The sacred silver griffin chose a starving courier girl, then crowned her sovereign of a throne thought destroyed forever

Chapter 2: The Twin Flames

Cold stone beneath bare feet.

A dying cry silenced.

Light burning through coarse cloth.

The griffin pressed closer.

Its small heart hammered violently.

It beat against her ribs.

Like a trapped sparrow in winter.

Nobody moved.

The palace guards held their breath.

Their halberds trembled against iron chestplates.

Corwin took one step down the dais.

His boots clicked on the granite.

The beast snarled.

It tucked its hooked beak under Tamsin’s chin.

Silver heat poured through her coarse linen tunic.

Her collarbone ached from the sudden warmth.

The deep chill of the winter street vanished.

“Do not touch it,” Corwin whispered.

His sword hand rested upon his pommel.

He did not draw the blade.

“He is shaking,” Tamsin said.

“That creature rips plate armor in half.”

“He is cold.”

“He is an ancient terror.”

“He is an infant.”

Corwin stopped three paces away.

The distance felt like miles.

His hands remained open at his sides.

He looked down at her hands.

They were stained with willow juice.

Dark brown rings marked her knuckles.

Her fingernails were cracked from winter labor.

Her cuffs were frayed and damp from freezing rain.

“What is in your satchel?” he asked.

“Crushed bark,” she said.

“What kind?”

“White willow.”

“For whom?”

“The master of the royal kennels.”

“You deliver dog medicine?”

“I deliver whatever pays two copper coins.”

“Only two coins?”

“It buys a loaf of dark bread.”

“Nothing more?”

“Salt, when the river trade is good.”

The young beast shuddered against her stomach.

Its silver down puffed against the hall draft.

A thin whimper left its throat.

The cry was high and reedy.

It sounded like a weeping child.

“It has refused every royal healer,” Corwin said.

“They smell like perfume,” she replied.

“They wear the finest silk.”

“They smell of lilac and fear.”

“And you?”

“I smell like the marsh.”

“The river mud?”

“Boiled roots, smoke, and mud.”

The griffin nudged her thumb.

Its rough tongue rasped against her skin.

A drop of clear black frost dripped from its beak.

It struck the gray flagstone.

It sizzled faintly in the cold draft.

A curl of bitter steam rose from the stone.

Tamsin frowned.

She knelt down on one knee.

She kept both arms locked around the bird’s flank.

She dipped the frayed hem of her sleeve into the black frost.

She brought the wet cloth toward her face.

She sniffed the edge.

Her stomach tightened instantly.

The scent was sharp.

It smelled like burnt copper and scorched grass.

“This is not mountain sickness,” she said.

Corwin’s gaze hardened.

His gray eyes darkened like winter storm clouds.

“What is it?”

“Bitter-root sap.”

“That is poison.”

“A slow one.”

“How slow?”

“Seven days to turn the blood to water.”

“Seven days of agony.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mother taught me plants before she died.”

“Where did she learn?”

“From the washerwomen down by the docks.”

Corwin stared at her face.

The silence stretched long between them.

He studied the curve of her jaw.

He looked at the pale scar near her hairline.

A thin crescent above her left temple.

His chest rose sharply.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Stand up,” he said softly.

Tamsin gathered the creature tighter against her chest.

She rose slowly to her feet.

Her worn boots slid slightly on the slick marble.

Her knees cracked in the quiet room.

Her pendant swung free from her collar.

It was cheap green glass wrapped in twisted copper wire.

The wire was green with verdigris.

Yet violet light pulsed through its core.

It hummed against her breastbone.

Across the room, Corwin’s circlet pulsed in exact time.

The jewel set in his iron band answered.

Flash.

Pause.

Flash.

The rhythm matched her heartbeat.

Elder Justin took a trembling step forward.

The old priest reached for his fallen staff.

His fingers shook against the polished ash wood.

He leaned heavily upon the crook.

His white beard swept the stone floor.

“The blood-song,” Justin breathed.

His voice cracked like dry parchment.

“Quiet,” Corwin ordered.

“Sire, the stones have not sung in eighteen winters.”

“I said quiet.”

“The crown acknowledges the branch.”

“Hold your tongue, old man.”

Corwin looked back at Tamsin.

His eyes never left the glass pendant.

