The Dark Griffin (46 page)

“Arren, I don’t understand.”

“Only tell them!” he said again urgently. “Tell them it wasn’t an accident. Tell them someone pushed me. Tell them Arren Cardockson was innocent. And forgive me, Flell. Just forgive me. One day, somehow, somewhere, forgive me.”

He let go of her hands.

Flell was looking at him, full of fear and bewilderment. “What’s happened to you?” she said. “You’re not my Arren any more.”

“No,” said Arren. “Flell, something terrible has happened. I don’t know what it was. One day, maybe, I’ll know. Forgive me, Flell. I love you.”

He had been backing away from her all this time, and now he turned and climbed out through the open window. His robe snagged on the broken glass, but he reached back and pulled it off as Flell ran forward to stop him.

“Arren!”

She looked out of the window, but there was no-one on the other side. It was as if the night had simply swallowed him up.

“Arren, please!” she called. “Arren, there’s something I—”

But there was no reply. He was gone.

D
arkheart was lost. He wandered disconsolately among the trees, not knowing what to do or where he should go. It was daylight now, and he didn’t want to take to the air. He was trying to find the human, and humans stayed on the ground.

He followed its scent to the edge of the trees and stood there for a time, looking at the village. It must have gone there, but for some reason he didn’t want to try to follow.

He went back toward the base of the mountain and found the place where the human had died and then . . . not been dead any more. He didn’t understand how it had happened; he sniffed around the ground there and picked up a strange odour lingering about the rocks, a cold, metallic smell, unlike anything he had ever smelt before. It made the fur stand up on his back.

Darkheart sighed and lay down on the spot where the human had been. Part of him still wanted to go back to the valley, but another part wanted to stay. After having been caged for so long, he couldn’t remember his old home any more beyond a few vague images, and somehow the pull it had had for him before wasn’t there any more. His longing to go home had changed into a general and hazily defined wish to fly again. And now that he was free and had his wish, he wanted something else, something just as ill-defined and confusing. He wanted something to show him the way, some guide to help him survive in this new place.

The voices of other griffins came from overhead; he glanced up, but all he could see was the underside of the city. If none of them ventured this low, then they would never see him from the air. He didn’t particularly care. Other griffins held no attraction for him.

He thought about the human instead. The image of its face was still vivid in his mind, and the sound of its voice, shouting something he did not understand.
What have you done to me? What have you turned me into?

Darkheart shivered. He still felt weak and drained after what had happened, and he remembered the light and how it had come out of him and gone into the human. The scream was no longer imprisoned in his throat. It was gone. But instead of giving him relief it made him feel empty and useless, like a heap of bare bones with no meat left on them. It frightened him, and he hissed to himself.

The fear grew. He was lost in this place that he hated and feared but felt bound to by some unexplained force; he felt sick and distressed. He was hungry, but he had no will to seek out food. He wanted to fly away, and yet he wanted to stay. He didn’t know what to do. He even began to think of going back to the cage. There, at least, the world made sense.

He whimpered to himself, a chick-like sound that would have seemed comical to anyone who had heard him make it. This place was wrong, all wrong, and now he had lost the only tie he had to his old home and his old life. He wanted the human to be there again. It knew how to open cages. It could show him the way home.

“Arren,” he mumbled. “Arren.”

After that he slept, woke and slept again. Waiting.

It was not until night came that he finally rose from the spot where he lay. He walked down into the trees and found a pool to drink from, the same one where he had left the human. But it was gone now.

Darkheart looked up at the sky. The sun was long gone, and the stars were out. The human was out there somewhere. All he had to do was follow its scent.

25

Blackrobe and Darkheart

I
t was cold in Rannagon’s study. He put another log on the fire, hoping that would improve matters. The bark caught and began to burn, giving off a pleasant spicy smell. Once he was sure it was well alight and wouldn’t need any prodding, he straightened up and sat down in his chair, looking up at his sword, which hung over the fireplace. It was a beautiful thing, with a long, straight blade and a bronze hilt decorated with griffins. He had used it in battle several times; the blade was notched and worn, and the grip was dark with ingrained dirt and sweat. Kaelyn kept telling him to have it cleaned, but he never seemed to get around to it. Besides, it looked better this way. More honest. Cleaning it would only conceal the fact that it had been used and that it had taken lives.

