Royal Griffon Ch.18

It took time to explain everything. Partly because there was a lot to explain, mostly because people kept interrupting Nic with questions. Guards wanting to know specific faces, attendants demanding absurdly specific details about everything. Nic quickly put together that they were chroniclers, historians wanting to get the events down while they were still fresh.

Isabella was helpful in dealing with them. Like always, she knew exactly the words to either satisfy their questions or to make them shush while Nic continued. Orlin piped up as well, as did Lord Worthington to Nic’s great surprise, both techne offering assurances of his good character and honesty. Even Arthur made himself useful by standing off to the side and saying nothing, still nursing his swollen lip. Nic chose to take mercy on him and skimmed over his more direct involvement in events.

The whole time Zulathon listened intently, speaking not a word as Nic regaled him. He was paying attention, despite his newborn son’s best efforts. The little one scampered all over his father, climbing up his back to leap off or pouncing at the monarch’s tail as it flicked back and forth. Nuthani did her best to restrain him, but it was hopeless, the little griffon too eager to be contained. Zulathon didn’t seem to mind, even joining in on the play as he listened.

“And, well, then you caught me, and you know the rest, your Grace.”

As Nic finished his account, a murmuring went through the crowd. They had moved back inside to a smaller chamber, at least by griffon standards, meaning even the comparatively tiny crowd barely filled the space. Nic sat at the center of it, all eyes pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Zulathon said nothing, sat upon the floor as his son continued to climb over him, nibbling at the older griffon’s wings.

“Quite the tale young Greytower,” Zulathon said at last. “Fate, it seems, has grand intentions for you.”

“I, I don’t know about that, your Grace,” Nic said. “Just dumb luck I happened to be there.”

“Such is the way of Fate, in all things.”

Zulathon went to say something else but was interrupted by the Seneschal hovering up to whisper in his ear. The Hierarch listened intently, a shadow of his former stone face returning as he whispered something back, then turned to Nic.

“We will finish this in a moment. For now, we must ask you to step aside.”

Nic nodded, grateful to move out of the spotlight and return to where Isabella stood on the sidelines. They exchanged significant glances but said nothing, Nic settling into a chair as they waited to see what would happen next.

A hush fell over the room as the doors swung open to admit a column of guards, both human and griffon, all of them fully armed and armoured. They led the haggard form of Kalthus between them, weapons leveled despite the heavy chains clamped around his neck and wings. He had not come quietly, fresh wounds running along his flanks, his armor stripped completely away. This did nothing to diminish his defiance, the Judai heir holding his head high as he was led before Zulathon.

In stark defiance of custom and norm, Kalthus stared the Hierarch dead in the eye with a look of unrestrained hatred. Zulathon, to his credit, met the look with detached grace, though it escaped no one’s notice that he clutched his son protectively. The little one seemed to have picked up on the changing mood and gone still for the first time in his short life.

“Sir Kalthus Judai,” Zulathon began. “You stand accused of high treason against Harakin Aerie. The evidence of this crime is overwhelming. How do you plead?”

“I betrayed nothing,” Kalthus said. “You are no king of mine. Judai will never bow to you.”

Whispering spread through the crowd, the chronicler’s pens scratching away furiously.

“Your words are noted,” Zulathon said, voice betraying not so much as a drop of emotion. “Take him away.”

“You Grace, I beg an indulgence.”

It was Nathyl who had spoken. She stood near Zulathon, though not at his side. Her willingness to fight her own soldiers seemed to have earned her some reprieve, though several Harakin guards stood vigil all the same. Zulathon turned to her, expression even but curious.

“Speak, Lady Nathyl.”

“He was my mistake. Let it be my claw that corrects it.”

Zulathon considered her a moment longer, the entire room seeming to hold its breath in anticipation. Then, with scarcely any movement at all, Zulathon nodded.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Nathyl said.

