The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  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

  Flell’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.

  There was nothing unusual in the study. The fire was burning cheerily in the grate, well stocked with fuel, and a flask of wine and two cups were on the table. Flell frowned when she saw the second cup. She’d given Thrain some in the past, but it was a bad idea, and the extra cup would only give her ideas. She made a mental note to tell her housekeeper not to do that again.

  As she set the lamp down on the table, she saw the flame flicker a little and realised there was a cold breeze in the room. She shivered slightly and reached for the wine.

  Thrain gave
a sharp shriek from behind her. Flell turned in time to see the little griffin streak past her and dive under the table, where she cowered against one of its legs, quivering.

  “Thrain? What’s wrong with you?”

  The breeze blew on her face. She looked up, and then she saw the broken window and went cold. Without looking around, she reached to her waist and drew her dagger. The feel of the metal hilt against her skin gave her courage, and she turned slowly, every sense alert for danger.

  There was no-one there.

  “Thrain,” Flell called, still scanning the room for any sign of movement. “Is there someone else in here?”

  Thrain hissed again. “Fear,” she said suddenly. “Fear. Blood. I smell blood. I smell death.”

  Holding the dagger tightly in one hand, Flell stepped toward the fireplace. Someone could be hiding behind one of the chairs.

  “Flell,” said a voice.

  Flell almost screamed. She whirled around, dagger raised, and saw a shadow detach itself from the wall and come toward her. It was human, tall and thin, utterly silent when it moved, like a piece of living night.

  “Stop there!” Flell shouted.

  “Flell,” the voice said again. “It’s me.”

  The shape came forward into the light.

  A young man, tall and sinewy, most of his body concealed by a long black robe. His face was pale, gaunt and angular, marred by a long cut just under his right eye. He had black curly hair and a pointed black beard. His eyes were black, and they were cold and glittering in the darkness.

  Flell froze. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  The man held out his hands; they were elegant and long-fingered. “Flell, it’s me,” he said again. “It’s Arren. Don’t you recognise me?”

  And, at last, she recognised his voice. The dagger dropped out of her hand and she staggered away from him. “No!”

  “Flell, please, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to see you again.”

  “But you’re dead,” Flell whispered. “You’re dead!”

  “Flell.”

  Arren came toward her, his boots making no sound on the floor. She did not move away. She could hear him breathing now; she could see him clearly, see he was real.

  He reached out and brushed her face lightly with his fingertips. His touch was cold.

  Flell started to shrink away, but then she reached out to him and touched him, feeling his hair and his skin. All real. All still there. “Arren.”

  He stood there a moment and then pulled her to him, hugging her tightly. She hugged him back; the feeling of his thin body in her arms was so familiar—and yet so strange.

  They parted, and Arren looked at her, with a terrible fear and vulnerability in his face. “Flell,” he said, “I—I shouldn’t have come here. But I had to see you again. So you’d know.”

  Flell took his hand. “Arren, what happened? How can this be real? Are you—are you a ghost?”

  He laughed a sad, hollow laugh. “Do I look like one?”

  “No. Well, I’ve never seen a ghost before. But how did you survive? How did you get back here?”

  Arren shook his head. “Where were you?” he asked. “I kept trying to find you, but you were never there. I really missed you. I needed you.”

  There was no accusation in his voice, but his words cut her deeply. “Arren, I’m sorry. I missed you, too. I wanted to see you, but—”

  “It was your father, wasn’t it?” Arren said bitterly. “He told you to stay away from me, didn’t he?”

  Flell nodded. “He asked how you were, and I told him about how I visited you and how I helped you get another job, and how you were coping. He said he was glad you had me helping you, but then he asked me to stay away from you. He said people were afraid you were losing your mind, and he was frightened that you might turn violent and that I’d be hurt. I told him it was all lies. I said you’d never been like that and you never would be, but then when I saw what you did to those men . . . and afterwards, when you . . .” She bowed her head. “I told Father you believed he was trying to kill you, and he said—”

  Arren grabbed her shoulder. “Flell, how could you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Flell sobbed. “I didn’t know what was going to happen; I was just scared for you. You were changing; I could see you changing. You weren’t like you were before you went away. I was frightened of you. But I didn’t know—Arren, what happened to you? You did all those awful things, you killed all those people, you—”

  “Flell, I didn’t,” said Arren. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “But everyone saw you!” said Flell. “People saw you running out of the Arena, and when they went in there ten men were dead! You let that griffin out of his cage and made him kill them all. You even killed Orome, and Sefer as well! And before then you stole that chick and set fire to your own house, and you said those terrible things about my father right in front of everyone—”

  “Flell, please!” said Arren. “Stop it! It’s all lies. I didn’t kill anyone, and I didn’t make that griffin do anything. How could I control that thing? It’s wild!”

