Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

roost. They’re near Kelmskeep, they’ve got a wing of gryphons, and they’re threatened by the land grab. Assuming Kelmskeep and k’Valdemar are on good terms, they may have gotten gryphons to fly scout. Bondbirds can only do so much. Range and stamina would all be improved by a healthy gryphon.”

Elspeth folded her arms. “Yes. Well. It sounds like all aid available’s been given to him,” and she eyeballed Treyvan, “and it’s failing. We only have so many Heralds and Healers, and they’re more concerned about the hundreds of troops digging in. I don’t much like the news from the north.” She reached out and tapped her baton against the largest of the table maps. “It’s more delicate than you might first think. For reasons we still don’t understand, these insurgent leaders feel justified in seizing power and using force. But if we go in and squash that dissent—militarily—we send a poor message to the rest of Valdemar.”

“And allies and rival states,” Darkwind pointed out. “The famed free country of Valdemar, open to refugees and the oppressed—its population pounded into submission.” He leafed through other dispatches, laying them out to match their approximate places of origin on the map. “But we have heard the Bell ring twice since this began. This situation cannot stand, but handling it poorly could do great long-term damage socially.” If anyone was aware of things in the long term, it would be one of the Hawkbrothers who’d think of it.

“Socially, yes, but our agents report the situation began economically. We’ve just sent the Skybolts and what regulars we can spare. Turning in on ourselves, after so many outside threats—it doesn’t feel right. The timing of it. I don’t think we know enough about action at the front . . .” she trailed off, seeing Treyvan—pacing. His raptorial eyes, crystal-sharp, appeared to be focused on nothing in particular, as if he was preoccupied. “What is it?” she asked of him, while a clerk handed her a new stack of notes to be signed.

The gryphon turned his attention back to the others by the table, explaining for the adjuncts’ benefit. “Therrre arrre many waysss forrr a grrryphon to die,” he began, rolling his Rs and hissing the sibillants in the accent all gryphons bore when speaking Valdemaran. “Assside frrrom the usssual overrrcasssting risssksss, frrrom headachesss to unwanted combussstion, overrrworrrk of magerrry can lead to deadly maladiesss, in grrryphonsss. It isss why we take sssuch carrre. The more unssskilled the casssterrr, the morrre enerrrgy isss usssed forrr a ssspell. The ssspell purrrpossse—itsss dirrrective ssstrrructurrre—trrriesss many posssible sssolutionsss to compensssate forrr the lack of prrrecssisssion. Each attempt usssesss powerrr, and then demandsss morrre forrr the next attempt to begin. Without knowledge of the ssspecif—”

“The point?” Darkwind asked, cutting off what might have become one of Treyvan’s infamous lectures on magic theory.

Treyvan shot Darkwind an indignant glance. “You humansss have lesss rrrisssk in magerrry becaussse you can live without it. We live by magic powerrr morrre than food and drrrink. It isss one of hundrrredsss of rrreasssonsss why even cssenturrriesss afterrr ourrr crrreation, we rrrequirrre trondi’irn forrr conssstant help jussst to sssurrrvive. We arrre sssusstained by the converrrsion of magical enerrrgy jussst to live, brrreathe, and move. If a grrryphon pushesss too farrr, vital sssystemsss will ceassse theirrr functionsss. Even losssing too many featherrrsss can kill a grrryphon, becaussse we mussst collect the frrree-field, orrr asss Masssterrr Levy callsss it, parrrticulate magical enerrrgy thrrrough them into the featherrr corrresss, sssocketsss, and frrrom therrre into the interrrlacssed sssyssstemsss of . . .”

“That point you were getting to, Treyvan?” Darkwind prompted again.

“Hurrrhhh. Free-field enerrrgy isss denssserrr sssincsse the Ssstorrrmsss, and ssso, easierrr to sssift frrrom the airrr. A grrryphon ssspellworrrkerrr, asss the dissspatch indicatesss thisss one isss, could heal himssself, if he could heal anotherrr. But the changesss sssincsse the Ssstorrrmsss have made mossst of Valdemarrr—hazy. Like a fog, magically. And any . . . dozen . . . thingsss could be wrrrong, jussst frrrom indissscrrriminate ssspellworrrk alone.”

