He lay on his belly, basking in the afternoon sun, one wing draped over the rock beside him. From here he could see the remains of the nest where he had hatched; time and weather had left large holes in it, and most of the sides had fallen away, leaving only a crude thatch of rotting plant matter lying abandoned on the cut-off treetops, which were steadily regrowing.
The black griffin, still nameless, yawned and flicked his tail. He was feeling restless just now, though he wasn’t sure why. He had eaten well over the last few days, and it was comfortable enough here on the ledge. Perhaps it was just boredom.
He glanced idly at the back wall of his home. There were marks on the rock in shades of red, black and brown. They did not look natural, and he had often puzzled over what had made them. Perhaps they were a kind of moss or lichen, but sometimes when he looked at them in the right light he thought some of the shapes looked familiar. Like animals. And, in the midst of them all, there was one that reminded him of a creature he had never seen outside of a pool of still water during his adult life: a griffin. Its wings were spread wide and its beak was open. Something was coming out of its mouth, but he couldn’t tell what it was. It was red, like blood, but it had a shape like a river.
The black griffin had never completely forgotten his chickhood and the other griffins that had once lived in the valley. He remembered Saekrae, his mother. He had never found her remains, but he knew she was dead. He remembered the strange creatures that had come when she disappeared, though the memory was hazy now. They had flown like griffins and made sounds as if they were, he remembered, but they had not been griffins. He wondered what they were and whether they would ever come back.
The thought made him irritable. If they did, he would fight them. This was his land now.
He raised his head and screeched to emphasise the point, a nameless cry that rang out over the valley. But even as it died away it seemed to strengthen suddenly and swing back toward him, higher and louder.
The black griffin stood up, bewildered. He screeched again, and again the second screech replied. Not an echo. Another voice.
He took to the air, silver feathers shining in the sun, and climbed until he was level with the mountains, looking for the stranger. He screeched again and followed the sound of the reply. It was coming from the summit of the northern-most mountain, and as he flew toward it he could see the creature perched there among the bare rocks.
His heart tugged at his throat. It was another griffin, clear as day, sitting right on the border of his territory. She had seen him coming and was waiting calmly for him. He landed a short distance away and walked toward her.
She turned to watch him. The sun was behind her, making her feathers glow. She was not black like him, or brown, as Saekrae had been. She was . . . gold. Her fur was tawny yellow and her feathers were pale golden brown. Her eyes, though, were blue, as bright as the sky behind her.
The black griffin did not know what to do. He sat on his haunches, wings half-open to make himself look bigger, and simply stared at her. She had not entered the valley. His territory was not violated. But she had suddenly appeared like this, seemingly out of nowhere, and he was completely unprepared for it.
She looked back at him and clicked her beak. “Greetings,” she said. Her voice was strong and clear and did not sound hostile.
The black griffin knew how to speak. He had talked to himself for most of his life, but did not know many words. Only those he had learnt in the nest. He was silent for some time, trying to marshal his thoughts. “You . . . griff?” he managed.
She chirped at him, evidently amused. He noticed that there were strange bands of yellow and brown metal on her forelegs.
“Where . . . you come?” he persisted.
She looked northward. “I am from the Eyrie, at Eagleholm.”
He knew that word. “Nest?” he suggested.
She chirped again. “Did your mother never teach you how to speak?”