The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  There was also a large bowl on the table with a cloth over it. Flell wandered over and lifted the edge of the cloth, and the bowl proved to be full of water. “What—” she began.

  “Don’t touch that!”

  They turned. Arren had appeared in the entrance to the stable. He was grubby and dishevelled and his face was obscured by an unkempt beard. Never particularly tanned, he now looked as if he had just climbed out of a tomb.

  Flell stared at him, horror-struck. “Arren!”

  He stood there, swaying slightly. “Hello, Flell.”

  She started toward him. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, are you all right?”

  Close up he looked even worse. There were faded bruises on his face, and his hair, normally obsessively neat, was matted. He peered at her, looking slightly bemused, and then shook his head. “No, no, not really. I mean, I’ve been better. I mean—” He made a half-laughing, half-coughing sound. “Eluna’s dead. I’m broke, I’m unemployed, and also—excuse me a moment.” He walked past her and lurched away through the door leading to the balcony. They heard him vomiting, and then he returned. He almost fell over in the doorway, and Gern and Bran took him by the shoulders and led him to the table. He sat down in the chair and slumped forward onto the table, groaning.

  “I’ve also—also—also, I’ve drunk enough cheap wine to kill a horse,” he added, to no-one in particular.

  Flell had found a jug of water by the hammock and poured some into a mug. She had to put it into his hands for him. He downed it and then dropped the mug on the floor, where it broke.

  He stared at the pieces and then suddenly started to cry. “Oh gods, I’m s—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean, I—” He huddled down in his chair, face in his hands, sobbing brokenly.

  Flell put her arms around him, and he clung to her pathetically, shuddering all over. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Arren, it’s all right, it’s all right, I’ve got you.”

  Bran patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s all right, mate. We’re here for yeh. I’ll just—” He glanced at Gern. “I’ll get some more water.”

  They kept their distance, both embarrassed, and Flell held on to Arren until he started to calm down, which took a while.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, between sobs. “I re—I really—I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. Gods, I’m so pathetic, I—I’m an idiot, I’m a stupid gods—godsdamned idiot.”

  Flell didn’t let go of him. “It’s all right, Arren,” she said, again and again. “It’s all right. You’re not an idiot.”

  After that his sobs died down, and he drank some more water. “I need to lie down,” he said eventually.

  Flell helped him to his hammock. He slumped into it, legs hanging over the sides, breathing heavily. He tried to shuffle himself further toward one end, but then slid back, wincing. “Thanks, Flell.”

  Flell crouched by him and touched his forehead. It was hot and clammy. “Gryphus—Arren, you’re a mess,” she said.

  He turned his head slightly to look at her. “Am I?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at the innocent inquiry in his voice. “Yes,” she said. “You’re a mess.”

  Arren closed his eyes. “I suppose so. I’ve been . . . drinking too much. I ran out of food, and—and—and . . .”

  Flell took his hand in hers. “It’s all right. Just rest.”

  His hand moved slightly. “I don’t . . . I don’t feel . . . well.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said, standing up carefully. She turned to Gern and Bran; they were watching silently and gave her imploring looks. Flell took her money pouch from her belt. “I need you two to help me,” she said. “Go and buy some food.”

  “Won’t be many places open right now,” said Bran, taking the pouch.

  “I know somewhere,” said Gern. “C’mon.”

  The two of them departed. Flell closed the door behind them and sighed unhappily.

  Arren had fallen asleep. Flell touched him lightly on the forehead, brushing away a few loose curls. He stirred slightly, his face creasing, and she covered him with a blanket and set about cleaning his home. She left the bowl of water untouched and found another one in a cupboard, filled it from the rain-barrel out on the balcony and used that to wash the dishes. After she had dried the dishes and put them away, she went into the stable, where she found that all the hay had been removed, leaving it bare and rather depressing to look at. A keg of wine stood against one wall. It was indeed cheap, and half the contents were gone. She carried it onto the balcony and poured the rest of it over the edge. Then she returned to the house. The floor was covered in dirt, and the shattered pieces of the broken mug were still lying by the table. She found a broom and cleaned it up as well as she could, and then opened the front windows to let in some fresh air. It was an improvement, at least.

  Thrain had been exploring the corners, and now she wandered back. Flell bent and scratched her head. “It’s much better in here now, isn’t it?” she said, keeping her voice low.

  Thrain lifted her beak, wanting Flell to scratch the spot underneath it, which she did. Satisfied, the little griffin sat down by her foot, purring. “Arren is sick,” she said suddenly.

  “I know,” said Flell. “He’s very unhappy. Eluna died.”

  “He is hurt,” said Thrain.

  Flell paused. “What d’you mean, Thrain? Where is he hurt?”

  “I smell blood,” said Thrain. “Blood, there.” She stood up, but instead of walking toward Arren she made for the table. She paused there a moment, sniffing, and then snatched at the tunic hanging over the back of the chair. It fell down, landing in a sad little heap at the chick’s foretalons, and she started to peck the fabric, twittering to herself.

  Flell came over and crouched to look at it. “Can I pick it up?” she asked.

  Thrain nodded and withdrew, and Flell picked up the tunic.

