Everyone else deserted the hall as quickly. Only Aubri paused at the door, looking back with uncertainty in his gaze. He opened his beak, then swallowed hard, shook his head, and followed the others.
Skandranon wanted nothing more than to rush off to the rescue of his son. Failing that, he wanted to tear the gizzard out of those who were responsible for his disappearance. Right now, so far as his heart was concerned, the ones responsible were right here in White Gryphon.
Judeth and Aubri. It was all their fault. If they hadn’t assigned the children to this far-flung outpost, both his beloved son and his dear friend Amberdrake’s daughter would still be here.
“I knew that this was a mistake all along!” he seethed at Zhaneel as he paced the length and breadth of the Council Hall. “I knew they were too young to be sent off on Outpost Duty! No one that young has ever been sent off alone like that before! They should have been posted here, like everyone else was! Judeth’s getting senile, and Aubri was already there to show her the way—and—”
“Please!” Zhaneel suddenly exploded. “Stop!”
He stared at her, his mouth still open, one foot raised.
“Stop it, Skan,” she said, in a more normal tone. “It is not their fault. It is not the fault of anyone. And if you would stop trying to find someone to blame, we would get something done.” She looked up at him, with fear and anxiety in her eyes. “You are a mage; I am not. You go to work with Snowstar and the others, and I shall go to the messenger-mage and send a message in your name to Shalaman, asking for his help. At least I can do that much. And Skandranon—he is my son as well as yours, and I am able to act without rages and threats.”
With that, she turned away from him and left him still standing with his foot upraised and his beak open, staring after her in shock.
Alone, for Amberdrake and Winterhart had already left.
Stupid, stupid gryphon. She’s right, you know. Blaming Aubri and Judeth won’t get you anywhere, and if you take things out on them, you’re only going to make them mad at you. The Black Gryphon would be remembered as an angry, overprotective, vengeful parent. And what good would that do? None, of course.
What good would it do?
All at once, his energy ran out of him. He sat down on the floor of the Council Hall, feeling—old.
Old, tired, defeated, and utterly helpless, shaking with fear and in the grip of his own weakness. He squinted his eyes tightly closed, ground his beak, and shivered from anything but cold.
Somewhere out there, his son was lost, possibly hurt, certainly in trouble. And there was nothing, nothing that he could do about it. This was one predicament that the Black Gryphon wasn’t going to be able to swoop in and salvage.
I couldn‘t swoop in on anything these days even if I could salvage it. I’m an anachronism; I’ve outlived my usefulness. It is happening all over again, except this time there can’t be a rebirth of the Black Gryphon from the White Gryphon. The body wears out, the hips grow stiff and the muscles strain. I’m the one that’s useless and senile, not Judeth and Aubri. They were doing the best they could; I was the one flapping my beak and making stupid threats. That is all that is left for a failed warrior to do.
For a moment, he shook with the need to throw back his head and keen his grief and helplessness to the sky, in the faint hope that perhaps some god somewhere might hear him. His throat constricted terribly. With the weight of intolerable grief and pain on his shoulders, he slowly raised his head.
As his eyes fell on the door through which Zhaneel had departed, his mind unfroze, gradually coming out of its shock.
What am I? What am I thinking?
I may be old now, but I am still a legend to these people. Heroes don’t ever live as long as they want to, and most die young. I’ve lasted. That’s all experience. I’m a mage, and more skilled than when I was younger—and if I’m not the fighter I used to be, I’m also a lot smarter than I used to be! And what I’m feeling — I know what it is. I know. It was what Urtho felt every time I left, every time one of his gryphons wound up missing. I loved him so dearly, and I breathe each breath honoring his memory — but he was a great man because he accepted his entire being, and dealt with it. I am not Urtho — but I am his son in spirit, and what I honor I can also emulate. There‘s plenty I can do, starting with seeing to it that Snowstar hasn’t overlooked anything!
He shook himself all over, as if he was shaking off some dark, cold shadow that was unpleasantly clinging to his back, and strode out of the Council Hall as fast as his legs would carry him.
What I honor in Urtho‘s deeds, others have also honored in me. Urtho could embrace every facet of a situation and handle all of them with all of his intellect, whether it angered him personally or not. That was why
