The Dark Griffin (26 page)

“Ow. How do they look?”

“Not too bad,” said Flell, “but we’ll have to change the bandages tonight. Have you got a clean tunic anywhere?”

Arren picked up a piece of cheese. “Yes, in the chest over there.”

She fetched it and a fresh pair of trousers, and when he’d finished eating she gave them to him, saying, “You’d better wash yourself first. And you look like you need a shave, too.”

The bowl of water was still on the table. Arren found a small bar of nasty-smelling soap and gave his face a wash, beard and all. Once he’d dried off he combed his hair, carefully reordering it until it had begun to resemble its old neat self again. After that he combed the beard as well.

“Aren’t you going to shave it off?” asked Flell.

He shrugged. “I can’t find my razor. Can I have that now? Thanks.” He took the tunic and put it on, along with the clean trousers and the pair of heavy leather boots he seemed to wear everywhere, even on official occasions. “There,” he said once he was done. “How do I look?”

“I can’t say I like the beard much,” said Flell. “You look completely different now, you know.”

“Oh? How?”

“Older. And a lot scruffier.”

He scratched it. “Maybe I’ll have it trimmed once I can afford it.”

“Why not just get rid of it?”

Another shrug. “So, where are we going?” He was playing along with her now, but evidently curious.

“To the hatchery,” said Flell, scooping up Thrain. “We’re going to go and see Roland.”

Arren’s face fell. “Flell, you don’t really think—”

“Get your cloak and come on,” Flell said firmly. “It’s cold today.”

He obeyed and they left the house together. Flell walked ahead, her expression determined, and in spite of his long legs Arren nearly had to run to keep up with her. “Flell, you don’t honestly think I could find another griffin, do you?”

“Why not?” said Flell. “You never know until you try.”

He sighed. “I really don’t know.”

When they arrived at the hatchery they found it bustling as always. Roland, along with two helpers, was in the huge space that housed the adult griffins, replacing the soiled straw and refilling the water troughs. They were working hard and didn’t look around until Flell called out to Roland. Thrain, made nervous by the presence of so many much larger griffins, huddled against her partner’s chest.

Roland came to meet them, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “Hello, hello! Good morning, lass, how are you?” He paused. “Dear gods—Arren, is that you?”

Arren nodded, shamefaced. “Hello, Roland.”

Roland looked concerned. “Well, I must say it’s a shock to see you like this, Arren. I’m not entirely sure that beard suits you. But”—he placed a large freckled hand on Arren’s shoulder, nearly engulfing it—“I heard about what happened,” he said softly. “And I can’t possibly express how upset I am. Eluna was—well, she was an extraordinary griffin, just like her partner.”

“Thanks,” said Arren. “I—thanks, Roland.”

Roland straightened up. “All right, you two, you finish up here,” he bellowed to his assistants. “If anyone asks, I’m in my quarters.” He turned to Flell and Arren. “If you’d care to join me, I think I may be able to rustle up some tea from somewhere. Shall we?”

Flell took hold of Arren’s hand as she nodded. “Yes, thank you, Roland.”

They followed him to the main building of the hatchery, and through into the back room that served Roland as a home. He gestured at them to sit at the table, and put down a bowl of strayberries and a pot of tea.

“There you go,” he said. “Some mint tea and strayberries. Nothing better to cheer you up, I always say.” He sat down opposite them and poured out the tea. “It’s not quite as hot as I’d like, but it should do.”

Arren drank gratefully. The sharp flavour of the mint helped to remove the dry, unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Thanks, Roland.”

“Well, well, it’s the least I can do,” said Roland, watching him with concern. “So, how are you holding up, lad?”

“I’ll be all right,” said Arren, reaching for a strayberry.

“I hear you did a magnificent job in catching that griffin,” said Roland. “Darkheart, they’re calling it.”

Arren snorted. “So I heard. Gods, those people annoy me. Darkheart. What sort of a name is that? And they’re
happy
about how the damned thing crushes people’s rib-cages ? It’s pathetic.”

Roland sipped at his own tea. “Yes, I can certainly see where you’re coming from there. But it does bring in a great deal of, shall we say,
revenue
for the city, and it creates jobs. People have always been fascinated by violence. It comes of spending so much time around griffins, probably.”

