The Tale of the Hippogriff

by OleGrayMane

Ⅶ - The Lady Lodema

The Lady was much like the court members Celia had observed in the hall. A generous scarf of blue and green encircled her neck, secured by a filigreed brooch of silver and gold. On her approach, she’d walked rigidly, her precise steps matching Warrik’s footfalls, and at all times she held her head high. Certainly she was aged, for the tips of her white crest were tinged the color of beeswax. Of the rest of her appearance, there was little of distinction, that is, beyond her eyes. They were entirely a hazy blue, not unlike a summer afternoon’s sky.

Celia thought her uncle’s introduction of Lodema markedly strange. Regardless, she should greet her, for not to would be impolite. Upon attempting to do so, she was cut off.

“I must touch her, Warrik.” The Prince guided Lodema’s talons to their goal, and without modesty, she stroked Celia’s ruff.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Although a gentle touch, Celia stiffened at this uninvited attention. Each hair of her coat rose like a stream of cold washed over her. And those eyes, so unnerving, transfixed her. Now she grasped their significance: The empty stare proved the old griffon sightless.

“Her plumage, her coat,” Lodema demanded.

Rocking his head to and fro, Warrik weighed a reply. “Some white. Much gray. Given appropriate light one might say she is—silver.”

Lodema loosed a conflicted exclamation of mingled pain and joy. Yet the description must have pleased her, for she delivered a robust pat to Celia’s cheek.

“And your mother, child?”

“Her mother,” Warrik interjected, “is a pony.”

The Lady’s ministrations ceased. Celia felt her withdraw for a second, but no longer.

“Tell me your mother’s coat. What is her coloration?”

“Uh… tan. Well, perhaps browner. What does that—”

“No, wrong. All wrong.” Frustration knitted her brow, and she vigorously shook her head. “No. The color of the… the—”

“Mane?” suggested Warrik.

“Yes, yes, the mane. Tell me the color of her mane.”

Glancing at Warrik, Celia received a reassuring nod, bidding her continue. Thereupon she turned back to face Lodema’s scrutiny.

“My mother’s mane is a reddish brown.”

“Ah!” Lodema tightened her grip, giving a shake on parting. “There. As I’ve always said, Warrik. The copper.”

“Yes, as you’ve said. Still, she possesses my mother’s pendant. That is of greater significance.”

Her patience ran out. In an honest manner Celia said, “You speak in riddles.”

At this the Prince guffawed. “Truly, but such are the pitfalls in conversations with the good Lady.” Then he waggled his head in mild amusement. “And you fledgling. Twice now I beg forgiveness. Only the Captain manages to make me seek that remedy more often than you. Let us begin once more, properly this time.”

With some ceremony, Warrik arranged his wings and limbs, causing himself to appear rather compact. His tail rose and curled forward, forming a graceful spiral at the tip, and then, with a slight tilt of his head, he looked towards Celia with his eyes gleaming.

“My dear Celia, I present to you the Lady Lodema of Waldren.”

“I… I am pleased to meet you.” After bowing, Celia felt foolish as the gesture went unappreciated.

“The Lady is an esteemed member of our house. She cared for your father and I since our births, making her all but our second mother.” Warrik then cocked his head towards the Lady.

“Good Lady, I present to you Celia—daughter of Ahren.”

The elder griffon lowered her head in a slow yet earnest manner. With similar restraint she raised it, uttering nothing.

Quietude held as each waiting for another to speak.

“I am pleased to meet you at last, Celia. Now, my dear, can you tell me how old are you?”

Another puzzling question. To what purpose, Celia wondered and was on the verge of saying it aloud, when Lodema spoke.

“Was it not fifteen springs ago you were born, after the fourth moon?”

Celia’s eyes narrowed, and through overburdened thoughts, she strove to recall. The number of the moon was right, of that she held no doubt. And yes, she supposed, this spring would have been her fifteenth.

“That is what my mother tells me. How is it that you would know?”

“Ah,” exclaimed Lodema. “From the distant day of your birth, I have waited. Now you have arrived to carry out your task.”

“I came to find my father.”

