Skif sat very quietly in his corner of the gryphons' lair and made up his bedroll with meticulous care. Elspeth had complained a few days ago that she felt as if she were being written into a tale of some kind. Now he knew how she felt. Strange enough to see gryphons this close-but to be rescued by them, hear them talk-No one at home is ever going to believe this.
The fighting had been real enough, and he'd seen plenty of misshapen things in the ranks of Ancar's forces. Too many to be surprised by the creatures that had been sent against them. But talking gryphons, Hawkbrothers No, they're going to think we made this up.
He tried not to show his fear of the gryphons, but one of his friends was an enthusiastic falconer, and he knew what a beak that size, and talons that long, could do.
The bigger of the two gryphons was already inside the roofed-over ruin when he entered it. The place was ten times larger than his room at Haven, but it seemed terribly crowded with the gryphon in it.
"Excuse me, my lady," he'd said humbly, hoping his voice wouldn't break, "but where would you like me?"
"Hydona," said the gryphon.
He coughed, to cover his nervousness. "Excuse me.
"My name isss Hydona, youngling," the gryphon said, and there was real amusement in its voice. "It means 'kindnessss." You may put yourrr thingsss in that chamberrr. The Changechild will ssshow you." That was when he noticed a girl in the next chamber over, peering around the edge of the opening; obediently he had hauled his saddlebags and bedroll across the threshold, wondering what on earth a "Changechild" was.
Then the girl moved out of his way, and fully into the light from the outer door, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
She didn't have fur, and she didn't walk on four legs-but she had sharply feline features, slit-pupiled eyes, and the same boneless, liquid grace of any pampered housecat he'd ever seen.
He managed to stammer out a question about where he was to put his things. She answered by helping him; and that was when he noticed that once the initial shock of her strangeness wore off, she was very attractive.
Quite pretty, really.
He smoothed his bedroll and watched her out of the corner of his eye as she brought armfuls of nest-material to put between it and the hard rock. She was more than pretty, she was beautiful, especially when she smiled.
"Thank you," he said, just to see her smile again. Which she did, a smile that reached and warmed those big golden eyes. There hadn't been a lot of smiles out of Elspeth lately... it was nice to see one.
"Let me aid you," she said softly, and knelt beside him to help him arrange a more comfortable bed without waiting to hear his answer. there hasn't been a lot of help out of Elspeth either, lately, he thought sourly. In fact, this girl was Elspeth's utter opposite in a lot of ways.
Quiet, soft-spoken, where Elspeth was more inclined to snap at the most innocent of questions.
"What's your name?" he asked her, as they took the opposite ends of the bedroll, and laid it over the bedding prepared for it.
"Nyara," she said and looked shyly away.
That was when Elspeth came in and put her own gear away, efficiently and without a fuss, but it broke the tentative conversation between himself and Nyara, and the girl retreated to her corner.
She's so-mechanical. She's like a well-oiled, perfectly-running clockwork mechanism. She's just not human anymore.
In fact, for all of her exotic strangeness, Nyara seemed more human than Elspeth did.
He stripped off his tunic and changed his filthy, sweat-sodden shirt for a new one, with sidelong glances at Elspeth.
She changed tom shirt and breeches, both cut and stained with blood, although there was no sign of a wound on her. She took no more notice of him and Nyara than if they had been stones.
No heart, no feelings, no emotion. No patience with anyone who isn't Perfect. As cold as... Nyara is warm.
A sound at the door made him start, as he laced the cuffs of his shirt.
The man who had rescued them-Darkwind-stood shadowing the door.
Skif had not heard him until he had deliberately made that sound. He spoke with gryphons, moved like a thought, hid in the shadows-he was far more alien than Nyara, and colder than Elspeth.
He-looked slowly and deliberately into Skifs eyes, then Elspeth's, then Nyara's. "Come," he said, "it is time to talk."
"Why does it seem as if a whole week has passed since this morning, and a year since we first entered the Plains?" Elspeth asked, her dark brown eyes fixed on the horizon as the last rays of the sun turned the western clouds to gold and red streaks against an incredibly blue sky.
The young man called "Skif" was contemplating Nyara, as he had been since she had been awakened.
Darkwind was watching Elspeth and her friend-though mostly Elspethrather than the sunset. She had washed and changed into another of those blindingly white uniforms, and he found himself wondering, idly, how she would look in one of the elaborate robes Tayledras Adepts favored. In better days, he'd had time to design clothing for his friends; Tayledras art had to be portable because they moved so often, and clothing was as much art as it was covering. His designs had been very popular back then; not as popular as Ravenwing's feather masks, but she had been practicing her art for longer than he'd been alive.
In fact, he had been proud, terribly proud, that his father had worn some of his designs. One of the things that had hurt him had been finding those outfits discarded soon after he had joined the scouts, in the pile of material available to be remade into scout-camouflage. Now he knew why his father had done that; discarded the clothing where he would be certain to find it. He'd meant to drive Darkwind farther away, to save him- The knowledge turned what had been a bitter memory into something more palatable.
As he contemplated Elspeth, he imagined what he would design for her. Something hugging the body to the hips, perhaps, showing that magnificently muscled torso, then with a flaring skirt, slit to properly display those long, athletic legs-definitely in a b~t emerald green.
Or maybe something that would enable her to move and fight with complete freedom; tight wine-red leather trews laced up the side, an intricately cut black tunic, a soft red silk shirt with an embroidered collar and sleeves...What in hell am I doing? How can I be thinking of clothing right now?
Maybe it was that she cried out for proper display. white was not her color. The stark uniform only made her look severe, like a purposeful, unornamented blade. After talking with her at length, there was no doubt in his mind that she was a completely competent fighter-that this was an important part of her life. But there was more to her than that; much more. Her outer self should mirror her complicated inner self.
She needed that kind of setting, with her spare, hard-edged beauty.
Unlike Nyara, who would never look anything other than lush and exotic, sleek and sensuous, no matter what she wore.
Nyara sat on the opposite side of Skif, glancing sideways at him; Skif couldn't take his eyes off her. She had proved, once revived, not only cooperative but grateful that all Treyvan had done was put her to sleep.
Her reaction-completely genuine, so far as Darkwind was able to determinehad shamed him a little for behaving with such suspicion and cold calculation toward her.