Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“Hurrrh. I am ssstill dying,” Kelvren replied distastefully.

“Lord gryphon, we are all dying. But if you’ll forgive me for being so bold, sir, until you are dead, you are still living.”

Kelvren stayed silent for a while, and Ammari started brushing out feathers while Jeft picked away at the larger clumps of dirt around Kel’s hindlegs. “You know, my husband would have loved to have been here with you. He loved birds and kept feathers when he found them out on his travels. Yours would be a prize, if you dropped one.”

Kel looked sidelong at the woman.

“Jeft sssaid that you werrre about to be rrrich. What of that? Isssn’t money what sssoothesss illsss in Valdemarrr?”

Ammari smiled a little—a flicker of pride, then the sadness again. “When the Changecircle came—we—had just lost my husband. I was unconsolable. I ran into the circle in my grief. I just—clawed at the ground, crying out for someone to bring him back. Somehow. I knew there was magic there—else how could it have appeared?—but by morning, there was still no help. I clawed at the ground while I cried—I cried so much.” She paused in her work. “When daylight came, I saw that my hands were—different. There was something in that soil that made my hands glimmer in the light.” She resumed brushing. “My man was not back. But maybe he provided for us in his own way. I found a way to sift this from the soil and bind it, so that it would adhere to cloth and leather. No one but Jeft and I would go into the circle—so it remained ours alone. Almost all the money I had I spent to buy the land the circle was in. I made jars and jars of my solution. And there it sits.” She sighed. “Before all of this strife, traders were going to carry some to Haven, and Deedun, and—well, you understand. I staked all I had on a luxury item, and now no one wants it and no traders will come for it.”

Kelvren rumbled a little and then asked, “Thisss—sssubssstancsse of yourrrss. Do you have any to ssshow me?” The glint of speculation was in his eyes.

Ammari set the brush down and brought out a kerchief from her blouse. Even in the meager light, it shone with an irridescence like oil on water in bright sunlight. Jeft beamed when he saw it. “My mum’s special. She’s smart. An’ I helped, with the makin’ of the stuff.”

Kel admired the cloth as Ammari twisted and turned it around, showing its shimmer. “And thisss— ssubssstancssse. Isss it expensssive? Doesss it poissson, or ssstink, or come off easssily? Doesss anyone elssse know of it?” He added, with a hint of shrewdness, “And doesss it bind to featherrrsss?”

By noon of the second day, Kelvren’s plan was in motion. Through Hallock, he arranged the purchase of several jars of Ammari’s mixture. It positively blazed in the full light of day. Small wonder she knew it would make her wealthy! With his guidance, several of the convalescents trimmed away particular stray and partial feathers from around his wounds, painted them with the bright substance, and set them aside to dry.

Transmutation, he thought. Though I fade, I still have resources. When he had time to rest, the pain actually sharpened his thoughts—it was only when he moved that it overwhelmed him completely. I can turn what little we have into something important, whether I can fly—or even walk—again. He had to be of use—he couldn’t bear to slide off into oblivion meekly. So, then, what was there to do? Assuming he couldn’t move, he had to somehow use what he was rather than what he could do. He was unique in the camp—an oddity. He had reputation here, even a growing mystique.

The elements were there: the soldiers’ superstitions about how he was good luck. A tent full of invalids making arrows. And to bring it all together, Ammari’s secret, beautiful mixture, that shone like—

Magic.

The history was told lovingly, in the way only someone who loved tales, and had actually experienced a part of them, could tell a story.

Far off to the west, there was a city made of hope and light. It was made to honor its peoples’ savior, and named for him. White Gryphon was built of terraces and sweeping walkways carved from a white cliffside overlooking a perfect bay. In the centuries since its founding, its wings had gradually spread out around the bay, enfolding it as a loving protective bird would cover its nestlings from cold or rain. Its wings, in fact, truly did appear to be wings—canopies and promenades swept in complex curves on a massive scale, to outline individual feathers when seen from the sea and barrier islands. The city center was a huge complex of overlapping towers making the hackles, breastfeathers and lower mandible. The highest and widest complex, crested the whole of the city in a stylized beak, with its eyes and ears facing north. In summer, the sunrise cast the shadow of a raptor across the bay waters, and at noon the eyes of the beast were completely concealed by shadow. At sunset the water reflections shimmered upon the creation and the sun’s colors blazed upon it while the thousands of small lights and fires came up one by one to greet the stars for the oncoming night.