“And so you shall.”

“But—” Celia looked to Warrik, wholly puzzled. “You said he was lost.”

Lodema reached out and, without the slightest error, touched Celia’s cheek. “To all but you.” Inexplicably, those near colorless eyes of hers seemed to sparkle.

Trying to understand this old griffon was beyond futile, thought Celia. She glared at Warrik in exasperation, who appeared, to her dismay, amused.

“I did warn you,” he said impishly, and he rounded the table’s end and settled himself opposite the two. Once situated, he drew a hearty breath. Then, as in the great hall, Warrik’s voice took on an imposing quality.

“My good Lady,” he started, “Celia has had an extraordinarily arduous day. All she desires is to learn of her father, which is why we bid you come. Please, abstain from further mystifications. Provide us with an appropriate account.”

“Yes, M’lord.” The Lady offered a clipped bow and sat. She wound her tail about her feet.

Celia sat as well, but not before noticing Warrik looking distinctly pleased.

“I was not born into this renowned house,” Lodema began with solemnity, “but Bwye, the lowest of the eleven. As fourth daughter, there was no dowry and hence no prospects. So it was my great fortune that when the king was wed, I was our house’s gift to the royal couple.”

Those few words managed to bring about a great many questions in Celia’s mind, but when she moved to ask about houses and dowries and how an individual could be considered a gift, Warrik waved her off.

“The Princess Consort was the most benevolent mistress, for I received an education and many other things despite my station. Though older than she, we grew close, and in turn, I became more sister than servant. I assumed many responsibilities in my lady’s household before her firstborn arrived, and more afterward. Then, when it was not two years after they’d wed, and my little prince himself but a year old, the city was besieged. Fate cast us all into the damnable war with the Arimaspi.”

“Those are the things fighting—in the picture,” said Celia. Her hesitance left the words both a statement and a question.

“Yes,” answered Warrik. “But that is the end, and this is the beginning.”

Lodema nodded. “Correct. And it took an eternity, or so it seemed, until the brutes were driven from the surrounding valleys. In those times, the king was constantly afield, fighting, leaving my mistress to attend to the city’s business. So busy was she, the care of fledgling Prince Ahren became my sole duty, one I shall forever cherish.

“All the court loved the child, and oh, how our king doted on him. The little golden one, as he was called, delighted in the attention. Yet, seldom did father and son see each other and never for long. My Ahren pouted, too young to comprehend the peril his father faced. Harrowing times for all, even for a little prince.

“The king and our warriors battled the avaricious beasts again and again, pushing them farther west each year. By the third summer, anticipation gripped us all. Every report from afar increased our hopes. We sensed victory. And there was more pending joy, for the princess was again with child. With less than a week before Warrik’s birth, the news we’d eagerly awaited arrived. A great battle, a great victory. Its price was our king.”

“I never knew my father, but when we were young, Ahren told me stories,” said Warrik. “His memories were vivid, surprising since he was so young when Father died. Idyllic at times, I thought he’d dreamed them, but the telling gladden him, and in all honesty, truth or fiction, it mattered little to either of us. Still, more than any grasped, the loss of our father wounded him grievously.”

“This was the seed,” Lodema continued. “Darkness grew within him, subtle and pernicious. Yet it went unaddressed, for the young princes were but one problem among many in those tumultuous years. Our damaged city required rebuilding, damaged lives required healing, and the houses were restless again for lack of a leader.

“So it was that the Elder Council meet in private to address the matter. Then, shocking all, the fractious lot acted as one and appointed my lady regent, a great honor with a multitude of duties. Thereafter, managing affairs consumed all her hours, and I was entrusted with the rearing of both princes.”

“As I have discovered,” said Warrik, “the burden of the city is great.” His speech became rapid, insistent. “Understand, she loved us and we her, and she visited as time allowed. On those occasions, she appeared fatigued. Older now, I sympathize. But her presence buoyed my brother, for a while at least. Yet, as he grew, he dwelled on bitter thoughts and slipped into moods at the slightest provocation.”

