by K J Taylor
Erian followed her gaze, and thus it was that he was one of the first to see the huge shapes that arose from the roof of the hatchery.
“Bran!”
Bran turned. “Oh. Hello, Flell.”
Flell caught up with him. She was pale but looked in control of herself. “I’m sorry for how Erian acted. He’s not—well, he’s arrogant.”
Bran snorted. “Yeh don’t say? Wasn’t he brought up on some farm somewhere?”
“Yes, near Carrick. But our—he had special tutoring from a griffiner in the town. That’s how he learnt griffish. He was brought up believing he’d be a griffiner himself one day.”
“So he got his wish,” said Bran. “Lucky old us.”
“He means well,” said Flell.
There was silence for a long time. Bran was avoiding Flell’s gaze.
“You saw him, didn’t you?” she asked softly.
Bran glanced briefly at her, and then looked away. It was all the answer she needed.
“I saw him, too,” she said.
Bran stopped dead.
“What did you see?” said Flell.
“I saw him at his parents’ house,” Bran almost whispered. His eyes, turning toward her, were full of fear. “Went there before I went looking for him. To tell ’em what happened. To say sorry. An’ I—we heard him callin’, and he came in through the back door. He—he—”
“What, Bran?” said Flell, putting a hand on his arm. Beside her, Thrain stirred uneasily.
“He still had an arrow sticking out of him,” said Bran. “He hadn’t even noticed it was there. I saw him pull it out and throw it away like it was a thorn.”
“But how?” said Flell. “How? He can’t be alive!”
“I dunno, Flell. But it was him. He wasn’t a ghost. His parents could see him. He recognised me. He shouted at me to get out an’ never tell anyone I’d seen him, so I—I ran, and that was the last time I saw him.”
“I saw him, too,” Flell said again. “Just before it . . . happened. I went into my house, and suddenly Thrain was scared. I couldn’t understand why. She panicked and tried to hide. And then he was there. He just appeared out of nowhere, and he looked . . .”
“Wrong,” said Bran.
“Yes. I don’t know how, but there was something I just didn’t—it was terrifying. Like there was something evil hanging over him. Like he was evil.”
“What’d he say?”
“He—he talked about what happened,” said Flell. “He told me it wasn’t his fault and he didn’t mean for it to happen. He said he stole the chick, but everything else was a lie. And then he asked me . . .”
“What?”
“He asked me to forgive him,” said Flell. “He kept saying it, over and over again. ‘Please forgive me.’ I didn’t understand, but that was all he would say. Just ‘Forgive me.’ ”
“He must’ve already been planning it,” said Bran. “An’ he must’ve known yeh’d find out it was him.”
“He disappeared again after that,” said Flell. “He climbed out the window, and when I ran after him he wasn’t there. I went to the Eyrie later on. I was just so frightened—I went to find Erian, and I told him what had happened. He said we should tell Father, but when we got to his study the door was locked and we could hear—something was happening inside. It sounded like screams and thumping. Father called out to us. He said, ‘I’m being attacked.’ Senneck broke the door open, and we saw . . .”
“What?” said Bran.
“It was the black griffin,” said Flell. “It was there. It had killed Shoa. My father was there. He was hurt. And Arren was there. He killed my father in front of us.”
Bran shuddered. “But why?”
“He’s insane,” Flell said harshly. “You know that, Bran. Everyone knows it. I saw him in the councillors’ chamber when he was tried. He was mad. Yelling and screaming. He said terrible things. He tried to attack my father after he was sentenced. The guards had to hold him back. It was horrible.”
“But Flell, he ain’t like that,” said Bran.
“He didn’t used to be,” said Flell. “But he is now. He’s not our Arren any more, Bran. He’s changed into something else.”
“How’d he escape?” said Bran.
