“Why would they?” asked Bertaud. “How can they? Six years ago, you said that if your people fought mine without quarter, yours would be destroyed. How has that changed? Discounting what—what might prevent them. You have not told them about that?”
“No, nor dare I. Everything I told you six years ago remains true,” Kairaithin said sharply. “Save this one thing: My people now count among their treasures the fire mage Kereskiita Keskainiane Raikaisipiike. Kes. My kiinukaile Opailikiita Sehanaka Kiistaike remains her first iskarianere, but Kes has also taken Tastairiane Apailika as a second iskarianere.”
“Tastairiane!” Bertaud exclaimed, flinching from a name he evidently recognized.
“Even so. Kes has come entirely into her power. She has become fierce and forgotten the earth from which she was taken. She calls for a wind of fire and a brilliant day of blood, and though I would speak against her, I have no allies among the People of Fire and Air.”
Bertaud said, “Even without allies, Sipiike Kairaithin, can you not turn that wind, no matter how strong the storm, and find another for your people to ride?”
“You mistake me,” said Kairaithin. And, after a moment, “Do you not understand me, man? When I say I have no allies, I mean I fly alone. The Lord of Fire and Air no longer regards my opinion. He has not since I supported the building of the Wall. He does not understand… none of my people understand… why, on that night of fire, I chose to turn the wind we had brought down against Casmantium. He believes I deliberately caught defeat out of a wind that should have carried us to victory.”
There was a pause. Then Bertaud said quietly, “No. I did not know.” And, after a moment, “I am sorry, Kairaithin. I would do the same again. But I’m sorry the cost of what we all did that night fell on you.”
The griffin mage shrugged off his sympathy. “It has mattered little. While earth and fire were divided, the People of Fire and Air had little need for my strength. Now that the Wall’s protection is failing, they still need not regard me.” The griffin mage paused. But then he said, his voice not precisely gentle, but so low Mienthe had to strain to hear him, “I would I had found a different wind to call, these six years past, when the cold mages of Casmantium first struck against my people. This one has come about into a different quarter than I ever intended. I see only two directions in which it may lead: the destruction of your people or the destruction of mine. I would choose neither. But I do not see any wind that can carry us in any direction but toward disaster.”
“But—” said Bertaud, and stopped.
“Yes,” said the griffin. “I am at fault. I am twice at fault. If I had properly judged the wind as I called it up six years ago, I would have guessed what storm it might become. If I had understood that, I would have seen plainly that I should have killed you, there in that desert we made with such bitter cost. Now the chance is gone and I do not know what to do. So I came here to you, though you did not call me. Will you hold me?”
Bertaud did not answer at once. At last he said, “No,” and hesitated, glancing down. And then looked up once more to meet Kairaithin’s fierce gaze. “Not yet. Not if I can avoid it—How long will the Wall stand, can you guess?”
The griffin mage shrugged. “Not long, unless the balance between fire and earth and the wild magic is restored. And, as I do not know what disturbed it, I cannot guess how it might be restored. I have studied the weakness in the Wall over these past days. I have considered the lengthening and branching of the cracks. I do not think it will hold long. Five days?”
“Five!” Bertaud exclaimed.
“Or six. Or ten.” Kairaithin lifted a hand and dropped it again in weary uncertainty. “I do not think it will hold longer than ten days, if it holds so long. And what will you do when it breaks, man?”
Bertaud did not answer.
Mienthe had an idea the griffin might have said something else, something more, only she was in the room, listening. His black eyes shifted to consider her. She flinched and tried not to back away, though she couldn’t have explained why she thought it would be a bad idea to back away.
Kairaithin turned his gaze back toward Bertaud. “This is… your mate? Your child?”
“My cousin,” Bertaud said. Then added, “My iskarianere—I think that would do.” He moved to stand next to Mienthe, put an arm around her shoulders. Not exactly protectively. Even now, it did not seem to occur to him that she might need protection. Now she had at last drawn the griffin’s attention, Mienthe found this extremely reassuring.