The Dark Griffin (21 page)

A
loud thump woke him up. He sat up sharply, his heart pounding. There was another thump. Someone was in his home.

Arren got up and made for the door leading out of the stable. Someone had lit the lamp in the next room. They were there, waiting for him.

It was Rannagon.

The griffiner was sitting at the table, holding something in his hands. He was clad in his usual fine clothes, yellow-brown to match Shoa, who was crouched in the corner, preening her wings.

Arren stood in the doorway, frozen in astonishment. “Rannagon?”

Rannagon stood up. “Ah, Arren, there you are. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” His voice was as cordial as always, and his look friendly.

“What are you doing here?”

Rannagon held out something toward him. “You left this behind at the Eyrie.”

It was the bag of money Orome had given him. He took it, weighing it in his hand. “Did you take the money I owed you?”

Rannagon shook his head. “No, I paid the compensation myself. You don’t need to pay me back.”

Arren stuffed the bag into his pocket. “I don’t need your charity.”

“It wasn’t charity,” said Rannagon. “Consider it a favour. Please, sit down.”

He didn’t. “Do you want anything, or can I have my home back now?”

Rannagon sat down at the table, his head in his hands. “I came here to apologise to you, Arren, though I don’t know how much good it will do.”

“You think you can
apologise
?” said Arren. “After what you did to me? You betrayed me! I don’t even understand
why
. Why me? What did I do? I wasn’t a threat to you, was I?”

“It’s not like that,” Rannagon said abruptly. “You have to believe me.”

“Why should I? You already lied to me once.”

“Yes, and I’ve come to explain why,” said Rannagon. He looked, Arren thought, utterly miserable. “Listen to me, please. It was not my intention for this to happen. I didn’t want either you or Eluna to be hurt. I thought that Deanne would arrive before you tried to fight the griffin alone. She’d arranged to leave only a day after you, and I knew she would be able to travel faster. All I wanted—I don’t hate you, Arren. I never did. What I did was intended to help you.”

“
Help
me?” Arren repeated.

“Yes. Please sit down.”

Arren dragged a crate to the other side of the table and sat on it, watching Rannagon closely. His hands itched for his sword.

Rannagon glanced at Shoa, and then looked at Arren again. “I won’t pretend I didn’t set out to get you into trouble, Arren. That was my intention. But that was
all
I intended. I didn’t want you to be hurt or killed; I just wanted you to be disgraced. Temporarily.”

Arren leant forward. “Why?” He paused. “No. I know why. It’s because Riona told you she wanted to put me on the council, isn’t it?” He could feel a terrible hatred bubbling up inside him. “And you couldn’t bear the idea, could you?” he added, his voice becoming louder. “The thought of a
blackrobe
on the council was too much for you, wasn’t it? Blackrobes are supposed to scrub floors and build dams, not run cities. Isn’t that right? Well? So, you thought you’d get me out of the way before that happened.”

“No!” Rannagon half-shouted. “It’s not like that! Calm down, for Gryphus’ sake, or the whole neighbourhood will hear you. But you are partly correct. Many of the senior griffiners were horrified by Riona’s plan. I myself argued against it. And it’s not because I don’t trust you, Arren. I know you too well for that. But I agreed that we couldn’t risk your being placed on the council. Something had to be done. Some of my colleagues wanted to have you assassinated or banished, but I couldn’t allow that to happen, so I decided to act before they did. I arranged matters so that you would be disgraced and demoted rather than killed. By the time you were back in Riona’s favour she would already have retired and a new Master or Mistress would be in power. The danger would be over. That was all I wanted.”

Arren listened. “But in all that time it never occurred to you to talk to
me
, did it? Didn’t you consider finding out what
I
thought about all that? I didn’t even
want
to be on the bloody council.”

Rannagon’s contrite look faded. “Don’t play innocent with me,” he snapped. “We both know perfectly well that you would have taken it. You’ve always been ambitious, Arren, and so was Eluna. Even if you had said no, she would have pushed you into it. She was always embarrassed by your lack of standing at the Eyrie. The other griffins laughed at her for choosing a Northerner in the first place, but if that Northerner became a councillor . . . No, we could not risk it happening.”

