by K J Taylor
As for Skandar, he didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on. Every day Arren appreciated the griffin’s help more and more. He carried both of them as far as he could, starting at dawn and flying for much of the day, though each flight was growing shorter as they went on, and they were covering less ground. It was plain that he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for too long; he was wearing himself out. He slept a great deal and ate voraciously, and yet he never complained or even mentioned that he felt burdened. Arren and Skade were careful to wait until he was asleep before they touched, but one day he caught them locked in a passionate embrace by the fire. His only reaction was to blink and wander off as if he had seen nothing out of the ordinary, and Arren was left to thank his lucky stars that the griffin had spent very little time around human beings.
Four days passed as they travelled steadily north, and the mountains began to come into sight. They would be there in another day or so. On the fifth day they passed a fairly large town, and Arren briefly saw in the distance a little flash of gold from a sun-shaped disc on the dome of a temple. He had already guessed that it must be Skandar’s “singing hill.” They were nearly there.
The landscape had changed. They were very close to the mountains; the plains had ended and they were in hilly country. Large areas had been cleared to make way for farmland, and Skandar had to fly quite a long way to be well clear of it before he finally landed at midafternoon. Their landings were becoming smoother; by now Arren and Skade had both learnt to throw themselves backwards when the griffin’s forelegs hit the ground, to avoid being thrown over his head. Nevertheless, they both fell off shortly afterward.
Arren got up and rubbed his bruises. “Well,” he panted, “I think we’re nearly there. Are we, Skandar?”
Skandar had already flopped onto his stomach, but he clicked his beak in response. “Not far. We fly there now, maybe.”
“No,” said Arren. “It’s not necessary. We can wait until tomorrow. You should rest now, Skandar. I’ll try and find something for you to eat.”
Skade was already building a fireplace. “Did you see the town?”
“Yes,” said Arren. “D’you think . . . ?”
“Healer’s Home?” said Skade. “Maybe. Who can say? It does not matter either way. If Skandar knows where the cave is, then we do not need to worry about directions any longer.”
“It makes me uneasy being this close to human lands. We’ll have to take extra care to hide our camp.”
Skade laughed. “Human lands, is it? You sound like a griffin!”
Arren shrugged. “I’d probably be better off if I was. Skandar wouldn’t have to carry me, and I’d be stronger.”
“There is no point in thinking that kind of thought, Arren,” said Skade. She broke off the conversation and walked toward the remains of a fallen tree that lay near the camp. Arren followed her, and the two of them gathered as much dead wood as they needed and brought it back, ready to build the fire. They didn’t light it; a fire wouldn’t be necessary until nightfall and, besides, Arren was nervous that someone might see the smoke, even if they were over a day’s walk away from the nearest farm.
Once the fire had been built ready to be lit, they set off to forage for food. The pickings had been poor the last couple of days, and both of them were hungry, but by a stroke of luck, some way from the camp Skade found a wild apple tree. The fruit was unripe, but they picked it anyway and bundled it up in Arren’s robe. On the way back they found the burrow of a ground-bear.
Ground-bears had no relation to actual bears, which were widely found only in the North, but were so called because of their round ears and heavyset bearlike shape. Since they were nocturnal, the burrow had to be occupied. Arren had caught ground-bears many times during his weeks on the run, and had worked out a method that generally worked. It was crude but effective: he gave his sword to Skade, along with the robe full of apples, put his knife between his teeth and crawled into the burrow. Luckily he was thin and the burrow quite large; he fitted easily enough and scrabbled his way underground a couple of body lengths until it opened up into the ground-bear’s home. It was pitch-black, but he took the knife out from his teeth, located the animal’s head as it woke up and swung around to bite him, and stabbed it in the neck. Warm blood wet his hand, and the bear went into a maddened frenzy, rushing at him in a flurry of claws and flying dirt. Arren had no room to fight; he stabbed it again as hard as he could, trying to protect his face and eyes with his free arm. A short and nasty scuffle ensued, but he managed to get in a decisive blow with the knife, and the bear finally started to weaken. Arren clenched the knife in his teeth again and shuffled out backwards, dragging the animal by the shoulders.
