The Young Griffon
On the third day, we sent the sea dog home.
The lands of Thracia were an unmarked expanse of snow capped mountain ranges and lush river valleys, with civilized settlements slim to none. My own Scarlet City had nestled itself between two mountain ranges and straddled a river, but the monuments and workings of stone that a city state required had altered that landscape in a profound way. Made it difficult to truly compare the land of my birth to these northern wilds.
Fertile land was a luxury in the greater western colonies that the Scarlet City presided over. And the lush fields on the outward facing edge of the eastern mountain range were a key contributor to an otherwise lackluster agricultural profile. Coarse bush plains and gnarled groves of olive trees were the norm, and so when it came time to fill his stomach, a man’s focus was drawn most often to that crystalline Ionian and the bounty beneath her waves. We had our grazers and our fleet-foots of course, and natural treasures besides - sulfur and salt most prominent among them. The title of bread basket, however, was firmly out of reach for us.
What I had seen so far of Thracia could have grasped that lofty title, and in the future still could if finer hands refined it. Lush fields of green and earth that sank beneath your feet, mountain basins full and overflowing with crisp clear water from the region’s frequent rains. The tribal nations themselves were an unfortunate stain, with their roving vagrant cities of wagons and temporary constructions.
The region made up for them, though. For every gangly red haired Thracian in a ridiculous hat and pants, there were hundreds of timeless pine trees and fruit bearing junipers within shouting distance of the Ebros river’s winding banks. Wild boar abounded in the thickets of their forests along with burnt auburn foxes and golden orioles. The good existed in far greater number than the Thracians, almost enough to forget them entirely.
And it was still only winter. This far north, that meant something. Closer to the Aegean, on the southern coast where the Greek colonies within Thracia were clustered, the chill was mild enough that the vineyard we had offered our sacrifice in was only lightly frosted over. But the further we progressed, the more frigid it became. Brutal Boreas had hidden half the nation beneath his winter veil, and it was still a marvel of natural fertility.
By our third day all the world seemed painted white, and every breath emerged as steam. The woolen heat of my new Thracian cloak was a substantial barrier against the chill, though it wasn’t as if I needed it. A true son of scarlet mystery was never bothered by heat, or lack thereof. Still, it had been a nice gesture from a friendly foreigner, so I wore it anyway.
Scythas bore it with a Hero’s advanced constitution, taking by heart flame what nature denied him and whistling the occasional tune to disrupt the breezes that carried the worst of the cold. The girl, though never properly anointed in light of dawn or dusk, was equally unbothered. A product of Heroic flame or oracular inheritance, or more likely both. Sol suffered the chill as he did most things in his life - with stoic resignation.
The old sea dog we had brought along to help Scythas guide us seemed least affected of all, despite being the oldest and most frail by far. If anything, his expression grew brighter and his off-key singing warmer the further north we went.
Until we reached the reason for it, the humble frozen settlement among a hundred of its type that Khabur had once called home.
Even had I tried, I couldn’t have distinguished between the wandering city of tribals ahead of us and the ones we’d left behind us. The Korpiloi closest to the coast, or the Brenae above them. The distinction his eyes saw might have been in the patterns sewn into the cloaks and hanging tapestries that lined the tents and wagons of the nomad city, the blankets tucked around their children's shoulders or over their horses’ backs. Maybe it was their silly hats.
More likely, he saw it in their faces.
Old Khabur slid off his horse with a young man’s haste, a whispering compression of snow beneath his odd fawnskin boots when he landed. He had wasted no time acquiring regional attire when we landed days ago, spending all that he had managed to earn while using Nikolas’ heroic vessel as a fishing skiff. He looked ridiculous, with his colorful hemp cloak and his phrygian fox cap, to say nothing of the variegated bags his people called pants. But donning them had visibly moved him, and now he looked right at home with the vagrant city just down the frozen hill we’d crested.
