddle—and that I wore no boots to drag me down. Years had passed since I had swum with Riwal in calm ponds, following Jago’s stern lessonings in keeping myself afloat—never had I fought a current. It was all I could do to keep myself from being overborne by the rushing waters—what hope had I of aiding that other?—even assuming I could reach him or her…

Summoning all my strength, I quelled such hopeless thoughts and swam on, only to see the other slip beneath the water when I was less than arm’s length away. Before I could think, my body arced into a dive, both hands outflung, groping in the muddy flow.

My lungs rebelled, blood pounded in my ears—air! I must have air! Agonized, I kicked myself forward, still flailing my arms—