The Silver Gryphon

Skan looked into his friend’s eyes, and shook his head. “Let me guess. What we are feeling is a combination of old war reactions, and unhappiness because this fledging of our youngsters is a sure sign that we are getting old.”

“Too true. And who wants to know that he is getting old? Not I, I can promise you.” Amberdrake’s expression was as honest as it was rueful. “I’ve been keeping my body limber and capable for decades now, through all kinds of strain, as loose as a down-feather and as tight as whipcord as needed, but—it’s all been to last as long as possible during the pace of time. One never bothers to think about growing old as one is growing older. Then suddenly it is there, looming in your face. Your bones and joints ache, youngsters are expressing concern that you are overexerting yourself, and when you try to insist that your experience means you know more than they do, you find them exchanging knowing looks when they think you don’t notice.”

“Alas. It is life’s cruelty, I say. One moment we are fretting because we are not considered old enough to do anything interesting, then we turn around and younglings barely fledged are flying off to do the interesting things we can’t do anymore!” Skan shook his head, and looked out over the ocean. “And we are supposed to accept this gracefully! It is hardly fair. I protest! I believe that I shall become a curmudgeon. Then at least I can complain, and it will be expected of me.”

“Too late for that.”

Skandranon snorted, “Then I shall be an exceptional curmudgeon. I’ve earned the title. The Curmudgeon King.”

“Endured Where E’er He Goes. May I join you, then? We can drive the youngsters to distraction together.” Amberdrake seemed to have thrown off some of his anxiety and, to his surprise, Skan realized that he had relaxed a bit as well.

“Certainly,” the Black Gryphon replied with dignity. “Let’s go down to the obstacle course, and make loud comments about how we used to run it better and in half the time.”

“And with more style,” Amberdrake suggested. “Finesse and grace, not brutal power.”

“Naturally,” Skan agreed. “It couldn’t have happened any other way—as far as they know.”

“So, just how worried are you?” Winterhart asked Zhaneel as soon as they were out of the range of Skandranon’s hearing. As a trondi’irn she had a very good notion of just how sensitive any given gryphon’s senses were, but she knew Skan’s abilities in excruciating detail. For all that he was suffering the onset of the ailments of age, he was a magnificent specimen with outstanding physical abilities, not just for his age, but for any gryphon male.

“About Skan, or about the children?” Zhaneel asked, with a sidelong glance at her companion.

“Hmm. Both, of course,” she replied, returning Zhaneel’s glance. She’s just as observant as I thought. “Skan, first. He’s the one we have to live with.”

“As we must live with Amberdrake, heyla?” Zhaneel nodded shrewdly. “Well. Come and sit beside me here, where the wind will carry away the words we do not wish overheard, and we will discuss our mates.” She nodded her beak at a fine wooden bench made of wave- and wind-sculpted driftwood, and sat down beside it on the cool stone rimming the cliff.

Winterhart sank gracefully down into a welcoming curve of the bench, and laid one arm along the back of it. “Drake is very unhappy about all this. I think he expected Judeth and Aubri to assign Blade to something like bodyguard duty, or city-patrol. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that they might send her out of the city, much less so far away.”

It didn’t occur to me, either, but it should have. I’ve known that Blade wanted to get away from the city—and us—for the past year. Maybe if Drake hadn’t been so adamant about her living with us until she was a full Silver. . . .

Keeth and Tad had been able to move out in part because Skan had lent them his resources to excavate a new home to trade for an existing one. Sensing Blade’s restlessness, Winterhart had tried to persuade Drake to do the same for Blade, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“Why should she need to move out?” he’d asked at the time. “It’s not as if she has any need for a place of her own. We give her all the privacy she would have anywhere else, and it’s not as if she could feel embarrassed to bring a lover here!” Then he had sighed dramatically. “Not that there’s any interest in that quarter.

The way she’s been acting, a vow of celibacy would be an improvement in her love life. Where could we have gone wrong? It’s almost like she doesn ‘t want to listen to her body.”

Winterhart could have told him—that children were always embarrassed by the proximity of their parents when trying out the first tentative steps in the dance of amorous life, and inhibited by their parents when learning for the first time what kind of adults they would become—but she knew he wouldn’t believe her. He would have, if Blade had been anyone else’s child, but not when he was her father. A parent can sometimes be too close to his child to think about her objectively. When it came to seeing someone else’s children, a parent could see a larger canvas, but with their own—all they would see were the close daily details, and not grasp the broad strokes. Amberdrake, brilliant as he was, couldn’t grasp things like Blade not wanting to be around parents as she learned her body’s passions. And if Blade had actually come out and asked