The old Thracian sea dog stared longingly at his nomad city, but he took only one step towards it.
“I don’t suppose this is our stop?” he asked Scythas, forcefully clearing his throat when his voice cracked partway through.
“No,” the Hero of the Scything Squall denied, though it pained him to do it. “I’m sorry. We’re not there yet.”
“Right,” Khabur rasped, licking frost-chapped lips. That weathered face turned to me, and Sol beside me, “I only ask because I’ve seen these flags before. That’s the Diobesi down there. Well known for their brews, you see-”
“And their ugly old men,” I ventured. Khabur flinched.
“… aye, them too,” he admitted ruefully. “Forget I mentioned it. I’ll just-”
“Go,” I said. The old sea dog stared at me.
“Zibute?” Unwilling to hope.
“We’ll find our way without you, and I’m tired of looking at that unfortunate face. Return to your fellow barbarians and enjoy what’s left of your life.”
Wide eyes, closer to the pale milk hue of the Broken Tide Oracle than the Aetos’ own bright sky blue, darted from my face to Sol’s. Searching for insincerity and finding none. The old man’s broad hands trembled.
“I… thank you, but I can’t. I still owe you boys a debt-”
“You paid your debt at the oar,” Sol informed him. “Every day until your chains were broken. What followed has been a voluntary labor.” Looking down from his towering dark horse while a holy young woman held him from behind, leaning sideways to measure the old man for herself with eyes of burning scarlet glory, the Roman cut a certain figure.
Khabur was an old man and a sailor, until recently a slave - and before all that, he was a Thracian. He felt the captain’s presence even so. He stood up straighter. His trembling hands clenched into fists.
“Is it enough?” he croaked.
I raised an eyebrow. “We said it was, didn’t we? Now and once before. You chose to be foolish when we offered you salvation in the Rosy Dawn’s gratitude. Learn from your mistake, and take this secondary consolation before it too is lost.”
“Rest now, traveler,” Selene said kindly, affected majesty in her voice and her bearing. I suppose she could have been worse. “The journey ends as it began.”
“Your odyssey is over,” Sol declared. “Son of Thrace, free sailor of the sunlit seas, I hereby retire you. Take your horse and go.”
“My horse?” Dazed and hopeful as he was, Khabur nonetheless had the presence of mind to protest one last time. “I can’t take her too. Please, boys, don’t curse me with that generosity. Not when the Hero-”
A hand of my violent intent covered his mouth. His eyes met mine, the pupils shivering.
“Begone,” I told him.
It was an ugly thing to see an old man weep.
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“That was… Kind,” Scythas said to me sometime later, while our horses crept through high mountain passes and the fourth night descended.
“You sound surprised,” Sol observed. The Hero of the Scything Squall pursed his pouting lips.
“I’m not surprised you agreed to it,” he said to my Roman brother. “I’m surprised that he initiated it.”
I considered the brumal glory above. At this elevation, treading near the peaks of Thracia’s frozen mountain ranges, the snow fell often and it fell heavy. Streamers and blankets of pure white flakes clouded the skies above and coated the land below. If not for her black mane and tail, my pure white runner would be all but impossible to see. The opposite was true of Sol and his black stallion.
“What do you see when you look at me, Scythas?” I asked the Hero, reaching up to catch the flakes of frigid heaven in my hand.
“What do I see?” He gestured for me to give him more. “Physically? Spiritually? Now, or in general?”
“There are no wrong answers,” I informed him, peering closely at the fragments of glory I had caught in my hand. Just as my foundational mystery could call rosy heat to my palms, so too could it call heat away. The snowflakes did not melt in a palm that was colder than mountain stone.
You’re tempting the Fates, the hungry raven lurking in Sol’s shadow reached out to inform mine.
How so?
An invitation of current speculation is an implication of future explanation.
Such refined articulation, the raven in my shadow cawed mockingly. Roman minds must have trembled when you spoke.