“It was the black griffin,” said Flell. “He was controlling it. I saw that he was. It attacked us. Defended him from us. And then he set the room on fire and ran away, and it carried him off. That was the last time I saw him.” She shuddered, on the verge of tears. “I keep seeing it in my head. Over and over again. I see his face in front of me. I can’t stop—the last thing he said to me was ‘Run.’ And he’s—he’s—he was wearing a black robe. And his beard was pointed. He looked like a blackrobe out of a book. He looked evil.”
Bran put his arm around her shoulders. “Flell.”
“And he’s destroyed our city,” said Flell. “This was his home. And he’s k—he’s killed all those people, and griffins. How could he? How could he?”
“I dunno, Flell.”
She pulled away from him. “I should go home,” she said abruptly, and walked off.
Bran watched her, full of a terrible helplessness. He wanted to go after her, but he forced himself to leave her alone. What good could he do?
He sighed and turned away. With Arren gone, he and Flell had very little in common. She had been wealthy and privileged even before she became a griffiner, but he had never been anything more than a lowly guard. And now he would probably lose his job over what had happened. Though it wasn’t his fault, he knew he would be blamed anyway. Why would anyone believe his story, when even he didn’t? Humans did not have magic, Northern or otherwise, and a man could not come back from the dead.
Or at least that was what he wanted to believe.
There was an outburst of screeching from above. Bran glanced up. The calls from the griffins circling over the ruins had become louder and taken on a different note, and they were being answered. Bran looked eastward, and his heart leapt.
Over the rooftops of the city, from the hatchery that housed unpartnered griffins, huge shapes were rising into the sky. The adult griffins were coming.
They landed among the rubble of the burned Eyrie, scattering the humans in fright, and from there the group broke up and spread out. Bran watched them, bemused. He’d only ever seen all the hatchery griffins leave their home as a group once before: on the night Arren Cardockson abducted a griffin hatchling and ran away with it. The adults, discovering the empty pen, had flown out over the city to hunt for him. Bran still remembered seeing them fly over the market district, their voices loud and full of terrifying rage. When they had found and cornered the fleeing thief, Bran and his fellow guards had had to physically interfere to stop them from killing him on the spot.
But this was different. This time they did not look angry—but there was a uniformly intent look about them as they set out into the city.
More strangely still, he realised that many of them were carrying something.
Chicks. Dozens of them dangled from their elders’ beaks. As the adult griffins landed they put them down and allowed them to run off, which they did at high speed, their little talons scrabbling on the blackened stone.
Several of the griffins were coming straight toward him. Bran backed away, being careful to keep his motions slow and deliberate. Sudden movements were liable to make a griffin anxious and then aggressive.
These ones, though, did not look as though they were going to attack him. Two of them walked past him, but three more slowed down and began to circle around him, heads down and tails up, as if they were stalking him.
Bran stood as still as he could, not daring to move, his heart pattering frantically.
One of the griffins pushed at him with her beak, nearly knocking him over. She bumped him in the shoulder and side, not violently but with a kind of assurance. He could hear her sniffing at his clothes and skin. She withdrew and watched him for a time, then turned and left. One of the others went w
ith her. The third paused to scent him as well, and then followed.
Bran watched them, bewildered. It was as if they were searching for something. Was it Arren? Did they already know what he had done?
More griffins passed him. Some stopped to examine him before they moved on. He could see them doing the same to other people. The chicks were joining in, too. The people were either retreating or prudently keeping still; even non-griffiners knew how to behave around a griffin.
Bran started to walk toward the group of griffiners. Though he had no idea of what was going on, his instincts told him to keep close to them. They would know, and it was his duty to help them.
Before he was halfway there, a large griffin landed directly in front of him. He tried to walk around it, but it moved to block his way, its eyes fixed intently on him.
Bran bowed. “I mean no harm,” he said. It was more or less the only griffish phrase he knew how to speak; Arren had taught it to him, saying it could be useful.
The griffin eyed him. It was female, and powerfully built. Her feathers and furred hindquarters were a rich shade of russet. Her eyes were yellow, and disconcertingly intelligent.
