The Shadowed Throne (15 page)

The protection would only last so long. As soon as her magic faltered, the spirits would have her—and then she might never escape.

The only sense left to her now was touch. She ran in circles that grew wider and wider, keeping her head low to the floor she could not see. The spirits had made it invisible to her before, but she was still in a physical place. The cave still existed around her, and somewhere in it was the thing she had come to find.

Her mind began to falter. Her magic, already weakened by the search for the cave, ran low. Out there, the spirits were still trying to break in, and their own supplies of power were infinite. Soon, they would have her. Very soon.

Where is it? WHERE?

Her beak clinked on something. She stopped and turned clumsily, scrabbling around in the dirt for it. The object slipped out of her talons, but she trapped it against a wall and delicately scooped it up in her beak.

The thing sat on her tongue. It was heavy and smooth, odd-shaped. A rock, maybe, or a bone?

It didn't matter.

Oeka relaxed her magic, and her senses came back. Immediately, she cringed. Everywhere, what had been pale and still was swirling and rushing all around, dark like storm clouds. What had been soft and whispering was shrieking and howling.
No, no, no, no! Fool, no!

But no matter how loudly they screamed their protests, the spirits were powerless.

With the object in her beak, Oeka couldn't speak. But she spoke in her mind. One word, full of triumph.
Mine.

She threw her head back and swallowed the object.

In that moment, the Spirit Cave was destroyed. The mist, the cold, the howling voices, everything was pulled away and inward. Out of the land, and into Oeka. For one long, agonising moment her mind was a confused mass of a thousand voices all screaming at once; and then they were silenced.

When Oeka came to, she found herself standing under a tree, near the spot where the Spirit Cave's entrance had been. But now there was nothing there but a heap of tumbled stones. The luring voices, and the white mist, were gone forever. The massive power she had sensed before had gone with them. But that didn't matter. She had done what she had come to do.

Now, the power of the Spirit Cave was hers.

K
ullervo never did remember what happened after his escape from Skandar. He flew out of the mountains with a speed he had never imagined was possible, but even after they were well behind him, he didn't stop. He flew on, his mind lost in a haze of pain that grew worse. His rational, human mind was swallowed up by the griffin's maddened instincts. The griffin took control and dragged him on, unthinking, focused on nothing but escape.

Eventually, a small part of his human mind managed to come through, and he could think a little. He was badly hurt, and he knew it. He needed a healer urgently, but where should he go? He didn't know if any of the cities could shelter him. If he landed at one, he could be taken prisoner or even killed. He had never lived properly as a griffin and knew nothing about how these things happened. Especially in the North, when there was war in the air.

But he had to have a healer. Without one, he would die.

His mind began to fog up. With one last effort, he thrust the idea into the griffin mind.
Find a city. Fly to a city. Human nest. Fly . . . human nest . . . help . . .

The man-griffin flew on.

L
uck wasn't on Kullervo's side that day. He flew in what he thought was a southward direction, but it had begun to rain. His wounds hurt savagely; he was losing blood. His mind grew hazy and confused. Not knowing where he was going, he was buffeted about by the wind and eventually forced to land. Thinking vaguely that sleep would help, he crawled under what he thought was a rocky ledge and curled up, shivering in the wet.

He woke up in the morning and found himself soaked through. Too tired to move, he lay with his head lolling on his talons and watched a swarm of little black specks prickle at the edge of the gaping wound in his leg.

They were ants, feeding on his blood.

Eventually, thirst made him move. He dragged himself out of his shelter, and thrust his beak into a handy puddle. Gulping down water made him feel stronger, and his mind began to work again. Had to fly on. Had to find help. He tested his wings—they were painful, but uninjured at least. They would do.

He lurched into the air and flew on.

That was how the next few days passed. Hopelessly lost, unable to hunt, unable to find humans who could help him, he wandered through Tara with little idea even of direction. His wounds reopened, and festered, until he was too weak to go any further.

On that last, half-remembered morning, he came across a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. There, he landed by a building and promptly collapsed. His last thought was that whoever lived here might help him. If he were human . . .

Magic tore at him, and he blacked out.

H
e woke up in unbelievable pain. Immobilised, too overcome to even scream, he lay on his side and gasped convulsively. Hands touched his head; he heard voices somewhere but couldn't understand them. His foreleg jerked forward and moved around, and he eventually realised that someone was wrapping it up. Help, then? Someone helping him?

Something he thought was water poured into his mouth. He swallowed it and tried to relax. Some of the pain receded.

Voices, rising and falling. He couldn't see anything.

He slept, woke, and slept again.

