1.7

The Young Griffon

Sooner or later in life, you ran up against the feeling of being unwanted. Some time, in some place, by some person. It was only natural that man could not please every soul among heaven and earth. Even a man like me.

Especially a man like me.

It was a palpable sensation, something that could be felt if you had the sense for it. A formless blade that could slip between your ribs alongside a smile and pleasant conversation. Humanity was infinitely complex. Our little interactions with one another were the same. I didn’t have to tell a man that I hated him for him to know. I didn’t even have to strike him. I could do it with a glance.

The conveyance of contempt was an art that every Young Aristocrat mastered early in life. As a prodigy of that art, I had a keen eye for the contempt of others. I knew when I wasn’t wanted. I knew when someone was trying to hide that fact from me. But as Sol and I weaved through the crowds of mourning citizens, I noticed a distinct lack of unwant.

Most paid little and less mind to us as we moved past them, my Rosy Fingers of Dawn raised like one of the countless torches congregating in the city’s agora. The eyes that did take notice of us lingered, but that only made sense. Sol stalked through the crowd like he was going to war, a storm in his eyes – never mind the fact that he was always like that.

And I was myself.

Drawing attention was natural, but the lack of contempt was surprising. The uninvitation that I had expected wasn’t there, and that told me a few things about the man that had died.

I’d connected the dots moments after Sol had. The sanctuary city of Olympia looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. But the docks hadn’t shown any signs of such a thing and those would have been hit the hardest. The other possibility was a cultivator’s work, but that was even less likely. To strike at Olympia was to strike at the heart of the free Mediterranean. There wasn’t a dog nation on this earth with the courage to do that.

But if the cultivator in question wasn’t an invader? If he was inside the sanctuary city when he struck, and his attack was no attack at all?

Any man’s dying breath can stir the hearts of his family. Perhaps it can even scatter an anthill. A Tyrant’s dying breath can stir the hearts of an entire city.

And level it.

“It’s easy to forget.” Slipping past a pair of crying women in purple slips of cloth, I noted the perfect affectation of their sobs. Their skin was lustrous in the torchlight. “For all their strength and influence, for all the cities they scatter in their wake. Even Tyrants die some day.”

“Thus always,” Sol murmured.

I glanced at him in askance but he only shook his head, frowning.

“We need information,” he said instead, scanning the crowd. His eyes settled on a throng of men with youthful features and gray beards, commiserating with one another. Their torches illuminated ornate tunics, glimmering rings and armbands.

I caught him by the arm when he made to walk their way. Sol looked back at me, annoyed.

“Those aren’t the men we want to talk to,” I explained, raising an eyebrow. “Haven’t you noticed? There’s no one worth listening to out here on the fringes.”

Several heads turned at that, ugly looks and whispered threats. Some of those ugly looks died as soon as they laid eyes on me. Citizens, no matter how wealthy or respected, knew they had no business even looking unfavorably upon an initiate of a greater mystery cult. Their clothing and ornaments were finer than mine, but a cultivator’s tattered attire would always be worth more than a citizen’s finest silks.

The gaggle of vain old men and the sobbing sisters I’d brushed past were reflected in a thousand faces, a thousand different styles. An important man had died, and every able body in Olympia with two drachma to rub together had come to claim their place in the spectacle. Like flies swarming a lion’s corpse. It was the way of things.

“We can do better than flies,” I told him, flicking a rosy finger at a glaring man with more ire than sense. He cursed and flinched back from the flying embers of my pneuma. “If you want to talk to scavengers, at least find yourself a crow.”

“Cultivator or not, it doesn’t matter,” Sol said, shrugging me off. “I only want to know what we’re walking into.”

He moved through to the group of youthful graybeards. The crowds parted naturally around him as he did. It was faint, nearly drowned out by the press of so many different souls, but now I could feel that formless aura of his that caused it, whereas before I could only infer it. One of the benefits of my new standing.

I waited patiently while he spoke to the old men. From the looks of it, they were all too happy to share their thoughts.

“You shouldn’t be walking around like that tonight, young man. It’s disrespectful.” I blinked, looking down at an old woman. She looked her age, all snow white hair and wrinkled, weathered skin. There were laugh lines around her eyes, though she was currently scowling.

I tilted my head. “Did I ask for your opinion?”

Her pneuma rose and lashed out like a serpent, striking my arm. She slapped me with her soul. It was a pitiful thing, due as much to the lack of real heat behind it as to the difference in our standing. For all her years, she was still only in the Civic Realm. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem to care. I flexed my pneuma once. She scoffed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Rude boy,” she said, removing one of several embroidered shawls draped over her shoulders. “So what if you’re stronger than a crone. I’d offer you a laurel, but you already have two.” She pressed the pure white shawl with its fine gold embroidering insistently against my bare chest. “Put this on. This is a funeral, not a bathhouse.”

I considered the shawl. “This isn’t really my style,” I told her. She grumbled and pulled a couple more off her shoulders, each a different color, and presented them to me impatiently.

“Quickly now, take one. You’re a strong young man, surely you can pick your clothes without your mother’s help?”

“I don’t have a mother,” I informed her.

“That explains it.” She squinted in the low light of the torches and my own rosy fingers. Then, nodding once, she took the white and gold shawl from my hands. She replaced it with one that was entirely gold, though a shade darker than the embroideries on the first. “This will suit you nicely. Make you look presentable, though there’s nothing I can do for that arrogant face.”

“You’re an audacious old woman,” I said, amused. The shawl, which had nearly touched the ground when she wore it, was just large enough to cover my torso. The material was light and comfortable on my skin, and it parted easily when I shifted my arms. “I suppose I’ll wear this. What do I owe you?”