The Care and Feeding of Griffins (27 page)

He stopped.  She could feel him in hellish clarity, feel the blood that pulsed in his shaft, feel each shiver of his muscles, the minute settling of his hoof.

“
Saddled,” Tonka breathed, his voice strained.  He said nothing more for a time, and then, fiercely, “Now, my mare, we ride!”

It was a violent, ugly, awful ride.  His thrusts were strong and sure, pumping at her like a gigantic piston, crushing her from the inside out.  His flanks struck the restraining bar, shaking the saddle that contained her, forcing her to share a mimicry of enthusiasm as she rocked back and forth.  The hairs of his belly brushed at her bare back; she could feel his terrible weight suspended in the harness above her.  She could not escape even the sound or smell of him.  He enveloped and consumed her, he filled all her senses, he defeated time itself and took her for eternity.

It was not until she lay limp and shaking, dry of tears and tasting blood and bile, that his mating took on its own energy apart from the mere punishment of her.  His movements quickened, he finished with her swiftly in a flood of heat and then kicked back, dismounting.

She heard him stamp twice before he moved around to stare at her.  She gazed at the ground between his front hooves, hollow.

“Had enough of me, mare?” he asked finally.  “Or will you have another ride?”

She shook her head listlessly.  When he mounted the runners on either side of her, she reached to take him into her trembling hands. 
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

“
Grip.”  It sounded as though his jaws were clenched.  His voice was tight and hateful.  “Move your one hand, hold me in the other.  There, my mare, just so.  Gently.  Slowly.”

He began to harden under her broken obedience.  His hips shuddered forward now and then, pumping into her hands.  She stroked, her head hanging and her eyes shut tight.

“Now, mare.”  He came a little closer, his hooves sounding metallically through the saddle as he moved to bring his rigid shaft before her face.  “Finish.  Finish or we ride again.”

“
I can’t,” she wept.  “I would, but I can’t.”

“
Then take what you can, mare.”

She opened her mouth and guided him forward until the slickened, musky heat of him was at her lips.  She tasted the grease of whatever he had used to wet her.  She tasted herself.

“Grip me, mare.  Pull, and I will push.  Mate with me and mate in earnest, or I’ll have you saddled yet again, as often as it takes to prove your apology.”

His flanks thrust, gently at first, more firmly as she met him in kind.  Her hands rubbed and squeezed, pulling down his great length.  The head of him nudged achingly at her strained jaws.

“Your mouth, mare,” he warned her, and she licked miserably at his invading rod.  “That’s it.  Good mare.  You have a talent for this.  Now drink.”

He flooded her and she struggled back, trying to swallow
and vomiting instead.  She hung in the saddle as he dismounted her, spitting and coughing and gagging on breath.

His hand rested on her bent head for a moment, then stroked down her hair and finished with a pat to her hip. 
“Good mare,” he said wearily.  “You and I are repaid.”

But he didn
’t unharness her.  He went to the lodge door and opened it, bringing in a gust of cool air.  “I will send your next stud in to you,” he called.  “You were penitent enough.  I will order him to be restrained.”

Fresh hooves came in for her, and Taryn found she had a few tears left after all.

38.  Taryn’s Hands

F
or Taryn, trapped in sleep like a bug in amber, the hand on her shoulder was first a horror—the hand of a mounting, furious horseman—and then a quaking relief as it shook her into waking.  She kicked back into the soft, warm sides of Morathi and stared around at wooden walls and empty beds, breathing hard and fast.

The dream, mercifully, had already begun to fade, but it did not go quietly.  She could still feel the pinch of the straps tingling under her skin.  She could still feel a lingering bruised ache in the parts of her that stubbornly insisted she had been saddled.  Even her jaw tried to tell her it was sore.  But gradually, reality took root in her and there ultimately came a time when she could look around at the horseman she pressed against without wanting to scream.

Morathi was alone with her now.  The others had already risen and gone about their daily business.  Morathi watched her orient herself in time and truth, his expression curiously sympathetic.  His hand was still on her shoulder; his arm kept her cradled and she inched a little further into its protection without thinking.

“
You cried out in your dreams,” he said, once her heart had slowed.

“
It was a bad one.”  She looked around at him, her eyes flashing wide.  “I didn’t say anything, did I?”

“
Aye, once.  You said, ‘please’.”  He studied her, his ears moving constantly but his face perfectly still.  “Old men sleep little,” he said eventually.  “I watched you while you dreamed.”

Was that his way of saying he knew what her nightmare had been?  Probably.  She felt dull heat steal into her face and she scooted away from him to put her shoes on, trying to will herself calm.

“Where’s Aisling?” she asked suddenly.

“
You were restless,” Morathi replied.  “And he, nervous.  I sent him out in the company of young Shard.  It has been some little time since then.  I suspect he has found some entertainment about the kraal.”