Food came, when he was awake. He didn't know or care what it was, and only swallowed it as it was put into his mouth. He swallowed liquids, too—maybe water, maybe medicine. Either one was good.

The pain began to go away, and he felt himself getting better. As proper consciousness came back, he struggled to make sense of his surroundings, wanting to know where he was. He found himself lying on his back. That wasn't right. His wings were trapped underneath him, and he could feel his tail trailing between his back legs. His head felt wrong. Too light. Something kept brushing at his cheeks.

He fought to make himself wake up. His whole body felt very warm—there was a blanket over him. He blinked and looked upward. There was a ceiling above him. He was glad to see it, but confusion quickly took over. Why was he in a bed? Why . . . ?

He tried to move and found himself lifting a pair of human arms. Human. He was human? He couldn't remember changing. Had it happened while he was unconscious? It had happened before. His talons were gone, and his fingers were tipped with misshapen fingernails. Those usually took a while to grow.

He felt his face. No beak. Everything seemed normal. His arm was bandaged. He could feel something trapped under the pillow. Fumbling with the covers, he slid a hand underneath to investigate. Wings! Just his wings. But they were still coated with feathers.

Kullervo inspected his bare chest. It was also covered in feathers.

Something went wrong,
he thought muzzily.

His carers must know what he was now. What were they going to do? He consoled himself that at least they had helped him so far. They might not be enemies. But he would have to be careful.

He lay back and waited for someone to come and check on him.

After a while, a door opened somewhere, and a woman appeared. She was young, with brown hair and . . . blue eyes?

Kullervo's brow furrowed.

The woman gave him a nervous smile. “Hello. You're awake.” She spoke Cymrian, without the harsh accent of a Northerner.

Kullervo coughed. “Yes. Don't know . . . what—happened.”

“It's all right.” She came closer and gave him some water. “You've been ill. Do you feel better now?”

He took the water gratefully. “Yes. Thank you. Name's Kullervo.”

“I'm Ellan,” said the woman. She was looking at him cautiously, almost with . . . awe?

Kullervo was too exhausted to think about it. “Am I going to be all right?”

“I don't know. But I think you will. You're strong.”

“I'm a freak,” Kullervo mumbled. “You weren't meant to see me like this.”

“Oh, no, it's all right,” Ellan said, too quickly. “We're honoured . . . I mean . . . we thought that you . . .”

“What?” Kullervo squinted. “Feel sick. Need more water.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.” She provided it. “Is that better?”

He closed his eyes for a long moment and nearly fell asleep. But the need for answers was too important, and he forced himself awake. “What's this place? Where?”

Ellan glanced over her shoulder. “This is Gwernyfed.”

A Northern place-name, Kullervo thought. For a little while, he'd thought he had somehow ended up back in the South.

“You,” he said. “You're Southern. Why are you here?”

Ellan winced and bowed hastily. “Gwernyfed's our secret,” she said. “We live here. The last survivors.”

Kullervo just stared at her.

“We were living in the North when the war started,” Ellan said. “We were all born in this country. After the Dark Lord took over, we refused to leave. The North is our home. So we came here to Gwernyfed. We had friends—Northerner friends, who helped us. This is our place now, and no-one knows we're here. We hoped nobody would find us.”

“But I did,” said Kullervo.

“Yes.” Ellan was watching him carefully. “We weren't sure . . . you look like a Northerner, a little. But the wings, the eyes . . .”

Finally, Kullervo realised. “You think I'm—”

“We hoped.”

He turned his head away. “Gryphus' Messenger.”

“A man with a griffin's wings and golden eyes,” Ellan said. “A man who flew down from the sky to us. We believed Gryphus sent you to help us.”

Silently, Kullervo thanked the gods—whichever of them might be listening. He was saved. “You're right,” he said. “I was sent. I am a messenger. You helped me, so I should help you.”

Ellan's face lit up. She looked as if she were going to laugh out loud. “It's true! I
knew
it. Some of the others doubted it, but I knew.”

Kullervo smiled at her. “How can I help?”

“Oh.” Ellan looked taken aback. “With blessings, if you can, holy one.”

“Of course.” Kullervo let the smile grow warmer. “Is there anything else?”

“Protection from the Dark Lord,” Ellan said with real fear.

Kullervo pulled up short at that. An image of Arenadd's rotting remains flashed behind his eyes, and he shuddered.

“I'm sorry,” Ellan said. “I should never have said that name in front of you, holy one.”

“It's all right.” Kullervo shifted under his covers. “I need to rest. When I'm awake again, anyone else who wants to visit me can. I'll help them any way I'm able.”

Ellan bowed. “Thank you, holy one. I understand.”