“Who gave you that glass?”

“My mother.”

“When?”

“Before the winter coughing took her.”

“Did she give you a name?”

“Her name was Maren.”

Justin took another gasping breath.

“Maren was a laundress in the lower town,” Justin whispered.

“She carried linen for the lower court.”

“She washed the linens of the royal nursery.”

Corwin did not look at the priest.

He kept his gaze fixed on Tamsin’s eyes.

They were deep hazel with flecks of gold.

“The royal nursery burned eighteen years ago,” Corwin said.

His voice was barely audible.

“I know the tale,” Tamsin said.

“Every child in the city knows it.”

“My brother died in those flames.”

“King Alden.”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“His newborn daughter died with him.”

“Princess Elyse.”

“That was her name.”

Tamsin looked down at the floor.

“Everyone knows the story, your grace.”

“They told me the fire caught from a furnace flue.”

“Did it not?”

“The nursery door was bolted from the inside.”

* * *

The private solar was cold.

A small hearth burned with damp birch logs.

The griffin slept on a pile of wool coats by the fire.

It refused to release Tamsin’s hem.

Every time she shifted her weight, its curved claws tightened.

Master Kenneth entered carrying three thick ledgers.

The palace archivist was seventy years old.

Ink stained his knuckles like permanent bruises.

His back was bent like a willow bough.

He placed the heavy books upon the oak table.

Gray dust rose in the firelight.

“The registry from the night of the fire,” Kenneth said.

His voice was dry as bone.

Corwin poured water from an iron pitcher into a clay cup.

He handed the cup to Tamsin.

She hesitated.

Her fingers brushed his.

His skin was calloused from years of broadsword practice.

“Drink,” he said gently.

She drank.

The water was clean, sweet, and cold.

“Show me the guard rotation,” Corwin told the archivist.

Kenneth turned the yellowed vellum pages.

The dry sheepskin crinkled beneath his fingers.

His finger traced down a column of faded brown ink.

“The inner gate had four men,” Kenneth read aloud.

“Read their names,” Corwin demanded.

“Captain Thorne.”

“Sergeant Vane.”

“Guardsman Cole.”

“Guardsman Dennis.”

“Where are they now?”

“Thorne died of dock fever three years later.”

“And the other three?”

“Pensioned off to the southern vineyards.”

Kenneth turned another fragile page.

“All three pensions were approved in a single day,” Kenneth added.

“On whose authority?”

“The High Steward.”

Tamsin set the clay cup down upon the table.

She reached into her canvas satchel.

Beneath the dried willow bark lay a small tin box.

The metal was dented and scratched.

She unlatched the rusty clasp with her thumb.

Corwin watched her hands closely.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Things my mother kept beneath the floorboards,” she said.

“Why beneath the floorboards?”

“She told me soldiers searched the lower wards every spring.”

She set three objects on the oak table.

A carved horn spoon.

A scrap of fine silk embroidered with gold thread.

A rusted brass seal.

Kenneth gasped.

He reached for the seal with trembling fingers.

“Do not touch it yet,” Corwin said.

Kenneth pulled his hand back quickly.

“Sire,” Kenneth whispered.

“Speak,” Corwin said.

“That is the seal of the Queen’s private wardrobe.”

“Are you certain?”

“I cataloged it myself forty years ago.”

Corwin picked up the scrap of silk.

It was singed black along one edge.

The gold thread formed a half-circle with seven stars.

“The royal nursery blankets,” Corwin said.

His thumb traced the burned fringe.

“My mother told me I was found in a basket,” Tamsin said.

“Where was the basket?”

“By the river sluice.”

“Near the washerwomen’s huts.”

“With these objects?”

“Wrapped in her coarse apron.”

Corwin picked up the carved horn spoon.

Small teeth marks pitted the handle.

“My brother carved this spoon,” Corwin said softly.

He ran his thumb over the yellowed horn.

“He carved one for every child of our bloodline.”

“He sat by this very hearth.”

“He used a small pearl-handled knife.”

Tamsin looked at the sleeping beast.

“Why did the beast come to me?” she asked.

“Because its mother died in that room,” Corwin said.

The room grew very still.

Only the pop of the birch wood broke the silence.

“The Great Griffin of Valen,” Corwin explained.