  “But you made it spare you in the Arena,” said Flell. “Everyone saw it. It knocked you over, and then it just left you alone. How did you do it?”

  “I didn’t,” said Arren. “I didn’t do anything. Please, Flell, listen to yourself. I wouldn’t do something like that! You know me.”

  “Well then, what did you do?” said Flell. “How did you get out of prison?”

  “Flell, I—listen. I’ll tell you what happened. Yes, I stole that chick. I won’t lie about that. I took it out of its pen and ran away with it. But I wasn’t going to hurt it. I thought if I could look after it for long enough it would change its mind, start to like me.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Flell. “It’s wrong.”

  “I know. I just—I think I lost my mind for a bit. It was so long, and so—after what happened to me, I knew I would die without a griffin. I just wanted my life back.”

  “Arren, you can’t. Stealing a chick wouldn’t have made you a griffiner again.”

  “I know. I was going to leave the city, find somewhere else to live and take the chick with me. But I saw the griffins looking for me, and I panicked and ran back toward my house, to hide. And when I got there it was on fire. Someone must have—well, I don’t know how it happened. And then I was caught.”

  “And they threw you in the Arena.”

  “Yes. I asked to go there. I knew I was going to die, but I wanted to fight Dar—the black griffin. I wanted to kill him. Or at least, I thought if I died fighting, it would be better than just being executed.”

  “But the black griffin didn’t kill you,” said Flell. “Why?”

  “He was—he knew me,” said Arren. “He knew my name. He knocked me over and just held me down, and I thought he was going to kill me, but then he—he spoke to me. He called me by my name.”

  “What did he say?” said Flell.

  “He asked me to set him free,” said Arren. “He thought I could get him out of the Arena. He said that if I promised to set him free, he wouldn’t kill me. So I promised, and he let me go.”

  “But why?” said Flell. “Why would he do that?”

  “I think—I put him in that cage in the first place, didn’t I? So he must have believed I had the power to take him out again.”

  “And that night you escaped,” said Flell. “How?”

  Arren shook his head. “I won’t say. But I got out of there, and I could have just run out of the city. But I knew I had to keep my promise, so I went to the Arena instead.”

  “Why?” said Flell. “It was suicide!”

  “I know. But I just knew I had to do it. Because—”

  “Because why? That griffin is a monster! He killed Eluna! What happened to you was his fault, not my father’s!”

  “But—I knew that, but it was strange,” said Arren. “Somehow, when we met in the Arena, when I was looking up at
him, I just knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Knew that—” Arren closed his eyes for a moment. “I knew we were the same,” he said finally, and as he said it he knew at last why he had gone to keep his promise and so sacrificed his own life.

  Flell looked bewildered. “The same? How?”

  Arren turned away. “I hated that griffin so much I tried to kill him with my bare hands. I blamed him for what happened as much as I blamed your father, but I was wrong. He killed Eluna because he was trying to defend himself. He wasn’t even after her, he was after me. And I took his life away from him. Put him into a cage, stopped him from flying any more. I sold him to the Arena. I . . .” He turned back to face her. “I turned him into a slave,” he said simply. “A slave living in a cage, wearing a collar and chains. I saw those cages. They were tiny. They couldn’t even turn around; they were chained to the walls the whole time. It was inhuman.”

  “They’re man-eaters, Arren,” said Flell. “They deserve it.”

  “No. Nothing and no-one deserves that. When they threw me into prison they thought exactly the same thing. When they put that collar on me, they were thinking, He’s a blackrobe, he deserves it. When I was sitting there afterwards and thinking about it, I realised I’d done something wrong. And I had to put it right before I went.”

  “So you let that griffin out of his cage and let him kill all those men?” Flell said sharply.

  “I didn’t know he was going to do that,” said Arren. He bowed his head, forcing himself not to admit what he had been thinking at the time, which was that if the griffin killed anyone, he wouldn’t care.

  “Arren, the thing is a man-eater! What did you think he was going to do?”

  Griffins are warriors; they kill their enemies. And so do we.

  Arren said nothing.

  “So, then what?” Flell went on in an oddly disjointed kind of way, as if each word was hitting a wall. “After that you ran out of the Arena, and . . .”

  “I tried to stop him,” said Arren. “If I could have—did they catch him?”