“’Tis true.” Lodema nodded repeatedly. “A disposition as bright as the day, and then… Always we remained uneasy, knowing change would come. Then Prince Warrik was sent away, and Ahren fared poorly.”

“Sent away?” Celia asked. “To where?”

“In my twelfth year training began. I fell under the tutelage of Captain Murron, for tradition dictates second born is to defend, whilst the first born is to rule.”

It took a moment for Celia to comprehend the implication of his statement. With the hour growing late, there was the distinct possibility she might have misheard. “To rule?”

“Once he came of age,” said Lodema.

“Until then, our mother administrated in his stead,” Warrik explained. “Upon reaching his eighteenth summer, Ahren would become king.”

Celia looked across the table at Warrik, stupefied. Somehow, until spoken aloud, the significance of her father’s birth had eluded her.

Upon seeing the perplexed stare, Warrik swept in and completed her thought. “Yes, my dear—king.”

“Now,” resumed Lodema, “there was little time and much turmoil. To Ahren’s consternation, the tutors and I kept him to his preparations. Oh, how he fought. You’d have thought we sought to pluck every feather from his head.” Lodema chuckled. “Ah! My little golden one. How could I stay mad at you?

“Eventually, the time came, and plans for his investiture were agreed upon. A great celebration was planned, the houses unified, the city reborn. T’was not to be, for early in the year, a fever afflicted many, the Princess Consort among them. All through the spring she ailed. The houses sent healers to attended, but all failed, their medicines only seeming to worsen her. Seizures plagued her, awake or asleep. Just as summer came, my lady was gone.”

“I was not even your age, Celia, so you can imagine how lost I felt without her,” said Warrik. “But the effect on my brother was tenfold. Then, disregarding his grief, the Council accelerated their plans. By the seventh moon, my brother became king.”

“They feared instability,” Lodema added. “Peace amongst the houses is elusive.”

“Eternally elusive,” continued Warrik. “And Ahren’s propensity for rage did not aid the cause of peace. His anger grew unchecked. Longtime allies of Waldren deserted us. Before a year passed, all feared him. In darkened corridors there were whisperings of tyrant.”

“No!” cried Celia. “This can’t be right. That doesn’t sound like my father at all. Mother said he was kind and gentle.”

Despite the interruption, Warrik went on unperturbed. “The Elder Council took it upon themselves to remedy the issue. The ill-thought solution they arrived upon was to secure for him a helpmate, one who’d soothe his temper, provide him with stability.”

Celia tilted her head, attempting to make out what this meant.

“Shameful!” Lodema spat the word loudly. “They arranged for the houses to parade their daughters before him.”

“Is this—” Celia halted and began again. “Is this the way things are—with griffons?”

“Oh, it is not without precedence,” replied Warrik. “You see, in the old times, a council might—”

“Fools! Meddling fools the lot of them!” Lodema’s head shook vigorously.

Warrik’s countenance changed, Celia noted, resembling something akin to restrained delight.

“He rejected every single one—in quite a discourteous manner I must say. Once all were dismissed, it was the Council’s turn to feel his wrath. An epic tirade it is said.”

Lodema took up the story. “Afterward, in this room, we sat with him, first seeking to soothe. Then we struggled to remedy his actions, for you see, offending the great houses, as he’d done, invites peril.”

“Once calmed,” said Warrik, “he readily agreed all those presented were honorable and comely, possessing not a single fault amongst them. Instead, he said, the fault lay in himself.”

“It sickened us to watch.”

“My brother descended into a wretchedness I’d not seen before, loathing his very being. He declared naught could cure his ills.”

Evening was now upon them, and the light through the great windows dwindled. Unprompted, servants bearing candelabras emerged, placing them on nearby tables.

“How it pained me to see him so,” Lodema moaned. “My heart plummeted, a stone sinking into a lake. I’d failed him. I’d failed my mistress. His faults were my own, yet flawed though he be, he was precious. I could not abandon him.” Tears welled in her eyes. Straightaway fervency replaced it, and she waved a talon before her as if dispersing a fog.

Nearby, two servants used tapers set the candles alight, and soon the room took on an opulent golden glow. As the pair worked, they were nonexistent to the Prince and Lodema.