To the immediate east was the more conventional side of the city that had sprawled out as more housing, workshops, and trade centers were needed—but past that, the terrain became terrible indeed. Forest that became impassable. Trees as broad as eighty men thrust up to a canopy three hundred feet tall, above treefalls and hidden rivers as deep as oceans. Deadly ravines lurked under simple ground cover, and nightmarish beasts hunted anything that ventured in.

Past that came hundreds of miles of marshlands and desert, two entirely different kinds of forest, and then mountain ranges and a jungle. Then grassland, and finally after all of that, the other great forest. The Pelagirs.

Gryphons need the help of trondi’irn, though, like me, sometimes gryphons learn some healing along with other powers. Yet, one pair endured the venture for over six years, alone, blazing a trail eastward from White Gryphon, until they found their city’s long-lost brethren.

“. . . That pairrr was Trrreyvan and Hydona. When I call them the Grrreat Onesss, it isss becaussse they arrre the brrravessst explorerrrsss of ourrr time. And they arrre herrre, in Valdemarrr. They helped everrryone sssurvive the Ssstormsss. And Hallock Ssstaverrrn knows them. Essscorrrted them around Haven —perrrrsssonally!”

Jeft looked up at Kelvren in amazement, having utterly forgotten the bow-wrapping he’d been tasked with, tangled between his fingers. The few other locals and Guard in attendance, and all of the convalescing soldiers had similar expressions. It wasn’t just that they had a six-hundred-pound, taloned, killing fury telling them fireside stories, it was that these stories were uplifting. His tales fired the imagination in ways no one had expected. Most of the soldiers would probably never see active duty again, but instead of being stuck with the wasting-away grousing of lousy encampment and the same old blather, this creature they’d first thought would be an intrusion instead had become needed because all of his tales were new.

“And you got here because of that trail they found?” one of the horsemen asked. Kelvren nodded. “An’ so did all these strange allies that came with th’ Hawkbrothers?” Kel nodded again. “An’ these trondi-urn people could fix you up?”

There was a collective holding of breath as that question halted the mood.

“Yesss. But that isssn’t to be. Ssso. Let usss sssee just how tough I rrreally am, mmm?” The gryphon tried to play it off. “We ssspend time togetherrr herrre. It isss a good exchange. You learrrn about farrr-away landsss and amazing culturesss. I learrrn about mud and sssmoke.” People laughed. “And fletching. I finally get to sssee some arrrowsss that arrren’t going into me.” There were a few chuckles at that, and someone in the back cracked, “Oy, I never really aimed at you, y’know!” The jovial mood was returning.

“Hah! You asssume you could!” he retorted. “I have dodged arrrows, you know. Jussst not enough of them. The one the city was named for, Ssskandrranon, talesss sssay he could fly thrrrough whole brrrigadesss of archerrrsss and emerrrge unssscathed.”

“You ever notice that the older a story gets, the more invulnerable the heroes are?” one of the enlisted women snickered.

Kelvren answered in complete seriousness, “Oh, no. No, thisss isss trrrue. Thessse thingsss . . . they arrre important for usss. Grrryphonsss—we need to be known. Trrreyvan and Hydona, Kuarrrtess and Ussstecca, and Tusssak Kael the Elderrr. Zhaneel the Ssswift and Aubrrri the Ssstalwart, and Kecharrra—herrr name came to mean “beloved” in ourrr language. They have meant asss much to usss by legend asss they did in life, and accomplisssh asss much by legend asss by deed. Ssskandrrranon Rrrassshkae isss known