What type of creature? Well, she was not a pony, for the villagers had never seen her one of their own. To them, she was all griffon, and she thought so herself. Plainly the Prince did not. Otherwise, why would he ask such a question? Yes, she had hooves not paws and her tail was not that of a lion, but these differences were small were they not? Could he not see her for what she was or at least, what she supposed herself to be?
So to ponies she was a griffon and to griffons something else. Like her mother and her father, pony and griffon simultaneously, yet neither ultimately. Unique, Mother always said, but failed to assign a proper name to the uniqueness she possessed.
As she pondered, it became apparent Warrik was growing impatient for a response. Unsophisticated as she was, it was apparent to her that to keep a prince waiting was unwise. Yet how should his question be answered?
“I do not know,” she replied, eliciting laughter from the griffons behind her. She turned and glanced at them.
With a snap of his wing, Warrik summoned silence.
Startled by the sudden quiet, Celia turned and faced the Prince. “My name is Celia,” she said.
“Well, Celia,” he began slowly, “tell us the sort of dealings one unknown to themselves has in our kingdom?”
The question left her perplexed her and unnerved. She stood, beak open, and shook her head.
“I wish to know,” he stressed with more than a little irritation, “why is it you have come here?” Then he thrust a foreleg towards her as if to draw forth an answer. “You are a stranger in these mountains, an intruder in our domain. We demand the reason you have come.”
“My—my father.” It was obvious even to her that her words lacked confidence. Nevertheless, since neither the Prince nor his court responded, Celia attempted to provide a less ambiguous answer. “I am here to find my father. He is from this city. Well, I believe he is.”
“Ah, although slim, progress has been made,” exclaimed Warrik with a smirk. “Good, good. Now, one who calls herself Celia, if indeed your father is from our city, do you see him among us? If so, please point him out, for I have a great desire to speak with the griffon who would sire one such as you.”
Anxious and with a heart racing, Celia glanced around and said, “No…” Sudden embarrassment struck her, for it appeared, in some manner, the Prince had played a trick. “I mean… I’m not sure what he looks like—exactly.” In the ensuing pause, giggles mixed with whispers came from behind, but she ignored them and went on.
“His feathers and coat are gold. His name is Ahren.”
Upon hearing this, a tumult of griffon voices engulfed the hall. All spoke at once, and in that roiling sea of talk, the solitary word Celia could decipher was her father’s name.
With wings flared, Warrik leapt up. “Silence!” he bellowed. Twice more he gave the order before all obeyed. “You see!” he said to one on the elders on his left. “Did I not say we would endure this nonsense yet again?” He received a slow, serious nod in reply. Then he resumed his seat and, endeavoring to recoup his dignity, pulled his wings tight to his body. Holding his head high, he glared down and demanded, “Where have you heard the story?”
All the shouting left Celia’s thoughts a cacophony as great as the griffon’s voices. Addled, she stood dumbfounded and mute.
Warrik spoke haltingly and emphatically as if he were interrogating a mischievous child. “From whom did you learn the story of Ahren? You will tell us, and your words must be true.”
Celia’s voice shook, but she managed to eek out, “My mother.”
More murmuring in the court resulted, this time cut short by the Prince’s glare.
“Her name is Meadow. She is a pony.”
This produced muted laughter from the griffons, and this time, because he too appeared to find her statement amusing, Warrik let the disruption run its course. A considerable time passed before the mirth died out on its own.
“Your mother—is a pony,” he said. “My, my. This explains much, does it not?” While he rapped his talons upon the rest, his head moved from side to side. Then his eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “And where might we find this Meadow the pony? We have questions to ask of her too. We certainly do.” Laughter once more crept into the hall.
“She—we—live on the prairie. By a river.” Realizing the inadequacy of the description, Celia added, “Past the desert and the forest. It is quite far from here.”
“Ah! Conveniently distant, is it not?” And he cast a baleful glare.
Through a tightened throat she forced, “Yes, very far away.”
“Oh, such a shame.” He tsked for a considerable time. “A shame indeed, but I am not shocked.”
Now, looking as he did, she feared Warrik’s questioning was nearing an end, and her heart heaved.