Shoa stirred beside him. “You will not have to use it again,” she said. “Not for many years.”

“I prefer not to be too confident too soon,” said Rannagon. “Life is always unexpected.”

“But planning and foresight can change that,” said Shoa. “You know that, Rannagon.”

“Yes.”

“You did what was right,” said Shoa. “For the greater good. One day they will say you prevented the rise of a tyrant.”

“Do you expect me to be proud?” Rannagon said sharply.

“I do not see why you should not be,” said Shoa.

Rannagon’s grip on his armrest tightened. “No,” he said. “I’m not proud, and I never will be. I’m ashamed.”

“Then you are weak,” said Shoa. “Man or griffin should always take pride in doing justice.”

“It wasn’t justice, Shoa,” said Rannagon. “Murder is murder, and lies are lies. What we did was unspeakable.”

“The way of a griffiner is hard,” said Shoa. “I told you that when you were young and you did not want to go to war. You listened to me, and you became a great warrior.”

“That’s different,” said Rannagon. “Warfare is different. I looked those men in the eye as I killed them—but this time? I wasn’t even there. No-one even knows I did it.”

“The boy was only a blackrobe,” said Shoa. “Why sully your hands with his blood? And he brought it on himself. We did not ask him to steal a chick.”

“No.” Rannagon sighed. “I should have had him killed. Proper assassination. It would have been quieter. He deserved better. By the end, it was probably a mercy that he died as he did. What did he even have left to live for?”

“Revenge,” a voice whispered.

Rannagon froze. “Shoa?”

The yellow griffin stood up and turned around. There was nothing unusual to be seen in the study, but she began to hiss. “I smell something,” she said.

Rannagon got up and snatched his sword down from the wall. “Come out and show yourself!” he commanded. “Now!”

Silence, and stillness.

Shoa hissed again, raising her wings. “I smell you,” she said. “You cannot hide. If I must hunt you down, I shall kill you.”

“Murderer,” the voice whispered. It was speaking griffish, and before it had even faded away, Arren stepped out of the shadows to confront them.

Rannagon’s mouth fell open. “Arren Cardockson?”

Shoa faltered. She drew back, suddenly losing all her aggressive confidence. “No!” she cried. “No, this cannot be!”

Arren smiled horribly. “When I make a promise, I keep it. I promised I would have revenge on you, and now I will.”

“No,” Rannagon whispered. “No, this isn’t possible! Shoa, what have you done?”

“My curse could not have done this,” said Shoa. “The boy cannot be alive.” She moved forward slightly, sniffing at him. “And you are not,” she whispered to Arren. “You are not alive . . .
Kraeai kran ae
.”

Arren drew his sword. “What does that mean?”

“Okaree smelt it on you,” said Shoa, almost dispassionately. “A silver griffin always can. You are cursed, Arren Cardockson. I wove my magic around you and cursed you to die.”

“What’s going on here?” Rannagon demanded. “How did this happen?”

“I did not do this,” said Shoa. “This was another griffin’s magic. Dark magic. Evil.”

Arren pointed his sword at Rannagon. “You murdered me, Rannagon,” he said. “You killed Eluna. You turned me into this.”

Fear showed in Rannagon’s face, but he started forward, sword raised. “Stay away from me!”

Shoa shoved him aside. “Do not go near him,” she commanded. “He is not human any more.”

Arren stopped suddenly. “Can I change back?” he asked.

“No,” said Shoa. “No, you cannot, Cursed One.”

The cold hatred in Arren’s eyes faded for a moment, and both of them could see the pure fear and horror behind it. “I have no heartbeat,” he said. “I’m dead. You killed me.”

“Arren, please,” said Rannagon. “It wasn’t supposed to happen!”

The look vanished as quickly as it had come, and Arren started to laugh, a broken, discordant sound that had more agony in it than a scream. “You think I care? What difference does that make to me? It’s your fault I’m like this, Rannagon. You killed Eluna, and then you killed me. And now I’ll make you join me.”

Shoa darted forward, putting herself between the two humans. “If you touch him, I will tear you apart,” she rasped.

