Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

to all of usss becaussse he wasss that amazing. And now—he isss known to you.”

Kel’s facial feathers fluffed and he held his head high for a few moments. With his stories, he had done his part to make his heroes immortal.

Above the mill, at midday, there was suddenly a bright flash. What appeared to be a hole in the sky, rimmed by an everchanging glimmery edge, showed through to a landscape of low grass beside a wide roadway. The light came from a column of mage-light the height of two men on the other side of the hole, bright enough to be noticed by people below. A hulking shadow eclipsed the light, and observers below shouted and pointed up. The shadow burst through the hole and huge wings snapped outward to stop its arcing fall. It flapped ponderously to level its flight before circling over the encampment. Whatever it was, it wanted its outline to be clearly seen before landing.

Treyvan spied the Command flag at the mill, circled the Guard camp four times, and glided to land in the road between the rows of carriages. The door guards readied pikes and called for reinforcements, and a junior officer went pale when he popped his head out. Treyvan stood with his wings up, then sat on his haunches to be received. Pena stayed on his back, as yet unseen, and appeared to be simply another bundle of cargo.

Then a familiar figure stepped into the road from the mill’s entry. Hallock closed on the gryphon and hailed. “Ambassador Treyvan! This is unexpected! It has been too long since I saw you last.” He gestured for the door guard to go back to vigil, and waved off questions from junior officers, still walking forward with the aid of his walking stick. “Welcome. Are you here about Kelvren? He’s in a bad way. Because of me, I fear, I was the one he Healed.”

“Kelvrrren, you sssay? The wingleaderrr frrrom k’Valdemarrr?” Treyvan’s knowledge of gryphons was encyclopedic. He could recite the names and positions of hundreds. “Hurrrh. Wherrre isss he? Frrriend of Firrresssong’sss. A badly wounded grrryphon isss harrrd to find by ssspell. If Firrresssong hasss not aided Kelvrrren, the sssituation mussst be grrrave indeed.” Treyvan turned to accompany Hallock, and paused for Pena to dismount. She peeled off her helmet and goggles, and tucked them under an arm while she walked alongside the others. Hallock filled in the senior gryphon on what he knew of Kelvren’s condition, talking continuously until they neared the convalescents’ tent.

They heard singing. Not just from inside, but from the eighteen soldiers standing outside, lacquering sheaves of arrows. In the middle of the song, a gryphon voice—thin and strained—nonetheless boomed a line, and made the others grin. The soldiers outside halted singing one by one, and moved backward as one as Treyvan, Pena, and the captain approached. Only a few remembered to salute. They had come to know Kelvren, a terribly wounded gryphon—but this was a fully healthy gryphon stalking toward them, bedecked in regalia of rank, all but dwarfing the captain beside him, with a little lizard creature padding along beside them.

:I can hear you,: Treyvan Mindspoke toward the gryphon he heard. :I have come to help you. And a trondi’irn is on the way.:

Inside the convalescents’ tent, the singing went quiet voice by voice. Kelvren turned his head from side to side, and upward, as if searching for something. Something was about to happen, and everyone in the tent could sense it. Kelvren cut short a whimper of pain as he rolled himself over to his belly. “I hearrrd—” Kelvren croaked, and then his eyes fixed outside, locked onto an approaching shadow. A large shadow.

Captain Stavern stepped around the edge of the tent, nodded behind him, and then came someone Kelvren thought he would never see in his lifetime.

The breastplate adorned by the badges and bars of rank, the impeccaby tooled harness, and the teleson headpiece around the feather-perfect gryphon’s brow ridges and forecrest, crafted to be as much a crown as anything—it could be no one else.

Completely against his will, Kelvren shuddered all over. Breath seized in his throat. He blinked his eyes out of their stare and lowered his head. The fletchers and attendants dropped their work completely or set their tools aside, all eyes on what—who—had just walked across the threshold of the tent’s oiled- canvas floor. Then everyone who stood or sat went down to one knee and bowed their heads in recognition when Kelvren spoke the words—

“My Lorrrd Trrreyvan.”