“Violence doesn’t bother me much,” said Arren. “You fight when you need to. But using it as entertainment . . .”

Roland shrugged. “It
is
thrilling, in a way. So, what can I do for you, Arren? I mean, beyond offering you a few strayberries.”

Arren knew he’d already guessed. “Well, Flell thinks—that is,
I
think—that maybe I could show myself to the griffins here. You know, in case one of them . . .” He shrugged, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Roland looked grim. “Well, it’s not for me to say yea or nay, but I won’t pretend it isn’t a stretch. Griffins tend to—well, try if you must. You never know.”

“There’s something else,” Flell interrupted.

“Yes?”

“Arren needs a job,” said Flell. “And badly.”

“Oh!” said Roland. “Well, I think I can help you there, lad. One of my assistants has moved on to better things—possibly worse, I didn’t ask—and I’d be more than happy to take you on here. Mind, it wouldn’t be very glamorous. Sweeping floors, fetching and carrying, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t mind,” said Arren. He was pleased by this. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Roland for help, but he was grateful to Flell for coming up with the idea. If another griffin didn’t choose him—or even if one
did
—working here wouldn’t be so bad.

“That’s excellent to hear,” said Roland. “I admit we’ve missed you here. Haven’t we, Keth?”

The old griffin had wandered over to the table to inspect them. She sniffed at Arren. “You smell of sickness,” she commented.

Arren ducked his head slightly. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been well.”

“Death is a poison, to the living,” Keth remarked enigmatically. She yawned and went to Roland, who scratched her under the beak.

“Are you well, Keth?” said Arren, privately thinking that her words were the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all day.

“I am well.” The answer was courteous enough, but there was something about the way she looked at him that suggested she didn’t think he was. And not just because he was hungover.

Roland took another swallow of tea. “You know,” he said, “I doubt this will be any comfort to you, but do you know I used to be a griffiner, too?”

“You still are,” Arren pointed out.

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Roland. “In a way. But no, what I mean is that when I was younger a griffin chose me. Just a little chick. His name was Rakee.” He smiled, his old face creasing. “He was a wonderful griffin. So tiny, but so full of life. He was yellow. Had golden eyes, as I recall.”

“What happened?” said Flell.

Roland put down his mug. “He died,” he said briefly. “Sickness. Egg-scour. There was an epidemic. It killed dozens of young griffins, and my Rakee was one of them. I had to give up my job as Rannagon’s assistant and come to work at the hatchery. Luckily my father owned it, so I was put in charge of it. And after my father died, Keth attached herself to me. Not the most likely of pairings, but we work together well enough.”

Arren listened, with a sad little chill.
Imagine having your dreams snatched away from you just like that, so suddenly and so senselessly,
he thought, and then realised, miserably, that he didn’t have to imagine what that would be like.

“Anyway,” said Roland, “if you’ve finished your tea, we may as well get on.”

Arren swallowed the last of it and put down his mug. He stood up, heart pounding. “I’m ready.”

Flell abandoned the rest of her own tea and followed them as they went to the nearest pen. Roland opened the gate at the front of it and gestured at Arren to go in.

There was a griffin chick in there, about the same age as Thrain, curled up in the straw and watching him warily.

Arren crouched and held a hand out toward it, keeping his movements slow and careful. “Hello, little one,” he said, speaking griffish.

The chick got up and sniffed his hand. “Food?”

“My name’s Arren,” said Arren. “What’s yours?”

It peered up at him for a while, realised he wasn’t offering it any food, and lay down again. It yawned dismissively and closed its eyes.

Arren got up and left the pen, and Roland closed the gate behind him. “Not to worry,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll try the next.”

The next chick was awake and immediately tried to charge out of the pen when the gate was opened. Roland gently nudged it back with his foot, and Arren slipped through.

When he reached toward the chick it bit his fingers. “Food! Food!”

Arren forced himself not to flinch. “I’m Arren,” he said.

It paused and peered at him, and then flicked its wings and walked past him, toward the gate. Arren turned awkwardly and watched as it tried to climb out. “You can’t get out that way,” he told it.

The chick paid absolutely no attention. It stood up on its hind legs, looking up at Roland. “Food! Food!”

Roland gave it some dried meat, and Arren vaulted over the gate and landed beside him. “It’s no good,” he said. “They’re not interested.”

