Alliances

Kerian was surprised by Alhana’s meek acquiescence and Porthios’s sentimentality. As the others continued to wrangle, she went to Alhana. Before she could ask what had passed between them, Alhana told her, roughening her voice in a parody of Porthios’s hoarse tone. “Save your noble sacrifice, lady. This requires a warrior.”

Kerian protested, but Alhana said, “He’s right.” A rueful smile quirked her mouth. “Though that didn’t lessen my desire to denounce him for saying it. I thought it better to remove myself from the temptation.”

The wrangling had ended. Samar would be the first to attempt the bonding. Kerian did not argue. She intended to have one of the beasts for herself, but she didn’t need to be first. Looking very pleased, Samar went to prepare himself.

The sun would set in a few hours. Above the eastern peaks, clouds billowed, dull purple below and roseate on their tops. Kerian wondered if they presaged rain. Her idle speculation was interrupted by a command from Porthios.

“I need griffon’s blood-one gill. Fresh, not drained from a carcass.” He thrust a clay cup at her.

She jerked the cup from his hand and went. As she walked away, a grin flashed over her face. Her lack of argument had so startled Porthios, he’d nearly dropped the cup.

A gill was only a quarter pint. No animal would die from losing that amount. After the nuisance Hytanthas had made of himself over it, she intended he should be the one to collect the blood.

She found him by the griffon corral. When he saw her approaching, he stood quickly. His three helpers, roused from their naps, slowly imitated him.

“It’s time,” said Kerian, holding out the clay cup. “Orexas needs a quarter pint of fresh griffon blood.”

He stared at the container. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He took the cup and drew his sword. Before she could stop him, he vaulted into the corral-not the section that contained the smallest, yearling griffon, but the portion in which resided only mature beasts. All the griffons were asleep, lying with heads tucked under their pinioned wings. The elves had hobbled both sets of their dangerous feet and tied their beaks closed with broad leather straps.

Kerian hissed at him to stop, but it was too late. At Hytanthas’s abrupt entrance, griffon heads rose in unison, and the creatures watched him with predatory eyes. Disdaining the rest, Hytanthas made straight for the eldest male Golden. The male snorted deep in its chest. The sound gave Hytanthas pause but only for a moment. He lifted his sword.

“This may hurt,” he advised the beast, “but it’s in a good cause.”

He leaned in, sword extended, intending to draw blood from the animal’s neck. The griffon had other ideas. Hobbled, pinioned, and muzzled, it nonetheless resisted, butting Hytanthas square in the chest with its massive head. The young elf went over backward and landed hard on the stony ground.

Kerian stood over him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Following orders,” he gasped.

She helped him sit up. Nothing seemed broken, so he stood carefully. They both regarded the proud griffon.

A vast bowl of purple-black clouds had formed over the range where the elves were camped. Around its lower edges, blue sky showed, but overhead the cloud mass appeared solid. It shimmered with lightning, but no thunder followed. A particularly bright flash reflected red in the big griffon’s eyes. Even Kerian was moved to prudence.

“Choose another,” she urged. “This one’s too strong.”

“He’s got an iron head too.” Hytanthas rubbed his ribs. “But he’ll bleed for me. Why shouldn’t the strongest in the herd bleed for the rest?”

He picked up his sword and circled the alert beast. It lay on its left side, heavy leonine haunches lashed together.

“Don’t worry, Ironhead,” Hytanthas said soothingly. “You’ll barely feel this.”

With a single overhand swing, he made a shallow cut through the fur and skin pulled tight over the beast’s thigh. Dark blood spurted. The griffon raised its beak skyward and screeched against its gag.

Hytanthas held the cup to the wound. Blood flowed fast into it. When it was brimming, he pulled it away. He called to his three helpers to tend the griffon’s wound, then he and the Lioness jogged away.

When they reached Porthios, he was standing at the edge of his sacred circle, stone bowl in hand, murmuring ancient words. Chathendor, acting as his assistant, stood at his side. Alhana was present but a few yards away. She’d donned a waterproof cape, expecting rain. Against the dark gray material of the hood, her face looked even paler than usual.

Hytanthas handed the cup to Porthios. “Don’t spill it,” he cautioned. “I’d hate to have to bleed that one again.”

Continuing his invocation, Porthios poured the blood into the stone bowl that contained the muddled flowers and wine. With a crudely formed pestle, he stirred the thick mixture.