N
ow that he knew he was safe, Kullervo could afford to take some time to recover. He spent most of his days in bed and let his hosts keep him clean and fed. Plenty of people came to visit him once word got out that he was awake and talking, and many of them brought food and medicines. Kullervo was used to this sort of treatment by now. At least, he was used to people coming to stare at him. He accepted the attention placidly, thankful that nobody was throwing anything at him or trying to pull on his wings or feathers. These people were afraid of him, but they honestly believed in him as well, and he quickly saw that this was different from how it had been before. His transformation back into human form had gone wrong, but not in a bad way. He had kept most of his fur and feathers, and his tail was still furred and had the feathery fan on the end. His feet were clawed and padded, and his legs were improperly shaped and no good for walking. But despite that, his face was properly human, and his hands and arms. He looked bizarre, but not hideous, and that made all the difference.

Maybe Gryphus was smiling on him after all.

He soon had a good idea of how many people were here in Gwernyfed and what they were like. At least twenty different people came to see him, and of those, most were Southerners of varying ages. From the way some of them spoke and carried themselves, he suspected they were griffiners—or had been once.

There were some Northerners among them, too, most of them acting as if they were more interested in him for his oddity rather than convinced that he was divine.

The third type of human that he saw was far more astonishing.

Half-breeds.

Several children came to stare at him one day. One or two of them were pure Southerner or Northerner, but most of them weren't. Black hair, with brown eyes. Brown hair with black eyes. Pale skin, and a stocky build.

Kullervo could hardly believe it. He beckoned and smiled to the children, and as they timidly came closer, their mixed features leapt out at him. Half-breeds!

“Are you from Gryphus?” one small boy asked.

“Yes, that's right,” said Kullervo. “What's your name?”

“Gath,” said the boy.

Kullervo listened to them ask their questions and did his best to answer, but his mind was elsewhere. He had never imagined anything like this in his life. A place, just this one place, where the two races lived side by side as equals. They were even intermarrying. This place had been founded by people who had every reason to hate each other, but somehow they had found a way to co-operate and survive. And in twenty years, Malvern had never suspected that they even existed.

Privately, Kullervo swore to himself that he would never, ever tell anyone that Gwernyfed existed. And, if he had to, he would kill to protect it.

The next day, when Ellan brought him breakfast, he asked her who led the settlement.

“All of us, really,” she said. “We make most of the decisions together, anyway. Lord Rufus was the one who started it, though. And the griffin always gets her say.”

Kullervo started. “Griffins? There are griffins here?”

“Just one,” said Ellan. “She can't come here to see you, of course, but she's very curious.”

“I'll have to go out and meet her,” said Kullervo. “But what about Lord Rufus? Who's he?”

“He used to live at Malvern,” said Ellan. “He was a griffiner, but he was disgraced and his griffin left him when they found out he was in love with his servant. She was a Northerner. When the Dark Lord and the monster griffin attacked Malvern, Lord Rufus nearly died, but his lover helped him escape. They joined with a group of others who were running away, and Lord Rufus took charge. They ran from place to place, trying to find a place to hide, and a lot of them died. Lord Rufus' lover was one of the ones who was killed. Lord Rufus kept the others going until they found Gwernyfed. It was in ruins, and most of the people there had been killed by other Northerners for refusing to join the rebels. The people who were left let Lord Rufus stay because they thought a griffiner would rebuild their village and show them what to do. He did.” Ellan smiled. “My mother was one of the people Rufus brought here. I was still in her womb then.”

“And so Lord Rufus rules Gwernyfed now?”

“Sort of. He's a guide, though, not really a ruler. He's got old. But we all believe in him.” There was genuine affection in Ellan's voice. “When other people came here, he took them in no matter what race they were. He believes we should all live together in harmony, like the clouds in the sky.”

“I wish we could,” said Kullervo, with a bitterness that surprised him.

“We've managed it well enough,” said Ellan.

Kullervo pulled himself together. “I'd like to meet Lord Rufus. I think I know some things he might be interested in. Will he come?”

“I'm not sure. I think so. If he hears you were asking him to. I think he's been keeping away on purpose.” Ellan looked troubled.

“Ask him to come, then,” said Kullervo. “And tell him I said not to worry—I won't bite.”

“I'll tell him,” she promised.

K
ullervo waited eagerly to meet the famous Lord Rufus. But nearly three whole days passed before he finally came. By then, Kullervo was well enough to get out of bed and try to walk again—not easy, with his misshapen legs, but he managed to hobble around with the help of a stick. He liked to sit by the fire-place and watch the flames, and think about all the things he had seen and heard.