“Yet, although sunk to a nadir of my very own, I found myself capable of seeing his affliction. He’d lost the ones he’d loved, so fear locked away his heart. As a consequence, he considered himself unworthy of love. This left him with anger as his sole servant, with which he sought retribution on the world. Yet he was not without hope, for he knew from his preparations that a monarch must foster harmony, should never sow strife. Thus he was engaged in a war within himself.”

The lamplighters departed, and Celia marveled at the abundance of tremulous flames. More than the gold, or the jewels, or the other finery she’d seen, this to her was luxury. Never had she or her mother lit but one candle at a time. Her brief reverie ended as the Lady’s voice rose in pitch.

“With sudden lucidness I recalled words from an ancient text I’d once read. I told your father he must think of himself as water.”

“Water?” said Celia. “That makes no sense.”

Warrik chuckled. “Similar to your father’s response, but from my memory, he was a tad more confrontational.”

The old griffon’s stern look made it clear she appreciated neither of their remarks.

“Yes, water. And I told him water trapped atop a mountain freezes to ice, cold and hard, lifeless. It must flow, effortless yet effectual, over the land for it to live. It travels through the lowest of places, ever in motion, forever shifting.”

Lodema shook her head. “Ahren scoffed at me, preferring to nurse his sorrow. I pressed on and called upon him to consider water’s intricacies. It moves at the slightest touch, yet it is not weak, for does it not refashion the earth? Has it not the power to cleave living rock? Is it not the force that carries away the mountains?”

“Granted, this talk did engage him,” said Warrik, “but he gave the impression he was befuddled.”

Lodema’s eye took on a passionate shimmer. “But, I pointed out, water is more than strength. Although the rivers preside over the valleys—”
Adding a flourish, Lodema's talons swept through the air, close to Celia's face. She drew back in shock.

“Oh! they never subjugate. They embracing all, nourishing, bringing fertility to the land. Land is water’s love, a devotion given without expectations. It serves, and in doing, so becomes worthy of love. It was then Ahren said he believed he understood, and I was overjoyed when he bade me continue.

“Water journeys onward, streams blending, rivers harmoniously uniting, accumulating the delights and sorrows of life. This is its true strength, its excellence. When at last it transforms into the sea, it does not perish, neither does it come to rest, for its task is never complete. Now water encompasses the land, binds it together, redefining it according to its own ways.”

After heaving a sigh, Warrik summoned a solitary servant with a wave. She drew near, bringing a tray which bore a tall pitcher and cups, which were then filled and placed before all. The servant exited. It took a moment of searching, but Lodema found hers and took a polite sip. Celia did likewise—it was the delicious beverage from before. Warrik downed an entire mouthful.

“The Lady’s edifying discourse had a positive effect upon him, but with his emotions drained, my brother retired, looking somber and pensive. Somewhat relieved, the two of us left and consulted the Captain. With his aid, we parleyed with the Council well into the night.” Warrik drained his cup and planted it upon the table with a dull thud.

“Upon awaking the following day, late I might add, Ahren announced he would vacate, temporarily, going into seclusion. His stated intention was to return before two moons passed, and until his return, the city was to remain in my care. Glad to rid itself of him, if only for a little while, the Council assented. And so he set out that very afternoon.”

“Did he tell anybody where he was going?” Celia asked.

“It is customary,” Lodema, somewhat irked, explained, “to seek out a distant valley where, in solitude, one lives and hunts, observing the ancient customs. It is a private matter. One never inquires.”

“This unfathomable sense, or something, presumably guides you. I doubt he had a specific destination in mind.” Warrik poured himself a refill. “Regardless, two moons came and went, and from wherever he’d gone, he failed to return.”

“Tell me, child, how is it he came across your mother?” asked Lodema. “What was a pony doing in our mountains?”

“Mother has never left our settlement in her life.”

“Then where did they meet?”

“She caught sight of him near a stream not far from our home, on the eastern prairie.”

“Why would he be as distant as the prairie? Was he lost? Injured?”

“No, he was fine. But the winds there are strong and blow for days without end. They grounded him. My mother found him resting, and took him in.”

