The Gathering Storm

Page 208

Wind whispered through the grass. The stars spun overhead, or maybe it was only his own head spinning, but he kept hanging on. Although the griffin stayed still, there remained shifts and tensions in the griffin’s body just as there would in a horse held tight under its rider’s hands: a twitch in one shoulder, a tufted ear laid back and flicked up, a shudder of restless muscles held in check.
He talked to the griffin the way he talked to Resuelto, hoping it would become accustomed to his voice, hoping that the time would pass and give him a chance to survive. Hoping that he could think of something other than the pain that had ignited deep in his chest, so hot and violent that he feared he would pass out like a snuffed flame. But he kept his voice steady and soothing nevertheless.
“What sort of beast are you? Where do your kind come from? Why did God make you? You are a strong, handsome fellow, are you not? You remind me of my gelding Resuelto, who is as strong and beautiful as you and loyal in the bargain, a fine horse. A good companion. Are you like a horse who may respond to good treatment? Or are you so wild that you will kill me as soon as you get the chance?”
As long as he kept the cloak tight over the griffin’s eyes, as long as it couldn’t see, it did not fight him. The play of the moon’s light across its pale hindquarters fascinated him, yet a miracle also were its folded wings and the place around its shoulders where lion’s body became an eagle’s head. The twinkling of the stars seemed to reflect in the iron feathers, so edged, so dangerous, so close to his hands and body but not quite touching him because he was protected by the griffin’s unexpected docility.
He waited, weak but stubborn, holding on. The moon reached the western hills; soon there would not be enough light to see more than suggestions of shapes. But he had never relied mostly on eyesight. He listened to the murmur of the wind through the grass, the melodic rubbing of the griffin’s feathers where the breeze ruffled them, the scrabble of tiny claws through the grass where a mouse or rabbit foraged. He heard a distant shout, hushed by another voice.
They came prudently, moving swiftly but not recklessly, with Fulk in the lead and others close behind. Torches lit the night, and the crackle and hiss of flames and the pitchy scent of their smoke made the griffin uneasy.
“Hush, now,” he said, wishing he could stroke it, but if he touched the head and neck feathers, they would cut his hands, and he dared not shift enough to reach the tawny shoulder for fear of letting the cloak slip.
“My lord prince!” Fulk called to him from a safe distance.
An awed whisper, many voices murmuring at one time, rose from the troop. They did not rush forward, being well trained as well as practical, so although certainly the griffin smelled and heard and sensed their arrival they did not panic him. Not yet.
“Quietly, Captain. Come forward with the strongest thread you have, a canvas needle, and strong rope. We’ll sew this cloak tightly over its head and lead it in to camp. It’s kin to an eagle. No reason we can’t jess it and train it.”
Silence greeted his words just as they would the utterances of the insane, but Captain Fulk came forward nevertheless. His legs hissed through the grass and his footfalls clipped along steadily, a man who did not lose his nerve even in the worst situations. A man I can trust, thought Sanglant, who dared not turn to watch Fulk’s approach because his hands were numb and if he shifted the griffin might realize that a single strong jerk of its head would free it from the cloak.
Fulk was accompanied by some damn fool bearing a hissing torch that made the griffin shudder down the length of its body, but the man veered off downwind, crouched, and held the torch in such a way that it illuminated the scene so that Fulk would be able to see what he was doing.
“I pray you, Captain, work quickly. Sew it tightly and jess the beast’s forelegs with just enough play so it can creep. We’ll use the rest of the rope as a leash.”
“Yes, my lord prince.”
Captain Fulk was a most excellent soldier. He did what he was told and did not flinch or cower. Sanglant edged backward just enough to allow Fulk room to duck in under the griffin’s head, where he started stitching the edges of the cloak together, working efficiently and with a remarkably steady hand. From this angle Sanglant was barely able to see over the beast’s shoulder to the man reckless enough to accompany Fulk with the torch.
It was Sibold. Of course.
The young soldier was grinning madly. “I see you found your griffin, my lord prince. I told them you would.”
XX
A STRONG POTION
1
BARTHOLOMEW assigned a burly oaf, called Stinker by the other men, to be Alain’s jailer. He was big, and he did stink, and he had a nasty mouth on him, always cursing and muttering.