VIII. The Griffin

Sikander opened his eyes.

For a third time found himself in completely different surroundings to those he last remembered. No sign of the black-sand beach, no leaden skies, no volcano roaring in the distance.

Instead clear bright sunshine warmed Sikander's back. He lay curled up on the ground, in a hollow near the top of a tall conical hill. A sharp breeze, gusting briskly, swept the air as clear as crystal and lay blades of thin grass down flat against small outcrops of white stone. He could see for miles. Looking out across the surrounding land Sikander felt almost as though he were flying. The country lay khaki-green and table-flat almost to the horizon, where ranges of hills stood far off to the north and west. In the east Sikander could just make out sunlight glittering on the sea.

Movement far below caught his eye. A small troop of horsemen was winding slowly away from the hill across the broad plane. Three men at the head of the column carried hooded falcons on their wrists and seemed to be chatting and joking together. Behind them two soldiers carried huge white flags which billowed out in the breeze, each bearing the same crest: a black eagle with wings spread.

Chain-mail glittered under the tunics of the soldiers following on behind. Their hoods of mail were thrown back and they carried long swords at their sides, shields and helmets strapped to their saddles. They all appeared quite at ease, as though going for a pleasure stroll. None of them seemed to have noticed Sikander, so after watching them for a little the Sandragon turned round to look up the hill behind him.

The hill-top was crowned by a strange white castle. A single octagonal keep had an octagonal tower at each of its eight corners, each no higher than the keep itself. Black and white banners snapped on staffs above two of the towers. There was no other sign of guards, nor of anyone else there at all.

Sikander got up from where he lay and stretched out his wings. The wind immediately caught them and almost swept him off the hillside. It would have whirled him away like a feather had he not quickly laid his wings flat across the breeze, then folded them quickly back down again. He arched his back and yawned, then he turned and climbed slowly up towards the castle, drawn by curiosity.

As he came nearer to the hill-top he saw that it had been cut away into a broad circular platform, paved in pure white stone which in the glare of wintery sunlight was almost blinding. The castle rose from the middle of this empty space in splendid silence and solitude. A low octagonal wall surrounded the entire structure and an opening in the wall seemed to bid Sikander enter.

He stepped into the open space before the castle. There was nothing and nobody there. The only sounds were of the wind and the banners, cracking high above. His shadow stood out sharply on the white paving, seemed almost solid. Something felt strange about this lonely castle, but the Sandragon could not quite put his claw on what.

The walls looked solidly built. Slit windows in the towers' walls would have given archers clear lines of fire at anyone approaching with ill intent. But much larger vaulted windows high in the walls of the keep seemed to make a mockery of any serious defensive intent. The Sandragon stopped and looked for sentries, but there were none to be seen. Aside from the banners at the tower-tops there was no sign of life at all. Sikander advanced slowly towards the castle's door, stopping now and then to look around. He could not quite believe that there was no-one there at all and expected to catch someone watching him from somewhere.

Two short symmetrical stairways curved up to a huge doorway flanked by classical columns resting on stone lions. The door was surmounted by a triangular pediment and was made of some heavy dark wood, almost black, studded with shining metal bosses shaped like flowers or stars. The door was closed, but a mere touch with one dragon-paw and it swung open, silently, with no effort.

The Sandragon entered the castle and found himself in a tall square room, quite empty, with another smaller door directly before him. The large blocks of honey-coloured stone of the walls made the hall seem warm, friendly. After the glaring sunlight and the bluster and gusting of the wind outside, the warm half-dark chamber seemed full of serenity and welcome. Sikander looked around and sniffed the air. There was a tang of horses – probably of those that he had seen leaving the castle a little earlier. Iron halter-rings were fixed in the walls, but there was no other sign of any presence.

Sikander proceeded to the only other door leading out. Stepping through he came into an eight-sided court at the centre of the castle itself. In the middle of the courtyard, carved from a single massive block of white marble, there stood an octagonal font or well-head. Sikander drew nearer and looked in. There was no water in the font, just a circular hollow. Eight semi-circular seats were carved into its walls so that eight men might sit inside facing eachother, as though for some ceremony or high council. No sign of life there either.

