Guto gaped in horror at the multitude of graves, hewn from the rough earth and marked with cairns of stone. So many… he thought. Did all of them come for the Fan?
“Heavens above,” breathed Gillian. “Who are they?”
“I told you – they are your fellow questors,” replied Ashmane mildly. “You are hardly the first to come seeking to master your worlds, chasing one ambition or another. Anything which promises such easy power holds great allure. Scores upon scores have come seeking the Fan of the Four Winds. To each I told the truth – that the Fan would not grant them what they needed. Those who heeded my warnings went elsewhere to find real answers to their troubles. Those who do not…” he indicated the graves with a tilt of his head.
“Wha- what killed them?” asked one of the other soldiers nervously.
“The Fan, naturally,” replied somber Ashmane.
Gilbear shot the pony a disbelieving glance. “The Fan did this? Is it not merely an artifact?”
To Guto’s surprise, Ashmane laughed. “The Fan is one of the most dangerous magical weapons ever crafted. Did you truly believe the princesses would be so careless as to leave it inert in the wilderness where any foolish creature could claim its power? The Fan is not merely resting within the Heights. It is fortified within the heights. Its enchantment was changed so that it might defend itself from any who seek to usurp its might.”
Guto grimaced. “Can the Fan be claimed without battling its magic?”
“No, your majesty,” replied Ashmane. “The Stewards of the Sun and Moon locked the Wind away after the last fool to wield its power crafted an army from thin air and burned his way across the land, leaving only cinders in his wake.”
“So the Fan can craft an army, then?” demanded Guillemin eagerly.
Ashmane frowned at the prince. “You hear much, yet listen to only a fraction. Did Grizier record so little of the Fan’s history that you do not know its danger?”
“He recorded its power,” said Guto. “A power which would give us the means to reclaim the Idol of Boreas and restore the glory of Griffonstone!”
“Oh, Guto, Guto,” sighed Ashmane, shaking his head sadly. “Have you not listened either? Take heed of my words, if you would truly restore Griffonstone.” The hermit’s gaze bored into Guto. “Even if you could claim it, the Fan cannot save your kingdom.”
Guto felt the spark of hope in his chest whither and die. “Then we are doomed,” he breathed.
“No!” bellowed Ashmane, and for a moment it seemed the hermit was gone, replaced by a warrior of untold power whose frailty was mere illusion. “There is still hope!” With swiftness that bellied his age, he dashed up to Guto, the aura of command lashing like a storm around him. “Griffonstone has all the riches it needs, if its citizens but knew it! If they but looked to things greater than themselves!” He jabbed a forceful hoof into Guto’s chest, driving the astounded griffon back a step. “If their king but rose up and led them down a better path!” Then, to Guto’s mounting shock, he prostrated himself like a groveling petitioner. “I beseech you, your majesty, lead them down a better path! It is not too late! Even in the twilight of your kingdom, there is still a chance to save her! To make her grander than she ever was before! If you would only lead your kingdom to—”
The blow sent Ashmane flying. He crashed against one of the cairns and toppled it, lying sprawled on the ground amidst scattered stones.
Guto’s sword filled his grasp. “Guillemin!” he roared, “What in Tartarus do you think you’re doing?!”
Guillemin flapped contemptuously over to the old stallion he’d struck. “I’ve had quite enough of his blather, father,” replied the prince. Ashmane let out a low moan and Guillemin spat on him. “He insults us, he mocks our kingdom, and now he seeks to cheat us of our riches with talk of deadly magic and dark prophecy? Hah! I think not!”
“My lord, this is unwise!” cautioned Gillian, stepping forward. “We doubt the warnings of the hermit at our own peril—”
“Be silent you lowborn filth!” shrieked Guillemin.
Ashmane gave a weak, wheezing laugh. “Lowborn he may be, yet, if you continue down this path, a descendent of that lowborn griffon will lead Griffonstone where you failed to.”
