The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Thank God.”

The griffin huffed again, a noise that shuddered through its body, and lifted its head, then sat down on its haunches like a watchdog. The audible gasps of the soldiers and his attendants flowed around him like the murmur of a rising wind. An iron feather shook free and drifted down to slice through the grass beside his couch. He reached and found that if he grasped the quill and kept his fingers away from the feathered vane and edges, he did not cut himself.

“I couldn’t even kill Bulkezu,” he said in a low voice, staring at the feather. The anger wasn’t gone, only swallowed. “I need this griffin, or you may as well lead the army yourself.”

She grimaced as a shadow covered her face. “I am no leader. I am no regnant.”

“You are Taillefer’s heir!”

“I am not!” she cried triumphantly. “Anne is not my mother. I am not the child of any human woman. Do not burden me with Taillefer’s legacy. I am rid of it.”

He let go of the feather and shut his eyes as a spasm of pain twisted through his chest. After a while, he could speak again.

“If you are not Anne’s child—if you are not Taillefer’s great grandchild. What of Blessing, then? What of her claims?”

“You are the child of a regnant, Sanglant. Blessing is Henry’s granddaughter. Isn’t that claim enough?”

No.

For all this time he had paraded Blessing in front of his allies as the rightful heir of Taillefer. To discover the claim wasn’t true silenced him.

The griffin settled down to rest her eagle’s head on her forelegs. She closed her eyes and huffed once more, the strength of that sound rippling through her shoulders and tawny haunches. Her tail slapped the ground, and stilled.

“I am not even Anne’s daughter,” she repeated so softly that he heard her only because of his unnaturally keen hearing. “I am the bastard child of my father, Bernard, and a captive fire daimone. It’s true Da was born into a noble house, but it is the most minor of lineages.”

“You said once that Sturm was your kinsman.”

“So Wolfhere told me. I believe it to be true. But Wolfhere lied to me about Anne, so maybe he lied to me about that as well.”

“Ai, God,” whispered Sanglant as the tide of adrenaline and arousal ebbed, leaving him drained and exhausted and in so very much pain. “How can we know what is true and what is the lie? How can we choose the right path?”

“Griffins and sorcerers.” Her gaze flicked toward the dozing griffin, and he saw in her expression that she wasn’t quite as fearless as he thought—the creature made her nervous even though she believed it would not hurt her. “You have been walking on the right path all along. You have what you marched so far to get. Together we can turn back to the west and fight Anne.”

“We will need a powerful army to defeat our enemies.”

“I cannot bring you an army.”

“Nor do I ask you to,” he said irritably. “I boast a talisman better than griffin wings. I know how to raise an army. First, we must call a council …” Yet he was so weak he could not sit up. “I need two days to heal.”

“The heavens revolve regardless of our hurts. We must move swiftly.”

“I must have two days! I cannot—” He coughed, grimaced, and only her hands pressing on his shoulders stopped him from thrashing and thereby breaking open the wound. He grasped her fingers and with eyes shut just breathed, lips pinched together and his entire face knotted up as he waited for the agony to subside.

“My lord prince. Liath, what is wrong?”

“Bring him something to drink, I pray you, Heribert. Wine, if you have it.”

“We have nothing but this nasty fermented mare’s milk.”

“That will do. It will ease the pain.”

She eased her weight off his shoulder and brushed fingers caressingly along one cheek. He got hold of her braid and twisted it around his hand, letting its feel distract him, breathing out the pain with each breath until, piece by piece, he could relax.

“Blessing,” he said at last, when he could speak. “What of Blessing?”

“It is no form of sorcery I understand. Perhaps Da wrote of it in his book, but I don’t have his book anymore.”

“Hugh has your father’s book.”