“It’s a tad early to be saying things like that, lad,” said Roland. “Go on, move on. Never say die—well, until you’re actually about to die, I suppose,” he added, half to himself.

The next chick was equally dismissive, and so was the next. There were literally dozens of them in the hatchery, and Arren spent what felt like half a day going from pen to pen, trying to coax the chicks into speaking to him. Some bit him, some ignored him, others cheekily called out curse words they’d picked up, and one tried to use him as a ladder to get out of its pen.

By the end of it Arren was grubby and exhausted, and both his hands were covered in scratches. Leaden depression had settled into his chest. “I told—” he began, and then stopped and shook his head. There was no point in being bitter at Roland and Flell. It wasn’t their fault. And besides, they already knew.

“Well then,” Roland said resignedly, “it seems there is no other choice but to move on.”

Arren knew what that meant. He almost started to protest, but then gave up and joined Roland in the next room. Keth followed them silently.

The adult griffins had just been fed, and most were lying in their stalls, dozing. Others were flitting among the massive rafters in the ceiling, or were wandering here and there as they chose, or talking or mock-fighting among themselves.

Without being prompted, Keth stepped forward and screeched loudly, cutting across the racket. Every griffin’s head turned toward her at once. Some of them called back, but most of them stopped what they were doing and came toward her in silence. They formed themselves into an untidy group in the middle of the floor, all looking toward Keth with considerable respect.

She stood by Roland’s side, tail swishing. “A human has come for you to see,” she told them. “Do not leave until it is done.”

Arren came forward at Roland’s prompting. He was horribly aware of all the eyes now on him, sharp, fierce, intelligent griffin eyes. Some of them chirped or clicked their beaks at the sight of him, and one or two lay down on their bellies and rested their heads on their claws, openly bored.

He knew what to do now. He’d seen it dozens of times, when young would-be griffiners had come to present themselves. He and Eluna had always found it amusing. As he came forward and stood where they could easily see him, he almost thought he could see the white griffin sitting in the rafters overhead, mocking him with a griffish snigger.

“Who are you?” one griffin asked.

Arren looked up. “I am Arren Cardockson,” he said, keeping his voice loud and clear. “I am nineteen years old. I can—”

“So this is he,” a brown griffin interrupted. “The Northerner. I remember him.”

“You fed me when I was a chick,” said another griffin. “I remember. You were hardly older than a chick yourself. You had a griffin with you then. Where is she now, human?”

“She is dead,” said another. “Shree himself has told me this. Darkheart the mad griffin killed her, and the blackrobe fool did not protect her.”

There was a hissing from the assembled griffins.

Shame burned inside him. “Eluna was my friend,” he answered. “She chose me when I was only three years old, and she told me she would not have any other human as her partner.”

“And yet you let her die,” said the brown griffin. “Why is this so, Northerner?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” said Arren. “She persuaded me to fight the black griffin. When he attacked us, she died to save me from him.”

“I knew her,” said a grey griffin. “We were chicks together. She was a fool to choose you.”

“What griffin would want to tie herself to someone such as you?” said the brown griffin, coming forward slightly. “I see nothing about you to make you special. You have no noble blood, or power. Are you wealthy?”

Arren paused, but he knew what would happen if he lied to a griffin. “No. Eluna didn’t choose me because of those things,” he said. “She chose me because she believed I was brave and intelligent.”

“And perhaps you are,” said the brown griffin. “But those qualities do not change the fact that you are a blackrobe. And a blackrobe cannot and should not be a griffiner.”

Arren bit down on his anger. “That’s for you to decide,” he said, bowing his head to them all.

That pleased them. He heard them muttering among themselves in approval.

He didn’t look up, but waited silently where he was.

After a while, a griffin came forward to inspect him. She looked at him closely and scented at him, and then turned and went back to her place. A few moments later another came. This one scented him and then backed away. The griffin paused a moment, and then suddenly reared up, hissing. Arren looked up sharply but didn’t move. He stayed where he was, braced for an attack, and stared defiantly up at the griffin. The griffin lashed out at him with his claws, narrowly missing Arren’s face, and then screeched. The noise was deafening and utterly terrifying to anyone who did not know griffins. But Arren refused to back down.