EDGE and Tesseract are imprints of Hades Publications, Inc.

Chapter One

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The Gryphon Highlord A Novel by
Connie Ward

Chapter 1

The summons arrived while I sparred in a courtyard with my second-incommand. Consumed in our swordplay neither of us saw the royal page right away, for pages tend to be small creatures, easily overlooked.

“Keep your blade up, Kathedra,” Valleri snapped, when his unerring sword arm almost severed mine at the elbow.

Valleri took his swordplay very seriously. But I was tired, giddy, and flushed in a fever that had little to do with the heat of battle. Blocking another of his powerful strokes, I staggered away to plead through my laughter, “Mercy, Val. Mercy, I beg you!”

“Mercy?” he growled, snatching away my blade and sheathing his own.

“No mercy, Kathedra. You don’t deserve it. Your swordplay is lax and your concentration is…well, elsewhere.” Though he tried to be stern, tried to be firm, he seemed just as distracted as I. His breath came in quick, shallow pants and his eyes glittered from behind a fall of dirty-gold hair.

Pulling me into the shelter of the castle wall, he pinned me against the stone and cupped my face in his hands. “Ahh, but then again it is so good to hear you laugh.”

My arms went around him of their own volition and I stole a kiss; one of those deep, hungry kisses that inevitably leads to a dark, out-of-the way alcove.

“Let us find a place,” Valleri whispered into my ear.

“Ahem.”

Starting at the intrusion, we shoved ourselves apart to see that a boy stood in the courtyard with us. Possessed of that same sense of self-preservation as the rest of his kind, the page feigned selective blindness.

I swiped at a lock of hair that had escaped its plait and smoothed my crushed tunic. Indignant at this interruption, I cast a scathing eye over the boy’s rumpled livery and grubby face, still pudgy with baby fat. I raised a critical brow. “You’re a new one, aren’t you?”

His thatch of yellow hair bobbed up and down. “Aye, Highness.” Then puffing himself up with pride, he announced, “The Regent sends me to fetch the Gryphon Highlord. His Excellency wishes your presence in his audience chamber immediately.”

“Ahh, what is it now?” I sighed, rubbing my temple. “Does he wish me to scour the corners of his dais for spies? Or peek under his throne for hidden assassins? Why, I just did all that yesterday. And only last night didn’t I sample his spiced pudding to prove it did not contain poison and not near enough, in my opinion, cinnamon?”

The Regent’s paranoia knew no bounds. Every servant was an Umagisympathizer ready to clang him over the head with a gilt serving platter, every Halberdier standing guard at the door was a traitor waiting to poke his posterior with a spear tip.

My sarcasm, however, sailed straight over the page’s head. “I wouldn’t know, Highness. Please, the Regent insists that you come at once.”

Of course, ‘at once’. The Regent never issued an edict that ended with ‘at your leisure’, or ‘when you have a minute’. As if I don’t have enough to do. A glance at Valleri earned me a shrug. In the pretence of returning my sword, he leaned forward and said below a murmur, “Go. See what the Regent wants. We’ll meet later in your chamber, where I’ll teach you the real meaning of mercy.”

That last comment sent my other brow skyward.

Smiling, I watched him swagger off across the courtyard until the child’s shrill voice yanked me out of my daydream. “Please, Highness. His Excellency said right away.”

“Yes, yes, hold onto your—” I broke off at the sound of movement above us.

Craning my neck up at the wall, I discovered we had an audience. A pair of lesser officers watched from the boulevard. Serasteffan and Averi.

My gaze collided with the former’s. A big blond giant, Serasteffan is fond of cruelties that defy comprehension. In private circles we call him the Butcher. His smarmy grin sent a rash of shivers down my spine. Averi stood beside him, his expression radiating malice, his icy stare locked on Valleri’s retreating form.

Though each belongs to a separate Royal, they are more often than not found together. After all, their interests are similar-rape, plunder, torture.

They share dark ambitions and even darker passions. Skilled in combat and uncommonly vicious, they are men best avoided.

How much had they seen? Nothing, I hoped. Valleri and I must learn to be more discreet, for some people frown on such things. Important, influential people.

As the officers resumed their stroll along the rampart, I exhaled the breath I held, thinking Beware, Valleri. There are men about who hate you. I guess I turned too quickly, for the page danced aside and ducked an imaginary swat. “Easy there, boy. You’re a skittish thing.”

“They say you have a temper, Highness. Like a dragon’s.”

