The Shadowed Throne (17 page)

People moved out of the way as the griffin approached.

She was brown, long-bodied, and slim. Behind a grey beak, eyes the colour of the sky glared straight at Kullervo.

The shape-shifter shook off his surprise and came toward her. “Hello,” he said. “So you're the griffin who lives here. I was hoping to meet you.”

The brown griffin's tail was lashing aggressively. “I take no pleasure in meeting a deformed thing like you. Answer my question. What is this? You say that
Kraeai kran ae
is dead?”

Kullervo let the abuse slide off him. “Yes. He disappeared months ago, along with the Mighty Skandar. I went to look for them and found the Mighty Skandar hiding in the mountains, guarding the King's remains. It doesn't look like Skandar will ever leave the mountains, and his human is dead.”

“Dead,” the brown griffin repeated. “How was he killed?”

“I don't know,” said Kullervo.

“But if he is dead, then who rules the Eyrie at Malvern?”

“His daughter, Laela. She's a half-breed.”

“Half-breed!” the griffin huffed. “Then the human pup at Malvern truly was
his
offspring. I had my doubts. She will not last long either way.” She looked at Kullervo. “You have not answered my question. Who rules at Malvern?”

“I told you, Laela—”

“No!” The brown griffin snapped her beak shut an inch away from his face. “I do not care what tiny human sits on a wooden nest. Who rules in Malvern?”

Kullervo finally caught on. “Oh. Oeka does.”

“I do not know that name. What griffin is that?”

“She's only young,” said Kullervo. “But very powerful in magic.”

The brown griffin gave a contemptuous hiss. “Every young griffin thinks she is powerful in magic. A hatchling and a half-breed believe they have this territory of the North? Madness and stupidity. They will both be dead by the next full moon.”

“Maybe,” said Kullervo. “Can I ask your name? How did you get here?”

“That is for me to know,” said the griffin.

“Fine. But can I at least know your name? I'm Kullervo.”

“You are a misshapen insult to nature,” the brown griffin said coldly. “What magic made you? Were you a griffin who overreached himself? Or a human who got in the way?”

“Neither.” Kullervo finally began to get angry. “I was born this way. And what about you? Were you born this obnoxious, or did you
overreach
yourself?”

The brown griffin drew back slightly. “I see.” She was silent for a moment. “I am glad to hear your news,” she said at last, rather stiffly. “In return you may have my name. I am Senneck.”

She turned and walked away through the village. The last Kullervo saw of her was her tail, swishing gently from side to side.

The square had gone quiet. The people around the fire pit looked shocked and nervous, and conversation resumed in bits and pieces. Kullervo stayed just where he was and stared at his hands.

Lord Rufus put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, holy one?”

Kullervo looked up. “What? Yes, I'm fine.”

“I know what she said to you.” The old man frowned sadly. “Don't be too hard on her. You don't know what she's suffered in her life.”

“She lost her human,” Kullervo guessed.

“She lost more than that.” Rufus gestured at him to come and sit by the fire. They chose a spot that was nice and warm and settled down side by side.

Kullervo watched the flames. “Tell me about her. Why is she here?”

Rufus followed his gaze. “You know all about the war, yes? Everyone does in the North. When the Dark Lord came, no-one knew what he was capable of at first. We in Malvern assumed he was just another rogue—albeit one with a griffin. But we did know what he had done, or part of it. He came from a city far in the South, a place called Eagleholm. He committed a murder there . . . more than a murder. Eagleholm was . . .”

“What?” said Kullervo. “What did he do?”

“Eagleholm was destroyed,” said Rufus. “Utterly destroyed. It was the Dark Lord's first genocide. Afterward, he and the monster griffin, Skandar, came to the North. Some say it was to find their mistress, the Night God. Either way, when they came here, so did Senneck.”

“She was with them?”

“No. She came from Eagleholm. That's where she was hatched. After it was destroyed, she flew to Malvern with her human. I met him once. His name was Erian Rannagonson. Nobody thought much of him; he was just a boy. A bastard, raised on a farm. But we underestimated him, and Senneck.”

“Erian,” Kullervo repeated. “I know that name . . .”

“You should.” The old man smiled ruefully. “He was Queen Laela's uncle. Whether she knows it or not.”

“Holy Gryphus! Are you sure?”

Rufus shrugged. “Lady Flell was his half-sister. Anyway, Senneck and Erian had come in search of the Dark Lord. And eventually, they found him. They took him prisoner, brought him back to Malvern. He was tried for his crimes and finally executed.”

“I know about that,” said Kullervo. “They hanged him . . .”

“I know,” Rufus said grimly. “I was there, Kullervo. I was there that day. I saw him hang with my own eyes. But he didn't stay dead. He came back, and . . . well. You know the rest.”

