Chapters The Tale of the Hippogriff
He stood, hesitating to cast the simple spell that would open the oaken doors to the great hall of the Unicorn Kingdom. What awaited within gave him pause, but he knew he must press on. First a breath—held and exhaled—then the doors eased open, and he entered.
Boisterous courtiers dressed in all manners of finery filled the banquet tables lining both sides of the hall, laughter illuminating their faces as they feasted on dishes sweet and savory. All day and into the night they drank and sang, their cheer and good humor brightening the drab stone walls, driving back winter’s winds.
The great doors shut, and not a single reveler turned their head. Not a soul saw the storyteller enter. He made his way unobserved to the front of the gathering, for it was there, before the remains of the fire, that the royal couple sat. From behind the shelter of his hooded cloak, he cast wary glances at the members of his tribe. His eyes wandered over their joyous faces. While his temperament had always been sober, his manner austere, he never shunned celebration, yet neither could he share in the night’s merriment.
Over the years, such fêtes had become the vanity of their kingdom, each outshining the opulence of those that came before. On this night, as on those prior, to hear their laughter made him bristle. No more than manufactured comfort, he thought, designed to conceal a multitude of failings from the world—and themselves.
The Unicorn tribe thought themselves the most learned, the most noble and wisest of all. A dubious claim. What lurked beneath the polished exterior they felt compelled to cultivate? What did such extravagance seek to mollify? What insatiable void did pleasure vainly beg to fill?
At last he reached the royal table at the front of the hall, and even though he stood close to an iron basket brimming with orange embers, a chill rattled through him, one no fire could remedy, no cloak could hold at bay. Despite his misgivings, he stood proud and reverent, his ceremonial staff beside him, and waited to be recognized. Propriety demanded no less. Still, the merrymaking continued to tax him, for he was old and his joints ached.
At the table before him sat the royal couple, surrounded by dignitaries. His Majesty lay face down in the evening’s first course, having hours ago succumbed to his love of strong and bitter ales. On his left sat the Queen, chattering over his immobile form with apparent indifference. Her laughter at an unheard anecdote dwindled, and with a flourish, she drained the golden goblet with which she’d been making careless gestures. She raised herself unsteadily. A servant slipped in to replenish her drink only to disappear like smoke.
The court quieted.
The storyteller grasped the corner of his cloak and bowed until his nose hovered no more than the thickness of a leaf above the flagstones. This grand gesture made his knees creak.
“Ah, my old, old friend,” the Queen declared while pressing her hoof solidly upon the table. She swayed, her hopes of ceasing the room’s distressing motion dashed, but soldiered on. “How shall we be entertained tonight? Comedy perchance? A hero embarking on a grand adventure?”
“No, Your Highness,” he said after rising. He signaled a page for a stool to rest upon.
“Must it be tragedy then?” She plopped into her seat and pouted.
“Neither is it that.”
Her face became a dark cloud. “Do not mock me, storyteller, for I grow weary.” She grabbed her refilled goblet, and half its contents vanished in a single draught.
“If I wished to mock, I would choose satire.”
Nervous laughter danced amongst the courtiers. The Queen glowered.
“Neither is tonight’s tale satire, M’lady. It is a story of great antiquity—a myth most certainly—situated long before the collaboration of the tribes was arrived upon. A tale of youth and discovery, loss and brave hearts, loyalty and love’s many forms. There are those who say it contains meaning, yet if indeed it does hold wisdom, I leave it to the divination of Your Highness to enlighten us.”
Her Highness’ goblet was empty again. Scowling, she held it aloft and shrieked, “Merrimead!” Her servant, a plump earth mare, reappeared and stretched uncomfortably to refill it.
“Let it at least contain some distant and exotic lands to amuse us.” The Queen slumped upon the table.
“Ah! That it does.” And with those words, the royal countenance brightened. “Yet it does not begin there, for its origin lies in the most humble of places.”
The Queen rolled her eyes. “Begin before your allotted time has been wasted telling us what your story is and is not.” She held her goblet with both hooves and pressed it tight to her lips.
In the flickering light, only those with the keenest vision might have spied the storyteller’s grin. He bowed to her most royal majesty and, in accordance with the dictate of his craft, rapped his staff upon the floor three times. As the sharp echoes died, an uncertain stillness descended.
He sat and began his tale.
Author's Note
❖ For Meridian Prime ❖
For you, my friend, in the hope that one day your family will be reunited.
— OGM
The Tale of the Hippogriff
Ⅰ - Between the Mountains and the Sea
On the eastern prairie, where the rivers make their journey to the distant sea, the tribe of earth ponies lived. Their lives were not easy, for the soil bent unwillingly to their magic, yet they were always grateful and took pride in what they had brought into being with their labors. Bound to the land as they were, they possessed but simple wisdom, understanding the value of hard work and the vagaries of time, and thus were never frivolous.
Along one of these rivers a village sat, a settlement of no more than twenty rough wooden buildings. To the north of this village, a road wound through the woods, forming a link to other settlements, some brazen enough to call themselves towns. To the south, a path led to a simple dwelling standing alone amongst the fields.
There a young mare lived with her father. They were only two, for her parents had married late, and her mother had not survived the day of her daughter’s birth. Such were the unfortunate ways of those ancient times. The little foal with the tawny coat and shock of reddish mane was named Meadow after the humble location of her birth. On that bittersweet day, her father swore an oath to his wife to raise their daughter with bravery and love, and that he did without fail.
From their home, Meadow and her father looked out upon the rolling grass of the windy prairie to the mountains that crouched on the horizon. Their home was no more than a hut, circular in form, constructed from rushes, with a low thatched roof. Meadow’s father said he chose that shape to confuse the winds, so they would endlessly circle the house, and frustrated in their search for entrance, they would at last leave. She laughed at his jest.
Father and daughter lived there for many years, planting and harvesting, singing songs and telling tales to lighten their work. The flow of the seasons bounded their lives more than the river or the prairie or the mountains. As for those far off mountains, they were but the rim of the sky, and busy ponies did not waste their time pondering such distant things.
They did not live in solitude, for in that nearby village dwelt many ponies. Several times each year, they visited the village to trade for that which they could not grow. On occasion, those from the village sought them out, seeking to purchase the choicest of their garden’s crops. And at harvest time, all would meet at the old mill along the river. There, while the millstones spun, they exchanged their surpluses—overseen by the councilor—for a few precious coppers.
Many happy years they spent together, but before Meadow had seen two decades, her father became lame. In compensation, she worked harder and loved harder still. One spring morning, Meadow’s father sat and watched his daughter nurturing the tiny seedlings as they stretched up to renew the annual bond between earth and sky. Content with the way things were and would be, he closed his eyes, laid down his head, and joined his wife in the eternal.
Meadow grieved deeply, for her father’s absence was a cruel strain upon her heart. The village ponies encouraged her to join them, but she could not. While she missed companionship, leaving the home of her father was unimaginable. She knew no other place, no other life than the tending of the surrounding fields. Maintaining a stubborn gladness, she told them she would remain, and while the villagers thought it strange, they respected her wishes and left her in her lonesome dwelling.
The years passed, and Meadow’s trips to the village became infrequent. Alone, she needed little that she could not grow. Her father’s friends in the village grew older and older, and fewer came to see her, until one spring none came at all. Yet her solitary life did not bring despair, for as she had been raised, she lived with the determination of an unfaltering heart.
—❦—
A few years into this solitude, near day’s end in early autumn, Meadow prepared to gather water from a stream that lay a short distance away, as was her habit. She retrieved a vessel from its high shelf and made fast her cloak, for the agitated winds had found no rest in many days. With hood over bowed head, she made her way along the familiar path. It was from the crest of a hillock that she spotted an unfamiliar sight. Something lay along the stream’s bank, next to where the hawthorns grew, but from a distance, she could not discern its nature. After a moment’s pause, she crept towards it.
Meadow drew nearer and nearer, but still could not determine what it was. She dropped her head low and approached with measured steps until she was close enough to see it was a creature. It laid curled tight, attempting to shelter itself from the unyielding winds, but obscured in such a manner, she could not say what type of creature it could be. Meadow advanced and, absorbed by curiosity, stepped upon a dry branch. The resulting crack alerted the peculiar beast to her presence.
It leapt up and flared its golden wings, its azure eyes fixed upon her.
She reared, for she recognized the beast from the description in tales of old: the feathered head of an eagle, the muscular body of a lion. Before her stood a griffon. Her father’s stories said its kind came from mountains more distant than those that bounded the prairie. If such fables could be relied upon, how had this creature found its way to the land of ponies?
The beast took a step toward her and raised a leg, brandishing fierce talons.
“Be not afraid,” his sonorous voice commanded.
Meadow’s heart raced, for those stories warned of his kind. Proud hunters they were, swift and savage. Yet—this one spoke and wanted her to be unafraid. So she did not panic, but instead examined this most unlikely visitor. He did not crouch, preparing to attack, nor did he utter ferocious cries; he only waited with head held high. Slung about his neck was a pouch, so he was not uncivilized. It was his piercing eyes that fascinated her: intense, yet possessing a weariness of more than body. How strange, she thought as she looked upon him, for truly she held no fear of one believed so dangerous.
“I am not afraid,” she said. “I was startled—as were you.”
The griffon placed his leg on the ground. Seconds passed. He did not speak.
A strong gust gave them both a shove. Meadow broke the silence. “Are you lost?”
“No, not lost, but… These vexing winds impeded my progress and sent me unwillingly to your lands.” He folded his wings so the wind could no longer make sport of them. “I am sorry. I meant no trespass.”
She offered no reply, for the remark perplexed her. He had no need to apologize. Did not the stream’s water belong to all? Were not the fields here nopony’s? How could she forgive if there had been no trespass?
“I will go,” said the griffon, and he turned to do so.
“No.” Meadow was surprised to hear her voice filled with urgency. Why had she said such a thing? she asked herself, but possessed no answer.
The griffon turned and faced her.
Hastily, Meadow reasoned that hospitality was due all visitors, regardless of circumstance or manner. And so rare were her visitors, yet alone one so intriguing.
“No,” she repeated. “You are tired. Rest tonight—inside—while the winds blow.”
The griffon did not speak. Neither did he leave. Except for the wind’s continued harassment of his feathers, he remained a silent statue.
Meadow would not wait for his answer. Hastening to the stream, she filled her vessel with water and turned towards home, bidding him follow. While her eyes remained fixed upon the path, she kept an ear cocked back. From behind her she heard him brushing against the tall grasses and found herself strangely pleased.
—❦—
Sheltered at last from the wind in Meadow’s tiny home, the taciturn griffon ruffled his wings and sat far from the door. He had said not a word since offering to leave, and Meadow herself just as few since she had bade him follow.
Sunset approached, and Meadow busied herself with preparations for the evening meal. She fetched ingredients from the larder, took down the copper pan from its hook, and tended the fire. Both occupants remained mute while she worked.
How should one address a griffon? Meadow did not know, so instead she stole glances of her silent visitor while he in turn watched her from beneath a furrowed brow. Without words she could not make sense of him, yet in a peculiar way, it felt proper to have another in her home.
With her cooking complete, she retrieved two earthenware plates and a pair of worn pewter spoons and placed them upon the table. Onto this simple setting she ladled out her hurriedly made concoction.
Her visitor approached with caution. Meadow settled, uneasily, across from him. Uncertainty leapt upon her as she raised a shaking spoon to her lips. The griffon raised his spoon too and partook of the modest meal. “Good” was his first word since they had left the banks of the stream. A relieved Meadow smiled, and she had the impression that the griffon’s eyes were softer.
At first they ate in silence, but spoonful by spoonful, a warmth grew within them and conversation flowed—if sparingly. She said her name was Meadow. He said his name was Ahren, and he thanked her for her hospitality. With little more said than that, they finished their meal, and, as it was now dark, Meadow retrieved a candle from a box. She centered it on the table and lit it with a brand. Outside, the perturbed winds roared, conspiring to burst in and extinguish the tiny flame. But her father’s construction confounded them, and the candle flame hardly wavered.
Meadow returned to her seat across from the griffon and asked whence he came.
“A far away city,” Ahren replied, “in the northern mountains.”
Having never seen any place larger than the village, she inquired what manner of city it was.
“It is our great aerie, a stronghold built of white stone, inhabited by more than eleven hundred of our kind.”
“Oh.” Meadow felt a flush of crimson in her face, and she shied away, fearing her home inadequate for one of such grand origin.
“I meant no boast,” he said. “Please, do not deem me ill mannered, for what I say is no more than the truth. I beg forgiveness if I offend.”
She nodded but could not look upon him. After a moment, she heard him speak.
“Tell me of this place, your home—here.”
“There is little more than what you have already seen,” she replied and fell silent.
When she did not respond, he said, “Please.”
Meadow looked up. His face appeared quite earnest, so she told of days past when she and Father labored together. She explained that her father was quite wise.
Ahren cocked his head. “What wisdom does a farmer profess?”
“Father always said three things are important. One must work hard and love, and to act bravely when you fear the other two have failed.” Meadow watched the reflection of the candle flame dancing in his eyes as he nodded. Before she could tell more of her father, the griffon posed another question.
“To work hard—” And he paused. “Is there no more here than drudgery?”
“We have simple pleasures,” she replied in haste and smiled. Although she recalled many things that brought joy, she found it difficult to decide upon any particular thing. Picking berries in springtime? Far too mundane. Watching distant thunderstorms flash as they plied their way across an evening sky? Such a thing would bore one who inhabits the sky itself. Unable to recall anything else, she blurted, “We tell stories and sing.”
“Singing.” Ahren chuckled. “Do you think—perhaps—you could favor me with a song?”
“Oh—Yes, I can.” This was not entirely true, for Meadow was unprepared. As she had been unable to decide upon what to say, likewise she found herself unable to select a song. Still, she could not disappoint her visitor. She would not. The winds battered the house again, and the sound stirred a memory. She recalled a song her father oft turned to on evenings such as this. So Meadow closed her eyes, and licked her lips, and sang in a hushed voice.
O, matchless maiden
Maiden, I sing to thee
Never will there be another
For you are the one for me
Lips sweet as April’s dew
Eyes bright as the moon of May
None born fairer than you
If only your heart could I sway
Mere words leave you cold
Devotion brings dismay
For my song’s not made of gold
And so you turn away
O, matchless maiden
Maiden, I pine for thee
Never will there be another
No other love for me
Upon opening her eyes she discovered Ahren watching her with rapt attention. Both sat quietly gazing at each other in the flickering light of the candle, paying no heed to the ceaseless moaning of the prairie winds. Meadow blinked. Since it appeared her visitor would ask no more questions, Meadow asked one of him.
“Why are you so far from your home?” Her heart leapt upon hearing Ahren ruffle his wings.
“I was on a journey. A journey to find—something.”
“I see.” He provided no further explanation. Meadow asked, “Did… Did you find this something?”
“No…” he said from behind narrow eyes. “I mean—I am uncertain.”
“Oh.” This vague answer left Meadow hesitant to ask for more details of what he had sought. Yet, to insist would be impolite. Nevertheless, she was curious and asked, “Where did you look?”
“I followed the rivers. They led me to the sea.”
“The sea?” Meadow’s father had repeated the stories of the sea he had heard in his youth. Those tales described a forbidding place where dark monsters dwelled, ready to swallow any who dared take to the waters. He had thought it all nonsense, as did she, mere foolishness designed to frighten the young. But being so far away, nopony she knew had ever travelled there themselves.
“What is the sea like?”
“It is very—different.” Ahren paused, gathered his thoughts, and leaned forward. “You must understand that in my homeland, the waters are cold and hurried. They race down the sides of mountains, forming swift rivers. But these waters of the southern sea… They are warm, calm. Quite shallow, very clear and filled with fish. Fish in a multitude of colors—bright blues, and yellows, fiery reds—like a valley of wildflowers. And there are islands nearby—I flew to one.” He became emphatic. “Its white sand glowed on its own. And the stars, they shine brighter there, I am convinced. At night their reflections float on the waters, sparkling. And the sound of the waves, calling…” Ahren shook his head, appearing on the brink of laughter.
“So beautiful,” he concluded. “So different—from home.” He stared, unblinking, through the window and into the darkness.
As to whether he sought to imagine the sea or his homeland, Meadow was unable to ascertain. “I think—” she began, but waited until Ahren’s far-away look dissolved, and his gaze returned to her. “I think I should like to go to the sea someday.”
Ahren tilted his head, and the look in his eye was so mysterious that it gave her pause. He cautiously reached across the table and touched her.
Meadow looked at his talons lightly resting upon her. She did not recoil, although she knew they could rend flesh from bone. Instead, she struggled to unravel the meaning of this act and looked at him. How different he seemed than when they had met by the stream, looking so doleful, so anxious to take his leave. Even with such little acquaintance, she recognized a transformation, for those eyes of his now radiated gentle strength and confidence. His touch brought her no fear—no—his touch was exhilarating. And confusing, for she did not understand how such a simple act engendered such feelings.
“Perhaps”—Ahren lowered his voice—“we could go to the sea together.”
Bewilderment became revelation. Meadow realized why she had offered one so different from herself shelter without reservation, why the griffon’s presence in her home felt so fitting, why his touch beguiled. In living apart she had let her heart lay fallow. Loneliness had become her occupation. Yet there was more than what she lacked, for did she not sense the same in him? Yes, it must be for what else could his words and touch signal? The suddenness of it all, unsought as it was, swept her up. And the impossibility… But what had been rediscovered would not now be restrained.
“Yes,” said Meadow ardently. “I would like that very much.”
—❦—
It was half-way to morning when Meadow extinguished the flickering stub of the candle. Neither she nor Ahren had need for light or words, for as the night wore on, their hearts had become entangled. They slept by the remains of the fire, graced by love.
Outside, the angry winds, appeased at last, departed, leaving naught but a gentle breeze.
—❦—
The sun had long since dispatched the fog that sought shelter in the shallows by the time the lovers awoke. The morning held no vexing winds, for now only a pristine sky remained. Into the glory of this new day they emerged.
Now, Ahren explained, more than ever, it was imperative he complete his homeward journey, but he swore an oath most sacred that he would return to her.
From Meadow’s home, they walked side by side to the top of a hill, and there, Ahren again declared his love, pressing his cheek against hers. He released her from his fervid embrace.
This bittersweet love left Meadow’s heart aswirl with emotions she could never turn into words; all for the better she thought, for although she desired to speak, a single utterance might break the magic spell she was under. She only gazed at Ahren, desiring nothing more than for time itself to end before he must depart.
With great care, he reached into the pouch he carried and retrieved a pendant of blue stone, the token of his troth, and brushing aside her mane, made it fast about her neck. With solemn dignity he spoke these words: “With this, I declare our love for all the heavens to see.”
Again Meadow was embraced, Ahren’s wings enfolding her doubly. It was then, listening to his muffled heart beat, that melancholy overtook her. His ardent words had endowed the moment with a dreaded finality.
Ahren took flight and circled overhead, called out, “When I return, together we shall visit the sea.” He climbed higher than Meadow imagined possible, and his form began to disappear in the deep and distant sky as he flew northward towards his mountain city. She touched the pendant dangling from her neck and watched. She watched and watched until there was nothing left to watch and then watched a bit longer. At last the time to go had come. There was no more to see.
While Meadow understood her heart’s circumstance was now no different then on the day prior, she felt an emptiness she had never experienced nor imagined. For less than a day, the fullness of love had graced her only to be removed, and she doubted her heart could ever be full again until they were reunited.
—❦—
Autumn left and winter entered, for once merciful and mild, favoring Meadow with calm days to wait for Ahren’s promised return. Standing where he departed, she would touch the pendant and beg the heavens that knew their love to deliver him safely to her. Those heavens remained indifferent and mute. Cold sunshine accompanied her home.
Inside her simple home, there was always warmth, and through winter’s bleak months Meadow sat by the fire and nourished her hope. Each day brought her more than living for she knew their love grew ever stronger. And on those clear and quiet nights, she closed her eyes and dreamt of the return of her beloved Ahren.
Author's Note
Matchless Maiden is heavily inspired by I Sing of a Maiden although no religious parallels are implied.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
In the second week of spring, on the day following a full moon, pain seized Meadow. That final month had left her depleted, and the planting had progressed slowly. Every movement had become an effort, and even the simplest chore became a burden. Then, as she cast the last of the millet seed into the furrows, her body told her the time had come. She thought it a blessed relief.
She struggled to return home, but that short distance proved too far. Meadow laid down, exhausted, by the hedgerow that surrounded her vegetable garden, and there she birthed her daughter. And what a most remarkable thing her child was, a faithful product of its dam and sire, the faultless culmination of their love. Downy white feathers covered the tiny creature’s head and wings, accentuating a sumptuous gray coat that shone like silver. Set upon the child’s face, as if placed by a skillful jeweler, were tiny golden eyes that gleamed like the beguiling summer sun.
Meadow hastened inside with the squawking newborn, and after cleaning her with great care, she held her rare foal close until at last she quieted. Both were in need of rest now, so they laid by the smoldering cooking fire, daughter nestled against mother. But before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, Meadow gazed through the window and out into the afternoon sky. She touched the pendant hanging from her neck and announced to the absent Ahren that their daughter’s name was Celia.
—❦—
Since Celia was no ordinary foal, Meadow fretted over what the child might eat. However, she discovered all too soon, the true question was what the child would not eat. Little Celia consumed everything offered and, despite constant feeding, squawked endlessly for more. After a particular contentious night, the exhausted mother made a discovery: The child was less than two weeks old, and already their larder was running low. This she resolved to remedy come morning.
The pre-dawn rains came and left, waking nopony, leaving the morning air laden with the rich scent of fertile soil. Such morns are said to invigorate the earth pony’s spirit and to awaken their magic. New-mother Meadow had no time to savor the glories of the day. After feeding her daughter, she put on her panniers, loading one side with a sack of grain to balance the swaddled child on the other, for she was bound for the mill.
Meadow traversed a field of tall, dry grasses, following a narrow path that lead to the river road. To call it a road was generous, for it was no more than compacted ruts formed by the carts that trundling the route at harvest time. Yet, burdened as she was, Meadow made good time along it, for the rains left the ground soft but un-muddied. And so, before the sun had climbed too high, the sounds ahead announced that her destination was near and its master was at work.
When running, the miller’s machine filled the countryside with noise. The chorus of rushing water that turned the great wheel could never overwhelm the toneless groans and thunks of its wooden gears. Meadow entered the mill, but did not call out, for speech was futile while the apparatus toiled. She searched the scaffolding and spied the miller’s robust form: A smile blazed upon his face as he watched the wheels of his invention turn. Her wave caught his attention, and he kicked a lever that caused the gears, and their racket, to cease.
“Ho, Meadow,” he called to his familiar customer.
“Ho, Miller,” she cried back.
“What shall it be this fine day? Two sacks to grind?”
“Only one.” Meadow tossed her bag of rye upon a movable platform and added a single copper, for payment, atop it.
The miller moved a pin, bumped another lever, and the platform rose to his level. “Winter was kind to you?” he asked, for he had not seen her since the previous year’s harvest time when she had brought her surplus for sale.
“Indeed,” she said, and she held the wriggling Celia up for inspection.
The miller sent the sack’s contents rattling into a wooden hopper, and engrossed in this task, he did not see the child.
Meadow laid Celia aside and went to the base of the grindstones where the flour would arrive and slipped a bag over a chute.
With a lively dance of operations, the miller started his machine. It clattered, and the stones began to hiss; only then did the miller glance downward. His mouth hung agape, for astonished as he was to see Meadow with a foal, he made no sense of the feathered face peaking forth from the swaddling! Rapt, he failed to tend his raucous engine, and soon it ground no more than air. He broke away with difficulty, tripped over his own hooves, and stumbled. Upon righting himself, he clumsily halted the stones’ futile labor. Racing to the platform’s edge, the miller teetered over the railing, gawping, unable to speak and utterly baffled. But by this time, his customer had packed and was leaving.
“Much thanks,” Meadow called back without looking and hurried off towards home. Baking would occupy the rest of her day, for nary a crumb of crispbread remained in the house, and no doubt, little Celia would soon be hungry for more.
—❦—
By the time the crescent moon had grown to slightly more than a sliver, visitors sought out Meadow. They found her in the field where she had planted beans. On the morning of their arrival, she had been weeding around the tiny sprouts, all the while humming as she imagined the meals she and Celia would enjoy before summer’s end. Her child slept nearby in a basket shaded by bent grass and, on occasion, made happy noises in her slumber.
Somepony cleared their throat to make their presence known. Meadow looked up and saw two silhouettes at the field’s edge. She went to greet her callers. One was the miller, and such a curious sight he was, for seldom did one find him outside his beloved machine. Now he stood in Meadow’s fields, twitching like a bird desperate to take flight. Accompanying him, standing stiff and tall, was Councilor Bay, their appointed leader. Although the thin councilor was older, his black mane showed not a tinge of gray, and the high, white collar he wore only served to make it all the blacker.
“Good tidings to you both,” she said and dipped her head in deference to the councilor’s standing.
“We would see this—child,” he said. Bay’s angular face was pinched and inscrutable.
“At once, Councilor.” Meadow gathered up Celia and led the party the short distance to her home. Once inside, she removed her drowsy daughter from the basket and placed her, wrapped in a blanket, upon a bed of straw.
“You see. I told the truth, did I not?” the miller insisted in an uncharacteristically high and rapid voice. He glanced at Meadow and offered a hasty, agonized grin. The bewildered look she returned made him recoil.
Councilor Bay unwrapped the blanket and stared. He threw a baleful glare at Meadow, while his short cropped tail slashed the air. Returning his attention to little Celia, he began his inspection.
He prodded her. She squeaked.
“She is healthy and eats much,” explained Meadow, but the growing tightness in her throat made the words sound insincere.
Bay examined Celia’s hooves and tail. The child wriggled and laughed, thinking it a delightful new game.
“You see how happy she is.”
A dour scowl constituted the councilor’s reply. Next, he rolled the child on her side and stretched out a tiny wing. This, Celia did not appreciate and protested by snapping her beak. Incensed, Bay glared wild eyed, first at the child and then at her mother.
Meadow turned to seek aid from the miller. He lingered by the door, and although he had always been kind, he now ignored her, his eyes fixed upon the ground. More disturbingly was how he shook, so much so that Meadow feared he would bolt through the half-closed door. Garnering no help, she turned back to Bay who hovered over the child with cinched lips.
“But I… I love her,” begged Meadow.
The councilor’s chest heaved as he took a single step towards her, his ears laid flat to his skull. His mouth hung open as he sputtered; flecks of spittle clung to the hairs around his lips. What his tongue refused to utter, his eyes shrieked. For a frightening span, he remained locked in a frozen rage before Meadow, until at last he scoffed and strode out. The craven miller raced close behind.
Celia burbled innocently, and Meadow swept her up, holding her tight. She told herself she would remain true to her father’s teachings, that she would be brave, that she would hold love safe in her heart, to never let hate taint her. Yes, she would do this, and then surely the councilor’s heart would open. It must. All would be right, if only she were brave. She told herself all this, but could not keep herself from weeping.
—❦—
In the days following the councilor’s visit, the child and the fields kept Meadow busy, busier than she had ever been. Yet she felt hollow, unable to take pride in her work or celebrate the marvel of the rapidly growing Celia. Many things weighed heavy on her. Foremost, winter’s stores were depleted, and no crops would be ready for months. The hungry time approached, and so Meadow steeled herself for a trip to the trading post.
The trading post stood at the north end of the village right before the road crossed the river. Built of rough sawn boards, aged silver by years of sun and rain, it was the village’s tallest structure, with a verdigris weathervane atop its steep pitched roof.
Meadow delayed her trip until late morning. She loaded up Celia and reluctantly left, scuffing her hooves, kicking up dust along the way. Although her heart was low as she approached the outskirts of the village, she vowed to keep her head high and not let her eyes drift from the road ahead. Still, her heart beat with trepidation of what was sure to happen.
She passed the first house and somepony yelled for the foals playing in the yard to head indoors. Meadow knew that family by name, for her father had befriended them long ago. Now they stood in their doorway and gawked. At the next, the supports were yanked from beneath the shutters and they banged shut. Those that lived there once bought tomatoes from her, prizing their freshness. Perhaps, she thought, it was better that they did not demean themselves by laying eyes upon her and her child.
Grumbles and gasps, closing doors, clicking latches, all accompanied her trek through the village. Tiny Celia babbled as she rocked in her mother’s pack. Meadow dared not waver, for between houses, she caught sight of somepony running along a back path, one heading towards the edge of town.
The interminable journey ended, and she stood before the trading post, but hesitated entering its dark interior. Peering through the doorway she saw nopony, only the sunlight spilling through the building’s sole window, turning dust motes into daytime stars. All was quiet inside, which was not typical. Meadow entered and found the proprietor standing behind the counter, his eyes narrowed, his face as hard as iron.
“What do you want?” he barked.
“I need supplies.” Celia squirmed upon hearing her mother’s voice. The once friendly owner did not ask what she required, so Meadow began listing her needs. “Dried apples, some walnuts…” The stallion listened to her entire list before gathering even the first item. Then, instead of placing it on the counter and making a tally, he dropped the bag on the floor and kicked it towards her. Without protest, she placed it in her pack. When he had slid the last in her direction, he called out, “Twenty,” and said not a word more.
Meadow kept her eyes upon him as she bent to retrieve the sack of dried peas. Then she stepped towards the counter.
The owner took two steps back and turned his head aside, his contorted face half hidden by mottled shadows. He stood a head taller than she, yet he appeared terrified, even from behind the counter’s safety.
After a brief hesitation, Meadow smiled and placed her coppers before him. “Good day to you,” she said and left, wasting not a second.
Outside she spotted three ponies a way off, doing no more than observing. When she moved, they followed, but never did they seek to close. If she were to run, she wondered, would they give chase? And her heart thundered thinking of the possibility. Encumbered with child and goods, she could not gallop out of the village, let alone the entire way home. So rather than retrace her route, Meadow took another path, one she and her father had walked many times, moving briskly while the watchers trailed. Soon, she made her way up a weedy walk to the home of Blanchet.
Meadow knew the weaver was not at her bench, for she did not hear the shushing of the shuttle nor the clacks of the old mare’s hooves dancing upon the treadle. Through the half-opened door she stuck her head and offered a weak “Hello?” From amongst shadows the old mare’s face appeared.
“In now—quickly.” Blanchet beckoned her across the threshold and closed the door behind them. “I’d heard, I’d heard. Oh! Look! Here she is.” Without seeking permission, she wrested Celia from Meadow’s side and sat the child sat on her lap. “A beauty. Yes, very much so.” The praise went on as Celia was prodded and played with.
Meadow slouched and shed her burden. A few deep breaths dispelled the sudden dizziness which had seized her upon entering the poorly lit house. Blanchet made no attempt to converse, the little one keeping her occupied, and for that, Meadow was grateful.
“Oh, little bird, what is our name?” Blanchet asked.
“Her name is Celia.” Meadow’s words came out like a slow exhalation.
“Celia! Celia!” the old mare teased, poking and repeating the name. The little one’s beak grabbed her elder’s hoof. “Feisty, no?” said Blanchet.
Meadow reached out, scolding, “No, stop,” but Blanchet would not let her touch the child.
“Let her go. Perfectly natural. Now,” the old mare began, “you are here and there is much to know.”
A lecture began. On rare occasions, the student intervened with a question, which the patient teacher answered. Recess was called to feed Celia, and as she slept, the conversation between the mares became hushed. In the space of two hours, Blanchet declared the topic of rearing foals exhausted.
Meadow watched her daughter lying asleep against Blanchet’s side. The old weaver hummed as she often did when at the loom. This roused memories which Meadow could not place. In a trice, she felt as soothed as the sleeping child, but with equal rapidity, she recalled the actions of the ponies on the way through the village, and the expression on the shopkeeper’s face, and the manner of those who had followed. Meadow touched the pendant hanging around her neck.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she confessed in a whisper.
With a face both peaceful and serious, Blanchet looked up from the child. “Love is a precious thing, my dear.” And gently she cleared her throat. “Did you give it to one who—who deserved to receive it?”
Meadow did not hesitate. “Yes, I did.”
“Love does not require the sanction of others. Do not doubt yourself so easily, and give those who do not a mustard seed of care.” Blanchet nodded and went back to watching Celia sleep.
All remained silent for several minutes, and Meadow thought that Blanchet herself might have nodded off too, until she heard a sigh.
“You accompanied your father here many times. The two of us talked much then, for many hours. Why is that?”
“You were friends, from long ago when—”
“Oh!” Blanchet laughed, only to hush herself when the child stirred. “He courted me, that rapscallion. Yes, he did.” She nodded vigorously. “We were quite young, of course. Younger than you.”
A smile crept across Meadow’s face.
“Smile if you must, but ’tis true. My mane was long and beautiful many summers ago.” Blanchet gave its short, white remains a toss as Meadow giggled. “Many remarked upon it—they did—especially your father. He thought he loved me, but I knew better. And I loved another. Heady days then, they were. Your father left disappointed, but did not remain so for long.”
The old mare's voice halted, and her face hardened. “His was true, but mine was one who could not stay. Off with another he said he loved more, till he met his next.” She paused again. “They—those out there—said the fault was mine.”
All traces of mirth disappeared from Meadow’s face. “I’m sorry. I did not know.”
“It matters not, for it is long past.” Blanchet dismissed the sympathy with an energetic shake of her head. “Over before you lived,” she added and looked boldly into Meadow's eyes. “You live because your father found his true love. Of that I do not doubt. If I’d said yes to him, you would not be—she would not be.” And the old mare pulled Celia close. The child sighed.
“When you arrived, with your mother gone... You were not twice this one’s age when your father came to me, wan and frightened. So sad. He professed he always loved me, but his heart knew the lie.”
Meadow watched the old mare’s face tighten, her thin lips fluctuating between a smile and a grimace, accentuating the myriad of lines surrounding her muzzle. Awkward seconds passed before Blanchet resumed.
“My heart—it knew too. I said I’d be a friend, a helper, always—to him and you—but no more than that. No.”
Celia awoke and yawned. Blanchet rose and, still holding the child, shambled towards a shelf near her loom, where she began rummaging through a basket.
“His gone. Mine gone. All gone in the end. Now, where...” she grumbled and continued the search in another basket laying on the floor. “Always too late to change what has been, but—Ah, here we are.”
Blanchet tottered back and turned Celia over to her mother. Sitting, she offered the child what she had sought, a simple toy of her own making, a brown cloth bird with black embroidered eyes. Both mares watched as tiny talons reached out and clasped it.
“Bay spoke against you in public,” Blanchet said plainly. “Such priggery from that miserable old bachelor. Never does he have a good word for a mare. Never. And such absurdity. A sorceress, consorting with a demon—”
“A lie!” blurted Meadow.
“Does it matter?” The old mare shook her head. “From him, the superstitious and ignorant will believe, even when reason and their eyes tell them otherwise.”
Meadow sat stock-still and watched Celia gripping the toy bird, shaking it. After Bay had come to inspect them and left in such an agitated state, she had come to terms with what would happen. She knew he would rebuke her. Others might too. She had prepared herself for that. But such accusations, monstrous and spiteful. And the way the ponies in the village acted… his word had turned them against her. Now, more than when the councilor huffed out her door, more than when the shopkeeper backed away, when the suspicious gawkers followed, she comprehended her fate brought on by her love and her child. It felt as if the seasons reversed, winter’s bitter winds sweeping back, chilling her very marrow. As palpable fear gripped Meadow; she sought to disappear into herself. She held her daughter closer. Still, there was one thing she must know, so she wet her lips.
“Will they seek to harm us?”
To her surprise, Blanchet cackled.
“Have faith, child. Their cowardice exceeds their ignorance.” She reached out and touched Meadow’s shoulder, adding, “Nevertheless, always mind yourself—and your child.”
Meadow could not bring herself to return the old mare’s smile, but nodded that she understood.
“Today I’ll have another visitor,” Blanchet said. “Of that I am certain.” She leaned back before continuing. “Word will reach him, and Bay will call on me before the sun has set, thinking to chastise and spew venom. Not in my house. And before I throw him out, I promise his ears will burn.”
The thought of it provided cold comfort, for Meadow doubted the words of Blanchet or any other were capable of changing the councilor’s heart. Despite her earnestness, it appeared the old mare’s eyes reflected the same. Meadow recognized her fate was chosen. Bravely she told herself that there was Celia and that she loved her. And she loved Ahren, too, and never before had she so fervently desired his return. Still, she shook.
“Enough now, enough.” Blanchet stood and stretched. “It grows late. Let us take Celia home, my dear.”
So they took the child and walked through the center of the village, everypony staring as they passed. Taking no notice of it, Blanchet escorted mother and daughter down the south road until the last of the village houses faded away. Then she left them and returned to prepare for her visit from the councilor.
Meadow hurried home and unloaded her supplies. She made a meal and fed her hungry child before preparing for sleep. That night, rest remain elusive, for she lay awake, engulfed in an ocean of darkness, listening for voices that did not call and steps that did not come.
—❦—
Before Celia’s fifth summer had ended, both Blanchet and Bay departed to their respective rewards.
On a morning in the first moon of the year, following a particularly bitter night, the villagers noticed no smoke coming from Blanchet’s chimney. They pounded on her door and, receiving no reply, forced their way in. Blanchet the weaver, born in the spring of the year with the late frost, had finished her mortal work and left them in her sleep.
Nopony thought to tell Meadow.
Bay’s exit proved more dramatic, so much so that Meadow learned the details at harvest time from the talkative miller. He related that at the onset of fall, the thin councilor had been overseeing the reconstruction of the north road’s bridge. He carelessly backed up while criticizing the joinery, took a misstep, and plunged into the river. Having never deigned to learn the indecorous art of swimming, he struggled against the robust current. None present had truly mastered the skill either, and they hesitated to effect a rescue. The waters swept the unfortunate councilor out of sight in no time, and it was not until noon the next day that he was found, far downstream, wedged amongst the cattails.
A replacement councilor was appointed without delay. Where Bay was grim, Councilor Chestnut was jovial; where his predecessor was lean, he was rotund. Upon arrival, the likable Chestnut wasted no time and sought to use his office, along with his generous smile and flaxen mane, to vie for the affection of the village mares. Everypony remarked that Chestnut’s eyes gleamed with the pleasures of life, for he possessed an appetite for music and dancing, along with the finest spirits and dishes that could be had. His appetite encompassed everything but change, and he hurriedly rejected Meadow’s appeals. She found no ally in the fleshy councilor.