“Don’t be silly. Unless you’re an enemy spy or a horse beater you have nothing to fear from me.” I can’t abide horse beating. “In fact, I happen to have a high tolerance for ten-year old boys with dirt on their cheeks. What’s your name?”

“Mylo, Highness.”

“Well, Mylo,” I said cheerfully, throwing an arm across his shoulders.

“Let’s not keep the Regent waiting, shall we?”

I left the page in the kitchen with a sugar dainty and a pitying glance, forwho knew how long he would last? Several of the little beggars had already been turfed out on their tender keesters for the offence of being ‘too watchful, too eager,’ according to the Regent. Poor things. No wonder Mylo was as jumpy as a coney in a nest of adders.

Pondering His Excellency’s summons, I headed for the audience chamber. I could think of nothing that might be amiss. Our enemies are in rout, our allies in thrall, and I had committed no act of gross incompetence unlike some of my contemporaries. Perhaps I am to be congratulated.

Intent on my thoughts, I rounded a corner and bumped straight into a man apparently preoccupied with ruminations of his own. Though he looked no older than twenty, with his dark hair and beardless chin, he wore a lieutenant’s badge. He seemed vaguely familiar.

“Beg pardon, Highness,” he sputtered, extending a hand to me where I sprawled upon the marble floor. “How clumsy of me.” His features contorted in a grimace of horror at what he’d just done. Understandably so. Not only am I the highest ranking officer around, I am also the heir to the throne.

As I dusted myself off I tried to place him, for I am ill-acquainted with those outside my own Royal since there are rare occasions nowadays for officers to congregate socially. His black and white surcoat placed him among the ranks of Roche, a mercenary who drinks and wenches far more than what the castle considers prudent.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

His mouth worked but no words formed. No doubt he envisioned a hundred punishments for the offence of bruising the royal derriere. Finding his tongue at last, he blurted, “Saxton.”

The name didn’t register, but I had no time for a full interrogation. “Carry on, then. No harm done.” I patted his shoulder and walked away, well aware of his gaping stare as it followed me down the corridor. I paid it no heed, for there were other, more weighty matters on my mind.

Once outside the audience chamber I stepped over a Shouda, one of the many enormous guard dogs trained to sniff out active magic-users, where it snored before the doors, then strode into the Regent’s formidable presence. Decommission? Did I hear that right? If so, it did not sound the least bit congratulatory. Standing in the dim puddle of light before the Regent’s dais, I strove to understand this bizarre pronouncement. “Beg pardon?”

The words came again, more slowly, as if the speaker addressed a dullwitted child and not the overlord of his Royals. “You are retired.”

I drew in a deep breath, refilling lungs emptied by this shock that had struck me like a blow to my stomach, and opened my arms in supplication.

“But…why?”

With a shrug, the Regent settled back into the purple velvet cushions of his throne and squinted at me through the veiled gloom of the room. “Youhave outgrown your worthiness.”

Impossible I thought. After all I’d done for him? Never had I heard anything so absurd.

Swallowing a hasty retort, I searched the Regent’s face for a clue to his apparent lunacy. He looked too at ease, sounded too matter-of-fact. Either he hid something or feared a confrontation. Perhaps both.

I spared a glance at the guards who stood rigid and alert near the dais, and realized my situation called for diplomacy.

“Outgrown my worthiness?” I echoed, feigning a childlike bafflement.

“How can you say that? It was I who repelled the rioters at the east gate when your very own Halberdiers turned tail and fled. It was I who rallied the troops in Glanshayda when Captains Chiverly crumbled and Urharde froze. And it was I, if I may be bold enough to remind you, who warned you in advance that the alleged ‘Peasants for Peace’ rally in Church Grove was an ambush!”

And it was also I who, on hands and knees, inspected his royal quarters for sabotaged chamber pots, though I forbore to mention it, but just barely.

“Is this how you express your gratitude? Decommission?”

“Don’t take that tone with me!” the Regent roared back, his face a magnificent shade of red. “My decision is final. You are retired.”

Forgetting me for a moment he jerked his head around, barking out at his attendants who quivered nearby, “Why is it always so damned dark in here?”

Fists clenched, I battled down my dragon’s temper as Mylo called it. “You can’t do this. I’m your niece.”

A flicker of exasperation streaked across Uncle’s heavy jowls. I think he wanted to shout and rave as badly as I, but he chose restraint. Then abruptly his tone turned cajoling. “Don’t take it personally, Kathedra. As I said, you’ve simply outlasted your usefulness. You can go no further in your present capacity. After all your accomplishments, all your victories, what else is there left for you to do?”