“What about Erian?” said Kullervo. “And Senneck?”

“The Mighty Kraal lived in Malvern then. He was so old, nobody knew where he came from originally. There was no-one more wise, and
he
saw what this bastard boy Erian was. He believed that he was the only one who could kill the Dark Lord, and so he sent him and Senneck to an island to find a special weapon. They were gone a long time, and while they were gone . . . terrible things happened. Our beautiful cities fell one by one. Everywhere, the Northerners rose up and turned on us. The unpartnered griffins turned traitor and joined the enemy. We were so confused . . . frightened . . . nothing we did was enough to stop them.”

“But Erian came back,” said Kullervo.

“Yes. He and Senneck flew back to Malvern, just when everything looked lost. They were our last hope. When the Dark Lord finally invaded Malvern, Erian met him there in the Sun Temple. He was killed, and Malvern fell.” Rufus' eyes were bright with grief. “My whole life died that day. So did Senneck's. She lost her human . . . and both of her offspring. Her home. Everything.”

Kullervo looked away from him, toward the stars and the cold moon. He thought of Senneck's blazing blue eyes and tried to imagine her as she might have been. He thought of himself, too, nursing a pain inside of him that could have mirrored hers.

“What would be worse?” he murmured to himself. “To lose everything . . . or to never have it at all?”

“What's that, holy one?” Rufus asked.

Kullervo didn't look at him. Then, without even thinking, he started to talk. “I never knew my parents. I never had a real home. I don't know if anyone ever loved me. Every day, the world was nothing but . . . confusion . . . noise . . . so many things I couldn't understand. I used to wonder if I had a place in the world, or if nothing really did have meaning, if I were as alone as I felt.”

Rufus looked concerned, and he patted Kullervo on the shoulder. “Don't despair. Nothing is done, as long as we're alive. You have a purpose in this world, Kullervo. You were sent here to bring us hope.”

I wasn't,
Kullervo thought miserably.
No I wasn't. I'm a liar and a fake. Not even my own body knows what shape it is.

“But I still have the sky,” he said aloud. “And I know I have a family. That's all that matters now.”

Silence.

“I started without a family or a home,” Kullervo said eventually. “So I can't imagine what it would be like to lose those things. Poor Senneck.”

“She's angry,” said Rufus. “At the world, and at the Dark Lord. I believe she would have gone after him herself if she hadn't seen sense. It must have been a big shock to her to hear that he's dead.”

“I can understand that,” said Kullervo. “It was a shock to everyone.”

“Now,” said Rufus. “I think it's time we got back to celebrating! Let's go and get something to eat, shall we?”

“I'm right behind you,” Kullervo said, in his usual cheerful voice.

T
hree days after Oeka's return, Laela rebelled.

Everyone was gone. Oeka had vanished again, Iorwerth was away, and she was alone. Alone with nothing but other griffiners, who mostly despised her.

Laela didn't feel like a griffiner, and with Oeka gone again, it was easy to sustain that feeling. She was a commoner at heart and always would be.

One evening, she sat in the room that had once been her father's and thought of that. So much had changed, and it was overwhelming. Had it really taken her that long to realise it?

She looked around the room. It was a simple one, especially considering that it had once belonged to a King, with plain walls and a thick, woven carpet on the floor. The only furniture in it was a bed, a writing desk, the wardrobe, and a chair by the fire. Laela sat in it now, feeling the warmth soak into her. She had to admit that even though it could have been far grander, this room was still finer than anything she had seen in her old life. She had been brought up in a house with only two rooms, and carpets had been out of the question.

But now she found herself wondering if she had been happier in that house than she had ever been here. She and her foster father Bran might have been poor, but what did that matter? There she'd only had him for company because the rest of the village didn't want to know her, but she hadn't been alone. Bran had loved her, and she'd loved him. Power and privilege couldn't make up for that.

And more than that, she was tired of lying, tired of manipulating. Tired of being a ruler. She missed being among commoners, and people who spoke plainly like she did. She missed being treated like an equal, or even an inferior.

But those days were over now, weren't they?

Laela thought of that, then, slowly, the idea came to her.

She pushed it away at first. It was ridiculous. Dangerous. Stupid.
Forbidden.

But the moment the word “forbidden” occurred to her, the idea started to look better and better. She was tired of behaving herself. And, anyway, she was Queen, wasn't she? If she decided to, she could do whatever she damn well pleased, couldn't she?

On an impulse, Laela made her mind up there and then.

She stood up sharply and went to the wardrobe. She'd taken to storing some of her own clothes in it, and now she sorted through them, muttering impatiently until she found the outfit she wanted. She hauled it out and threw it down on the bed, and pulled off the fancy gown she'd been wearing. She tossed that aside and picked up the new outfit. It was a plain dress made from blue wool—the same dress she'd been given the first day she lived in the Eyrie, when Arenadd had found her and decided—for mysterious reasons of his own—to take care of her.

