Mercedes Lackey - Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

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.