Although Meadow obtained no solace, she remained brave and hopeful, and after so much time, both her and Celia’s lives were set as much as set apart. They lived humbly, worked their fields, and in the old tradition, sang songs and told tales while they labored. Of those tales, a particular one was oft repeated.
Fetching water always provided an opportunity for the retelling of the story of the griffon’s arrival, a story the energetic Celia never tired of hearing. Her mother said she had told the story long before the child understood words, but in no time Celia could repeat it unaided. Eventually, as she grew, the tale became so well known it was reduced to little more than repeated questioning.
“Where was the spot by the stream?” Celia asked as she hovered above her mother.
“Over where the hawthorns grow.”
“Father wasn’t frightening, was he?”
“No.” A smile graced Meadow’s face. “Only noble and gentle.”
The child paused for a moment. “Do I not look like him?”
“In some ways yes and some ways no. You are unique, my dear, as it should be.”
“But because I look like Father, everypony stays away.”
Meadow moved along, mute and in thought for a while. “They look and cannot see,” she said. “One day, perhaps, they will.”
“And there.” Celia pointed in the distance. “Is that the spot where he left?”
“You tell me.” Meadow’s smile returned. “You are the one in the air, not I.”
“Yes. It was on top of that hill where he gave you the pendant and left for the city in the mountains.” Celia hovered, looking at the spot while her mother walked ahead. Realizing she had been left behind, she dove down and landed beside Meadow.
“And he will return to us.”
“For that,” Meadow replied, “we can only hope.”
Author's Note
This chapter is obviously influenced by Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter , while the title derived from Springtime Promises Basket of Light . It played for many hours while I wrote or thought about this story.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
In the ten summers since Blanchet left them, Celia’s memories of the old mare, their only ally amongst the villagers, grew fainter. A flash of remembrance might come, an imprecise vision of the weaver at her machine, her tiny self sitting beside it, captivated by the tangle of strings and the flurry of motion. It must have been the blue blanket the weaver was making, Celia concluded, the one that appeared with chilly autumn nights. These days, like her recollections, the blanket’s color had faded.
What remained vivid in her memory were the arduous trips through the village. The stares, the barking dogs, the taunts: She would not forget a single one. She could not. And her mother’s insistence that she walk, not fly, made it all the worse.
“Why, Mother?” she would ask. “Walking is so slow. I can fly as fast as a bird.”
“I know, my dear, but let them see that you are as much pony as bird.” And Mother’s face would blossom with a brittle smile. Little Celia knew it was not a good smile.
Celia did not remain little. In those summers, she grew tall and strong, as did her desire to be in the air. Mother no longer restrained her, and if the villagers had ever seen pony in her, they could not now. No longer did she walk alongside her mother when they ventured into the village, yet never did she leave her unaccompanied. Celia’s shadow escorted her mother along the road north, and once in the village, that shadow slid over the ponies’ homes in a silent proclamation that she watched. No, she would not let them forget she watched.
Mother insisted she not hate the villagers, for Celia was part pony herself. “To do so would be to hate oneself, and that is poison to the heart.” Celia struggled. It was the hardest thing Mother ever asked of her, for not a grain of good could she find in them, seeing how they treated one of their own. Unswerving, Mother remained forgiving of Celia’s anger, even when Celia knew she did not deserve it. Eventually, she yielded, promising not to hate them, yet neither would they be loved.
Village trips were few nowadays. Field work occupied their lives, and while the world of her father came to Celia with ease, mastery of the earth eluded her. Planting and harvesting held no luster, notwithstanding her desire to please. Her ever supportive mother heaped praise upon her work, although Celia knew she was clumsy. Sprouts and weeds appeared maddeningly alike despite the endless and patient tutoring. How did Mother’s hooves move so deftly about the little green stems while her talons uprooted everything? The skills of the farmer seemed forever unlearnable, the magic of the earth unobtainable.
Meadow recognized the signs in her child: listlessness, dejected scratching in the dirt, those dispirited, skyward stares. So when Celia was still young, she had devised a ruse. When the work became tiresome and the child became downcast, Meadow would prick up her ears and feign a sudden shock.
“My dear, can you hear them?” she would exclaim while holding a hoof just behind her ear in an attempt to catch some distant sound.
“Who,” a startled Celia would ask, for she heard nothing.
“I hear rabbits munching. Yes, I do.” And Meadow would nod most ardently. “They are in the garden by the house, robbing us of the peas you so love. Go now and shoo them away.”
Without hesitation, Celia would throw herself into the sky and race off to put a halt to the long-eared perils. However, the gullible child always arrived too late to apprehend those rabbits dining on peas, or the mice conspiring against a cabbage, or any of the other fabrications intent on seeing them starve come wintertime. Finding nothing, Celia would fly to and fro above the garden like an anxious dragonfly until she at last tired and perched on the hut’s roof. From that vantage point, she could safeguard their garden and watch her mother labor in the distant fields. But her attentiveness never lasted long. In due course, her gaze was drawn to where the sky and mountains met.
Long gone were Celia’s childhood days. Too old for such trickery now, she persevered in the fields. Still, Mother knew.
—❦—
It was two days past the new moon, the one marking the end of spring, and evening was approaching. Celia and Meadow were weeding the long rows of sprouts in a field east of the stream, and as they worked, darkness rolled over them. Both looked up. Vigorous winds bustled the clouds across the sky, capriciously obscuring the sun before returning it. With the momentary darkness gone, Meadow went back to work.
A woebegone Celia remained transfixed by the lofty clouds gliding over the grasslands. She watched them drift towards the far away, dispassionate mountains. So distant and entrancing, tinged red by the receding sun. Celia pulled herself away and stared down the row of seedlings. As always, the last row seemed longer than the rest combined. She sighed.
“Celia, dear…”
Her reply was curt. “Mother, the garden is safe.” And she lowered her head and returned to the task of weeding.
“I’m sure it is, but what do you think of the blueberries?”
“What?” Celia tilted her head. Was this some strange new ruse?
“On the hillside,” Meadow began. When Celia’s eyes narrowed, she added, “By the bend in the stream where you sometimes fish.”
Celia’s head snapped up. She paused, uncertain and apprehensive, for the subject of her fishing was seldom broached. “Yes. What of the blueberries?”
“Do you think, perhaps, they are ripe?”
“I… I have not checked. When I’m finished I’ll—”
“Go and get a basket,” Meadow instructed.
“But I’m not finished.” The objection appeared to go unnoticed.
“Get a basket, and if they are ready, we shall have them tonight. Now go.” The corners of Meadow’s mouth lifted only a fraction.
Celia knew not what to make of that nascent smile.
“Go and check, dear. I will finish here.”
With an effortless leap, Celia escaped the dull earth. “Thank you, Mother,” she called from overhead, and after circling the field twice, she made for the house.
Arriving there, Celia sought out the berry basket. A brief search was required, for it was not stored where is should have been. Once found, she raced towards where the berries grew.
Being in the air, even for such a short time, left her intoxicated. She giggled, zig-zagging across the fields to stretch out her trip. A flock of shiny jackdaws exploded from the bushes, issuing complaints to the intruder. Now she had competition! Celia pursued them, scattering the startled birds across the fields, laughing all the while.
With her sport finished, she returned to the bushes near the stream and began plucking berries, for they were indeed ripe. Her talons worked well for this chore, but she did not rush, placing each berry in the basket with great ceremony. Soon the basket was full, and she returned to the air and hovered, letting the sun warm her.
Not too distant, Mother sat on a hilltop. A long, narrow shadow stretched out beside her. Celia wondered how she could have finished both their work in such little time. Then the thought struck her that she might be admonished for dawdling. But her mother did not call, nor move, nor do anything but sit and watch her. Unsure of what she should do, Celia did nothing. So the two looked at each other, one anchored to the earth, the other hanging in the sky. A full minute passed.
At last Meadow moved, but only to touch the pendant that dangled from her neck. It was then that Celia recognized where she sat. It was that hill, the one from which her father had departed.
Meadow rose without calling to her daughter. She turned and walked away. Celia caught up to her and landed. They walked side by side.
“You have the berries?” Meadow asked as they ambled down the hill.
“Yes. They were ripe as you thought.”
“Good,” Meadow replied. “That is good.”
No more words were exchanged between them on the way home.
—❦—
The washed berries went into a wooden bowl upon the table. While meal preparations were under way, and their home was tidied, first Meadow and then Celia sampled the plump treats. Both remarked on their taste. This one was bitter, the other not quite ripe but, ah, that one was perfect.
Celia was relieved, for she thought Mother was more herself as the berries disappeared. All she had thought about on the awkward walk home was that she would be chastised for dawdling. Now, aided by the berries’ sweetness, perhaps nothing would come of it.
As for the blueberries themselves, one more and yet another were assessed, so that by the time the evening meal was upon the table, not a single one remained.
Like many that labor hard, their fare was never luxurious, but always nourishing and plentiful. They ate, and the hut was quiet.
Peculiar, Celia thought, for as they ate, it was Mother’s wont to speculate on the weather, or converse about planting plans, or the growth of the crops, or harvesting, all the concerns of ponies that work the earth. Also missing tonight was the question of the meal being tasty or not. She did not inquire if Celia desired more. Neither did a happenstance evoked the retelling of some story. Mother ate quietly.
Was it her tardiness? Not persevering in the fields? Celia wondered if an apology might be required. Mother was, sometimes, quiet when displeased. Not often, but sometimes.
When they had finished, Meadow rose, and both began the nightly ritual of putting their home in order before sleep. They removed the plates and utensils, placing them upon the sideboard where they awaited washing.
The last item Celia removed was the empty wooden bowl. She turned and handed it to her mother. Then she went to tend the fire and began poking at the wavering embers to again summon a flame. It emerged quickly.
Behind her, a gasp and a heavy clunk: Celia turned. Mother stood near the window, her eyes covered, her sides heaving. She lurched forward, knocking aside the wooden bowl that lay on the floor.
Swiftly at her side, Celia touched her shoulder. “Mother?”
“No! Please.”
Celia withdrew. Upset over dropping that old wooden bowl? Why, it made no sense. Had she taken ill? It would explain her peculiar silence.
Meadow uncovered her eyes. Turning, she threw a glance at Celia, before lowering her head. “I’m sorry.” The tone was plaintive.
“Come, sit by the fire,” Celia offered. “I will finish the work. Sit by the fire.” And she attempted to escort her there.
“No. I—” Meadow’s voice shook. “I am very tired.” Nodding, she said rapidly, “Yes, tired. I should go to sleep.”
“There is still work—”
“Never mind,” she insisted. “We shall finish come morning.” She turned to Celia, and spoke in a manner both pleasant and tranquil, “You need not join me. Go outside for a bit. I will leave a candle burning for your return.”
“Candles are expensive, Mother.”
“It does not matter! Go! Go outside.”
Tense seconds passed. Meadow added, “Please. I need rest. That is all.”
Not entirely convinced, yet not wanting to argue, Celia bade her mother good night and left.
Outside, the sun had spent its last in remaking the clouds into a weightless mountain range in dappled pinks and grays. Celia studied it, watching the sky redden. Shortly, she decided upon flying to the river.
With the setting sun, the countryside beneath her slowly blended into a uniform gray. The thought struck her that, even when only blackness remained, the colors still existed, hidden, never lost.
She reached the river and headed to the mill, then from there followed the river upstream, to where it emerged from the woods north of the village. Unhurried as she was, by the time she had arrived over the village, dusk had made itself comfortable there. Lights already glowed through windows. Full night would come soon, and being no owl, she must return home. She did so and upon arriving, alighted on the roof of the hut, for perching there afforded a wide view of the land. The after-light faded; the darkness grew.
Flying seemed to bring such excitement, a euphoria. How contrary was the peace, the contentment, she felt as she looked upon the fields. Mother said the pony part of her, the part which understood the powers and needs of the earth, spoke to her then. Celia ruffled her feathers to disperse the thought. She raked her talons through the roof’s rushes, remembering the feel, that crinkling sound. From her youngest days, she had liked it.
Mother said their home was constructed long before even she had been born, soon after her father left the village with his bride. Among the distant silhouettes, Celia strained to see. She knew they were there, the two stone mounds that lay to the west, the simple markings of the resting places of the hut’s original inhabitants. Mother’s mother was gone before she was a day old. Of her, Mother had no memories; for Celia it was as if she never existed. Not so for her pony grandfather, for in the home he had constructed, he still lived, only sleeping upon that far hilltop. Mother made him live on with the stories of his life, with the songs he had sung, the tales he had told. He lived through her, a benign ghost that the prairie wind could not dissipate.
Darker now, and whip-poor-wills darted across the still-lit remains of the sky, starting their day, not ending it. The flock of little birds twisted and spun in pursuit of insects swarming in the cool night air. Celia thought of the sky and the birds. She thought of the village and the ponies there.
A member of neither flock nor village. Her only heritage was the story of the griffon. And what of her father, Ahren, whose noble qualities Mother extolled? Another of Mother’s ghosts—and Celia’s as well. He had left his daughter no songs and only a single story, one promising his return.
On countless days, Celia had relentlessly surveyed the horizon, her eyes boring through every mountain, assured she could draw him forth, yearning for his promise to be fulfilled. How many nights had the dreams been so vivid that she knew them to be real? At dawn she would wake, expecting to find the eyes Mother described looking down upon her.
At last he would have come, his golden wings spread wide! He had arrived to rescue them, he would announce, and now they would go to their true home, that magnificent white city so far away, where they would live together, forever!
There, above snowy peaks, she and her father would soar, cutting the crisp mountain air, laughing as they went. Mother would be in the valley below, lying amongst the greenest grass imaginable, beside the bank of a murmuring stream. Laughing too, she would wave and urge them on, promising a kiss to the race’s winner. Then at night—on every night—there would be an enormous meal, in a proper house, like the ones the villagers had. Afterward, while they rested beside the fire, Father would tell marvelous stories of noble heroes and clever knaves. Eventually, too tired to request another, she would fall asleep, utterly contented.
Mother said they must be patient and brave. They must continue to hope. But in the blackness of night, on the edge of the endless prairie, sitting and waiting and hoping had no more substance than a dream at sunrise.
The whip-poor-wills’ cries faded. A feeble breeze was her only companion. Celia hopped from the roof. She went inside, easing the door closed behind her, and there on the table, as promised, a candle burned. Celia went to put it out but heard muffled weeping. Mother lay face down in her bed, her hooves held tight against her eyes. Celia touched her.
“Mother? Mother, what is wrong?” The tears increased. Profoundly unprepared and frightened, Celia held her. Mother’s face rocked back and forth against her side.
“It will be all right,” Celia said.
“No!” Meadow gasped. “It can never be right! Forgive me. Oh! forgive me.” She begged forgiveness again and again as she struggled against Celia’s hold. Minutes passed. Her strength waned. She uncovered her eyes and wrapped herself around her daughter, sobbing.
Again Celia asked, “What is wrong? You must tell me.”
“He’s never coming back,” Meadow managed between sobs. “Never. Never.” She ended with, “It was all a lie.” The muffled words were faint, for her face was buried in Celia’s feathers.
How tiny and weak she seemed, Celia thought. No. Her mother was not weak. She worked hard in the fields to feed them. She bore the scorn of the villagers, yet refused to hate them. Did these things not take strength? Yes, her mother was strong, as strong as iron.
“I was a young fool,” Meadow mumbled. “A fool to believe—in his love, that he would return.”
“That cannot be,” insisted Celia. “Father was noble. You told me that. Was that not so?”
“Yes, I… But—”
“Then he would not lie.”
“Why has he not returned?” pleaded Meadow. “Where could he be?”
Celia had no answer, for the faith she placed in Father’s word came from the story itself. Mother’s certainty, her love, wove more than story, but truth itself. For Mother to no longer trust her own truths, it was unimaginable.
“I believed in his love because I wanted to. I needed to. I was a fool.”
“Then—why did he give you the pendant? Why did he say those grand words?” Celia caught a sparkle in her mother’s eyes: In the depths of her heart, hope still lived, but could not be sustained.
“Where is he?” Meadow hid her face and cried, “Why does he make me wait? It is unbearable!”
Celia held her. There was nothing else to do. Bewildered, she maintained a blank stare upon the walls while Mother wept. Once their home felt so big, but tonight, with each flicker of the candle flame, with every sob, it shrank. Their shelter from the elements, their safeguard from hostility, felt confining, too small for the sullen shadows fluttering on its walls.
“Forgive me,” said Meadow. “It is no fault of yours, only mine.”
Years ago, in a moment of spite, Celia told her mother she would harm the village ponies, although she had been too small to carry out such an act. Mother told of a place called prison. Gloomy and bleak, and very far away, it was a place for those who did wrong. As punishment, the Councilor would send you there, and there you would remain, alone with your thoughts, until you realized your error. At the time, Celia thought the villagers should be sent to prison.
Now she knew it was Mother who was the prisoner, and her life was her cell. Celia herself was her crime. The ponies had abandoned her, casting her into a void of loneliness from which Ahren’s return would be her only rescue. The promise of his return supplied her with the strength to endure all. Alas, the years had overburdened her faith. Time had bested her hope.
Celia sought to rekindle it. “He will come. He promised.”
Meadow’s crying ebbed. She shook her hanging head. “Oh, my dear. It has been too long. He will never come to us.”
Perchance it was no more than romanticism, perhaps the sublime impetuousness of youth, but a resolve gripped Celia, a determination that seemed to materialize from the very air itself. And the words she spoke felt as if they came from another, one supremely composed, one superbly valiant.
“Then,” she vowed, “I shall go to him.”
—❦—
Those valiant words, spoken in darkness, now faced the light of day. The preparations were complete, and mother and daughter stood not far from their home.
Celia glanced back at that simple dwelling, the only place she had ever known. Morning’s soft light imparted a blurry incandescence to it, and she no longer thought it small. It and its modest comforts, she realized, would soon would be behind her. Her bedroll, a faded blanket secured by rope, was slung over her shoulder; a homespun pouch hung from her neck. The little food she carried could last no more than a day or two, so for the remainder of her journey, however long that might be, she would forage.
Mother turned to her, and in her eyes, Celia saw the hopelessness dwelling there still. After a night of fitful rest, she seemed stronger, more herself, yet despite such outward bravery, Celia feared for her. How would she fare once all alone?
“When I am gone,” Celia said with half-hearted confidence, “the village ponies will treat you kindly once more.”
Meadow’s smile was forced and soon became pained. Her head drooped. With glassy eyes fixed upon the ground, she whispered, “Perhaps…” Then, with unexpected urgency, she removed Ahren’s pendant, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in Celia’s pouch. Neither uttered a word; both knew its purpose. With the act complete, Meadow locked her daughter in a crushing embrace.
“Dearest heart, the earth was never your home. I will not keep you here.” As swiftly as Meadow had grasped her, Celia was released. “Go now. Go to the mountains and find your father’s city. Go.”
“I will. I will find him and return him to you.”
And thus, no more than twenty paces from where she was born, Celia left her mother.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
With a gasp, Celia leapt up, wholly awake, and clambered backwards.
The griffon, unperturbed, scarcely budged.
Since he made no move, she sought to appraise him. Older, he still possessed a lean and muscular frame—beneath a coat of many scars. A toe was missing at the first joint on his left foot, and where his right eye should have been only a void remained, the lids sewn shut with no more consideration than one might give to a torn sack. Strapped across his chest was a creased leather harness. Affixed to it was a battered scabbard which held a sword positioned for swift retrieval.
A brigand, thought Celia and retreated a half-step back in preparation to flee.
“Ho, fledgling,” he cried out. He cocked his head and, with his solitary eye, inspected Celia’s possessions now strewn among the rocks.
Behind him and in the distance, Celia heard a noise and picked out a pair of griffons perched atop the broken remains of a distant slide. The morning light glinted off their helms and the points of the long spears they shouldered.
The griffon threw an intimidating glare at her. “Have you weapons?” he growled.
“What?”
“I want to know if you have any weapons,” he restated harshly.
“No,” Celia’s voice wobbled. “Nothing.”
A grunt followed a quick nod, and then he bellowed, “Hie to the city with word!”
Celia spun around and discovered to whom he had called. Another two floated behind her; they brandished their spears. One screeched an acknowledgement, and as commanded, both shot off. Turned around again, Celia looked at the griffon. He faced her with a grim stare. Had she fled, as she thought to do, might he have pursued? And what of those waiting with their weapons at the ready? Icy dread fell upon her, setting her ashiver. But for an instant’s delay, her life might have been forfeit.
“Now,” the griffon commanded, “gather your things, fledgling—but with care. And no delays.”
For the briefest moment, Celia hesitated and then began rounding up her belongings. While she did, she fretfully watched his movements from the corner of her eye.
He raised a foreleg. It inched towards his weapon.
Celia froze.
With his grip on the hilt, he slid the sheathed sword with a calculated slowness along the crisscrossed belts of his harness until it rested along his side.
“Come, come,” he chortled while giving the scabbard a pat. “For certain, ’tis a dangerous place we’re in, but you’ve naught to fear from me—as long as you follow directions. We’ve no time for dallying this day, for there’s much flying to do and—” He paused and turned towards those on the rocks before resoundingly adding, “It’ll take forever with one so slow as you.”
Squawks of laughter echoed in Celia’s ears. She resumed packing, sneaking hurried looks at her captor when she found the nerve. His looks, his manner, all about him was terrifying, but in due time, her anxiety was subdued by a swallow, and she dared ask, “Who… Who are—”
“What does it matter?” he snapped and, for a second or two, glared. Then he sighed. “Soldiers. Nothing more.” A moment afterwards, his eye narrowed and harshness returned to his voice. “Keep that in mind and obey the commands you’re given.”
Only her faded blanket remained unpacked.
As he waited, the griffon repeatedly clacked the sword’s scabbard until, following an exaggerated exhalation, he twisted around and shouted, “Hurry. I’ll be late for supper at this rate.” Again, his amused companions voiced approval.
With packing complete, Celia slipped the pouch over her neck and slung the bedroll over her shoulder.
“Finished?”
Along with a nod, she uttered a quaking “Yes.” The soldier approached, and Celia’s breaths came swift and shallow. He peered at the knot binding the blanket. After a disapproving shake of the head, he set about revising her work, remaining unsatisfied until entirely redoing her knotcraft. A tug for confirmation, and then he grunted his satisfaction.
“Good,” said he, milder than before. “You are to follow me. Stay close and on course. And supposing you don’t? Well, the two behind me have instructions to use their oversized pins to give aid. Understand?”
She struggled to answer, but discovered her tongue unwilling.
The fierce-looking soldier chuckled as he backed away and, without further words, vaulted into the sky.
Celia followed as he rushed towards the pair on the rocks, both now airborne. The spear bearers fell into formation as she passed, yet, minding the warning, she dared not turn to discover how near or far they trailed.
The soldier climbed to a great height, leveled off, and then accelerated. All too quick, the truth in his taunt became apparent.
Over her journey, Celia thought she had become a master flier, but keeping up with the one-eyed soldier was nigh hopeless. He flew with unparalleled efficiency, each movement incisive and precise. Compared to him, she no longer felt like a bird soaring the skies, but a fish thrashing upon the shore.
The day wore on as they sped along, twisting and turning through the convolutions of those northern mountains. Fatigue magnified Celia’s concerns, not once did she have the opportunity to glimpse those behind her. Was the soldier’s threat real? Should she stray or fall behind, would they use their weapons?
Ever onward the indefatigable griffon led the band, ascending peaks with ease, tearing through windswept valleys, swooping perilously alongside crags. As they did, a remarkable sensation swept over Celia. Did she not recall visiting these places days before? Moving at such breakneck speed allowed no opportunity to confirm her suspicions. Then she began to wonder if they had not circled back, covering the same ground twice and, mayhap thrice. How could that be? Still, everything appeared familiar. In time, it mattered not that every peak and valley looked identical, nor that the sun blurred her vision, nor how far or long they had flown. Exhaustion set in. Concentrating on matching the leader’s pace became her exclusive goal, and soon she failed at that, for after another uncounted turn, the gap separating them began to increase.
After weaving through a group of jagged spires, the soldier miraculously trimmed his speed. Between those gray towers burst forth a valley blanketed by a vast pine forest and filled with glittering streams. In its midst, Celia caught sight of a towering mesa, no natural occurrence, for it was hewn from the mountains themselves. And atop it rose a city fashioned from white stone, gleaming in the afternoon light.
With their destination near, the one-eyed soldier adopted an unhurried pace, leading the group in a slow glide over the treetops.
The city was Celia’s dream come true, even though the scene bore scant resemblance to the fantasies constructed on so many wishful nights. This did not matter to her, for the city was no longer solely words in a story, but factual, a reality before her eyes! Even from a distance the city’s scale was evident. Why, she thought, could it not hold the village ten times over—or more? Little of the place itself was discernible above its imposing walls, no more than the tops of a great number of towers, each crowned with a parti-colored pennant fluttering atop a flagstaff. This sight alone convinced Celia she had arrived at a place of ineffable beauty, unquestionably the home of her father. Fatigue soon muted this excitement.
From treetop height, the city towered above her, itself a mountain. At a point where it dominated the view, the soldier executed a crisp maneuver, banking into a steep climb. Celia’s aching muscles rebelled against this sudden change. Within moments they ascended the butte and skimmed along the city walls. Close up, it grew plain to her the stones of the walls were not pure white as she once envisioned, but a soft gray. This, Celia reasoned, was a fitting color for stone, but what she could not explain was the considerable damage the walls bore. Blocks were brutally cleft. Deep pockmarks abounded. And while bright patches of repair speckled the walls, the task remained unfinished.
A brief glimpse of structures within was all Celia managed as they cleared the wall’s top, for without delay, the soldier steered her towards the battlements. Exhaustion overcame her on landing, and she crumpled, just managing to haul herself the short distance to the outer wall where she slumped against the cool stones.
Her captor, hovering above, shook his head.
Celia did not notice, for with bowed head and shut eyes, she drifted in a private darkness, momentarily dipping into sleep until a metallic din disturbed her. She shifted, head lolling, and reluctantly opened her eyes, at last seeing the two who had followed her. Their helmets were off and lay in disarray upon a merlon, their placement the apparent source of the disrupting clangs. Of the two spear bearers, the shorter and younger looking one held their weapons and was stowing them in a wooden rack which already contained many spears of uniform length. Next, he gathered the helmets, which he hung nearby from wooden pegs embedded in joints between the stones. With no more tasks, he joined the other who trailed. She was tall, with a gray coat much darker than Celia’s. Presently both relaxed, smoothing out their long-confined feathers. Neither appeared much older than she, two or three summers at most, Celia judged.
A simultaneous clunk and wet plop turned her head. The soldier stood beside a water bucket, offering her a filled metal cup. Celia wasted no time emptying it, and still parched, she scooted next to the pail and got more. A third cup went down, and she gasped for air as she looked at the gawking griffons. Too weary to care what they thought, she continued drinking.
The somber moan of a horn emanated from the city’s core, and the griffons, as a group, turned towards it when the signal sounded a second time.
“Council, Captain?” asked the shorter of the spear bearers.
“Aye, ’tis. Second call, as well,” answered the one-eyed captain. “As I suspected, today’s catch piques the prince’s curiosity.” He rose and went to Celia and loomed over her. “Can you fly?”
Still puffing, she sat and glared down.
“It is but a short glide. We’ll carry you if need be.”
“I can fly.” Celia struggled to rise.
“No. In due time. Rest now.” Finished with her for the moment, he returned to the others and addressed the tall girl. “Rana, you and Darrow inform them we’ll arrive soon. Afterwards, report to the garrison and find something to eat. I won’t need you.” Glancing backwards he remarked, “She’s too tired to give trouble.”
“Yes, Captain,” the one called Rana replied. She and her companion prepared to leave, but the captain stopped them.
“Keep in mind they won’t let us stay long. That is for certain. Therefore, we must make the best of our time,” he instructed. “First, don’t mistake this for leave. Tell the others that and remind them I’ll be standing by on the practice field before sun up. Oh, and I’ll tolerate no drinking tonight either. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.” Rana and the other spread their wings and hopped over the innermost wall, disappearing into the city.
The captain strode over to Celia.
Having drunk her fill, she had let the cup sink to the bucket’s bottom, and now stared silently at it resting beneath the water. It proved a useful aid in ignoring the captain’s presence. What a monster, she thought, a heartless monster who had not allowed a moment’s rest to her—or the others—and only now brought water. Celia supposed he expected thanks, but refused to look at him. With his scarred body and missing eye, she deemed him the ugliest and meanest creature she’d ever known.
“Stand,” he stated, only to add a moment later, “Please.”
Out of spite, Celia waited as long as she dared before rising, and still unsteady, she slouched on the wall for support.
The captain gripped her shoulders and roughly straightened her. To begin with, he removed the old faded bedroll. “You won’t require this,” he declared and laid it aside. Celia offered no comment or protest, but when he reached for the pouch hanging from her neck, she clasped it to her chest.
“Easy now,” he said. “Keep it. I’m no thief.” And he backed away and sat, watching her closely.
For all the days she could remember, Celia thought the village ponies cruel and wicked, and despised them as much as Mother would allow. Now, the first griffon she had ever met she loathed more than any pony. Everything was wrong! This was not how she had imagined it at all. Was she not supposed to be welcomed by her griffon kin, reunited with her father so everyone would rejoice? No. Instead, she was an abused and exhausted captive of what decidedly must be the ugliest of griffons. Yet, like him or not, he was the only one who remained.
“What is to become of me?” Celia’s voice wavered.
“I do not know. But Warrik’s called council. He’s the one who’ll determine what’s to be done.”
“Who is Warrik?”
“Prince Warrik, our sovereign lord. He governs all matters.” Three melancholy notes sounded from within the city. At this, the captain rose and extended his back legs one at a time, stretching. He gave his neck a swift twist and said “And it’s time for us to go to him.”
—❦—
Celia flew beside rather than behind the one-eyed captain as they sailed over the city. He appeared not to care. Given at last a proper view, she understood the tall towers now, for this was not one city, but a city of cities. Groups of buildings encircled a tower of their own which flew a many-colored emblem. Walls separated groups one from another, although none rivaled the height of the city’s outer walls. Between the enclaves, paved roads snaked along, leading to numerous one and two story constructs not enclosed by walls. Poking from their entrances were awnings with stripes and simple patterns, resulting in a gaily colored patchwork.
As they drew near the city’s heart, the ways widened, and here, at last, green dominated gray, with trees forming long borders and lush grass covering the open spaces. While fewer in number, the buildings were on a grander scale. The griffon captain made towards the greatest of these, a stately construct upon a hill, white colonnades supporting its shallow-angled roof. And although surrounded by a wide stone plaza, curiously, no roads led there.
The captain’s destination was the great hall of the council.
Upon landing on the plaza, Celia gazed back in the direction whence they’d flown and took in the lay of the city.
The captain allowed her a few seconds before tapping her with his wing. “Let’s go. Mustn’t keep him waiting, you know.”
So she followed, passing between the fluted columns which formed the building’s portico, a wide space lit by low afternoon sunlight; It fell golden upon the stone walls encasing the council chamber. Along three sides narrow openings ran, stretching very nearly to the top, glassed in subtle hues. Bronze doors, two stories high, provided entrance to the inner chamber, and to these the captain led her.
Designs resembling clouds borne on swift winds decorated these doors, but it was the great ornate rings which served as their handles which left Celia thinking a giant dwelt within.
Flanking the doors were two armored guards, quite impassive, their vacant stares fixed on an imaginary horizon. So bereft of movement they were, Celia found the pair eerie.
The captain and Celia stood directly in front of them, yet were ignored. But when the captain removed his sword and presented it, the one on the left came to life, ceremoniously receiving the weapon and stowing it off to the side. With his duty concluded, he resumed his station, once again a statue-like sentinel.
“Now,” the captain instructed, “when we go inside, I want you to walk beside me, but a half step back—no more, no less. Always match my pace. We don’t have far to go, but I want you to hold your head level and keep your eyes forward. We’ll get to the front and stop a respectful distance from the prince. When I bow, you do likewise. Understand?”
How one might determine a distance respectful, Celia did not know, but responded, “I think so.”
“Good,” he said. He reached out to smooth an errant feather on her crest. “Take heart, fledgling. Warrik’s a brusque sort, always has been, but I’ve never known him to be unjust. All he demands is honest answers to his questions. Speak the truth, and I promise no harm will come to you.”
The light pat on the shoulder did little to change Celia’s opinion of the captain.
“All right,” he declared with mock enthusiasm. “Time to go.” Thereupon, he faced the doors and indicated readiness to the guards.
Both sprang up, and each seized a massive ring and heaved. The well balanced doors parted with a fluid motion, emitting a delicate rush of air. Fully open, they revealed a cavernous gallery suffused with muted light, and inside it, griffons of all proportions and coloration and ages lined a carpeted pathway. A multitude of voices stilled.
The captain strode in and was two paces in the lead before Celia’s head cleared and she was able to follow. Her heart leapt at the sight, and despite instructions, her eyes roamed, flitting from one side to the other. So many! More griffons than she could count, and every one ornamented with gold.
Tiaras, necklaces, brooches, and bracelets: all gave off a ruddy glow. Moreover, these embellishments served as the setting for an abundance of lustrous jewels. Graceful lady griffons, with such long lashes, wore iridescent gems deftly attached to feathers, glittering like stars on a winter’s night. Elder ladies were less ostentatious; sparkling brooches secured richly colored scarves draped about their necks. All members of the court were likewise adorned, bedecked with bracelets of gold, jeweled rings, or necklaces as was their wont.
An upward glance revealed platforms above the narrow windows where more griffons lurked in shadow, but among them too, Celia caught the glint of gold.
The whole city must be present, she was convinced. With so many, her father might be among them, somewhere, and lightning-like anticipation struck her.
As Celia and the captain passed by, voices burbled behind them, lively and inquisitive, and although the words were indistinct, she knew she was the subject. When they reached the prince, all those voices became hushed and rapidly died out.
Prince Warrik, sovereign of the city, sat upon a dais, a foreleg atop a rest of polished stone, talons gripping its end. Unlike the other griffons, he wore but a single item of finery, a golden circlet, narrow, lacking jewels of any sort.
Assembled aside him, but not on the platform, were eleven solemn griffons, each one advanced in years. Draped around their necks were golden chains, heavy, fabricated from elaborately carved links, the frontmost containing a large, solitary gem whose form and color was as individual as the wearer.
But it was the prince that Celia inspected closely. This Warrik, she though, was not so princely, at least as far as she had imagined. Mother’s tales portrayed princes without fail as tall and strong, handsome and brave. This one looked neither brave nor handsome and, from what she could see, was assuredly neither strong nor tall. As a matter of fact, he looked much like any other griffon, and a tad thickset at that.
A length or two from the dais, the griffon captain halted and bowed. When he realized Celia’s failure to abide by his instructions, he gave her side a discreet, reminding tap with his wing. The bow she presented to the prince was hurried and awkward, but it was her first.
“Greetings, Captain Murron,” proclaimed Prince Warrik loud enough for all to hear. “What an extraordinary pleasure that you grace us with your gruesome visage once more.”
Murron rose as the prince finished and rejoined, “My liege, I am pleased to find you filled with such excellent health. Your campaign against the royal kitchens must be progressing splendidly, no? Drawn up the articles of the chefs’ surrender yet?”
Aghast, Celia stood wide eyed, for the sport in which they engaged was foreign to her.
A hearty guffaw emanated from Warrik’s chest, reverberating throughout. “Crafty opponents, the lot of them, but I shall not be bested. Ha, ha! Your single eye discerns the truth better that ten equipped with two. Have I not always said so?” Then, after a slight interval, he bent forward and wistfully asked, “Have I declined so?”
“Nothing a year afield could not undo, Your Majesty.”
“Bah! And through what act of wizardry might I accomplish that? This lot”—and he motioned towards those arrayed about him—“will forever keep me here, a caged nightingale whistling for their amusement, growing ever plumper. Simple fare shared around a campfire would serve me well, would it not? Ah, ’twere it possible.”
“A great shame,” said Murron, “for we would be pleased to have you join us again. Amongst those old enough to remember, you are much missed.”
Warrik nodded, and when he spoke, his tone was earnest. “I was proud to sup with those who served my father. Tell them I will forever remember, and it is my fervent hope to someday rejoin them.”
The captain briefly bowed, and, confused by what had transpired, Celia bowed too, showing no improvement from her first.
“We will have your report now, Captain.” Warrik’s voice resonated throughout the great hall.
“Yes, sire. Our tracking began when this one first entered the mountains. We keep distant and only observed, for she was alone and, for all appearances, not a threat. Initially, she gave the impression she was bound for the city, so I tasked my charges with the course of action. A practical test of their training.”
“Yes. Well thought,” interjected the prince. “As always.”
“Observation was the prudent course upon which they decided, planning to intercept should she come within sight of the walls. Then, after a few days of moving through the southwest valleys, she became lost and confused, drifting farther west each day. A ruse, I thought at first. Perhaps she reconnoitered, but for whom and to what purpose I could not fathom, for her wanderings appeared random.”
Celia wanted to explain what he called wanderings, but realized interrupting might bring his ire—or the prince’s.
“Only one might seek to scrutinize our defenses, but despite her unusual nature, I doubt she is in the employ of our friends.”
A guttural sound of amusement came from the prince.
“By my estimation, in another day or two she’d have crossed the western border and met them, a fate I wish upon no one.”
Warrik leaned forward, grunting as he did so. “Agreed.”
“A great storm came from the north yesterday, grounding us, an opportunity for the taking. So last night, I decided we’d observe no longer. At sunrise, she was easily apprehended. No resistance.”
“Yes,” murmured the prince. “We were informed of these happening earlier.” One after another, his talons drummed upon the rest.
“Sire, I do offer a sincere apology for taking so long to return. We were forced to travel slowly, for she is a weak flyer.”
Weak? How dare he! Celia knew she flew perfectly fine, just… just not so fast. Riled by this remark, her resentment towards the captain grew greater.
“I see,” said Warrik and sighed. During the ensuing pause his tail thumped the floor. “And?”
“She holds promise. Conceivably with time and training—”
“And?” the prince repeated insistently.
Murron cocked his head toward Celia. Through narrowed eyes, she hurled a spiteful glare.
Unperturbed, Captain Murron concluded, “And so we are here. Nothing else is left to report, sire.”