The Prince raised his head, only a bit, and huffed. “Here or on the other side of the world, it matters not. Why should I believe her word any more than yours?”
“But—” Celia interjected, but Warrik continued unperturbed and louder.
“Words are no more proof than thunder is rain. These ludicrous claims bore us. Although, I must say, yours is at least remarkable in its originality, and momentarily entertaining. Regardless, you shall waste no more or our time.” A silence settled upon the hall, lasting but a moment. Then, Warrik began with a dismissive wave, and pronounced quite adamantly, “You will be escorted from our realm—”
“No!” A jumble of spirited voices engulfed Celia’s plaintive cry. The Captain lied to her! This Warrik was unfair! To travel so far, to be so near, then called a creature, humiliated, and denied and dismissed? This was a bad dream, a very bad dream, like falling forever, plunging uncontrolled into darkness.
“—and we strongly advise that you bother us no more,” Warrik finished, and the clamorous talk of the griffons grew to the point of deafening in Celia’s ears.
“No,” she protested even louder, but the Prince’s countenance remained unchanged. Panicking, Celia wrenched the pouch from her neck. She ripped it open, grasped the pendant by its cord, and held it aloft.
“This is my proof,” she cried. The pendant of exquisite blue rotated before her, light flashing off the stone’s surface.
In an instant, every griffon fell silent. Warrik leaned forward, fixated upon the stone. Celia thrust it towards him, insistent, defiant.
“Ahren gave this to my mother,” she shouted loud enough for her words to echo. “He would recognize me by this.”
Prince Warrik remained frozen, then arose. He stepped from the podium and, in four measured steps, stood before her.
Celia’s breaths came faster and faster, but still she remained unyielding, glaring back in steadfast refusal. Prince or not, the pendant was a truth none could not deny nor dismiss. When he reached for it, for she was fearful he might seize it, she clenched the cord in a grip of iron. But he withdrew, and this action mystified her.
Warrik sat, and for a moment, he did not move. Neither did he look at her, for the pendant transfixed him. Reaching out, steady and unhurried, he cupped the dangling stone, rolling it back and forth as he methodically examined it.
“Aye, your father would,” Warrik murmured in a weary voice. Slowly, and with a reassuring firmness, Warrik eased down her leg until the blue stone lay clasped between them.
Although Celia’s heart still raced, she found their intertwined talons fascinating. She felt the stone pressed against her, solid and smooth, warming in their mutual grasp. And the way Warrik held her was gentle, soothing. How strange: A moment ago anger possessed him, now all was washed away. Like him, she calmed and, upon raising her head, found Warrik’s melancholy eyes.
“Are you aware of what you possess, child?” he asked in a muted voice, for the words he spoke were not for the court, but for her only.
Celia whispered, “No.”
“You hold a sacred talisman of our house, one revered for more years than any could count. But my remembrances are recent, for this was my mother’s, given to her on the day my father swore he’d be hers forever.” Warrik shook his head and pressed the pendant tight in Celia’s grasp. For a short time, he appeared unable to speak.
“They were but the last of many, for so it has been for generations,” he concluded, and then he released his grip. Celia drew the pendant to her breast.
He grew reflective. “Never has it been given lightly. No. That my brother would not do.”
“Your—brother?”
“Yes, child, my brother.” Warrik paused to clear his throat. “Ahren is my brother, and it pains me to tell you he is not here.”
Sorrow passed over his face like a cloud. That look, eyes devoid of hope, Celia had seen far away but not so long ago. This recognition turned to chilling apprehension, leaving her on the edge of a precipice, teetering. With thin courage, she approached the question whose answer she dreaded.
“Where… where is he?”
“Lost.”
A single word and Celia’s hope, a star once so bright, faded and fell. It flickered out. She was numb.
Warrik rose and whirled about. “Council is adjourned!” he bellowed. The ringing of his command had yet to fade when he returned to Celia and blithely remarked, “My dear, you seem utterly fatigued. Famished too, I expect. Well, we shall have to attend that, won’t we?”
—❦—
A pair of armored guards hovered above, escorting Celia and Prince Warrik as the two made their way down the spacious hallway. Unlike the those who’d accompanied her earlier in the day, neither carried weapons—at least not visibly, and this removed some of Celia’s worry. But the hurried pace of the Prince was reminiscent of that dreadful Captain Murron.