“I mean no harm,” Bran repeated, hoping she would understand him.
The griffin moved closer, shoulders hunched. He stood still and let her scent him, and when she had done this she circled around him as the others had done, occasionally prodding at him with her beak. Then, returning to her original spot, she sat back on her haunches and simply stared.
Bran, sensing that she wanted something from him, said, “I—uh—what d’yeh want me to do?” He’d been told that most griffins understood the human tongue, though they were unable to speak it themselves.
The griffin appeared to listen. And then, without any warning, she opened her wings wide and reared up onto her hind legs. Her front talons snatched at the air, the sharp points gleaming in the sun, and she opened her beak wide and screeched.
Bran jerked in fright and started to back away as fast as he dared, his boots snagging on the rough ground underfoot. “I mean no harm!” he shouted.
The red griffin dropped back onto her paws and advanced on him, hissing and snarling, talons clicking on the ground, beak snapping. Bran continued to inch away until his back slammed into a wall and he was trapped, staring straight into the blazing eyes of the mad griffin.
She held him at bay for a few moments and then abruptly began to hit out at him with her beak, tearing his tunic. Bran flattened himself against the wall, still shouting that he meant no harm, looking desperately past her for help.
The red griffin backed away suddenly and then reared up again and lashed out with one forepaw. The outstretched talons caught him square in the chest, making a loud noise as they scraped across his leather breastplate, and she hurled him to the ground.
He landed hard, but then his guard training took over. He rolled when he hit the ground and managed to get up, and his hand went to his waist and wrenched his short sword out of its sheath. As the griffin ran at him, he pointed the weapon at her, causing her to back off. When she made another charge he made a warning swing at her beak and then ran for shelter. She chased him and cornered him yet again, and he held her at bay with his sword. “I mean no harm!” he said yet again.
The red griffin stopped. She drew back, regarding him, suddenly placid, and then she came forward slowly, her head bobbing up and down. Bran watched her warily.
She stood still, so close they were almost touching, and then very gently pushed his sword arm away with her beak. Then she sniffed at his face and rubbed the top of her head against his chin, like a cat.
Very carefully, Bran put his sword back into its sheath.
Apparently satisfied, the griffin backed away from him and moved aside. She made no move to stop him when he began to walk away.
Bran went toward the griffiners, almost sick with relief. Then he stopped and looked back.
The red griffin was following him.
He paused and then carried on, pretending to be unaware of her presence. But she continued to follow him all the way across the patch of rubble, and to the group of griffiners.
As Bran walked, he could see a strange thing happening. All around him, people were still being inspected by griffins. But others—others were being followed, just like him. Some looked confused; most looked afraid. When Bran turned back, the red griffin was right behind him.
“What d’yeh want?” he asked her.
She said nothing, and merely regarded him.
Bran shook his head and walked on. He found a fellow guard, this one being harassed by a grey chick.
“Dan, what’s goin’ on? What are they doin’?”
“I don’t know, sir!” the other guard exclaimed. “The damn thing just won’t leave me alone! It came up and sniffed at me and now it’s following me.” He stopped, seeing the red griffin. “What in the gods’ names—?”
The red griffin sat down by Bran’s side. She looked, he thought, rather amused.
“It’s like they’re lookin’ for something,” he said.
“I just hope it’s not food,” said Dan, eyeing the red griffin. The grey chick sat down by his boot, purring to itself.
“Bran!”
Bran looked up and saw an elderly yellow-bearded man hurrying toward him. There was an ancient griffin with him.
“Roland, sir,” said Bran. “What’s goin’ on, d’yeh know?”
Roland was looking at the red griffin. It said something to him, and he nodded and then looked at Bran.
“You, too, Bran.” He was looking pale and shaken, but a little excited.
“What’s gotten into them, sir?” said Bran. “Does Keth know?”