The Sandragon raised his eyes and looked around the walls of the courtyard. Two arched doors led into the court - one he had just passed through and one other. At the first storey eight mullioned windows opened onto the court. The sky above was a bright razor-sharp blue octagon, ragged white clouds driven across it by the wind.

The strangeness Sikander had felt earlier seemed to permeate the entire structure and seemed to arise from two conflicting aspects of the building. On the one hand the structure looked perfectly regular in its design and construction - as cold, detached, precise and lonely as an abstract theorem. And yet at the same time the castle's colours, its proportions, small elements of decoration, all seemed to give the place an air of friendliness, of calm.

Sikander left the courtyard through the second door and entered a large room which occupied a full segment of the octagonal structure. Like the entry-hall it was quite bare. There were no furnishings nor any other sign of it ever having been lived in or used, as though the builders had just completed their work and the owner had yet to move in. The floor was paved in black and white flagstones, the walls dressed in fine red marble veined with grey, the tall ceiling was deeply vaulted. A door led into the next room, similar again, only the colours of the flagstones and marble changed. The Sandragon walked slowly through a chain of empty rooms, each as bare as the last, then climbed a spiral staircase in one of the corner-towers.

He made his way around the first floor. Here the rooms were airier and lighter than those below. Most had a small gothic-arched window flanked with stone benches facing the outside of the castle, and another facing onto the central court. But still no trace of any presence, no sound other than the gusting of the wind outside.

Sikander climbed another spiral staircase. A trap-door at the top was closed and bolted, but there was no lock on the bolt so he slid it back, swung open the door and climbed out into the wind and sunlight on the roof of the castle. This was paved in the same white stone as the platform some sixty feet below and was without any particular features. Looking out from his vantage point Sikander could see the horsemen had advanced some distance further away but were still in sight. Two of them had released their falcons and one of the two birds was wheeling high above, hovering in the wind, casting around for prey to attack. Sikander looked around the sky for the other falcon, but there was no sign of it.

That seemed odd. Just as when he was a childragon, when half-expecting a flying ambush from one of his sisters, Sikander began to scan the sky methodically, dividing it up into imaginary sectors and searching each in turn for the second hunting-bird.
Nothing in the first sector.
Nothing in the second.

But just as he was moving his gaze to the third, out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement directly above him. It was something far bigger than the falcon he had been looking for and it was coming down at him fast with huge wings arched to brake for landing. The creature had eagle's wings and an eagle's head, but no eagle's body. Sikander dodged out of the way and as the creature landed just where he had been the moment before, he saw that it had the body of a lion.

The Salamander's words came to Sikander's mind and he realised that this must be the Griffin, the one creature who could point him at the Phoenix, tell him where to find the splendid bird he was searching for. The creature turned to face the Sandragon and fixed him with deep yellow eyes.
"Sikander Sandragon."
"Countess Griffin?"
"Ah, then the Salamander's whisper, carried on a wild wind from the mouth of an angry mountain, was no lie."

The Griffin spoke with a harsh foreign accent and had an austere expression, but her words seemed kind.
Sikander had no time to reply before she peered closely at him and asked:
"You have been reading my little book, perhaps?"

Sikander was baffled by the question, which the Griffin posed as though with a certain modest pride for a job well done.

"No. I'm afraid not. In fact I didn't see a single book in the entire castle, nor anything else. Is it always so empty?"

"Castle? Ha!
Did you ever see a castle with no moat, no garrison, no stables, no cellars nor kitchens, with a great big open front door and nothing to defend, no passage to dominate, nothing, in the middle of complete and utter nowhere?"

Sikander had to admit that the Griffin's question made a good point, but it also made the castle, which apparently was not a castle, seem even more mysterious than before.
"If this castle is not a castle, then what is it?"

"Well, it's not a cathedral," observed the Griffin, "though it has more in common with some cathedrals than with most castles. And it certainly isn't much of a hunting lodge, as some like to think it is.

You might call it a folly, standing in the Emperor's favourite park. But you would come closer to the mark if you were to call it a book."

The Sandragon began to wonder if the Griffin was quite normal. He remarked that for a book it didn't seem to have many pages, nor much writing in it.

"That, my dear Sandragon, is only because you don't know how to read this kind of book. The book is the writing and the writing is the book. This stone book has many pages and says many things. But most of all it says to the reader:

I was here and had many resources.

