The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  Arren clasped his hands together, his long fingers entwined. “I—yes, my lady, I didn’t think it through properly. Eluna pushed me into it, and Lord Rannagon asked me not to tell anyone else about it.”

  “You’re right. You didn’t think it through,” said Riona. “I knew you were impetuous, Arren. You’re young. It’s only to be expected that you would be overconfident. However, that does not mean I can forgive you for what you’ve done. Lord Rannagon told me everything.”

  Arren looked up.

  “Indeed I did,” said Rannagon. “Arren, do you really think you can lay the blame for this on me? I suggest you tell the truth. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  “But I already did tell the truth,” said Arren.

  “You told the truth, did you?” said Riona. “That’s strange. Because the story I have been told is that Lord Rannagon offered you the opportunity to go with Deanne and her companions to Rivermeet and claim a share of the bounty, but that you, apparently thinking you could be a hero and take all the money for yourself, stole the map and a bottle of poison from his desk, abandoned your duties and ran away to Rivermeet the very next day, without asking for leave or permission or even taking the time to appoint someone to stand in as Master of Trade during your absence.”

  “What?” said Arren, bewildered. “But I never—”

  He broke off. Shoa had moved closer to him, and now she settled down behind the couch, very close to him.

  “That’s a lie,” said Arren. “Who told you that?”

  “I did,” said Rannagon.

  “And several of the Eyrie’s guards saw you hide the letter inside your tunic as you were leaving the office,” said Riona, “although Lord Rannagon didn’t notice it was missing until the following day, after you had already left.”

  “But—”

  Shoa nudged him in the back of the head with her beak. “Do not argue,” the yellow griffin said, her voice barely audible. “You will not be believed. If you accuse Rannagon of anything, I will kill you.”

  Arren glanced at her. She stared back, her blue eyes cold.

  “I—” he began. Immediately, the yellow griffin hit him with her beak—not hard, but just enough for him to feel the sharp point at the base of his skull. If she decided to strike hard now, he would die instantly.

  Arren bowed his head and said nothing.

  Riona sighed. “I am very disappointed in you, Arren. You were an excellent Master of Trade, and I had hoped to see you go far. But I cannot ignore what you have done. I have no choice but to relieve you of your post. Consider yourself unemployed until further notice. You will not be allowed to act as Master again until you have satisfied me that you have learnt your lesson.”

  Disbelief showed in Arren’s eyes. Shoa had returned to Rannagon’s side, and the two of them were watching him, showing no sign of guilt, or even recognition. “How could you?” he asked in a small voice. “How could you do this to me? You’ve—I’ve—oh gods—” He bowed his head, fighting back tears.

  Riona paused. “Arren? Are you all right?”

  Arren looked up at last. “Eluna’s dead,” he said.

  Rannagon and Riona both looked deeply dismayed.

  “Oh no.” Riona came forward and put her hand on Arren’s shoulder. “Oh, Arren, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice losing its stiff formality.

  Shree nudged Arren in the side. “I am sad for this,” he said. “Eluna was a fine griffin and a strong warrior.”

  “Arren, how did this happen?” said Rannagon.

  “The black griffin killed her,” said Arren.

  Rannagon let go of Shoa’s neck and put his hand on Arren’s other shoulder. “Oh, Gryphus—Arren, I’m so sorry.”

  Arren punched him in the face. Rannagon yelped and fell over backward. Instantly Shoa leapt straight at Arren, knocking him violently to the ground. Her talons went deep into his flesh and she screeched at him, beak opening wide, threatening to snap shut on his neck. Arren struggled wildly, striking the griffin in the chest. The words burst out of him. “Kreeaee! Liar!”

  Rannagon rushed forward and hauled Shoa off him. It was a hard struggle and she fought every step of the way, her yellow wings thrashing in his face and threatening to knock him over. Arren struggled out of the way and managed to get up, blood soaking into his tunic. Shoa broke away from Rannagon and ran at Arren again, but Shree threw himself in the way. The two griffins scuffled briefly before Shoa retreated, hissing and bristling.

  Arren’s shoulders had been punctured by the griffin’s talons, but he barely registered the pain. He started toward Rannagon, raising his hand to point accusingly at him. “You lied to me!” he roared, speaking griffish. “You tricked me!”

  Riona called for the guards. They ran in and grabbed Arren by the arms, restraining him as he tried to get at Rannagon.

  Riona stroked Shree to soothe him. “Arren Cardockson, control yourself,” she snapped. “And Rannagon, even if this was not your fault, apologise. You put this idea in his head, even if you didn’t intend to, and I hold you partly responsible for what happened.”

  Rannagon dabbed at the bruise forming on his chin. “Arren, I really am sorry,” he said. “More than I can say. You’re like a son to me, and I never intended for anything like this to happen. Yes, perhaps I led you on without meaning to, and for that I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do to take away your loss, but if there is ever anything I can do for you, just ask and I will do everything in my power to see it done.”

  Riona looked slightly mollified. “Good. However”—she looked at Arren, who had stopped struggling and was staring at Rannagon—“my brother cannot take all the blame for this. You are ultimately responsible for your own actions, and Eluna’s death is your own fault. I was wrong to think you were trustworthy enough to be promoted so young. I will choose a new Master of Trade. You are banned from the Eyrie. You are not a griffiner any more, and you have no place among us now.”

  “But I—” Arren began.

  Riona nodded to the guards. “Please show him out.”

  Arren didn’t resist. He walked between the guards as they led him out of the building, unable to say a word. They took him to the front door and ushered him through it.

  “Off you go,” said one, giving him a slight push.

  Arren said nothing. He walked away without looking back.

  It seemed to take a long time to get home. The bloody patches on his tunic stuck to his skin. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in over a year. The ground lurched beneath him, and he staggered and nearly fell, but managed to stay upright. He reached his own door at last and half-collapsed against it. Recovering, he fished the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and entered.

  His house was cold and musty, and full of shadows. He shut the door behind him and pulled the bar into place.

  Everything was exactly how he’d left it, though there was a coating of dust and cobwebs over the furniture. The blanket was still draped over the hammock, and the pillow was on the floor underneath. His porridge bowl was on the table, and the water in it had a coating of mould on the surface.

  He dropped his belongings on the floor by the door and wandered into Eluna’s nest. The hay had gone musty, and there was a little mound of dry dung in one corner.

  Arren walked forward as if in a dream. He picked up a loose feather and clutched it to his chest. It was soft and downy, white as snow, the edges tinged with silvery grey.

  He held it in one hand and lay down in the hollow left by Eluna’s body. Her scent still lingered in the hay, strong and musky and fierce. It was so powerful that when he looked up, he half-expected to see her there, glaring at him for taking her spot.

  The sun began to go down. Darkness slowly gathered, and torches were lit in the city streets. The moon rose, bright and full, silvery-white against the black sky. The day was over, and people returned to their homes or went to the taverns, to drink and relax and talk to their friends. But Arren stayed where he was, staring at nothing, a
nd did not move at all.

  Aloud 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

  The 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.