Royal Griffon Ch.1

Autumn had come to Ronteele. A sharp chill had descended some weeks ago, transforming the city overnight. Trees had begun to change their colours, erupting into brilliant hues of red, orange, yellow, silver, purple, and turquoise. Others, those species attuned to the cold, or otherwise magically insulated, bloomed in a matching rainbow of colours, preparing to take the place of their warm season counterparts.

All left the air smelling rich and earthy, rot and rebirth mingled in perfect balance with one another. A pleasant scent, luring out many to take advantage of the fresh air before winter fully took hold. Or at least those who were able to handle the chill did, cold-blooded souls instead settling in for hibernation. Much like the trees, they were replaced by their opposites, those who had hidden away from the summer heat emerging to rejoin the world.

Above, the winds carried in things just as numerous and varied. Great vessels of air and aether, seeking port for rest and repair, some mooring for the winter, others readying to set off on grand adventures. Next to them congregated swarms of living creatures, from tiny wisps to mighty wyverns and everything in between. Sentient storms roiled about the margins, seeking respite as they warmed, bringing biting winds and early snows to whatever lay beneath them. They would be gone soon, used up or set off to higher skies where they could continue their endless journeys anew.

The city itself was likewise taken with the spirit of the season. Decorations for dozens of different holidays covered the landscape, changing from street to street in celebration of all manner of things. Turn one way and you would find icons of bountiful harvest, resplendent with lush crops and heaping banquets. Turn another and you’d enter a street overrun by gourds with faces carved into them, glowing bright with a multitude of lights. Hold straight ahead and you’d find an entire mob digging a hole in the earth, onlookers throwing in scraps of paper and twisted ribbons as they prayed for good fortune in the coming year.

Even Greytower, the most miserly of killjoys, indulged. Or at least it was trying to. The gardening bots had been instructed to maintain the grounds to appear seasonal, as they would have appeared this time of year before the Resurgence. That meant changing leaves, wilting lawns, and regular morning frosts as the persistent chill was allowed in through the wards. A nice change on the surface, though one that Nicholas Greytower had grown to despise.

He’d had a sinking feeling the second Master Orlin had told him lessons were cancelled for the day. Sure enough, rather than a break, he’d instead been handed a rake and told that the lawn needed tidying. It had taken great restraint by the young techne not to complain openly, instead contenting himself with muttering under his breath as he tromped outside. He’d regretted this restraint the second he’d touched the grass, flashing back to a similar scene in his life. He’d been inside then, holding a broom instead of a rake, and surrounded by dust rather than a sea of dead leaves, but it was nonetheless painfully familiar.

“Wheeeeeeeeeeee!”

Zephyr came flying out of the trees, diving into a leaf pile Nic had just finished raking up. It burst apart in a flurry of wind and glee, scattering most of Nic’s will to live along with it. Only a glowing blue sphere remained once all the carnage had settled, bobbing back and forth excitedly.

“Again! Again!” it called, unmoved by Nic’s glare.

“Could you at least go for the ones I didn’t just finish?” Nic asked. “Make it a bit less on the nose.”

“A-kay,” Zephyr said.

Nic immediately realized his mistake but was too slow to correct it as the little sprite darted away. In a single smooth motion, the sphere pierced through the three additional piles that Nic had raked up but not yet bagged for disposal. They scattered as the first had, coating the ground with a thin layer of the next two hours of Nic’s life. Zephyr didn’t seem to notice as he floated back over to the young techne, like a loyal puppy that had just finished destroying something expensive.

“That was a good idea!” Zephyr exclaimed. “Way more fun!

“Why are you like this?” Nic asked.

“Like what?”

Nic swung the rake up from the ground, throwing a handful of leaves in Zephyr’s general direction. It caught them both by surprise when the attack connected, Zephyr sputtering despite a complete lack of anything that could be called a mouth. He retaliated immediately, summoning a mighty gust to deliver half a tree’s worth of dead leaves directly to Nic’s face.

“I win!” Zephyr said.

“Yeah,” Nic said, spitting out tiny pieces that had found their way into his mouth. “That’s definitely-”

He was cut off as something cold brushed the back of his neck. Nic yelped, instinctively swiping at what he expected to be a bug or Zephyr somehow launching a surprise attack.

What he found instead was a feather. Very clearly not a natural one for a bunch of reasons: the fact it was bright, almost neon purple, that it was over a foot long, and that it held perfectly still in bold defiance of both wind and gravity.

Nic consciously didn’t reach out to touch it, instead lifting his rake and catching it on the upturned tines. It happily settled down against the metal with no obviously unhealthy effects. Nic still remained cautious as he pulled it in for a better look.

Up close it became even more obviously magical. While the bristles looked normal, the spine was very clearly not, being made of a pale metal that caught the light in strange ways. Curious, Nic tossed the feather back into the air and it stayed there, floating under its own power.

“Ooh, fun thing!?” Zephyr said, blasting back onto the scene.

“Hey careful!” Nic cried as Zephyr’s mere presence was enough to send the thing spiraling away. He gave chase, eventually managing to get it back on the rake. This time the other side was flipped up, revealing words inscribed in the colouring of the bristles. Though difficult to parse, both from the medium and the fact the words were written in fancy, flowing script, Nic was eventually able to make them out.