“She broke through the outer stone wall trying to reach the cradle.”

“She burned in the collapse,” Kenneth added.

“Her feathers caught fire from the burning ceiling.”

“She laid this single egg as she fell,” Corwin said.

“It took eighteen years to hatch.”

The cub let out a soft, whistling sigh.

Its silver wing twitched in its sleep.

“The egg hatched seven days ago,” Corwin said.

“The day you entered the outer gates,” Kenneth murmured.

“I came to sell herbs,” she said.

Tamsin looked down at her rough wool skirt.

“I am an apothecary girl.”

“You are not,” Kenneth said.

“I scrub stone floors for coppers,” she said.

“You have the royal blood,” Corwin said.

“Blood does not make an empress.”

“In this court, it makes a target.”

Corwin walked to the narrow solar window.

He pushed the heavy shutter open an inch.

Below, the courtyard lanterns flickered in the rising dusk.

Men in dark woolen cloaks moved between the armory and the stables.

Iron weapons clinked in the shadows.

“Kenneth,” Corwin said without turning.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Who signed the death certificate for the infant princess?”

Kenneth turned to the back of the first ledger.

A slip of folded parchment was pinned to the heavy binding.

The wax seal was dark red, almost black.

“Lord Julian,” Kenneth read.

“The High Steward.”

* * *

A heavy knock sounded at the solar door.

The solid oak rattled in its iron frame.

The griffin cub woke instantly.

Its neck feathers flared into sharp silver quills.

Its small talons dug through the wool coats.

“Enter,” Corwin called.

Lord Julian stepped inside the room.

He was forty years old, tall, and draped in royal blue velvet.

His silver chains of office clinked heavily against his chest.

Behind him stood two captains of the palace guard.

Their swords hung low in polished scabbards.

“Your Majesty,” Julian said smoothly.

He bowed from the waist.

His cold eyes flicked immediately to Tamsin.

A small, thin smile touched his lips.

“We heard a commotion in the Great Hall,” Julian said.

“The beast is calm,” Corwin said.

“So I observe.”

Julian took two slow steps toward the fire.

The griffin hissed.

It snapped its hooked beak with a sharp, echoing crack.

Julian halted.

His boots remained firmly planted.

“A dangerous animal,” Julian remarked.

“It knows its friends,” Corwin replied.

“And its betters, one hopes.”

Julian looked Tamsin up and down.

His lip curled slightly at her stained apron.

“Who is this peasant?”

“She is under my personal protection,” Corwin said.

“She carries palace property,” Julian said.

“What property?”

“The griffin belongs to the realm.”

“The beast chose her,” Corwin said.

“Beasts choose whoever feeds them offal.”

Julian gestured to his two guardsmen.

“Take the girl to the North Tower for questioning.”

“Touch her and die,” Corwin said.

The room turned to ice.

The two guards froze in their tracks.

Their hands remained resting on their pommels.

Neither man took another step.

Julian’s smile thinned into a pale line.

“You threaten your own council, Sire?”

“I protect the bloodline.”

Julian laughed once.

The sound was dry, sharp, and hollow.

“What bloodline?”

“My niece,” Corwin said.

Julian shook his head in mock pity.

“A courier girl?”

“Look at the stones,” Corwin said.

Julian looked at the violet glow pulsing between the two gems.

His eyes narrowed into slits.

“Tricks of light,” Julian said.

“You have been deceived, young king.”

“By whom?”

“Grave robbers.”

Julian pointed a gloved finger at Tamsin.

“Dozens of relics were looted after the Great Fire.”

“The lower wards were flooded with stolen palace silver.”

“She had the nursery seal,” Corwin said.

“Stolen from the ruins,” Julian said instantly.

“She had the horn spoon.”

“Plundered from the ash.”

“And the beast’s devotion?”

“A scent trick,” Julian scoffed.

“A common hound master’s trick with dried meat.”

Tamsin stepped forward.

She stood directly between Julian and the griffin.

Her chin remained lifted high.

“I smelled bitter-root on the cub’s tongue,” she said.

Julian did not blink.

His expression remained smooth stone.

“A common weed in mountain pastures,” Julian said.

“It does not grow above the tree line,” she countered.

“The royal aviary sits on the highest peak.”

“Are you a botanist now, courier?”