Silence. A sudden, ponderous silence descended, the type that is conspicuous by presence more than absence, one given birth by profound uncertainty. In this heavy stillness, Celia knew all the griffon’s eyes were upon her: those that stood to her right and left, those who lurked in darkness above. And seated before her, Prince Warrik watched with all the compassion a raven gives its meal.
The prince cleared his throat. “Thank you, Captain.” He shifted position, sitting taller, appearing more attentive. “You are dismissed.”
Once again, Murron bowed. Upon rising, he turned, but hesitated before leaving. He sought to draw Celia’s attention with a movement of his head, not wholly a nod and in reverse.
The act left her mystified.
His signal lost, he breathed a sigh, then he left.
Now, amongst so many, Celia was alone.
“Well, fledgling…” Prince Warrik paused and inclined his head. “What manner of creature are you?”
The Tale of the Hippogriff
Ⅵ - The Prince’s Judgment
What type of creature? Well, she was not a pony, for the villagers had never seen her one of their own. To them, she was all griffon, and she thought so herself. Plainly the Prince did not. Otherwise, why would he ask such a question? Yes, she had hooves not paws and her tail was not that of a lion, but these differences were small were they not? Could he not see her for what she was or at least, what she supposed herself to be?
So to ponies she was a griffon and to griffons something else. Like her mother and her father, pony and griffon simultaneously, yet neither ultimately. Unique, Mother always said, but failed to assign a proper name to the uniqueness she possessed.
As she pondered, it became apparent Warrik was growing impatient for a response. Unsophisticated as she was, it was apparent to her that to keep a prince waiting was unwise. Yet how should his question be answered?
“I do not know,” she replied, eliciting laughter from the griffons behind her. She turned and glanced at them.
With a snap of his wing, Warrik summoned silence.
Startled by the sudden quiet, Celia turned and faced the Prince. “My name is Celia,” she said.
“Well, Celia,” he began slowly, “tell us the sort of dealings one unknown to themselves has in our kingdom?”
The question left her perplexed her and unnerved. She stood, beak open, and shook her head.
“I wish to know,” he stressed with more than a little irritation, “why is it you have come here?” Then he thrust a foreleg towards her as if to draw forth an answer. “You are a stranger in these mountains, an intruder in our domain. We demand the reason you have come.”
“My—my father.” It was obvious even to her that her words lacked confidence. Nevertheless, since neither the Prince nor his court responded, Celia attempted to provide a less ambiguous answer. “I am here to find my father. He is from this city. Well, I believe he is.”
“Ah, although slim, progress has been made,” exclaimed Warrik with a smirk. “Good, good. Now, one who calls herself Celia, if indeed your father is from our city, do you see him among us? If so, please point him out, for I have a great desire to speak with the griffon who would sire one such as you.”
Anxious and with a heart racing, Celia glanced around and said, “No…” Sudden embarrassment struck her, for it appeared, in some manner, the Prince had played a trick. “I mean… I’m not sure what he looks like—exactly.” In the ensuing pause, giggles mixed with whispers came from behind, but she ignored them and went on.
“His feathers and coat are gold. His name is Ahren.”
Upon hearing this, a tumult of griffon voices engulfed the hall. All spoke at once, and in that roiling sea of talk, the solitary word Celia could decipher was her father’s name.
With wings flared, Warrik leapt up. “Silence!” he bellowed. Twice more he gave the order before all obeyed. “You see!” he said to one on the elders on his left. “Did I not say we would endure this nonsense yet again?” He received a slow, serious nod in reply. Then he resumed his seat and, endeavoring to recoup his dignity, pulled his wings tight to his body. Holding his head high, he glared down and demanded, “Where have you heard the story?”
All the shouting left Celia’s thoughts a cacophony as great as the griffon’s voices. Addled, she stood dumbfounded and mute.
Warrik spoke haltingly and emphatically as if he were interrogating a mischievous child. “From whom did you learn the story of Ahren? You will tell us, and your words must be true.”
Celia’s voice shook, but she managed to eek out, “My mother.”
More murmuring in the court resulted, this time cut short by the Prince’s glare.
“Her name is Meadow. She is a pony.”
This produced muted laughter from the griffons, and this time, because he too appeared to find her statement amusing, Warrik let the disruption run its course. A considerable time passed before the mirth died out on its own.
“Your mother—is a pony,” he said. “My, my. This explains much, does it not?” While he rapped his talons upon the rest, his head moved from side to side. Then his eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “And where might we find this Meadow the pony? We have questions to ask of her too. We certainly do.” Laughter once more crept into the hall.
“She—we—live on the prairie. By a river.” Realizing the inadequacy of the description, Celia added, “Past the desert and the forest. It is quite far from here.”
“Ah! Conveniently distant, is it not?” And he cast a baleful glare.
Through a tightened throat she forced, “Yes, very far away.”
“Oh, such a shame.” He tsked for a considerable time. “A shame indeed, but I am not shocked.”
Now, looking as he did, she feared Warrik’s questioning was nearing an end, and her heart heaved.
The Prince raised his head, only a bit, and huffed. “Here or on the other side of the world, it matters not. Why should I believe her word any more than yours?”
“But—” Celia interjected, but Warrik continued unperturbed and louder.
“Words are no more proof than thunder is rain. These ludicrous claims bore us. Although, I must say, yours is at least remarkable in its originality, and momentarily entertaining. Regardless, you shall waste no more or our time.” A silence settled upon the hall, lasting but a moment. Then, Warrik began with a dismissive wave, and pronounced quite adamantly, “You will be escorted from our realm—”
“No!” A jumble of spirited voices engulfed Celia’s plaintive cry. The Captain lied to her! This Warrik was unfair! To travel so far, to be so near, then called a creature, humiliated, and denied and dismissed? This was a bad dream, a very bad dream, like falling forever, plunging uncontrolled into darkness.
“—and we strongly advise that you bother us no more,” Warrik finished, and the clamorous talk of the griffons grew to the point of deafening in Celia’s ears.
“No,” she protested even louder, but the Prince’s countenance remained unchanged. Panicking, Celia wrenched the pouch from her neck. She ripped it open, grasped the pendant by its cord, and held it aloft.
“This is my proof,” she cried. The pendant of exquisite blue rotated before her, light flashing off the stone’s surface.
In an instant, every griffon fell silent. Warrik leaned forward, fixated upon the stone. Celia thrust it towards him, insistent, defiant.
“Ahren gave this to my mother,” she shouted loud enough for her words to echo. “He would recognize me by this.”
Prince Warrik remained frozen, then arose. He stepped from the podium and, in four measured steps, stood before her.
Celia’s breaths came faster and faster, but still she remained unyielding, glaring back in steadfast refusal. Prince or not, the pendant was a truth none could not deny nor dismiss. When he reached for it, for she was fearful he might seize it, she clenched the cord in a grip of iron. But he withdrew, and this action mystified her.
Warrik sat, and for a moment, he did not move. Neither did he look at her, for the pendant transfixed him. Reaching out, steady and unhurried, he cupped the dangling stone, rolling it back and forth as he methodically examined it.
“Aye, your father would,” Warrik murmured in a weary voice. Slowly, and with a reassuring firmness, Warrik eased down her leg until the blue stone lay clasped between them.
Although Celia’s heart still raced, she found their intertwined talons fascinating. She felt the stone pressed against her, solid and smooth, warming in their mutual grasp. And the way Warrik held her was gentle, soothing. How strange: A moment ago anger possessed him, now all was washed away. Like him, she calmed and, upon raising her head, found Warrik’s melancholy eyes.
“Are you aware of what you possess, child?” he asked in a muted voice, for the words he spoke were not for the court, but for her only.
Celia whispered, “No.”
“You hold a sacred talisman of our house, one revered for more years than any could count. But my remembrances are recent, for this was my mother’s, given to her on the day my father swore he’d be hers forever.” Warrik shook his head and pressed the pendant tight in Celia’s grasp. For a short time, he appeared unable to speak.
“They were but the last of many, for so it has been for generations,” he concluded, and then he released his grip. Celia drew the pendant to her breast.
He grew reflective. “Never has it been given lightly. No. That my brother would not do.”
“Your—brother?”
“Yes, child, my brother.” Warrik paused to clear his throat. “Ahren is my brother, and it pains me to tell you he is not here.”
Sorrow passed over his face like a cloud. That look, eyes devoid of hope, Celia had seen far away but not so long ago. This recognition turned to chilling apprehension, leaving her on the edge of a precipice, teetering. With thin courage, she approached the question whose answer she dreaded.
“Where… where is he?”
“Lost.”
A single word and Celia’s hope, a star once so bright, faded and fell. It flickered out. She was numb.
Warrik rose and whirled about. “Council is adjourned!” he bellowed. The ringing of his command had yet to fade when he returned to Celia and blithely remarked, “My dear, you seem utterly fatigued. Famished too, I expect. Well, we shall have to attend that, won’t we?”
—❦—
A pair of armored guards hovered above, escorting Celia and Prince Warrik as the two made their way down the spacious hallway. Unlike the those who’d accompanied her earlier in the day, neither carried weapons—at least not visibly, and this removed some of Celia’s worry. But the hurried pace of the Prince was reminiscent of that dreadful Captain Murron.
To her surprise, Warrik possessed an unlikely suppleness, for his size belied his strength. As he vigorously strode across the marble floor, his claws produced muffled although distinct clicks. Celia’s did too, but the sound of her hooves reverberated harshly off the stone walls, each clack reinforced what she knew to be true.
Initially she had sensed it when the soldiers on the battlement stared, and it grew obvious with the first question Warrik posed. Mocking echoes chided her for the foolish error of thinking herself a griffon. She was not one them at all, or at least not wholly so. How different she was from both pony and griffon was apparent, and although unique she may be, alone in a faraway city, uniqueness provided no vestige of comfort.
When the group neared the end of the long hallway, the guards raced forward and landed, positioning themselves on either side of a doorway. Upon the Prince’s approach, one opened the heavily carved wooden doors, and together Celia and Warrik entered. Behind them the door closed.
“My private dining quarters,” Warrik indicated emphatically. “Reserved for more intimate gatherings rather than formal functions.”
The Prince’s idea of intimate was certainly extraordinary if not perplexing, thought Celia. The room was more than two stories high and, by her judgment, large enough to hold four houses from the village. Arranged within were wooden tables long enough to seat perhaps forty in total. On its far wall, like in the council hall from which they came, narrow windows filled with colored glass provided illumination. At this time of day, the early evening light lit the space hospitably. The effect left Celia with a feeling of warmth in the spacious room. Even so, to her the room’s best feature was its quiet, for the moment they entered, the echo of her hooves vanished.
“Wait here, my dear,” he said and bade her sit at the closest of the tables. “I will return shortly, once arrangements are complete.” And with that, he glided towards the doors which seem to magically open as he neared. Once through, they closed swiftly and with a resounding thunk.
Shouting rang out in the hallway. The thickness of the doors did little to disguise Warrik’s voice, although Celia could not discern a single one of his words. Alone for the first time that day, long suppressed fatigue overcame her. First, her eyelids closed and refused to reopen. Then down and down her head sank, gradually finding the support of the not too uncomfortable tabletop. A few moments of rest she promised herself—no more. And presently she was utterly and undeniably asleep.
As with sleep of this nature, the passage of time could not be gauged. Sometime during this rest, the commotion in the hallway ceased, and it was the awareness of silence which roused her. Uneasy about being apprehended dozing, she twisted about to watch the door, expecting Warrik to re-enter. He did not.
Celia sighed. But the brief nap left her momentarily refreshed, and since Warrik had yet to reappear, she began an examination of the sizable room. Quickly it was revealed why the echo of her hooves had disappeared upon entering, for great tapestries decorated the room.
The one to her right covered a good portion of the wall and depicted a scene of griffons in flight over a wooded valley. Rendered in brilliant colors, its makers managed to avoid garishness, instead appearing spirited and bold. Trees were pure green, and the water of the river snaking between them a rich topaz. Above, in the bluest sky imaginable, numerous griffons flew. Singly and in groups, they cavorted amidst billowing clouds of white, having no particular destination or purpose but to revel in their flight.
This idyllic imagery bolstered Celia’s spirits. Was this not the land of griffons she had always imagined? Was that not the very sky in which she flown alongside her father in dreams? Why, if such dreams could become reality, perhaps there was yet hope for her father—and mother. Somehow.
A trifle gladdened, she proceeded to the opposite wall, where another sizable tapestry hung. It appeared much older than the first, for its colors were muted to the point where everything took on a reddish-brown tinge. Portrayed here was a hunting scene. On the left sat a pair of stiffly posed griffons, royalty Celia surmised from the combination of their demeanor and ornaments. Exhibited on the ground before them was the day’s rich bounty. Directly in front, to which one pointed, was a platter heaped high with black-spotted fishes. To its right, braces of plump hares were stacked, and nearby them a multitude of birds. In the center was the prize of the hunt, a stag with hooves bound, hanging inverted from a pole. Three parallel gashes ran along its side.
That deer’s hooves drew Celia’s eyes, and she recalled the graceful trio who’d disturbed her sleep in the forest. They were not so different than the one hanging there… with twisted neck… and open mouth…
Never had Celia taken game. She had fished, of course, but that felt permissible, although she knew not why. Deer and birds were different from fish. Yes, once or twice a scampering rabbit tempted her, and she gave chase but for sport only, letting it escape harried but unharmed. What she did and what they tapestry showed were different—they had to be—although she could not find words which would explain. And even if it was only a picture, and from bygone times, to see a creature much like herself hanging lifeless…
Within her something primal awoke, and it commanded her to flee.
A shudder shook the feeling off. This work was ancient and decayed. Griffons once lived this way long, long ago, Celia reassured herself. Certainly, and in the years since it was created, things would have changed. Celia turned her back on the hunt and looked again upon the perfection of the landscape with its enchanting griffons flying above.
One more tapestry remained, the one hanging beside the doors through which she had entered. There hung the largest and most elaborate of all. Celia approached and sat before it.
In it a multitude of griffons and one-eyed horrors slaughtered each other with abandon. Armed with bow and spear and sword they clashed in a chaotic battle filling the air and covering the ground. Strewn upon the battlefield lay their dead and dying, both griffons and monsters, with arrows lodged in bodies, cleaved heads, or opened sides. Severed limbs lay here and there. And whenever given the opportunity, the artists had not spared crimson to illustrate the carnage.
Yet all was not gore, for in the background Celia saw a city, remote but recognizable, for it as the one she was now within. It hovered aloof, unsullied by the mayhem, and while she tried to focus on it, the savagery below exerted a strange attraction. Inexorably it drew her eyes to those frozen warriors, imprisoned for eternity in mayhem.
Above the fray, and conspicuously larger than any other, a single griffon floated. Golden in color, he hovered, a rampant combatant with eyes aflame and a bright red, curling tongue protruding from his beak. He brandished a sword equal to his height, sprouting flames.
Unexpectedly the door opened, and Prince Warrik entered.
“I am informed dinner shall arrive presently,” his booming voice announced as he strode towards Celia and took a seat beside her. “An exceptional work is it not? It took twenty artists over a year to make—or so I am led to believe.” He glanced sideways at her, adding, “I do not know for certain. It was commissioned when I was quite young.”
“What—is this?” Celia asked.
“Our victory over the Arimaspi,” he replied with pride. “It commemorates the final battle where they were at last driven over the western frontier. That there”—and he pointed—“is my father.” He produced a fleeting, curious laugh. “Why, your father’s father too I suppose. He led our brave warriors to victory. This was the last of the numerous battles they fought to drive these vermin, this pestilence of greed, from our lands.”
“But—” she began plaintively. “What are they fighting over?”
“Gold, of course! Many years ago the Arimaspi appeared in our valleys. Some say they came from across the sea in wooden boats. What we do know is they came in search of gold, and once they learned of our wealth, they set out to plunder our city.” He paused and added with disgust, “Treasure and brutality are all their base minds can comprehend.”
Everywhere in the council hall Celia had seen the griffon’s dazzling richness. To her, they seemed to be in possession of quite a bit of gold. She asked, “Couldn’t you not give them some to make them go away?”
Warrik cast first a glare of confusion which in no time grew to irritation. Then, with another shift in mood, he laughed heartily. “Simple child! Why, they would not have been satisfied until they had all our gold, and then they would have enslaved us to produce even more. Matters such as this, well, they are not easily resolved!”
Too soon Celia’s eyes were a captive of the horrific scene. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You need not worry about such things,” Warrik said. “It is all in the past.” Without delay he glanced over his left shoulder towards a spot high upon the wall. He huffed. Afterward, he rejoined Celia in staring at the artwork. Waiting quietly, and apparently patiently, for a stretch of time, he glanced about and again pointed at the scene. “You know, the one who brought you here, Captain Murron, he was amongst them on that day.”
Without a thought Celia snapped, “He is ugly and heartless.”
“Ha! As for the former, that I grant, although know he was handsome once, before those abominations sought to slaughter him. Not only handsome, brave too. They say not one could match his valor. Always he flew in the van alongside my father. Closer than brothers they were, fighting together in every battle, unto the last. And when the captain fell and the beasts were upon him… Father came to his aid.”
Warrik remained silent for some time, and curious to see why, Celia turned to him. He was looking up, eyes locked with those of the griffon who held the flaming sword.
“Our valleys are filled with storied stones,” he said. “One bears the name of my father.” Then, with hardly a pause, he turned and met her eyes.
“Now,” he began energetically, “as for heartless, when I was even younger than you, I held the same opinion. Understand, he trains the young to be warriors—like himself—should the Arimaspi return, and this mission he carries out with grave efficiency. This is his form of caring, for their lives, all our lives, depend upon his lessons. Do not confuse a stern demeanor with hard-heartedness.”
Before Celia could enumerate the indignities the captain inflicted upon her, a concealed door near the ceiling snapped open, disgorging servants who bore all manner of pitchers and platters.
“Come,” said Warrik. “Let us dine.” And he touched Celia’s shoulder and ushered her towards a table where servants were already arranging the fare and bustling off to fetch more. Celia sat down and from somewhere a servant deftly slipped a golden dish before her. When she turned to look, whoever had placed it there had vanished. On her right sat Warrik, who also had a plate appear before him.
Numerous servants worked in silence from the far side of the table, positioning wares with frantic yet meticulous movements, all the while maintaining bowed heads. Once their task was complete, they darted back to the door as quickly as they had arrived and disappeared. Not once in the entire procedure, Celia realized, had she truly seen a face.
Warrik started placing items on her plate. He named each dish and recited the ingredients which composing it and the spices with which it was prepared. Celia half listened to the descriptions, for once her hunger awoke, she was possessed.
Each mouthful of these delicacies contained a hundred new tastes. Each breath she took brought new, overwhelming aromas. Certainly it was the exceptional nature of this cuisine which produced the frightful effect on her manners. She ate without restraint, devouring each and every morsel placed before her.
Warrik provided her with more and more to consume, all the while talking. And while Celia heard his voice, truthfully she was not listening. Between swallows she heard enough to suppose he was making an apology. At one point he used the word claimants and later said something about birthrights and other such things. Sadly, gluttony held its sway throughout this speech, so never did she stop to ask what all those words meant.
At last Celia became full, as a matter of fact uncomfortably full, and she stopped. A pitcher and goblet were on her left, so she stretched out for the drink in hope that its contents might provide relief. Like everything she sampled at the Prince’s table, the beverage was exquisite, endowed with a silky malt flavor. It went down effortlessly and warmed her insides. She took another generous and pleasing mouthful before Warrik’s grasp stopped her.
“Oh, no. This is far too strong for you, young one,” he cautioned and took it from her. Then, for the briefest of moments, he froze with a keen look directed towards the door. Not finding what he expected, he returned his attention to Celia, saying, “Let us find something better suited.” And finding it, he handed her a different cup.
The replacement lacked the warmth-producing effect of the first, but it boasted a refined sweetness, like fruit and flower combined. This Celia liked quite a bit.
As she drank, Warrik made an abrupt motion in the air, an impatient wave, and the swarm of servants reappeared to clear the meal’s remains. No longer preoccupied with gorging herself, Celia took notice of the plate before Warrik. Curiously it had not seen a scrap of food. The unspeaking servants removed all but the cup Celia held, leaving a table as spotless as before the meal began, and then flew away like bees to a hive.
Warrik rose and marched towards the door, while Celia continued to sip her drink, watching. While she had neither seen nor heard it, a pair of griffons had been admitted, the two standing no more than two steps inside the room. One was small, but a child, who stood alongside an older griffon. Her wing tip rested lightly upon the child’s back.
When the Prince approached, the young one bowed and, with his head scraping the floor, hastily backed from the room. Unexpectedly, Celia found the scene humorous, but she sipped from her cup to stifle a giggle. The doors then shut, silently this time she noticed.
Taking the young griffon’s place, Warrik stood beside the lady griffon, her wingtip now upon his back. He made a remark, inaudible to Celia, and, at a leisurely pace, escorted the new arrival towards her.
As they approached, Celia set aside her cup.
“My dear,” Prince Warrik said. “This is Lady Lodema. She has waited your entire life for you to arrive.”
The Tale of the Hippogriff
The Lady was much like the court members Celia had observed in the hall. A generous scarf of blue and green encircled her neck, secured by a filigreed brooch of silver and gold. On her approach, she’d walked rigidly, her precise steps matching Warrik’s footfalls, and at all times she held her head high. Certainly she was aged, for the tips of her white crest were tinged the color of beeswax. Of the rest of her appearance, there was little of distinction, that is, beyond her eyes. They were entirely a hazy blue, not unlike a summer afternoon’s sky.
Celia thought her uncle’s introduction of Lodema markedly strange. Regardless, she should greet her, for not to would be impolite. Upon attempting to do so, she was cut off.
“I must touch her, Warrik.” The Prince guided Lodema’s talons to their goal, and without modesty, she stroked Celia’s ruff.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Although a gentle touch, Celia stiffened at this uninvited attention. Each hair of her coat rose like a stream of cold washed over her. And those eyes, so unnerving, transfixed her. Now she grasped their significance: The empty stare proved the old griffon sightless.
“Her plumage, her coat,” Lodema demanded.
Rocking his head to and fro, Warrik weighed a reply. “Some white. Much gray. Given appropriate light one might say she is—silver.”
Lodema loosed a conflicted exclamation of mingled pain and joy. Yet the description must have pleased her, for she delivered a robust pat to Celia’s cheek.
“And your mother, child?”
“Her mother,” Warrik interjected, “is a pony.”
The Lady’s ministrations ceased. Celia felt her withdraw for a second, but no longer.
“Tell me your mother’s coat. What is her coloration?”
“Uh… tan. Well, perhaps browner. What does that—”
“No, wrong. All wrong.” Frustration knitted her brow, and she vigorously shook her head. “No. The color of the… the—”
“Mane?” suggested Warrik.
“Yes, yes, the mane. Tell me the color of her mane.”
Glancing at Warrik, Celia received a reassuring nod, bidding her continue. Thereupon she turned back to face Lodema’s scrutiny.
“My mother’s mane is a reddish brown.”
“Ah!” Lodema tightened her grip, giving a shake on parting. “There. As I’ve always said, Warrik. The copper.”
“Yes, as you’ve said. Still, she possesses my mother’s pendant. That is of greater significance.”
Her patience ran out. In an honest manner Celia said, “You speak in riddles.”
At this the Prince guffawed. “Truly, but such are the pitfalls in conversations with the good Lady.” Then he waggled his head in mild amusement. “And you fledgling. Twice now I beg forgiveness. Only the Captain manages to make me seek that remedy more often than you. Let us begin once more, properly this time.”
With some ceremony, Warrik arranged his wings and limbs, causing himself to appear rather compact. His tail rose and curled forward, forming a graceful spiral at the tip, and then, with a slight tilt of his head, he looked towards Celia with his eyes gleaming.
“My dear Celia, I present to you the Lady Lodema of Waldren.”
“I… I am pleased to meet you.” After bowing, Celia felt foolish as the gesture went unappreciated.
“The Lady is an esteemed member of our house. She cared for your father and I since our births, making her all but our second mother.” Warrik then cocked his head towards the Lady.
“Good Lady, I present to you Celia—daughter of Ahren.”
The elder griffon lowered her head in a slow yet earnest manner. With similar restraint she raised it, uttering nothing.
Quietude held as each waiting for another to speak.
“I am pleased to meet you at last, Celia. Now, my dear, can you tell me how old are you?”
Another puzzling question. To what purpose, Celia wondered and was on the verge of saying it aloud, when Lodema spoke.
“Was it not fifteen springs ago you were born, after the fourth moon?”
Celia’s eyes narrowed, and through overburdened thoughts, she strove to recall. The number of the moon was right, of that she held no doubt. And yes, she supposed, this spring would have been her fifteenth.
“That is what my mother tells me. How is it that you would know?”
“Ah,” exclaimed Lodema. “From the distant day of your birth, I have waited. Now you have arrived to carry out your task.”
“I came to find my father.”
“And so you shall.”
“But—” Celia looked to Warrik, wholly puzzled. “You said he was lost.”
Lodema reached out and, without the slightest error, touched Celia’s cheek. “To all but you.” Inexplicably, those near colorless eyes of hers seemed to sparkle.
Trying to understand this old griffon was beyond futile, thought Celia. She glared at Warrik in exasperation, who appeared, to her dismay, amused.
“I did warn you,” he said impishly, and he rounded the table’s end and settled himself opposite the two. Once situated, he drew a hearty breath. Then, as in the great hall, Warrik’s voice took on an imposing quality.
“My good Lady,” he started, “Celia has had an extraordinarily arduous day. All she desires is to learn of her father, which is why we bid you come. Please, abstain from further mystifications. Provide us with an appropriate account.”
“Yes, M’lord.” The Lady offered a clipped bow and sat. She wound her tail about her feet.
Celia sat as well, but not before noticing Warrik looking distinctly pleased.
“I was not born into this renowned house,” Lodema began with solemnity, “but Bwye, the lowest of the eleven. As fourth daughter, there was no dowry and hence no prospects. So it was my great fortune that when the king was wed, I was our house’s gift to the royal couple.”
Those few words managed to bring about a great many questions in Celia’s mind, but when she moved to ask about houses and dowries and how an individual could be considered a gift, Warrik waved her off.
“The Princess Consort was the most benevolent mistress, for I received an education and many other things despite my station. Though older than she, we grew close, and in turn, I became more sister than servant. I assumed many responsibilities in my lady’s household before her firstborn arrived, and more afterward. Then, when it was not two years after they’d wed, and my little prince himself but a year old, the city was besieged. Fate cast us all into the damnable war with the Arimaspi.”
“Those are the things fighting—in the picture,” said Celia. Her hesitance left the words both a statement and a question.
“Yes,” answered Warrik. “But that is the end, and this is the beginning.”
Lodema nodded. “Correct. And it took an eternity, or so it seemed, until the brutes were driven from the surrounding valleys. In those times, the king was constantly afield, fighting, leaving my mistress to attend to the city’s business. So busy was she, the care of fledgling Prince Ahren became my sole duty, one I shall forever cherish.
“All the court loved the child, and oh, how our king doted on him. The little golden one, as he was called, delighted in the attention. Yet, seldom did father and son see each other and never for long. My Ahren pouted, too young to comprehend the peril his father faced. Harrowing times for all, even for a little prince.
“The king and our warriors battled the avaricious beasts again and again, pushing them farther west each year. By the third summer, anticipation gripped us all. Every report from afar increased our hopes. We sensed victory. And there was more pending joy, for the princess was again with child. With less than a week before Warrik’s birth, the news we’d eagerly awaited arrived. A great battle, a great victory. Its price was our king.”
“I never knew my father, but when we were young, Ahren told me stories,” said Warrik. “His memories were vivid, surprising since he was so young when Father died. Idyllic at times, I thought he’d dreamed them, but the telling gladden him, and in all honesty, truth or fiction, it mattered little to either of us. Still, more than any grasped, the loss of our father wounded him grievously.”
“This was the seed,” Lodema continued. “Darkness grew within him, subtle and pernicious. Yet it went unaddressed, for the young princes were but one problem among many in those tumultuous years. Our damaged city required rebuilding, damaged lives required healing, and the houses were restless again for lack of a leader.
“So it was that the Elder Council meet in private to address the matter. Then, shocking all, the fractious lot acted as one and appointed my lady regent, a great honor with a multitude of duties. Thereafter, managing affairs consumed all her hours, and I was entrusted with the rearing of both princes.”
“As I have discovered,” said Warrik, “the burden of the city is great.” His speech became rapid, insistent. “Understand, she loved us and we her, and she visited as time allowed. On those occasions, she appeared fatigued. Older now, I sympathize. But her presence buoyed my brother, for a while at least. Yet, as he grew, he dwelled on bitter thoughts and slipped into moods at the slightest provocation.”
“’Tis true.” Lodema nodded repeatedly. “A disposition as bright as the day, and then… Always we remained uneasy, knowing change would come. Then Prince Warrik was sent away, and Ahren fared poorly.”
“Sent away?” Celia asked. “To where?”
“In my twelfth year training began. I fell under the tutelage of Captain Murron, for tradition dictates second born is to defend, whilst the first born is to rule.”
It took a moment for Celia to comprehend the implication of his statement. With the hour growing late, there was the distinct possibility she might have misheard. “To rule?”
“Once he came of age,” said Lodema.
“Until then, our mother administrated in his stead,” Warrik explained. “Upon reaching his eighteenth summer, Ahren would become king.”
Celia looked across the table at Warrik, stupefied. Somehow, until spoken aloud, the significance of her father’s birth had eluded her.
Upon seeing the perplexed stare, Warrik swept in and completed her thought. “Yes, my dear—king.”
“Now,” resumed Lodema, “there was little time and much turmoil. To Ahren’s consternation, the tutors and I kept him to his preparations. Oh, how he fought. You’d have thought we sought to pluck every feather from his head.” Lodema chuckled. “Ah! My little golden one. How could I stay mad at you?
“Eventually, the time came, and plans for his investiture were agreed upon. A great celebration was planned, the houses unified, the city reborn. T’was not to be, for early in the year, a fever afflicted many, the Princess Consort among them. All through the spring she ailed. The houses sent healers to attended, but all failed, their medicines only seeming to worsen her. Seizures plagued her, awake or asleep. Just as summer came, my lady was gone.”
“I was not even your age, Celia, so you can imagine how lost I felt without her,” said Warrik. “But the effect on my brother was tenfold. Then, disregarding his grief, the Council accelerated their plans. By the seventh moon, my brother became king.”
“They feared instability,” Lodema added. “Peace amongst the houses is elusive.”
“Eternally elusive,” continued Warrik. “And Ahren’s propensity for rage did not aid the cause of peace. His anger grew unchecked. Longtime allies of Waldren deserted us. Before a year passed, all feared him. In darkened corridors there were whisperings of tyrant.”
“No!” cried Celia. “This can’t be right. That doesn’t sound like my father at all. Mother said he was kind and gentle.”
Despite the interruption, Warrik went on unperturbed. “The Elder Council took it upon themselves to remedy the issue. The ill-thought solution they arrived upon was to secure for him a helpmate, one who’d soothe his temper, provide him with stability.”
Celia tilted her head, attempting to make out what this meant.
“Shameful!” Lodema spat the word loudly. “They arranged for the houses to parade their daughters before him.”
“Is this—” Celia halted and began again. “Is this the way things are—with griffons?”
“Oh, it is not without precedence,” replied Warrik. “You see, in the old times, a council might—”
“Fools! Meddling fools the lot of them!” Lodema’s head shook vigorously.
Warrik’s countenance changed, Celia noted, resembling something akin to restrained delight.
“He rejected every single one—in quite a discourteous manner I must say. Once all were dismissed, it was the Council’s turn to feel his wrath. An epic tirade it is said.”
Lodema took up the story. “Afterward, in this room, we sat with him, first seeking to soothe. Then we struggled to remedy his actions, for you see, offending the great houses, as he’d done, invites peril.”
“Once calmed,” said Warrik, “he readily agreed all those presented were honorable and comely, possessing not a single fault amongst them. Instead, he said, the fault lay in himself.”
“It sickened us to watch.”
“My brother descended into a wretchedness I’d not seen before, loathing his very being. He declared naught could cure his ills.”
Evening was now upon them, and the light through the great windows dwindled. Unprompted, servants bearing candelabras emerged, placing them on nearby tables.
“How it pained me to see him so,” Lodema moaned. “My heart plummeted, a stone sinking into a lake. I’d failed him. I’d failed my mistress. His faults were my own, yet flawed though he be, he was precious. I could not abandon him.” Tears welled in her eyes. Straightaway fervency replaced it, and she waved a talon before her as if dispersing a fog.
Nearby, two servants used tapers set the candles alight, and soon the room took on an opulent golden glow. As the pair worked, they were nonexistent to the Prince and Lodema.
“Yet, although sunk to a nadir of my very own, I found myself capable of seeing his affliction. He’d lost the ones he’d loved, so fear locked away his heart. As a consequence, he considered himself unworthy of love. This left him with anger as his sole servant, with which he sought retribution on the world. Yet he was not without hope, for he knew from his preparations that a monarch must foster harmony, should never sow strife. Thus he was engaged in a war within himself.”
The lamplighters departed, and Celia marveled at the abundance of tremulous flames. More than the gold, or the jewels, or the other finery she’d seen, this to her was luxury. Never had she or her mother lit but one candle at a time. Her brief reverie ended as the Lady’s voice rose in pitch.
“With sudden lucidness I recalled words from an ancient text I’d once read. I told your father he must think of himself as water.”
“Water?” said Celia. “That makes no sense.”
Warrik chuckled. “Similar to your father’s response, but from my memory, he was a tad more confrontational.”
The old griffon’s stern look made it clear she appreciated neither of their remarks.
“Yes, water. And I told him water trapped atop a mountain freezes to ice, cold and hard, lifeless. It must flow, effortless yet effectual, over the land for it to live. It travels through the lowest of places, ever in motion, forever shifting.”
Lodema shook her head. “Ahren scoffed at me, preferring to nurse his sorrow. I pressed on and called upon him to consider water’s intricacies. It moves at the slightest touch, yet it is not weak, for does it not refashion the earth? Has it not the power to cleave living rock? Is it not the force that carries away the mountains?”
“Granted, this talk did engage him,” said Warrik, “but he gave the impression he was befuddled.”
Lodema’s eye took on a passionate shimmer. “But, I pointed out, water is more than strength. Although the rivers preside over the valleys—”
Adding a flourish, Lodema's talons swept through the air, close to Celia's face. She drew back in shock.
“Oh! they never subjugate. They embracing all, nourishing, bringing fertility to the land. Land is water’s love, a devotion given without expectations. It serves, and in doing, so becomes worthy of love. It was then Ahren said he believed he understood, and I was overjoyed when he bade me continue.
“Water journeys onward, streams blending, rivers harmoniously uniting, accumulating the delights and sorrows of life. This is its true strength, its excellence. When at last it transforms into the sea, it does not perish, neither does it come to rest, for its task is never complete. Now water encompasses the land, binds it together, redefining it according to its own ways.”
After heaving a sigh, Warrik summoned a solitary servant with a wave. She drew near, bringing a tray which bore a tall pitcher and cups, which were then filled and placed before all. The servant exited. It took a moment of searching, but Lodema found hers and took a polite sip. Celia did likewise—it was the delicious beverage from before. Warrik downed an entire mouthful.
“The Lady’s edifying discourse had a positive effect upon him, but with his emotions drained, my brother retired, looking somber and pensive. Somewhat relieved, the two of us left and consulted the Captain. With his aid, we parleyed with the Council well into the night.” Warrik drained his cup and planted it upon the table with a dull thud.
“Upon awaking the following day, late I might add, Ahren announced he would vacate, temporarily, going into seclusion. His stated intention was to return before two moons passed, and until his return, the city was to remain in my care. Glad to rid itself of him, if only for a little while, the Council assented. And so he set out that very afternoon.”
“Did he tell anybody where he was going?” Celia asked.
“It is customary,” Lodema, somewhat irked, explained, “to seek out a distant valley where, in solitude, one lives and hunts, observing the ancient customs. It is a private matter. One never inquires.”
“This unfathomable sense, or something, presumably guides you. I doubt he had a specific destination in mind.” Warrik poured himself a refill. “Regardless, two moons came and went, and from wherever he’d gone, he failed to return.”
“Tell me, child, how is it he came across your mother?” asked Lodema. “What was a pony doing in our mountains?”
“Mother has never left our settlement in her life.”
“Then where did they meet?”
“She caught sight of him near a stream not far from our home, on the eastern prairie.”
“Why would he be as distant as the prairie? Was he lost? Injured?”
“No, he was fine. But the winds there are strong and blow for days without end. They grounded him. My mother found him resting, and took him in.”
“Hmm.” Lodema sat in silent contemplation, her head nodding ever so slow. “Still, I remain puzzled as to why he was so distant from home.”
“He told my mother he’d followed the rivers to the sea and was—”
Warrik burst out laughing. “My good Lady!” he cried out and struck the table so hard it threatened to topple the cup before him. “He mistook your metaphor for a map!”
“It doesn’t matter!” Lodema snapped. “He… He had a vision—yes, that’s it!—a vision told him the course he must follow.” She addressed Celia. “Where was he headed when he left your mother?”
“Here. He said he’d go to his city and return for her.”
Lodema turned to Warrik and said with vehemence, “We should have searched outside the mountains.”
“How were we to know?” he replied, his laughter replaced by annoyance. “We looked everywhere that made sense—for two whole moons! How could we know he wasn’t here?”
“Then, he didn’t return?” asked Celia.
“No,” Lodema replied. “We never again saw him. T’was if the land had swallowed him whole.”
Her father never returned, vanishing in the expanse between the mountains and the prairie, but Celia now knew her mother had not been forsaken. And that knowledge comforted her, and she hoped it would comfort her mother too.
“After we called off the search,” Warrik said, “we spent ages with the Council, deciding our course. The dire situation caused by my brother’s presence grew worse by his absence.”
“Arguments old and new ensued between the houses,” added Lodema. “We saw the resurgence of the internecine quarrels.”
“You keep saying houses,” said Celia.
Upon seeing her puzzled expression, Warrik explained. “Yes, of course. So… houses are like—like families. Different too. We are Waldren. Lodema is of Bywe although now a member of our house. The Captain’s born of Kirwan, sworn to Waldren, but serves the city as a whole. Does that help?”
While it did not, Celia listened to the rest of his explanation.