Sol sneered. Scythas will expect you to elaborate if you tell him his read of you is wrong.
Then I will. What do I have to hide?
Arrogant, irreverent Greek. Next time you provoke an unnecessary fight, I’m going to join in on the opposing side.
Promises, promises.
Our joined shadows undulated slightly, distorted by the ravens within as they beat their wings challenging lay at one another.
Just don’t expect me to soothe your ego when he batters it, Sol’s raven said.
Ho? You think I’m that fragile-
Both of us flinched and jerked back from stabbing pain. The taste of the Rein-Holder’s starlight bone marrow flooded my mouth, blood from a wound that I had never taken before in my life. I looked left, and at the same moment Sol looked behind, both of us staring at the culprit.
The daughter of the Scarlet Oracle had a spear in her hand, drawn from a fold in her myriad silks and rags. It had a ceremonial look to it - the bone white wood of its pole was covered tip to tip in elaborate carvings, some of them etched so deeply that the pole couldn’t have been thicker than a finger’s width in some places. The spearhead was freshly polished bronze. Ruinously fragile, the whole thing. Common sense and wood label it an ornament.
Selene held the ceremonial spear out at her side. For all appearances, she had stabbed it down at the open air.
It was the shadow the ornament cast, the penumbra spear, that had skewered our chattering ravens.
Her lips moved silently.
“It’s rude to carry on two conversations at once.”
She mouthed the words, trusting us to read her lips. She had noticed our shadowed conversation, as Anastasia had, but she could not join in herself. And she knew that any other form of communication would be heard by the man who was beloved by the wind.
I smirked and nodded fractionally. “Fair enough.”
Scythas, riding ahead of us on the high mountain trail, glanced back curiously as the girl talked her spear away again. The moment its shadow pulled away, Sol and I drew back our own silhouettes to nurse wounds we hadn’t known we could suffer until a moment ago. Selene smiled and waved pleasantly at the Hero. Scythas hesitantly returned it.
Eyes of hazel flame and golden embers shifted to me.
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“When I look at you,” he mused. He looked me up and down, and I shifted and posed obligingly for him. Rather than annoy him, it seemed to cement the thought in his head. “When I look at you, I see a runaway flame.”
The snow fell freely.
“In what way?” I asked, relaxing from my artful pose and simply reaching up. Catching more snowflakes in my hands.
“On the night I met you, and every moment since, you’ve been doing everything in your power to disrupt the world around you,” Scythas explained. “Not once, not even for a moment, have you stopped.” He swiveled in his saddle to fully face us, comfortable enough with his mare and a Heroic cultivator’s poise to cross his legs ankle over ankle on her hind end and recline against her neck like she was a dining couch instead of a horse.
“Correct me if I’m wrong.” I added hands of pankration intent to my efforts, grasping skyward and catching snowflakes in their incorporeal palms. “But there was a distance of weeks separating our game of bone knuckles and our reunion in Bakkhos’ estate. You and I didn’t cross paths once during the intervening time.”
“We didn’t,” he admitted, “but I heard from those that did.”
“I only spent marginally more time with the Reaver than I did with you,” I pointed out.
“I’m not just talking about Jason. I’ve heard dozens of people speak about the twin ravens that hunger, hunting the hunters and terrorizing the terrors that keep junior mystikos up at night. I’ve heard rumors of the man that stalks the sanctuary city in the attire of a cult that he can’t possibly belong to - in silks that haven’t seen representation in Olympia since Damon Aetos swept the Olympic Games twenty years ago and spit in Old ‘Zalus’ eye.”
Sol’s shadow reached for mine. Selene laid her chin on his shoulder. The raven withdrew.
“It doesn’t help your case that they look like they belong to a mangled corpse,” Scythas said, flicking a finger distastefully at the ragged robes of scarlet and white that hung down from my waist. “Half the people that have seen you suspect you stole those from a grave, and the other half are convinced they are yours. And that you walked out of that grave yourself.”
