The Dark Griffin (44 page)

At last, Darkheart turned and began to walk off.

Arren took a few steps forward and threw rocks and sticks with all his might. “And never come back!” he yelled.

Then the black griffin was gone, and he was alone. He stood still for a few moments, breathing heavily, and then let the rock he held fall out of his hand. There were tears on his face, making his wound sting, but he felt too drained to cry. He wrapped his fingers around his neck, holding on to it gently. The skin was cold and sticky with blood, but those things did not bother him. The thing that struck fear into him, the thing that made him shake and made his stomach churn, was something that wasn’t even there any more.

His heart was not beating.

A
rren stayed in the forest for some time, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know if he was dead or alive, or even if this was still the real world. Maybe this was the afterlife.

But it did not look like it. It was too . . . real. And in his heart he knew that it was the world of the living. He was dead, but he hadn’t left it.

He wandered over the rocks where he had died, and found something lying wedged between two boulders. Orome’s sword. He pulled it out and found that part of the blade had broken off, but the rest was still sharp, and the broken edge was jagged, almost barbed. He made a few experimental swings with it, and then put it into his belt.

This done, he went back to hide among the trees. Would people still be looking for him?

Either way, he knew he had to leave. Though where he would go he had no idea.

There was a terrible silence among the trees, pressing down on him, and suddenly he couldn’t bear to be so alone. He wanted someone to be there, anyone.

He turned away from the mountain and walked off through the trees, stumbling a little on the slope. Up ahead was Snake Hill, its sides dotted with the houses that made up Idun. He wanted to see his parents again. They had to know that he was all right. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. What would it matter if he was? There was nothing left they could do to him.

T
he sun was well up by now, and plenty of people were up and about in the village. Arren ducked behind houses and other pieces of cover to avoid being seen, slowly making his way up the hill toward his parents’ house. He was surprised by how easy it was. For some reason, when he walked his boots made virtually no sound at all. His senses were sharp and alert, perfectly attuned to danger, and he dodged through the village like a hunting cat, unseen and unheard.

He reached his parents’ home and went around the back, where there were some crates stacked. He hid behind those until he was sure the coast was clear, and then pushed the back door open and slipped in through it, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. Safe.

He paused there to catch his breath and then walked toward the doorway leading into the main room. He could hear voices coming through it, and called out, “Mum! Dad! Are you there?”

Dead silence fell. Arren entered the room, ducking slightly to get through the door, and there they were, getting up from the table where they had been sitting. His mother froze, staring at him. There were tears on her face, and she was clutching something to her chest: it was the black robe they had given him when he was in prison.

Arren managed a watery grin. “I—uh—I hope you don’t mind.”

There was silence and then his mother flew across the room and flung herself on him. Cardock was close behind her, and the two of them hugged their son as tightly as they could. Both of them were crying.

“Arren!” Annir sobbed. “Oh gods, Arren, Arren, you’re alive, you’ve come back to me, thank gods.”

Arren didn’t move. He let them embrace him, feeling their warmth all about him, taking away the coldness in his body. He could feel Annir trembling as she sobbed, and he held on to her as well as he could, feeling a peculiar sense of relief. They were here, they were real, they were alive. He was home.

Cardock let go, his face pale with disbelief. “Arren, how did this happen? Where did you come from?”

Arren looked past him, and his expression changed when he saw who else was sitting at the table.

Bran, frozen in horror.

Arren’s hand went to his belt and pulled out the broken sword.
“You,”
he snarled, starting forward. “What are you doing here?”

Bran stood up sharply, knocking over his chair. “No!” he exclaimed. “No, it’s impossible!”

Arren pointed the sword at him. “I should kill you,” he said.

Cardock grabbed him by the arm. “Arren, no, don’t. It wasn’t his fault. He came here to tell us what happened. He brought your robe back to us. He said they hadn’t found your body—he came to say sorry to us.”

Bran’s face was blank with terror. “You’re dead,” he whispered. “You’re
dead
!”