The old griffin was watching him sternly, but at the sound of her name she glanced at Roland and spoke to him. He replied, and then said to Bran, “Keth knows. She said I can translate for her if I want to.”
Keth started to speak, her griffish dry and rasping.
“ ‘The Eyrie is destroyed, and the council with it,’ ” Roland translated. “ ‘Our leaders have gone, and more cannot arise in time. The city of Eagleholm is no more. The griffins have spoken among themselves, and they have decided that they will leave this place now. New homes must be found and new nests built. But those griffins without partners know they cannot survive long without a human to be their ambassador and companion. Therefore, the griffins of the hatchery have come to choose humans to take with them.’ ”
Bran went pale. “What?” He looked at the red griffin. She looked back calmly. “I can’t be a griffiner!” he almost shouted. “I ain’t a noble; I can’t even read!”
The red griffin spoke.
“She says those things don’t matter now,” said Roland. “She has tested your courage, and you impressed her. You are a fighter, and strong, and she likes you.”
In spite of himself, Bran felt a little flattered. “Well, can yeh tell her I said I don’t think I’m right for it?”
Roland listened to her reply. “She said she understands you perfectly and that in time you will understand her, too. She said you are worthy because she has made you worthy. And also . . .”
The red griffin rasped something.
“She asked what your name is,” said Roland.
“Oh.” Bran looked at the griffin. “Do I just tell her?”
“It works with other humans, lad,” said Roland.
“Oh.” Bran turned to the griffin and put a hand on his chest. “Branton Redguard,” he said, slowly and carefully.
She cocked her head. “Raanton Redgurd?”
“My friends call me Bran.”
The red griffin nodded sharply. “Ran,” she said.
“Er—”
“Griffins cannot pronounce the ‘b’ sound,” Roland explained gently.
“Oh. What’s your name?” said Bran, a little more boldly.
The red griffin paused, then raised one forepaw from the ground and touched it somewhat clumsily to her chest, imi
tating his own gesture. “Kraeya,” she said.
“Kr-a-ya?” Bran tried.
She spoke to Roland again.
“She said you can give her a different name if you’d prefer,” he said. “But her proper name is Kraeya.”
“Kraeya,” said Bran. “Kraeya.”
Kraeya looked at him encouragingly. “Ran,” she said.
Bran started to smile. “Kraeya.”
She dipped her head and gently tapped him on the top of the head with the tip of her beak. “Kraeya ae ee, Ran ae o,” she said.
“She said, ‘Kraeya and Bran are friends now,’ ” said Roland.
Kraeya bowed her head so that it was level with Bran’s chest.
“Touch her,” said Roland. “Gently.”
Very carefully, Bran put his hand on the griffin’s neck. The feathers were warm and soft, and he marvelled at their rich colour. Kraeya lifted her head, tilting it upward, and he scratched her under the beak as he had seen griffiners do. She liked that and closed her eyes, crooning deep in her throat.
Bran looked at Roland. “Now what do I do?”
“You’ll have to be trained, but, really, the only thing you need to know is griffish, and Kraeya will teach you that,” said Roland. “And you can learn a few things about how to clean her talons and what food to give her and how to treat diseases. Flying takes some practice, too.”
“Flying?”
“But of course. Griffins never leave their humans behind if they can possibly help it.”
“Where’m I gonna learn all that?” said Bran. “Who’ll teach me?”
Roland sighed. “The griffiners are leaving,” he said. “There won’t be a single one left in the city by the end of the week. Everyone who hasn’t been chosen will have to stay behind. What are you going to do, Branton Redguard?”
The question caught him by surprise. “I don’t—I dunno, sir, I ain’t got anywhere else t’go.”
“No doubt Kraeya will have suggestions. But you needn’t go until you’re ready. If you would like, I can teach you a few things before you go.”
“Why, ain’t you leavin’, too, sir?”
“I doubt it,” said Roland. “I’m too old to go gallivanting around the countryside, and Keth’s wings are too stiff for much flying. Besides, the people here need us.”