Selene hummed. “Seems unlikely.”
“It does. But so do most things related to the Rosy Dawn.”
The Hero pulled a scarf of green silk from paradox logic and wrapped it loosely around his neck and jaw. With his faint stubble covered, he looked like no man at all. If anything, the crown of snowflakes on dark brown curls and the frost that clung to his eyelashes lent him an almost ethereal beauty.
“You make no effort at all to hide where you’re from, which made me think at first you weren’t from there at all,” the Hero of the Scything Squall continued. “For a long while, I assumed you were hiding your true affiliation the same way you were hiding your true standing. Pretending to come from the Rosy Dawn when you obviously had not, just as you were pretending to be a low-rank Philosopher when you’re anything but.”
“He is, though,” Selene said. She tilted her head, indicating the Roman whose shoulder she was leaning on. “Solus is too. Can’t you feel their pneuma?”
I couldn’t see whether or not his lips parted beneath his green silk scarf, but the flash of panic in Scythas’ eyes was plainly apparent.
“She doesn’t know?”
“The only one here that doesn’t know is you,” I said, fanning out my pankration hands and their snowflake bounties around me.
“Then why-?” Scythas’ eyes closed. “Solus. Tell me there aren’t two of them now.”
My stoic Roman brother glanced my way. I cocked an eyebrow. He looked down at the Oracle’s daughter, her chin still propped on his shoulder. She offered him a wink.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized to the Hero. Scythas quietly groaned.
“I’m better than her,” I said, honestly offended.
“You’re older than me,” the girl had the audacity to reply, as if she was correcting me. “And I suppose, as a member of my own mystery faith, that makes you my senior brother in a way. But age is hardly the only virtue. Youthful vigor has its own value, you know.”
“Are you calling me old?” I asked her incredulously.
“Ancient brother whom I have long admired,” Selene solemnly intoned, tucking her chin deeper into Sol’s shoulder in lieu of a bow. “I have no doubt that you were a terrible force in your prime, but the world has changed since then. “We’ve moved on with modern innovations - for example, the wheel.”
Sol smothered his amusement with a cough. Scythas’ canted eyes curled, not even bothering to try.
“I’ll break the wheel over your head,” I promised the smug Heroine.
“These days, we solve minor disputes with an innovation called discourse-”
A snowball struck her in the face and exploded.
“It’s rude to interrupt a conversation in progress,” I admonished the sputtering young woman. My precocious junior sister in scarlet faith stuck her tongue out at me.
In return, nine more pankration hands pelted her face with snow.
“You were saying?” I invited the Hero, speaking over the Heroine’s giggling protests. Scythas shook his head, but obliged me.
“I was saying that I used to think your Rosy Dawn attire was as authentic as your Sophic status.” A profound insight. “But the more I looked and listened for a truth to contradict the lie, the less I found. You immediately gave away the fact that you’re more than just a Philosopher-”
“But he is-” Selene began to insist, shielding her face from me with her hands. Sol slapped her with his own handful of snow while her focus was on the external enemy, swatting her like a bug on his shoulder. Her cry of “Sabotage!” was muffled by a mouthful of snow.
“-yet, the more I heard about your actions in Olympia, the less certain of that I became.” The Hero crossed his arms, eyebrows furrowing as he thought. “You came here with a Roman. You swagger through places you have no business even approaching, and you smack around young Philosophers of the Raging Heaven when they challenge your presence there. Like they’re your own junior initiates. Like they aren’t right to be suspicious of you.
“You present yourself as a lowly sophist and in the same breath challenge a Heroic Young Aristocrat’s authority - while standing in a club his family owns. You claim to be a junior Philosopher while your mouth is full of infernal bone marrow, and chase the agents of our Tyrants through the Raging Heaven’s halls as if they’re nothing more than the scavenging crows we named them after. You punch the Gadfly in his throat, and ridicule us for not doing the same. For not doing every mad thing you do.