“Not all houses are grand or prosperous, but they are ancient and noble. Long ago, the eleven, four great and seven lesser, gathered together to form the city. Unfortunately, seldom does tranquility reign, for one always attempts to gain advantage over another. Fighting the Arimaspi kept us from warring amongst ourselves, a boon my father understood, or so I’m told. We enjoyed comparative calm following our victory whilst we rebuilt, but my brother’s contentious rule, then his subsequent disappearance, well... there it ended.
“So, when Ahren fail to return, the Council agreed I should continue as regent until he did. However, soon alliances formed against me. What started out as innuendos, implications of complicity in Ahren’s disappearance, developed into accusations of murder and usurpation.
“As young as you, I was decidedly unprepared, so I enlisted the aid of those I could depend on. The estimable Captain Murron assembled many who fought beside Father, distinguished warriors whose loyalty extended beyond their own house. With their assistance order was restored—with minimal bloodshed.”
In Celia’s mind an image formed, one unwelcome. Vivid elements from the tapestry rushed forward: the fearful eyes of the dying, the hollow stares of the dead. She dared not inquire as to what amount of bloodshed Warrik might consider minimal.
Lodema sighed. “We’d exhausted all logic, leaving…” She shifted, as if uncomfortable from remaining seated too long. “Older methods.”
“Older?” asked Celia.
“Quite ancient. Misunderstood. T’was an area which my upbringing gave me some acquaintance though never was it practiced in my house. Therefore, I sought one I was familiar with, an initiate of the esoteric, a seer, a practitioner of forgotten arts.
“By her own accord, she lived in a valley removed from the city, alone. On arrival, she advised me I need not instruct her. I’d been expected, my request known. As for that, although patience was needed, success was inevitable she assured, adding a single stipulation: On provision of an answer, payment was due.
“Eagerly I assented to this unspoken price, and thus our wicked bargain was struck. However, the time was not yet right, and she dismissed me, instructing me to come back at nightfall on the coming of the full moon.
“On the appointed day I joined her as she engaged in her art. A bowl crafted of silver was produced. She filled it with rainwater, adding drops of what she claimed was a sacred oil. In a tongue unfamiliar the seer mumbled while gazing at the moon’s reflection upon the water. Under five different moons I was present at this ritual. Each yielded nothing. Notwithstanding, my resolve did not waver, for I’d have my Ahren back regardless of time or cost.” She stopped and cleared her throat.
The manner in which Lodema held her head puzzled Celia. It appeared her pale blue eyes hunted for something in the darkness above, something she could never see. And what a startling contrast to her uncle who sat, slouching, across from her. He was rotating his cup at its base and looking askance towards the hunting tapestry. With only the candlelight, Celia knew he too was incapable of seeing where he looked.
“When I went back for the sixth time, in all frankness, I anticipated little more than what had occurred before. On that night the hours crawled past as they always did, then, without apparent cause, the seer collapsed in a prophetic frenzy, her guttural cries intermixed with spasms. At last she lay still. Dead, I feared, and the answer gone, Ahren forever lost. With eyelids fluttering, she drifted between this realm and another. Alive! So I pleaded for my answer. While barely conscious, she uttered:
A copper hammer
In golden claw
Forge a silver key
To free them all
“Enraged by such inscrutability, I shook her, demanding she reveal where the king could be found. In darkness, she mumbled, in darkness, and I cast her down in disgust. Soon enough though, the seer recovered her strength, although she remained upon the ground. Her raspy voice said the answer had been provided. Forthwith its price must be paid. She gave no opportunity to quarrel, and reaching up, she touched me and extracted her payment.
“And the full moon’s light, cast back from her ruthless eyes, was the last mine own beheld.”
Warrik dispatched the awkward stillness by first exhaling and then remarking, “Well, then—”
Instantly, Lodema became enlivened, her face radiating delight. “Soon, all things will be made right. You are here, and Ahren will be returned.”
“But how? He’s lost.” Celia pointed towards Warrik. “He said so.”
“Patience,” he began and concluded with a deep breath. “Lodema, explain your… beliefs, your interpretation.”
“Of course. I’d much time to ponder her answer, the riddle given me on that night. Simplicity really, once I divined the meaning of its parts. Do you not see it? It was the fourth moon of the year. It was you she foresaw, Celia, your coming, your imminent birth. And she was aware you would come to us. Celia, you’re the silver key. You’re the one who will find your father.”
“What? How can I do what an entire city couldn’t?”
“Because you are the lodestone that will lead us to him.”
“But—” Celia glanced back and forth between them. “I couldn’t even find the city.”
“Possibly,” Lodema spoke slowly in well-chosen words, “because it was not the city you sought. Think, child. Did you not feel guided, drawn in a way you cannot explain?”
“I…” Celia stumbled over agitated thoughts. Was this true? The Captain, he’d said she was headed towards the city at first. Then she traveled westward. No, impossible. She wasn’t drawn, but lost. Wasn’t she? If there was but the slimmest possibility Lodema was right—
With vanished hope restored, her heart blossomed anew. The idea seemed incredible, but Lodema thought it so. And Warrik would not have brought the old griffon here unless he did too, right?
“We do not ask you to find him on your own,” Warrik said.
Yes, he also must believe. And she’d been convinced of it when she set out from home. Home! And she recalled her mother and imagined the joy of her mother and her father reunited. They would be a family, living here in the city. Was this not what she dreamed on uncounted nights?
Why, if all this was true—
“I must return home,” Celia stammered. “My mother… She is… ill, brokenhearted from missing him. And the ponies of the village… Mother must learn what’s happened. She needs to hear it. I must bring her to the city so—”
“Ridiculous,” scoffed Lodema.
Dumfounded, Celia took a moment to respond. “What?”
“My dear,” Warrik said, “what you ask is not possible.”
“Why not?”
Reticent, he remained frozen with his beak open.
“Ponies are lawful prey,” Lodema blurted. “Prey within the walls—it would be sacrilege.”
Warrik rushed into the stillness which ensued. “These are our ways, Celia, our nature—”
“You don’t understand. Mother has endured too much. She is in terrible pain. I fear for her. Without Ahren, she has nothing, no hope. The ponies have cast her out because of him—because of me! She loves him. She needs to be with him, otherwise—”
“It doesn’t matter,” grumbled Lodema. “She is a pony. Impermissible.”
“But he promised her they’d be together. He promised to come back for her. It’s why I came—to bring him back for her. We’d be together, a family.”
“These things are part of our being. They cannot be altered,” said Warrik. “Coming here would mean her life, child.”
Images from the hunting scene flew through her mind: the deer’s hooves, the gashes in its side, its twisted head. Griffons hadn’t changed at all. But one had—he must have.
“Ahren didn’t see my mother as prey. How is it he didn’t kill her?”
“Such is the inexplicable nature of fate,” replied Lodema, and she stretched upward, shaking, grasping at the intangible. “It is beyond the ken of mortals, never to be understood.”
“No, you’re wrong. They loved each other. Love changed them both. I understand that!”
Lodema’s reaction was swift and sharp. “You are not equipped to understand. Capricious fate dictates this matter. Only fate can account for the impossible such as yourself. You, your mother, are but its instruments.”
“No!”
Lodema stood, the feathers of her ruff rising, while her tail slashed through the air like a whip. Her tone was strident. “Are you a wandering leaf blown to our door? No! Fate sends you here. You must carry out your destiny. You must return our king. Is this not your stated purpose?”
In an instant, Warrik was up, hastening to the opposite side of the table.
A mechanism? Nothing more than that? So this is how the griffons saw her. Celia realized the implications. They’d discard her mother, for her role was finished, and when Ahren was found, they discard her too. She refused to be a victim of their fate.
“I’m here for my mother, not for you or any other reason.”
“Foolish child!” spat Lodema, and her wings puffed out, grazing the table’s edge. “What is one pony compared to thousands of griffons?”
Anger built within her, and Celia found herself standing. Her wings, like Lodema’s, had left her side. Every hair of her coat, all her feathers, felt as if they’d come alive.
Griffons were horrible. Once she’d imagined their city flawless, a place where she and her mother and father could live in peace. An illusionary refuge, she realized, dream to hide within. Neither pony village nor griffon city could be her home—or Mother’s. Never! They didn’t understand love. None of them understood compassion. Celia held her head high.
“I will not find him.”
“Fledgling, please.” Now at her side, Warrik tried placing his wing around her. Celia deflected it.
“I will not find him!”
“Such effrontery,” Lodema blared. “It is your obligation, the reason for your being. You cannot refuse!”
“If I find him, it would be for my mother.” Celia shook her head. “Never for you.”
“Don’t trifle with me, you rebellious child!” Lodema moved a half step closer. Her wings flared.
“Heartless witch!”
“Misbegotten wretch!” She lifted up a talon. “I’ll—”
Celia’s heart raced. Although she did not recollect doing so, she too had a talon raised. It hung, eager to strike as an urge to claw and bite sought to possess her. And she might have done so, had the old griffon not remained statue still for what seemed a long time.
Then Lodema’s wings retreated, pulled secure against her sides. Those haunting eyes of hers were sealed fast. Her head sank until the entirety of her face was hidden in feathers.
Beside her stood Warrik, wide-eyed, grasping Lodema at the nape of her neck. The tips of his claws slipped through feathers and settled on her skin, no harsher than required to make clear his displeasure.
“Lady Lodema.” The timbre of his voice caused both her and Celia to quake. “Take care lest you forget yourself. Is it not by your own declaration you address our sovereign’s daughter?”
“My lord,” she whispered.
“Of this, I remain of half a mind to pursue the Council’s endorsement of the fact. We would find it an entertaining conversation with their eminences, yes? Then, once convinced, perhaps Celia would be your new mistress.”
Fierce a moment ago, prepared to attack, Lodema now appeared humble and defenseless.
“My lord, I implore forgiveness.”
“And you…” With a thump, Warrik applied the same subduing grip to Celia.
The effect was instantaneous. A chill raced across her skin. Her wings sought safety at her side. Every ruffled feather flattened, every raised hair smoothed. Whatever magic this grip of his possessed, Celia resisted as best she could. Unlike the cowed Lodema, her head remained upright. Her eyes bored into Warrik’s.
Her glare brought no reproach, it prompted not one harsh word from him, only a chuckle.
“My, my. Such enmity. You are his daughter, aren’t you? I fear this proves your pedigree as much as prophecy or pendant, for he’s gifted you with our family’s fire. Never lose it, child, yet remember, it is a powerful instrument. Learn to use wisely.” Then Warrik shook his head, and his voice grew deeper and wholly emphatic.
“Churlishness does not befit members of our house. Undoubtedly the day’s events have overwhelmed you. You are tired. We shall attribute your ill manners to exhaustion. Please—redeem yourself. Apologize to the good Lady.”
Apologize? The so-called lady—all the griffons—were heartless, terrible creatures. Callous beasts caring not for her mother. She hated them.
Her mother’s words came back to her. When Celia was young and angry, she’d said she hated the ponies. Mother told her she must not, for to do so, she would hate herself. Now she thought to hate griffons, when the same, she supposed, would apply to them. This she’d have to think about. Then there were the words she’d spoken. Mother wouldn’t have approved of those either.
Warrik’s grip tightened, for she had remained silent too long.
“I apologize.” But Lodema failed to acknowledge her.
Pleased with the imposed truce, and himself, Warrik nodded sagely and released them both.
“Now, my fiery niece, know that circumstance presents us with tasks for reasons we cannot comprehend, obligations for which we are unprepared, ones we fear we cannot accomplish. This I know too well.
“We must accept these things, for the world cares not for our fears or our desires, neither does it seek our understanding. And thus we find ourselves in places improbable, asked to do things unimagined, as you are now. If you like, call it fate as Lodema does.”
And what of old, blind Lodema? To her, Celia directed a baleful look. Well, Lodema had suffered. But Mother had suffered too, and this Celia vowed she’d never let any of them forget. And the way she’d talked about Ahren, what she’d sacrificed to find him. She did appear to care. No amount of sacrifice or caring could compare to her mother’s love for him. Still, it was sad to see her hunched over like she was, looking pitiful.
Warrik spoke, and she redirected her glare.
“Whatever you choose to call it, you have a task. So I ask you now, take up the search for your father. Of course, this task is not yours alone. We shall assist you as you assist us. But without you, all of us have nothing. Think—do not be obstinate. Do we not share the same goal?”
“But my mother—”
“Ah! Your mother. A conundrum, without a doubt. To her we owe a debt, one which shall be difficult to repay. For the moment, all I will say is she shall not be forgotten.”
“If she can’t come here, then—”
“An issue to be resolved. In the future, my dear. First, let us find your father. And once found, I offer this solemn pledge: Whatever he decides, we shall yield to his wishes, for he is king.”
This gave her pause. Yes, but was Warrik trustworthy? And after so many years, what would her father do? She had no answers.
“Now Celia, daughter of Ahren, will you listen to our proposal?”
Did a choice even exist? Suppose, as Lodema thought, she and her mother were no more than cogs in fate’s mill. It didn’t lessen Mother’s pain. It didn’t alter the family Celia wanted. Perhaps fate was little more than the lack of options.
Her stony gaze remained fixed on Warrik, for she held great doubt. He had too many moods, this prince, and an uncertain temper. Right now, he projected assurance and earnestness, but how often had he flashed like lightning only to transform into a teasing breeze? Trusting him was like flying into a storm.
What frustration to come so far and have the goal remain so distant! Yesterday, disheartened, she’d been in tears, and regardless of the events since, nothing had changed. And like then, her resolve remained. She wouldn’t fail her mother—nor her father.
Her refusal, she realized, had been shortsighted, childish. Her futile search for the city proved she’d never find her father by herself. Warrik offered help. So there was but one choice, and she must brave it. She’d place her trust in Prince Warrik and her hope in the beliefs of Lady Lodema.
“I will listen,” she said.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
Ⅷ - Return to the Prairie
Through summer and into autumn, Meadow drifted amongst unavoidable memories. Each day on the way to the fields, she passed the hedgerow around her garden, Celia’s birthplace. Working in the fields called to mind how exasperated the tasks left her child, and remembering brought a heavy-hearted smile. In an unguarded moment, she would picture a young Celia flying over the swaying grasses, endeavoring to beat the wind, and try as she might to avoid it, at day’s end her eyes were drawn to the place where her daughter departed.
The earth, perceiving her melancholy, attempted to solace with abundance. Truly the growing season had been extraordinary, but to no avail, for the soil’s boon could not console her nor could the sunshine gladden. At least the work tired, for never had there been so arduous a harvest. Meadow slept without dreams.
Now harvest had drawn to a close. The rye and barley had been threshed and winnowed, the beans picked, the turnips dug, all stowed way with care. Meadow’s stores overflowed, sufficient to sustain for two winters or more, yet this bounty meant little, for with Celia gone there had already been a surplus. With so much, not once that summer had Meadow found it necessary to travel to the village, nor had she the desire. Likewise, she did not visit the mill come fall, and none came seeking her obligations.
Although her heart remained leaden, Meadow persevered, immersing herself in labor, for her father taught her the seasons wait for nopony.
Hence, with little to distract and out of wont not need, beneath the midday sun, Meadow gleaned the fields. She roamed the stubble, knowing autumn’s pleasant days would soon disappear, for only last week she had seen a rainbow encircle the moon, winter’s own harbinger. The prairie prepared: Long gone were the wildflowers’ splendor, and on the lowland’s hedges, leaves painted yellow and red struggled to linger another day.
Meadow meandered her fields but was not alone. Nearby a multitude of crows squawked, sniping and bickering over claims to the leavings. As much amused as frustrated, Meadow shook her head over their reluctance to share. So she gave the field to them, hoping they would spread out and find peace, but little help it was, for the quarrel escalated, with some taking to the air and swooping and shrieking at those upon the ground. She turned her back and started up a low hillock.
From atop it she surveyed the year’s work and felt the satisfaction which always came with harvest. Only this year, she longed for somepony with whom to share it. She pushed on.
Not much later she halted, startled not by a noise, but by the unexpected lack of it. The raucous crows where more than silent, they were nowhere to be seen. With head high, Meadow listened for incongruous sounds. She watched for concealed movement. While uncommon, wolves approached settlements when brave enough, and she was conspicuously alone. Finding not a thing untoward on the ground, she scanned the sky. So clear and bright the day, she shielded her eyes and soon spied the cause for the birds’ departure.
Three hawks circled overhead, and this, she surmised, frightened away the quarrelsome flock. The glare made it hard to determine, and the birds were uncommonly high, but the trio appeared to be descending, describing a wide circle. In a while, they were lower, and she made out their broad wings. Not hawks, but eagles. Lacking a compelling reason not to, she went on watching. Lower still, their size grew too great for even the largest of eagles. Sunlight flashed off polished metal.
Anxiety and anticipation left her paralyzed
The three prepared to land, arraying themselves side by side.
Dreadful joy filled Meadow’s heart, and she shivered.
The griffons landed an appreciable distance away. She watched them remove helmets and then engaged in a hasty conversation. One took to the air, and with steady wingbeats, set out towards her. Faster and faster Meadow’s heart raced, yet she dared not hope.
Close enough, Celia landed, and Meadow raced to her. No words accompanied the homecoming, only tears, and when at last those were exhausted, Meadow, still in her daughter’s embrace, peered up.
“Is he here?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.
“No, Mother. After Ahren left, he never returned to his city. He disappeared. All these years, and still no one is certain what’s become of him.”
With an anguished gasp, Meadow held her daughter fast, and although she tried, there were no tears to shed.
“Mother, don’t give up hope.”
“What is there to hope for?” she moaned.
“They say—” Celia declared, but stayed until Meadow raised her head. “They say I can find him. There is this… I…” And for a moment more, she struggled. “I don’t know what to call her, but she says I can find him, that I’m the only one who can. There are others too, they believe.”
Meadow rubbed her eyes. “Can you?”
“I promised I’d find him, for you, Mother. They have suspicions, the griffons, what’s become of him, and others too. They’ve made plans, but it’s too late to set out now. Spring would be the soonest. We have to wait longer, Mother, all of us.” She glanced at her companions resting in the distance. “Anyhow, the Captain doesn’t think I’m ready. Neither does Lodema or Prince Warrik.”
Baffled, Meadow froze, open-mouthed. “Warrik… prince?”
“Yes, Father’s brother. Mother, Ahren, he is their king—”
“He never said.”
“—and they want him back, to rule the city. And their city… so much more than I dreamed. Buildings, huge stone buildings, and so many griffons, but—Oh, Mother! There is so much to tell.”
“Then—” She hesitated and glanced at the griffons. “Let us go home and talk.”
“Mother, there’s no time. I can only stay a short while.”
Meadow’s heart sank.
“The mountains are so far away, farther than I could describe. I can fly much faster now, they’ve taught me, but it still takes many, many days, and then—the ponies. I told them how the ponies treat you, what they think of us both. If the villagers saw us, saw griffons visiting you… It was too dangerous, so they decided we must remain hidden. The rest of us are camped far north of the village where we won’t be spotted. Please understand, Mother. My visit must be short, so you stay safe.”
“I see.” But her voice was frail.
“Yes, the ponies.” Celia spoke rapidly. “Have they treated you better since I went away?”
“I’ve not seen anypony. I’d no need to go to the village.”
Celia looked over the bare fields. “What about at the mill, when you brought the harvest?”
“I didn’t go.” Meadow looked aside. “Nopony came.” With a forlorn smile, she added, “They likely think me dead.”
And so, for a time, neither spoke.
The bewilderment upon Celia’s face saddened Meadow, and while she desired, she knew no words which might explain. Then, with a single blink, Celia’s eyes brightened. She began undoing the pouch by her side.
“I must return this.” Unwrapping a carefully folded cloth, Celia produced the pendant.
“No other than you may wear this, for it was more than a gift. Many have worn it in Father’s family. It is special to them, precious, for it is a pledge, a commitment of lifelong love.” As her father had once done, Celia secured the stone around her mother’s neck, and while doing so, she made a solemn promise.
“As I have returned this to you, so shall I return him.”
So strong, so determined, hearing her voice lifted Meadow’s spirit. Yet this was short-lived, for the inevitability of Celia’s departure, the awaiting solitude, brought dread.
“Return yourself.” Meadow’s eyes pled as much as her voice. “That will be enough.”
“I will, Mother,” assured Celia. “I will.”
An impatient whistle startled them both. It came from one of the griffons, who then motioned for Celia to return.
“Wait.” She flew off, calling out, “I’ll be back.”
The ensuing discussion amongst the three was not long, but disturbing to Meadow. Celia strode back and forth, angry, frustrated, and there were harsh sounding voices. Seeing such agitation made her fret over Celia’s safekeeping with these unknown griffons.
Soon the affair was settled, and Celia returned to Meadow, clutching a small box against her chest.
“Before I go, I must give you this. It’s a gift from those of Father’s city. I explained how you helped him, how much you love him, what his absence means. They… They understand, in a way, and they want to help.” She presented the box to her mother
It was small, sufficient to contain a single apple but no more. A cord bound it, securing the lid, and fashioned in a manner so it seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Meadow gazed at the box and cradled it with reverence. Never had she beheld such elegance.
“Inside,” Celia began, “is something magic.”
Meadow looked up, and the earnest expression her daughter bore set her trembling. Magic? Such things belonged in stories, not the lives of ponies like herself. She held the box and thought of the mystery within, the mere possession of it giving rise to both wonder and trepidation.
“If you feel forsaken,” said Celia, “what is inside can help. With its magic, you can never be alone.”
Hesitating, Meadow reached to undo the intricate knot.
“Mother, don’t.”
Alarmed, she asked, “Is the magic evil?”
“No, but their magic is… it carries risks.” Celia, in turmoil, shook her head. “I don't trust it. Lodema, the one who gave me this, she used magic trying to find Father. She paid a great price, too great, and I don’t want the same to happen to you, Mother, no matter what. Please understand, I didn’t want you to have it. They insisted.”
“What…” Meadow’s throat tightened and, for an instant, was rendered her mute. “What should I do?”
“Put it someplace safe,” Celia replied. “But promise me, unless you know no other way, promise me you won’t open it.”
Meadow, with thoughts disordered, remained silent.
“Promise me,” Celia implored.
Meadow did.
Then, with an abrupt glance at the griffons, Celia said, “I must leave.” She clasped her mother. “I promise I’ll return with Father. Do not lose hope, Mother.” Pulling tighter, she repeated, “Do not lose hope.”
Celia left no time for a response and sped off, rejoining the others.
Meadow looked on. The distance to where her daughter landed struck her as being greater than before.
Celia prepared to leave, donning a helmet and affixing armor, and too soon, Celia and the griffons set out, ascending ever so high, as they raced north at a speed no hawk or eagle could rival.
Once again, Meadow stood alone in her fields.
—❦—
In the days following, Meadow endeavored to hearten herself. Every morn she rose adamant to remain hopeful. In the daytime, she busied herself and strove to think of naught but the present, yet at intervals, she might catch herself searching the sky, although she knew it futile. Chastising herself, she vowed to return to work and be in good cheer. Nighttime offered little respite, for it was in the hours of darkness where she truly struggled, remaining sleepless for hours, beset by memories.
So it was that the resplendent days of autumn faded away, until winter came and exerted its bleak dominion over the prairie as it always did. One after another, silvery moons traversed the clear night sky, marking time, and throughout, Meadow remained alone.
—❦—
Shutting the door against the wind required a shove with his shoulder, but Murron managed to secure it and began removing his cloak. Once hung, the accumulated snow in its folds slipped to the floor.
While he did this, not a word was uttered by those already inside. With keen but silent anticipation they watched. Of his officers, most sat around a circular table near the room’s center. Some had been watching a pair playing an ancient game of strategy, polished stones of black and white upon a board. A cursory check for coins nearby turned up nothing. Good, Murron thought, for even if gold was at stake, they had the good sense to conceal it.
Others clustered in groups, likely conversing before he arrived. Rana, he noticed, was among those. Then, over by the near-useless fireplace, two were diligently working: Murron smelled what they were up to.
Cousins Darrow and Galvyn warmed a batch of their special drink in a copper pot at the fireside, a favorited beverage in their house, Tolan. So enthusiastic they were about it, the pair had prevailed upon a few outsiders to try it, if solely in the spirit of the holiday, but Murron couldn’t understand why anyone would drink it, regardless of the time of the year.
Of the pair, Galvyn was the younger by half a year, yet he measured a head taller than his cousin. This, Murron supposed, augmented the lad’s already remarkable confidence. Thus, he was not startled when it was Galvyn who first spoke.
“How goes it, Captain?”
“Oh, the northern bear’s awoken all right,” he droned. “T’isnt in a good mood either.” He elicited sparse chuckles.
Galvyn ladled more of the steaming brew into Darrow’s cup. “Not about to break, then?”
“Break? Can’t make out the valley floor from the walls anymore. This’ going to last awhile.” With that said, their faces bore expectant looks, but he chose to leave them upon tenterhooks, for he relished prolonging the delivery of good news.
“So…” he drawled and paused again. “We’re finished. Inform your charges they’re released for the remainder of the year. As of now, holiday begins.” An appreciative chorus followed, and only when it began to wane on its own did he quash it.
“Notwithstanding,” he bellowed, and the room returned to silence. “You flock of feather-heads will return so we may spend an enlightening afternoon together. Again we shall pursue the mastery of tactics upon the ground, and we will continue to do so until I am beyond satisfied.” The inevitable and expected grumbling began.
“However, t’is the holiday for gifts is it not? So I’ve one for you. Today we’ll use the small glass, and when its sand is gone, you too may depart. Now, off with you all!”
Laughing, they wasted little time before disappearing. Whilst making evening arrangements, the officers slung on their cloaks, and jovial groups of two and three hastened out the door. As they did so, they wished their captain luck in the new year, to which he grunted a reply. In no time the room was nigh empty, and it was then that Murron made a furtive gesture to Rana.
Engaged in a conversation, she excused herself and feigned busyness, hanging back until the last group left. Only she and Murron remained.
“You needed me, Captain?”
“Two requests. First, tonight. Keep an eye on Darrow. Things have been going well for him of late, so I’d hate to see him make any mistakes.”
This produced a puzzled look. “Darrow’s sensible, not a troublemaker.”
“Aye, but don’t discount that cousin of his. Nary a rule applies to Master Galvyn, or so he supposes, and that’s dangerous thinking when you’re got a smidgen of talent. Seen his type, blithe as a lark as he leads the rest astray. Worse when drink’s involved. Do us a service and keep good watch o’er both.”
“Sure,” Rana said. “I’ll tag along. Might have anyhow.”
“My thanks. I’ve a social visit with the constable planned, and if she’s forced to venture out in this mess to deal with foolery, well, it won’t be sociable for me.”
Rana chuckled. “I’ll do my best to assure a pleasant visit, sir.”
Murron grunted and he grabbed his cloak.
“That’s for later. I’ve something more important for now.” He swung the cloak over his back and secured it at the collar. “No holiday for Mistress Celia.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed. “No place for her to go anyway, eh? Warrik’s busy with the usual year-end rot, making certain the nobles are properly stuffed, and I can’t envision her in a seedy tavern with our lot—” With his solitary eye, he settled a stony glare on Rana. “Even if they’d have her.”
The feathers of her crest flared, but briefly. “Sir, progress’s been made. Much improved from when we started.”
“True enough, but time’s too precious to have her waste it filling a barkeep’s till. We’ll leave that chore to the others, eh? Escort her to Lady Lodema, and inform her Celia’s released to her custody until I say otherwise.” He flipped up his hood and thought to leave, but the door remained shut, for although maintaining a firm grip on the door handle, Murron stood still.
“Sir?”
“Take another with you.” He faced Rana. “Someone you can rely upon.”
The response was immediate. “Willa all right?”
Willa was from Ruarc, he recalled, the largest of the lower houses. Murron had always held them in high regard, for they were wealthy and secure in their standing, a rare combination. Neither gold nor favor induced treachery with them.
And Willa herself? Hard to forget her. A veritable sylph and, on arrival, awkward. Given a spear, she proved a menace to herself and others, woeful so, and he had contemplated a discharge for a time. But Murron had not, for the sense he always trusted told him otherwise. Not the spear, but buckler and short sword. Within a moon Willa matched him and in three few claimed to best her.
A shrewd choice and swiftly made, but Rana’s judgment was always sound. Three years ago she had arrived that miserable, rainy spring, but unlike Willa, no special sense was required to spot her aptitude, for the quickness of her mind was obvious to all. So he prepared her path, a difficult one by design, and at every opportunity he taxed her resolve, demanding more of her than any other. This he did with a singular intent, for he required a successor. Murron rested secure in his choice, for she never disappointed.
“She’ll do,” he said. “I want all three of you go armed and armored. Make haste, but be sly about it. T’would be a shame should an ambitious soul put an end to our plans.” With a tug on his hood, Murron steeled himself for the blizzard outside.
“Captain?”
“Yes?”
“Luck to you in the coming year,” Rana said.
“And to you as well.”
Murron opened the door, and frantic whorls of snow set upon them as they stepped out, yet he felt curiously warm and paid the weather no mind at all.
—❦—
A lone, high window illuminated the Lady’s bower, and although the great storm had passed three days prior, crescents of snow still occluded the window’s panes, which left the room darker than usual, and while Lodema required no light, Celia did. Upon lighting yet another candle, she proclaimed her task done.
“Good, let us begin,” Lodema said and tapped the side of the silver bowl sitting on the table before her.
From a stand near the door, Celia fetched the water pitcher and filled the bowl half way. After replacing the pitcher, she started searching the poorly illuminated shelving lining the wall. Her eyes darted about, and unease took hold of her.
“Umm…”
“What is it now, child?”
“I can’t find the oil.”
“Well, where did you put it? When you were last here, was it not returned to the shelf whence it came?”
Celia continued checking. There were many shelves heaped high with manuscripts, so she needn’t look upon them. A clutter of squat crockery, glass vials, and a scarce few wooden boxes occupied the remainder, tattered pieces of yellowed paper labeled most, but they provided no aid to one who could not read. Celia, however, had no need for labels for she knew well what she sought. Of medium size, bottle’s glass was tinged green, and an ample portion of its cork was missing, yet regardless of this uniqueness, it eluded her.
“You must learn to return things to their proper place,” Lodema chastised.
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother is absolutely correct.”
Celia peered at her through narrow eyes, for it irked to have Lodema speak of Mother, even if it might be praise. A silent moment went by.
“Keep searching,” Lodema sighed and bent her head to the side. “Try the center shelf, left of the door. I recall you fumbling about there before you last left.”
Grumbling to herself, Celia rooted around and turned up nothing. So much for the Lady’s extraordinary hearing, she mused, and with her hunt still frustrated, she stepped backward and surveyed the entirety of the shelves. Remarkably, in a spot searched an instant ago, the bottle manifested itself.
“I found it,” she announced and brought the oil over. After removing its cork, she added three drops to the silver bowl. A rainbow sheen formed on the water’s surface.
“Lucky I found the magic oil.”
“How many times must I explain,” sniped Lodema. “It’s no more magic than the water or the bowl.”
“Then why use them?”
“They serve as a lens.” She stretched over and jabbed rather roughly at Celia’s chest. “There is the magic. The rest, they are but trappings employed to bring focus.” Lodema’s head waggled. “Silly, forgetful girl.”
It seemed nothing ever when well with Lodema. Celia sat absolutely still and wished the aged griffon could see the spiteful glare she cast. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, the Lady might feel it. Although she pursued this practice of concentrated ill will for some time, it had no apparent effect. Without warning, Lodema drew an abrupt breath and let it go in a muted huff.
“Perhaps,” she began, “when our study is over, I will summon a scrivener.” She paused for acknowledgment but received silence. “We can return to our search of another of the bestiaries—if you so desire.”
Could she make no better apology? thought Celia. What an aggravation she was, and worse, when complaints were brought to Warrik, they only elicited laughter. All these griffons remained unfathomable. Celia heaved a sigh, for apology or not, she reckoned the Lady would offer no further amends.
“No. No, thank you. I’m certain I’m not in there, anyway.”
“Oh?” she declared with sincere astonishment. “This is quite interesting. If you have given up on our search, then as Warrik decided, the choice is to be yours. So, have you arrived at a decision?”
“Yes, I’ve decided,” replied Celia, but a tremor was in her voice, for she had not intended to tell anyone right away, lest she changed her mind. “At least, I believe I have.”
“Well then, what name do you give yourself?”
“Hippogriff.” But she’d said it too tentatively, so, with confidence, she stated, “I am a hippogriff.”
“Hmm.” Lodema nodded for a time, reflecting. “I cannot say I am in agreement with the order, yet… It is befitting.”
Again Celia found herself sighing, for Lodema’s habitual fault finding proved exhausting.
“Nevertheless, someone must be called, for the bestiary now requires an addition.” Lodema’s voice took on an imposing quality. “Enough delays.” And with a dismissive wave, she added, “Begin.”
With a solid hold on the table’s edge, Celia leaned forward and gazed into the bowl, seeking to maintain a clear mind as she did so. This time, as in the past, it proved difficult task. While gazing, her breaths made ripples on the water, transforming the reflection of the candle flames into dancing stars. A night sky in miniature, Celia thought, very much like the moon and stars on the river back home, and soon her mind strayed, off chasing recollections and assorted reveries. These wandering thoughts and the monotonous practice brought on drowsiness.
Rapid blinks broke the unfocused stare. She sagged forward, darkness creeping closer. Next a slow, lazy blink, and directly after, a quick lifting of her head, but she was not restored. Again with eyes dulled, her heavy head slumped lower and lower, and a moment before it struck the table’s surface, she jerked back.
“It’s hopeless,” she cried and thrust back from the table. “I can’t do this!”
“Celia! You must keep going.”
“Why should I?” she groaned. “Why? So I can fall asleep like last time? Spill everything and make a mess? You’ll just shout at me again!”
“Compose yourself, child. You must keep on trying. This is too important.”
“If it’s so important, then why don’t you do it?”
Lodema’s breaths came swift and strong, but she failed to check herself.
“Do you suppose I have not tried?” she bellowed. “I’ve sat here in my darkness, year after year, seeking, reaching out for the child I raised, the child I loved. Yet I see nothing. Nothing! I tried again and again until all that remained to me was waiting—waiting for you!”
Watching the old griffon proved unbearable, and Celia bowed her head.
“Could I have done this myself, Ahren would have been in the great hall to welcome you, not his brother, but I cannot! None other than you are the key. You must be—You… you must bring about what I cannot.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”
“I command you—no, no…” She stretched forward, sweeping the air. Celia edged near and let Lodema’s touch find her.
“Celia—I have confidence. I am certain you can find him. Try once more, continue even if your fail, otherwise your father will remain trapped in his darkness. Please. Try for him, for your mother. Do not give up hope.”
The water in the bowl lay motionless, casting the candle flames back like accusatory eyes. Drained of spirit, Celia tried to think. This responsibility was too much. It made her eyes ache to the point of weeping. If only it was over and she could return home, but she made a promise to her mother, one she vowed to keep. How weary Mother looked when she last saw her, worn, much worse than in spring. And seeing her so dejected, Celia had urged her not to lose hope. After recalling her own words, Celia thus concluded she must do no less than what she asked of her mother.
“I’ll try.”
At that, Lodema released her. “Be patient now. Trust yourself. I know you can do it.”
Celia took several deep breaths before settling, and calmer now, more determined, she lower her head and concentrated on the water’s surface. Minute movements of the table formed ripples on the water, and they rebounded off the bowl’s sides, meeting, crossing, combining or canceling. The oil glistened, and Celia sensed drowsiness stalking her, yet she resisted, maintaining a constant stare even as the light dimmed. But in a moment, the walls passed from her sight, and then the table and the candles, until darkness swallowed all. Still, her eyes remained open, focused on the tremulous water.
Despite all of her resolve and resistance, Celia was asleep: Of this she was positive, for a blackness devoid of depth encompassed her. The vague sense of falling, or maybe flying, attended the dark, so it must be a dream, yet this awareness did not enable her to awake. In the empty dreamscape, she allowed herself to drift without aim for a time. Whether flying or falling, Celia judged she was now afar, but how she concluded this, she could not say, for such is the curious nature of dreams.
Flying she concluded, for ahead appeared points of light, stars in a midnight black sky, afire in a myriad of colors. Some were weak and dull, only glowing embers almost extinguished by the night. But a selected few blazed in arrogant reds and contemptuous blues dominating the other with their intensity. Her dream sky pleased Celia, for the vibrant colors surpassed what the eye might behold.
As she traveled amongst the multitude of stars, one called for her attention, summoning with its radiance. Clearer and richer than others, it gleamed steadfast yellow. Ever closer she drew until it encompassed the whole sky. The sun she reasoned. This dream sun bathed her in a dazzling brilliance. Celia basked in its bounteous light until startled when it spoke.
The sun’s speech came with a dearth of sound, and supposing that the silence fashioned some sort of words, to her they remained incomprehensible. Yet it seemed to speak. Strange, she remarked, even for a dream. But this oddity did not concern her long, and upon closer listening, Celia realized no words existed at all, for these were not sounds, but pictures, the impressions of places and things, and they themselves were light, smaller stars within a greater constellation. Soon, all these lights surrounded her, each distinct, hurtling by too fast or too far to decipher. Then, one flew nearby, and she gave chase.
Through twists and turns, she pursued, but matched in speed, Celia found herself incapable of closing on the racing light, but it not matter, for she felt carefree. On the joyful race went, when, without explanation, the speeding solitary light halted. She collided and plunged into its heart, and from the inside, she observed and perceived its essence.
The light coalesce. It formed a face. Her mother’s.
Celia emerged with a frightful cry, lurching forward, sprawling herself across the table. The upended bowl landed on the floor with a bright, metallic clang, its contents splattered over herself and Lodema.
Panic-stricken, Celia lay panting, for what she’d witnessed remained with her, and like the lights, her thoughts careened about, wreaking havoc with what she supposed real. Over her pounding heart, she became aware of a pleading voice and realized Lodema clutched her shoulders.
“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked again and again.
She had no answer to this question, nor was she able to answer, for her troubled thoughts did not permit it. Even the worst of Celia’s dreams never proved so unsettling. What had she seen? The image had appeared so sudden and clear, so real. She had not doubt that it was Mother’s face, sharp and detailed, hanging perfectly etched in the light. No, it was the light, and in it, and both, but... How was any of this possible? She shuddered.
Yet, the face wasn’t her mother’s, for something subtle, something disquieting, was amiss. But what it might be, Celia did not know. She thought on the image of light, and as time distanced her from the dream, her reason returned, and with a clear mind, she straightaway came upon the difference in Mother's face. Never did Celia remember her looking so young.