To her surprise, Warrik possessed an unlikely suppleness, for his size belied his strength. As he vigorously strode across the marble floor, his claws produced muffled although distinct clicks. Celia’s did too, but the sound of her hooves reverberated harshly off the stone walls, each clack reinforced what she knew to be true.
Initially she had sensed it when the soldiers on the battlement stared, and it grew obvious with the first question Warrik posed. Mocking echoes chided her for the foolish error of thinking herself a griffon. She was not one them at all, or at least not wholly so. How different she was from both pony and griffon was apparent, and although unique she may be, alone in a faraway city, uniqueness provided no vestige of comfort.
When the group neared the end of the long hallway, the guards raced forward and landed, positioning themselves on either side of a doorway. Upon the Prince’s approach, one opened the heavily carved wooden doors, and together Celia and Warrik entered. Behind them the door closed.
“My private dining quarters,” Warrik indicated emphatically. “Reserved for more intimate gatherings rather than formal functions.”
The Prince’s idea of intimate was certainly extraordinary if not perplexing, thought Celia. The room was more than two stories high and, by her judgment, large enough to hold four houses from the village. Arranged within were wooden tables long enough to seat perhaps forty in total. On its far wall, like in the council hall from which they came, narrow windows filled with colored glass provided illumination. At this time of day, the early evening light lit the space hospitably. The effect left Celia with a feeling of warmth in the spacious room. Even so, to her the room’s best feature was its quiet, for the moment they entered, the echo of her hooves vanished.
“Wait here, my dear,” he said and bade her sit at the closest of the tables. “I will return shortly, once arrangements are complete.” And with that, he glided towards the doors which seem to magically open as he neared. Once through, they closed swiftly and with a resounding thunk.
Shouting rang out in the hallway. The thickness of the doors did little to disguise Warrik’s voice, although Celia could not discern a single one of his words. Alone for the first time that day, long suppressed fatigue overcame her. First, her eyelids closed and refused to reopen. Then down and down her head sank, gradually finding the support of the not too uncomfortable tabletop. A few moments of rest she promised herself—no more. And presently she was utterly and undeniably asleep.
As with sleep of this nature, the passage of time could not be gauged. Sometime during this rest, the commotion in the hallway ceased, and it was the awareness of silence which roused her. Uneasy about being apprehended dozing, she twisted about to watch the door, expecting Warrik to re-enter. He did not.
Celia sighed. But the brief nap left her momentarily refreshed, and since Warrik had yet to reappear, she began an examination of the sizable room. Quickly it was revealed why the echo of her hooves had disappeared upon entering, for great tapestries decorated the room.
The one to her right covered a good portion of the wall and depicted a scene of griffons in flight over a wooded valley. Rendered in brilliant colors, its makers managed to avoid garishness, instead appearing spirited and bold. Trees were pure green, and the water of the river snaking between them a rich topaz. Above, in the bluest sky imaginable, numerous griffons flew. Singly and in groups, they cavorted amidst billowing clouds of white, having no particular destination or purpose but to revel in their flight.
This idyllic imagery bolstered Celia’s spirits. Was this not the land of griffons she had always imagined? Was that not the very sky in which she flown alongside her father in dreams? Why, if such dreams could become reality, perhaps there was yet hope for her father—and mother. Somehow.
A trifle gladdened, she proceeded to the opposite wall, where another sizable tapestry hung. It appeared much older than the first, for its colors were muted to the point where everything took on a reddish-brown tinge. Portrayed here was a hunting scene. On the left sat a pair of stiffly posed griffons, royalty Celia surmised from the combination of their demeanor and ornaments. Exhibited on the ground before them was the day’s rich bounty. Directly in front, to which one pointed, was a platter heaped high with black-spotted fishes. To its right, braces of plump hares were stacked, and nearby them a multitude of birds. In the center was the prize of the hunt, a stag with hooves bound, hanging inverted from a pole. Three parallel gashes ran along its side.