“And then,” he snapped, leveling a damning finger at the space between my eyes, “You have the sheer gall to throw our standing back in our faces. You have the audacity to cite your fabricated standing while you shame us, as if to say that a fresh Philosopher’s strength is all that’s required to do the things you’ve done!”
“Scythas,” came the Roman’s voice. Sharp and lined with steel. The Hero clicked his tongue and whistled a note that made my ears ring, and the screaming gale winds that had risen up with his ire flickered and were abruptly silent.
“Apologies.” He exhaled slowly. When his eyes met mine, they were steady. “Since the day that Bakkhos died, in your every interaction, you’ve done whatever you can to evoke from the world what you nearly just evoked from me. The more I hear of you and the more I suffer you personally, the more I am convinced you’re from the Scarlet City after all.”
I waited patiently, recalling the ten pankration hands pestering Selene with snow and using them to catch more snowflakes.
“When I look at you, I see a starving dog that’s slipped his leash,” Scythas said, and the lack of heat behind the words made them twice as damning. “Sprinting away as fast as he can, confronting everything in his path with mad aggression born of hunger.”
Scythas uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, riding fully in reverse.
“When I look at the palette used to paint you, I see the blessing of the sun. When you reach out with the hands of your intent, I feel that blessing too. But a truth universally known is that a wise man keeps his distance from the sun, because it’s all too easy to burn. All too easy to be blinded.
“I believe you’re from that locked and bolted city because of how you act,” he told me. “Like you’re in possession of a map that charts the path straight up to heaven, and at the same time like a blind man that’s just stumbled out of a cave into the wider world. Like a starved dog or a runaway flame, devouring whatever you can reach. Heedless of the consequences, uncaring of who you hurt or how or to what degree. Lying as easily as you breathe. I believe you’re from that cursed place because I believe nearly nothing else you’ve ever said.
“It surprised me that you would take the initiative to free a good man for no gain but his joy,” Scythas concluded with firm conviction, “because when I look at you I see a scarlet son. Every story I’ve ever been told about the blinding dawn and scouring dusk, all the arrogance and the cruelty and the greed, like you were made instead of born.
“Like Damon Aetos molded you from clay himself.”
“That’s enough,” Sol decided. The Hero of the Scything Squall hummed, swiveling with inhuman alacrity to ride his mare in the proper orientation once more.
“As you say. I was finished anyway.” For the first time since I had known him, the Hero came away from a conversation with me sounding powerfully satisfied.
Sol’s shadow reached for mine, hesitated, and then connected when Selene nodded shallowly against his shoulder. For some reason, the girl looked sad.
I warned you, the hungry raven warbled, not unkindly. Downright tenderly, by the Roman standard.
Ah. I was being looked down on.
“I have another question,” I declared.
Scythas sighed and waved a hand without looking back, brushing my words aside. “I’m not going to debate this with you, Griffon. You asked me what I saw, and I told you. Whether or not you agree, you won’t persuade my eyes-”
“Not a debate,” I clarified. “A simple question.”
A weary beat passed. One more, and none after that.
“I won’t ask you for another word,” I promised.
“For the rest of the day. And tomorrow.”
I’d give him one better than that. “Until we die or each ascend, I won’t ever ask you anything again.”
“I’m serious.”
“So was I.”
Scythas seemed to give up on haggling, waving me on.
We need him, Sol’s raven reminded mine. There was weight behind the words that hadn’t been there when he cautioned me against confronting a group of drunken Thracians the day before. There was care, this time. And he’s been broken down enough.
I understand, I said. Sol frowned, but drew away.
“Who told you those things about me?” I asked. “My encounter with the young Philosophers of the Raging Heaven, the fact that it was me to challenge the Young Aristocrat in his family’s club and not Elissa or Kyno or Lefteris. Any of the things you claimed to have heard about me. All of them. Who told you?”