The dress felt unfamiliar now, and itchy. Surely, it hadn't been like this before? She'd grown up wearing things like this, hadn't she?

She stubbornly smoothed it down and hauled out the pair of mud-caked boots she'd worn on her journey from the South. They, at least, were still comfortable.

She thought of putting on a cape, or some kind of hood, but decided against it. She didn't need to hide her black hair here, and there was no way of hiding her eyes unless she wore a mask or something. But she knew from experience that most people wouldn't notice them anyway.

She stuffed a knife into her belt, and picked up a small money bag from the desk, and tied it on as well before going to open the little door at the back of the room. It was the same door she had come through when Arenadd had brought her into the Eyrie the night he'd found her, and the passage beyond it went down an endless staircase to the bottom of the tower.

Laela trudged patiently down it, remembering how she'd come up it that night. Had it really been such a short time ago? By now, the whole thing felt like a dream, or something that had happened to her ten years ago, in another life. But she supposed she was a different person now, wasn't she?

She smiled to herself. Last time she went into the city alone, she hadn't known how to handle herself at all. She'd been alone, and confused, and not known a damn thing about anything. She'd been bailed up by a pair of thugs, and it was only pure luck that Arenadd had come by and rescued her.

That was why the passage was there, or why he'd used it. Like her, her father had got tired of life in the Eyrie, and he liked to go out into the city sometimes to be alone and mingle with his subjects. And if he'd done that, why couldn't she?

Laela admitted to herself that she wasn't immortal like him, but that didn't scare her. She could handle herself now, couldn't she? She'd been taught how to fight by Arenadd himself. But more important than that, she'd learnt that she wasn't just some stupid girl who could barely read. She was Laela Taranisäii now, and she'd done great things. A few ordinary people out in the city couldn't bother her much.

But she wasn't going looking for a fight. All she wanted tonight was some company.

Laela opened the door at the bottom of the tower and emerged into the moonlight. She remembered the way from there easily enough and dashed across the open ground to the little gate in the wall around the Eyrie. It wasn't guarded, and she unlatched it and slipped through and out into the city.

Malvern opened its streets to her, and she stopped there and breathed in deeply, savouring the moment and feeling a freedom she hadn't expected to feel.

But the thrilling thought occurred to her then that she
was
free. If she wanted to, she could walk straight out of the city right now and go wherever she wanted. There was nobody watching her, and nobody here cared what she did. She could say and do what she liked.

At last.

Laela grinned to herself and started walking. She knew exactly where she wanted to go.

Malvern was gloomy at this time of night, but it wasn't quiet, and it wasn't completely dark. Lights burned in many of the windows, and out in the street, the city guard had lit the lamps on each corner. The guards on night patrol were about, many of them stationed under the lamps to keep an ear and eye out for trouble—and to make sure nobody stole the lamps, which would probably happen otherwise. Laela knew what people were like; they'd steal anything that wasn't nailed down even if they had no use for it.

Once that thought might have annoyed her but now, ridiculously, it made her smile. You knew where you stood with commoners.

She walked on, thrilling at how people went straight past her without a second glance. One man bumped into her and never even looked at her, let alone apologised. Laela strolled along, one hand on her money bag in case someone decided to filch it, and smiled dreamily. Being ignored . . . what a blessing it was.

She knew where she was going now and quickly kept on toward it until she saw it up ahead, the faded sign swinging gently in the cold wind that had started to blow. She could read just enough to make out some of the letters on the sign, but she didn't need to read it; she could make out the picture without any trouble. A raised carving of the moon, painted with flaking blue paint.

The Sign of the Blue Moon.

Laela paused under the sign and smiled sadly to herself. This was the same tavern where Arenadd had brought her after he'd found her, the same one where she had gone searching for him later when he'd disappeared. By now, its owners must be used to odd people showing up, but that wasn't why she'd chosen it.

She suddenly realised that she was nervous, just a bit. But she fought the feeling down, took a deep breath, and went inside.

She stepped into a babble of voices and clinking mugs. The tavern's single ground-floor room was full of tables, and most of them were occupied. Nobody paid Laela any attention, and that was how she liked it.

She went straight to the bar and waited for the bartender to notice her. But she wasn't the only one there, and she quickly started to get impatient as everyone else got their drinks, and the bartender didn't so much as glance at her.

“Oi!” she finally shouted. “Get over here an' give me some damn service!”

The bartender came over. “Knock that off,” he snapped. “Ye ain't the only one here wantin' a drink, girl.” And he went on past her to serve a man further down, who'd arrived well after her.

“What the—?” Laela fumed. Who did this man think he was? She . . .

