The Dark Griffin (33 page)

Arren’s face became gaunt, his eyes cold, his mouth set into a hard, bitter line. He stopped talking to people unless it was necessary. He stopped smiling. He forgot how to laugh. Not even Bran could cheer him up any more. He stopped caring that Flell had abandoned him. Perhaps she was ashamed to be seen with him.

Roland noticed. “What’s wrong, Arren?” he asked in kindly tones, about three months after the assault. “You’re not yourself any more.”

Arren paused in sweeping the floor and leant on his broom. “Aren’t I?” His voice was flat and dull.

“No,” said Roland. “You’re not. What’s happened to you? I’ve never seen you so . . . depressed.”

Arren was silent for a time. “I’m sure I shall be fine,” he said eventually, and resumed his sweeping.

“What is it?” Roland said again. “Have you had an argument with Flell? Is someone bothering you?”

More silence. Then Arren stopped again, automatically putting a hand to his neck to hold the collar in place. “Roland?”

“Yes, lad?”

“What are you supposed to do when someone hurts you?” said Arren.

“How d’you mean, Arren?”

“When they’re cruel to you. If they lie to you or hurt you. What’s the right thing to do?”

“Well, I’m not sure how I would be expected to know,” said Roland. “Why do you ask?”

“You know about the gods,” said Arren. “What do
they
want us to do?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m the right person to ask. The only god I know is Gryphus. And Gryphus is . . . well, he’s . . .”

“Not my god,” Arren said shortly.

“Why do you ask, Arren?” said Roland.

“I was just curious. That’s all.”

Roland paused, and then put the griffin chick he was holding back into its pen. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” he said, coming closer. “Something’s troubling you. What is it, Arren?”

As Arren moved away, the broom fell out of his hands. He bent to pick it up, and the collar moved. He cried out without meaning to, and his hand went to his neck.

Roland stopped. “Arren, what’s wrong with your neck? You’re—oh my gods, you’re bleeding!”

Arren tried to pull away, but Roland was too quick for him. He grabbed the strip of blanket and pulled it off, revealing the collar underneath. Blood was crusted on the skin above and below it, which was red and swollen, and a thin trickle of fresh blood was slowly weaving its way over Arren’s collarbone.

Roland went pale.
“No!”

Arren tried to grab the strip of blanket, but Roland tossed it aside and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“How long have you been like this?”

“I . . . ”

“
Answer me!
How long have you had this on?”

“Three months,” Arren almost whispered.

Roland’s expression was horrified. “Arren, who did this?”

“I don’t know.”

“What d’you mean?”

Arren’s shoulders slumped. “They broke into my house. I came home and they were waiting. They beat me up and put the collar on me. I can’t get it off.”

“Is that why you didn’t come to work for so long?”

“Yes.”

“Arren, why didn’t you tell me? For gods’ sakes, why did you just—you’ve been wearing that thing for three months and you never told anyone? You could have died!”

“I didn’t know what to do,” said Arren. “I was afraid.”

“Yes, but not
stupid
. This is—well, this is an outrage! The whole city should be up in arms!”

“Why?” Arren said sharply. “Why should they care?”

“Care? Arren, you’re a griffiner! You’re not a slave. Yes, I know you don’t have a griffin any more, but you still deserve respect! If Riona knew about this she’d be furious. Lord Rannagon would—”

“I can’t
tell
anyone, Roland,” said Arren.

“Balderdash!” Roland snapped, in a voice such as Arren had never heard him use. “Come with me right now; we’re going to go and see Lord Rannagon this instant.”

“No!”

Roland stopped. “What?”

Open fear showed in Arren’s face. “No, please, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“I can’t go to Rannagon. I can’t tell people about it. I can’t let them find out . . .”

“Find out what?” Roland was looking at him with concern. “Arren, what are you afraid of?”

“I—I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“No.” Roland seized him by the shoulders and forced Arren to look him in the eye. “I am not going to stand idly by and let this happen. You’re going to tell me what’s going on, right now, or I’ll take you to Lord Rannagon anyway.”

Arren glanced toward the doors. There was no-one there, but . . .