Near frantic, Lodema shook her. “You must tell me! You saw, didn’t you?”
At first, finding it hard to talk, she only nodded, but when her heart no longer raced, she spoke.
“I saw.”
Lady Lodema threw back her head, and within the confines of the room, her laughter was deafening.
—❦—
Meadow spent the leaden days of winter in her hut, resting by the fire. On occasion, her eyes fell upon the gift of the griffons, the elegantly sealed box, and her mind was drawn to the time she last beheld Celia. Clutching the pendant, she recalled her daughter’s promise, her admonition, and the promise she had made in return.
At such times Meadow dwelt upon what had been and of what was to come. Alone in winter’s grim silence, these thoughts weighed heavy, for she recalled a time when remembrance once brought hope. But now the memories of those she loved seemed an affliction, one from which she found no escape.
For love is both grace and grief. It compels us to tasks trivial and grand, yet wounds without need of blade. And when love is lost, its injury is the greatest. Then, when all seems beyond our grasp and the future but a void, all that is left to sustain is hope.
Hope Meadow no longer had.
Day after dark day, memories and melancholy plagued her, until at last the hope protecting her heart wore unbearably thin. Perhaps it was the bitterness of the cold or the wail of the wind, but on a day little different from any other, Meadow despaired. She opened the box.
Therein, nestled in red silk, lay a glass orb. She picked it up. It was of unrivaled lightness. Filling the lustrous vessel was an amorphous vapor, threads of gray mist trapped in perpetual swirls. As she held it, faint images became evident in the lucent smoke. At first, Meadow strained to see, but in time recognizable scenes arose, growing truer the longer she watched. She became transfixed.
Through the orb’s cryptic powers she once more saw her father, young again, as was she. Beneath summer’s brilliant skies, they worked their fields, savoring the warmth and singing songs, ones she’d almost forgotten. Then nightfall came, and together they rested in the tranquility of their home and shared a meal. Afterward, Father extinguished the candle, and she settled against him by the fireside, and there Meadow listened to his oft-told tales, delighting in Father’s voice until sleep carried her youthful self away.
The magic of the orb enabled Meadow to relive every detail of the day Ahren came to her. Again she felt the sting of the wind through her cloak as she went to fetch water. On the stream’s far bank she saw him standing with wings flared and sorrowful eyes. She heard the rustle of the tall grasses as they journeyed to the sanctuary of her home. The smell, the taste of the meal she prepared was exactly as she remembered, and every word of their conversation was rendered true as if he were with her that very moment. Vivid too were the complaints of the wind that night, as was the warmth of the dying embers and of Ahren’s embrace.
At last its glow brought forth scenes of Celia, her child of love, conceived without fear or prejudice.
And for a fleeting moment, Meadow was content.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
A breeze carried the unmistakable fragrance to where Warrik stood, and although faint, he managed to pick it out. The goldenchains were in bloom. From his vantage on the balcony, he surveyed the entirety of the walled park from which the sweet scent came. Lush trees and flowers filled it, all in full bloom, celebrating spring’s fullness.
Of all the beauty therein, he was drawn to the goldenchains in particular, for the trees lined all the pathways, and although but a hint of yellow was visible from above, below it would be spectacular. He conjured visions of those pendulous golden flowers hanging from the branches, dangling above the paved walks, forming a fanciful, living cave, a scene he remembered well from childhood. Abiding memories awoke within him.
Mother often chose the park for their meetings, and she never failed to arrange a to do so when the goldenchains were in bloom. It was perhaps no more than three or four times a year that he and his brother would be summoned to her, yet those encounters remained with him, detailed, filled with unfaded memories of her face and voice. On occasion he remarked upon the strangeness of this, for he could no longer summon other remembrances from those days, but none of Mother’s visits were absent.
Those most vivid, almost haunting, were when the goldenchains ephemeral beauty graced the space above them. What was the earliest he could recall? So young he must have been, certainly less than five summers, for his brother was young too. By mid-morning, the call came, and there was much commotion as preparations began. There was a balcony, not this one, but another, where he could not exactly say, and from there they departed. He and Ahren arrived first, accompanied by Lodema and the guards. Those vanished after landing, yet even at that young age, Warrik saw through the deception, knowing they remained hidden on high boughs or that they watched from the walls.
Lodema kept the brothers close, one on each side of her, sitting proper with heads high and backs rigid, until Mother made her appearance. She too was accompanied by guards, tall and strong, restless, forever scanning with expressionless eyes. First and always, Mother made a cursory inquiry about their studies, how well they ate and behaved. Then Mother would dismiss Lodema and her apprehensive guards, perpetuating the semblance of privacy.
Resting beneath a tree, she would call to them. Ahren needed little prompting and was always first by her side. It seemed, Warrik recalled, he required coaxing, especially when very young. Always he envied the few years his brother spent with her and their father. Ahren was at ease around her, something Warrik never achieved, regardless of his age.
Frequently there would be a book which Mother brought to read aloud, a tale of great heroes sent on quests or clever knaves outwitting greedy monsters. Wholly dim those monsters seemed, and those predictable tales left him bored. More often than not, he guessed the endings early on. Warrik chortled, remembering Ahren’s look, quite rapt, as he listened, nestled at her side. With her, his brother’s moodiness never showed. Afterwards a discussion would be held to discover the story’s moral or she would probe to see what insight they might have gained.
And when their allotted time had elapsed, guards descended from hidden perches almost as one. Lodema too returned, taking charge of them, and in a moment, Mother was gone, quicker than she had appeared.
With a shake of his head, Warrik swept aside such memories, irritated by his own indulgence in frivolous nostalgia. Someone approached, skimming above the trees in the park, flying towards where he stood. He knew the visitor and his business, and so he left behind the garden scene and the past.
A long table dominated the room adjacent to the balcony, and to there he hurried and occupied himself. Stretched across this table was a map, extremely detailed, with the peaks and valleys of the northern mountains charted and labeled. This he knew well, yet he studied it with a serious look. A breeze stirred, cool and fleeting, and a corner of the map folded over. Warrik smoothed it out and resumed his wait. It was brief, for Captain Murron landed upon the balcony and joined him.
“Sire.”
Without turning, Warrik grimly stated, “You wouldn’t be returning so late if you bore good news.”
“No. I would not.”
Warrik reached over and lifted a quill. For the span of a breath he waited, his focus on the map. “And?”
“Ethne of Kirwan, Darrow of Tolan, dead.” Murron paused. “Varden of Dwyer missing.”
“Where?” He dipped the quill.
“South of Raven’s Tor.”
Upon the map went a mark, joining five others. In a clean and careful script, Warrik placed notations beneath it. Murron interrupted him.
“The bodies—” He stoped and waited until Warrik gave him his complete attention. “The bodies, what remained, were left as a message.”
Warrik grunted and finished his annotations. Soon the cleaned quill lay in its rest, and he contemplated the map and the marks upon it, accursed symbols of wasted time and effort.
“The hour has arrived for us to bring this matter to an end,” Warrik stated. Exhaling slowly, he sought to supplant the frustration he felt with a measure of good cheer. “I tell you, my good Captain, never before have I been so eager to face them.”
“Admirable, yet one must mind the difference between courage and presumption. From one who knows well, the Arimaspi are skilled and formidable. In the days when your father led us against them, we grew to respect the Arimaspi for what they were. We’re not off to shoo rats from the granary. Already lives have been lost.”
“And for naught,” said Warrik. “The Council continues to bedevil me, the houses grow anxious, and we know little more than we did two moons ago. Our path remains murky.”
Murron walked and stood at his side. He unbuckled the worn baldric to which his sword was attached. “You continue to doubt her ability then?”
“Celia? She may point to the moon and still we will go west.”
Murron’s sword now lay upon the table, and he went to rest against the wall. “You deny her magic?”
“Immaterial, Captain, immaterial. No, the fruition of her magic is the unity of the houses, whatever their motivations may be.”
“Lodema says she sees, that she will point the way.”
“Ah!” Warrik scoffed. “Now if there is something I deny, it’s the Lady’s story. You recall her state when found wandering the valley, babbling nonsense, do you not? To this day I remain certain she sought to take her life after Ahren was lost. Consumed some poisonous plant, a mushroom perhaps. Does it not provide a satisfactory explanation for her blindness?”
“So you’ve said on many occasion, and there may be truth in your assessment, yet Celia possessed your mother’s pendant. Without it, Lodema’s tale might be little more than remarkable coincidences.”
“Yes, of course. Yet, even had she not, Celia would prove useful,” Warrik said. “She sparks the imagination of the houses, and whether her arrival awoke the desire for glory or gold, now all listen and follow. They listen, Murron, after all these years. Why, even the oldest and deafest on the Council manage to hear my words these days.”
Irrepressible elation poured out from Warrik, and he tapped the table decisively, proclaiming, “Now, without a doubt, all my problems will be solved.”
“In what manner—solved?”
“Well…” He hesitated for Murron’s glare left him ill at ease. “You see, I have reckoned it thus. Should Ahren live, and we find him, he returns to rule as ordained. Gladly I’ll cede the tortures of the Council to him! Then I might resume my proper role. But should he not, I become king proper, and the houses, enriched by spoils from the Arimaspi, will be forever beholden to me.”
“This, of course, presupposes victory.”
“Captain, are you saying we are not prepared?”
“Aye, we are prepared,” said Murron. “Best as we may ever be. But, Sire, you foresee a single outcome, and prepared or not, it may be one fortune refuses to grant.”
A short and indignant huff was Warrik’s reply.
“Should our campaign drag on, where would you stand with the Council? With the houses? What if we suffer defeats? What if the Arimaspi number more than we suppose and again advance to the walls?”
“But these are—” his reply began, but Murron spoke over him.
“These are possible. Remember too, alway there is the possibility of death. In war, none are immune, even you.”
That look the Captain’s face bore, Warrik recognized it well: Head lifted, twisted right an imperceptible amount, only enough so the receiver was pinned by the scrutiny of his solitary eye. This glare came from his old instructor, and it was a look with which Warrik had much experience. Its use indicated he had run afoul, and as a consequence, he sputtered.
“Well, should I… Then likewise my problems are ended, are they not?”
The Captain looked upward and away, pausing to exhale before saying, “I recall an argument… Your father… his advisors. T’was the second summer of the war, and progress was slow. Long they quarreled over tactics designed to hold the regained lands, debating losses the houses and Council might accept, enumerating lives like so many bushels of wheat.” He paused, nodding, and then looked at Warrik. “And your father reminded them they played not with pieces upon a board, but lives, lives of families, perhaps even their own.”
“Here now. I am not so ignorant to suppose—”
“No, Sire, you are not.” The volume and rate with which Murron spoke left little doubt as to his impatience. “It is said one is revealed by actions and words. You and I have always been forthright with one another, have we not? So, when I hear these words of yours, I become puzzled. Do we make war to find your brother, our king, or for your gain?”
“No, but—”
“War,” Murron continued unabated. “War may be used for preservation, for justice—therein is honor. You speak self-servingly, and it fills me with dismay. Perhaps I misconstrue, for should this be your true intent, it would sadden me. It would sadden your father.”
“My father!” Warrik slammed the table. “My father! I hear this far too much from you and Lodema. The pair of you worship him as if he were… were a demigod, born of the mountains themselves.”
“Not a god—”
“Then what?”
Murron rose.
Acute regret took hold of Warrik as he watched the Captain struggle, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths, his head trembling. Murron cast an iron stare, seemingly focused as much in as out, and with such a pained look, Warrik feared for him. This proved unwarranted, for soon his head was lowered, his breaths again regular, and not a hint of a tremble. When again his eyes fell upon Warrik, the Captain’s countenance exhibited neither ire nor enmity. Neither held it peace or joy. It was relieved yet weary, the look of a traveller, who at the end of their wanderings, anticipates the solace of a long left hearth.
“No, he was no god, yet more than one to me. Your father, he was my sun, and I his moon.”
Warrik’s thoughts tumbled away, leaves swept aside by the wind, blown into an uncontrollable, roiling confusion. The commotion swept him along, then ebbed and disappeared, leaving him abandoned in the primeval of the mind, that dismal wilderness where reason’s sway is unknown. There, out from the shadows, creatures crept, brutes of his own creation. And they preyed upon him, howling laments of fear and doubt. Dread seized him. The beasts’s torment continued, much as in nightmares past, until their howls became as one, a question, and he was compelled to give it voice.
“Did he not love my mother?”
“Yes,” replied Muron, soft and subdued. “He loved her passionately. Was it not she who received the pendant?” A thought struck the Captain and he appeared amused. “Shall I save you embarrassment by answering what I suppose is your next question? Yes, she knew. I knew of her and she of me. He held no secrets from either of us, and we held no jealousy.”
Warrik closed his eyes and covered them. Unsteady, he leaned upon the table for support. “Forgive me, my friend.”
There was no reply.
“I… Why was I not told?”
At first, Murron answered with a gentle laugh, breathy, benign and understanding. “You were a child, Warrik, and later, when she was gone, would knowing have changed anything? With me? With you?”
With his face hidden, he shook his head.
“What the three of us had, it was ours, no one else’s.”
“Yes. But…” began Warrik, still hiding his eyes. “When Ahren and I were young… We talked about mother. Her and father; her and us. I—I harbored doubts, about how she felt about us, as if there was something, something else.” Eyes now uncovered, he looked to Murron. Calm awaited him there, and Warrik felt unburdened and spoke freely.
“Ahren, he was old enough to remember them together. How wonderful it was, perfect, he said. But I could not bring myself to believe. Were his memories true or something he imagined to comfort himself? I could not decide which. It seemed impossible, for she was so distant, we saw her so seldom, I just…” Warrik sighed. “Always her feelings remained suspect, given the way she abandoned us to you and Lodema—”
“Abandoned?” Murron said without restraint. “Not abandoned, but entrusted, boy! She entrusted us with the most precious things in her life, and you malign her for it?” He turned away for a moment and then back. “Forgive me, sire, but sometimes I see no change in you from the youth delivered to me two decades ago.” He loosed an indignant huff before continuing, his anger yet unassuaged. “The injured party wasn’t you, but her. Robbed she was, robbed of her motherhood by the Arimaspi, the Council, and—”
Murron halted, his body aquiver as the storm upon his battle scarred face grew, but the building fury vanished, acrimony replacing it.
“And me,” he said with unsparing clarity. “And me.”
Quickly Warrik turned, taking swift steps towards the balcony, stopping just short of the rail. From there, he looked out, over the city’s high walls, into the mountains. Although snow no longer obscured those distant peaks, and the sun lit their façades of ragged stones, he saw nothing. With his back to Murron, he spoke in a sonorous yet hushed voice. “Please. Have you not borne that weight long enough?”
“No,” came the strident response. “I can never put it aside.”
“It was his choice, his sacrifice. He—”
“No! It was me—only me. I slew him as sure as the sword that pierced his side. In a moment of arrogance, of frenzied blood lust, I… I killed my king, your father—the one I loved.”
Warrik bowed his head, raising it only when Murron resumed.
“And your mother… when I had healed well enough, she came to me, sat beside my bed. I suppose she thought to soothe, but to me, the words she uttered were agony. My heedless act took her husband, and she forgave me. She forgave me, and… In the end, as with him, I killed her too.”
“Please! These accusations have no merit” cried Warrik, yet an inexplicable shudder went through him. “Treachery’s never been proved.”
“Proof? As sure as the sun rises they killed her. I need no proof. Explain it away. Do. The fever afflicted one in fifty that year. Few died; all aged or young. Was it coincidence she was amongst them? No, not at all. They extracted payment for debts that were mine.”
Warrik strode to the table, where he looked at the map as he spoke, dread to lay eyes on the Captain.
“This is madness. Sheer madness,” he muttered. “You punish yourself over the imaginary. You’ve debts to no one. Why, it we who owe you! You’ve served Waldren—the entire city—admirably and honorably.”
Murron nodded languidly, intoning “Honorably,” drawing the word out, mocking it. “Yes, honorably. You see, while you were still a babe, Warrik, few remained trustworthy, for in those unsettled times, power and gold corrupted effortlessly. In those times, I chanced upon a plot, abhorrent, heinous, so I gathered a few who served you father, those I knew would never waver, and brought them into my confidence. We agreed to conceal this conspiracy from our princess, for we’d not sully her with the measures we resolved to take.”
Warrik glared at the Captain.
“So it was, on a moonless night, the five of us set out and put the matter to an end. We took the lives of sleepers, Warrik. We—I killed them in their beds.”
Warrik stared, chilled, remaining silent.
“I make no excuses, but know this. Had we not, the same fate awaited you and your brother.” He glanced away, talons gripping the side of his face. “Murder. Such is the honor I’ve brought upon your house and myself. For that, and the woes I’ve brought your family, to all of us, surely I am lost. I know when it is my time to stand in the Hall of Truths, I’ll be found wanting. My heart is not a feather, but a stone.”
Foreboding rendered both mute, and for some time they remained that way, neither sure of what next should be said.
Then uninvited visitors arrived. Several sparrows broke the quietude by alighting on the balcony’s rail. Quite clamorous, they hopped to and fro, chattering at each other, quite adamant in their quarrel. Soon the triviality which gave them pause was resolved, and they moved on.
“You did…” Warrik began, hastily discarding his initial thought, and thus rendered wordless, he instead contemplated the map spread before him. His eyes traced the labyrinth of valleys leading westward. Since the melting snows swelled the rivers, one by one those black marks accumulated in those valleys, marring his beautiful map, spoiling his pristine plans. Those accusatory blots, six now, the appearance of each bringing greater consternation. The names beside those marks he read, giving each due consideration. So young they were, he mused, but a few summers older than when he had been put under the Captain’s care.
Then, with great solemnity Warrik chose to reread their names. Each from different houses, from different stations, yet in that moment, he felt a kinship with them. Although at first perplexed, a common thread was found, and in that way, they lead him to the words he sought. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said, “for the service rendered to us—to my brother, my mother and father. And I—” The last of his words remained elusive, and it took an unsteady breath to summon them to the forefront. Still hesitant, he faced the Captain.
“And I thank you, for being the only father I’ve known.”
Warrik returned to his map and there he remained, locked in a forced and unblinking stare. The words upon the map, the names of peaks and valleys and rivers and of those lost, bold and clear moments ago, were blurred, incomprehensible to him. The contrariness of his sight remained with him for some time, while the oppressive stillness of the room brought forth fragility, a feeling he found unpleasant, like an illness. With time and some difficulty, he dispatched these irksome feelings, and upon regaining control of his faculties, he knew confidence once more.
So, he declared himself well again, as he should be. Momentous work lay ahead, and he could not, would not, be distracted, by anything.
“What of the winds?” he asked.
“They are… east. Out of the east,” replied Murron.
The eastern wind. Had not Lodema prattled that the east wind bore only ill? Warrik scoffed at his silly thought. Inauspicious tidings? No, only foolish old hens and the feeble minded relied upon omens and charms and other nonsense. He required no supernatural agency for the task ahead, only his wits, his resolve, nothing else. Let the winds blow, they were naught but air.
And so his decision was made. He affirmed it with a vehement nod.
“Go and prepare,” Warrik instructed. “We depart in four days.”
—❦—
In the clear morning sky, the army of the griffon city hovered with the wind at their backs. Mild though it be, the wind set aflutter the long velvet ribbons, deep indigos, brilliant crimsons, and emerald greens, which decorating their armaments. Some carried swords, polished and sharpened in anticipation of their use. Keen eyed archers gathered in groups, brimming quivers by their sides. The remainder and majority bore javelins and spears: Amongst them was Celia.
The shields of these warriors came in a multitude of shape and sizes with painted markings upon them designating the house of the owners birth. Yet, from such diversity came unity, as it does amongst those who share a common cause, and what once divided had been laid aside for the valorous quest. On this day the griffon warriors were as members of a single house, their camaraderie ever growing. In addition to their noble cause, a mundane force unified them. These young and eager warriors were growing frustrated.
Progress had been slow, for Warrik had the host advance with extreme caution, periodically halting to send parties up a valley or off to examine a side stream or to scout over a rill. The farther westward they moved, the more the desolate landscape exacerbated everyone’s restlessness. After a few hours of clumsy progress on this morning, they had again stopped, this time above a shallow and rocky river, a rather dismal place.
Here the valley was filled with grey stone, rugged and unworn, and barren save for a sparse scattering of trees along its bottom and even fewer clinging to its vee-shaped sides. The formation hovered below the level of the peaks, concealing them therein, so only the valley was visible, providing no distractions while they awaited the return of a party sent ahead to reconnoiter.
From her position in the ranks, Celia could see her uncle flying back and forth in front of the formation, distant, as he awaited news of what lay ahead. His tail slashed like a whip. All could sense his mood. All knew why.
The griffons under Rana’s command said the border of the western frontier lay not too distant. Few had been this far out, and all were uncertain of exactly what marked the boundary. Perhaps, they told each other, they would reach it before nightfall, given luck and no additional delays. Perhaps. In addition, none were sure what would happen once this imaginary line was crossed. The Arimaspi may wait for them there, or not. Nevertheless, the griffons were fond of speculation and quite desirous of engaging with the unknown foe.
None of these feelings Celia shared.
Prince Warrik, from his impatient and unceasing movement, appeared to be of the same mind as the other griffons. Of course, in the half year Celia had known him, restive seem his natural state, and while this aspect of her uncle remained a constant, much in him had changed.
He looked every bit his new role of warrior prince. As he turned at the end of each tense flight, there was a bright flash off the golden casque he wore, for it was polished as if it were a mirror. Red-dyed pinions adorned it, long and stiff, which showing no movement as he winged to and fro. At his side he wore an enormous sword, one requiring both talons to wield, which at the moment was stored safe in a scabbard overgrown in a golden filagree of vines. This, he said, was his most prized possession.
When first the Captain drilled him in its use, Celia thought the weapon too large to be mastered by anyone, let alone Warrik. He seemed neither strong nor agile enough. Months of practice proved her wrong, for now he employed the weighty sword with a fearful deftness. When withdrawn from its sheath, it uttered a chilly hiss which Celia likened to the winds of winter. Despite this, she found him and his sword grimly fascinating and would watch him at practice, the blade flashing as it was put to use against invisible enemies.
No longer would they remain invisible, and soon she would witness that sword and others used against flesh. Of this she was certain. And soon the time would come when she would put to use the spear she held. Her stomach tightened.
How otherworldly, thought Celia, for no story of adventure told by Mother was as fantastical as the spectacle in which she now played a role. Unimaginable and very frightening. Regardless, Celia remained steadfast, though, for no longer did she feel alone. The Captain reassured them all, telling them they need only follow commands, place trust in their training and their comrades, and all would be well. She believed him, for of all these strange griffons, he was the one she most trusted.
From off in the distance came the Captain himself, returning with the three others who ventured ahead some time ago. Warrik went out to meet Captain Murron. The two parleyed for a while, while the others returned to their spots in the formation without delay. With considerable apprehensiveness, Celia watched the two speak as they moved closer to the front of the ranks, stopping once to debate some point. It was long before reaching the front lines when Warrik halted, inspecting his army from a distance, and left the Captain to continue. When close enough, Murron called out while pointing towards Rana.
What exactly he said, Celia did not hear, for her heart beat too loudly. But she needn’t hear to know. She’d been waiting.
Rana was next to her before she realized it, and when Celia heard her voice, she was a bit startled.
“Time,” was all Rana said.
Without a word, Celia turned over both spear and shield to Willa, who accompanied their commander. Then she removed her helmet and gave it to Rana. No longer encumbered, she steeled herself to fly out and join the Captain, out there, in front of everyone else, alone and exposed. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached for her spear.
A perplexed Willa said, “Eh?”
“I need—something.”
“Sure.”
With a tight grip upon the spear, Celia threaded her way through the ranks of griffons and out towards Captain Murron. With a respectable distance remaining between them, he began moving away, not fast, but undoubtably hinting she should make haste. She did and not long after caught up, and they flew side by side.
“For a very long time,” Murron began gruffly, “I’ve known the Lady Lodema. She’s served our adopted house well, even when times were at their worst. Over time, and even when others doubted, I’ve placed my faith in her. Know now, she places her faith in you.”
No reply came to Celia’s mind, and she was uncertain if he expected one.
“You too must have faith, faith in yourself,” he added, and made a sound as if he found something amusing. “Don’t let him faze you. You just take the time you need. We’ve waited many a year, so another day t’is but a trifle.” Veering left, he let her continue onward alone.
Celia slowed, desiring to turn around and see the Captain again and ask him to accompany her, but good sense prevailed. There was more than the Captain behind her, and her anxiety needed no additional provocations. She flew on and halted more than speaking distance from Prince Warrik. She waited.
He came forward, imposing in his grand attire, with his left talon resting on the handle of his great sword.
“Well, my dear niece,” he began in a jaunty voice, “here we all are on this beautiful day, and before it is spent, we shall leave our lands and enter those of the Arimaspi. Once done, the consequence is war. Understood?”
She acknowledged with a shortened and hasty nod.
He nodded back, slow and thoughtful.
“Accordingly, it is time for you to, as the good Lady might say, fulfill your destiny. I’ll not be so affected as she, yet I will ask for your guidance. Celia, are you prepared to direct us to the whereabouts of your father?”
“Yes,” she stated. “I am.”
“Then—I bid you proceed.” And he departed, moving aside and towards the rear until out of Celia’s sight.
Celia hovered, just thinking. Ahead of her were the mountains and the western frontier, beneath her the talkative river, and behind an audience of griffons ready to bear witness to the testing of her mettle. This long awaited moment had arrived. A breeze blew at Celia’s back.
When closer, Lodema had said with conviction, seeing would be easier than ever. Celia doubted, for how could Lodema know, yet she hoped it true. And now, under the scrutiny of so many, she found herself wishing she was instead with the old griffon in her dark and quiet cell. Neither of the two were to be had here and now, except within, and that being so, she began.
Three measured breaths Celia drew, and clutching the spear at both ends, she raised it above her head. She closed her eyes and listened. Beating wings behind her, their soft feathers cutting through the air. The stream murmured below as it ambled to the south and east. All about a breeze maneuvered through the valley and its stones, brushing the branches and leaves of its trees. Near or distant, Celia heard all. Poised within the twilight of her mind, she quelled the sounds one by one till none remained. In the quiet dark she waited.
By degrees, a sky appeared to her, the brightness of its day lost, dwindled to semidarkness. The valley and mountains became visible, taking on the lusterless forms they assumed on moonlit nights. This shadow landscape was new, for on Celia’s prior journeys, all remained veiled in black. Before long, the drawing power to which she had grown accustomed beckoned, and she flew.
Gathering momentum, she dashed over the northern mountains, hurtling through the gray silence towards a destination unseen, yet well known. Onward she flew over the colorless terrain, elated and confident, for this was a dream no more.
In due time, a wide rubble-filled valley emerged from the racing shadows, and above that location, Celia’s journey halted. In the lull, she safeguarded the route taken to memory as best she could. Then, an interruption, the vague beckoning now pulled her downward, and into the very earth itself she descended, pitch black enveloping her.
This nullity she perceived as a world both dank and foul, an abyss where metal rang upon stone, and hunger and labor knew no end. Through this loathsome place Celia continued undeterred, for her journey’s end was before her: Ahead were the stars.
Those bold and bright stars, the ones she had come to know as hateful and spiteful, burned as strong as ever. Commingled were the faltering ones, those flickering lights succumbing to dark despair. All these she bypassed, for she saw the star which never wavered. Celia rushed to it and basked in its golden radiance, enraptured.
Her grip on the spear lessened, and the end upon which the fearsome spearhead of bronze was affixed slipped from her talons without effort. Eyes shut and with her mind focused upon that faraway, resolute light, Celia let the weapon find its own direction, its gleaming point cutting a graceful arc through the air. It settled, pointing west by north.
Celia said, “There.”
—❦—
Although midday neared, little light found its way into Meadow’s hut, for its door was shut tight and its lone window covered. Meadow herself lay on the dirt floor beside the table in the same spot she had fallen asleep last night, unable to stumble to her pallet in the dark. From twilight to early morn, scenes from within the orb engrossed her until she was exhausted. This she did every night.
Now she began to rise, much earlier than usual, for outside there was a commotion, a jarring cry, over and over. Half awake, she lurched up and wobbled, dizziness requiring her to seek support from the table. The raspy call of a bird, for she now determined the sound’s source, continued, loud and insistent. Clamping her ears to the side of her head aided little.
Upon rising Meadow’s first thought, however, was not the din, but water, for her lips were dry and her throat parched. Straightaway she went to the window and pulled aside the sun-rotted cloth keeping the light at bay. A harried search through cluttered bowls and jars yielded no water, not a drop. She headed for the door, cursing her luck as well as the bird. Outside, she located the offender sitting on her roof, not far from the peak.
The squawking jackdaw bobbed up and down, spreading its wings with each protestation, its shiny black eyes fixed on her. She shouted, attempting to drive it away. It refused to hush or depart as she commanded. So great was Meadow’s frustration, she located a stone and was about to cast it when she stilled her hoof. The stone landed with a thud.
Meadow looked down. Her mind turned leaden, as gray and shapeless as the stone laying in the dirt. Quite slowly, she blinked. A strange sensation crept over her, as if somepony watched, and so, with a swift pivot, she looked behind her. Nopony was there, nopony on the path, or by the hedgerow, or in her garden.
Although spring was almost over, her garden remained unplanted, its rich soil, once so carefully prepared, was now a bounty for weeds of every kind. It did not matter, she thought, for nothing mattered. Yet an ache remained in her heart.
On the roof the ranting bird continued, relentless. Then Meadow remembered: A jackdaw’s presence on your roof foretold rain. A feeble smile twisted on her dry lips, for, perhaps, her luck had turned. With a tired inelegance she let herself down and waited for the predicted rain.
A gentle spring rain would provide much relief, washing clean her dirty coat and her matted mane. The thought of how good that would feel, eased her weary mind. And then, after the rain, she could drink from a puddle and save the trip across the fields in the midday heat. These days the stream seemed as far off as the mountains.
She waited, resting her eyes, but was unable to shut out that noisy bird. More waiting and no rain came and the damnable bird would not leave. Longer still she waited and still nothing. Meadow glanced skyward.
The pale blue sky held nothing more than an uncertain, filmy haze, containing not a single cloud capable of rain. Meadow clamped shut her eyes, and when reopened, they burned with anger.
Leaping up and twisting about, Meadow condemned the jackdaw it for its lies and incompetence. Unperturbed, the bird assailed her with ever louder protests, its activity reaching a level nearing frantic.
Frustrated, exhausted, and so very thirsty, Meadow admitted defeat, and off she trudged down the path to the stream. The path led her through unsown fields, at which she refused to glance. Accompanying her was the bird, leading as if it knew her destination, racing onward and high, only to return, swooping down to cajole with grating cries.
She arrived at the stream. It had been an arduous journey, for the sun and the screeching bird served only to lengthen it. Meadow stepped into the water and drank. A mouthful at a time the cool water refreshed, and awareness of the world about her returned. It was then she noticed the departure of the jackdaw.
Relieved but wary, Meadow searched for it, thinking the bird must be laying in wait, ready to again assail. But it was decidedly gone, and while the search for the bird was unsuccessful, she did spy something afar, high above the mountains.
A thunderstorm of immense proportions loomed above the imposing peaks, dwarfing them in the way they dwarfed the prairie. Was this the bird’s predicted rain? She laughed and declared the jackdaw a fool. A storm so distant would have no affect on prairie dwellers.
Despite a lighter mood, she remained worn, so after a few more drinks, Meadow made for herself a resting spot, trampling the new-grown grasses into a bed. Laying there she watched the far-flung storm with impassive eyes.
Not only did this storm’s size exceed any seen before, its violence surpassed all others too. Bursts of red and orange continuously illuminated the interior of the roiling gray clouds. Yet the storm remained eerily silent, for distance swallowed that measure of its fury. Huge towers of clouds writhed, wrestling against the unseen, neither advancing or retreating, never growing or shrinking. It hung over the remote mountain range in menacing agony.
Where Meadow lay there was only tranquility, and in gentle increments the sun’s warmth brought her sleep. Her weary eyes shut and her head drifted down. She slumbered.
Removed from her home and the orb, the nature of her sleep differed, and only a serene emptiness graced her rest. For some time Meadow lay unperturbed, until a breeze from the east, chilly as those of spring are inclined to be, awoke her. The midday was long passed, for now the sun was descending from its height, yet a good measure of the still day remained.
Upon awaking and finding herself in a peculiar spot, she became disoriented, uncertain if she dreamed or not. The sky, the grasses, the stream, all were too vivid for a dream, yet she could not recall the circumstances which led her there. Resting under the open sky left her feeling born anew, simple and innocent, freed of the affliction of heavy-heartedness. She remained unburdened for but a moment, for her memories found their way back.
Meadow recalled thirst, and there was a bird, yes, and she came here to drink, and there was a storm. She turned towards the mountains and there it remained, still roiling and flashing as she remembered. More rushed back.
There was her hut in disarray, her garden in shambles, the unplanted fields—and the stream. From where she lay she could see the bullrushes, and she recalled the moment when chance and love refashioned her life and the time when her heart was torn asunder. All this swept over Meadow, a great calamitous flood, and overwhelmed her.
She stood and looked out over the prairie, her eyes seeing nothing. Meadow was lost inside herself, and there she found only woe. Could she find no peace, not even in sleep? No, she could not. Not in the sleep of the living.
Meadow began her walk home.
By now the hazy sky had cleared, and a few well suited clouds advanced across it, borne by the eastern wind. Although the sun shone, rain began to fall, coming down in hearty drops, absorbed in an instant by the greedy soil.
The promised rain soaked Meadow’s coat, but she did not notice. A chilly wind blew, but she was already numb. The rain picked up, and soon her mane was wet throughout and hung flat against her neck. Rivulets of water ran down her face. She could not see. Yet, Meadow did not stop.
Neither rain nor wind nor any affair of the world reached her. Nothing could, for a hollow blackness had swallowed her up, and from it, she saw no escape.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
The Arimaspi host readied themselves for the approaching griffons, rushing to complete a series of defensive squares across the valley. The perimeter of each bristled with spears, outward-facing in the frontmost rows, upward facing in the remaining. In their centers, companies of archers stood in readiness, alert and eager to bring down airborne attackers, so that those ill-fated would drop among warriors armed with swords and axes.
Defenses of such a formidable nature negated much of the griffon’s advantage, yet this complication did not dishearten them in the least.
“’Twas what we expected,” Captain Murron intoned. “Standard defense. Used years ago. Regardless, too hazardous to approach from above. We must first engage them on the ground.”
Warrik grunted a curt acknowledgement, for he had learned this in his youth, from Murron himself, and they had discussed their response prior to departure.
“Well then,” he began, “they’ve selected a tactic from the past, and we shall respond in kind. As we agreed?”
“Aye.”
Dismissed, the Captain few off to dispatch orders, while Warrik remained at an altitude providing him a wide field of view. From on high, he mused, the scene approximated that of a diagram drawn upon a map.
With their plan decided and its implementation in progress, the griffons flew on, and once suitably close to their foe, companies descended to the ground. There they assembled into columns, five wide and six deep, and prepared to march forward, their spears before them, and shatter the Arimaspi’s lines. Meanwhile, above the columns archers gathered in support, waiting to deliver showers of arrows. At last, when all was in readiness, ominous horns sounded, signaling the advance.
The Arimaspi greeted their opponents with a reverberating battle cry and a preliminary volley of arrows.
Still watching from above, Warrik observed as an onlooker might do in a game of strategy, scrutinizing the arrangement of the pieces, ready to uncover an avenue for exploitation.
As the griffons neared the Arimaspi lines, the two sided exchanged a throw of javelins. Then a charge, and at last spears clashed and archers moved in.
Warrik impression was that all was proceeding as it should, nothing untoward, nothing noteworthy, when a considerable turmoil disrupted his rather contemplative study, for without exception every Arimaspi shouted out. Shocked by the uproar, Warrik at first supposed it another attempt of theirs to intimidate. But the outcry grew distressing, haphazard rather than organized and quite urgent.
Within a moment of the initial outcry, a panic emerged in the ranks of their spearmen. Then their lines broke, and with their protection lost, the archers scattered. In no time the intimidating, disciplined squares were transformed into fleeing mobs, with frenzied one-eyed warriors running in cross directions. Frantic throngs fled up the valley, away from the griffons, while others endeavored to escape by clambering up the sparsely wooded hillsides. A few confused individuals, disoriented or driven mad by fright, sprinted past their opponents, never looking backwards.
The griffon commanders, before embarking on this venture, had discussed many directions a battle might take, but of them, this scenario had not come up. How should one respond a fleeing foe, to such chaos? Their careful preparations had seemingly lost purposefulness, and they were paralyzed. The inaction, however, was but momentary.
The most eager amongst recovered first, breaking off in unsanctioned pursuit of individuals or groups. More joined their eager colleagues. Both Arimaspi and griffon armies alike fell into utter anarchy.
“Sound recall!” Warrik ordered. “Bring them back at once.” Urgent horns imploring the fervid warriors to return but struggled to be heard over the din. Few heeded the command, and so Warrik called for it anew, and while more returned, too many remained afield, headstrong, chasing after stragglers.
Far ahead, Warrik watched as the vast majority of the opposing host escaped up the valley, knowing every moment’s delay increased the fleet-footed beasts lead.
He dove, sweeping near the ground, seething, screaming for the restoration of order. Unbidden, Captain Murron was soon beside him.
“Warrik!” he cried.
When he halted and turned, he discovered the Captain’s face exceedingly close to his own.
“Compose yourself!”
“What is wrong with these fools? Can’t they see the Arimaspi are escaping? I want them back, Captain—back now!”
“Can you not see we try? But they are young and impetuous, seeking glory. They think they’ve already won.” The Captain shook his head. “Even when they obey, it’s no use. I can’t make sense of it. We withdraw and they don’t run, but instead counter-attack.”
“Ha! At least a few of your fearless Arimaspi remain so,” taunted Warrik, only to receive an overtly scornful glare. His own mood foul, he was undeterred. “The rest show their colors, don’t they? Where are the battle hymns? I heard screams.”
“That… That I can’t explain.”
“Captain, they flee like rabbits before us!” he said and pointed to the distant and disappearing Arimaspi army.
“Never underestimate them, Sire. They’re fierce warriors, merciless. This I know.”