“So you killed her,” Arren said softly.

“No. The black griffin did that, and if you want revenge on anyone I suggest you buy him back and kill him yourself. But you have to understand”—Rannagon looked at him intently—“I don’t have any ill will toward you. What I did was for the good of the city. Can you imagine what would have happened if you had become a councillor? The entire country knows the nature of your people. If you were put on the council, our neighbours would consider it tantamount to an act of war.”

“Then why did Riona even consider it?” said Arren.

“Riona believes that the way to make peace with the Northerners is to foster better relations with them,” said Rannagon. “She believed that putting you on the council would show the world that Eagleholm, at least, believes that Northerners have worth. You could have been an inspirational symbol and a good example. But she’s naïve. It never would have worked. If Northerners ever attacked here, what would you do then, Arren? Would you be able to fight against them? And what if you had been sent into the North or asked to track down runaway slaves?”

“I would have done my duty,” said Arren.

“But your duty to whom?” said Rannagon. “Blood is thicker than water. You may have been born in the South, but you’re still a Northerner at heart and you always will be. You can’t control your nature forever.”

“Lord Rannagon, I am not a Northerner,” said Arren. “I know I look like one, but I’m not. I’ve never been in the North. I don’t want to go to the North, and I never have. I only ever wanted to live here and . . .” He trailed off.

“And what?” said Rannagon. “Be like us? No. It doesn’t work like that. You live in the South and you speak the Southern tongue, and you act like a Southerner, but sooner or later your true nature will emerge. When that day comes, it’ll be better that you aren’t a councillor or a griffiner.”

Arren slammed his fist onto the table, so hard the porridge bowl rattled.
“There’s nothing wrong with me!”
he shouted. “My true nature? What in the gods’ names do you think you’re on about? You killed Eluna because you think I’ve got some sort of dormant
something
inside me? You did this to me because of—because of
this
?” He grabbed a lock of his hair and yanked it violently, nearly pulling it out.

Rannagon started when Arren began shouting, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “No,” he said, drawing back slightly. “I did what I did because of this.” He gestured at Arren. “Northerners are violent at heart and always will be. I have seen them in battle. They fight like wild animals.”

Silence. Arren looked down blankly at his fist. It was still resting on the table where he’d slammed it, and he suddenly realised that it hurt.

Rannagon stood up. “I’ve said all I have to say. You’ll be left alone from now on. I have no wish to persecute you after what you’ve already gone through. I hope that one day, perhaps, you’ll forgive me for what I did.”

Arren stood, too. “I didn’t ask to be born the way I was,” he said.

“None of us ever do,” said Rannagon. “All we can do is try to make the best of it. You are a worthy man, Arren. I never thought otherwise.”

There was another silence as each man regarded the other, waiting for him to make a move.

Finally, Arren lost the battle with his rage. He spat. “I will not forget,” he promised, speaking griffish, and thumped a fist against his chest. “I will not forgive. And if the chance comes, I will have revenge.”

They were ritual words only ever used by griffiners or griffins, and Rannagon stiffened when he heard them.

Shoa suddenly rose from her corner and advanced on Arren, head low and shoulders raised, hissing softly, backing him up against the wall. Rannagon stood behind her, hard-faced. “You will regret that,” he said. “And if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone else, no matter who, you will suffer the consequences. You will tell everyone the same story I told Riona, and you will not deviate from it. Believe me when I tell you that I have my methods of finding things out. If you accuse me to anyone, they will die. And so will you. Do you understand?”

Arren, flattened against the wall, looked away from the hissing griffin. “Yes . . . my lord.”

11

Darkheart

T
he black griffin was terrified. He could see light ahead of him, showing through the bars of the strange cave he had been put into, and he lunged toward it, again and again. The thing around his neck would not let go. It dug into him with every lunge, but he continued to fight as hard as he could, pitting his full strength against the chains. The skin at the base of his neck was one massive bruise, and the feathers had begun to wear away. When he finally subsided, exhausted, he could feel blood trickling down over his shoulders.