Roland noticed. “Come with me,” he said, and hustled Arren into the back room. His home consisted of a solitary but large and very comfortable-looking room, and most of the furniture was well made and expensive, as befitted a griffiner. Roland sat him down at the table and poured some wine into a cup. “Here, drink this.”

Arren drank deeply. It was strong and richly flavoured, and he relaxed a little.

Roland closed and locked the door and then came back. “All right,” he said firmly. “Tell me what’s going on. Start from the beginning.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Arren stopped, and then suddenly felt his resistance cave in. “I’ve been told that if I tell anyone, they’ll be killed, and so will I. One of—a friend of mine, I told him I’d been threatened, and . . . he died a few days later. They said it was an accident, but—”

“Who was this?” said Roland.

“Gern. You know, the tailor’s son. Bran told me he died in a fight at the Arena, but—”

“He did,” Roland interrupted. “Alisoun was there and saw it happen. It was a complete accident. He wasn’t even pushed; he tripped over something. Arren, who threatened you?”

“But if I tell you—”

“I will be fine,” said Roland. “I have a hundred griffins living here with me, and if anyone showed the slightest sign of attacking me they’d be torn to pieces. Now tell me, who threatened you?”

“Lord Rannagon,” Arren whispered.

Roland froze. “What? Arren, that’s—that’s not funny.”

Arren looked up. “It was Lord Rannagon,” he said again. “Him and Shoa. They came to my house. Rannagon said that if I didn’t keep quiet I’d be killed. He said people would be watching me.”

“But . . .
Lord Rannagon
? Why? When?”

“Eluna,” said Arren.

“Eluna? What about her?”

“She—it was a lie. The story they told about why I went to Rivermeet. It wasn’t
true
. I didn’t steal the map. Lord Rannagon gave it to me. I went because he told me to go.”

“What? Arren, I don’t understand.”

“I went to him that morning,” Arren went on. “I told him about the raid and how the smuggler died. He said I had to pay compensation. I said I couldn’t afford it, and he said I could earn the money quickly by catching a wild griffin. I said I didn’t know how to do it, but he gave me the poison and the map and said I could. He talked me into it. He said it was easy and he’d done it on his own dozens of times. He said—he made it sound like a big adventure. And I believed him and said I’d go. He told me to leave the next day and promised he’d take care of everything for me while I was gone. He made me promise not to tell anyone in the Eyrie. So I went, and—and Eluna died.

“And when I got back, Rannagon had told everyone that I lied and ran away. He’d got other people to support him. And when I tried to tell Riona the truth, Shoa stopped me and said she would kill me if I accused Rannagon of anything. I had to go along with what he said. And then later on, Rannagon and Shoa came to my house and told me if I didn’t keep it secret I’d be killed.”

Roland was looking at him in disbelief. “But why would Rannagon act like that?”

Arren stared at the tabletop. “Because I’m a blackrobe,” he mumbled. “Blackrobes can’t be griffiners.”

“Arren, this—this can’t be
true
,” said Roland. “I refuse to believe it. I’ve known Rannagon since I was a child; he isn’t
like
that. I’ve never met anyone kinder and more just than him. He wouldn’t do something like that to you.”

“He said he didn’t want to,” said Arren. “But he did it. I swear, he did it.”

“But why?”

“Because—because when I went to see him, he also told me a secret. He said Riona wanted to put me on the council.”

“She
what
?”

“I didn’t believe him, but he said it was true. And later on Riona said it was true, too. Rannagon said—he said the other senior griffiners knew, and they didn’t want me on the council because of what I am. So he sent me to Rivermeet to get me into trouble, so I’d be disgraced and Riona wouldn’t go ahead and make me a councillor. He said he didn’t want Eluna or me to get hurt, but it went wrong.”

Roland stood up. “I’m going to go and talk to him,” he said. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. You stay here. Don’t leave until I come back, understood?”

Arren stood, too. “But Roland—”

“Stay here,” Roland repeated. “That’s an order, Arren.”

“I—yes, my lord.”

“Good. You just finish your wine and rest a bit. I’ll be back by evening.”