“But Captain, these are not the ones you knew.” He grasped Murron’s shoulder. “That was years ago, my friend. The Arimaspi you fought, ferocious they might’ve been, but they’re long dead and their fighting spirit with them. See how they’ve spawned a generation of cowards to take their place.”
Upon arriving at a wye in the valley, the retreating Arimaspi split their forces, half continuing straight on, the remaining number veering off to enter a wide, flat bottomed gorge.
“Look!” Warrik exclaimed and turned Murron so he might better see. “We shall do the same. I take half southwest, you the rest, west by north.”
The Captain’s sole eye narrowed to a slit. He blinked, long and slow while intoning, “Sire, division would be ill-advised.”
“Yes. And it is they who’ve made that unwise choice so that we may profit by it.” But his assertion garnered silence.
“Can’t you see? We’ll make short work of them this way,” he entreated, but the Captain continue his mute opposition. Indisposed to being stymied in this or any other fashion, he hesitated, selecting a new strategy. Consequently, in a tranquil voice, Warrik began his appeal.
“Long ago, when they slew my father, they took more than his life, for they took a part of our lives along with it. These accursed monsters left us both with wounds that remain unhealed, raw. And even driven from our homeland, nonetheless they still wound us, all of us, robbing others of their lives, their freedom. They’ve taken so much, so many, and now, before the sun sets, we can at last avenge these wrongs. We can at last avenge him.”
Captain Murron looked away; Warrik pressed on.
“You and I, we’ve waited long for this day to arrive, and after all these years, justice is within sight. So, let this be the day we will put an end it, to them, so they haunt no longer. But we’ve little time before this opportunity’s lost. We dare not delay. Please, my friend, help me.”
The Captain said nothing; he did not even glance at him. For a moment Warrik experienced qualms about his approach and fearing it failed, wondered how he might continue the plea. Then the Captain responded.
“Yes,” mumbled Murron, nodding his head. “Yes,” he repeated, this time louder and with grim intensity. “We do this today.” And without requesting leave or receiving orders, he sped off.
With a dour look about him, Warrik regarded the Captain rushing amongst the disordered, issuing commands with effortless authority, exhorting the unruly warriors into the air and ordering them to reform their squads. He watched Murron form select groups of twos or threes and dispatch them on missions to fetch the errant. They flew off to insist their comrades disengage, or ensure they were left with none with which they might skirmish. Order was far from restored, but Warrik observed its gradual return and was gratified.
Prince Warrik returned to the heights, soaring up so as to appraise the terrain ahead. By now, eyes sharper than his still would have failed to spy a single Arimaspi. Disgruntled, but only some, he shifted and reviewed his own forces, remarking how Captain Muron’s nascent formation already stood out, and he recognized he must go now and do the same.
As Warrik glided down, he strove to maintain a certain severity, one befitting his rank as well as the significance of the moment. But in actuality, his appearance served to conceal the incomparable exhilaration he felt. Although the events of the day brought him delight, the feeling proved troublesome, for it made it difficult to concentrate on the tasks that remained. And there was so very much left to do.
—❦—
“On the left!” came a yell, for Arimaspi archers had reappeared from their hiding.
“Close ranks,” bellowed Captain Murron. “Everyone maintain position.” Weapons and shields clattered in response.
The archers, perhaps a dozen but no more, released a volley at the hovering griffons. Before the first of their arrows clattered against the wall of shields, they had notched a second set and sent them flying. Then, after delivering a third, the assailants scattered and disappeared, finding concealment among the numerous boulders lining the valley’s sides.
Too light were the Arimaspi’s arrows, for they employed the short bow, and too distant the bowmen for their attack to damage much beyond griffon pride. Regardless of the attack’s success or failure, the foe held the high ground on all sides, and with this state, Murron showed his utmost displeasure.
For the lapse in judgment which led to this predicament, he attempted to exhaust every profane oath known to him, all directed at himself. Yet, he concluded, their situation was more frustrating than dire, for while besieged in the tight valley, with archers above and warriors below, the Arimaspi appeared averse to press their advantage. Exasperated and at a loss to resolve why the fight had not yet commenced, the Captain put it aside for a moment, shifting his thoughts elsewhere, away from himself and to those under his command.
In the lull following the attack, Murron ascertained his troops state of mind, doing so by moving among the ranks, providing encouragement as he did. He spied a few rattled faces, nothing serious. Overall, what he encountered left him relieved. Finding their prior impetuousness replaced by resolve muted many of his misgivings. Still, he remained concerned, for given sufficient provocation, their restraint would give and chaos once more ensue.
Well, at least he now understood why the Arimaspi broke as they did, for it was by design. Not a rout, but a ruse, and he admitted, one well executed. Calmed now, Murron swore to refrain from useless self-chastisement. Figuring it all out was of greater import.
A shrill cry of “Right and low!” diverted his thoughts. Below he observed warriors emerging from hiding and mustering beside the river. Two hurled javelins skyward, striking nothing. Those with axes waved them in the air, conducting a wild dance whilst raving in their native, guttural tongue. Once completing their unfathomable mission, like the archers earlier, all disappeared.
Murron found it more than problematic to suss a strategy from the outlandish display. Not once had he known Arimaspi to shirk conflict. Why, they appeared to delight in bloodshed, so what purpose did ineffective attacks and bizarre theatrics serve? Never had his former foe engaged in such puzzling behavior.
Although no longer visible, the Arimaspi began to make themselves heard. A chilling din soon filled the rocky valley as the one-eyed warriors worked in unison, drumming upon their shields with axe or sword. In little time they arrived upon a rhythm where echo built upon echo.
Murron expressed unusual mirth at this development, for he remembered performances like this. While still unable to unraveled their current game, in this act he found a scrap of comfort; it confirmed that these remained the Arimaspi of his past. Their clangorous drumming was formulated to break one’s nerve, to disturb one’s thoughts. Interruption of the latter proved efficacious, but the Captain resolved to extract purpose from their madness.
Possibilities arose and fell. Ahead lay a bend, a place where a larger force might lurk. Did they seek to push the griffons forward into the final part of a trap? Or were they to withdraw and fall prey to attackers now secreted behind? And what of the mad dramatics, the brief attacks and rapid withdrawals? While an explanation eluded him for some time, he reached what he thought was the answer. Dread seized him.
Imbued with urgency, he tore through the lines and, with an abrupt turn, plunged into the formation, screeching out a summons to his commanders. They raced to him without delay.
“If I’ve done my reckoning right,” began Murron, “Prince Warrik’s in a spot worse than ours. Far worse. Look, how many have we seen? There’s too few Arimaspi here to fight us proper, hence their nonsense.” He faced emotionless stares.
“It’s a gambit. They’ve not divided as we assumed, but uneven. Some hid, doubled back, perhaps took a passage. Whatever they did, I’ll wager that most of their forces have Warrik busied right now. Look at the foolery they’ve offered! They’ve no battle plan, only pranks. They mean to squander our time and keep us from the true fight.
“Oh, it’s been a merry dance this day,” he continued, doing his utmost to enliven their somber faces. “But now it’s time to do our jobs. I pledge to you we’ll fly out of here, no matter what, and make it to that fight, the real one. Now, it’s going to require a bit of time—and fortitude.”
“But Captain,” Galvyn interjected, his glare a mix of confusion and resentment, “if the Arimaspi are few, should we not—”
“Warrik and the others need us, Master Galvyn,” he stated, his voice resonant, his tone even. “We’ll take the beasties on elsewhere, on our terms, not theirs. And when we do, we’ll show ‘em how it’s done, eh?”
There was silence before Galvyn returned a reluctant “Yes, Sir.”
The words failed to ring true, but Murron did not quibble. They had not the time.
“Now, here’s how we get out of here. We leave one squad at a time, skimming the water, doing this.” Murron backed up, gaining room so he might raise his shield above him. “You keep ‘em together, tight, but not so close it slows you down. You’re to form a shell like a tortoise, but run like a hare. Understand?”
A few nods confirmed their understanding. Still, all remained silent, except Galvyn.
“They’ll fire on us from above.”
“Aye, they will, but they’ve got those short bows, right? Arrows can scarce reach us now, and you’ll fly by so fast, it’ll require a mighty big lead. And trust me, from the shooting I’ve seen today, the Arimaspi’s sent their best elsewhere. Oh and don’t forget—” Murron paused and rapped the right side of his helmet “—the beasties and I share the same affliction.”
At last he received the lightheartedness he sought. Relaxed and confident, they would hearten those they led. Murron’s own tension subsided, yet Galvyn continued to give him pause. A cold determination remained in those youthful eyes.
The drumming ceased.
“Oh, praise the four winds,” Murron exclaimed as he rolled his eyes. “So, you stay nice and compact so they’ve a small target, fast so they’ve no chance to aim. I’ll come and tap you when it’s your turn. Rana,”—all eyes turned to her—“you’ll go first. Must make sure Mistress Celia gets to safety. Warrik’ll call for her again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“All right. Form up posthaste, and the rest of you, explain our plan, but do nothing till you’re called. Go!” His commanders separated, flying off at a respectable pace. Alone, Murron took a deep breath and upon its release gave a heavy sigh, making no attempt to conceal it.
However, rather than supervising Rana, he trailed after Galvyn, for he felt a private conversation was in order. Words not from an officer, but from one who understood. Indeed, he understood, for plenty in the lad reminded him of his younger self, eager at his finest, hotheaded at his worst. Vengeance presided over Galvyn’s mind, and it had since the day they ventured forth. Given the circumstances, no one dared criticize, in particular Murron.
Darrow, the lad’s cousin, had been an exemplary soldier, a rock-steady officer, admired. The manner of his death had shaken those close to him, but for Galvyn, it was personal. Those cousins from Tolan, how much like brothers they were despite their disparate temperaments. And what the Arimaspi had done, the butchery…
Yes, an earnest talk; Murron owed him that.
As he sped up, a shout went out, another warning, for the Arimaspi were repeating the performance given at the water’s edge. They leapt up and down, taunting the griffons, when from the back of the troupe, one raced forward and hurled a javelin. Only luck could have guided it, not skill, for unerringly it found Galvyn’s shield, striking it high upon its rim. While too light to pierce, the unexpected blow drove the shield into its owner’s face and sent him reeling. Uninjured but dazed, Galvyn at first hung unsteady, but shook his head several times to clear his wits.
Murron halted a way off. The blow had spun him about so he now faced the Captain, and from Galvyn’s look, he thought it best to wait before approaching, allowing him time to recover his senses and dignity. Within a moment or two, Galvyn appeared fine, but as he watched, the Captain grew apprehensive.
For the young griffon, with eyes closed, moved his head side to side, slow. The his eyes opened, and he stared gravely ahead. His right talon drifted towards the hilt of his sword.
“Galvyn!” roared Murron. Unheeded, he shrieked the boy’s name again. But with sword drawn, Galvyn turned and dove towards the Arimaspi.
Murron gave chase, his mind speeding as fast as he. Everything appeared slow to him, as if time had gone askew, events taking on an extraordinary clarity. Such perception did not aid in closing the gap between him and the feverish Galvyn. Downward both charged.
The Arimaspi on the riverbank continued their goading, unperturbed by the approaching griffons. However, the alert archers on the hillside had their bows drawn.
The Captain watched as a lone arrow passed through Galvyn’s neck, not slowed in the slightest. On exit it brought forth a small cloud of feathers and down, pristine white save for a few flecks of red. Abruptly Galvyn’s wings no longer beat. He faded right. The sword he held slipped from his grasp; its blade flashed as it tumbled downward. Unlike the sword, the gaily painted shield he bore remained fast, tugging at him as he fell, causing his body to roll over. It accompanied its lifeless owner on the descent to the river.
Unable to aid the hapless Galvyn, Murron veered off to rejoin the distant formation, executing a hard bank to the left. As he did so, a dark foreboding, like clouds blotting out the sun, came over him, for his shield was to his left, the Arimaspi his right. Ominous as the sudden thought was, he moved too fast to amend the choice.
Less than halfway through the maneuver, Captain Murron felt a dull thump on his side, just ahead of his right wing. Lamentable experience told him a stinging pain would soon follow and that it would intensify and spread, but this he knew he could bear. Instead, he felt nothing, nothing at all. He discovered his wing had gone wholly numb and refused to move as commanded. Flapping of just his left wing proved ineffective, and his bank transformed into a spiral. Unable to control either flight or descent, he floundered.
Arrows sped by, most going wide. One impaled itself in his shield, yet this good fortune came to an end. A second and third found him, striking his left side, and from these the expected pain arrived. Murron looked aghast at the pair protruding at improbable angles from his ribcage. Sunk deep, these soon robbed him of a good measure of his breath, and gasping, he plummeted headlong towards the ground.
—❦—
The warrior crouched behind his shield, for the sword-wielding griffon was descending upon him again.
Warrik sped past and struck at the Arimaspi swordsman, landing a powerful blow upon the warrior’s tall shield. Curved and three-quarters the creature’s height, it provided excellent coverage. Aided by a firm shoulder buttressing it, Warrik’s assault, just as his earlier had been, proved fruitless. Thus, with a quick bank, he circled for another run.
The Arimaspi stood and turned to flee, but froze, for a pair of menacing griffons prevented his escape with their spears. These were Warrik’s escorts who, during the attack, had thought to reposition themselves. Blocked and certain of the third griffon’s return, the swordsman hastened to take up a defensible position.
Again Warrik’s blade crashed upon the shield, this time with such tremendous force that his unprepared foe staggered backwards. It took but a haphazard step to send the Arimaspi tumbling to the ground. There he lay upon his back, limbs splayed, stunned by the fall. Whereas the warrior’s shield remained strapped to his arm, his sword he no longer held, though it rested but a short distance from his hand. The swordsman affected a swift recovery and undertook the retrieval of his weapon. He clawed towards it, ultimately discovering himself incapable of moving the slightest bit closer. Glancing up, he saw why. Above him the griffon towered, balanced upon its hind legs, its wings spread. The Arimaspi attempted to raise his shield, only to realize a massive lion’s paw pinned it to the earth.
With his sword held high above him, Warrik prepared to strike, yet hesitated. Both he and the swordsman remained motionless. He looked at his adversary’s alien face: the narrow mouth rimmed with fleshy lips; the angular cheek bones with the taut, sallow skin stretched over them, made sallower still by the surrounding tangle of black hair; and dominating all, that solitary eye, half repulsive, half mesmerizing.
Between them a few heartbeats passed before a sinister grin twisted the Arimaspi’s face. With bared teeth, he uttered a foul imprecation and spat.
“To the crows!” Warrik brought the sword down across the creature’s chest, and with a rattling breath, the swordsman’s head lolled to the side, its malevolent eye glaring still.
Panting, Warrik dislodged his blade and held it at the ready. He lingered on the ground, half hovering, and every moment he did, his weapon grew heavier.
An escort flew beside him and spoke. “Sire, rest now.”
With a sluggish nod, he grunted and took a few wary steps back. After glancing around a final time Warrik was airborne. He and the escorts sped over the ongoing fray, towards the rear. There the scant remains of the griffon’s reserves remained in safety, beyond the reach of Arimaspi archers.
Distanced from the immediacy of combat for the first time since the battle began, Warrik’s stamina waned. His eyelids fluttered; his vision blurred. Fatigue almost overcame him save for the aid of one unseen who thrust a water flask into his talons. In a few greedy swallows it was dry. While flat and tepid, the water rejuvenated him, and to a degree recovered, Warrik surveyed the battlefield.
He surmised they yet held the Arimaspi at bay. However, doubt persisted, for below chaos continued its reign. Arrows flew from both sides. Scattered combatants skirmished, creating small battles within the large, each a component of a sprawling, confused whole. To grasp it in its entirety while in flux was futile.
Notwithstanding, the scene before him was not unfamiliar. It was if he had seen it innumerable times although where he found it difficult to say. Ready to dismiss it as a dream, recognition came to him.
This was the grand tapestry itself, the images known since his earliest days, but static no more. Upon this day, it stretched out before him, a living, gruesome spectacle. And here he was, hovering above the battle, clutching a great sword, cast in the role of the king, his own father. As in the tapestry, Warrik held his weapon before him; his sprouted no flames, and its blade, that morn a polished perfection, now stood nicked and bloodied. He scrutinized this prized possession of his, shifting it side to side, the melee its backdrop.
Warrik arrived at a bleak truth: were this a reenactment of those long passed events, a drama upon a stage, his would be a pale and marred performance. The role of his unassailable, all but mythical father was beyond his grasp. He was no victorious king, but a dupe fallen into a trap.
Anger and frustration, those faithful, tawdry allies, rushed to his defense, demanding Murron bear responsibility for his plight. Never should the Captain have agreed upon the division. It was his failing which led to his predicament, for had Murron not…
Unqualified repugnance welled up within him. Ashamed for conjuring such thoughts, Warrik covered his eyes, fleeing into darkness as if there he might find protection from his shame. It offered him no refuge. The images from the tapestry refused to pale. His rumination did not cease. In this private dark, Warrik heard Murron’s voice assailing him, an echoing accusation asking what his father might think of him. At this he gasped in despair.
Discomfited by their prince’s state, those near him looked elsewhere.
Warrik felt estranged from himself, his senses benumbed. From the depth of his nadir, he knew what he had become and loathed it. He need not ask himself how it came about, for the precise moment of his decline he could mark, for it was upon the night he and Murron met with the Elder Council when they pleaded on his brother’s behalf. So young then, a good-natured, guileless adolescent—before his introduction to intrigue and duplicity. That long evening spent with the Council had showed him how much he had to learn, and to his dismay, he had proved an outstanding student.
To defend himself, he had fashioned an unassailable shield of haughtiness, from behind which none might discover his self-doubt. From half truths and partial lies, he had forged pretense into a weapon, and thus equipped, set out to equal them at their game, to master the Council and the other houses. He had judged himself victorious, but instead, he realized, had become their chattel, enslaved to a way of life that sickened him. Behind his princely facade, he was no better than the basest schemer among them.
But once he was not so, he knew it, and sought to remember how it was. Warrik struggled against despair’s blackness, but found what he sought. The remembrances he found possessed a remarkable familiarity, for though paled by their age in years, they were easy to rekindle. So although long passed, he summoned memories of that time.
In those days, he lived and dined and trained with others his age, Captain Murron their instructor. What a distant and different world, a time when the boundless conviction of youth still filled him. Warrik remembered how little one’s house and wealth meant to him, to everyone, and how integrity and trust meant all, and how these very qualities brought forth a kinship among them. Each had been a sister or brother to him, and they likewise. And he had been happy.
This fellowship he had not experienced before nor since, and those days had been too short, and those extraordinary ties long vanished. Despite that, the faces and events he recalled brought an ache to his heart, and he longed to return to a life such as that. Often he had spoken of it and just as often dismissed it as naught but fancy. Even if it remained a foolish notion, the yearning to recapture the lost camaraderie did not lessen, and it altered the nature of his thinking. Still, remaining clear in Warrik’s mind was the tapestry.
It was an integral part of his past, and long familiar with it, he could recount its details with great precision. Now, it seemed he perceived it anew. Beyond the stilted figures locked in everlasting conflict, beyond the deft artistry and vibrant colors, Warrik grew aware of its extent. He envisioned its entirety and felt as if the whole was unfamiliar to him. Everything remained in its proper place, the melees on the ground, the attacks from the air, the city in the distance, and his father presiding over it all. In the lifelong familiarity, he now realized the superficiality of its details concealed its meaning from him.
Warrik reassessed his understanding, focusing on the image of his father. Always he had thought he looked at the sword held before him. No longer. It was now his conviction his father’s sight was fixed upon the distant city, his city—their city. And Warrik thought of all those in the city and those who had fought and died that day. In rapid succession, the tapestry’s scenes appeared to him with their old, familiar combatants. But now in each and every one of their faces he instead saw himself.
When he opened his eyes, Warrik regarded those upon the battlefield. No longer were they warriors. Nor were they members of rival houses. And neither were they subjects nor servants nor anything less than his own griffon kin. And realizing this, he solemnly vowed he would find a path that would lead him back to them.
Far behind him a horn blew, and from the assembled reserves came shouts of surprise and joy. Warrik turned, seeking to ascertain what merited the commotion, and by squinting he made out the first flight. Behind them were more, strung out like dark beads upon the blue: Murron’s forces had returned.
So deep and hardy was Warrik’s laughter that the outburst startled those nearby. “Yes!” he cried aloud, for now, assuredly, the day was theirs. He tarried not a moment and rushed out to meet the arriving forces, leaving his escort lagging.
On the way, he pledged that forevermore he would heed the Captain’s sage advice. And he owed him an apology for those most unfitting thoughts, his duplicity, but near bursting with elation over his discovery, his resolution, bringing together suitable words proved difficult. Warrik chortled at his foolishness. Was this not the behavior of an overexcited child? Thus he concluded it could wait, that it must wait, for later. Yet, there was something he refused to postpone, for it was foremost in his heart. He would find the Captain, his friend, and embrace him.
The individual flights slowed on approach and coalesced before reaching the battlefield. But upon sighting the gaudy plumes of their prince’s helmet, they halted and formed ranks to await his orders.
Within their lines Warrik scouted, darting about, indifferent to the varied faces, for he sought only one, and his failure to locate Murron left him irritated. At last, in the final group to arrive, he spied Celia and flying beside her the young commander Murron favored. If not accompanying them, without fail either of those two would know his whereabouts. Warrik glided over, his spirits ever rising. He called to them in an informal voice, saying, “Tell me, please, where might I find Captain Murron?”
Rana’s voice quavered as she said, “Your Highness…”
The despondency in her voice left Warrik bewildered.
—❦—
The inner blackness had receeded, yet Murron could not see. Neither could he recall events leading to the present, for as with his sight, his memory remain clouded. It took some time before his vision returned and he recalled the impact at the river’s edge, striking the rocks embedded in damp sand. A sharp-edged pain accompanied his recovery, and he remembered the arrows lodged in his side. While most unwelcome, it hurt no worse than what he first experienced. Little consolation this was, for his breaths remained difficult and grew more so.
An easy wind blew over him, and he shivered as the cold penetrated his bones.
Quiet filled the valley. No drumming, no shouts or cries, naught but the subdued notes of the adjacent waters. The silence meant that whatever had come to pass, it had ended. And death did not befoul the breeze, which gladdened the Captain. Whilst now certain that no battle had taken place, a desire to confirm the supposition overcame him. However, his attempt to rise proved painful in the extreme, and he slumped down, sharp-cornered rocks once more gouging his cheek. The failed maneuver trapped a twisted foreleg beneath him, adding to his discomfort. It pressed against his chest and throbbed with every beat of his heart.
Laying in this state, with his face pressed into the earth, was a terrible indignity, one he would no longer suffer. Murron hungered to see the sky; he would not be denied this. So, with halting purposefulness, he raised himself to remedy the situation. On the third agonizing attempt he prevailed and rolled upon his back. During the processes, an unpleasant and unsettling sound came from his right wing which now lay pinned beneath him. It did not add to his suffering though, as the absence of sensation worked to his advantage.
He saw the sky.
Sharp, torturous shadows flooded the valley at this unknown time of day, but the sky remained bright. Late he supposed. Yes, quite late, he acknowledged. With vacant eyes Murron gazed into the blue, a vivid, faultless azure. Above he observed a sparse company of clouds advancing with vigor, driven eastward by winds on high. They only added to the unequalled splendor of the scene. But best of all was what the sky did not hold: scavengers.
The ordinary act of rolling over had permitted his breaths to come easier. Notwithstanding the petty triumph, Murron did not delude himself. Little difference it would make, perhaps a few minutes, no more. Although brief, moments remained, and he would use them to soar that boundless, pristine sky once more, if only in his mind. He tried to do so, but as with the clouds above, forces unseen put his thoughts in motion.
In the fore of Murron’s mind was young Master Galvyn; without a doubt the lad must lay nearby though he knew not where. No resentment did he bear, for he could not do otherwise. The blame was Murron’s alone. He had sensed ill long ago, before they had left the city behind, on the very day when they had returned with Darrow’s remains.
It struck the Captain then how the always impassioned Galvyn remained even-tempered, and he perceived the potential danger. Given the youth’s nature, the magnitude of the provocation, a calamitous event no doubt awaited him. But their preparations were the priority, and the matter went unaddressed. As much as that lone arrow, anger and vengeance had felled the luckless Galvyn.
And him too.
Frustrations past and present, his helplessness, the utter futility enraged the Captain, and in exasperation, he attempted to cry aloud, only to gag and cough. The sour taste of metal filled his mouth.
Mindful of the unseemliness of ending in such a manner, Murron reined in his fury. He tried his utmost to concentrate on nothing further than the sky, yet his thoughts were wayward and set off, wandering through time.
He reveled in fair skies long passed, their boisterous harvest-time contests, racers speeding over a valley aflame in colors, a father’s good-natured encouragement, and a mother’s kindhearted embrace. Then half a dozen young commanders flew by, shouting orders as they led the early morning drills, Rana’s crisp voice resonating in the misty air, self-assured, overshadowing all others. Then recollections muted and remote, of standing above a child in slumber, a minute marvel, wrappings covering all but a tiny, superb face. And the babe’s mother and father, so proud, chortling as he stared rapt at their newborn son. And to the recent; the nighttime’s numbing cold, a long path, the bitting onrush of snow. At last, the silent opening of a timeworn door, behind it Constable Brenna’s jovial mien, the remedy of the fireside within, conversation of bygone days, and sweet wine to warm inside and out. Returning to the distant past; arriving at the Council Hall, its resplendence unequalled, on the day of his consummate honor. Kneeling in homage with spirit dauntless, he heard his own voice, assured, reciting the oath of fealty again, the echo of the words off stone. Arising then, possessing certitude, the feeling of potential beyond measure. So much hope, and then… Then… Their plans thrown akilter… The future, slipping away… Dreams all dead… Time lost, wasted, wasted…
Captain Murron’s recollections ceased, for he grew ever fainter, the drawing of a single breath taking the entirety of his being. Drained, he yielded and slipped into the twilit world known solely to those who must soon leave.
Dove-gray now tinged his perfect sky. In marked stages, the clouds, powerless to resist, melded with the ebbing blue until an unbroken monochrome held mastery over the heavens. A fog soon arose from the surrounding peaks, its gray equal to the sky’s, and it swept down the hillsides and flowed over the water’s surface, leaving an opaque, substanceless expanse.
Fear seized him, for it appeared he had been cast upon the wasteland, the one where the doomed roam for eternity, sorrow their sole companion. He did not succumb to panic, instead resolving to remain valorous unto the last. Stouthearted he would step forward and accept his well-earned judgment. Not that demeanor mattered. No reasoned defense, no desperate pleas could aid one in the Hall of Truths. There mercy was unknown, deception impossible.
An immeasurable distance away, a form appeared in a misty whorl, and unhurried, it approached. Unsubstantiated optimism sprang up, for Murron supposed it Rana come to retrieve him; he would have to admonish her for such recklessness. No reprimand was necessary, for his ostensible rescuer was not Rana
Nor was the creature any other inhabitant of the living realm, for motionless, translucent wings guided its descent. When Murron saw through the vaporous body, these otherworldly aspects gave rise to a sober uneasiness.
With effortless and unnatural grace the being proceeded, halting above him, brought to a standstill by a subtle flick of a wingtip. There the Captain’s visitor waited, only to have a smaller ethereal being materialized a moment thereafter. It descended and joined the first. Both floated in stationary silence.
He recognized the visages, and tears welled, for although long absent from his life, his heart and theirs were eternally entwined.
To him the pair beckoned; Murron shook his head. They above all should know he could never accompany them. His burden was too great. Ineffable grief made him weep; he begged for their torture to stop.
The beckoning ceased, and for a short while, they made no further motions. Then, the first of the apparitions swept a foreleg before him, left to right, in an authoritative, solemn command.
Murron felt himself hurtled from the gray world of the riverside to one of blue, dark blue-black. Thunder-like rumbles pummeled him, not a storm but the endless waves of the ocean, a mounting roar as the seas rose up, reaching for him. It took hold and beneath the waves he sank, descending into nihility. Yet he knew no fear, for the waters did not so much engulf but embrace, and in its hold, the ocean silently spoke. It prevailed upon him, bidding him to trust its sincerity, to surrender, to relinquish his burden. He did.
Around him the benevolent waters swept, soothing, carrying off the accumulated acrimony of a lifetime. No longer did Murron bear remorse for deeds done. Neither had he guilt for those undone. Nothing remained to torment him. He was free.
Captain Murron’s heart lightened, and what had once felt as heavy as a stone weighed less than any feather. Thus, he departed.
None save the river heard his final exclamation, but it pays mortals no heed. Bearing neither enmity nor sympathy, the cold mountain waters sped over their sandy beds and weaved amongst obstacles of rounded stone, all the time murmuring with everlasting, impatient detachment.
—❦—
With their wounded and dead attended to, the griffons had moved from the battlefield, traveling eastward more or less, distancing themselves from the Arimaspi. They established their camp atop a rocky knoll, and from there kept a vigilant watch around the surround area. Settled, not a single task remained except to wait for day’s end.
In due course the lingering day gave way to night, and a pronounced chill crept in with it, the prevalence of quiet enhancing its effect. Gathered beside their campfires for light and warmth, near silent griffons spoke in somber whispers. Seldom were their voices louder than the snaps and cracks from within their fires, and when they were, night’s attendant breeze whisked the words away.
Celia sat at a fire with her uncle. Prince Warrik had requested her presence, something extraordinary, but alone she might as well been. For while Warrik sat near, he did not speak, and neither did he look at her, instead directing a lifeless stare into the undulating flames. Upon rare occasion he blinked.
Warrik did not dine, and when offered food and drink, he gave an unequivocal but polite refusal. Oft moody, none questioned this behavior, and none possessed the boldness to further disturb his fascination with the flames. Celia too considered this sensible, but remained nearby, a weary participant in a wordless vigil.
Like most, Celia was left uncertain, not understanding how victory felt so much like defeat. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she desired an escape into sleep, nothing more. It refused to come, for there were images her shut eyes saw that drove slumber off. She could not set aside what she had seen; she feared she might never.
A distance away from Celia and her uncle, incongruous laughter burst forth to break the night’s leaden stillness. In actuality it faded fast, yet it reverberated in Celia’s ears. This left her inexplicably shaken, and with great effort she managed to hold back her oncoming tears.
The harsh voices had interfered with Warrik’s trance, and he turned and lurched towards the disturbance. Following the abrupt movement, Celia supposed he would shout and demand quiet. He did not. Alert, with his neck twisted, he waited, glowering.
Celia caught a glimpse of his face in profile, but the wavering firelight cast exaggerated shadows, concealing more than illuminating. Always changeable, she gave up trying to understand him.
How long he sat that way, unmoving, glaring, Celia could not tell. Even awake, the night struck her as dreamlike, but now she half-dozed with her eyes open, and it seemed more so. Then, without warning, Warrik moved, jolting her awake.
He stood and with vigorous strides walked away and vanished from sight. In no time he re-emerged from the dark bearing his helmet, which he deposited near the fire with a thoughtless toss. The flickering of orange flames imparted a ruddy glow to its gold. Upon sitting beside it, Warrik let his head droop and sealed tight his eyes.
Celia watched.
Warrik brushed aside his crest, and with eyes reopened, he reached down and snapped a plume from the helmet. He cast it into the fire. The long red feather floated, tossed by the rising heat, as if it sought to escape. But it sank and came aflame, overwhelmed in an instant. When the flare from its destruction receded, a blackened twig stood in silhouette against the coals.
As soon as the light of the first had died, Warrik broke off another and consigned it to an identical fate. Over and over he repeated this ritual, adding but one at a time, never plucking the next until the previous existed in memory only. And with the last of the feathers gone, the helmet stripped bare of adornments, he drew himself up with an exaggerated slowness. He set off in a near stagger, appearing aged, infirm. To where he went, Celia did not see, but his helmet he did not take with him.
Not wanting to stay, though unwilling to venture forth into the darkness alone, Celia lingered by the fire. She thought about her uncle’s curious behavior, but not for long. In time the somnolent rhythm of the flames allayed her mind and coaxed shut her eyes. Someday, thought Celia as her heavy eyelids came down a final time, she must ask him what it all meant.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
Thereafter, Prince Warrik always kept her within his sight. Even so, loneliness gnawed at Celia, for her uncle proved poor company, his words polite but sparse. And being separated from those she knew, those with whom she had trained, she grew ill at ease.
On and off she caught herself worrying her companions might mistake this forced separation as an exercise of privilege, and they would think less of her for it. This rather odd feeling, so it seemed to Celia, possessed her most often at eventide, when she found herself alone with her pensive uncle. When it occurred, she asked herself, in truth, if she missed the company of those other griffons. Then she recalled aspects of theirs she did not miss: their talkative nature, their love for continuous and unending speculation about those they sought.
“Underground, without the sun,” one would suggest as they sat around the fire, “would you not go blind?”
“Nonsense,” another would reply. “You’ve not put thought to it. Sure, no sun, but there’s bound to be light, not much, but some. Without light, how could you work?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s so. But think of the sky. Why, if I couldn’t see the sky, if I couldn’t fly, I’m sure I’d go mad. You don’t suppose, do you, that—”
Celia’s presence mattered not the slightest as they whispered their conjectures, supposing and declaring long past sundown. Seven moons it had been by her reckoning, that she had lived amongst the griffons. She had borne witness to their peculiar ways, yet regardless of such familiarity, their chatter she never understood. Their talkativeness resulted in an appreciation for the quiet she had enjoyed in her prairie home, and now, how distant it felt, more than ever. The recall of that modest dwelling, of images of her far away mother, dredged up a gnawing anxiety. Much had transpired, much had she done, yet the prospects of her and her mother remained as uncertain as on the day she had arrived in the griffon’s city. As a consequence, she found herself, like her uncle, immersed in dark thoughts.
Nonetheless, neither Celia’s nor Warrik’s mood impeded the advance of the griffon army, and under their prince’s direction they progressed with a painstaking and methodical slowness, the tedium growing greater each day. It wore on Celia. One day became two, and two, four, and so little distinguished each from the other, she gave up counting. The gray sameness started with an early awakening, then they broke camp before the formation began its cautious westward trek. Scouts dispatched soon after dawn would return before day’s end, bringing scant reports of Arimaspi, for after their defeat, the griffon’s foe had made themselves scarce. Those discovered appeared to be scouts themselves, few in number, never a threat, and regardless of whence the reports came, Warrik directed his army in a wandering and convoluted course westward.
It rankled Celia. Upon her first meeting, Lodema had declared her destine to recover her father, the vanished king, and after lengthy hours of training under the irascible old griffon, Celia believed it herself. She felt conjoined to him, and whether her eyes remained open or shut, this curious enchantment imparted a strong but unsettling message: the direction they travelled no longer led to him. So convincing was her feeling, Celia brought the matter to Prince Warrik’s attention.
“In due time,” he replied without a trace of condescension, yet offered no further explanation. The apathy left her astonished. Still she persisted, reminding him daily the way to his brother lay elsewhere, all to no avail. She grew angry, until advice came to her in the form of an ancient tale.
It was very old, for her mother had heard it from her father, and his before him. In it, a flock of crows feasted in the fields until a storm came. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and the flock took off to find shelter in the nearby woods, all but one. He flew not away, but into the menacing clouds, scolding them for interrupting his dinner. The storm, of course, cared not, and the foolish bird’s anger grew. He flew higher and higher into the black clouds until he disappeared forever.
So, while frustrated, Celia resolved to let Warrik proceed according to his opaque plans. And thus the days passed.
On one of these undifferentiated days, in the mid afternoon, a scouting party rejoined the formation. While far from a noteworthy event, the trio had set out the previous morning and spent the night afield. Soon after their arrival word went out: they bore vital information. Thus a messenger arrived relaying this to Prince Warrik, and he reasoned he should interview the scouts himself. As always, Celia accompanied him.
When she and her uncle arrived at the indicated location, they discovered three disheveled griffons lounging about, drinking from water skins and eating chunks of dark bread torn from a round loaf. All rose when their prince landed, and they bowed, but Warrik bade them continue with their meal. In the meantime, he and Celia settled themselves and, for a short while, watched as the three ate in haste.
“So,” said Warrik, beginning his queries while they had consumed the last of their bread, “I’m told you bring us wondrous news.”
“Indeed we do, Sire,” their leader said, and he downed a final swig of water. “We found ’em, just like you wanted.”
“Well done!” Warrik exclaimed and leaned forward.
“They’ve a town of sorts at the headwaters of a river. Not certain, of course, but I’d wager it empties into the northern sea.”
The northern sea: the griffons spoke of it with dread, for, they told Celia, it connected the Arimaspi with their homeland. They painted an image of cold and steely waters, a grim clouded sky, forever beset with threatening winds, although none had seen it for themselves. All the griffons knew came from those who lived beyond the mountains, but they relayed everything as fact.
“Of course.” Warrik nodded, then asked the leader in an impatient tone, “Direction? Distance?”
“More south than west. An easy enough route to follow.” He nudged one of his companions.
“Yes,” she added with nervousness, “Less than half a day’s flight at a sensible speed. We’d’ve returned sooner, you know, but we sighted the place ’round dusk. Stayed overnight to get a better view come morning.” With a hasty glance she redirected the conversation to the leader.
“Must say, for all the time they’ve been here, it’s not much to look at. Little more than two dozen buildings, all of ’em wooden, crude constructions, almost makeshift I’d—”
Warrik interrupted. “Troops garrisoned there?”
“How many? Hard to say, but few.”
“It’s true, Sire,” chimed the third griffon, eagerness hurrying his young voice. “Little activity, evening or morn.”
“I suppose we’ve thinned their numbers,” continued their leader. “And others must’ve taken off, for the place has a deserted feel. And this you’ll find of great interest. They’ve got three long boats in the water, moored, and from what we could spy, they’ve bare decks. Plenty of goods piled on the quays though.”
“Then the rest mean to depart,” said Warrik, “and soon, if they’ve not already begun.”
The tone he used took Celia by surprise, for he sounded grim. Her resulting apprehension grew, for concerns unknown but to him occupied his thoughts; he sat quite still, gazing into distant nothingness.
“And of ’em,” resumed the leader, but he waited for Warrik to shake off his stupor. “Two ride high. The third, she’s low in the water, although her deck’s as bare as her sisters’.”
Warrik peered at him through narrowed eyes for several moments. “A treasure ship—gold weighing it down?”
“Aye, our thoughts too,” the leader replied, the others signaling their agreement in a similar fashion. “We think much alike, Sire,” he chuckled.