“I know what kills,” she said.

“And I know what heals.”

Julian’s eyes were pitiless.

“You know how to hang, girl.”

Corwin drew his sword an inch from its sheath.

The bright steel rang like a silver chime.

“Leave us, Julian,” Corwin commanded.

His voice was dead and flat.

Julian held Corwin’s stare for five long seconds.

Then he bowed again.

It was a shallow, mocking bow.

“The High Council meets at dawn,” Julian said.

“We shall settle this matter according to the ancient statutes.”

He turned on his heel.

His heavy velvet cloak swished against the doorpost.

His guards followed him into the dark hallway.

The heavy oak door closed with a dull thud.

Tamsin let out a long, trembling breath.

“He will kill us both,” she said.

“He will try,” Corwin said.

“You cannot fight your own army.”

“The army follows the Crown.”

“He holds the coin,” Kenneth warned.

Corwin looked back at the old archivist.

“What coin?”

“The treasury ledgers were seized by Julian’s clerks yesterday,” Kenneth said.

“On what authority?”

“Emergency defense statutes.”

Corwin’s jaw tightened until the bone showed white.

“He is moving faster than expected.”

“Why now?” Tamsin asked.

Corwin looked at her.

“Because the beast woke up,” he said.

“And because an heir ends his regency forever.”

* * *

Midnight brought heavy rain against the high stained glass.

The griffin slept with its silver head resting on Tamsin’s lap.

She sat on a low wooden bench near the hearth.

Corwin sat opposite her, polishing a plain leather scabbard.

A tin of mutton tallow sat between his boots.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Only the hiss of rain filled the room.

“Were you frightened?” he asked finally.

“Of him?”

“Of the throne room.”

“I was frightened for the bird,” she said.

“Why?”

“It looked so small.”

“It looked so terribly alone.”

“It will grow to thirty feet across the wings,” Corwin said.

“It was cold,” she repeated simply.

Corwin smiled faintly.

It was the first time she saw him smile.

The harsh hardness left his face for a single second.

“You sound like my brother,” Corwin said.

“Was he kind?”

“Too kind for this castle.”

“He trusted men too easily.”

“That is not a crime.”

“In this court, it was fatal.”

Corwin set the leather scabbard aside.

He leaned his forearms against his knees.

“I was ten years old when the nursery burned,” he said.

“I remember the smell of the smoke.”

“It smelled like burning cedar and fat.”

“I tried to run through the inner door.”

“They dragged me back by my collar.”

“Who dragged you?”

“Julian.”

Tamsin touched the beast’s soft silver ear.

The griffin purred like a giant cat.

“He said he was saving my life,” Corwin said.

“Perhaps he was.”

“He was securing his leverage.”

“A child king is easy to rule.”

“Why did he not take the crown himself?”

“The people would have rebelled.”

“They loved your brother?”

“They worshiped him.”

“And you?”

“I was a child,” Corwin said.

“A convenient puppet on a string.”

“Until you grew up.”

“Until I refused to sign his tax edicts.”

A soft, frantic tap came at the small servants’ door behind the tapestry.

Corwin rose instantly.

His right hand went to his hilt.

“Who goes there?”

“Kenneth, Sire.”

Corwin drew back the heavy velvet hanging.

The old archivist slipped inside.

He was soaking wet from the storm.

Rain dripped from his beard onto his gray robe.

Under his cloak, he carried a square wooden box wrapped in oilcloth.

“What is that?” Corwin asked.

“The apothecary ledgers from the Lower Ward,” Kenneth panted.

He placed the heavy box on the wooden bench.

Water pooled around his worn boots.

“I paid the apothecary’s widow fifty silvers,” Kenneth said.

“Her husband died last month.”

“Did he keep records?”

“Every grain of poison sold in the city for ten years.”

Tamsin knelt beside the box.

Her nimble fingers worked the tight knots of the oilcloth.

Inside lay three narrow calfskin registers.

She opened the most recent one.

Her eyes scanned the cramped, faded script.

“Look for nightshade,” Corwin said.

“Not nightshade,” she said.

“What then?”

“Dried bitter-root extract.”

“It is much rarer.”

She turned seven pages.

Her dirty finger stopped halfway down a leaf.

“Here,” she said.

