Tamora Pierce - Squire

The creature hissed. Its body, paws, and tail were all rather feline, except for the feather covering. The head, beak, and wings looked eagle-like, though she wasn’t sure. Unlike most nobles, Kel didn’t like falconry and had never tried to learn it.

‘Cat paws, cat tail, eagle …’ she murmured, then stopped as the hair stood up on the back of her neck. ‘Oh, no,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, no, no, no.’

The baby griffin stretched out its head and grabbed a lock of her hair. She yelped as it yanked, and dragged her hair free before stuffing the griffin into its pack. The small immortal protested its renewed captivity at the top of its lungs. Somehow the little girl at Kel’s feet slept on.

Kel tried to think as she wound a handkerchief around the still-bleeding wound between her thumb and forefinger. Griffins were protected by law, but that didn’t stop poachers. The traffic in both griffin parts and live griffins was deadly, but not because of the law. If a griffin’s parents smelled their offspring on a stranger, even years afterwards, they would kill the person. Whatever made up the scent, it could not be washed off. Mages weren’t even sure the parents detected an actual smell. The fact that it stayed for years seemed to indicate the scent was magical rather than actual. It didn’t apply to those who handled claws or feathers, only to those who had held an infant griffin. This one’s parents would have to be found, and someone would have to explain to them what happened before they ripped her to pieces.

Kel put her head in her hands. She straightened instantly as pain stabbed her ribs. Not now, she thought, despairing. I don’t need this now.

Kel sat bolt upright with a gasp. In her dream the centaur had come alive again, scaring her out of sleep.

She was in the dark, cased with sun-dried cotton that carried a fishy scent. She was not hot, sweating, dirty, or in pain. Now she remembered: they had lifted her up the hill on a loading platform and brought her to a makeshift hospital. She’d warned them about the griffin before someone else could touch it. A healer had told her she’d broken bones, then given her something vile-tasting that put her to sleep. She was in the hospital now. It was night. A few oil lamps supplied the only light.

She was just wondering how the others had done when the healer brought her another dose of medicine. After that she slept well into daylight until she woke, alert and ravenous. Someone had put a metal cage beside her cot. Inside it was the pouch, the griffin, a dish of water, and a dish of what smelled like fish scraps. If the immortal had eaten, she couldn’t tell.

They must have just stuck the pouch in the cage and let the griffin crawl out, she thought, yawning. She could see the small gate in the side closest to the dishes: whoever had fed the griffin and given it water could just change the dishes that way. If the griffin didn’t mind the cage, perhaps Kel could transport it that way until she found its parents. Her hands throbbed from the mauling they had got from those claws. Kel would rather not let it have any more of her blood, if she could help it.

A woman brought Kel a bowl of clear broth.

‘The bandits?’ Kel asked her, forgetting what she had been told when the others found her.

‘Captured, them that aren’t dead,’ the woman replied with grim satisfaction. ‘They’ll face the Crown’s justice soon enough.’

Kel nodded and finished her broth. Within a few moments of handing the bowl to the woman, she was asleep again.

It was nearly sunset when the baby griffin’s squall roused Kel. She peered at him over the edge of the cot. He was flapping half-opened wings, objecting to the cage. When he saw Kel, he peered up at her through the openings in the metal.

Kel flopped onto her back. I wanted that to be a dream, she thought.

Another woman brought Kel water and a bowl of noodles in broth. Kel was so hungry she nearly inhaled the food, looking around as she ate. She counted twenty beds, most filled with sleeping men. The two beside Kel held female Riders.

She was about to put her bowl on the floor when something small and wet struck her cheek. She wiped it off, then inspected it: a ragged bit of fish skin. With a frown Kel wiped it onto a napkin. She put the bowl next to her cot; when she straightened, something wet struck her eye. Kel removed it. More fish skin.

She looked into the metal cage. ‘Stop it,’ she told the griffin. She was impressed with the little thing’s aim. It must have taken innate skill or lots of practice …