Page 112 of Griffin Food

My words stretch into a squeal as Darkan leaps—plunges—from the cliff top. My stomach drops, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Then he catches a current of warmer air, and he beats his wings hard and fast.

I giggle behind my cowl, clutching onto the handle in the saddle for dear life, even though I’m securely strapped in.

His great wings beat gentler, then hold steady as he finds a thermal and glides in effortlessly.

I like this much better than my arrival flight.

The sky has a few wispy clouds, but otherwise it is clear and blue, and the world pans out below us. Griffins appear beside us. One, two, three, four. A blue. A snow gray. Another that is an almost iridescent green, and a final one that is a deep golden brown.

“My wing,” Darrion informs me, his voice projecting intimately inside my head the same way Darkan's does.

We take a lazy glide down the side of the mountain, and then wings beat, and I feel the muscles moving under me as we slowly circle our descent. I spot villages and farmsteads scattered here and there. And the distance, a chain of mountains, and the other peaks, which I presume belong to the other griffin prides.

I am riding a griffin. I am riding a griffin!

A fresh giggle bubbles up.

Darkan turns his head, his eye whirling as he glances back at me. “You are indeed riding a griffin, chosen mate. It is my deepest honor to be your first.”

I reach to stroke my fingers over his feathers before returning them to the handle. I don’t grip it quite as tightly now. The shape of his body and his head provide a buffer from much of the wind. I don’t believe I need to grip it at all, but it offers comfort.

We strike out again, wings pumping steadily, following a meandering path that skirts the side of the mountain. Below is a village high street where rows of dwellings emit smoke from their chimneys. Beyond the central village are farmers’ cottages and fields. Many are barren and unplowed, ready for planting next year—but a field of winter grass is full of fat, fluffy sheep.

As we sweep lower, the villagers stop and wave. The griffins dip their wings from side to side.

A laugh. “Are you waving at them?!”

“We are,” Darkan says proudly.

A great swirl of emotion rises inside me. I am realizing a dream. In ways I thought impossible not so long ago.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for taking me on this ride.”

“You are welcome,” Darrion replies.

We pass the village, heading steadily southward over the vast, sweeping forests in the foothills of the mountain.

“Oh, what is that?” I say, spotting a break in the forest.

“Wing, close ranks!” Darrion’s command cracks like a whip.

Darkan banks sharply. I get a terrifying view of what lurks below. People. Tents. Dozens upon dozens of tents nestled in the forest around the edge of a lake.

The griffin to our right issues a dread-inspiring battle cry, one reminiscent of the night we were snatched.

“Hold tight,” Darkan informs me.

He dives and cuts sharply to the left, wings folding. A great bolt whistles past us. His wing has formed up beneath us, offering protection. Below, the soldiers swarm to reload and position rows of ballistae that line the lake shore.

Another giant bolt shoots through the sky.

Their wings are beating hard, now. Deep, powerful strokes that take us away, climbing fast.

As I peer down upon the swarming camp to see a woman step out to the front, taking her place between two giant ballistae. She wears a white fur cloak, her long, dark hair whipped by the wind. At her side stands a powerful male. Beyond them, the standard of our house, and another of the High King himself.

“My sister,” I say, cold settling in the pit of my stomach when I think of that village where we dipped our wings, not so far away.

“Far closer than we suspected,” Darrion says.