The Dark Griffin (25 page)

“I just thought he wanted to be left alone, that’s all,” said Gern, shamefaced. “I mean, he’s always been pretty solitary.”

They walked off into the city.

“Everyone needs other people,” said Flell. “And that includes him. And tomorrow I’m going to go and have a word with my father. I can’t believe he and the Mistress just let Arren go like that and didn’t do anything to help him. It’s outrageous.”

“Well, they’ve always been a bit off about that,” said Gern. “Arren being a griffiner, I mean. I mean, he’s not a noble like you. He’s not even a Southerner.”

“Yes, he is,” said Flell. “He was born in Idun, just like you were.”

“He’s got a Northern accent, though,” said Gern.

“So? It doesn’t matter.”

They stopped at a crossroads, and went their separate ways. Flell walked back toward her home on the other side of the Eyrie, with Thrain riding on her shoulder.

She knew perfectly well that other griffiners privately disapproved of her relationship with Arren. She didn’t care.

She still remembered the day they had met, in the great council chamber at the Eyrie, when they had both been inducted as new griffiners. Thrain had only been a tiny hatchling then—half the size she was now—but Eluna had already been close to her adult size.

Flell had noticed the tall boy with the black hair during the ceremony and had watched him curiously. She’d never seen a Northerner before that day, although she had heard stories about them from her father, who had owned Northern slaves during his youth and had fought others during a rebellion in the North itself. She had already heard about how one of them had become a griffiner, but she hadn’t seen him in person until that day. He had seen her looking at him, and she had been frightened when he looked back. His eyes were black, and it was hard to tell where they were looking or what the mind behind them was thinking. She had looked away nervously. But after the ceremony, during the celebrations that followed, he had come to find her.

“I’m Arren,” he’d said in forthright tones. “I saw you looking at me.”

He’d laughed at her stammering apology.

“It’s all right. Everyone always looks at me. They all want to know why there’s a blackrobe in the Eyrie.”

That had given her confidence, and she’d introduced herself and Thrain. They had talked about their homes and their families and how they had become partnered with their griffins, and Flell had started to like him almost immediately. So solemn and serious, but with such a sweet smile. Handsome, too, in a cold kind of way.

Now she reflected on him as she had just seen him—barely recognisable under the beard, his chest cut up and infected, mumbling in his drunken despair—and her fists clenched.

A
rren slept badly that night. He heard Flell leave, and some part of him wanted to call her back, but he couldn’t seem to do anything other than lie on his back and mumble. He fell asleep a short while later. Half-formed dreams kept flicking in and out of his mind, and he couldn’t stop sweating. He woke up again a while later—not sure if he’d slept at all—and tried to sit up. Instantly the hammock tipped over sideways, dumping him onto the floor. He lay there for a while, groaning. His head was still spinning, and his chest hurt so badly it felt as if Shoa’s talons were still embedded in the flesh.

He managed to gather his arms beneath him and climbed laboriously to his feet, wincing. He staggered a little and nearly fell over again, but managed to reach the chair and sit down in it. It was midnight, and bright moonlight was shining in through the back windows. It fell over the table, turning it silvery grey. It also shone on the bowl he had left there. He stared at it blankly, trying to remember why it was there. Oh, yes.

He removed the cloth and put it aside. The water gleamed. The bowl was made of copper, but in the moonlight it looked like gold.

Arren stood up, steadying himself on the table, and shoved the chair out of the way. He stared down into the still water, watching the light play over its surface, and tried to think.

He spread his hand over the water and moved it in a gentle circling motion, counting under his breath. “One, two, three, four . . .”

When he reached thirteen, he held his hand just above the water, fingers spread, and started to chant softly.

Plentyn yn tyfu’n ddyn,
Gorffennol ddaw’n bresennol,
Rhaid i amser fynd rhagddo
Arglwydd tywyll y nos, gweddïaf

Cwyn len y nos, rho i mi ond trem
Yn y nen, tair lleuad lawn ar ddeg,
Pob un yn fywyd blwyddyn,
Llygad y nos, agor led y pen,
Dangos fy njynged i mi.