  There were bloodstains on it. Several of them. Flell dropped the tunic and almost ran toward the hammock. When she pulled the blanket away, she noticed for the first time that there were also stains on the tunic Arren was wearing now, over his chest and shoulders.

  He woke up when she undid the fastenings on the front, and tried to push her hands away. “No, don’t—that hurts—aah!”

  His chest was thin and pale, scattered with black hairs and the faded scars that all griffiners had. There were several puncture marks on his shoulders and a partly healed slash just above his heart, and nearly all of them were red and swollen with infection.

  Flell knew a few things about medicine. She felt the wounds carefully; they were hot to the touch, and Arren cringed at the slightest contact.

  “Ah! Ow! Please, stop it, you’re hurting me. Flell!”

  She withdrew her hands. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, why didn’t you go to a healer?”

  He closed his eyes. “I thought they’d get better on their own. I couldn’t afford it.”

  There was a thud from behind them. Flell turned to see Bran and Gern arrive. They were carrying several parcels.

  Flell went to them. “How did you do?”

  Bran put down his burden on the table and gave her back her money pouch. “Not too bad. I owe yeh five oblong.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Flell. “Did you get food?”

  “Of course we did,” said Gern, gesturing at the parcels. “What d’you think that is, the Mistress’ jewels? We caught a couple of stallholders as they were packing up. Got cabbage, cheese, bread and some smoked fish. It was cheap, too. Always is at the end of the day.” He looked toward Arren. “How’s he doin’?”

  “Not well,” said Flell. “He’s got some infected wounds on his chest. Thrain smelt them out.”

  “I’m all right,” Arren called. “They don’t hurt much now. They’ll get better.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Flell said grimly. “You two, could you give me a hand?”

  There was nothing for it but to clean the wounds as well as they co
uld. Bran held Arren down while Flell used her knife to cut away the scabs and then cleaned the pus out. Once each wound was as clean as she could make it, she daubed on some ointment Gern found in a cupboard and then covered it up with a crude bandage.

  Arren didn’t enjoy the process one bit. He yelled and struggled and mouthed abuse at them when they refused to let him go. It was an ugly scene, but Flell only gritted her teeth and worked on. When she had finished, she tied the last hastily made bandage into place and pulled him to his feet. He stood, trembling slightly, but didn’t try to make good on any of the threats he’d made.

  “There,” said Flell. “That’s better. Now, try not to touch them. They need a chance to heal. How d’you feel?”

  “My head hurts,” Arren volunteered.

  “I’m not surprised. How does your chest feel?”

  “Like I’ve been stabbed by a girl with a dagger,” said Arren.

  “Har har, very funny. How did you get those injuries in the first place?”

  “Shoa,” said Arren. “She—she—she knocked me over and stuck her talons in me ’cause I . . . called your father a liar to his face.”

  “You did what?” said Flell. “Arren, what were you thinking?”

  “Well, he is a liar,” said Arren, slumping back into his hammock. “He said—he said—said—he told me to go, and then when I got back he said he didn’t, and Riona wouldn’t listen to me, and I called him a liar, and Shoa said—” He broke off suddenly and glanced toward the door with a slightly fearful expression. “Never mind. It doesn’t—it’s not important. I just n-need to rest a while, till I’m better.”

  “Good idea,” said Bran. He stood up. “Sorry, everyone, but I gotta be off home. Early start tomorrow.” He nodded to Arren. “G’night, sir. Hope yer feeling better in the—well, all right, not in the morning. By lunchtime, maybe. I’ll come back an’ see yeh later.”

  Arren had closed his eyes again. “Right, right,” he mumbled.

  Flell put the blanket over him, careful not to touch the bandages. “Just get some sleep now, Arren. I’ll come back in the morning, all right?”

  He yawned and covered his face with one arm. “If—don’t tell anyone. Lock the door.”

  “I will, Arren,” said Flell. “Goodnight.”

  She hustled the other two out of the house and locked the door behind her with the spare key. The moon was up by now, and the torches in the street were lit.

  Gern leant against the wall of the house and wiped his forehead with his arm. “Phew! That was horrible!”

  Bran shook his head. “I’ve seen him drunk before, but never that bad. He’s really lost it, hasn’t he?”

  “Who can blame him?” Flell snapped, lifting Thrain into her arms. “And if either of you two had any sense you’d have put a bit more effort into finding out if he was all right. That’s how people die, you know, because no-one bothers to check on them. I’ve heard about people who’ve killed themselves, and no-one found them for months just because they lived alone. What if that’d happened to Arren while I was away and you were off worrying about yourselves?”

  “I just thought he wanted to be left alone, that’s all,” said Gern, shamefaced. “I mean, he’s always been pretty solitary.”

  They walked off into the city.

  “Everyone needs other people,” said Flell. “And that includes him. And tomorrow I’m going to go and have a word with my father. I can’t believe he and the Mistress just let Arren go like that and didn’t do anything to help him. It’s outrageous.”

  “Well, they’ve always been a bit off about that,” said Gern. “Arren being a griffiner, I mean. I mean, he’s not a noble like you. He’s not even a Southerner.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Flell. “He was born in Idun, just like you were.”