Guillemin cursed and grabbed the pony by the throat. “I will make you silent, old fool!” He brought back his other forelimb with claws outstretched to spear the helpless pony. Ashmane looked up, unafraid.
Before the prince could strike, Guto lunged forward, smashing into Guillemin and knocking him tail over talons. Guillemin swiftly recovered his footing, only to find himself staring down the length of his father’s sword.
“Enough!” declared the elder griffon. “This pony offered us Hospitality! I will not have you or any others of my house impugn my honor by violating the Old Law in such disgraceful manner!”
“Out of my way, father!” shouted Guillemin. “I will spill the wretch’s blood!”
The sword did not waver. “Then I will spill yours.”
Guillemin’s beak hung open in shock. “You’d… you’d kill… for him?”
Guto glared. “I would.”
Father and son locked eyes. For a moment, it seemed the latter would attack the former. Then Guillemin withdrew, cowed.
A low, rasping chuckle rose cut through the stillness. Turning his head, Guto saw Ashmane rising shakily to his hooves, an approving smile stamped on his features. “Ah, see? The king declares himself,” proclaimed the old stallion, who bowed low before Guto.
Though perplexed by Ashmane’s words, the king nonetheless acknowledged the pony’s respect. “You have my apologies for the prince’s rashness.” He spared a glare at the frightened Guillemin. “It will not happen again.”
“Indeed it will not,” agreed Ashmane. “Though whether that be due to redemption or to tragedy remains to be seen.”
Guto shook his head as he sheathed his sword. “Always cryptic words from you. Answer me this, Ashmane – what did you mean when you said the offspring of Gillian would lead?” Heaven knows, right now I’d happily adopt the boy just to have a better choice of heir.
Ashmane smiled oddly. “You wish me to prophesy for you? Very well. I shall.” The stallion sat and looked to the sky, his face set in contemplation. After a moment’s pause, he spoke:
“You stand now at the crossroads, King Guto. The way you lead your kingdom now shall be the way that the griffons of Griffonstone follow for generations to come. Your first path is easy, but ruinous. If you should pursue the Fan, you will die just as rich as you are now. You and your retinue.”
“Not richer?” interrupted Gilbear.
“No richer, no poorer,” replied Ashmane. “I myself will be your litter bearer and your gravedigger. Your kingdom will fall into squalor, and it shall not rise for many years to come.”
“Who cares,” muttered one griffon. “We’ll be dead anyway.”
Ashmane ignored them. “The second path is hard, but glorious, oh King. It leads through poverty and sacrifice. You yourself shall die without a coin to your name, as shall your sons and many of your retainers.” Guto recoiled in horror, and the other griffons rumbled uneasily. “But,” continued Ashmane with a comforting smile, “the legacy you leave will ensure not only Griffonstone’s survival, but its prosperity for generations to come. A great kingdom will look back upon the foundation you laid and praise you as the first of a new line of kings, and they shall acclaim your loyal followers as fathers of a nation.”
Somber silence greeted Ashmane’s prophecy, only to be broken by snorts of derision from the retinue.
“So we’ll die poor? What use, then, is future glory?”
“Harmonic nonsense!”
“More pony garbage!”
“He’s probably lying anyway!”
“Can you imagine the shame of dying penniless?”
“Better to die with some wealth than none!”
“Beggar!”
“Liar!”
Jeers and insults once more filled the air, and even the cowed Guillemin, bolstered by the supportive ranks of mockery, lent voice to his venom. They accused Ashmane of madness, of attempting to frighten them, and they cried that his warnings of the Fan and the graveyard were but trickery.
Ashmane was deaf to them, his eyes fixed only on Guto. “This is your crossroads, King Guto. Yours is the choice of glory or ruination.”
Guto shook under the stallion’s challenge, his emotions at war within him. I want to save my kingdom. Truly I do! If this Ashmane speaks the truth, then there is only one way forward, but… to die without even a coin to my name… what end is that for a king?