The power of the senior gryphon’s arrival could be felt radiating into the tent, like sunlight sinks into the skin on a summer day.

“Rrrissse, all,” Treyvan said. Kelvren’s head felt light, as if he was about to pass out. Treyvan stepped to within arm’s reach of the stricken gryphon, and then bowed his own head in turn. “Wingleaderrr Kelvrrren Ssskothkarrr of k’Valdemarrr. The Crrrown hasss sssent me to sssee to yourrr well-being.”

What Treyvan said next made Kelvren certain he was hallucinating.

“You arrre firrrssst grrryphon on sssite in thisss engagement. I name you Wingleaderrr of thisss forcssse asss sssoon asss you arrre fit forrr duty.”

Motes of light swam in Kelvren’s vision. This must be a fever dream. It was Silver Gryphon standing practice that whoever was on scene first was automatically the senior of that engagement—“Incident Command”—the reasoning being that they knew the situation, by being there first, better than any who followed. It held, regardless of rank, until there was a formal exchange of power. It meant that he was now empowered to command Treyvan. One of the Great Ones! It was mindboggling.

Enough so that Kelvren passed out on the spot.

Much happened while Kel was adrift. The supply tent across the mud path from the convalescents’ tent was emptied out so Treyvan could always be near Kelvren.

Treyvan used several spells—though relatively minor, they were impressive to watch, because to enhance his precision he used simple light effects to burn off any excess energy. He used Magesight and sweeps of power to discover which of Kelvren’s magic-conversion organs were still alive and responsive, and several probes to test the state of the still-unconscious Kelvren’s injuries. Jeft stood by his gryphon friend’s side and asked—very possessively—exactly what Treyvan was doing. Treyvan explained that he was taking away Kel’s pain and deepening his sleep, to help him regain strength—and to keep him from trying to move and make his wounds worse.

Jeft wasn’t the only one who acted proprietary about Kelvren. To the inhabitants of the convalescents’ tent, this was their gryphon.

Hallock Stavern called a muster on the main road, and each company stood in formation while he introduced Treyvan and Pena. He made it very clear that unless it directly contravened “high end” regulations, the gryphon was to be treated as captain—“or better.” He held up the proof that the Crown wished it so, and added that the little lizard with him was Treyvan’s personal assistant. Treyvan made a formal pass by each company. He nodded to each company’s senior officer and gave them polite greetings—but it was also calculated so they got a very clear view of his rank markings by being close up to him.

Birce and Devon stood humbly while Treyvan thanked them personally for their good work, and astonished them when he suggested to Hallock that they be listed for commendation.

Treyvan explained to the mill officers how a teleson worked, and contacted Haven with one to report on Kelvren. The overworked clerk that Hallock had needled before was set in front of the device, and thanks to the link he might actually have some sleep possible in his near future.

Pena was well on her way to becoming the most popular creature in the camp. Once word had been spread that any fast-moving lizards in camp weren’t to be shot at, she’d become a blur. Not only were Kelvren’s needs being tended to and materials brought to Treyvan, her abilities as a chef transformed the dull fare the convalescents ate into events to be savored. She bolted into the woods and returned with foraged materials half a candlemark later that by the end of the day made a basic stew bear delightfully complex tastes. The condition for off-duty soldiers getting any of her dishes, though, was that time must be spent assisting the convalescents and Treyvan. They never wanted for help.

Ammari spent more of her waking hours in the tent with the “gimps,” as they’d now laughingly begun referring to themselves. One of the southerners pointed out—wisely—that a word is only truly an insult if you take it as such. Making it a joke, instead of derogatory, takes the power out of it, and makes it your power instead.

It reached its zenith when one of the fletchers asked Jeft to bring another basket of arrowshafts, and Ammari