“Hmm.” Lodema sat in silent contemplation, her head nodding ever so slow. “Still, I remain puzzled as to why he was so distant from home.”

“He told my mother he’d followed the rivers to the sea and was—”

Warrik burst out laughing. “My good Lady!” he cried out and struck the table so hard it threatened to topple the cup before him. “He mistook your metaphor for a map!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Lodema snapped. “He… He had a vision—yes, that’s it!—a vision told him the course he must follow.” She addressed Celia. “Where was he headed when he left your mother?”

“Here. He said he’d go to his city and return for her.”

Lodema turned to Warrik and said with vehemence, “We should have searched outside the mountains.”

“How were we to know?” he replied, his laughter replaced by annoyance. “We looked everywhere that made sense—for two whole moons! How could we know he wasn’t here?”

“Then, he didn’t return?” asked Celia.

“No,” Lodema replied. “We never again saw him. T’was if the land had swallowed him whole.”

Her father never returned, vanishing in the expanse between the mountains and the prairie, but Celia now knew her mother had not been forsaken. And that knowledge comforted her, and she hoped it would comfort her mother too.

“After we called off the search,” Warrik said, “we spent ages with the Council, deciding our course. The dire situation caused by my brother’s presence grew worse by his absence.”

“Arguments old and new ensued between the houses,” added Lodema. “We saw the resurgence of the internecine quarrels.”

“You keep saying houses,” said Celia.

Upon seeing her puzzled expression, Warrik explained. “Yes, of course. So… houses are like—like families. Different too. We are Waldren. Lodema is of Bywe although now a member of our house. The Captain’s born of Kirwan, sworn to Waldren, but serves the city as a whole. Does that help?”

While it did not, Celia listened to the rest of his explanation.

“Not all houses are grand or prosperous, but they are ancient and noble. Long ago, the eleven, four great and seven lesser, gathered together to form the city. Unfortunately, seldom does tranquility reign, for one always attempts to gain advantage over another. Fighting the Arimaspi kept us from warring amongst ourselves, a boon my father understood, or so I’m told. We enjoyed comparative calm following our victory whilst we rebuilt, but my brother’s contentious rule, then his subsequent disappearance, well... there it ended.

“So, when Ahren fail to return, the Council agreed I should continue as regent until he did. However, soon alliances formed against me. What started out as innuendos, implications of complicity in Ahren’s disappearance, developed into accusations of murder and usurpation.

“As young as you, I was decidedly unprepared, so I enlisted the aid of those I could depend on. The estimable Captain Murron assembled many who fought beside Father, distinguished warriors whose loyalty extended beyond their own house. With their assistance order was restored—with minimal bloodshed.”

In Celia’s mind an image formed, one unwelcome. Vivid elements from the tapestry rushed forward: the fearful eyes of the dying, the hollow stares of the dead. She dared not inquire as to what amount of bloodshed Warrik might consider minimal.

Lodema sighed. “We’d exhausted all logic, leaving…” She shifted, as if uncomfortable from remaining seated too long. “Older methods.”

“Older?” asked Celia.

“Quite ancient. Misunderstood. T’was an area which my upbringing gave me some acquaintance though never was it practiced in my house. Therefore, I sought one I was familiar with, an initiate of the esoteric, a seer, a practitioner of forgotten arts.

“By her own accord, she lived in a valley removed from the city, alone. On arrival, she advised me I need not instruct her. I’d been expected, my request known. As for that, although patience was needed, success was inevitable she assured, adding a single stipulation: On provision of an answer, payment was due.

“Eagerly I assented to this unspoken price, and thus our wicked bargain was struck. However, the time was not yet right, and she dismissed me, instructing me to come back at nightfall on the coming of the full moon.