Warrik’s eyes widened and the pitch of his voice rose.
“They’re confident we’ve no idea, so they’re taking their time. But once ready, the captives’s lives…”
Pivoting from the scouts, Warrik looked at Celia with wild eyes. But he soon composed himself and rested his talons upon her shoulder, his lingering touch failing to provide reassurance. Then, with a directness she had not heard in a great while, he spoke, a weighty calm filling his voice.
“My dear, at this time I wish for you to rejoin your companions. Tell your commander we’ll travel little more today. Yes, tell her… Tell her to inform all that we shall make an early day of it, and she’s to form a party and locate the spot for our bivouac. Go to her, Celia. Tell her to proceed with all due haste.”
Wary, Celia rose, hesitating not from unwillingness, only addled by the unexpected nature of the request.
“The time—” Warrik caught himself, and Celia saw his eyes to glisten. “The time’s soon upon us. Now, go.”
Celia nodded and set off to rejoin Rana and the others, but as she departed, she heard Warrik speaking, clear and strong.
“For you three, a different task: We need to assemble the war council.”
—❦—
Day neared its end, the shadows grew long and the light low, but from the corner of her eye Celia could catch a glimpse of Willa. By easing her head to the side, she could see her proper and watched for her to give the starting signal.
The griffon sat a way off, tall and confident, sphinx-like with her helmet resting before her, a foreleg placed on either side. Albeit temporary, Celia thought the role of instructor, fit Willa, although it struck strange how much she appeared to enjoy making one wait.
“Celia…” Willa called out sing-song. “Stop watching me. Were I you, I’d be mindful of that trickster Rana. Fail to watch her close and she’s bound to land another right on top of your head, just like before. That I guarantee.”
Bundled rushes blunted their swords, and both wore helmets, however, neither had muted the blow to Celia’s head. It had left her eyes watering, her ears ringing, but the embarrassment hurt most of all. Rana had made obvious allowances, and still Celia had failed.
“I’m watching,” she replied, loud, and focused on Rana. Her sparring partner stood but a few paces away, little more than the length of a spear, holding a small round shield close and high. Of her face, only her eyes remained visible, narrow slits hovering above the shield’s rim. This dour look chilled like a gust of wind, and while Celia knew Rana did not seek to injure, it did not matter. It unnerving her. She shifted her stance in an attempt to brave the unblinking stare.
With head held high, Willa asked “Ready now are we?” Then she commanded them to begin.
Celia advanced a single step before wavering, standing stock still, leaving Rana to close the remainder of the distance between them. This she did with vigorous, yet unhurried strides. Thereafter, they parried for a short while, Celia fending off the strong but slow-moving blows. Then Rana feigned low and reversed direction, bringing her sword high.
Recognizing the misdirection from their previous bout, Celia stepped into the attack, using her shield to deflect the strike. With ease she forced Rana’s sword up and outward and then, without thought, counterattacked with a wild and wide swing, parallel to the earth. The blow landed upon Rana’s shoulder, the rushes wrapped around her blade producing a hefty thwack.
“Stop!” cried Willa. “No, no, no,” she muttered, each utterance louder than the previous. Groaning, she rose and marched towards the mock combatants.
Unhurt, Rana backed off and removed her helmet. She scratched at the feathers in her flattened crest.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled to Rana. In the time it took to make the abbreviated apology, Willa had arrived and now stood beside Celia, very imposing, very tall.
“We’ll have no more of that.” Willa glowered. “You can’t use a sword like it’s a scythe to bring in the harvest. There’s such a thing as edge alignment, and we’ve no time to cover it. Besides, it’s going to be to dark underground and crowded. Swing like that and you’re likely to strike someone you don’t mean to, maybe even yourself.” Unceremoniously, she grabbed Celia’s sword talon and, directing it, jabbed the sword’s blunted end at Rana.
“Keep a good grip and thrust, a good poke, like you’ve got a really short spear. And don’t over do it; for you, only hard enough to remind ’em to back off. Should it come to where you’ve no option but to fight, stay compact and defend. Don’t worry about anything else. Wave a sword around and you open yourself up.” She released her grip. “Understand?”
“Yes.” However, Celia’s worries remained. Facing someone at the end of a spear had proved difficult enough. Others had been beside her, but not so here, and alone, with a tiny shield and a sword so short… If practicing against Rana flustered her, she could not imagine an Arimaspi warrior, one with a real blade, or an ax, standing so close she could—
“Listen…” Rana said and tossed her head, loosening up the last of her compacted feathers. “Don’t fret. You don’t have to be good, see? Willa and I won’t be far away the whole time and it’s our job to make sure you’re safe. And if we don’t, your uncle’s sure to pluck us bald.”
Celia cut short a nervous snicker. “I know, but—”
“But,” said Willa, “You still need to practice.” She started marching back to her spot and, once there, took a seat and rested her talon upon the helmet, her claws drumming away, sending out sharp, hollow clicks. “Let’s try this again.”
Stepping back at her starting position, Rana replaced her helmet and made ready. Celia took a few steps backwards too. She reasoned mimicking her opponent’s pose would help, maybe, and so hid her face behind her shield and kept her sword upright, close beside her. With eyes upon Rana, she remained attentive this time, listening for Willa’s signal, but laughter came in its place.
Rana dropped from the ready and turned towards the source of mirth. “What exactly do you find funny?” she huffed.
From the tone, Celia could not decide if she was confused or annoyed. Likely both, for Willa had that effect upon her.
“How is that I’ve not noticed it before?” Willa said, all her affectedness lost. “You two are… are… reflections.” Neither replied. “Well, look at each other.”
And so, for a moment, they did.
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” said Rana.
Celia shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“It’s obvious, that’s why. Your plumage; your coats. The colors, they’re just about identical.”
They were both gray; this Celia had noted last autumn when, on that insufferable and exhausting day, she had met Rana atop the city walls. Nevertheless, her colors were much lighter than the griffon’s, a sliver in contrast to Rana’s charcoal gray. And Rana’s feathers had ticks of black, and hers had not. And their eyes, turquoise for her and lavender for Rana. In Celia’s mind, they were not at all alike.
“You’ve a point to this, I hope,” said Rana.
Willa chortled. “Looking as she does.” She giggle. “I fancy you two as sisters.”
With a snap of her head, Rana stared at Celia; Celia stared back.
“’Tis the light,” quipped Rana, “and your game wastes what little’s left of it. Make this our last bout, for we’ve need of food and sleep—well… rest at least.”
“Yes, yes,” intoned Willa, disappointment fast replacing delight. After clearing her throat, she announced, “On guard.” When both had nodded, she called out, “Ready… Go!”
—❦—
In the early morning hours, one unrecognized woke Celia, and that she had been found difficult to rouse, she sat in disbelief. Although resting from the time just past twilight, as had all except those appointed to the watch, she remained unconvinced she had slept more than a moment. Over and over turbulent thoughts insisted she live out the future, the impending and uncertain future, in every conceivable manner. Now, with dawn but hours away, the actual future loomed, yet the feeling persisted, reality a dreamscape beyond wakeful comprehension.
Despite the fatigue, Celia was awake and from her vantage could make out the watch fires spread across the valley, gentle orange flickers in the mist. They provided some comfort in that chilly hour. However, not they but silvery moonlight illuminated the encampment, and awash in the faultless light, the griffons prepared to depart. The expeditious activity of those nearby nudged the still sluggish Celia to begin her own preparations. First she looped a baldric over her head, next attaching to it a scabbarded sword. The spear and javelins she had become accustomed to wielding would remain behind. Absent too was the tall shield she had borne, replaced by one, despite Willa’s reassurances otherwise, she judged inadequate.
Someone landed a way off, and Rana met him and led him to the group of which Celia was part. Older and stocky, the new arrival trundled behind his escort, the wobble in his walk exaggerated by the coarse-woven sack slung over his shoulder. While this bundle was not large, indisputably it was heavy, and as he let it slip to the ground, it emitted a weighty clank. With a grunt he seated himself and undid the rope securing the sack and reached inside. Without a word he began laying out wares from the armory—a grim array of daggers.
The task of issuing these fell to Rana: two apiece. However, when Celia’s turn came, she protested.
Staring at the mismatched pair in Rana’s talons, she said, “I don’t know how…”
“Then for others,” suggested Rana, a distinct softness in her voice. “Should they be in need.”
Hesitant, Celia took those offered.
The armorer’s parcel held other implements too: weighty hammers and long chisels of iron. The moonlight flashed off their wide, sharpened blades as he passed them to a select few; Celia was not amongst them.
In a short while nothing remained of the old griffon’s stocks, and without delay he made his departure. All the same, he took a moment to utter “Best of luck” to them in a low, gravelly voice.
As Celia’s group would be the last to leave, and now fully equipped, they only needed to bide their time. Most milled about, restless yet subdued, for once un-talkative. Celia remained rooted in the chilly dark, her gaze fixed on remote activities.
The far-off fires were extinguished one-by-one as flights of griffons got underway. Their formations took on a ragged arrangement, an obfuscation should they be spotted, so that, except for their speed, they might be mistook for high flying birds returning to their mountain haunts. Time passed, and more groups departed, until the last faraway fire winked out, leaving only the not-yet-full moon to illuminate the valley with its unwavering light. Celia gazed at the bright orb: already it hung low in the western sky, and it would disappear even before dawn’s coming.
“’Tis a raider’s moon,” someone said, startling her. Rana stood beside Celia. She too looked upward. “Not much use to us, I suppose, but it’ll serve the others well.”
Flanking her was Willa. “Auspicious for us all.”
“How so?” asked Rana.
“One only need recall the potential of the stars, their ability to foretoken,” she said, sounding rather lofty. “See the bright one, the bluish star near the moon?” After waiting for, yet not receiving, a response, Willa continued. “It’s in the constellation of the lion, the great protector, and that star, the brightest one among them, marks his heart. Tonight the moon herself rests besides it, and I dare say, no reader of the heavens could put forward an hour more opportune.”
Rana turned to her with a curious look. “Once, didn’t you tell me you were raised by your grandmother?”
“What of it?” said Willa, but their exchange ended, cut short by Prince Warrik’s arrival.
Everything faded from Celia’s mind as he approached them with long confident strides. So loudly did her heart beat that all else became inaudible. She heard not the shuffling steps of those gathering round, nor did she realize she stood alone at their center. Only one thing could she see, could she hear, Warrik, and now he stood before her, vigorous and gallant, his purposeful eyes locked with hers. He reached out and brushed her cheek.
“The time has come,” said Warrik in a gracious voice, “to retrieve your father.” He stepped back.
With a tremble, Celia lowered her head. She clamped shut her eyes. In and out she breathed, shallow and uneasy at first, focusing until her breaths grew deeper, controlled. Celia’s mind grew placid, and her thoughts roamed, expanding far beyond the horizon. Soon, what she sought appeared, like a beacon on a faraway shore. The golden light intensified until it outshone the brightest star of the heavens, and with eyes still closed, oblivious to those encircling her, Celia took to the air.
She climbing to a great height and headed north and east, flying fast, while below her the unseen moonlight painted the mountains with jagged shadows. Before long the rugged valleys pictured in her mind took on a certain familiarity, and she opened her eyes. It mattered little though, for from here she knew her route, every peak memorized, every turn rehearsed.
Downward she plunged, catching Warrik and the griffons unawares: they raced to match her. Together they flew amongst ink-black shadows, where only the absence of stars defined the boundary of earth and sky. Concealed thus, through the early morning hours Celia and the griffons dashed along a tortuous path, the lion and moon always in the fore. On occasion the celestial pair hid behind wispy clouds, setting them aglow, but always they eased towards the horizon, preparing to relinquish the sky to a new day.
Sensing her destination near, Celia rose high and checked her speed. Mindful this time, the griffons anticipated her actions, and with caution, fanned out behind her. She had led them to the distant parts of the western mountain range, a land wholly unfamiliar to griffonkind. Here the great jaggy peaks ended, replaced by lower, rounded hills, the valleys they delineated wide and shallow, much like those in the familiar east. Yet, in this alien land, the streams and rivers ran counter, not east and southerly, but due west, bound for the northwest’s icy seas.
The last light from the low-hanging moon cast long, knife-sharp shadows in a rubble strewn valley ahead. Celia began her descent, drawn towards a black maw in a hillside.
Warrik, however, overtook her and bade her follow. They traced a high arc in the lightening sky, as he led her to a hill overlooking the valley. There, upon its eastern side, the once scattered griffons reassembled. With all accounted for, Warrik dispatched two scouts; the remainder sat in silence.
The abrupt change from possessed flight to inaction left Celia disordered, harassed by a tumult of anticipatory thoughts and images. Yet, within her chaotic thoughts, sage words came to her, words uttered by Captain Murron. While the circumstances in which they had been offered she could not recall, with a hint of humor he had once observed that waiting composes the greater portion of a soldier’s life. A simple task it may appear, yet it is not, for it entails preparing for what you know will come. And whatever that may be, he advised, it always comes soon enough.
In recalling his words, she heard his voice once more, and that summoned the vision of the Captain spiraling downward, falling ever faster, and striking the earth, remaining forever motionless. Then remembrances of the following pandemonium assailed her, and Celia heard the terror-stricken cries again and, above the din, Rana’s voice, her ragged screams, as she sought to maintain order. Other nightmarish memories, too vivid, surged forth, growing so great she could not bear it. But with a cold shudder, she escaped, and Celia looked about, wondering if the others were likewise beset.
Little more than scattered moonlight reached the hillside where they waited, and with dawn not yet lurking on the horizon, not a single face could she resolve with clarity. Regardless of their true demeanors, she imagined them composed, unbothered by the past or the future, not at all like herself.
As for her uncle, he sat a short distance away, a tranquil shadow with head erect, talons stretched out before him, a vigilant eastward-facing statue.
Time passed, steady but slow, and the moon had all but departed, when the first of the scouts emerged from blackness. Warrik rose to meet him and receive his report. The others gathered round, listening with rapt attention.
“Sire,” the scout began, muffling his excited voice to an extent. “There’s a road leading south and west, in the direction of their settlement. Too dark to determine if it’s seen use of late, but what I can say is there’s not a sign of camps or outposts along it. The slopes are likewise bare. I’d have to conclude that if any were stationed here, they’re now gone.”
“Thank you. Fine news to begin the day,” said Warrik, yet his face remained dispassionate. “We’ve one less concern now.” As he spoke the words, from above came the sound of fluttering wings, and the griffons moved aside for the second reconnoiterer to land.
“What have you found, pray tell?” said Warrik.
“As you thought, the entrance lies beneath that outcropping, forming sort of a cavern. Tools and carts inside, machinery. They’ve concealed nothing.”
“Guards?”
“None in sight, but further back a light. A small fire or just a torch perhaps. How deep within, I cannot say, for I didn’t enter, but the true entrance must be there.”
Warrik turned aside, offering no thanks. A forbidding look swept over Warrik’s face as he grasped the pommel of his sword. He made an abrupt turn and, for a moment, looked skyward, to the east, pondering, before he made his address.
“As I speak, our comrades’s mission has begun, to put the Arimaspi town to the torch, and before the sun reaches its zenith, their fortifications, their homes, the storehouses and docks, everything and everything therein, shall be ash. Yet, I’ve decreed there’ll be no slaughter, for we are not brutes. Although our enemy, and our grievances many, we know not the sins of the individual.
“Yet, there remains those to whom we reserve unrestrained enmity. They reside here, underground, and their crimes are manifest. In these final moments, we must prevent them from compounding their atrocities. So I say to you, to them, we shall show no mercy.
“We begin a new day, and do so by bidding farewell to the Arimaspi, sending them home bearing a story, a tale of griffons united. And indeed they shall depart with little else than a story. We will make certain to send them off unsupplied, their empty stomachs and parched throats, I hope, enriching the tale they bring their kinsmen. They shall journey homeward with neither food nor water—and likewise no treasure, and neither shall we.
“Greed and villainy has tainted their gold, thus we cannot permit its presence to curse our city. The Arimaspi’s treasure ship shall be burnt, the gold within left upon the river’s bottom, returned to the earth from which it came.
“This shall our brothers and sisters do. And so it falls to us, we few, to recover the true treasure, those taken from us, those enslaved in darkness, those long abused. This day we shall return them to the light, and in doing so, I say again, we must be ruthless, lest the Arimaspi seek to rob us a final time.”
Thereupon Warrik paused and surveyed their faces.
“Make yourselves ready. We await the dawn.” With these final words spoken, the griffons, silent, shuffled off.
Celia too started to move off, but before she could, she felt a tap upon her back. She turned; it was Warrik.
“A word, if I may,” he said and, not bothering to wait for a response, directed her with his wing. As they walked, he glanced back at intervals, and when no other griffons were visible, he halted.
“I have—” began Warrik only to pause, looking at Celia with an affected squint. “I have thought long on this matter, unsure of what I should say—how I should say it—so, should I err, I beg forgiveness in advance.”
Following an uncomfortable dry swallow, Celia nodded. “All right,” she said, but her voice shook.
“Always I knew you must be here, at this time and place, for reasons which require no explanation. Now, it may seem that only the hard-hearted would seek to deny you this moment, yet…” Again he paused, quite long, and when he resumed, his speach was rapid.
“You have seen much these last days, have you not?”
She required no clarification. “I have.”
With his eyes pinched closed, Warrik stood silent for a time. “Shortly, we will enter that cavern, and I remind you, it is likely that not all of us shall exit.” His eyes opened. “I, myself, may not return, a fact the Captain reminded me of not so long ago. And since—since his loss, my mind dwells on such possibilities.”
Celia responded without a moment’s delay. “I am not afraid.” She spoke the truth, yet the utterance acted as a conjuration by name, summoning fear. It emerged and set upon her, momentarily stealing her breath. But Celia remained steadfast, and it passed.
“Oh, no, no,” replied Warrik, and the manner in which he said it left Celia with the impression she had provided him with a modicum of amusement.
“This is about neither courage nor determination, and beyond question you possess both. After all, few griffons posses the resolve to journey as far as you have, and from what you say of your mother’s kind, even fewer of them posses the courage to venture into the unknown. But I digress.
“Let me see…” Looking upward, his head cocked, Warrik gave the impression of scrutinizing sky. Then, with a jerk, he returned his attention to Celia. “We are much alike, are we not?”
The unexpected suggestion elicited a scoffed “How?”
“Well, like you, I grew up without a father.” Warrik halted for a second, striking Celia as appearing wistful, however, whatever occupied his thoughts, a shake of the head cast it off. “Yet, unlike me, and should fortune permit, today you’ll have both father and mother, your family restored. Was this not your desire, the very reason you came here?”
Time and again, the questions he posed left her perplexed. When he spoke, too often Celia spied the glint of roguish thoughts in those eyes of his and therefore deemed all his words suspect, half-truths belying any true sentiments he might possess. In that early morning hour, little light shone upon his face, so she dared not surmise the intent of his questioning. That being the case, she did not provide an answer.
“So, Celia, you mustn’t—no… It is imperative that…” Warrik sought to end his fumbling by glancing away. After drawing a hearty breath, he said, “If after these many years, I am fortunate enough to look again upon my brother’s face and then tell him who led us here, who secured his release, and should something untoward happen, and I be obliged to say she no longer lived… It… It would be better if Boreas were to strike me down this very instant.
“And thus,” he concluded, his voice firm, his stance imposing, “it is best that from here on you not accompany us.”
Hollow eyed, Celia looked at him, wondering what she should do, what she could do. Shocked, she could think of nothing, and so Warrik remained before her, an adamant obstruction. By chance, she caught a twitch in his left eye, and however brief, this distraction released her, and no longer was she bereft of thought. But the thoughts occupying her were the pursuing doubts which had so disturbed her sleep.
“May I ask a question?” she said, unsure if she sounded childlike.
The severity of Warrik’s posture lessened and with extraordinary kindness, he replied, “Why, yes. Of course.”
“On the night I arrived, you brought Lady Lodema, and she said that… that my mother may never come to the city.”
Warrik answered with an emphatic nod. “It would be nigh impossible were she but an ordinary pony, for our instincts are rooted deep and, I fear, our pride deeper. Her presence within the walls is unimaginable. Could I will it different, but even a king may not command the change of long-set minds.” Warrik huffed in self-amusement.
“No, her safety could not be guaranteed, my dear,” he declared. “Not by anyone. Then… then there’s your father’s rank among us, and their relationship; these things complicate the matter to such an extent that… Why, the dangers she would face…”
Celia blinked; she swallowed.
“Well,” stammered Warrik. “What of ponykind? Should a griffon arrive to live in your village, what reception awaits them?”
In a monotone, Celia replied, “The Councilor would send for soldiers. They’d be taken to jail. Maybe worse.”
Warrik acknowledged with a series of slow, meaningful nods.
“So… then, after we find Father—” For a moment, Celia’s voice failed her. “What happens?”
“On the very same night, when the two of us spoke with Lodema, recall that I pledged to honor Ahren’s decisions on these matters. I remain so committed.”
With solemnity and poise, Celia told him, “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” sighed Warrik. “Yet, it is all I could offer then and all I can offer now.” He waited, as if expecting her to speak in turn; she remained silent. “Place your trust in your father’s wisdom and hope for the best.”
Celia gazed at the ground. That word again, hope. Long had hope sustained her and her mother. It had encouraged her on this journey, brought her this far, so very far from her home to the unimaginable world of the griffons and beyond. Perhaps, hope could sustain her a little longer, until—
Warrik cleared his throat and, roused from thought, Celia looked up.
“So—” The dawn sparkled in Warrik’s eyes. “You will not heed my counsel, will you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m going with you to find my father.” Celia waited for his rebuke, the inevitable quarrel, but nothing came.
Warrik grasped her shoulder and turned to appraise the nascent dawn. “Time to go,” he stated and leapt airborne.
Celia hastened to catch him.
Twice above the others Warrik circled, and when all were airborne, he ordered the scout who knew the way to lead them towards the cavern, the black maw in the hillside. They proceeded in muffled flight, and there landed, remaining low, hugging the rocks. Warrik moved amongst them with haste, but remained stealthy, checking on each. He came to Celia, gave her a glance, then addressed Rana who waited beside her.
“Someone has a fire going,” he whispered. “Choose another and deal with them. You’ve a count of forty, no more, then we follow.”
“It is enough,” Rana replied and cocked her head, signaling Willa to accompany her. Off both flew, colorless forms within the cavern’s gloom, and disappeared.
Warrik sat and shut his eyes; concentrating upon his counting, Celia supposed. As he did, his face remained placid, almost as if he slumbered. But while his breaths appeared slow and easy, Celia noted the vibration at the tip of his tail, revealing his underlying calm was illusory.
With the counting finished, Warrik’s eyes opened wide. “We begin,” he announced. At the sound of his voice, Celia’s heart leapt.
They flew into the cavern and within seconds hovered outside a timber-framed opening whence came a flickering light. They entered with a hushed urgency. A short distance inside they came upon a small fire, beside it the Arimaspi who but a moment before tended it, lifeless now, his blank face turned towards the flames. Willa stood over the corpse, clenching her bloodied sword, her face unperturbed. Celia could not reconcile this Willa with the one she thought she knew.
The scene slowed the griffons not the slightest, and as they moved on, Willa fell in behind them. They could not fly here, for although a wingspan wide or better, the low ceiling of the passage prevented it. And so, deeper into darkness they trotted, the stagnant water pooled on the well-trodden earthen floor splashing beneath their feet. Around them, ancient and darkened timbers reinforced the walls and ceiling, while moisture glistened on the stones. A musty odor pervaded throughout.
As they continued, they passed pot-like lamps emitting foul stenches which, while stationed far apart, provided a trifle of illumination, but no more. Despite the gloom, Celia could feel the downward slope steepening, and the deeper they went, the more the ceiling closed in upon them. Then from ahead arose sounds from a commotion, its exact nature muddled by the stone walls.
The griffons, wary for a second, hesitated, but Warrik urged them forward. Before they had progressed much farther, they halted when a form materialized from the distant shadows.
Rana approached, panting. “One’s escaped.”
They dashed onward again, passing a victim of Rana’s formidable skills, when again, from the unseeable distance came a racket, accompanied by distorted and sinister shouts. The noises soon faded, and as the passage leveled off, they came to a gate of iron bars, which brought the griffons to a standstill. On the opposite side they saw a cart and barrels wedging it shut, but not a single Arimaspi defender.
At Warrik’s command, four burley youths made short work of the obstruction, as its intent was to imprison not to keep out intruders. With the path cleared, they poured though, finding themselves inside a lofty gallery. Shaken by the transition to openness, they paused before spreading out.
It took a moment for Warrik himself to adjust, and when he had, he directed them to take to the air. They did so, hovering low, for the space above menaced like a hollow, starless sky, the torchlight unable to reach the roof.
The light illuminated the floor well enough so Celia could see. There were rocks, large and small, in piles and more packed into barrels and carts. These sat beside great stone disks, querns of black basalt, each resting outside openings leading further into the earth.
Distant cries reverberated, coming from everywhere and nowhere, their true direction twisted by the high space. Banging, dull and deep, followed. All were befuddled, especially Celia. She searched for Warrik, finding him hovering some distance away.
“They’ve sounded the alarm,” he called out. “We must find the captives!”
Celia knew the echoing cries must emanate from deep within the tunnels. But which ones? She closed her eyes and, within a flash, saw. No longer was there a distance for her to cross, for her journeys always led to this shadowy place, yet on this occasion, what she saw was different. The once angry lights swirled with confusion, and those that once flickered, doubtful and weak, now scintillated with hope. And foremost amongst them, as it had been since the first, a great golden star shone brighter than sunlight: Celia knew with the absolute absence of doubt.
“That way!” she exclaimed and pointed to a far away opening. No one acted on her words. Only Warrik threw her a backward glance, staring for a moment.
“There!” he commanded. “Go!” And the griffons raced to enter where both he and Celia pointed. Then he dove to join the others.
Celia followed, accompanying the rest in their frantic dash. The passage she entered was darker and far narrower than the one leading to the gallery. Even so, the griffons surrounding her, driven by eagerness, surged forward without heed. In the crowd, she was jostled. Knocked off balance, Celia snagged a hoof on a lurking rock, and she plunged forward, grating her side against the wall. As she tumbled down, her helmet became dislodged, and her unprotected head struck the hard earth.
Black silence shrouded her senses. Then, as if in a fleeting dream, someone raised her up, bringing her to her hooves again. The one who gave aid asked if she was all right. Celia did not respond, but instead started a confused search for her helmet. The other griffon found it, helped her put it on, and left her alone, dazed. She sensing light in the distance and staggered towards it. As well as light, there came shouts and the clang of clashing swords, so although Celia remained unsteady, she drew her weapon. Stumbling forward this way, she entered a dismal room, and once within, rested against the wall. Five griffons occupied the space, three not of her party. With glassy eyes she took in the strange proceedings.
Two warriors worked with hammer and chisel to remove the irons around a standing griffon’s talons. The sound of their tools rang in Celia ears. Beside them a manacled griffon lay on his side, injured, while a third tended his companion’s wound. He too was in irons. A heavy chain bound all three, snaking along the floor to an iron ring affixed to the wall.
In a corner, a single quivering torch illuminated the room, casting deep shadows which exaggerated the captive’s gaunt faces. All three were thin and shabby, and as for their coats and plumage, so dirty and disheveled were they, they appeared a uniform brown.
The standing griffon kept his head down so he might observe the work of his rescuers. Although not yet free, he conversed with them, his voice husky but soft. While unable to hear his words, Celia realized he had stopped speaking mid-sentence. He then lifted his head, as if attune to something one could neither hear nor see, and for an instant, appeared puzzled. With a wary look, he turned and spied Celia. Light from the imperfect flames shimmered in his eyes. His gaze was powerful, piercing, not a trace of anger or fear. Instead, she thought he radiated nothing but gentle strength.
Celia gripped the side of her head, for a thousand kaleidoscope-like images began to overwhelm her, and from within, she felt something depart. The sword slipped from her talons, clattering down. Dizzied, she took a half step forward, but slumped to the ground, and the hushed darkness once again swept over her.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
Brilliant, westerly sunlight streamed through the windowpanes of Lady Lodema’s bower until the room seemed to brim with it. Celia could never had imagined it so, for that afternoon even the gloomiest corners came aglow. Darkness remained in only a single spot, a sharp-edged silhouette upon the far wall delineating a strange form. The shadow hovering large over the Lady belonged to Celia, for she stood upon Lodema’s narrow wooden table, a stiff-posed subject.
As for the Lodema herself, she sat tableside in her accustomed spot, quite silent and, so far that day, uncharacteristically patient. Adjacent to her, at the end opposite Celia, sat a young griffon, a scrivener immersed in the labor of drawing. Every second or two he paused and glanced at his subject, Celia, although at that moment he stared at her with eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat.
“What is the delay now?” barked Lodema.
“Well, if perhaps Mistress could…”
“This has taken far too long as it is. Have you forgotten time is of the essence?”
“No, M’Lady, but the Mistress’ pose, it is no longer—”
“Celia, dear,” said Lodema, and she groped until making contact with Celia’s foreleg.
After twisting her weary neck to and fro, Celia looked down and sighed a plaintive “Yes?”
“Do as he requests,” Lodema stated and returned to her previous state, prim, with interlaced talons resting upon the tabletop. “Should’ve been finished before you left,” she mumbled.
“His Highness’ map,” began the scrivener, “required an inordinate amount of labor from us all, myself in particular.”
“I don’t care,” she snipped. And with head held high, she said nothing more. Neither did the scrivener.
“Proceed,” Lodema commanded eventually.
“Thank you, Madam.” His head dipped, offering a perfunctory bow. “Now, would the Mistress oblige and raise her left talon higher, to its agreed upon position?”
“Like this?” Celia made an adjustment, closer to the initial pose, here talon high with claws open, menacing the empty air. The contrived manner in which she had been arranged her left her feeling like a hissing cat, ready to scratch. And she had said so. Neither griffon found the observation amusing.
“A bit higher, if you would.”
“Higher makes my shoulder hurt.” There was honesty in the statement, but duplicity as to the cause. The wound on her shoulder hurt, for the abrasion was both long and wide, although not deep, and even though those skilled in the healing arts had tended it well, she suffered from some stiffness there. She did in all parts of her body, yet, any genuine pain she felt came not from injury, but from remaining motionless while the scrivener worked. And the way in which he had positioned her, with talons raised, wings open—some but not much, he insisted—and her tail held high and head pitched back, was as uncomfortable as it was unnatural. Hours had passed and everything ached. At least the request that she maintain an open beak had been rejected. That, however, took a bit of a tiff.
“Please, Mistress. Shan’t be much longer.”
Celia complied while voicing her protest. “You said the same thing a while ago.”
“Yes,” interjected Lodema, “you did.” She huffed. “Is there no way we can accelerate the process?”
“M’lady, please. Understand that there is much cross-hatching to complete, so I might achieve the desired shading, the subtlety, and there are many delicate lines still to add, to record details of the plumage and tail.”
“You mean to say all else is complete?”
He shook his head, saying, “No,” the tone one of harsh denial, derisive. “I’ve the form, the lines, yes, but much remains unfinished. Intricate and precise work is required to render a subject with so many unique—”
“Celia.” Lodema cut him off, speaking unnecessarily loud. “Celia, off the table. Now.”
She obliged without delay and, once down, stretched her legs and arched her back. Celia then seated herself beside Lodema, adopting the Lady’s formal posture.
The scrivener sat, beak agape.
“This unfinished and intricate work of yours,” said Lodema, “it will be completed later—from memory. Can we assume your vaunted talents will not be taxed?”
The scrivener cast a cold stare; it left no impression on Lodema, of course, but to Celia, it brought mixed feelings. Not being the recipient of Lodema’s stern demands, for a change, gave rise to a strange delight, but in spite of that, she sympathized with him. And so, pleasure came to her accompanied by a pang of guilt, albeit a small one.
“Yes. Later, M’Lady,” answered the scrivener. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. A moment later, his look no longer quite so anguished, he released a breath, low and long.
“As to the text, what is it you desire beneath the illustration?”
“Do you plan on doing an illumination while we wait?”
“No, I do not,” he droned. “I will only note the words, completing the work later. But the text?”
Lodema swept a talon through the air before her. “Beneath the figure, the title shall read ‘The Hippogriff’,” she decreed. “Large script. Very decorative.”
A muffled moan escaped the scrivener. “I shall match the style of the bestiary’s other entries,” he intoned.
“Yes, yes, fine,” said Lodema. “As to the text itself…” She paused, head cocked, while the scrivener sat his pen at the ready.
“Sired by griffon, borne of mare, this impossible—” Lodema shook her head. “Nay—improbable creature epitomizes the noble attributes of both. Courage, integrity, patience, love—” There was a long pause. “Et cetera. Enumerate appropriately.”
“I shall.” Both he and Celia waited, for Lodema became silent, dwelling in thought, remaining very still.
“Conclude noting sole example, Mistress Celia of Waldren.”
With his scratching ended, the scrivener looked up. “No more?”
“Elaborate, as you say, to match the other entries.” Following a pause, which Celia though inordinately long, Lodema added, “That is all.”
Standing, the scrivener reassembled the tools of his trade, placing them with meticulous care in a wooden box, and when at last the lid was closed and latched, and the unfinished drawing of Celia in his possession, he proceeded to the door.
“I take my leave now, Lady.” And waved off without a word, he departed. The door latch produced a soft click behind him.
“I’m told he is exceptionally skilled,” said Lodema. “Still he frustrates me so. This desire of his for perfection beyond reason hampers the ability to perform his duties in a timely fashion.”
Not knowing the scrivener, nor his work, Celia offered nothing more than a sensible “Hmm” for a response. Not dismissed herself, she remained, expecting Lodema to converse with her on some matter or other. Instead, the old griffon remained seated, quite stiff, her talons crossed and tightly grasped. Her eyes were directed at the shelving of the opposing wall as if taking an inventory of the invisible.
Canting her head so she might see, Celia looked into those expressionless eyes. She found nothing of note. The interminable silence accompanying the Lady’s rigid posture produced an awkward feeling, a queasiness, and with the scrivener no longer present, and not a sound in the tiny room, Celia had only the company of her thoughts, something rare in the preceding days.
Many things she had put aside in these three hectic days in the city, but now the penultimate day had arrived. On the morrow, the griffon city and all its inhabitants would be behind her, perhaps forever. While known, the notion came upon her with little warning, provoking peculiar sentiments regarding Lodema.
In preparation for her departure, Celia had found words for many and said them. Some came easy, others difficult. What she might say to the Lady before leaving proved the knottiest of problems, and as a result, she had put off thinking about it several times. Perhaps Lodema’s distant attitude signaled some expectation, as if she waited for Celia to speak.
Without notice, Lodema tilted her head to remove a kink, and then resumed the fixedness of carven stone. The quickness of the motion jarred Celia’s thoughts, and so, instead of composing a farewell speech, she found herself asking a question.
“Lady, are you… unhappy?”
Still looking forward, Lodema replied, “And why do you say that, child?”
“You are so, well, quiet, and things… Events have not turned out as you wished.”
“Oh,” she said, her tone rising. “Now you presuppose to know not only my sensibilities, but my wants and desires.”
“Well…” Celia had second thoughts and hesitated. Only with great anxiety did she broach the subject, for she feared the Lady held her responsible. “He won’t be here… with you.”
Lodema’s head drooped, lowered so one might think she could see the folded talons resting before her. She released a long, exasperated sigh.
Celia looked away, glancing back only upon hearing Lodema’s voice.
“When you first left home, what of your mother?”
“Father’s absence upset her. It is why I came here.”
“Yes, of course. That’s not—” Lodema waved away her response. “No. I meant about you leaving.”
Much had happened since then, and although not yet a full year had passed since she had left her mother, everything felt farther away in time than it did in distance. As such, Celia could not recall the events of that morning with exactness, yet, the look upon Mother’s face remain in her mind.
“She did no say it, but I think seeing me leave made her even sadder than she was.”
“Yet she let you go,” said Lodema. “She let you fly away, a ward of fickle winds, not for a moment knowing what would happen to you, where you would be, what might become of you on your journey.” Turing towards Celia, she asked, “Does your mother not love you?”
“She does!” Lodema’s soft chuckle did little to assuage her anger.
“Yes, Celia, I am convinced your mother does, perhaps more than you comprehend. This was not my point, though. So, your mother loves you and yet she let you go; she allowed you to depart for a place, a future, unknown. Hmm?”
A question which was not a question: how it reminded Celia of Warrik. How alike those two with their crafty manner of speech and their artful thought, and although she had grown to expect it from them, it still rankled. But, since what the Lady had said was not a true question, Celia decided not to answer. And the Lady must not have sought one, for she continued, unanswered.
“When childhood ends, a parent must come to terms with the moment, for at that juncture, they may be called upon to prove their love in ways that can only bring them sorrow.”
Thinking she had the answer to her initial question, yet unsure, Celia sought confirmation. “Then you are sad.”
“My heart is gladdened by the outcome, yet I find myself, ultimately, neither happy nor sad. I am content, Celia, no more and no less, and I am resigned to remain so.” Lodema shook her head, a nervous laugh accompanying the shaking. “There were times, numerous times, when so great my ordeal, I feared I could not go on. Since you and Warrik left, I reflected upon my state on those darkest of days, and only then did I discover your father’s absence was not the crux of my despair. It was not knowing.”
“Knowing what happened to Father?”
“To some extent, yes,” said Lodema, and although her voice bore anguish, it remained absent from her face.
“Obviously ’twas a great mystery, but Ahren was not alone, as you know. Others sought answers for their loved ones as much as I. Yes, knowing what became of your father mattered to myself and scores of others, however, a greater need of knowing belonged to me alone. In my heart, I was desperate to know I bore no fault in his disappearance, that it was not I who sent him to a destiny unknown. Thus, this outcome befits my selfishness, does it not? What I needed, I have received; what I wanted, through thoughtlessness, I have lost. Hence, I acquiesce to my fate.”
On many an occasion Celia had thought the worst of Lodema, sometimes outright hated her. Even so, looking upon her now, she feared for the old griffon’s future. In her imagination, Celia saw winter making its return to the mountains, the winds howling outside, and Lodema sitting in this exact spot, alone in her personal, unending darkness. And even if Lodema professed otherwise, she would shed tears, if only hidden way inside her heart. This Celia knew, and the realization stung. As a consequence, a wave of over-earnest sentiments overcame her, and she blurted out, “We’ll come back someday.”