He bit at the chain holding his forelegs together. His beak left a shallow groove in the metal, but it would not break. He tried again, tilting his head to move the chain to the back of his beak where his bite would be more powerful. It tasted cold and unpleasant on his tongue, like a rock, and it was as hard as a rock. The base of his beak started to hurt, and he heard it make an ominous cracking sound. He spat out the chain and began trying to pull the manacles from his ankles. They would not budge.

“They will not break,” said a voice.

The black griffin looked up. The voice had come from somewhere to his left, but he couldn’t see anyone there. He got up and made a lunge in that direction, only to hit the rock wall of his prison. The collar drove into the tender flesh around his neck again, sending fresh waves of pain through his body. He screeched his rage and despair, and slumped down onto his stomach, tail twitching convulsively.

“They will not break, fool,” the voice resumed. “You cannot escape.”

The black griffin looked up. “You . . . griff?” he managed.

There was a weary chirp from the other side of the wall. “You chick?” the voice mocked.

The black griffin didn’t understand. “Where you?” he said.

“I am in the cage beside yours,” said the voice. “My name is Kraee.”

The black griffin listened. “What this place?”

“The Arena,” said Kraee. “We live here.”

“I want . . . fly,” said the black griffin.

Kraee hissed. “You will not fly again, black griffin.”

The black griffin got up suddenly and hurled himself toward the door at an angle. The chain snapped tight again and he fell hard, sending up a cloud of dust.
“Want fly!”
he screamed, struggling to get up. The chain on his forelegs had tangled itself up in his talons, and he fell again and rolled onto his side, thrashing wildly to get free. His wings jerked clumsily, unable to unfurl properly because of the manacles holding them together. His hind legs, still free, scrabbled at the dirt, the claws scraping on the iron plate beneath. He began to screech, again and again, his rage reverberating out into the enclosure beyond his cage. It roused the other griffins, and they began to screech back at him, their voices high and mocking. They only encouraged the black griffin ; he found his feet and reared up, screaming as loudly as he could. He kept on and on, while the others continued to scream, too, by now half-hysterical with pent-up rage.

There was another screech, barely audible above the cacophony, and Sefer arrived. The red griffin entered the enclosure via the archway, opening the gate that now blocked it by lifting a lever with his beak. It closed behind him and he came to the centre of the enclosure and screeched again. The sound cut across the others, and many of the caged griffins fell silent and sullenly lay back down. Others, though, continued to screech, and many threw themselves at the bars as the black griffin was doing, their chains clanking loudly.

Sefer looked around sharply, and quickly identified the black griffin as the main source of the disturbance. He darted over to the cage and bit him through the bars. The black griffin lashed out, nearly hitting him, but Sefer darted back out of the way. He lowered his head, hackles raised and tail swishing. “Be quiet, or you will suffer,” he warned.

The black griffin only paused a moment before he resumed his struggle. “Kill! Bite! Tear!” he threatened.

Sefer screeched at him. “Idiot humanless beast! I will rip out your eyes!”

“Kill!”
the black griffin replied, eyes mad. There was blood all around the edges of his collar, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“He will not listen,” Kraee volunteered. “He does not know griffish.”

Sefer paused, apparently deep in thought, and then opened his beak and breathed a beam of red light. Where it struck, flames erupted. It hit the bars of the black griffin’s cage, turning them red-hot, and burned the feathers on his face. He screeched again, this time in pain and fear, and lurched toward the back of the cage. Sefer closed his beak and the fire disappeared, but the black griffin stayed where he was, hissing to himself and rubbing his beak on the ground, trying to dispel the heat.

The screeching had stopped, and all was quiet in the enclosure. Apparently satisfied, Sefer turned and loped back toward the gate. He poked a foreclaw through a gap in the bars and hooked the lever. It moved, and the gate swung open with a faint creak. Sefer slipped through, pulled it shut behind him and was gone.

Silence reigned for a long time after he had left. The black griffin continued to hiss, but it seemed his defiance had been knocked out of him. Eventually he got up and drank deeply from the trough of water provided for him. That made him feel a little better.