Sir Orlin. Freehold Greytower.

Nic did a double take at the words, leaning closer to make sure he was reading them correctly. Sir Orlin? That was a new one. The elder techne usually went by the master moniker, though technically he was a lord. Sir though, that Nic had never heard before. Nor had he ever heard Greytower referred to as a freehold. It was a hold but under Ronteele’s direct governance, subject to all its laws and protections. Not free anything.

“Whatchu got?” Zephyr asked, zipping around.

“Don’t know,” Nic said. “Something for Master Orlin I think.”

“Oh.” Zephyr paused. “Can I eat it?”

“What? No!” Nic said, pulling the feather away from the little sprite. “You don’t even eat.”

“Maybe I want to try!” Zephyr said indignantly.

“You’d fail.”

“Says you!”

Nic rolled his eyes and turned to head inside, Zephyr trailing along in his wake. It wasn’t a long walk, none of the grounds being that far out from the base of the tower. The wards admitted him with only a light challenge, so used to his presence that the back of Nic’s neck barely even tingled when he passed through them anymore. He climbed the steps, taking them one at a time just to take that little bit longer. Curious as he was, no reason not to use the free excuse to delay returning to work.

Reaching the third floor, Nic waved his hand in front of the control pad and the door to the main workshop slid open. Master Orlin was inside, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the large circular window. He stood before a terminal next to the casting grid, manipulating a cluster of hovering lights into complex geometric patterns that Nic couldn’t follow.

“Yes Nicholas?” Orlin asked, not looking up from his work.

“Uh, sorry to bother you master but, I think this is for you.”

He held up the rake, presenting the feather to his teacher. Orlin glanced over, letting out a long breath through his nose at the sight of it. Tapping a final command, the lights stilled, arranging themselves into two neat lines, trembling slightly against whatever spell held them in place.

“It fell from the sky, I presume?” Orlin asked.

“Yeah, dropped right down where I was raking. I didn’t want to touch it in case…”

Nic trailed off as Orlin grabbed the feather without a second thought, holding it up to examine the writing. He sheepishly pulled the rake back as Orlin’s expression turned from pensive to comprehending, with just a slight edge of annoyance.

“Zephyr,” Orlin called out.

“Ya-hum?”

Orlin held up the feather. “If you would.”

“Can I keep it?”

“After you’ve read it.”

Zephyr did a lap of the room, paying special mind to pass close to Nic, a smug aura radiating off him. Nic only took a half-hearted swipe at him, more out of principle than anything else.

Eventually, under Orlin’s unamused glare, Zephyr returned to the elder techne, swiping the offered feather in a conjured cyclone. He held it up, modulating the winds somehow to make the bristles wave individually. It produced strange whistling sounds, distinct notes that sounded off key at first until Zephyr managed to get the flow right. Once he had, it began to play a melody. A short, distinct loop that reminded Nic of birdsong.

Orlin stood nearby, typing into one of his holographic screens as he let the song play several times. Eventually he made a slicing gesture across his throat and Zephyr slowed the winds back to a gentle draft.

“Good, good?” the little sprite asked hopefully.

Orlin pressed on his screen, a recording of the song beginning to issue forth from unseen speakers. He listened to it fully, ensuring he’d captured the entire thing cleanly, then nodded.

“Good.”

Zephyr squealed with glee, vanishing through an open vent as he swung the feather around like a child pretending a stick was their mighty blade. Nic watched him go, glad that the noise had finally departed, before turning back to his master.

“What is that?” Nic asked.

“An invitation,” Orlin said.

“To what, a bird’s nest?”

“Of a kind.”

Orlin pressed another button, the song beginning to play again, only for it to be quickly drowned out by a computerized translation.

“His Grace Zulathon of Harakin Aerie doth summon his vassals to the hatching of His heir apparent in three weeks hence. All loyal retainers should sing their understanding to the winds. Guests encouraged to witness this glorious occasion.”

Nic blinked, processing what he had just heard. Even through the synthesized voice, he could hear the fancy tone underpinning the words. A paper equivalent would have things like flowing handwriting and expensive inks, trimmed and decorated to be as much a work of art as an invitation. Though Nic wasn’t completely convinced it was that; the wording having a distinctly demanding tone rather than a requesting one.

“Who’s Zulathon?” Nic asked.

“A friend,” Orlin said, putting undue weight on the second word. “The Hierarch of Harakin griffon flock.”

Nic’s eyebrows shot up at that. He’d known that griffons lived within Ronteele’s walls, but he’d never met one in person. From what he understood, they tended to keep to themselves in the skies above the city. That Orlin not only knew one, but the leader of an entire flock, had many interesting implications.

“Are you going?” Nic asked.

“We are going,” Orlin said, tapping several more commands into his screens. One of his robotic familiars emerged from his robes, hovering a moment as it beeped several times with notes not unlike the song. Orlin waved it away, the bot flying out a window and vanishing into the sky. 

“What, you want to show me off again?” Nic asked, meaning it as a joke.

“It would not be appreciated if I didn’t,” Orlin said, dead serious.

Nic didn’t know what to say to that but was spared the need to figure it out by Orlin returning to his work at the grid. “Well, back to your chores Nicolas. I’d like the lawn cleared before dinner.”

*

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