“My!” Lodema laughed, an almost unheard of moment of lightheartedness. “That is the unlikeliest of all events. No, perhaps not. Still, should it somehow come to pass, fate would deny me the moment. Of that I am convinced.” Then, without hesitation or error, Lodema reached out and laid her talons upon Celia’s crest.
“Gentle forewinds speed you homeward.” Quivering, Lodema’s touch rested upon Celia’s head for a moment, then she proceeded to stroke her ruff.
“My dearest Celia… Take care of my child.”
—❦—
“You’re sure?” asked Warrik as he rotated the glass by it stem. He brought it into the light beams pouring through the distant windows; patterns cut in the glass filled the amber wine with multi-colored sparkles.
“Yes,” replied Ahren without a moment of hesitation. “I am quite sure.”
“You’re missing a unique pleasure. Finest vintage in perhaps a decade. Perfect weather throughout that summer I’m informed, and it’s yielded such a delightful, crisp and—” His brother’s lean and thoughtful face halted his praise for the vintners art, its strangeness striking him again. While remaining an unmistakable countenance after the passing years, it reflected changes not accounted for by the passage of time alone. As Warrik found himself incapable of placing those changes, yet alone comprehending them, he reconsidered what he was to say, concluding at last that he must speak with greater forethought.
“You needn’t worry about its strength.”
“Strength isn’t the issue. It’s just, I… No. No, thank you.”
Disappointment gripped Warrik. Throughout the long, arduous day, his mind had dwelt on this little pleasure. Whenever the negotiations with the querulous Council irritated, his imagination whisked him to this exact moment: a glass before him, the wine’s golden color, its subtle, almost floral-like bouquet. When the talk grew repetitive, too tedious, he would gaze out the window and watch the sun, thinking it dawdled as if it too were one of the decrepit Council members. Was it so much to ask for time to hurry along? And now that it had…
So, with dispirited steps, Warrik took his glass and rested it upon the silver tray at the table where Ahren sat.
“Then I’ll have none either.” With a gesture high above his head, he announced “Water” rather loud, sounding overbearing, he realized, out of habit.
No sooner had he given the order, than a servant sprang from the concealed entrance high upon the dining chamber’s wall. The servant brought another tray to the table, one bearing a squat pitcher along with a pair of matching cups decorated with carven oak leaves, all in silver. Swift and with eyes trained upon her task, the servant filled the cups, and once complete, took up the tray with the wine and glasses. She swung about to fly off, but froze, for Warrik blocked her path.
Patient and silent, Warrik waited for the longest time as the young server stood stock still, her gaze averted. When he could wait no longer, he said, “Thank you.”
Although her head remained pointed at the floor, the servant’s eyes lifted, and he could at last see something of her face.
How young she looked, thought Warrik. Five or six years older than his niece, mayhap more, but still so young. He examined her, taking note of the shade of her eyes, a blue neither too dark nor too pale, and of their pleasing almond shape. At that instant, they brimmed with unfathomable confusion, perhaps even fright. Then he wondered how long she had been a member of the household, but could not answer. While he thought to ask her, and to ask her name, he decided against it.
“Thank you,” he reiterated and slid aside, permitting ample space for her to leave. She escaped in an instant, and while always swift, Warrik could not recall an occasion where any of the staff had moved with such rapidity.
The door above snapped closed behind the servant, and Ahren chuckled. “I salute your efforts, but take greater care.” He took up a cup and drank. “Make sure they understand, otherwise, you’ll frighten them to death with this newfound self of yours.”
“Not newfound but rediscovered, and they will adjust to it.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I’ll—” Warrik detected an impish look spreading over his brother’s face. Bristling, he snatched the remaining cup and contemplated the contents sloshing back and forth; he gave it a moment to settle before taking a sip. “Then I will adjust until they understand, and they will. I remain certain.”
“Forgive me,” began Ahren. “My intent was not to discourage, but you’ve taken on an enormous challenge. Now, in the mines, we benefited from the unique luxury of having nothing. Changing one’s mindset was, therefore, easy. Lacking wealth, we instead found value. Without families, we created fellowship, and when striped of our pride, we discovered our underlying virtues. What you strive for with your rediscovered self is not so different, but remains antithetical to many who worship prestige and gold. They’ve much to loose, and the fear of loss will blind them to what they will in turn gain.”
“For not seeking to discourage, you do it rather well.”
“Well,” Ahren continued, “Consider this: your future enemies are the same as those from your past. But you’ve new allies, not many but hard-forged ones, who will understand you better than the most enlightened on the Elder Council. Place your trust in them, brother, and they’ll not fail you.”
After taking a casual sip, Warrik wandered off, the cup still in his possession. He thought in silence until, after some time, he found himself at the distant end of the room, standing before the grand tapestry. He felt different when looking at it now, although not a thread had changed. With his head tilted, he stared at the contrived form of their father atop it, reconsidering what, if any, meaning it held.
“What do you expect he’d make of all this?”
“Father?” asked Ahren after a brief delay. “How could I say? I knew him as a child would, and a rather young one at that. And so long ago…” He paused. ”The events befallen us both are beyond a child’s comprehension, so nothing I recall from those days might I compare them to. It’s all rather complex, isn’t it?” He wavered, glancing down and then back to Warrik. “And from the account you’ve relayed, he—he and Mother lived lives of complication greater than we even knew, may ever know.”
“Yes, but… Don’t you think they’d at least feel frustrated by this outcome? Disappointed?”
“Well, from what you’ve told me,” began Ahren, “I… I suppose he and Mother would understand.” Ahren took a sip of water. “No, I amend my remarks. I’m sure they’d find this all quite amusing.”
“Amusing?” huffed Warrik, and he strode back to the table where his brother sat. “Amused to know their plans for us, for their city, undone?”
Ahren emptied his cup and pushed it away just as Warrik rejoined him. “Their plans undone, yes that is true, but their objectives, no, not at all. I think the Arimaspi unlikely to return and menace the city. This, without a doubt, would please them, do you not agree? And their city possesses both a wise king and a strong defender. In failing to foresee those two being one and the same, I sense they might find amusement.”
“Such flattery.”
“As our parents continued the work of their ancestors, you’ve completed a task time did not permit either Mother or Father to finish. Does that not prove you suited for the role?”
From the opposite side of the table Warrik watched his brother with caution, not letting his gaze wander as he refilled their cups. Done, he put the pitcher down, yet griped tight its handle long afterwards. He narrowed his eyes.
“You realize your decision is irrevocable.”
“Yes, I do, and why must you continue to question it?”
“Rather hasty, is it not? Giving yourself but three days…”
“Brother—” Ahren leaned forward, his face close to Warrik’s. “I made my choice long, long before the Arimaspi forced me to labor in their mine. Nigh eighteen years ago, correct? Time enough, I should think.” He gestured wide with both forelegs. “Eighteen years to think, so how is it you imagine, almost insist, another moon of living here, in a now alien world, one which brought me misery for so long, how do you imagine it could sway me otherwise?”
Nervous laugher, brief and light, escaped Warrik as he looked away. “You know, when Celia arrived, and I came to believe first that you might live, and then that you might in fact return… along with your freedom, I supposed freedom would come to me too. I assumed you’d return to rule, that you’d wrestle with the council from then on, endure the houses and their ceaseless squabbles, while I’d return to my life as a soldier and be free of… madness. But only you are free; I remain imprisoned.”
“For that, I am sorry,” said Ahren. “Well, at least you are free of me.”
This time, Warrik’s laugher sounded genuine. “You were but the smallest of the burdens.” Again he searched his brother’s face, seeking the nature of it changes. So lean and serious, like a traveller who had undergone a long journey, one as of yet unfinished. Warrik stared and stared, until a question leapt forth, one he had promised himself he would resist asking.
“What magic does she possess that compels you to forego your birthright?”
Ahren leaned back and took a long, uneasy breath. “Her kind, their life, is… everything is so very different from ours. I think— Do you not see this in the Celia?”
“I cannot say I do,” replied Warrik. “Do not misunderstand me. I’ve nothing against the girl—I’m sorry, your daughter—but I suspect she’s as representative of them as she is of us.”
“I suppose that’s true. But you see, what little time I spent with Meadow, she gave me glimpses of a different way of living, one impossible here. Now, don’t think me a simpleton who extolls the rustic, or some starry-eyed fool spouting nonsense about the benefits derived from breathing country air. No, the ponies’s lives are primitive, impoverished by our standards, but despite, not because of, their hardships, they’ve a wholesomeness of spirit. Do you not agree that’s rare amongst us? Perhaps it was unique to her, for as Celia told us, they’re capable of intolerance and cruelty too, but there was something to the life Meadow described, the life she lived, that I just—” Ahren shook his head. “You see, for all the differences in our origins, Meadow and I shared much in thought. More than that; we shared dreams, Warrik.”
“High-sounding, but you explain nothing.” Warrik retrieved his cup. A drop or two clung to the inside, yet it went unfilled, for it served only as a prop to fend off his brother’s gaze. “Regardless, it wasn’t exactly what I sought. I… I need to know why you love her.”
“A valid question.”
Warrik looked up.
“Sometimes, I doubt I can say myself. I asked how and why, grasping at particulars, but the answer remains elusive, a bird seen from the corner of your eye, or a distance you cannot close. You catch a glimpse and it vanishes; you pursue and it retreats.”
“Pfft!” huffed Warrik. “You obfuscate like a sage who’s lived too long in solitude.”
With a sigh, Ahren said, “Perhaps I do, but I’d hesitate to call myself a scholar of the heart, or the mind for that matter. Be that as it may, you recall the scrolls our tutors made us suffer through? Abstruse words of those solitary sages? An apropos passage… Give me a moment to remember… The heart knows things the mind cannot put to words, and if—”
“And if it might, is not the magic lost?” said Warrik.
Ahren laughed. “Ah! my brother. Your memory always was excellent.”
Hearing such hearty laughter put Warrik at ease, but only somewhat. He remained cautious as well as curious. “Well then, if you cannot extract the words from your own heart, it appears the question must remain unanswered for us both. Therefore, I proposed another, a simpler one I hope. What is it you plan to do with your freedom?”
“Nothing more than to live.”
“Please! Be serious.”
“Quite serious. Another sage penned that one’s life is a purse of time. The Arimaspi cost me much, so my already short allotment will be shorter still, and knowing this, I appreciate the value of life in ways I could not before. What remains to me is precious, and I assure you, I will make the most of my life with Meadow and Celia.”
“But… You don’t propose to live amongst her kind, do you?”
“No.” Ahren shook his head. “Once I dreamed it, but I now know the impossibility is as great as her living here. In years to come, perhaps, but not soon enough for us three.”
“Then where is it you will go?”
Laughter filled the room, long and loud. “Oh! there’s a place that has long been in my mind.”
—❦—
On the prairie, the exquisite days of summer arrived, but Meadow knew then not, for by then, the orb had become her sole occupation. As if by name, it called to her day and night, luring and lulling with visions of events already passed. However, the solace it provided faded all to quick, emptying her. Thus, bit by bit, her misery had increased beyond bearing. How much Meadow yearned for those departed days to be hers again, to be with those she loved! But never could it be. Gone forever was Celia, lost forever was Ahren, and with them, her hope, her future.
So it was, on a cloudy evening as the winds protested their lot, Meadow rekindled the fire in her hut and sat before her rude table. In front of her lay the small wooden box, a solitary lit candle resting beside it. She opened the box, unwrapped the orb, and wished as she did every night, that tonight would be the final time, that before the morn she might be released. In an instance, the orb glowed, and once more its images poured forth, consuming her consciousness with faces from her past, smiling and loving, the times trivial and momentous she spent with them. They washed over her like warm waves lapping the sand, numbing Meadow’s pain for a while, but the effects of the orb’s deceit soon ebbed.
Sensing her anguish, the images untrue reached out that night and caressed Meadow’s long suffering heart, bidding her accompany them into the unending darkness. Deeper and deeper she willingly followed, until she found herself poised on rim of a void without end. She lingered, fearful, holding on to her heartache for one moment more.
Then, with considerable noise, the door to her hut flew open. Adrift in the unreal, Meadow struggled to look up, away from the orb, and harder still she struggled to make sense of the event. At first she supposed the wind the cause, but to her confusion, she spied a ghostly figure at the threshold of her home, standing in the doorway, peering at her. Its face faded in and out with the wavering firelight, revealing an appearance unfamiliar and yet not, one bearing a faint semblance to Celia.
No, an impossibility. Her precious daughter existed only within the orb’s glow. Meadow, wan and worn, did not attempt to speak to the bewildering spirit, and neither did it address her. It only observed. Then, her ghostlike visitor stepped aside, and the winds delivered another specter to her home. Side by side the apparitions stood, watching. Neither spoke.
The new ghost, stranger still, Meadow perceived as an inaccessible shadow, obscure and ancient, impossibly shrouded by time. This one too, she knew, existed beyond the bounds of hope.
Meadow grew agitated, and with feeble thoughts sought significance from her visitation by the otherworldly. She had heard no owl cry. No bird pecked at her window. Not a single omen presaged her release, and thus, the presence of these two figments meant nothing. Why, they could no more exist than the illusions within the orb, and it was only those hollow visions Meadow desired. They were her reality. With a swift and sudden pull, the deadening comfort inside the glass summoned, its inexorable call drawing her in. She turned her eyes to it.
There was a crash, and stuporous Meadow again endeavored to pull away from the orb’s pleasant lies. When at last able to look up, she found the second specter had stepped forward. Before her he stood, golden wings flared, the reflected firelight illuminating the room. Without a word, the inexplicable visitor reached out, seized the orb, and hurled it upon the stones of the hearth. Its glass shattered, the orb’s treacherous images forever gone, drifting away, naught but vanishing smoke.
The ghost from long-ago thrust aside the table, so that nothing stood between them. Then, as it had been years ago inside that simple hut upon the windy prairie, Ahren reached out and embraced his beloved.
Through the mist of confusion, Meadow looked into the azure eyes of the one who held her. In a bygone memory, she recalled eyes filled with weariness, then restored, filled with love. Those which now looked upon her shone with joy, and soon their loving gaze dispelled the orb’s deadly affliction, driving off her torpor. It was if she had awoken, years of nightmares dismissed upon the glimpse of the light of day. The face she beheld, she knew it now, for although altered by time and fortune, it was one her heart could not fail to remember.
Managing a fragile smile, Meadow whispered, “Where?”
“In the mines of those called Arimaspi,” Ahren replied, his voice low, soothing. “Enslaved beneath the mountains far from my home. There, amongst others, they forced us to mine their gold. Barbarous captors they were, for avarice ruled their thoughts and cruelty filled their hearts. Yet, as strange as it seems, pitiable beasts too, for an act of kindness, one mattering little, compounded their miserable existence. And in turn, they strove to make our lives a misery.
“Hope, they told us, was dead, for it could not exist in the dark. Never again, they insisted, would we see the sky, the sun, and to think otherwise, futile. Only death would free us from their torments, and so it seemed. Through those bleak years, many I knew despaired and chose that escape, hoping to find peace. So it might have been for me, but unbeknownst to my captors, I possessed a single, simple hope, that one day I should see you again.” Ahren caressed her mane.
“And our daughter—one I never envisioned, nor could envision—she guided my brother’s army to where we were. A miracle, liberated at last, returned to daylight.”
“But your city?” asked Meadow.
“My affairs there are concluded. The city, if it was ever mine, it is no longer, and it is for the betterment of all. It is Warrik’s now, as it has been all these years, as it likely always should have been. Henceforth, neither am I prisoner nor prince. I am but my own—and yours.”
Sheltered amidst his feathers, Meadow wept.
“Hush, now,” Ahren murmured until she quieted, and when she had, he proclaimed, “Our hardships are over. We begin anew. Such things no longer matter. Thus, let us vow to never dwell upon out the past, lest it obscure our future.”
Nodding, Meadow raised her head and caught sight of a heartening gleam within his eyes.
“Now, my love,” said Ahren, “we must prepare, for tomorrow we leave for the sea.”
The Tale of the Hippogriff
The storyteller surveyed his silent audience. Some held goblets tight, a few bore grim looks, whilst others, befuddled by wine, sat with lolling heads, but no amount of inspection allowed him to discern if the muted response boded good or ill. Leaning heavily on his staff, he rose, and while those nearest him later said he groaned, they were mistaken.
Before him sat his bleary-eyed queen, resting her head upon her hooves, appearing to cling to the edge of consciousness with some difficulty. Then, without warning, her cheeks bulged, her lips straining to contain a most regal belch. They failed in spectacular fashion.
The court rained foul jeers down upon the old storyteller. With a theatrical swirl of his cloak, he turned and strode out, driven from the hall by their gale of mockery.
He sighed. No more could he do for them, for her. And what right had he to success? Her mother had been much the same, and his youthful quest to touch her heart had failed as well. The weight of fruitless decades descended upon him, mocking his foolishness and futility harsher than those surrounding could ever accomplish.
At last the grand wooden doors shut behind him, muffling the taunts with a thud, sealing his despair. In the vast outer corridor he stood alone and listened to the unearthly howl of the winds outside. It seemed even the elements sneered at him. And such odious weather these days. Why, had he not remarked that very morning how the winters felt longer and colder—utterly inhospitable—with each passing year? He grunted. Age, he told himself, nothing more than age. Yes, springtime comes sooner when one is young.
Youth! So disheartened he’d been, he had forgotten another generation existed, one yet unspoiled. And he wondered: Dare he? Glorious hope blossomed forth, spreading from his heart to his face. Yes! another generation, one last opportunity to restore the kingdom’s true eminence, but…
But the hour was late, and without a doubt the child was already asleep. He too was weary. Blessed sleep would serve him well.
So the storyteller went to retire that night, his spirit renewed. Up and up he climbed, navigating the steep stairway to his cell with care. He entered his modest quarters, latched the door, and prepared for another night of bitter cold. When at last settled, he extinguished his lone candle with a spell so practiced one might think the flame had departed of its own volition. Eyes open, he lay motionless in the dark, impatient for sleep’s arrival. And as he waited, he vowed most fervently that, on the morrow, even before he broke his fast, he would seek out little Princess Platinum and begin his undertaking anew.
The Tale of the Hippogriff
Ⅳ - The Journey Northward
Over the fields Celia flew. With confident flaps, she rose, describing an ever widening spiral, while below, a feeble breeze put the prairie grasses into motion.
Never before had she dared to fly so high. Here the air chilled while the sun warmed, much like an autumn day. Celia banked and glimpsed down. Finding her home was difficult, for it was but a dab of brown amidst so much green. North of it she saw how the pony village wedged itself between the river and woods. It looked pitifully small. Sounds too were distant. The rushing air swallowed the river’s gentle shush; muffled were the low thumps from the mill. Celia was alone, hovering above what had been her world.
How puny, she thought. How confining. But now she had escaped! No longer would the earth vex her, no longer the villagers oppress. She was free from all that was. Celia threw back her head and laughed, finishing with a shattering screech. Free!
No—she chastised herself. This journey was not for her, but Mother, and she still was down there, suffering, still a lonely prisoner. She must not forget, ever.
With deeper and deeper breaths, she built her resolve. Emboldening sunlight poured upon her as she flew higher still, and from the rarified heights, she took in the entirety of the landscape. She saw the prairie bounded by the western mountains. To the north lay forests, and hills, and valleys filled with the morn’s mists. Binding all was the river.
Mother said Ahren followed the river southward on his journey to the sea. He must have taken the same route to his home, the city in the north, now her destination. Certainty mixed with anticipation, and it left her exhilarated yet anxious. She dove down to follow that river, and as she did, she sang.
Blow ye north wind, blow
Send ice, rain, and snow
I shall bear whatever you throw
Oh! Never shall you master me
The grass he bows to you
Tall poplar quakes in fear
Meadowlark hides her head away
When’ere you doth appear—
When’ere you doth appear
My back, it will not bend
Nor shall my head be bowed
Bright sun will find me once again
From behind blackened clouds—
From behind blackened clouds
Begone, north wind, go
Take ice, rain, and snow
Your sorrow I’ll no longer know
Oh! Never shall you master me
—❦—
The first day’s travel brought only modest progress. Celia grew fatigued, for never before had she attempted to fly for an entire day. And on that first night, she learned of the wonder of sleeping beneath stars, learning how cold night can become. Chilled and restless, she reappraised her meager home, appreciating the luxury a hut and a small fire afforded.
After a few days of travel, the food she carried ran out. Foraging then took up a sizable portion of each day, and thus progress slowed. Celia continued following the winding river through woodlands and fields, and from above, she observed the tiny forms of ponies laboring in their fields, just as she and her mother had. The settlements those ponies inhabited were not much different from the one she had left behind.
Celia passed unnoticed in daylight, garnering no more attention than a high-flying eagle scouring the river for a meal. In the evening, she would descend and forage in the ponies’ fields. She harbored some guilt, for she knew how hard they labored. And always she took care to secret herself, for if the ponies in her village, those who knew her origin, had been so hostile, how would strangers act? Discovery could not be risked.
Yet when darkness fell, the scent of woodsmoke beckoned, and oftentimes Celia crept to the edge of the fields, and there, lying low, she would watch the well lit homes, their windows casting strange, flickering geometries upon the land. On these occasions she might glimpse the shadows of those inside moving, and she contemplated their lives. What had they eaten? And with the meal over, were their young listening to stories, hearing songs? The lives of these ponies were, she supposed, much like that of her mother and pony grandfather in years past: No matter how distant, thoughts of home and Mother were never far away.
Celia would watch until an unseen breath extinguished the lights and then return to spend the night in the fields, disappearing before daybreak. What those farmers thought when they came upon the spot where she made her bed, where she had dined, Celia often wondered. Perhaps they would ascribe it to hungry deer coming in from the woods.
Rustic though they be, the farmers knew deer, and they knew what they saw. Those were foreign hoof prints, and ones which mysteriously left no trail in or out of their fields. And most definitely those were the marks of claws between the rows of carefully tended plants. They knew their visitor was no deer.
Unbeknownst to her, Celia spawned a myriad of stories in her travels, for her unwitting hosts concocted tales of a harrowing creature who haunted the fields at night.
—❦—
Farther north, the pony settlements became sparse and then passed from sight. Even the rough huts of the wood cutters and charcoal-burners, nestled in the darkness of the deep woods, vanished. Celia was glad to be rid of the latter’s noisome, smoldering mounds, but with no dwellings nearby, she spent her nights amongst the saplings flourishing along the riverside.
Upstream, the valleys widened while the river narrowed, until, in due course, the waters split into its constituent parts, leaving rivulets to travel hidden beneath the trees tops.
The days stretched and shrank as Celia ventured over the forest-blanketed hills. A tall oak would now and then push itself above the crowds of maples and poplars, reasserting its sovereignty, but other than that, the landscape remained unvarying. Boredom plagued her. Hunger dogged her too, for she found little to her liking amongst the bitter vegetation of the forest floor. At least the nights were serene and brought dreams of Father’s distant city, although they ended in a disquieting manner. Celia would spot the city’s walls, radiant and white, and rush to them, her journey concluded. The walls dissolved as she approached, transforming into a thick, all enveloping mist. Then the mist dissipated, revealing her mother standing atop a windswept hill, the long strands of her auburn mane flailing around her.
In the waking world, the nature of the forest soon changed. Trees grew so tall as to disguise the terrain beneath, and the canopy turned into a roiling sea of foliage over a bed of branches. Finding a gap where one of the mighty had succumbed, she entered this ancient woodland, a place primeval, untouched, and unbound by order.
Shards of light pierced the forest’s leafy dome and lit the emptiness beneath in brilliant pools of light. Marveling at the beauty of this hidden vastness, Celia marveled set out to explore.
The space possessed an eerie quiet, so much so that the stirring of distant birds, something an open sky would swallow, felt within reach. She became aware of the hushed crumpling of the leaf litter under her hooves; she heard her own breath. None of this frightened, for a sense of tranquil muteness pervaded. What a wonder this place was, she thought, like a great house, a peaceful refuge that required neither roof nor walls.
Upon encountering a meandering brook, she fished, easily taking several plump, pink-sided trout. It had been far too long since she had enjoyed such a feast. Full for once, she encamped beside the moss covered remains of a fallen giant and, in the shallow tree throw next to it, fashioned a bed of bracken. When darkness fell, the tripartite of a full stomach, soft bedding, and whispered rustlings in the treetops worked their magic. Undisturbed by dreams, Celia slept.
True morning light had not yet filtered down to the understory when a garrulous jay woke her, scolding the infraction of her presence. Much too early, Celia thought, and with a quick flick of a wing, she dismissed the irksome bird. Off it flew, complaining still. Slumber entreated her to rejoin it, and her eyelids drooped.
Then she was abruptly wide eyed.
From the other side of the log came the sound of leaves crackling and twigs snapping: creatures in flight. Two hinds and a hart bounded over her head in graceful arcs, landing like dancers. They raced off, each winding their separate ways between saplings and maneuvering around forest floor’s debris. In the misty half-light, all three soon disappeared from sight and then from hearing. With the amusing interruption gone, again Celia began to doze, only to have new sounds disturb her, much louder than those made by deer.
Cracks from the splintering of thick branches punctuated the cacophony from whence the deer came. Celia stretched her head above the log and peeked. In the distant shadows, a pair of green eyes resolved, gigantic, glowing with a fierce, unnatural fire. Another set appeared, followed by another. Three immense beasts, chaotic wolf-like creatures, stood arrayed, low growls coming from their wooden maws. They scanned for prey with malevolent glares.
Fear sent Celia’s heart racing, and she stood, a perilous error, for spotted, the beasts charged, uprooting trees, demolishing all before them. Celia blindly flung herself into the air, crashing into branches overhead, tumbling back down, only to crash into more. The lead beast swiped at its escaping meal: a near miss, but Celia felt a gust close behind her. Landing upon a high branch, she was momentarily safe, for the wolves of timber would not be denied. They howled and leapt, not quite reaching her. Frustrated, they leaned into the trunk and sent the ancient tree swaying. All she could do was hang on.
The assault paused as a disagreement of some type broke out. Chilling growls and snapping jaws settled it, and the loser left, snarling. By the time the remaining two resumed the hunt, Celia had slipped to an even higher branch on another tree. Safely concealed behind a thick trunk, she watched the beasts grumble their frustrations as they paced around her previous location. A few minutes passed, and the pair came to the mutual conclusion that easier prey could be had. They moved off.
Although safe, her heart pounded ever harder. How could serenity spawn such horrors? They we not even flesh, but the corrupted assemblage of forest castoffs! Celia’s mind reeled, imagining a plethora of dangers that might lurk below. What could have come upon her while she slept? Mottled daylight shone upon the forest floor by the time she had stopped shaking. Calm enough to fly, but just, Celia darted down to retrieve her abandoned possessions, gathering them up one item at a time. Then she departed.
What had seemed a sylvan paradise had revealed its true nature: indifference. She had learned that beauty does not guarantee safety, and thereafter Celia would remain wary. Never again did she sleep upon the forest floor, instead spending her nights in an uncomfortable half-sleep, perched upon the highest bough of the strongest tree to be had.
—❦—
The ancient forest dwindled to nothing, and the land transformed into the high desert which sprawled in the lee of the northern mountains. While the hills reminded Celia of home, it was no prairie, for an alien flora dominated. Groves of scrub oaks carpeted the lowlands, and the hilltops, dotted with angular stones, were nigh barren. Even the sage-colored grasses struggled to rise from the earth. The few trees of size were dead, bleached a skeletal white, twisted and tortured forms, forever locked in the midst of some febrile nightmare.
Flying over the desert was not difficult, for the warm rising air allowed Celia to glide long distances with minimal effort. But the heat. From when the midsummer sun reached its zenith to when the shadows grew long, she sought relief where she could. On days with clouds, and when the winds sent them in the right direction, she used their great shadows like stones in a stream, hopping between their shade as they slid over the terrain.
Three moons of travel had refined her skills and increased her strength, yet daily flight left her drained. Never could she find enough food or water. Sleep, too, was a scarce commodity.
Celia might doze while lying in the shade, her wings half open, inviting a breeze to whisk away the heat. This daytime slumber left her unsatisfied. Hot days with clear skies brought cold nights, which likewise afforded little rest. How lucky she considered herself when she came upon a derelict homestead. Although no more than half its roof remained, the walls of dry-stacked stone gave back the warmth of the day, and that night, she was almost comfortable.
Tired and hungry as she was, she did not despair. The northern mountains, once translucent ghosts, distinguishing themselves from the sky. They appeared noticeably more distinct each morning, and the sight rallied her. She went forth, temporarily restored.
The foothills of those mountains were palpable when she spotted an emerald thread snaking across the dull landscape: a stream. Celia raced to it and dove down, frightening off the shrikes bathing at water’s edge. She landed in the stream’s midst and drank her fill before joyfully splashing about as if she were but half her age. After shaking herself dry and preening, she took a short rest and planned. The stream flowed from the northwest, the general direction of her travel. Accordingly, she followed it, setting her course for a dark, hulking formation in the distance, which at first she took for no more than ragged hills.
Like many travelers who find themselves within that barren domain, serendipity had brought Celia to the nameless city that lies within the desert’s contours. The city is ancient, abandoned, and deteriorated. Of it, few facts are to be had. Minotaur scholars grow hostile when queried, and it is unwise to provoke a member of that venerable race. Taciturn Yaks are no better. Tales of the Zebra mystics are, perhaps, the best source of details, if indeed they may be called details. In states of trance, they tell us their ancestors relay stories of forgotten times. Some of these corroborate, others conflict.
As for the city itself, it imparts no particulars. It waits forlorn, with blackened roads splayed out among the hills like the broken legs of an insect, impatient for the earth to reclaim it.
The stream disappeared before Celia reached the city’s edge, swallowed by a nonnatural opening blocked by bars of corroded iron. Celia did not stop to inspect, but soared aloft and swept over the city to survey.
A multitude of structures, different heights either by design or deterioration, were partitioned by radial roads, describing a wheel-like plan with a hub composed of large and unique constructions. A short distance out from the center, she landed. Debris from crumbling buildings was heaped on the roadway, withered weeds filled its innumerable cracks. Before their decline, rows of uniformly gray buildings on either side had once formed the sheer walls of a canyon. Now their vacant windows stared down on Celia like the eyes of the dead.
Even in such a corrupted state, the vacant city was the grandest thing Celia had ever seen. Who could have lived here? What mighty builders they must have been. Wonder and curiosity drew her towards the city’s center where the larger buildings were gathered together.
Along the way, she came upon the remains of an enormous green, untended for ages and now grown wild. Wild or not, a sweet, delicate fragrance permeated it, for within it grew grey-barked figs, their contorted branches heavy with fruit. Celia was suspicious, for this being such an exotic place compared to her home, the fruit appeared otherworldly. Her experience in the forest left her distrustful, but hunger out-argued caution. She bit into one, and upon discovering its sweet interior, gorged herself.
At the convergence of the roads was the city center, and there stood the remains of a lofty obelisk. Beside it lay a stately building, and although nowhere near as tall the monolith, it remained imposing. Hundreds of tightly spaced columns supported a domed roof, leaving Celia with the impression of an enormous, rounded hill. Both were fabricated from stone blocks, the obelisk’s white, the other’s pink and gray. Far in the past, the obelisk had fractured, and its upper third fell, piercing its neighbor, opening its interior to the sky.
Finding no entrance, Celia flew to top of the dome and landed near the gaping hole. She peered over the jagged edge. Below, all was rubble, nothing left to reveal the edifice’s purpose.
All the same, Celia would have recognized those who once occupied this place, for she knew their lesser counterparts, the councilors of her village. While they only sought control, those here once sought to ennoble. Unschooled, she could not have conceived of the weighty propositions they put forth nor, in her innocence, comprehend the conceit their achievements produced, a victory leading to a quiet defeat.
The heart of an empire, it is said, the inhabitants once ruled far and wide, spawning lesser cities, and spread their influence across the land. For uncounted years all thrived under their sway. Then, when they thought all had been accomplished, everything mighty achieved, they grew satisfied with themselves. They ceased to dream, and their striving came to an end. Aloof, leading naught but idle lives, their hearts grew cold.
Now unnourished, the city’s offspring withered away, branches dropping from a dying tree: time has forever erased their memory. Eventually only their capital remained, this city, and alone, its inhabitants turned inward, seeking solace in pleasure, until they had no interest beyond themselves. And so, in ignoring the world, it in turn forgot them, and when the last was gone, not a solitary being knew to mourn.
A distant rushing echoed inside the dome, for far beneath it, water flowed. Water and more. Celia thought she heard breaths from something asleep: regular, raspy, wet. Perhaps the artificial cavern amplified the sounds, and thus her imagination, but she envisioned a creature dwarfing the monsters of the forest.
Celia backed away and shook her head.
No griffons lived here, not now or ever. Empty, a useless place, and in declaring it so, she would waste no more time. Refocused upon her destination, she departed, leaving behind the city to its sad and inevitable fate.
—❦—
Two days passed before the desert yielded and Celia arrived in the foothills. On the night of her arrival, she slept with an easy mind, certain her destination was near. So when she entered the mountains the next day, her heart soared with the beauty of it all.
The valley was wide. Through it, a river chortled over a bed of smooth rocks as it meandered its way through stands of pines. The valley’s slopes were grey and rocky, yet not so steep that white-bearded goats could not manage them with aplomb. Flocks of joyous birds darted between clumps of trees, and high above, wary hawks observed her, insistent on keeping their distance.
This was not the place of Celia’s dreams, for as a child she had known nothing of actual mountains and valleys beyond stories. No, the northern mountains surpassed all her dreams! The exquisiteness of this land called, bidding her welcome, and so she followed its happy waters deeper into the mountains. Why, in such a perfect place, she thought, surely Father’s city would appear around the next bend.
How often it is that optimism is premature, and so it was with Celia. The farther she ventured into the mountains, the less enamored she became of them. Trees and wildlife were sparse, the valleys narrowed, and scree threw the once languid waters into confusion. Erratic gusts swooped down from high, scheming to toss her about like a leaf. Although saddened by the loss of beauty, she vowed to endure these trials and continue her search, although it became increasingly difficult.
In the forest, the trees had hidden the land, and in the desert all was visible, although there was little to see. In these mountains, they themselves were a form of concealment. Valleys forked endlessly, constructing a disorienting labyrinth which twisted and bent and always denied Celia her goal. In a few days, she felt the mountains swallowing her.
Why couldn’t Father’s city be like the one in the desert? she asked herself in frustration. Should it not be easy to find, for how could an entire city hide?
Her futile search went on, to the point where Celia no longer woke invigorated, but listless. Those hard-won flying skills were inadequate when faced by ominously tall peaks. And every night, like the darkness itself, the day’s disappointment weighed heavily. Still she clung to hope, for the next valley—at long last!—must be the one holding the white walled city of her father.
Without fail, she found the next valley empty.
Celia stood on an outcropping and looked into the valley below. The floor of the valley lay in chilling shadows, while sunlight cut across the crest behind her, setting the far slope ablaze. So majestic, she thought, yet so exasperating, for the northern mountain range was larger than she imagined. The past five futile days had weakened her spirit. How simple childhood foolishness made the task appear: follow the rivers to the mountain and come upon the city, just waiting for her arrival. Without an honest sign, she now knew, eternity could be spent searching here. Finding even something as massive as a city felt like an impossibility.
Or was it all a lie? In her despair, Mother had thought so. If there was no city to be found, what then would Celia do? Go home, defeated? After embarking so brave and confident, how could she return and tell Mother their lives were built upon lies? Celia hung her head. Tears flowed.
Her determination drove off despair. If it took an eternity, so be it! Celia grasped the pouch which held safe her mother’s pendent. For all those years that stone was the sole tangible part of her father’s story. Its presence had fueled Mother’s hope, its power sustained her through so many tribulations. Now, Celia vowed, the stone would sustain her. It was real, and so must be her father and his city. Surety returned. No, she had come too far to let these mountains best her. She would find her father.
But this noble search would have to wait, for all day low echoes of thunder muttered in the distance. The complete absence of birds and animals heralded the storm’s approach too, for besides the trees upon the slopes and the mosses clinging to rocks, Celia had not seen another living thing since awakening. The wise beasts were long sheltered.
Now, from the northwest sky the front advanced it came, a blue gray mountain range of unnatural clouds, their dark tendrils outstretched, menacing its earthly counterpart. From within, lurid orange and red flashed, as the ceaseless percussion of thunder set the cadence for the storm’s progression.
Celia headed south to where she had spotted a bluff shelter on a southern slope. Long ago, the shaking of the earth had wreaked destruction there, scattering enormous stone blocks on the valley’s floor. A single thick slab lay wedged into the slope at a low angle, and although the roof it formed was high above her, it would suffice as a refuge.
Close behind the storm pursued, a black monstrosity consuming the sky. An early, dreadful night fell. An angry surf of clouds rolled over the mountain crests, flinging icy rain. Although Celia hid as best she could, the driven rain produced a fine mist which swirled about. It condensed on her feathers and coat, chilling her. All through the afternoon and into the evening, the tempest waxed and waned, but steadfastly refused to depart.
Without the sun, Celia could not tell the true time of day, but surely, she reasoned, by now it must be night. So she shook herself dry, wrapped her worn blanket tight about her, and attempted to sleep through the storm’s fury. Fitful dreams came, which sent her back to the prairie, to when she was very young. In slumber, she was once more home with her mother. Together they lay near the fire, Mother keeping tiny Celia beside her while outside the prairie gales raged, rattling the old door, shaking the walls. Those clamorous winds demanded entrance, and upon finding none, they wailed without end through the night.
—❦—
In the morning, the burnished copper disk of the sun rose majestically, gracing the straggling clouds with a ruddy glow. It lingered momentarily, half over the horizon, pausing to gather strength for its daily journey. Ascending again, it emerged, first golden and then a brilliant white, transmuting the clouds into an unparalleled display of lustrous silver. Sunrise was—in a word—magnificent.
Celia saw none of this. She lay in morning’s bright cold with the old blanket snug around her. Sunlight, perceived only at the fringe of her consciousness, was an unwelcome intrusion, and after such a turbulent night, under no circumstances did she wish to be awake. While she struggled against the inevitability of rising, from nearby came the clack of moving stones. The rustle of feathers followed, yet still Celia remained more than half asleep. A shadow fell over her, and the resulting chill perturbed her bleary mind. She lifted her head. She pried open her eyes.
There before her stood a griffon.
Author's Note
The song is this chapter is inspired by Blow, Northerne Wynd .