Darkwind nodded. “Indi’ta kusk, for example. Tcha’ki’situsk. In k’Leshyan, gryphon heavy injuries translate to ‘ruins.’ Most deep injuries cascade into worse bodily failures, and are ultimately lethal. If it is, say, a nullment ruin, hirs’ka’usk, then even what we consider ‘normal’ organs will falter as a result of the magic conversion organs waning.”

“Small wonder our Healers are lost. Magical organs? Converters? More unpronounceable words?” Elspeth could only shrug. “We don’t know who the gryphon is or what the injuries are, and we have a thousand other problems right now. What are we going to do about it?” Elspeth and Darkwind both glanced meaningfully at the Gryphon Adept while stacks of fresh dispatches were handed over.

The gryphon narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t do sssomething, I will.”

“You probably should, sheyna,” Darkwind answered bluntly, sensing an opportunity and taking it. “Consider yourself assigned. We’re in deep right here. All of our heavy magic work is going to be stopping a very uncivil war. And if there are no objections, if you can go north, I want you to take a writ of authority and your badges of rank with you, and help out up there. At least establish a teleson link if you get the chance. We are only getting so much back by Herald and courier. I’d like your eyes, and your power, up there. Your gryphon’s your priority, but the rest —best discretion.”

Treyvan nodded firmly, and let his hackles smooth down as he turned to exit. The two door guards he’d bullied through before flung open the doors as the gryphon closed in on them. Treyvan eyed each of them, and paused—then rumbled, “Sssorrry about earlierrr,” and stalked briskly down the hall.

In a word, Kelvren was miserable. The rain persisted, and the too-small tent he’d been allocated had long since fallen down over him. The tent poles had slanted forward to begin with, and when the wind picked up they’d fallen all the way. It left his rump and tail out in the rain, and the canvas of the tent draped over his head like a very soggy, ill- designed cloak’s hood.

He’d managed to inch his hindquarters up enough that they weren’t mired in the mud, but that was it. The trouble was, he felt so heavy. Not lethargic, like he’d been drowsing in the sun. That was different. This was simply the feeling that his wings weighed too much, and that his muscles weren’t up to the task of moving him. If he still had his teleson set, he could call for help. He could have called for help before he was even wounded—but it was long lost back where his skirmish took place and was probably since crushed under horse hooves. Kelvren was a weak Mindspeaker to begin with. The teleson amplified what he was able to muster, and without it, he probably couldn’t Mind-speak past his tail.

The Healer that had tended to him after he’d saved Hallock Stavern’s life had long since departed to the Front—and she hadn’t known even the basics of gryphon anatomy. She’d confessed to Birce she’d used draft animal Healing techniques on him, in fact. The indignity of it! She’d better not tell that to anyone else or she’d have Silver Gryphon Kelvren to answer to. And she didn’t want that, he told himself.

His secret bravado was fading away with every minute of this storm. He feared some sort of awful infection from his wounds was causing his inertia. The day seemed hopeless, and tomorrow he’d be weaker still. He could feel it. This was no way for a hero to end. He thought again about a famed tapestry picture he’d admired as a youth, back at the city of White Gryphon. It was many centuries old, of Skandranon, the Black Gryphon, wings spread, standing majestically atop Urtho’s Tower with all the people of the Kaled’a’in looking up at him adoringly. The moon and stars shone behind the hero and made a halo around his body.

That, young Kelvren Skothkar had beamed, just days before joining the Silver Gryphons for training. I want to be like that. I want to be a legend.

It seemed like it might work, too. He trained hard, and emulated the ancient hero in every way that he could—superb flyer, vicious fighter, fine strategist, stupendously skilled lover—well, at least he thought so—and when the choice was to be bold or prudent, he went with bold. And reputation was vital—everyone knew who Skandranon Rashkae was in ancient times, even the dreaded enemies Ma’ar and the makaar. Kelvren didn’t precisely boast, but he always made certain everyone knew who he was, and knew every deed. He knew he’d be a hero if he tried hard enough. A glorious legend!

Instead, he was like this. Mud was splattering up onto his chin and breastfeathers from the constant rain splashing the soil in front of the tent. Miserable. There was constant, throbbing agony from his wounds. The whipstitching felt like a line of fire. No one was coming to help him either. His friends at Kelmskeep and k’Valdemar had to be searching for him—but he was weak, and without a teleson he couldn’t tell them where he was—and there were none with the soldiers, not a mage or Herald or even a hedge-wizard, who could