Like those before me, I was used to looking around me, measuring what I saw, recording what I measured, and thinking about what I recorded.

I speak in stone and if you can read me, then you are like I was.

King Frederick, riding away down there, has no need for this kind of vanity.

But his adviser Michael, who considers himself both wise and a wizard, was so eager to leave this mark behind that out of generosity Frederick provided him with all he needed to design it and have it built.

Everyone at court knows that Michael is showing off knowledge gained from books - books which, my dear Sandragon, I myself brought him from far and away, from tomorrow and from long ago. Few know how Michael's showing off works, but the King's kindness allows that and more.

If you read my book properly you will find it written in the languages of the East and West, of the North and South, in the languages of the past, present and future.

In this Michael was no fool. He showed wisdom by weaving these stone pages to speak a language that all may understand and at least partly feel their own."

The Griffin spoke with a passion that held the Sandragon spellbound, though in truth he understood very little of what the strange creature said. His puzzlement must have shown, for the Griffin laughed harshly and bid the Sandragon follow - she would read him a little of the book. She walked across the roof of the castle to the edge of the inner courtyard and looked down.

"Look. To read this book you must first look, then measure, then record, then think, just as Michael and his mentors did.
Oh look! Ha! It is midday, right now, and today there will be twelve hours of light and twelve hours of darkness. No more and no less."

Sikander looked down into the octagonal courtyard but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"Countess Griffin. I am looking and thinking, but for the life of me see I can't see where you read all that."

"Look, see: the shadow of the wall at our feet falls as precisely as a peregrine upon its prey. Today is the Winter Equinox, the sun enters Libra and right now, at midday, the shadow of the wall at our feet just touches the foot of the wall on the far side of the courtyard. Just touches it, mark you. No more and no less. Midday. A few more minutes and that shadow will retreat again."

Sikander looked again and saw that it was just as the Griffin said.

"My dear Sandragon, this place is a grand festival of ollogies, ommetries and onnomies.

Astrology and Astronomy, Geometry and Trigonometry, Numerology and Gnomonology - all here with a vengeance.
Only poor old Economy has no home here.

The entire design of this building is locked into place by the shadows of the sun over the span of the years.

Today a shadow defines the breadth of the courtyard. When the Sun enters the Houses of the Scorpion or the Fishes, that same midday shadow defines the breadth of the inner halls. Trace a circle around the outer towers and measure it. You will find that circle's breadth defined by the midday shadow when the sun enters the House of the Water-bearer or of the Archer. And the octagonal wall surrounding our building, the breadth of that is set when the sun enters Capricorn. Look, the font inside the couryard is just off-centre, but it's walls are aligned with the midday shadows of the sun as it enters Virgo or Taurus on the near side, Leo and Gemini on the far side.

So much for Astrology. Michael could not have written this stone book without my help in reading Astronomy and Trigonometry.

He tells the King the building is a symbol of the Sun because it so matches these shadows. Yet there is more. Look at the courtyard again and measure it. See, in spite of all the perfection and precision, not one side of that inner octagon the same length as another. It is all completely irregular. Some apprentice lost his rule perhaps? Not at all, Sandragon. Astronomical vanity.

Take the two inner walls of the court facing East and West and draw an X between them, from one corner to another. The angle at the centre of that X marks precisely the angle through which the earth's axis of rotation slowly varies over one Great Year, some twenty-six thousand ordinary ones. No mistake there at all. That is Michael's maesters' cryptic way of representing the Earth.

Did I say East and West just now? I meant roughly. The walls of the building are all skewed off the true points of the compass by five degrees. No mistake there either. That skew represents the Moon, for the plane of the Moon's orbit is skewed by five degrees with respect to the Earth's plane of rotation.

And the position of this building, just here in the middle of nowhere, that is no coincidence either. Here and only here, on the very line of latitude where we stand, on days such as today, with equal hours of light and darkness, over the two hours which span midday the shadow of any vertical object traces an arc which is exactly, precisely one eighth of a full circle. That shadow scans one side of an octagon, like the one we are standing on."

Sikander began to see why the Griffin called the castle a book. She was in full flow and there was no stopping her.