Taryn got to her feet and backed a step or two toward the door. 
“I need to find him,” she said apologetically.

“
Of course.”  Morathi braced his arms on the bolstered support of his bed and rose, one leg at a time, carefully testing his weight before stepping out to follow her.

Aisling was in the pheasant pen, along with a dappled colt collecting eggs.  The young griffin wasn
’t much of a help; he alternated between chasing the hens and running screeching from the cock, but he seemed to be a sound entertainment for the foals doing chores nearby.

When Taryn called out to him, Aisling squawked happily and galloped toward her, colliding with the pickets and woven net that corralled the fowl.  He goggled at this unexpected restraint and then threw himself at it, scratching madly to be let out.  When she lifted him, his feathers came forward and he pressed exuberantly at her bangs, a welcome ritual that took the last of the tension from her body and allowed her to feel the sun
’s rays for the first time.

She heard the heavy approach of a grown horseman as she stroked Aisling
’s beak and turned to see Tonka coming for her.  Just Tonka, the real Tonka, and his smile was for the real her.  “I should be going,” she said, setting Aisling on his feet.

“
So early?”

“
I can’t really take this much time off.  My winter is coming, too.  I have…”  She shook her head and pushed back her unruly hair.  “I have so much to do.”

He nodded, but stamped a rear hoof. 
“You must eat, at least,” he said.  “Stay until mid-day.  My children are making sweets to give you.”

She couldn
’t bring herself to refuse.  The foals would be devastated.

Tonka smiled at her mute surrender. 
“Come, eat,” he said.  “And feed your foundling. He would not take from my hand, nor any other.”  Which may have been true, although Aisling certainly seemed to appreciate the petting Tonka now addressed to his feathered head.  When his attention returned to Taryn’s face, he was suitably chieftain-like once more, all dignity and formality.  “Share one last meal from my table, traveler.  Ven has reserved food to break your night’s fast.  Tis poor stuff—”

“
Oh please.  Your pheasants must eat like kings.”

“—
but I pray it will suffice.  Ah, look.”  He was staring out over the high field, watching a group of youngsters galloping wildly toward them.  Shrieks and giggles surrounded them, drawing the eye of the farmers in the fields for a moment or two as they rushed past.  Tonka’s tail snapped out as he watched them.  “They’ve found a hive, I see.  And come back bearing the scars of battle, no doubt.”

“
Which ones are yours?” Taryn asked.

He looked at her with some astonishment. 
“All of them.”

It was her turn to blink around at him.  No less than fourteen foals were running across the field and all appeared to be the same age. 
“Because you’re the chief,” she guessed, “Or…?”

“
Because I sired of their mothers,” he answered, still looking faintly surprised.

“
Well.”  She could only stare at him for a moment.  “Well, gosh.  There sure are a lot of them.”

He smiled, his chest swelling slightly and his tail raising in a posture of equine pride. 
“Aye.  Sixteen this past season.”  He began to walk, leading her to the lodge where meals were held.  “From ten the season before.  The coming winter promises an even greater reap.”  His tail swished.  “The great Gathering shall be here in my kraal.  I anticipate a feast of mares.”

My eager mare
.

Taryn swallowed the sick bile that clenched in her at the dream-echo of his innocent words, then forced a smile. 
“That’s the second time I’ve heard of that,” she said.  “What is it?”‘

“
There are many clans of Farasai in the Valley,” he replied.  “Each winter, come the feast of Long-Night, a delegation of each is sent to a chieftain’s kraal.  It is a great sharing.  There are contests and story-telling.  And riddles,” he added with a sidelong glance.  “And much feasting.  Often, distant kin will stay or others go.  Thus, our bloodlines strengthen.”

“
I see.”

“
I would have you attend,” he went on, his brows drawing together.  “But the others of my kind do not know you as I do.  Perhaps another time.”

She wasn
’t planning on staying in Arcadia indefinitely, but she said nothing.  Tonka sounded so wistful.  She didn’t want to offend him by announcing out of hand that the next time he hosted the Gathering, she’d almost certainly be gone.

The Jiko-lodge was already busy preparing the mid-day meal.  Horsemen were working and loudly talking, plucking butchered pheasants and stirring pots.  Ven, in charge of them all, noticed Taryn
’s entrance and came forward at once, looking distinctly fierce.

“
I expected you earlier, traveler,” she said with maternal disapproval.  “You ate nothing at late-meal and slept through early.”  Her hands caught Taryn’s chin, tilting back her head so that she could peer into Taryn’s eyes.  “And I mislike your color.”

“
I’m always this pale,” Taryn said mildly.  “I’m Irish.”

“
What you are is overworked and underfed,” Ven stated with authority.  She released Taryn’s chin and folded her arms, stamping a forehoof.  “You must stay here another day.”