Roland unlocked the door and opened it. Arren hurried after him as he left the room, but the old man moved surprisingly fast. He crossed the hatchery floor, arms swinging gently by his sides, making straight for the doors. Keth got up from her corner and followed him. As she passed Arren, she paused and looked at him. “Guard the hatchlings, Arren.”

“I will,” he promised.

Keth nodded briefly to him and loped away after Roland, and the two of them were gone.

Arren stayed where he was for a while after they had left. His heart was pounding, and he felt light-headed and dizzy. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress his sudden nausea, and then snatched up the broom and began sweeping fiercely, trying to distract himself. But he couldn’t stop his mind from racing. What was going to happen now? Would Rannagon deny everything and persuade Roland that he, Arren, was a liar? Or would Roland expose him? He touched the collar again, trying to shift it around so it would hurt less. It didn’t work.

“You!”

He turned. Someone else had entered the hatchery. It was a boy, a few years younger than himself. He had straw-coloured hair and blue eyes that looked very familiar, and though he was plainly clad there was something proud and confident about the way he stood. When Arren just stared blankly at him, he strode forward, pointing at him. “I’m talking to you.”

Arren sighed and leant on his broom. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Lord Roland. Have you seen him?”

“He’s just left for the Eyrie,” said Arren. “He should be back later.”

“Damn! How long will he be?”

“I’m not sure. What do you want? I could be able to help you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” said the boy. He paused to look him up and down. “I have to say I’m a little surprised to see you here. I’d been told there weren’t any slaves in Eagleholm nowadays.”

“There aren’t,” said Arren.

“But you stayed behind, did you?”

Arren started sweeping again. “This is my home. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

The boy laughed. “You’ve got some nerve, slave. Is Roland your master? I didn’t think he was the sort to keep slaves.”

“And
I
didn’t think Lord Rannagon was the sort to father bastards, but you live and learn, don’t you?” said Arren, without looking around.

He derived a great deal of satisfaction from the shocked silence that followed. “How dare you?” the boy demanded. “Who d’you think you are, talking to me like that, slave?”

Arren turned. “Why, would you like me to introduce myself?”

The boy glared at him. “By Gryphus, Roland must be soft on you.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said Arren. “I’m Arren Cardockson.”

The boy’s expression changed. “What, you mean the Northerner who used to be a griffiner?”

Arren gave him a look so cold it was barely human. “And you’d be Erian, the bastard who never was one. Charmed.”

Erian looked a little puzzled at that, as if he hadn’t encountered sarcasm before. “But if you’re not a slave, why are you wearing a collar?”

“It’s the latest fashion, farm boy. Is there anything I can help you with, or are you just here to ask stupid questions?”

Erian drew himself up. “I am
here
,” he said coldly, “to present myself to the griffins.”

“Is that so?” said Arren. “I hope you’re ready. They eat the rejects, you know.”

Erian hesitated a moment. “Are you joking?”

Arren rolled his eyes and put the broom aside. “Fine. I’ll lead you through it.”

“I’d really rather wait until Lord Roland gets back.”

“You’d have to wait for a long time,” said Arren. “There’s nothing to it. I’ve done it before dozens of times.”

Erian glanced around at the pens. “What am I supposed to do?”

“It’s simple. Just go to each chick in turn and see if you can get its attention. If it takes an interest in you, and not just because it wants food, try to pick it up. If it doesn’t bite you or run from you, that means it likes you. And after that it’s more or less done.”

“What, is that all?”

Arren shrugged. “They have an instinct for these things. It’s uncanny.”

Erian went to the nearest pen and looked over the side at the chick sleeping in it. “I thought they’d be bigger.”

“Well, the adults are next door if you’d like to see them.”

Erian took a moment to think about it, and nodded. “I think I should probably see them first.”

Arren started to speak, but then stopped and smirked. “All right, if that’s what you’d prefer, come with me and we’ll see what we can do.”

“All right.” Erian followed him across the room to the doors leading into the adult quarter. As they neared them, they could both hear the screeches and hissing of the griffins on the other side. Erian started to look nervous. “Uh, they won’t attack me, will they?”

Arren paused with his hand on the nearest door. “Oh, no. Not if I’m there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Don’t you trust me?”

Without waiting for an answer, Arren opened the doors and strode through into the next room, with Erian trailing behind him.