“On the appointed day I joined her as she engaged in her art. A bowl crafted of silver was produced. She filled it with rainwater, adding drops of what she claimed was a sacred oil. In a tongue unfamiliar the seer mumbled while gazing at the moon’s reflection upon the water. Under five different moons I was present at this ritual. Each yielded nothing. Notwithstanding, my resolve did not waver, for I’d have my Ahren back regardless of time or cost.” She stopped and cleared her throat.
The manner in which Lodema held her head puzzled Celia. It appeared her pale blue eyes hunted for something in the darkness above, something she could never see. And what a startling contrast to her uncle who sat, slouching, across from her. He was rotating his cup at its base and looking askance towards the hunting tapestry. With only the candlelight, Celia knew he too was incapable of seeing where he looked.

“When I went back for the sixth time, in all frankness, I anticipated little more than what had occurred before. On that night the hours crawled past as they always did, then, without apparent cause, the seer collapsed in a prophetic frenzy, her guttural cries intermixed with spasms. At last she lay still. Dead, I feared, and the answer gone, Ahren forever lost. With eyelids fluttering, she drifted between this realm and another. Alive! So I pleaded for my answer. While barely conscious, she uttered:

A copper hammer

  In golden claw

Forge a silver key

  To free them all

“Enraged by such inscrutability, I shook her, demanding she reveal where the king could be found. In darkness, she mumbled, in darkness, and I cast her down in disgust. Soon enough though, the seer recovered her strength, although she remained upon the ground. Her raspy voice said the answer had been provided. Forthwith its price must be paid. She gave no opportunity to quarrel, and reaching up, she touched me and extracted her payment.

“And the full moon’s light, cast back from her ruthless eyes, was the last mine own beheld.”

Warrik dispatched the awkward stillness by first exhaling and then remarking, “Well, then—”

Instantly, Lodema became enlivened, her face radiating delight. “Soon, all things will be made right. You are here, and Ahren will be returned.”

“But how? He’s lost.” Celia pointed towards Warrik. “He said so.”

“Patience,” he began and concluded with a deep breath. “Lodema, explain your… beliefs, your interpretation.”

“Of course. I’d much time to ponder her answer, the riddle given me on that night. Simplicity really, once I divined the meaning of its parts. Do you not see it? It was the fourth moon of the year. It was you she foresaw, Celia, your coming, your imminent birth. And she was aware you would come to us. Celia, you’re the silver key. You’re the one who will find your father.”

“What? How can I do what an entire city couldn’t?”

“Because you are the lodestone that will lead us to him.”

“But—” Celia glanced back and forth between them. “I couldn’t even find the city.”

“Possibly,” Lodema spoke slowly in well-chosen words, “because it was not the city you sought. Think, child. Did you not feel guided, drawn in a way you cannot explain?”

“I…” Celia stumbled over agitated thoughts. Was this true? The Captain, he’d said she was headed towards the city at first. Then she traveled westward. No, impossible. She wasn’t drawn, but lost. Wasn’t she? If there was but the slimmest possibility Lodema was right—

With vanished hope restored, her heart blossomed anew. The idea seemed incredible, but Lodema thought it so. And Warrik would not have brought the old griffon here unless he did too, right?

“We do not ask you to find him on your own,” Warrik said.

Yes, he also must believe. And she’d been convinced of it when she set out from home. Home! And she recalled her mother and imagined the joy of her mother and her father reunited. They would be a family, living here in the city. Was this not what she dreamed on uncounted nights?

Why, if all this was true—

“I must return home,” Celia stammered. “My mother… She is… ill, brokenhearted from missing him. And the ponies of the village… Mother must learn what’s happened. She needs to hear it. I must bring her to the city so—”

“Ridiculous,” scoffed Lodema.

Dumfounded, Celia took a moment to respond. “What?”

“My dear,” Warrik said, “what you ask is not possible.”

“Why not?”

Reticent, he remained frozen with his beak open.

“Ponies are lawful prey,” Lodema blurted. “Prey within the walls—it would be sacrilege.”

Warrik rushed into the stillness which ensued. “These are our ways, Celia, our nature—”

“You don’t understand. Mother has endured too much. She is in terrible pain. I fear for her. Without Ahren, she has nothing, no hope. The ponies have cast her out because of him—because of me! She loves him. She needs to be with him, otherwise—”

“It doesn’t matter,” grumbled Lodema. “She is a pony. Impermissible.”

