Page 41 of Gryphon in Light

Sunstone shrugged. “I know some were flipped over and used as shelters. At a guess, because they were common, no one took particular care of them. They were treasures to us, so we did.”

“Well, really,” drawled Redwind, another Hawkbrother Kel knew, as he came around from the other side of the barge where he had been setting tethers, “we haven’t been any better about our archives. I think we’ve had whole centuries where all the records say is what happened when and where, not how it felt or anything personal about life there.”

Firesong chose that moment to appear, today wearing a mask of sculpted grayish-blue leather, with leather ornaments on his robe to match. “This is the problem when people are busy trying to survive, you see,” he opined. “They just don’t write common things down. And by the time anyone thinks to wonder about those things, memories are altered or gone altogether.” He folded his arms and surveyed the barge, giving it a nod of approval. “I like it. I suppose . . . it would be possible to use Pastseeing to discover how these things were made, but if it is a fungus, I don’t know how we’d get a sample.”

Kelvren shook his head. “Boring!” he proclaimed. “And isn’t helping us now.”

Sunstone shook his head and pursed his lips. “And this is why gryphons never become Artificers.”

Kelvren did not ask what he meant by that, because, to be honest, he didn’t care. How these things were made, and whether they could be replicated, was not going to help him with his magic, nor was it going to cut down on the number of beings it seemed were adding themselves to this expedition by the day. He just turned to Firesong and asked, “Are we going to try anything new, or are you just going to stare at me all day while I beat my beak against a wall like you’ve done the past two days?”

“You’re not beating your beak against a wall, Kel,” Firesong said in what were probably supposed to be reassuring tones. “You may not be able to tell it, but you are slowly getting better control over the energies you are collecting.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Kel grumbled. “And I want to fly again!” He had to say it, even though he knew the answer already. He was gathering far too much energy just by walking; if he flew, well, there was that danger of going up in flames.

Firesong stopped, put his hand on Kel’s beak, and turned his head so that Kel was looking into his eyes. “You’re very close, Kel. That’s why today we are going to walk while we work. Instead of just manipulating what power you have stored, I want you to slowly bring some in so you can have a try at using what I have taught you so far, as an ongoing process. Like breathing.”

Kel stared into Firesong’s eyes while pondering this. On the one talon, he had been getting exercise by walking, and he’d just dissipated the energy in light. On the other talon, he hadn’t been using what Firesong was trying to teach him on those walks. On the third talon, there was the slight but measurable possibility that if he did this, he would catch fire. On the fourth talon, he was either brain-locked over the things Firesong and he were trying to make work, or he was bored out of his mind, and on the fifth talon—he was running out of talons!—Firesong was right here. If something went wrong, Firesong was the best possible Adept to catch it in time and fix it before he caught fire.

“All right,” he agreed. “I just hope that you are correct about my being close to gaining control. I want the sky so much right now.”

Firesong let go of his beak and patted his neck. “I know you do,” he soothed. “But one step at a time. The smell of burning feathers is horrible.”

That startled a bark of laughter out of Kel; he nodded and fluffed, and he and Firesong set off on what outwardly would look like a leisurely stroll away from the Vale—but inwardly, at least on Kel’s part, was a struggle not unlike trying to wrestle with giant snakes.

“Question, Firesong. If I am too dangerous to be in the Vale because of what I do to magic, why are people using magic gathering around where I’m staying? Isn’t that stacking oil barrels around a bonfire?”

Firesong gave a thoughtful grunt, and after a few moments answered, “Even the smartest of us do unwise things because of our feelings. Silverfox would say that sometimes when we need one kind of happiness, it’s worth all the dangers just to feel like it might be attainable. Obviously, clustering around you is a bad idea, but they want to be near you to help you and to show support. I’ve been a symbol for a lot of people, for a long time, and that means being more than a person . . . people feel like if they let a symbol die, then what they’re a symbol of dies. If things went very badly, when they could have helped, I think—nobody wants to feel like their neglect caused something good to fail, so there’s an urge to feed the symbol as much as the person, if that makes sense. The meadow is a good place to work. The work needs to be done somewhere. Being near you feels like supporting their belief in what you represent.” They strolled side by side onto the compacted road from k’Valdemar’s outer fields toward Errold’s Grove, surrounded by bird calls and the whirring of insects, leaving the increasing activity of the day behind them. “But, ultimately, there is really only one conclusion for certain. You are just too pretty to be away from for very long.”

Kelvren bumped against Firesong’s shoulder. Often the comfort gained from a joke lies in its familiarity, and some variation on this exchange had surely gone on between gryphons and their friends for centuries.

“That must be it,” Kelvren agreed, and he raised his wings to shine.

Silverfox crossed a few more names off the list of people and creatures who had volunteered for this quest. Both he and Ayshen had been surprised at the number who had, to tell the truth. So many that he had an embarrassment of riches, and rather than hoping he had someone who had at least dabbled in something, he found he had at least three beings who were experienced in just about anything he and Ayshen could think of that might be needed.

It seemed as if half of the experienced fighters of Ghost Cat Clan wanted to come; he’d finally narrowed that list down to four. All of them had experience in combat against humans and against non-human creatures. All of them were also skilled hunters and trackers. None of them were older than thirty or younger than eighteen. None of them had romantic partners.

Though that might change on the trip. The crew would be a mixed group, all alone in the wilderness, and things were bound to happen. It would be his job as a kestra’chern to poke his nose into their private business and make sure whatever happened would not negatively affect the group as a whole.

By manipulation, if he had to.

A thankless job, but a necessary one. Hopefully, everyone would understand that on a mission, some social manipulation was necessary to maintain focus. If he did his job well, they wouldn’t mind, either.

As Ayshen’s job was to take care of the transportation and supplies, his was to take care of the—well, call it “staffing.” This involved a fatiguing number of interviews and a great deal of diplomacy.

Strangely, it had been the Ghost Cat warriors who had proven to be the least of his worries. He had traveled to their camp and set up next to the central fire, in order to talk to the ones who wanted to go. It had been an education, in all the best ways. They politely came to the fireside to sit down while everyone else stayed away, and he found they were quite practical. The last of them, Tutack son of Kagen, had finally explained to him why they had been so cooperative and so accepting of rejection.

“The Bright Gryphon Kelvren, our friend, must have the best,” Tutack had said, with immense dignity. “But also, he must have those who will be a clan. We know who among us is best, but only you can find who will fit among those you have already chosen. To not be chosen is not a badge of dishonor. It is merely a sign that if you picked such and such a one, among those you have already chosen, there would be—” Tutack struggled for a moment before finding the word. “—what happens when you spin the firestick.”

“Friction,” Silverfox had supplied.

“Aye,” said Tutack. “And with friction comes flame.”

It had actually been that which cemented in Firesong’s mind that Tutack would be in the party.

If only this were something like a first-year Bardic student Episodic Tale, where a group of people unknown to one another meet in a tavern, immediately hit it off, and form a seamless whole.

With friction comes flame, indeed.