That deer’s hooves drew Celia’s eyes, and she recalled the graceful trio who’d disturbed her sleep in the forest. They were not so different than the one hanging there… with twisted neck… and open mouth…
Never had Celia taken game. She had fished, of course, but that felt permissible, although she knew not why. Deer and birds were different from fish. Yes, once or twice a scampering rabbit tempted her, and she gave chase but for sport only, letting it escape harried but unharmed. What she did and what they tapestry showed were different—they had to be—although she could not find words which would explain. And even if it was only a picture, and from bygone times, to see a creature much like herself hanging lifeless…
Within her something primal awoke, and it commanded her to flee.
A shudder shook the feeling off. This work was ancient and decayed. Griffons once lived this way long, long ago, Celia reassured herself. Certainly, and in the years since it was created, things would have changed. Celia turned her back on the hunt and looked again upon the perfection of the landscape with its enchanting griffons flying above.
One more tapestry remained, the one hanging beside the doors through which she had entered. There hung the largest and most elaborate of all. Celia approached and sat before it.
In it a multitude of griffons and one-eyed horrors slaughtered each other with abandon. Armed with bow and spear and sword they clashed in a chaotic battle filling the air and covering the ground. Strewn upon the battlefield lay their dead and dying, both griffons and monsters, with arrows lodged in bodies, cleaved heads, or opened sides. Severed limbs lay here and there. And whenever given the opportunity, the artists had not spared crimson to illustrate the carnage.
Yet all was not gore, for in the background Celia saw a city, remote but recognizable, for it as the one she was now within. It hovered aloof, unsullied by the mayhem, and while she tried to focus on it, the savagery below exerted a strange attraction. Inexorably it drew her eyes to those frozen warriors, imprisoned for eternity in mayhem.
Above the fray, and conspicuously larger than any other, a single griffon floated. Golden in color, he hovered, a rampant combatant with eyes aflame and a bright red, curling tongue protruding from his beak. He brandished a sword equal to his height, sprouting flames.
Unexpectedly the door opened, and Prince Warrik entered.
“I am informed dinner shall arrive presently,” his booming voice announced as he strode towards Celia and took a seat beside her. “An exceptional work is it not? It took twenty artists over a year to make—or so I am led to believe.” He glanced sideways at her, adding, “I do not know for certain. It was commissioned when I was quite young.”
“What—is this?” Celia asked.
“Our victory over the Arimaspi,” he replied with pride. “It commemorates the final battle where they were at last driven over the western frontier. That there”—and he pointed—“is my father.” He produced a fleeting, curious laugh. “Why, your father’s father too I suppose. He led our brave warriors to victory. This was the last of the numerous battles they fought to drive these vermin, this pestilence of greed, from our lands.”
“But—” she began plaintively. “What are they fighting over?”
“Gold, of course! Many years ago the Arimaspi appeared in our valleys. Some say they came from across the sea in wooden boats. What we do know is they came in search of gold, and once they learned of our wealth, they set out to plunder our city.” He paused and added with disgust, “Treasure and brutality are all their base minds can comprehend.”
Everywhere in the council hall Celia had seen the griffon’s dazzling richness. To her, they seemed to be in possession of quite a bit of gold. She asked, “Couldn’t you not give them some to make them go away?”
Warrik cast first a glare of confusion which in no time grew to irritation. Then, with another shift in mood, he laughed heartily. “Simple child! Why, they would not have been satisfied until they had all our gold, and then they would have enslaved us to produce even more. Matters such as this, well, they are not easily resolved!”
Too soon Celia’s eyes were a captive of the horrific scene. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You need not worry about such things,” Warrik said. “It is all in the past.” Without delay he glanced over his left shoulder towards a spot high upon the wall. He huffed. Afterward, he rejoined Celia in staring at the artwork. Waiting quietly, and apparently patiently, for a stretch of time, he glanced about and again pointed at the scene. “You know, the one who brought you here, Captain Murron, he was amongst them on that day.”
Without a thought Celia snapped, “He is ugly and heartless.”
“Ha! As for the former, that I grant, although know he was handsome once, before those abominations sought to slaughter him. Not only handsome, brave too. They say not one could match his valor. Always he flew in the van alongside my father. Closer than brothers they were, fighting together in every battle, unto the last. And when the captain fell and the beasts were upon him… Father came to his aid.”