Her anger subsided, and she frowned to herself. Right. Of course. She wasn't Queen here, was she?

But she still wanted her drink.

She took a gold oblong out of her money bag, and tapped it on the counter, just as she'd done that day when she bribed the bartender here for information. Not the same bartender as this, luckily, though he was giving her so little attention that he probably wouldn't have recognised her anyway.

That did the trick. The bartender, a scrawny middle-aged Northerner, came back. “Now what can I get ye, girl?” he asked.

“Gimme a beer,” said Laela. “No, make that two.”

“Righto.” The bartender poured them out from a jug, and took her oblong. Laela held out her hand for her change, but there wasn't any. “Hey!” she said.

“What?” the bartender said impatiently.

“I gave yeh a whole gold piece,” said Laela.

“So?”

“So where's me change?”

“There isn't any,” said the bartender. “The Queen put a new tax on beer.”

“I nev—” Laela began. “That's an outrage!” she finished hastily.

“Too right it is, but there ye go.” The bartender shrugged and moved on.

Laela took her beers and went to find a table. She didn't remember making any new taxes, but probably the Master of Taxation had done it. Now-a-days, people tended to come to her with suggestions like that, and half the time she said yes because she trusted their judgment. Maybe she'd agreed to this one when she wasn't really listening.

She found a table in the corner and sat down to drink, listening closely to the talk all around her.

It seemed she wasn't the only one who objected to the new tax.

“—half-breed bitch!” one man growled. “Who's she think she is, taxin' our beer?”

“Yeah!” Laela agreed without thinking. “Beer shouldn't be this pricey; it's a scandal!”

The man glanced at her, then nodded. “Yeah! Bitch oughta be strung up!”

Laela grinned. “No, the Master of Taxation should be strung up. The Queen just needs her ears cleaned out. She wouldn't've said yes to it if she was payin' attention.”

“Nah, it's the Queen,” the man insisted. “Stupid girl thinks she can rule us, it's shameful. Before her, we had a
real
ruler, one we could be proud of . . .”

Laela scowled. “Shut up, she's doin' her best.”

“Oh yeah?” the man came over to her table. “Doin' her best, is she, girl?”

Laela finished off her first beer. “Yeah!” she said. “She didn't ask to be Queen anyhow, did she?”

The man set his jaw. Behind him, his friends started to nod among themselves—but probably not because they agreed with her.

Laela knew she was making trouble, but she didn't care. Nobody in the Eyrie talked back to her like this, and people didn't say what they were really thinking. This, she thought, was exactly what she'd been missing all this time.

She put her boots up on the table and started on the second beer. “The Queen ain't so different from you,” she said. “She grew up a commoner, remember?”

“Yeah, well, if she's like us, I ain't seen it,” said one of the man's friends. “What's she doin' for the common people?”

“Yeh reckon that Saeddryn cares about yeh, then?” said Laela.

“She ran the Temple,” said another of the man's friends. “Anyone could go to the ceremonies, an' she'd do them herself, an' bless any man what asked for it. Saeddryn was always the one out here lookin' out for us; even great King Arenadd never did that much.”

“But he was busy,” the third friend added hastily. “Had lots to worry about.”

“An' so does the Queen,” said Laela.

“My arse,” the first man shot back.

“Oh yeah?” Laela drained the mug, and stood up. “You wanna make somethin' of it?”

The first man laughed. “Don't be daft. I don't hit girls.”

Laela grinned. “That's all right, 'cause a girl's gonna hit you.”

She punched him in the face as hard as she could.

The man took a step back in surprise, but then lurched forward and hit her back, hard enough to knock her over.

Laela stumbled backward over a chair and hit the ground painfully, but she got up quickly enough and launched herself at him.

Around her, the tavern erupted in shouting.

“He hit a girl!”

“He insulted the Queen; get him!”

“Get 'em out of here!”

Laela didn't care. She didn't bother to pull out her dagger either. This was a fist-fight. She punched the man again, in the jaw, ignoring the pain in her knuckles. He tried to punch her again, but she only grabbed him by the tunic and kneed him hard in the groin.

Around her, other people had started to join in, some to stop her and others to attack the man who'd punched her.

Laela, though, started to laugh. She lashed out at anyone who came at her, almost indiscriminately, using every trick she'd learnt from Bran and anything else that sprang to mind. Another woman tried to take her by the shoulder, and Laela head-butted her in the face. She kicked someone else in the kneecap with the heel of her boot and jabbed the man who'd punched her in the eyes.

It was chaos.

In the end, a pair of city guards barged in and put a stop to the fight, sometimes pulling people apart by force. The fighting died down quickly enough, and people slumped down to nurse their bruises or stood and glared defiantly at each other.

The two guards quickly took charge of the situation.