He repeated the words several times, staring intently at the water until it became still.

Nothing happened. He withdrew his hand without taking his eyes away from the water, and continued to watch it as closely as he could, barely even blinking. Waiting.

After a while, the lingering effects of the wine mingled with his exhaustion made his vision start to waver. He was swaying slightly where he stood, though he didn’t realise it, and as a cloud covered the moon and its light faded, he started to see things.

Shapes moved on the surface of the water. They were grey and very faint, but he leant closer, squinting at them, trying to make them form into something.

Two shapes. One light, one dark. Griffins, that was it. Two griffins, fighting. One white, one black. Eluna and the black griffin, locked together. Then the white shape faded away, leaving only the black griffin, which wandered away over the water, alone.

And then . . .

Visions flashed across his brain. He saw a line of people clad in black robes, each one carrying a heavy burden and wearing a shining collar. He saw Eluna lying in the muddy field, her eyes looking into his as she died. He saw Rannagon looking at him, his old face sad as he said something indistinct. And then the black griffin was there, rushing at him, wings spread wide, beak open to scream. Its talons hit him in the chest, and he was falling, down and down . . .

He didn’t feel himself hit the floor. The visions vanished abruptly, but as darkness closed over him he saw one last thing. He saw himself, lying on dark ground beneath a silvery moon. His eyes were open . . . but they were blank and empty.

13

Cursed One

F
lell went to visit Arren the next day, as promised, late in the morning. This time when she knocked on the door, he opened it.

“Good morning,” Flell said awkwardly.

Arren looked at her for a moment and then stood aside, gesturing at her to come in.

The inside of the house looked a lot better now; the back windows and door were open, and sunlight was shining in, though Arren winced when it touched his face.

“Sit down,” he mumbled. “I’ll just—I’ll be back in a bit.”

He retreated into the stable and returned carrying an empty crate, which he put down next to the table and sat on. Flell noticed that, though he wasn’t lurching now, he moved with a slight limp.

“Are you feeling better now?” she asked kindly.

Arren rubbed his face. He hadn’t shaved off the beard, though he’d obviously done his best to neaten it up, and he’d made an attempt at combing his hair. He was still pale, though, and his eyes were bloodshot. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a cart,” he said.

“So, would that be an improvement?” said Flell, setting Thrain down so she could wander off as she chose.

“A bit, yeah. Look, I’m sorry about last night. You didn’t deserve to see me like that.”

Flell put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, I understand. But you need to look after yourself, Arren. I care about what happens to you, and so do the others. You’re not alone.”

He reached up and put his hand on hers. “I know,” he said. “I know. I just—I just miss her so much, Flell. I couldn’t stand it. I mean—I thought there was something wrong with me. The whole way back here from Rivermeet I just . . . didn’t feel anything. Like nothing was really real. And then when I got back home, it was like—like it all just hit me at once. I kept turning around and expecting to see her there, and when she wasn’t, I felt lost. I still feel lost. Like there’s something that used to be inside me and now it’s gone, but I can still feel where it used to be.”

“You should have come to see me,” said Flell. “Or Bran, or Gern. We were worried about you.”

“How could I?” said Arren, looking up at last. “I couldn’t face you any more, not like this. The whole city knows I’m in disgrace. I kept expecting someone to come and arrest me, and then when no-one did I realised it was because no-one even cared. I’m not a griffiner any more, Flell. I’m nobody.”

Flell laughed softly. “Oh, Arren, listen to yourself. Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t care about whether you’re a griffiner or not; we care about
you
. You’re our friend, aren’t you? And to me—” She lifted his chin with her other hand so that their eyes met. “I love you, Arren. You do know that, don’t you? And I’ll go on loving you no matter what you do or what happens to you.”