She stepped forward, the guards moving ever so slightly to match her but not daring to part with the crowd. Nathyl cared not, her gaze and stride locked upon her heir with laser intensity. Kalthus, for the first time since entering the room, showed fear, recoiling slightly from her approach. For a moment they simply stood like that, Kalthus growing ever smaller as Nathyl glared into him with a quiet rage that Nic had never seen before.

“Why?” she said at last, her voice sharp and cold.

“For Judai,” Kalthus said. “For the good of the flock.”

Deep silence sat between them, Nathyl’s look melting into something that Nic very much recognized but had not expected. Sadness. Deep and wounded. Kalthus saw it too, rising a little to match his patron, a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Nathyl, I-”

Whatever he had been about to say was lost as Lady Nathyl struck him. Like a viper, her claws shot out and raked across his face in the space of a blink. She caught everyone completely off guard, none more than Kalthus who could do nothing as the talons sunk into his flesh, opening long, deep gashes over his eye. He cried out in pain and shock, a spray of blood flying across the floor, scattering those nearest to where it landed.

“You are no heir of Judai,” she said, her words low and lethal. “I strip you of name and title. Be glad that I do not relieve you of your life for the shame you have brought upon my flock.”

The room was dead quiet as Kalthus turned to look back at his mentor, finding no comfort in her gaze. He moved to rise, only for her to loom over him, spreading her wings wide in a display that bore no defiance.

“Hold him.”

Kalthus said nothing, not even bothering to struggle as the guards pinned him to the floor. Two griffons grabbed at his wings, unfurling them and holding them taunt. Nathyl closed the distance, not so much as pausing as she struck out with her bloodied claws. They cut deep, slicing into flesh and removing all the flight feathers in a single swipe. Kalthus gave only a single screech before biting down the pain, glaring at his former liege with disdain. He held the look as Nathyl repeated the act on his other wing, flinching only when his wings were released, unable to fold them from the damage.

“Get him out of my sight,” she said.

The guards hesitated, glancing at Zulathon for confirmation. At his nod they saluted and picked up Kalthus where he lay on the floor, hauling him limply from the room. Nic glanced back to Nathyl as he disappeared, her expression a mask of unreadable dignity as she turned to Zulathon and bowed low.

“Thank you, your Grace.”

Zulathon nodded. “We only regret that it came to such extremes.” He gestured to a spot much closer to his throne. “Please, join us.”

Nathyl bowed again, not so low this time, before rejoining the crowd in her new spot. The air began to thaw as murmuring returned, bots emerging from hidden alcoves to quickly clean the blood from the floor. In minutes it was as if nothing at all had happened.

“Young Greytower,” Zulathon said, silencing all talk. “Return to us.”

Nic did so, moving back to the same place he had been standing before Kalthus had been brought in.

“Kneel, young one.”

At this Nic hesitated, his gaze drifting to Orlin where he stood at Zulathon’s side. The elder techne simply nodded, seeming some combination of bored, worried, and proud, favoring the last just enough to shine through as the dominant expression.

Needing no further prompting, Nic dropped to one knee on the marble floor, only just now realizing how utterly ridiculous he must look: tattered suit, hair at three angles, face barely wiped clean of soot and blood. No one seemed to care, least of all Zulathon as he rose to his feet and crossed the distance between them, his enormous bulk standing tall over Nic.

“You have done us a great service this day, Nicholas of Greytower. By your hand, Harakin Aerie celebrates where it might have mourned.”

Zulathon raised a clawed hand, extending a single talon to place it on Nic’s right shoulder.

“For this, I knight ye Sir Nicholas, protector of the innocent and hand of fate, in all things.”

He raised the talon and moved it to the left shoulder.

“May you wear the name with pride and know that in hours dark and bright, the line of Harakin will call you friend.”

He lifted the claw one last time, moving to tap it upon the crown of Nic’s head.