“No one.”
I nodded, satisfied. Snow crunch beneath plodding hooves, the only sound between us.
“… that’s it?” Scythas glanced back at me, confused. “No follow up?”
I shrugged. “I gave you my word.”
The Hero scoffed and faced forward again. “The Howling Wind Cult deals in air as the Scarlet City deals in fire. No one told me those things directly. No one had to. They told their stories to the people they trusted, or otherwise wanted to impress, and I overheard them.”
“You were that close?” Sol asked. Scythas shook his head.
“I didn’t have to be. Since I joined the Raging Heaven, every word spoken on Kaukoso Mons has been carried to my ear if I desired it. So long as the wind knows that I want to hear it, and so long as I’m kind, the breeze will bring it to me.”
“That.”
Three sets of eyes settled on me.
“That?” Scythas echoed, his voice clear despite the scarf covering his mouth. He didn’t have to raise it to be heard, because the wind would carry it to our ears as surely as it would our words to his.
“That is why I treat you all the way I do.” I considered the hands of my violent intent arrayed in rows around me. Raising them up close to my eyes, one by one, I considered the snowflakes they’d caught. Their shapes and simple symmetries.
“I was born in a locked and bolted city, as you said, and raised on stories of greater souls than those I saw around me. Wisemen, innovators of creative thought - architects and weavers and sweet voiced singers that invited tribulation simply because they were better at what they did than even the divine.”
My long-legged runner raised her head, snuffling quietly, and caught a snowflake on her tongue. In the instant before it melted, I saw that its shape was unlike any other in my hands.
“I grew up in a cave, captivated by the shadows I saw dancing on the walls,” I admitted, because it was true. “Cast by light of rose dawn, every one of them was a story. Each of them was someone worth telling stories of, a virtue in and of themselves - uniquely excellent souls. I thought that’s what every Hero was.”
I called light without heat to my palms, a phenomena of natural mystery, illuminating the finer details of every snowflake so each of my companions could see. Not a single one was exactly like another.
“I’ve never in my life heard of a man being able to sweet talk the wind that carries a spoken word,” I said, and didn’t bother hiding my wonder. “As far as I know, that is a virtue unique to you. Scythas, the Hero of the Scything Squall, and no one else. If it weren’t for that, if I hadn’t seen those glimmers of unique excellence that each of you carry in your souls, I might have been able to convince myself that none of you were Heroes at all.”
Scythas. Elissa. Kyno. Lefteris. Jason. Anastasia.
“But I have seen them,” I admitted in regret. “And I can’t pretend I didn’t. Which means as much as I hate that it’s true, you are the stories I was told, the glories that I was promised If I ever scaled the heights. You, the men and women that refuse to venture forward and risk what’s needed for the gains that you desire. You, the Heroes and Heroines that are hesitating because you know that no one has done what you have to do, ignoring the fact that no one has ever tried it with the abilities unique only to you.
“You are what I left that cave to find. I slipped my leash and burnt past my boundaries in search of the greater souls casting the shadows of my childhood idols, and outside I found only you.
“I am ravenous,” I said with quiet understanding. “And everything I’ve eaten since the day I left that cave has only made it worse. And unlike Khabur, I have not been voluntarily released. I act the way I do because I know what follows behind me, what seeks to leash me once again and douse me down to embers.
“That’s why each of you disappoints me. That is why I shame you. Not just because I am cruel, not just because I am arrogant, not only for my greed. It’s because I left my world to find you, and I thought you would be more.”
Heat returned to match the rosy light of dawn. The snowflakes melted in my hands, pooling together as water in my palms.
“In a way,” I murmured, “I suppose that too was an appeal to higher power.”
The Hero Scythas didn’t speak another word for the rest of the day. I didn’t prompt him to.
I’d made a promise, after all.
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On the fourth night, we found our cup of wine ensconced in Orphic mystery.