Royal Griffon Ch.7

Isabella Hemlock was bored.

She was not surprised by this, most formal parties lost their lustre quickly, but she’d been hoping that Nic’s presence might help alleviate that inevitability. His appearance had been a welcome surprise and watching him stumble his way through introductions with the Hierarch had been hilarious. It was always a good day when he was around.

But of course, he’d just had to up and vanish on her. After escaping the excessively dull conversation with Lord Juka, she’d gone to meet up with Nic at the Urd Tree, only to discover he wasn’t there. She’d texted him a dozen times, but he hadn’t answered once, not even when she’d called directly. With no other options, she’d reluctantly returned to the main hall, familiar boredom creeping back in soon after.

“Quite the happening soiree, isn’t it?”

Boredom and annoyance. Arthur had wasted little time sidling back into her orbit, his loud presence intruding like a bad smell.

“It has its charms,” Isabella said, pointedly turning away. Arthur didn’t take the hint.

“Tell you what though, not sure what all the fuss is about. It’s not like the big bird is in any danger of losing his chair.”

“I wouldn’t pretend to know.”

She wasn’t technically lying, since she didn’t have to pretend. Her father had ensured she had a working knowledge of griffon affairs before she’d been sent in his stead. Arthur was right in the sense that Zulathon’s position was about as solid as stone. His claim to rule was strong through his mother, forming the bedrock of a long campaign of diplomacy and minor military action to bring the disparate flocks of Ronteele together under the Harakin banner. The Hierarch was indeed in as strong a position as he could ever hope to be.

Yet, as Arthur seemed so willfully unaware, even the best position was not necessarily infallible. Being good at the game just meant you became the goal for anyone else who wanted to try their hand at playing. And no matter how masterful you were, there was always the chance someone else was better. Or would just get lucky.

That was the point of this whole song and dance. Zulathon was taking the opportunity to show off, to remind everyone who was boss. And that he now had someone to take his place if anyone tried something funny.

“Stuffy old bird could have at least sprung for decent food,” Arthur said.

Isabella had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. She was working on the beginnings of an excuse to ditch him when she noticed an armsman enter the hall. He wasn’t one of the honour guard, his uniform being notably less opulent than the others scattered around the room. He moved quickly, the gait of a man trying his best to move fast without running.

He moved straight for the Seneschal, leaning down to whisper in his ear. With every word, the goblin’s expression grew progressively more worried, looking downright distraught by the end. He hissed several quick words in reply, the guard nodding at whatever had been said before speed walking his way back out of the room.

“Am I boring you?” Arthur asked. Apparently, he’d been talking the entire time.

“Of course not,” Isabella said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She didn’t give him time to respond, threading her way through the crowd towards the throne, Arthur following like a confused puppy. Isabella ignored him, keeping her attention focused on what was happening at the head of the room.

The Seneschal had approached his liege, using magic to float up level with the Hierarch’s ear. Master Orlin and Lord Worthington were still seated next to him, the latter elbowing the former to get his attention. They both watched as the Seneschal spoke to Zulathon, both in turn growing worried as the griffon quickly became visibly agitated. Isabella only just managed to get into earshot as the Seneschal hovered back down to the floor.

“Your grace?” Worthington said. “Is something the matter?”

Zulathon said nothing, instead rising from his cushioned plinth, an act that triggered an instant stir for the crowd. The Hierarch ignored them, turning away to stride through a door behind his throne. Orlin and Worthington moved to follow, leaving the Seneschal to run interference on the people who moved to do the same.

“Everything is fine, Lords and Ladies,” the goblin insisted, managing to look mostly convincing. “His Grace’s attention is briefly required elsewhere. Please continue to avail yourself of our hospitality. Thank you.”

This seemed to satisfy most, though the dull mutter running through the crowd indicated a fresh crop of gossip was already beginning to ripen. Isabella ignored them and continued to follow the Hierarch, only to be intercepted by the Seneschal directly.

“Please my lady, we ask that you remain here. There is nothing you need worry yourself over.”

“I understand,” she said, composing herself to perfect diplomacy. “However, I must speak with Sir Orlin presently. It’s urgent.”

“I’ll be happy to pass along your words if you-”

“She also needs to speak to Lord Worthington,” Arthur interrupted, appearing from nowhere. “As do I.”

The Seneschal looked ready to deliver the same spiel, only to meet a truly immovable expression from Arthur. He had a talent for making it look as if the world were about to end if he didn’t get his way.

“Yes, of course,” Isabella said. “Very urgent we speak to them both.”

“Lady Hemlock, I’m afraid-”

“I’ll be sure to let my father know you felt the need to delay us,” Arthur continued. “He’ll be thrilled at your interrupting Worthington business.”

The Seneschal sputtered, genuinely overwhelmed for the first time since Isabella had met him. It only grew worse as another gang of onlookers started getting a bit too pushy without him there to push back. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he gestured for one of the honor guards, the man snapping promptly to attention.

“Escort these two to Lord Worthington,” the Seneschal said in a sharp tone. “Do not let them out of your sight!”

The man nodded, though had to sprint to catch up as Isabella and Arthur strode towards the door Zulathon had vanished through. He eventually overtook them, properly leading the way through the halls. They were much busier now then when Isabella had gone upstairs, guards now populating seemingly every corner. They weren’t for show either, forgoing their ceremonial spears for far more practical long guns, axes, swords and a variety of ward projectors. These were combat troops, ready to start and finish any fight at a moment’s notice.