“
No, I must go home and get some work done is what I must do.”  Taryn couldn’t suppress the smile that wanted to come out and play with Ven’s ferocious scowl and didn’t even try.  “I must gather some firewood and get some grapes and nuts while they’re still around.  I must try to harvest some grain and check on my baskets.  I must try to figure out this whole stone-knapping business because I’m going to need an axe.  And if nothing else, I must go home and water my potatoes so they root in instead of just blight up and rot.  It’s been wonderful to meet you all, but really, when it comes to must, I must go home.”

Ven looked at Tonka.  He shrugged minutely.  The horsewoman
’s lips thinned and her ears lay flat.  She looked severely back at Taryn.  “You’ll stay,” she said ominously, “another day.”

“
Can’t be done.  Thanks anyway, but—”

“
Hush, human.”  Ven straightened and glowered into Tonka’s amused and tolerant smile.  “For the gods’ sakes, will you not find a kinsman to see to her crop that she may rest?”

“
I will go,” a horsewoman offered.  Around her neck, she wore Taryn’s drop pendant necklace.  “Tis a very small garden,” she added, as though trying to convince a dubious crowd.

Taryn was stung. 
“That took me a whole week to clear,” she said, punching her fists onto her hip.  “It’s not like I had a plow!”

“
She worked very hard,” the horsewoman agreed when the others at the cookfires glanced around to stare at Taryn.  “She did not even have a sickle.  She cleared the grass all by hand and tore them very badly.  Show them your hands.”

Suddenly, all the eyes in the whole room were on her and everyone was very still.

Taryn put her hands in her pockets, flushing.  Ven, ears completely flat now, seized her wrists and pulled them back out.  She glared at the raised and healing scars, her lips thinning to a single, white slash.

Tonka, his smile completely gone, touched a f
inger to Taryn’s palm. She winced, curling her fingers protectively, and he exchanged a look with Ven.  “Go, Nin,” he said quietly.  “Take a foal plow and a tiller to leave with her.  Gods, human, why did you do this?”

“
I was running out of time.”  She looked crossly from one to the other of them.  “It’s not that bad.”

“
Aye,” Tonka said.  “It is.  Ven, you have the keeping of her.  Nay, Taryn, this is not a discussion.  I will go and tell our lord where you can be found for the next small while.”

“
Small while?” she echoed, trying to follow him.  Ven’s hands were gently but insistently towing her away.  “You’ve got to be kidding!  Look!  They’ve healed over!  I’m fine!”

He didn
’t even glance back at her before he left.

“
Human,” Ven said and then, more softly, “Taryn.”

She looked up at the horsewoman, exasperated.

“They are not healed, Taryn,” Ven said.  “They are poisoned.  Badly.”

Taryn stared, uncomprehending.  She looked down at her palms. 
“No, they’re not,” she said blankly.  “I used antibiotic ointment.  I bandaged them.”

“
They are poisoned, Taryn, and if they are not tended, you are going to lose your hands.”

Taryn felt her mouth drop open.  She stared up at Ven and then down at her hands again.  She flexed the fingers and felt the bruisy throb that answered the little movement, but it couldn
’t be that bad, really.  Sure, the scars were a little swollen, but they were healing.  Lose her hands?  The skin had completely grown over, it was healed!

At her feet, Aisling uttered a happy squawk and pounced on her shoelace.  She looked at him, her mind swirling without coherent thought, and then bent and picked him up, hugging him in confusion to her chest.  He preened her with enthusiasm.  Life was grand.  Happy Aisling.  She was going to lose her hands?

“Come.”  This time, when Ven reached for her, Taryn let herself be taken.  Ven took her from the lodge, her hand resting heavily on Taryn’s shoulder.  They crossed the kraal to yet another lodge, the Vyengo Machozi this time, attracting some attention from those they passed.  Behind them, Tonka galloped at full speed out into the plains and the horsewoman Nin went in another direction, leading a cart loaded with gardening gear.  The foals were busy at an outdoor table, lined up in rows to pull a nut-brown taffy.  Morathi, watching over them, frowned as he met Taryn’s eyes and saw the lodge to which they were headed.

It was one of the smallest lodges in the
kraal, perhaps only twenty feet long and half as wide.  Ven’s bed occupied one corner and there were others arranged before a dimly-glowing hearth, but Ven took her instead to an empty table and lifted her onto it as though she were a toddler at a doctor’s office.  A foal appeared, hugging the doorframe, her eyes huge and frightened as she stared at Taryn.  The horsewoman brought down lamps from her shelves and gradually the room grew bright.

“
I tried to wrap them,” Taryn said lamely.  The horsewoman was washing her hands and did not reply.  “I was so careful.”

Ven moved to put herbs and water into a kettle and set it over the coals, adding wood to the embers.

“I haven’t got my gardening gloves yet.”

“
You did not know better.”