Corwin leaned over her shoulder.

His breath was warm against her ear.

“Read it,” he said softly.

“Twelfth of November,” she read aloud.

“Three drams of refined bitter-root oil.”

“Delivered to whom?”

“The Master of the Royal Aviary.”

“Paid by whom?”

Tamsin looked at the bottom of the entry.

A wax impression sat in the margin.

It was not the royal crest of Valen.

It was a swooping hawk holding a broken spear.

“Julian’s private crest,” Corwin said.

His voice was grim.

“There is more,” Kenneth said.

He pulled a folded letter from his breast pocket.

“The Iron Guild’s courier was intercepted at the southern gate an hour ago.”

“By whom?”

“By my nephew in the city watch.”

“What was the courier carrying?”

“A debt notice.”

Corwin took the parchment.

He broke the black wax seal with his thumb.

He read the short lines quickly.

His eyes flared with cold anger.

“Forty thousand gold crowns,” Corwin whispered.

“Borrowed against what collateral?” Kenneth asked.

“Borrowed against the royal grain reserves.”

“The grain for the winter bread?”

“All of it.”

“Due when?” Kenneth asked.

“On the winter solstice.”

“In three weeks,” Tamsin said.

“If the vaults are audited, the shortage will be revealed,” Corwin said.

“The silos are empty.”

“He sold our winter wheat to the southern dukes.”

“And an heir demands an immediate audit upon ascension,” Kenneth said.

Tamsin looked from the letter to the sleeping cub.

“He was killing the beast to delay the succession.”

“He was killing the beast so no one would look for you,” Corwin said.

* * *

Dawn broke behind gray, heavy clouds.

The Great Council Chamber was packed with forty lords, judges, and high priests.

Heavy iron braziers burned with sweet cedar incense.

The smoke curled toward the high vaulted ceiling.

The low murmur of voices filled the vast room.

Lord Julian stood at the center of the marble floor.

He wore his ceremonial robes of ermine and silver cloth.

His expression was composed, serene, and cold.

At the head of the chamber sat the empty High Throne of Valen.

Carved from solid white granite, it remained untouched for eighteen years.

Corwin walked into the chamber.

He did not wear his golden crown.

He wore simple mail and a dark wool cloak.

Beside him walked Tamsin.

She still wore her patched courier apron.

In her arms, she carried the silver griffin cub.

A violent gasp went through the assembled lords.

Several barons stood up from their carved chairs.

“Silence!” the herald shouted.

Julian did not look surprised.

He clasped his gloved hands before his waist.

“Sire,” Julian said.

His clear voice echoed off the damp stone walls.

“You bring a beggar and a beast to the council of state?”

“I bring the truth,” Corwin answered.

“The council does not deal in street theater,” Julian said smoothly.

“We deal in law.”

“Then let us examine the law,” Corwin said.

He stepped toward the center table.

He placed the old registers and the debt notice on the dark wood.

Julian’s gaze flicked to the books.

A small muscle ticked beneath his left eye.

“These are ledgers,” Julian said dismissively.

“These are proof of high treason,” Corwin replied.

“Treason by whom?”

“By you, Lord Steward.”

A loud murmur ran through the assembly.

Lord Robert, the eldest duke of the western marquisate, leaned forward.

His silver hair shone in the firelight.

“Explain this accusation, King Corwin,” Robert demanded.

“Eighteen years ago, the royal nursery burned,” Corwin began.

“We all mourn that tragedy,” Julian interrupted.

“You engineered it,” Corwin said.

“An absurd lie,” Julian scoffed.

“The doors were bolted from inside,” Corwin said.

“By the mad nursemaid,” Julian said.

“No,” Corwin said.

“By your guardsmen, who were paid with southern vineyards.”

Julian smiled thinly.

“Pensions granted to loyal servants of the realm.”

“And the bitter-root oil in the griffin’s mash?” Corwin asked.

“The beast was sick,” Julian said.

“The aviary trainers applied standard remedies.”

“Bitter-root is not a remedy,” Tamsin spoke up.

Her voice was clear, loud, and steady.

The entire chamber turned to look at her.

“Who permits a kitchen girl to address the council?” Julian snapped.

“I permit it,” Corwin said.

“She is an imposter,” Julian declared to the room.