"Numerology. Fashionable subject these days. Assigns meanings to numbers and makes no sense to me at all, but goes down a treat with the ladies and gentlemen at court. You may have noticed, young Sandragon, that the number eight will come out of your ears if you even slightly look for it around here. The octagon is everywhere, eight octagonal towers, the octagonal font are all obvious. And there are eight roses sculpted in the walls, each with eight petals, and roses have thorns.

Michael tells the King that the number eight represents the Infinite and so is the number of God, no less. So this castle represents the King, the man who links God and Man; an idea not much liked by those who see just one bridge across that gulf, and that bridge lying elsewhere.

Another number written all over this book, though you could never write it down on paper, is the Number of Nature, which some call the Golden Ratio. Many of the building's proportions match this ratio, which defines the proportions of all Nature, even architects. You can find it in the lengths of your Sandragon wings, in the segments of a man's finger, of a woman's arm and in certain buildings from the Stone Age onwards.

Michael had never even heard of it until a mathematical gentleman at court, one Leonard of Pisa, mentioned it to him, and helped him to work it in everywhere.

And who is the master of this building's style?
Is it
the Goth of the North, with his pointed arches, vaults and tall lines,
the Roman of the South, yearning for purity and classicism,
the Wise Man of Orient, who weaves stars, algebra and tesselation into mosques and pleasure domes alike,
the Philosopher of the West, who wonders where to draw the line between fact and fiction?
All of them are at home here. Not one of them is the host."

The Griffin paused as a cloud passed across the sun, throwing its shadow across the building, then drew a breath and continued.

"There are other numbers here too, and some of them with darker meanings than others.

Michael is a brilliant designer, wise enough to know that he stood on the shoulders of Giants when he layed down the design of this folly. But though wise, he is also great fool, driven by pride and envy, mad enough to place his own name before his friend's very life.

Playing the wizard one stormy night many years ago, Michael foretold that the King will die at the age of fifty-six, in a town named after a flower. Frederick turned fifty-six a few weeks ago.

If you count up the outer walls of the castle and its towers you will find they number fifty-six. A flower is carved in each wall. The King will never go anywhere near Florence this year, just to be on the safe side. But in his kingdom there are plenty of towns with a flower in their name and the King does not suspect that Michael overflows with envy at his glory. The King does not know that since his last birthday Michael carries poison drawn from a white flower in the ring on his left index finger."

Sikander looked at the Griffin in horror: "But Countess, could you not warn the King ?"

"Of course. I could. But we scientists often prefer Not to Interfere with the Course of Nature – even when it is as ugly as Human Nature can sometimes be."

The Sandragon turned away in distaste and looked out across the landscape below, wondering if he might not warn the King himself, but the group of horsemen had vanished from sight. The cloud passed away from the sun and blazing light filled the surroundings again. The Griffin was silent for a while then asked Sikander,

"Tell me Sandragon, did you come here for reading lessons, or was there some other matter?"

Sikander snapped out of his thoughts about King Frederick's fate and replied,
"You are right Countess. Your lesson was interesting, but I came to ask for your help with another question, which the Salamander told me you alone could help me with."

"If I may be of some help to a son of dreamdesert Sandragons, it would be a pleasure and an honour for me."

"Then Countess, please tell me where to find the Phoenix. I must be at the right place at the right time and I am afraid the journey may be long, and the time for travelling it short."

"Ah, the where and when of the Phoenix. We spend time and breath on Astronomy and Geometry when your interests lie in the fields of Geography and Chronology. Well, I can help you with the former but not with the latter.

I cannot say how near the Phoenix is to the end of his own Great Year, but I hear that his pyre is almost built, not on the roof of some mere castle, but on the Roof of the World - a great bare table-land which lies frozen behind bastions of stone, snow and ice, the tallest mountains in the world.

From your position at rest you must head first north-west, across land and sea. When you find land again you must turn north and fly hard. You will need and find more help along your way. Go now Sikander, God bless and good-bye."

Sikander drew in a breath to thank the Griffin for her help, but before he could utter a word he felt the castle and all his surroundings suddenly fall away, disappear into nothing around him. He felt himself falling, twisting and tumbling slowly through a dark void, consciousness falling away too.