“Get out of here, Bran,” Arren hissed. “Stay away from my parents.”

Bran’s hand went to the hilt of his own sword, but he didn’t draw it. “Arren,” he said, backing away. “There’s—in yer chest. Can’t yeh
feel
it?”

Arren glanced down and suddenly noticed the broken shaft of an arrow embedded in his body. He grabbed it and pulled it out. The point was sharp and covered with gore; he looked at it blankly and then tossed it aside. Bran moaned softly, and Arren pointed the sword at him again, straight at his face. “Go,” he said again. “Get out of here. You were my friend once; otherwise, I would kill you. Get out and don’t come back. If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll hunt you down.”

Bran stayed where he was for a moment, trembling, and then he turned and ran out of the house as fast as he could go. Arren heard the door slam behind him. He turned away and put the sword back into his belt. “Mum, Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want any of this to happen. I had to come back and see you before I left.”

They were silent for a time, watching him with something almost like fear, but then Annir embraced him again. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Arren held on to her a little awkwardly. “I’m all right, Mum,” he lied. “Really. I’m fine. See?” He let go of her and pointed at his neck. “I got that collar off.”

Cardock took him by the shoulder. “Arren, you’re bleeding.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” said Arren.

Annir touched him gently. “You should lie down,” she said. “I’ll get some salve.”

Arren allowed himself to be led to their bed, and took off his tunic so that Annir could attend to his wounds. She put ointment on his neck and chest and covered them with bandages, then rolled up his trouser leg and dressed the second arrow wound, in his shin.

“There, does that feel better?”

Arren nodded and sat up. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?” he said.

Annir was looking at him, her eyes bright with tears. “I don’t care how you look,” she said. “I’ve got my boy back, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Cardock had been rummaging through a clothes chest and now came over, carrying a fresh pair of black trousers and a tunic. “Here,” he said. “They should fit you. I’ve got another pair of boots out the back you can have.”

Arren took them and laid them aside. “I should have a wash first,” he said. “And”—he scratched his chin—“have you got a razor anywhere?”

Cardock heated some water and poured it into a basin, and Arren stripped off the rest of his clothes, quite unembarrassed, and washed himself from head to toe, rubbing away layers of ingrained dirt. It left him feeling refreshed and strangely relieved, as if he had in some way just begun to reclaim his identity. Once he was clean and had towelled himself off, he put on the clean trousers and picked up Cardock’s razor. “Haven’t shaved in months,” he muttered, and rubbed soap into his beard. Once it was properly lathered, he started to shave it off. He removed the moustache and most of what was on his cheeks and just under his mouth, but he left a thick tuft on his chin. When he was done and had washed what was left, he took a pair of scissors and started to style it, trimming it into a point.

“There,” he said when he was finished. “I’m done. How do I look?”

Cardock smiled at him. “You look like a man now,” he said. “A Northern man.”

Arren shrugged and picked up a comb. His hair was still wet. After months without being trimmed, it had grown almost down to his shoulders and had lost something of its curliness. He trimmed the ends off it with Annir’s help, and then combed and reordered the rest. By the time he was done, he felt neat and clean in a way he hadn’t for a very long time, since Eluna’s death and the day when he had started to let his appearance go. It made him a little sad to think it, but he felt oddly contemptuous toward his past self. Weak and self-pitying, drowning his sorrows in cheap wine. Too naïve to see what was going on, too submissive to fight back.

Well, that time was over now, and he was glad.

He sat down at the table with his parents, and ate the food Cardock offered him. It tasted wonderful.

“Son, what happened?” said Cardock, once Arren had taken the edge off his appetite and slowed down a little. “How did you get out of there?”

“It’s”—Arren paused—“complicated.”

“Tell us,” said Annir.

“What did Bran tell you?”