“Look at her rags!”

“Look at her calloused hands!”

“Are we to surrender the throne of our ancestors to a stray from the gutters?”

Several lords nodded in agreement.

“He speaks reason,” Lord Robert muttered.

“Any thief can find a dead king’s trinket in a ditch.”

Julian took a confident step toward the lords.

“She has been coached,” Julian argued.

“She was sent by enemies in the south to fracture our kingdom.”

“She carries a fabricated pedigree to seat a puppet upon the throne.”

The lords began to murmur louder.

The tide was turning against them.

Julian turned back to Corwin, triumph shining in his pale eyes.

“Where is your proof, Sire?”

“Tangible proof.”

“Not old nursery tales.”

“Not common weeds.”

“Proof that will satisfy the high statutory law.”

Corwin looked at Elder Justin.

The old priest nodded once.

Justin stepped forward carrying the sacred Silver Basin of the First King.

The basin was filled with clear spring water from the high glacier.

“The trial of the living water,” Justin announced.

“An ancient superstition,” Julian scoffed.

“The statutory trial of the Valen dynasty,” Robert corrected sharply.

“Let the girl step forward.”

Tamsin walked to the silver basin.

The griffin cub squirmed gently in her arms.

She set the creature down upon the table.

The beast sat upright.

Its silver eyes watched the assembly without blinking.

“Place your talisman into the water,” Justin instructed.

Tamsin unhooked the copper wire clasp from her neck.

She dropped the battered glass pendant into the basin.

It sank to the bottom.

Nothing happened.

The water remained clear and still.

Julian smiled broadly.

“Nothing,” Julian said.

“A piece of cheap tavern bottle.”

“Now, King Corwin,” Justin said.

Corwin stepped to the basin.

He removed the violet signet ring from his thumb.

He dropped it into the water beside the pendant.

The ring touched the glass.

A clear chime sounded through the stone floor.

It was not loud.

It vibrated in the teeth of every man present.

The water did not splash.

It ignited with cool violet flame.

Light shot toward the high vaulted ceiling.

The cheap glass pendant dissolved like melting ice.

Beneath the glass lay a pure, uncut star-sapphire.

The exact twin to the king’s stone.

The two stones began to spin in the water.

They circled each other like dancing fireflies.

The griffin cub spread its wings wide.

A shockwave of silver light washed over the council table.

The cedar braziers flared white.

The cub threw back its head.

It did not cry like a bird.

It roared with the deep, ringing bell-voice of the ancient guardians.

The sound shook the dust from the high rafters.

The lords shrank back against their chairs.

Two priests dropped to their knees in prayer.

The griffin stepped past the basin.

It ignored Corwin.

It ignored Julian.

It climbed up the three marble steps to the High Throne.

It sat down on the white cushion of the seat.

It tucked its claws under its chest and closed its eyes.

The silence in the chamber was total.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Elder Justin turned to the assembly.

“The stone has spoken,” Justin said.

“The beast has chosen.”

“The lineage is unbroken.”

Julian’s face had turned the color of dry salt.

He took a hurried step backward toward the side door.

Two guardsmen crossed their halberds before his chest.

“Move aside,” Julian hissed.

The guards did not move.

Corwin stepped to the table.

He picked up the debt notice from the Iron Guild.

“There is also the matter of forty thousand stolen gold crowns,” Corwin said.

He handed the parchment to Lord Robert.

The old duke read the lines slowly.

Robert’s face darkened with sudden rage.

“You pawned our winter grain?” Robert roared at Julian.

“It was an investment,” Julian choked out.

“It was treason,” Robert said.

The duke turned to the captain of the watch.

“Strip him of his chains.”

The captain stepped forward.

With one hard pull, he ripped the silver medallion of state from Julian’s neck.

The heavy links clattered across the marble floor.

Julian glared at Tamsin.

His hands shook with impotent fury.

“You think you are an empress?” he spat.

“You smell of the river mud.”

“You will always smell of the ditch.”

“You will wither in this stone cage.”

Tamsin looked at him calmly.

“The river feeds the kingdom, Lord Julian.”

“The mud grows the wheat.”

“You only learned how to steal it.”

The captain seized Julian’s arms.

They dragged him toward the outer corridor.