I knew the answer to that as well as Uncle, for he sat upon it. But I dared not say so aloud. I cast about the room for his gaggle of advisors, usually skulking in the shadows, for I was convinced he couldn’t have contrived this piece of nonsense on his own, but there was no sign of the snakes.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I insisted. “Why now, when I am at my peak as a commander? I am your most loyal servant, commanding the most loyal of troops. They will follow with courage and pride wherever I lead them. If you pull me now, at this most critical point, you risk dissent and disorder in the ranks.”

Surprisingly, Uncle maintained his composure. “Believe me,” he continued, in that condescending tone which so annoyed me, “I recognize your past value, and I am grateful for your faithfulness and that which you instilled in my Royals. But the moment has come when it is no longer feasible for a woman to hold command. It is time that you married and produced an heir to carry on our family line.”

That little noise I heard must have been the sound of my lower jaw as it hit the floor.

Uncle shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat. “It’s not only that, Kathedra. There are rumours, linking you romantically with…” He paused, having visible difficulty spitting out the words. “Your second.”

“Lies! All lies,” I lied.

Uncle didn’t buy it, not for a minute. “Nevertheless, a rumour is a rumour and I won’t tolerate such talk. Besides, it’s bad for morale.”

His statement was so ludicrous it brought a smile to my lips. Avoiding any admission of guilt, I asked, “Uncle, how can love during strife be bad for morale?” Truthfully, it did wonders for mine.

“Because soldiers take exception when one of their number is-how shall I say?-entitled to preferential treatment from their commander. It breeds discontent, resentment and hostility.” Here Uncle became snappish. “Good heavens! What would happen if something unexpected happened?”

“Do you mean if I became pregnant?” I retorted flippantly.

There are three topics people are forbidden to discuss in Uncle’s venerable presence. The first is pregnancy, the second fornication, and the third any mention of human anatomy such as ‘breast’, even if one does refer to a piece of cooked fowl.

Uncle bristled, his eyebrows arching in oh-so-delicious offence.

“Pregnant,” I repeated with precise enunciation. “Isn’t that what you want? Then I can retire and stay by the hearth raising heirs.”

“Oh, that would be perfect, wouldn’t it?” he blustered. “My unwed niece, the Princess Kathedra, Gryphon Highlord and Heir to the Throne of Thylana, bred like a heifer by her second-in-command on the eve of what may be a full scale revolt.”

Rolling my eyes, I sighed, “Oh, Unc.”

That is not a term of disrespect. Though his name is Bertrand and his title Regent, I just call him Uncle. He wasn’t always the man he is today-a twitchy, aging despot desperately clinging to his last fraying threads of power. I can remember as a child, sitting on his knee by the hearth in the great hall, as we helped Mother string berries for our day of Holy Fest. He was happy then, almost playful, and I’d always believed he held a soft spot for me. Those days are over now, gone so long it’s almost as if they had never been, though they left behind fond memories from a time when I’d called him ‘Unc’, an endearment of genuine affection.

I looked at Uncle now, and wondered if he recalled stringing red and white berries by the fireside. “Nothing like that will happen.”

“Bloody right it won’t,” he snarled. “I’m relieving you of all military duties. Consider yourself banished from the stables, the armoury, and the field. You are confined to the castle proper where you shall spend the next week in preparation for your nuptials. And if I catch you within ten feet ofValleri,” he added ominously, “I will confine you to your rooms.”

“Uncle, you’re being unreasonable. Valleri is my second and if I have cause to—”

“He is your lover!” Uncle blustered, pounding a fist onto the arm of his throne. “My god! Do you know the sort of damage that pack of upstarts could do with such gossip if they catch wind of it?”

To clarify, that pack of upstarts is how Uncle refers to the outlaws who call themselves CRUSADERs, an acronym for Citizens Risen Up to Stand Against a Dread and Errant Regency. While I thought it showed a grand ambition and unusual creativity on the part of lowly peasants and common bandits Uncle was not impressed. He absolutely refused to give credence to a term that might imply the upstarts had a legitimate claim against him. There was also a rumour adrift in the castle that the name Citizens in Revolt Against Bertrand was also being bandied about, but I guess someone somewhere with an ounce of dignity vetoed that one.

I maintained my defiance, armoured in disbelief. “So then, tell me, Uncle. Who’s the lucky man you have chosen for my consort?”

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