“But he promised her they’d be together. He promised to come back for her. It’s why I came—to bring him back for her. We’d be together, a family.”

“These things are part of our being. They cannot be altered,” said Warrik. “Coming here would mean her life, child.”

Images from the hunting scene flew through her mind: the deer’s hooves, the gashes in its side, its twisted head. Griffons hadn’t changed at all. But one had—he must have.

“Ahren didn’t see my mother as prey. How is it he didn’t kill her?”

“Such is the inexplicable nature of fate,” replied Lodema, and she stretched upward, shaking, grasping at the intangible. “It is beyond the ken of mortals, never to be understood.”

“No, you’re wrong. They loved each other. Love changed them both. I understand that!”

Lodema’s reaction was swift and sharp. “You are not equipped to understand. Capricious fate dictates this matter. Only fate can account for the impossible such as yourself. You, your mother, are but its instruments.”

“No!”

Lodema stood, the feathers of her ruff rising, while her tail slashed through the air like a whip. Her tone was strident. “Are you a wandering leaf blown to our door? No! Fate sends you here. You must carry out your destiny. You must return our king. Is this not your stated purpose?”

In an instant, Warrik was up, hastening to the opposite side of the table.

A mechanism? Nothing more than that? So this is how the griffons saw her. Celia realized the implications. They’d discard her mother, for her role was finished, and when Ahren was found, they discard her too. She refused to be a victim of their fate.

“I’m here for my mother, not for you or any other reason.”

“Foolish child!” spat Lodema, and her wings puffed out, grazing the table’s edge. “What is one pony compared to thousands of griffons?”

Anger built within her, and Celia found herself standing. Her wings, like Lodema’s, had left her side. Every hair of her coat, all her feathers, felt as if they’d come alive.

Griffons were horrible. Once she’d imagined their city flawless, a place where she and her mother and father could live in peace. An illusionary refuge, she realized, dream to hide within. Neither pony village nor griffon city could be her home—or Mother’s. Never! They didn’t understand love. None of them understood compassion. Celia held her head high.

“I will not find him.”

“Fledgling, please.” Now at her side, Warrik tried placing his wing around her. Celia deflected it.

“I will not find him!”

“Such effrontery,” Lodema blared. “It is your obligation, the reason for your being. You cannot refuse!”

“If I find him, it would be for my mother.” Celia shook her head. “Never for you.”

“Don’t trifle with me, you rebellious child!” Lodema moved a half step closer. Her wings flared.

“Heartless witch!”

“Misbegotten wretch!” She lifted up a talon. “I’ll—”

Celia’s heart raced. Although she did not recollect doing so, she too had a talon raised. It hung, eager to strike as an urge to claw and bite sought to possess her. And she might have done so, had the old griffon not remained statue still for what seemed a long time.

Then Lodema’s wings retreated, pulled secure against her sides. Those haunting eyes of hers were sealed fast. Her head sank until the entirety of her face was hidden in feathers.

Beside her stood Warrik, wide-eyed, grasping Lodema at the nape of her neck. The tips of his claws slipped through feathers and settled on her skin, no harsher than required to make clear his displeasure.

“Lady Lodema.” The timbre of his voice caused both her and Celia to quake. “Take care lest you forget yourself. Is it not by your own declaration you address our sovereign’s daughter?”

“My lord,” she whispered.

“Of this, I remain of half a mind to pursue the Council’s endorsement of the fact. We would find it an entertaining conversation with their eminences, yes? Then, once convinced, perhaps Celia would be your new mistress.”

Fierce a moment ago, prepared to attack, Lodema now appeared humble and defenseless.

“My lord, I implore forgiveness.”

“And you…” With a thump, Warrik applied the same subduing grip to Celia.

The effect was instantaneous. A chill raced across her skin. Her wings sought safety at her side. Every ruffled feather flattened, every raised hair smoothed. Whatever magic this grip of his possessed, Celia resisted as best she could. Unlike the cowed Lodema, her head remained upright. Her eyes bored into Warrik’s.

Her glare brought no reproach, it prompted not one harsh word from him, only a chuckle.