Eventually, their little party arrived at what was very clearly the heart of the crisis. A large room set far off the main concourse, the kind of place that was difficult to stumble across by accident. Even more people were gathered here, including Lord Worthington, who was speaking with a woman in a household uniform. She was in a state, her hands trembling and voice quavering whenever she spoke.

“And you didn’t see anyone leaving the room before you?” asked Worthington.

“No, milord,” the woman said. “Room was just like that when I found it. Didn’t see nothing in the hall.”

Worthington nodded his understanding, patting the woman on the shoulder before noticing the two of them approaching.

“Snuck past the busybody did you?” he asked, his face notably missing its signature grin.

“What’s going on father?” Arthur asked, beating Isabella to the punch.

“Trouble,” Worthington said. “Someone’s absconded with the heir.”

Both Isabella and Arthur’s eyes went wide at that remark, even the latter grasping the immediate gravity of the situation. Lord Worthington nodded his agreement, gesturing for them to follow as he turned to enter the chamber.

They strode together into a nursery, the air raising several degrees as they passed the threshold. The place was a mess, as if someone had set raging stone elementals loose inside. Cupboards had been thrown open and their contents scattered across the floor, furniture flipped over and torn open, some of it smashed to splinters. Even chunks of the wall had been torn away in places, exposing the circuitry and pipework hidden beneath.

Central to it all was the remains of the heir’s incubator, sitting inside a niche in the far wall. The viewing window had been shattered from the outside, glass shards laying atop the velvet pillow within.

Zulathon stood before the machine, his iron gaze fixed intently on the empty space. Orlin stood at his shoulder, trying and failing to get the Hierarch’s attention. He turned as they entered, briefly pausing on Isabella and Arthur, but moved on without comment to address Worthington.

“Anything?” he asked.

Worthington shook his head. “The maid didn’t see what happened and I believe her.” He gestured at the room. “I doubt one person could have done this in five minutes unassisted. And magic that strong would have tripped an alarm.”

Orlin exhaled sharply, that clearly not having been the answer he wanted to hear.

“Your Grace,” he said, turning back to Zulathon. “Might I suggest we step outside so the drones can survey the scene. We need to-”

He stopped as Zulathon turned around, far faster than a creature his size should have been able to, sending everyone scattering away.

“Lock down the spire,” he commanded the nearest armsman. “Nothing in, nothing out, no exceptions.”

The armsman saluted and sprinted from the room. Orlin tried again to speak.

“Your Grace, I think this calls for a-”

Zulathon rounded on Orlin, his eyes like steel, his expression a raging storm.

“My heir has been taken, Sir Greytower,” he said, his voice like splintered iron. “I will not rest until they are found.”

He reared back, addressing the room at large.

“Hear me now! Search this place from top to bottom! Interrogate everyone who cannot be accounted for!”

There was a chorus of agreeing sounds, but the Hierarch was not done.

“And a boon to the one who brings me the monsters that have taken my blood this day! Dead or alive, I care not!”

His closing words were accompanied by a crunch
as his claws crushed the floor tiles in their grip. They sheared through in several places, the eviscerated pieces falling to the floor with a clatter. This time the agreeing sounds were much more motivated, every guard leaping to look busy and be somewhere else. Zulathon, satisfied his commands had been received, strode from the room, his voice growling orders at anyone he passed along the way. Orlin followed, trying and failing to make himself heard over the din of people and angry growling. Isabella watched them go, Arthur and Lord Worthington standing nearby.

“Well,” Worthington said. “I’d say this day has taken a turn, hasn’t it?”

“What now, father?” Arthur asked.

A shadow of his grin returned to Worthington’s face as he turned to face the two young techne.

“Now we make ourselves useful.” He pointed at Isabella. “Miss Hemlock, you stay here and see what you can find out. Never know what clues were left behind.”

“Of course, Lord Worthington,” she said, grateful for the free excuse to remain. She needed information and, at least for the moment, this was the place to get it.

“Excellent,” Worthington said, turning on his heel. “Come Arthur, let’s see if we can’t start working the crowd.”

“Coming father,” Arthur said, moving to follow him out the door, though not before pausing to waggle his eyebrows at Isabella. “Maybe this will be fun after all.”

She said nothing, not wishing to encourage him to speak further. He blessedly didn’t, instead trailing after his father and leaving Isabella alone to take stock of the situation.

Not that it was all that complicated. Someone it seemed had called Zulathon’s bluff and made a move against. Worse, any competent plan would have accounted for the kidnapping being discovered. There was a very good chance the egg was already gone from the Aerie, on its way to who knew where, likely to be held hostage while this little power play unfolded. Depending on who was behind this, there was a very real chance this could spiral quickly into a succession crisis, if not a full-scale war.

As she considered her options, Isabella’s thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing. She glanced at the ID through her eyepiece, more relieved than she should have been to see that it was Nic.

“There you are,” she said, answering the call.

“Oh, thank gods,” Nic said, his voice quiet. “I was afraid you wouldn’t pick up.”

“Why wouldn’t I pick up? Where are you?”

“That’s…” He paused. “A long story.”

“Well tell me later and get back to the main hall. Bad things are happening.”

“Yeah, I know.

“…What do you mean you know?”

“Um…”

Isabella narrowed her eyes, trying to stare him down through the phone and speaking her next question very, very clearly.

“Nic, what did you do?”

*

Elsewhere, Nic glanced down at the egg sitting at his feet. He swallowed heavily, voice turning giddy with barely restrained panic.     

“So, about that long story…”

*

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