“Rise Sir Nicholas, that we may-”

He was interrupted by his son, the little griffon sprinting down his father’s arm to perch on his hand like a bird. With a loud squawk he pecked at the top of Nic’s head, half in imitation of his father, half to get some attention back. Despite himself, Nic chuckled, realizing too late that might be bad manners. Thankfully, Zulathon did the same, a great laugh rumbling through his chest as he nuzzled his son, unvarnished happiness upon his face.

The rest of the room followed suit, a chorus of laughter and cooing at the new-hatched antics. Nic glanced around at the crowd, most expressions matching the sound, though a few leapt out. Isabella was rolling her eyes, no doubt already thinking of ways to deflate Nic’s ego before it grew too large. Arthur as well, stuck near the back, wearing the sourest face imaginable. Nic kept his feelings on that to himself, glad he had an excuse to smirk.

One face that gave him pause however was that of his master. He had not moved from his place at Zulathon’s side, watching proceedings with his normal calm. It was his expression that was wrong, the expected neutrality replaced by a distant stare that was very far away from this place and moment. Nic didn’t know what to make of that but before he could dwell on it, Zualthon spoke again.

“Come friends!” he boomed, holding his son close. “There are still celebrations to be had! Let us remember this day as a joyous one!”

A cheer answered him and Nic, or Sir Nicolas it would seem, rose to join them.

*

“An interesting apprentice you have chosen, my friend.”

Orlin looked towards Zulathon. Not the Hierarch of Harakin Aerie, but the upstart stray he’d met all those years ago, the old bird looking relaxed for the first time all day. It was the way he carried himself that let Orlin spot the difference, a bit of a slump to the shoulders and wings. Daring to show the mortal being beneath the royal façade. Orlin preferred him this way.

“He has his moments,” Orlin said, taking a sip from his drink.

“Indeed,” Zulathon chuckled, though the laugh quickly died as his tone turned serious. “I am sorry for the way I spoke about him earlier. I was not myself.” He paused, thinking. “Or perhaps too much of myself.”

“Your son was in danger.” Orlin too paused, then added. “But I appreciate it.”

A companionable silence settled between them, the two men watching their charges sprint around the room in flagrant disregard for etiquette. Orlin couldn’t tell what game they were playing, only that it involved much running and screeching. The Hemlock girl watched from the sidelines, calling encouragement to whomever she felt deserved it most at any given moment, which usually meant the young heir. Nicholas didn’t seem to mind, always charging back in again and again to his playmate’s great delight.

Despite himself, Orlin felt a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“I had hoped,” Zulathon said, the uncertainty in his tone sounding utterly alien. “That when you said you were bringing your apprentice, it would be-”

“Don’t!”

The word was sharp, out of Orlin’s mouth before he could stop it. Zulathon flinched as if struck, Orlin glaring at his friend to ensure he understood.

“Just, don’t.”

Zulathon said nothing, simply nodded, suitably cowed by the words. Tense silence lingered for some time until finally Orlin broke it, his voice markedly less icy.

“What are you going to name him?”

“Beg pardon?” Zulathon asked. Orlin gestured at where apprentice and heir continued to play.

“Your son. What are you going to name him?”

Zulathon straightened, recovering as they moved back onto more stable ground.

“It took us a long time to decide. Nuthani was quite insistent we name him after you and Worthington.”

Orlin raised an eyebrow, prompting another rumbling chuckle from Zulathon.

“You know her, she’s sentimental.”

“Did you convince her otherwise?” Orlin asked.

“No, I agreed with her. It was my Seneschal that put his foot down. Would only let us put you two in as middle names.”

It was Orlin’s turn to laugh, washing away the last of the tension lingering in the air between them.

“So, what did you go with?”

Zulathon turned to look lovingly at his son as Nicholas finally managed to catch him, the two collapsing into a laughing heap.

“Malthas,” Zulathon said. “Malthas Harakin.”

Orlin looked as well, watching as Malthas wiggled out of Nicholas’ grasp and started the whole chase over again.

“A good name,” Orlin said. “May he wear it well.

*

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