Gryphon in Glory Read Free Page B

each morning I hoped again to wake from the shadow which new deep dreams had laid upon me and which I never could remember.
    In a way I was captive—to whom or what I could not name.
    When I last went into the Waste it was in search of Joisan to whom I owe duty. Yes, I will have it so—duty only. She must not be more to me. No matter what boy's hopes I once held, I recognize that they are not for my kind—half man, half—what? At least I now have the courage to know myself for what I am and show it. I need only look at my bootless feet, bare after all those years when I tried to conceal my otherness, to see the hooves upon which I walk . . .
    I went then into the Waste, still, in part, Kerovan of Ulmsdale. What did I come out as? I do not know. Perhaps I will never learn—maybe for my own good. Yet I was driven by restless loneliness, sharp as any sword point against my flesh.
    Joisan—no, I will not think of Joisan. I will harness my determination to keep her out of my mind. I need only remember how they looked at me in Norsdale when I brought her there—sale, still her own woman. Then I broke our wedding bonds, I evoked wife-right for her, since she would not for herself.
    That woman—the Past-Abbess . . . No, I will not think of her either. Their world is not mine. In truth, I felt no tie with the Dales, even though Lord Imgry had summoned me again. Because nothing, any longer, has meaning for me, I have answered his order.
    Yet the dreams come and I cannot tear them out of my aching head as a man tears away the badge of a lord he no longer serves. I hate to sleep—unless it be to drop into darkness without another awakening.
    My escort sit and talk around the fire well beyond me. Men, as I once was, or seemed to be. They avoid me and I know it is only Imgry's will that has kept them in my company.
    Once I was fascinated by the Old One's secrets. I had gone exploring in the Waste with the Wiseman Riwal. Together we rode the Road of Exile. No—I am not going to remember!
    Hair—like the polished leaves of autumn, her quick steps, her voice . . . Too strong a memory, a hurting which will never heal. I will not remember! I am not the Kerovan that was . . .
    To tramp about the camp at night is a way to keep awake. My body aches with fatigue. The men watch me from the comers of their eyes, whisper. I do not allow myself to think of them—or . . .
    However, one cannot fight sleep forever. I dream again . . .
    There was one of the Old Ones—Neevor—I remember his name. Who he was or what I do not know. Once—twice—he has given me aid. A friend? No, those such as I have no friends. When I am awake I try to think of Imgry and what he wants of me. A cold man, strong with a pride that feeds on accomplishment. on strength of will and purpose.
    We of the Dales (once I was of the Dales) have never given oaths to any one overlord. That was our great weakness when the invaders, having tested us with their spies, struck our land. Each lord fought for himself to defend his own holdings, so was speedily overrun.
    Painfully we learned our lesson. The sea coast by then lay in their hands, while those among us who had the grace and largeness of spirit to attract others to serve under them were dead—either slain in fruitless battle, or by assassination. Only then we drew together under three of the southern lords who were far-seeing and strong enough to make a kingdom of sorts out of a loose confederation of holdings.
    Of these Imgry is the least liked. However, no man who has served with him can deny that he has the iron will to gather support. A man does not have to be loved to be well served. He, most of all, drew together our broken forces, hammered them mercilessly into an army where old feuds were unallowable—an army knowing only one enemy, the Hounds of Alizon.
    Only that army was so battered and weary they could make no real stand. They raided, like the snarling outlaws of the Waste, fighting like wolves even as those