Warrik remained silent for some time, and curious to see why, Celia turned to him. He was looking up, eyes locked with those of the griffon who held the flaming sword.
“Our valleys are filled with storied stones,” he said. “One bears the name of my father.” Then, with hardly a pause, he turned and met her eyes.
“Now,” he began energetically, “as for heartless, when I was even younger than you, I held the same opinion. Understand, he trains the young to be warriors—like himself—should the Arimaspi return, and this mission he carries out with grave efficiency. This is his form of caring, for their lives, all our lives, depend upon his lessons. Do not confuse a stern demeanor with hard-heartedness.”
Before Celia could enumerate the indignities the captain inflicted upon her, a concealed door near the ceiling snapped open, disgorging servants who bore all manner of pitchers and platters.
“Come,” said Warrik. “Let us dine.” And he touched Celia’s shoulder and ushered her towards a table where servants were already arranging the fare and bustling off to fetch more. Celia sat down and from somewhere a servant deftly slipped a golden dish before her. When she turned to look, whoever had placed it there had vanished. On her right sat Warrik, who also had a plate appear before him.
Numerous servants worked in silence from the far side of the table, positioning wares with frantic yet meticulous movements, all the while maintaining bowed heads. Once their task was complete, they darted back to the door as quickly as they had arrived and disappeared. Not once in the entire procedure, Celia realized, had she truly seen a face.
Warrik started placing items on her plate. He named each dish and recited the ingredients which composing it and the spices with which it was prepared. Celia half listened to the descriptions, for once her hunger awoke, she was possessed.
Each mouthful of these delicacies contained a hundred new tastes. Each breath she took brought new, overwhelming aromas. Certainly it was the exceptional nature of this cuisine which produced the frightful effect on her manners. She ate without restraint, devouring each and every morsel placed before her.
Warrik provided her with more and more to consume, all the while talking. And while Celia heard his voice, truthfully she was not listening. Between swallows she heard enough to suppose he was making an apology. At one point he used the word claimants and later said something about birthrights and other such things. Sadly, gluttony held its sway throughout this speech, so never did she stop to ask what all those words meant.
At last Celia became full, as a matter of fact uncomfortably full, and she stopped. A pitcher and goblet were on her left, so she stretched out for the drink in hope that its contents might provide relief. Like everything she sampled at the Prince’s table, the beverage was exquisite, endowed with a silky malt flavor. It went down effortlessly and warmed her insides. She took another generous and pleasing mouthful before Warrik’s grasp stopped her.
“Oh, no. This is far too strong for you, young one,” he cautioned and took it from her. Then, for the briefest of moments, he froze with a keen look directed towards the door. Not finding what he expected, he returned his attention to Celia, saying, “Let us find something better suited.” And finding it, he handed her a different cup.
The replacement lacked the warmth-producing effect of the first, but it boasted a refined sweetness, like fruit and flower combined. This Celia liked quite a bit.
As she drank, Warrik made an abrupt motion in the air, an impatient wave, and the swarm of servants reappeared to clear the meal’s remains. No longer preoccupied with gorging herself, Celia took notice of the plate before Warrik. Curiously it had not seen a scrap of food. The unspeaking servants removed all but the cup Celia held, leaving a table as spotless as before the meal began, and then flew away like bees to a hive.
Warrik rose and marched towards the door, while Celia continued to sip her drink, watching. While she had neither seen nor heard it, a pair of griffons had been admitted, the two standing no more than two steps inside the room. One was small, but a child, who stood alongside an older griffon. Her wing tip rested lightly upon the child’s back.
When the Prince approached, the young one bowed and, with his head scraping the floor, hastily backed from the room. Unexpectedly, Celia found the scene humorous, but she sipped from her cup to stifle a giggle. The doors then shut, silently this time she noticed.
Taking the young griffon’s place, Warrik stood beside the lady griffon, her wingtip now upon his back. He made a remark, inaudible to Celia, and, at a leisurely pace, escorted the new arrival towards her.
As they approached, Celia set aside her cup.
“My dear,” Prince Warrik said. “This is Lady Lodema. She has waited your entire life for you to arrive.”