Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Violet
We spend the morning exploring the village. But come the afternoon, I have an appointment with the resident scholar.
Master Pugstone’s home smells like old books, which is not surprising given the many volumes crammed into the tiny space, covering every available surface.
“We’ll wait outside,” Rafe says as Master Pugstone manages to shift sufficient books to reveal a single seat, which he offers to me.
“Maybe come back later?” I say. “I may be some time.”
Rafe grunts and motions Lark to turn about.
They are gone. Good. I would rather ask my questions, which are many, without them hovering over me.
Master Pugstone is highly knowledgeable. I get the impression he doesn’t often find an audience as riveted as me, and a detailed and lively conversation ensues.
“…There are seven mountain regions, each with villages and farmsteads. Each of these regions falls under the protection of a single griffin pride.”
There it is in clear, unambiguous terms. Griffins. Here. Protecting Acton Trussell! “They are really here?” I whisper.
He smiles. “They really are. They tend to patrol from a distance during the summer months when outsiders are here. However, you can be certain they’re aware of everything at all times.
The rest of the year, when the mountain passes to the lowlands close, they are less cautious and are often seen flying overhead.
No matter the time of year, if they are needed, they will come. ”
Pushing a wispy strand of silver hair from his forehead, he fumbles with a book.
“The dark fae hordes and their rocklings make their homes in another realm, accessible via a portal not far from here. They come for the precious gems in the winter months when their pet rocklings are at their most powerful.”
He shows me a battle scene playing out across a snow-covered hillside. On one side are the dark fae and giant gnarled monsters on leashes. On the other side, griffins in every color of the rainbow fight alongside human men.
My fingers shake a little as I study the image. Bodies and blood litter the snow as the battle unfolds. “So many colors.” I do not wish to linger upon the blood, nor upon the emotions triggered by the scene, or on how it feels like the grit and fury of the fight reach from the pages.
“Every griffin has unique markings, my lady, although some do bear familial similarities. It is not only the dark fae, but foolish kings and queens who have tried their hand at conquering these lands over the years.” His chest puffs up a little.
“The Cairnborn region has never fallen. Although there was one time when the fallout of feathers—and a claw—rained down upon the village square.” He clears his throat and reaches for another tome with a beautifully drawn picture of a griffin. “This is Atlas, our Pride Leader.”
My heart lodges in my throat as I stare at the beautifully drawn picture.
A griffin, not a myth or legend, nor even one from a battle long past, but a real griffin alive in the now.
The hairs along the back of my neck stand to attention.
It feels like I have entered the pages of a storybook merely by being here.
Why does this place feel like home?
“He is beautiful,” I whisper. Storm-dark feathers and a crown of slate plumage.
Silver eyes, sharp and unblinking. His massive wings fan upward, edged in lighter grey, and the lion-like hindquarters are cloaked in smoky fur, his tufted tail curling behind him.
He radiates silent authority—as though he is watching for something only he can sense.
“Indeed,” Master Pugstone says. “Atlas has quite a presence in all his forms.”
I drag my gaze from the picture. “What do you mean by forms?”
“The griffins are shifters.” He picks up another thick book and begins thumbing through the pages, searching for something. “They have a human side, although they are reluctant to reveal it.”
My heartbeat sounds loud in my ears. How was this never detailed in any of my books? “Do they, um, ever snatch people from the village?”
“Snatch?” Master Pugstone drops the book he is holding. It hits the thick rug with a thud. “No. Goodness! Our protectors are noble creatures, for all they are a broken pride.”
I am somewhat calmed by his determination that they do not snatch villagers.
I don’t know where my question came from…
When I read about them, I always got a distinct impression of a subtext, that there might be details beneath the surface, a darker side.
Ruthlessness. My mind skips back over what he just said. “What is a broken pride?”
“All the griffin prides have one Pride Leader and up to a dozen lieutenants, or wing leaders, as they are more often called. The Cairnborn Pride Leader does not have a mate. And unless the Pride Leader takes a mate, none of his lieutenants will find permanent bonds of their own. It is terribly sad.”
“Oh,” I say softly. “The poor things.” I had assumed griffin prides might be like lions, where one or two males would acquire and protect a harem of mates. “There are no female griffins, then?”