  “He’s got a Northern accent, though,” said Gern.

  “So? It doesn’t matter.”

  They stopped at a crossroads, and went their separate ways. Flell walked back toward her home on the other side of the Eyrie, with Thrain riding on her shoulder.

  She knew perfectly well that other griffiners privately disapproved of her relationship with Arren. She didn’t care.

  She still remembered the day they had met, in the great council chamber at the Eyrie, when they had both been inducted as new griffiners. Thrain had only been a tiny hatchling then—half the size she was now—but Eluna had already been close to her adult size.

  Flell had noticed the tall boy with the black hair during the ceremony and had watched him curiously. She’d never seen a Northerner before that day, although she had heard stories about them from her father, who had owned Northern slaves during his youth and had fought others during a rebellion in the North itself. She had already heard about how one of them had become a griffiner, but she hadn’t seen him in person until that day. He had seen her looking at him, and she had been frightened when he looked back. His eyes were black, and it was hard to tell where they were looking or what the mind behind them was thinking. She had looked away nervously. But after the ceremony, during the celebrations that followed, he had come to find her.

  “I’m Arren,” he’d said in forthright tones. “I saw you looking at me.”

  He’d laughed at her stammering apology.

  “It’s all right. Everyone always looks at me. They all want to know why there’s a blackrobe in the Eyrie.”

  That had given her confidence, and she’d introduced herself and Thrain. They had talked about their homes and their families and how they had become partnered with their griffins, and Flell had started to like him almost immediately. So solemn and serious, but with such a sweet smile. Handsome, too, in a cold kind of way.

  Now she reflected on him as she had just seen him—barely recognisable under the beard, his chest cut up and infected, mumbling in his drunken despair—and her fists clenched.

  Arren slept badly that night. He heard Flell leave, and some part of him wanted to call her back, but he couldn’t seem to do anything other than lie on his back and mumble. He fell asleep a short while later. Half-formed dreams kept flicking in and out of his mind, and he couldn’t stop sweating. He woke up again a while later—not sure if he’d slept at all—and tried to sit up. Instantly the hammock tipped over sideways, dumping him onto the floor. He lay there for a while, groaning. His head was still spinning, and his chest hurt so badly it felt as if Shoa’s talons were still embedded in the flesh.

  He managed to gather his arms beneath him and climbed laboriously to his feet, wincing. He staggered a little and nearly fell over again, but managed to reach the chair and sit down in it. It was midnight, and bright moonlight was shining in through the back windows. It fell over the table, turning it silvery grey. It also shone on the bowl he had left there. He stared at it blankly, trying to remember why it was there. Oh, yes.

  He removed the cloth and put it aside. The water gleamed. The bowl was made of copper, but in the moonlight it looked like gold.

  Arren stood up, steadying himself on the table, and shoved the chair out of the way. He stared down into the still water, watching the light play over its surface, and tried to think.

  He spread his hand over the water and moved it in a gentle circling motion, counting under his breath. “One, two, three, four . . .”

  When he reached thirteen, he held his hand just above the water, fingers spread, and started to chant softly.

  Plentyn yn tyfu’n ddyn,

  Gorffennol ddaw’n bresennol,

  Rhaid i amser fynd rhagddo

  Arglwydd tywyll y nos, gweddïaf

  Cwyn len y nos, rho i mi ond trem

  Yn y nen, tair lleuad lawn ar ddeg,

  Pob un yn fywyd blwyddyn,

  Llygad y nos, agor led y pen,

  Dangos fy njynged i mi.

  He repeated the words several times, staring intently at the water until it became still.

  Nothing happened. He withdrew his hand without taking his eyes away from the water, and continued to watch i
t as closely as he could, barely even blinking. Waiting.

  After a while, the lingering effects of the wine mingled with his exhaustion made his vision start to waver. He was swaying slightly where he stood, though he didn’t realise it, and as a cloud covered the moon and its light faded, he started to see things.

  Shapes moved on the surface of the water. They were grey and very faint, but he leant closer, squinting at them, trying to make them form into something.

  Two shapes. One light, one dark. Griffins, that was it. Two griffins, fighting. One white, one black. Eluna and the black griffin, locked together. Then the white shape faded away, leaving only the black griffin, which wandered away over the water, alone.

  And then . . .

  Visions flashed across his brain. He saw a line of people clad in black robes, each one carrying a heavy burden and wearing a shining collar. He saw Eluna lying in the muddy field, her eyes looking into his as she died. He saw Rannagon looking at him, his old face sad as he said something indistinct. And then the black griffin was there, rushing at him, wings spread wide, beak open to scream. Its talons hit him in the chest, and he was falling, down and down . . .

  He didn’t feel himself hit the floor. The visions vanished abruptly, but as darkness closed over him he saw one last thing. He saw himself, lying on dark ground beneath a silvery moon. His eyes were open . . . but they were blank and empty.

  13

  Cursed One

  Flell went to visit Arren the next day, as promised, late in the morning. This time when she knocked on the door, he opened it.

  “Good morning,” Flell said awkwardly.

  Arren looked at her for a moment and then stood aside, gesturing at her to come in.