The Black Gryphon

dust.

Normal—except all was gone.

“No!” he cried out, one voice of fruitless denial among a multitude. “Nooooooo—”

He started to fall to his knees—a terrible moaning burst from his chest, and tears etched their way down his face in long trails of pain. Urtho—Skan—

Hands caught him and supported him; Winterhart. But another set of hands took his shoulders and shook them.

“Dammit, man, no one can fall apart yet!” Vikteren snarled at him, tears of his own leaving trails down his dusty face. “We aren’t safe! Didn’t you feel what happened, back there? When the Tower went up, something more happened than even Urtho thought! Gods only know what’s going to happen now, we need to get under shields.”

“But—” he protested. “But—”

“Just don’t fall apart on me. People are watching you! You can collapse after I get the shields organized.” Vikteren punctuated every word with another shake of his shoulders, and Amberdrake finally nodded weakly. Vikteren let him go, and he got a wavering grip on his emotions, turning his face into the serene mask of the kestra’chern, although deep within, pain was eating him alive.

Vikteren turned away from him, and waved his arms frantically over his head. “Listen!” he shouted, over the keens, the weeping. “Everybody! This—the trap didn’t do what we thought, all right? We don’t know how much is left of Ma’ar’s forces, we don’t know how far away is safe, we don’t know who or how many of the rest survived. All we do know is that what happened was worse than we thought, and we have a couple of hours to get ready for it! It’s going to be a—we’ll have to call it a mage-storm, I guess. I can’t tell you how bad. Just listen, I need all the mages over here with me, no matter how drained you are, and the rest of you, start getting things tied down, like for a really bad storm, the worst you’ve ever seen!”

Somehow the desperation in his words penetrated; hertasi carried the bad news to the rest of the camp, to those who had been too far away to hear him. Mages pushed their way through the crowd to reach his side; the others stopped milling and started acting in a purposeful manner, glancing at the slowly-expanding rings of light with a new respect and no little fear.

Winterhart went looking for her gryphons; her first duty was to them. Amberdrake let her go, then stumbled through the darkness to the small floating barge that held his own belongings.

But once there—it all left him. There was nothing left in him but the dull ache of grief. He couldn’t even bring himself to care what might happen next.

He sat down on the side of the barge, and his hand fell on the feather he still had tied to his belt. Zhaneel’s feather.

How would he tell her? She still didn’t know___

There’s nothing left, nothing left for any of us.

He didn’t even hear them come up beside him, he was so lost in despair so dark that not even tears served to relieve it. One moment he was alone; the next, Zhaneel sat beside him, and Winterhart took a place next to him on the edge of the barge.

“When he did not follow, I guessed,” Zhaneel said, her voice no more than a whisper, and although he had not thought that his grief could grow any greater, it threatened to swallow him now.

The tears choked his breath and stole his sight, and left him nothing.

:Nothing?: said a voice in his mind, as a hand closed over his.

“Nothing?” said Zhaneel aloud. “Are we nothing?”

And Amberdrake sensed the two of them joining, reaching into his heart to Heal it, reaching to bring him out of the darkness. The gryfalcon touched one talon to the feather he still held.

“Will you not redeem this now, my friend, my brother?” she asked softly. “We need each other so much.”

“And the rest of them need you,” Winterhart added. “I’ve heard you used to ask, ‘who Heals the Healer’—and we have at least one answer for you.”

“Those he Healed,” Zhaneel said. “Giving back what he gave.”