His face flushes. “No, my lady. Griffins are always male.”
I blink a few times as I take this in. “Where do baby griffins come from, then?” I blurt.
His laugh is a little nervous. He busies himself taking the book from me and closing it shut.
“Well, I dare say they do not want for, ah, companionship of a less permanent nature. All eyries have a community of human servants.” He smiles ruefully.
“They do have a weakness for the prettier lasses. But alas, no chosen one has revealed in these parts for many years, and Pride Leaders only mate permanently with a chosen one.”
I swallow thickly. Chosen one is just another term for omega. “Oh,” I say inadequately.
Lark
“We shouldn’t have left her alone with that old bookworm,” I say the moment the door to Master Pugstone’s residence closes behind us. “Who knows what nonsense he will fill her damn head with.”
Rafe grunts and rolls his eyes before he strides into the street.
I catch up with him as he reaches the door to the tavern where we are lodging for free.
It is a wealthy community—gem mining is a profitable endeavor. The rumors of the griffins that grew ever more elaborate the closer we drew suggest the average thug is wary of testing their luck, and this is further supported by claims that any such raiding parties mysteriously disappear.
My hackles are up. The latent beast within me is prowling with agitation and hungry for another taste of our little princess’s soft cunt. It’s been too long since she went into heat. She is overdue, and it is making me edgy.
The proprietor, Jim, gives us a nod and heads over to join us as we reach the bar. “Left your mistress with Master Pugstone, then?”
“Aye,” Rafe says. His eyes light up as he notices they have Pilkington ale on draft. “Two pints of Pilkington, please.”
“Coming right up,” Jim says, grabbing a tankard. He pulls the pump, frothy ale filling it up. “Griffin lore. An unusual occupation for a young miss.”
“It is,” Rafe agrees. “Her family is wealthy and indulgent of her scholarly pursuits. Her other sisters have taken the duty to continue the family line. Visited all manner of scholars for hints on where a griffin might be found.” His laugh comes with a practiced edge of ruefulness.
“Not that I expect to ever see one, but you know, we’re paid to keep her company and get to travel. ”
It is the cover story we have used from the start. Violet only has to speak, and it is clear she is a woman of noble breeding. No point in trying to make her out to be a commoner. Better to stick as closely to the truth as we can.
“Well, you came to the right place,” Jim says, passing the first full tankard across the bar and reaching for another.
“Don’t see them much this time o’ year, although you can be sure they are looking out for any mischief.
They tend to keep out of sight during summer when outsiders are here.
” He winks. “But if you’re still around come the winter solstice, then you’re in for a treat. ”
My mind immediately sinks into debauched images of revelry and rutting… our pretty princess bound on an altar, ready to be worshiped… a line of suitors cloaked in shadows, waiting their turn.
“A fine tale,” Rafe says, drinking deeply of his ale.
My mouth is fucking watering, not only for a decent pint of Pilkington, which I haven’t had in a while.
Jim chuckles, passing the second tankard across the bar to me. He accepts the coins Rafe passes over and drops them into his coin drawer. “Aye, many don’t believe. As that last raiding party would attest, being left naught but blood and bones.”
I swallow thickly and bury my nose in my ale. Damn good pint. This is going down fast.
“We are not raiders,” Rafe says, his humor vanishing in a flash.
“Aye, didn’t think you were,” Jim says amiably. “When you’re a wealthy community, you become adept at taking the measure of a man or woman. We’re open about our griffin protectors. Those here for trouble don’t usually live to tell the tale. And the others, well, they understand.”
“You’re not fucking with us?” I ask doubtfully. Going to need another pint to deal with this bullshit. It was fine while she was chasing myths. Buried instincts tell me letting our Violet anywhere near an actual griffin is a very bad idea.
“No,” Jim says, grinning. “For the most part, they keep to their eyrie, having their own community and servants there. We pay our due by way of food and other supplies, and we’re happy to.
They’re always there when you need ’em. It’s a mutual agreement that has been in place for as far back as anyone can remember. ”
Rafe takes a sip of his beer, grimacing as he puts the empty tankard down. “Shame we won’t be able to stay to see one.”