His face softened. “I know. I’ve always known. But what can I do now, Flell? Where can I go? I’ve
looked
for other jobs, but no-one will give me one. I’m too skinny to be a guard or a lift-loader, and I don’t know anything about carpentry or metal or making bread. I mean, I know how to make boots, but what good does that do me? There’s already five bootmakers working in the marketplace and none of them needs an assistant. I’m not good enough to do it on my own, and besides, I wouldn’t have the money to pay for my own stall.”

“Don’t be silly; there has to be a job for you somewhere,” said Flell. “You can read and write, can’t you? There must be dozens of people out there who’d give anything to employ someone with your education.”

“Oh yes?” said Arren. He slumped. “Flell, look at me. What do you see?”

She paused. “I see Arren Cardockson, who’s grown a beard and looks miserable. Why, what did you expect me to see?”

Arren ran his fingers through his hair. “You can see
this
, can’t you? And these?” He pointed at his eyes. “And these.” He flexed his long fingers. “Well, so can everyone else, Flell. They see a Northerner.”

“Well, you’re not one,” Flell snapped. “You’re as Southern as I am.”

He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t be a Southerner by pretending. My father keeps telling me that. Maybe I don’t wear a robe or have spirals on my face, and maybe I’m not a slave, but I’m still a blackrobe, and everyone knows it as soon as they see me. I’m not just Arren Cardockson. I’m Arren Cardockson, the Northerner. And nothing can change that.”

“So what?” said Flell. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You didn’t have any choice about what you were born as, any more than I did. Why should anyone care? You’re still human.”

“You’re sheltered,” Arren said bluntly. “I’m sorry, but you are. You don’t live among ordinary people like I do. And I’m telling you, it matters. It’s always mattered. Ever since I first came here people have said things. Treated me differently. They didn’t dare make it too obvious, not while Eluna was there. But I could tell that nearly everyone who turned me away for a job was thinking: why employ a Northerner? It’d only make the customers nervous, and besides, there’s plenty of other young people looking for work. Ones with proper brown hair and everything.” He said this quite matter-of-factly; the bitterness was in the words rather than the tone.

“You’re just being paranoid, Arren,” said Flell.

He was silent for a time. “You know—do you remember how I fell off that roof when I was twelve?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Arren said in a low voice. “Someone pushed me off.”

Flell started. “What? Who? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I did. They didn’t believe me, and anyway, I didn’t see who did it. I was on an errand to fetch something, but someone grabbed my bag. I ran after them and they threw it on the roof of a building. I went and picked it up, and then someone shoved me from behind. Eluna was flying overhead, and she swooped down and put herself in the way, so I hit her instead of the ground. I probably would have died or been crippled if she hadn’t. But I was knocked unconscious, and a while later Bran came along and found me lying there and carried me back home. That was how we got to be friends.”

“Arren, that’s—but why would anyone do that?”

“Because I was a Northerner,” said Arren. “Other children were always picking on me when Eluna wasn’t there. In the end she started staying with me all the time, and they left me alone then. But I knew they still hated me. And now Eluna can’t protect me any more.”

Flell stiffened. “Arren, you don’t think—you’re not in danger, are you?”

“No, no. I’m all right. They aren’t going to kill me. But they can still make trouble for me. At this rate they won’t need to push me off another roof; they can just wait for me to starve to death.”

Flell paused. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

He shook his head. “Too sick.”

The parcels of food were still on the table. Flell found a plate and started opening them. “You’ve got to eat,” she said, pulling out a loaf of bread. “Go on, Bran and Gern went out especially to get all this for you.”

Arren accepted the plate of food she offered him and started to eat, chewing listlessly. “I don’t deserve this,” he said.

“Nonsense. Eat up, you’ve got a big day ahead of you.”

He gave her a cynical look. “Oh? Why, what’s happening today?”

“We’re going to get you a job,” said Flell. “And possibly something else, too.”

Arren swallowed. “You’re not going to ask your father to help, are you? Because I really don’t think—”

“No. How’s your chest, by the way?”

He let her open his tunic and carefully peel away the bandages to inspect the wounds. They looked much better, though it was difficult to tell yet whether they would begin healing. At least none of them looked as if they were filling up again.