His gaze swept over the retinue, all of whom, save Gillian, were jeering. How could I possibly lead them to Ashmane’s ‘Harmony’? These griffons for whom cairns and visions are not enough? He shut his eyes and turned away.
Who would follow me?
Gillian might.
Yes, but what are two griffons against a kingdom? Even my own sons do not listen!
Does it matter whether or not they listen, if other griffons do?
But can I take this gamble? Who knows if this pony is what he claims to be?
You’ve witnessed his power. What else could he be?
A liar?
But why would he lie?
Griffons seek gold! That is how we have always lived!
Would it not be better to live for something more lasting than earthly riches?
Yes… it would…
… if any griffon was capable of such a thing.
King Guto made his decision.
“We make for the Fan,” he declared. “It is our only hope.”
In that moment, the air seemed to change, as though the winds themselves sensed that the currents of history had shifted.
Ashmane bowed his head. “So be it.”
The griffons cheered, egged on by Gilbear and Guillemin. Gillian cheered too, but his excitement was strained, forced, and his wings ruffled nervously.
One by one, the soldiers took to the sky, spiraling upwards into a formation that hovered above. Gillian was the last to take off before Guto himself, but, just as he was spreading his wings, he paused and addressed Ashmane. “Seer,” the young griffon said respectfully, “I, too, must ask what you meant by your words of my future.”
Ashmane did not look up, but answered, “I meant exactly what I said. Be grateful, for hope lives on in your lineage.”
“But that’s just it,” protested Gillian. “My wife and I haven’t…” his voice caught. “We can’t…” He looked away in grief. Guto tilted his head in confusion, not understanding.
Now Ashmane did look up. He approached the young griffon and touched him with a gentle hoof. “I know well of your tears in the night, Gillian, son of Gideon. Take heart! Your barren pain shall end! This I have seen. From your line shall come the one who will restore Griffonstone. And, though she will not know its significance, she will bear your wife’s name.”
“But Gilda and I can’t have children!” protested Gillian. Guto’s eyes widened, and compassion tugged at his heart.
“You have suffered long,” said Ashmane kindly. “But have hope. Your longing shall be answered.” At his words, a great peace seemed to come upon Gillian, and the young griffon smiled.
Guto marveled at the certainty of Ashame’s promise, only to quail under his gaze when the hermit turned his piercing eyes upon him.
“Provided that the king remembers his true richness when the time comes,” declared Ashmane.
Thanking the old stallion, Gillian leapt into the air wearing the brightest smile Guto had ever seen.
Now alone of the griffons, Guto waited, desiring to bid farewell to the strange pony. Ashmane, for his part, had stepped over to the edge of the graveyard to fetch a cloth bundle. When opened, it proved to contain a pick and shovel. The pony unpacked the tools, then sat, his gaze fixed upon the ground.
Guto opened his beak to say his goodbye, but found it hard to form the words. A strange foreboding settled like a yoke across his shoulders, and the weight increased with each passing second.
This is foolish! he rebuked himself. The decision is made!
Can a king not take back his words?
Not without appearing weak!
Why won’t Ashmane look up?
“Thank you for your Hospitality, old one,” said the king.
Ashmane was silent for a moment before saying softly, “It would have been better if you had taken my advice, and not my fish.”
A cold dread chilled Guto to the bone. He found himself unable to bear the pony’s presence any longer and leapt into the air to put as much distance as he could between himself and the prophet. His warriors formed up around him and they flew towards the Hurricane Heights and destiny.
We shall conquer! Guto assured himself. We must! The pony’s cryptic warnings mean nothing! He kept his gaze forward, repeating confident promises to himself, resisting the urge to turn around.
Guto did manage to keep his course straight, but he could not prevent himself from looking back. Just once. With his eagle-eyed vision, he saw Ashmane hard at work. A horrified heartbeat later, Guto snapped his eyes forward and fixed them on their destination, trying with all his might to will away the disturbing act he’d seen. But, try as he might, he could not outrun the knowledge.
Ashmane was already digging the first grave.