The Silver Gryphon

he was a leader and not a panicked target. He could act when others would be overwhelmed by emotion. If I think of this disappearance in terms only of how I feel about it, then I will miss details that could be critical while I fill my vision with myself, and that could cost lives. Let the historians argue over whether I was enraged or determined or panicked on this day! I can still be effective to my last breath!

It was not clear at first where the Adept had run off to, and by the time Skan tracked him down, Snowstar had managed to gather all of the most powerful mages together in his own dwelling and workshop. Skan was impressed in spite of himself at how quickly the Kaled’a’in mage had moved. It was notoriously difficult to organize mages, but Snowstar seemed to have accomplished the task in a very limited amount of time.

There were seven mages at work including Snowstar. They had been divided into pairs, seated at individual tables so that they didn’t interfere with each other, each pair of them scrying for something in particular. One pair looked for the teleson, one for the tent, one for the basket. Snowstar was working by himself, but the moment that Skan came near him, he looked up and beckoned.

“I’m looking for Tadrith myself,” he said without preamble, “I was waiting for you to help me; the blood-tie he has with you is going to make it possible to find him, if it’s at all possible. You will both feel similar magically, as you know.”

“If?” Skan said, growing cold all over. Is he saying that he thinks Tad is— dead? “You mean you feel he is already dead—”

Snowstar made a soothing gesture. “No, actually, I don’t. Even if Tadrith was unconscious or worse, we’d still find him under normal circumstances. The problem is that I’m fairly certain that they’re quite out of our range.” The white-haired Kaled’a’in Adept shook his head. “But ‘fairly’ isn’t ‘completely,’ and under the impetus of powerful emotions, people have been known to do extraordinary things before this. As you should know, better than any of us! I’m more than willing to try, if you are.”

Skan grunted in extreme irritation, but reined it in. “Stupid question, Snowstar. I’d try until I fell over.”

Snowstar grimaced. “I know it was a stupid question; forgive me. Fortunately, that won’t matter to the spell or the stone.” He gestured at a small table, and the half-dome of volcanic glass atop it. “Would you?”

Skan took his place opposite the chair behind the table; he’d done scrying himself before, once or twice, but always with another mage and never with Snowstar. Each mage had his own chosen vehicle for scrying, but most used either a clear or black stone or a mirror. He put his foreclaws up on the table, surrounding his half of the stone with them. Snowstar placed his own hands on the table, touching fingertip to talon-tip with Skan.

After that, it was a matter of Skan concentrating on his son and supplying mage-energy to Snowstar while Snowstar created and loosed the actual spell. Some mages had a visual component to this work, but Snowstar didn’t. It took someone who was not only able to see mage-energy but one who was sensitive to its movement— like a gryphon—to sense what he was doing.

Skan felt the energy gathering all around them and condensing into the form of the spell, like a warm wind encircling them and then cooling. He felt it strain and tug at the restraints Snowstar held on it. And he felt Snowstar finally let it go.

Then—nothing. It leaped out—and dissipated. It wasn’t gone, as if it had gone off to look for something. It was gone as if it had stretched itself out so thin that a mere breeze had made it fragment into a million uncoordinated bits.

Snowstar jerked as if a string holding him upright had snapped, then sagged down, his hands clutching the stone. “Damn,” he swore softly, as harsh an oath as Skan had ever heard him give voice to. “It’s no good. It’s just too far.”

Skan sagged himself, his throat locked up in grief, his chest so tight it was hard to take a breath. Tad. . . .

A few moments later the others had all uttered the same words, in the same tones of anger and defeat— all except the pair trying to reach the teleson.

They simply looked baffled and defeated, and they hadn’t said anything. Finally Snowstar stopped waiting for them to speak up for themselves and went over to them. “Well?” he said, as Skan followed on his heels.

Skan knew both of them; one was a young Kaled’a’in called Redoak, the other a mercenary mage from Urtho’s following named Gielle. The latter was an uncannily lucky fellow; he had been a mere Journeyman at the beginning of the mage-storms following the Cataclysm, but when they were over, he was an Adept. He was more than a bit bewildered by the transition, but had handled it gracefully—far more gracefully than some would have.

“I can’t explain it, sir,” he said, obviously working to suppress an automatic reaction to authority of snapping to attention and saluting. “When I couldn’t reach Tadrith’s device, I tried others, just to make certain that there wasn’t something wrong with me. I’ve been able to call up every teleson we’ve ever created, including the one out there with the patrol looking for the missing Silvers. I got the one we left with the garrison at Khimbata, which is farther away than Tadrith is. I got all of them—except the one we sent out with Tadrith and Silverblade. It’s—” he shook his head. “It’s just gone, it’s as if it was never there! It hasn’t even been retuned or broken, that would leave a telltale. I’ve been working with tele-sons most of my life as a mage, and I’ve only seen something like this happen once before.”

“Was that during the Wars?” Snowstar asked instantly.