“He said—” Cardock took in a deep breath. “He said that as far as he knows, you got out of the cage on your own, and that afterwards you went to the Arena and did something. He didn’t know what, but he said the word was something bad had happened there and you were being blamed. He said he was going home after a late shift and got roped in to help look for you, and when he was searching the market district you suddenly appeared out of nowhere. They chased you to the edge of the city, and then you surrendered, but you fell off the edge. He said they’d started a search for your body and that it’d be brought here to us when they found it, and he gave us that.” He nodded at the robe, which was draped over the back of a chair. “You left it behind in that cage.”

“But what really happened?” said Annir. “Was Bran lying?”

Arren was silent for a long time. “No,” he said at last. “He was telling the truth.”

“You mean you really did fall all that way?” said Cardock. “For gods’ sakes, how did you survive?”

“I bounced off the side of the mountain,” Arren lied. “And then I landed in the lake. I woke up on the bank.”

“Arenadd, that . . .”

Arren looked up anxiously.

“That’s incredible,” Cardock said at last.

“It was a miracle,” said Annir.

“The moon was up when you fell,” said Cardock. “The Night God protected you, didn’t she? She must have.” He smiled, a soft, joyful smile that was most unlike him. “Do you believe me now, Arenadd?”

Arren remembered the moon and how it had shone down on him as he died, and a hint of doubt entered his mind. Had it done something? Had
it
been the thing that brought him back? But if so, why had Darkheart been there? Had he sat there all night watching over him? He felt a little twinge of guilt, but only briefly.

“I think . . . maybe I do,” he said. “I mean, I never saw anything, but I . . .”

“What is it, Arren?” said Annir.

“I prayed,” said Arren. “To the moon. The night before I went into the Arena. I asked it to protect me.”

“And it did,” said Cardock. He leant over and hugged him quickly. “I’m grateful,” he said, settling back into his seat, “to the Night God. I’ve had faith in her my entire life, and now she’s repaid me by giving me back my son.”

“She repaid both of us,” said Annir.

Arren stood up. “I want to stay with you,” he said, “and I’m sorry that I can’t. There’s something I have to ask you. Something I need you to do for me.”

“Anything, Arren,” said Annir.

Arren breathed in deeply. “I need you to leave here,” he said. “Leave Idun. For good.”

“Why?” Cardock asked.

“Because if you stay you’ll be in danger,” said Arren. “And I can’t let that happen.”

“We’re all right, Arren,” said Annir. “No-one bothers us.”

“You’re not in danger now,” said Arren. “But you will be. That’s why I need you to go before that happens. If I can, I’ll catch up with you.”

“Arenadd, what are you talking about?” said Cardock. “Why do we have to go? And why wouldn’t you come with us?”

Arren picked up the black robe. “I’ve made a choice,” he said. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

He put it on, pulling the sleeves over his arms, and did up the fastenings. It fitted perfectly.

“Thank you for making this for me,” he said. “I think it’ll be useful.” He faced them resolutely. “I’m going to leave now,” he said. “But not before you promise me that you’ll go. Today. Be out of the village before the sun goes down. Head north, toward Norton, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going or why. If I can, I’ll meet you there, but I can’t make any promises. People are going to be after me, and I won’t lead them to you.”

“But Arren, why?” said Cardock. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. If you leave now, no-one will ever chase you.”

Arren picked up the sword. “But they will,” he said. “By tomorrow, everyone will be after me.”

“Why?” said Annir.

“Because tomorrow I will be a murderer,” said Arren.

24

The Cursed One

F
lell’s house was dark and cold when she entered it. Her servants had gone home for the night, but they’d left a lamp lit for her. She picked it up and used it to light her way toward the study, where there should be a fire still burning.

In the corridor, Thrain suddenly stopped. Flell looked back at her and saw that the little griffin had pulled back and was hunched uncertainly against the wall, tail lashing.

“What is it?”

Thrain looked up sharply, then stared in the direction of the study door, which was slightly ajar. The light of the fire behind it flickered around the edges, but there was no sound or sign of anything.

“Thrain?” said Flell. “Is something wrong?”

Thrain hissed, but said nothing.

“Come on,” said Flell. She moved on and pushed the door open, and Thrain followed her warily, still hissing.