Arren snarled. “I will have my revenge,” he intoned.

“Please!” Rannagon shouted again. “Please, you don’t understand! I didn’t want you to die! I didn’t even want to—”

“But you did it!” Arren roared. “You did it, Rannagon!”

“Rannagon did only as I told him to,” Shoa interrupted.

She started to advance on him, and he backed away slowly, step by step. The yellow griffin’s eyes were icy cold, full of cruelty.

“Rannagon is weak,” she hissed. “He was always weak. I chose him for his mind, but he has no will. Every day I have pushed him to be strong, to choose what is right, to take what is due to him. It was I who made him rise to be Master of Law, next to be chosen as Master of the Eyrie. But his weakness betrayed me. He fathered a bastard and disgraced us both.

“And then you were there. The upstart blackrobe, slipping into our council like a rat, ready to spread your corruption and your evil magic. You had charmed Riona—and so many others—into believing you were not like other Northerners, that the madness was not in you. It was only a matter of time before you duped her into naming you her successor, and became the tyrant that had been inside you since birth.

“Rannagon would not kill his own son. And he did not want to kill you, either, so he arranged for your disgrace. When you survived your journey to the South, Rannagon wanted to leave you be. You could no longer be a threat, with your griffin dead. But I knew you would find a way. I called up my magic, and I cursed you; and from then, I knew I did not need to do anything more. You were doomed to a death as terrible as you deserved.”

Arren collided with a table and could go no further. Shoa stood in front of him, blocking his escape, her talons tearing at the floor.

“I’ll expose you,” he whispered. “I’ll tell them what you did.”

“Who would believe you?” said Shoa. “A blackrobe, and a murderer? One who was not only insane, but dead? You cannot fight us. You never could.”

“I’m sorry, Arren,” Rannagon called. “I did what I had to do, I—”

And then it was too late. In an instant, as he looked at Shoa and at the man behind her, the madness closed in over Arren’s brain. He dived sideways, rolled and vaulted upright, then ran at Rannagon, sword raised.

Rannagon was fast. He dodged out of the way and swung his own sword, hard, straight at Arren’s neck. But Arren ducked it and struck. The broken sword caught Rannagon in the stomach, briefly embedding itself in the flesh before it ripped out, leaving a trail of blood over Rannagon’s tunic. Rannagon roared and punched Arren in the face, bowling him over, and then Shoa was there. She lashed out with one wing, knocking Rannagon aside, and then pounced on Arren. He rolled out of the way, got up and ran, darting this way and that to avoid her. But in this confined space there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Her talons hit him, hurling him across the room; he hit a bookshelf and fell to the floor, and when he landed he felt the first true pain he had experienced since his resurrection.

He tried to scrabble away, but Shoa had him cornered now; she rushed at him, beak opening wide.

“No!”

It was Rannagon. He ran forward, pushing past her to get to Arren. Shoa hissed and raised her beak, threatening him, but he pushed her away.

“I said no!” he said again, and she retreated a little, tail lashing.

Rannagon placed his boot on Arren’s chest, pinning him down as he tried to get up.

“I want to do this,” he said.

But the delay had been long enough. Arren’s fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and he lifted and swung it with all his might. It hit Rannagon in the leg, so hard Arren felt it cut through the flesh and strike bone. Rannagon screamed and reeled away, and Arren picked himself up, dived under Shoa’s beak and ran for the double doors leading out of the study. He burst out onto the balcony and began trying to climb over the side, but he was too late. Shoa came rushing out of the study and was on him, knocking him down. His head struck the wall, and stars exploded in his vision. He lay half-conscious, groaning, and Shoa’s talons slammed down, trapping him.

But she did not kill him. She looked back, hissing, as Rannagon emerged, limping. “Kill him, then, if you can,” she said harshly.

Rannagon looked at her, and then at Arren.

Arren looked back, his glazed expression fading away. “Kill me, then,” he said. “Finish it.”

“Shoa was right,” Rannagon said. “I trusted you once, but I was a fool. A blackrobe will always be a blackrobe, no matter where he lives or how.” He raised the sword. “Goodbye, Arren Cardockson.”