“My, my. Such enmity. You are his daughter, aren’t you? I fear this proves your pedigree as much as prophecy or pendant, for he’s gifted you with our family’s fire. Never lose it, child, yet remember, it is a powerful instrument. Learn to use wisely.” Then Warrik shook his head, and his voice grew deeper and wholly emphatic.

“Churlishness does not befit members of our house. Undoubtedly the day’s events have overwhelmed you. You are tired. We shall attribute your ill manners to exhaustion. Please—redeem yourself. Apologize to the good Lady.”

Apologize? The so-called lady—all the griffons—were heartless, terrible creatures. Callous beasts caring not for her mother. She hated them.

Her mother’s words came back to her. When Celia was young and angry, she’d said she hated the ponies. Mother told her she must not, for to do so, she would hate herself. Now she thought to hate griffons, when the same, she supposed, would apply to them. This she’d have to think about. Then there were the words she’d spoken. Mother wouldn’t have approved of those either.

Warrik’s grip tightened, for she had remained silent too long.

“I apologize.” But Lodema failed to acknowledge her.

Pleased with the imposed truce, and himself, Warrik nodded sagely and released them both.

“Now, my fiery niece, know that circumstance presents us with tasks for reasons we cannot comprehend, obligations for which we are unprepared, ones we fear we cannot accomplish. This I know too well.

“We must accept these things, for the world cares not for our fears or our desires, neither does it seek our understanding. And thus we find ourselves in places improbable, asked to do things unimagined, as you are now. If you like, call it fate as Lodema does.”

And what of old, blind Lodema? To her, Celia directed a baleful look. Well, Lodema had suffered. But Mother had suffered too, and this Celia vowed she’d never let any of them forget. And the way she’d talked about Ahren, what she’d sacrificed to find him. She did appear to care. No amount of sacrifice or caring could compare to her mother’s love for him. Still, it was sad to see her hunched over like she was, looking pitiful.

Warrik spoke, and she redirected her glare.

“Whatever you choose to call it, you have a task. So I ask you now, take up the search for your father. Of course, this task is not yours alone. We shall assist you as you assist us. But without you, all of us have nothing. Think—do not be obstinate. Do we not share the same goal?”

“But my mother—”

“Ah! Your mother. A conundrum, without a doubt. To her we owe a debt, one which shall be difficult to repay. For the moment, all I will say is she shall not be forgotten.”

“If she can’t come here, then—”

“An issue to be resolved. In the future, my dear. First, let us find your father. And once found, I offer this solemn pledge: Whatever he decides, we shall yield to his wishes, for he is king.”

This gave her pause. Yes, but was Warrik trustworthy? And after so many years, what would her father do? She had no answers.

“Now Celia, daughter of Ahren, will you listen to our proposal?”

Did a choice even exist? Suppose, as Lodema thought, she and her mother were no more than cogs in fate’s mill. It didn’t lessen Mother’s pain. It didn’t alter the family Celia wanted. Perhaps fate was little more than the lack of options.

Her stony gaze remained fixed on Warrik, for she held great doubt. He had too many moods, this prince, and an uncertain temper. Right now, he projected assurance and earnestness, but how often had he flashed like lightning only to transform into a teasing breeze? Trusting him was like flying into a storm.

What frustration to come so far and have the goal remain so distant! Yesterday, disheartened, she’d been in tears, and regardless of the events since, nothing had changed. And like then, her resolve remained. She wouldn’t fail her mother—nor her father.

Her refusal, she realized, had been shortsighted, childish. Her futile search for the city proved she’d never find her father by herself. Warrik offered help. So there was but one choice, and she must brave it. She’d place her trust in Prince Warrik and her hope in the beliefs of Lady Lodema.

“I will listen,” she said.

Comments

[Thought Prism]

The themes here are becoming more and more poignant with each new chapter.

[Frustration in Excelsis]

Those haunting eyes of her’s

Should be "hers".

[ponygrad]

I really like Warricks' personality and how Celia can't quite tell what is really him, his kingly visage, or his moods or temper. It makes it very interesting trying to figure out what he's really planning.