His boots scuffed against the cold stones.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

* * *

Three months later, the mountain snows began to melt.

Water rushed through the gutters of the Lower Ward.

The smell of damp earth and budding willow filled the air.

In the courtyard of the public infirmary, Tamsin knelt on a flat stone.

She wore a simple blue linen gown with rolled sleeves.

Her hands were covered in green pulp.

Beside her, a stone mortar sat filled with crushed fever-leaf.

A loud thump landed behind her.

The griffin cub, now as large as a mountain panther, shoved its head against her shoulder.

It knocked over an empty basket of dried mint.

“Stop that,” she laughed.

The beast nuzzled her neck, purring like a blacksmith’s bellows.

Its feathers were thick, blinding silver.

Small horns of polished ivory were beginning to curl behind its ears.

Corwin walked through the garden gate.

He carried an armload of dry birch branches for the drying ovens.

He wore no crown.

His shirt was linen, his boots scuffed with garden dirt.

He dropped the firewood by the wall.

He rubbed his knuckles and groaned.

“Apothecary work is harder than broadsword drills,” he said.

“You are using the wrong muscles,” she replied without looking up.

“You say that about everything I do.”

“Because it is true.”

He sat down on the wooden bench beside her mortar.

He watched her hands work the pestle.

“The council met this morning,” he said.

“Did they complain about the grain shipments again?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“They offered you the southern estates.”

“I told them no.”

“Three palaces, Tamsin.”

“Three roofs I do not need to sweep.”

“They also offered fifty thousand silvers as your maiden stipend.”

She set the pestle down.

“Give forty thousand to the Iron Guild to finish Julian’s debt,” she said.

“And the rest?”

“Build clean water conduits for the Tanner’s Row.”

Corwin smiled softly.

“They will call you a fool.”

“They can call me whatever they wish while they drink clean water.”

He reached out.

His fingers caught a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She looked up into his eyes.

“They also proposed a match,” Corwin said quietly.

Her breath caught slightly.

“With whom?”

“The Prince of the West.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I told them the High Throne makes its own choices.”

“Good.”

“They asked if I would claim you for the Crown.”

She watched his face.

“And what did you say?”

Corwin took her hand.

His fingers wrapped around her herb-stained knuckles.

“I told them the Crown does not take,” he said.

“The Crown asks permission.”

The wind stirred the drying mint leaves.

The griffin rested its chin on her knee.

“Permission for what, Corwin?”

“To walk with you,” he said.

“On the parapet at sunset.”

“As an equal.”

“Whenever you are ready.”

She looked down at their joined hands.

A slow, warm smile touched her mouth.

“I finish the fever-leaf at five,” she said.

“I will bring the warm cider,” he replied.

* * *

Three years later.

The bells of the High Citadel rang across the entire valley.

The morning sun hit the white marble of the Great Hall.

A crowd of thousands stood in the lower courtyards.

Inside the throne room, the white granite chairs were no longer empty.

Two identical thrones sat upon the dais.

Between them lay a broad platform of polished cedar.

The great silver griffin lay upon the wood, magnificent and vast.

Its wings spanned thirty paces across the dais.

Its feathers shone like polished silver plate in the high sunlight.

A deep, contented hum rumbled through its massive chest.

Corwin stood before the western throne.

He wore the dark mantle of the realm, lined with gray fur.

On his breast burned the royal star-sapphire.

Tamsin stood before the eastern throne.

Her gown was deep green, the color of summer willow.

Around her neck hung the twin stone, set in gold.

She looked out over the assembly of lords, commoners, and soldiers.

There were no whispers of doubt.

There were no questions of blood.

The granaries were full.

The water in the lower wards ran clear and cold.

The debt was paid.

The beast stirred.

It raised its massive head toward the vaulted ceiling.

It let out a clear, ringing bugle of joy.

The sound echoed off the stone mountains.

The people in the courtyards cheered.

Corwin turned his head to look at her.

“Do you remember the first day?” he asked softly.

“You thought I was a thief,” she said.

“I thought I was dreaming.”

“You were ruin on a dais.”

“And you brought willow bark.”

She smiled.

She reached out and rested her hand on the griffin’s warm crest.

The beast leaned into her touch.

The kingdom was healed.

The shadows were gone.

The true heir stood in the light.

THE END