He emerged into the open air, filthy and exhausted, both arms covered in painful scratches and his chin smarting horribly from where the bear’s chisel-shaped teeth had caught him. He hauled the carcass out after him and slumped down beside it, panting but triumphant.
Skade was already bending to look at it. “The creature is massive!”
Arren had to agree; standing up, the bear would have been about as high as his knee. It was covered in coarse brown fur, and its body was basically shaped like a barrel; its heavy, blunt head looked almost as large.
He grinned. “Skandar will love it.”
“Oh.” Skade looked disappointed. “I assumed it was for us.”
Arren got up and stuffed his knife back into his belt. “Don’t be ridiculous; we’ve got all those apples. Anyway, Skandar needs it more than we do. He’s too tired to hunt for himself. Could you carry my sword for me? Thanks.” He heaved the bear over his shoulder and set off, staggering slightly under the weight.
Skandar was still asleep when they returned to the camp, but the sun hadn’t yet begun to go down. They had a while yet. Arren dumped the dead bear next to the fireplace and then straightened up, stretching his back.
“Argh. Ooh. Ow.” He rubbed it. “It’s never been the same since . . .”
Skade put the sword and the apples down close to the bear. “Since what?”
“What?” said Arren. “Oh. I took a bit of a nasty fall a while ago.” He glanced at the bear. “I’d skin it, only there’s not much point. I just wish I had some tools—a needle and some thread at the very least. Then I’d be able to collect a few skins and make them into a blanket or something. I tried carving a needle out of bone, but I couldn’t get it to work. I’m going to go to the river and wash myself. I’ll be back in a moment.”
In fact the river was too far to walk to; they’d had to make camp well away from it to avoid farmland. But he did find a small stream that had branched off from it, and there he washed the blood and dirt off himself. He ached all over and found himself thinking wistfully of his hammock. Just at that moment, he would have given anything to sleep in it again.
No hammocks for murderers, he thought irrelevantly, and walked back to camp.
Skandar was still asleep. Arren moved the bear closer to him and nudged the griffin gently to wake him up. “Skandar. Skandar!”
Skandar’s eyes opened slowly, and he groaned.
“Look,” said Arren, pointing at the bear. “Food.”
There was a soft whistling noise as the griffin breathed in. He appeared to wake up more completely when he caught the bear’s scent, and he tore into it immediately.
Arren moved away and left him to it while he sat down with Skade and munched on the unripe apples. They were sour but juicy, and he relished them. After days of very little food, just about anything tasted good.
Skade swallowed a mouthful, and sighed. “These are good.”
“Aren’t they?” said Arren. “Ripe ones would be better, but even so—” He reduced an apple to the core, paused a moment and then ate the core as well. No sense in wasting it. He picked up a second. “We can cook some of these later. That might make them a bit less sour. Could I have my robe, please?”
Skade passed it to him. “What is that on your arm?”
“What,
this?” said Arren, touching the tattoo on his shoulder.
“Yes. I saw it before, but did not think to ask you.”
He turned slightly to let her see it more clearly. The tattoo was of the dark blue head of a wolf holding a great yellow globe in its jaws. The eye was shut and the ears laid flat, as if the wolf was howling.
Skade leant closer to look. “A picture on your skin,” she remarked. “How is that possible?”
“What, you’ve never seen a tattoo before?” said Arren, surprised.
“Ta-too?”
“It’s ink,” he explained. “Ink under your skin. Someone takes a needle and dips it in ink, and then they stick it in you. They do it over and over again, leaving a little bit of ink every time, and they use it to draw a picture.”
Skade looked at him as if he was mad. “Why would you let them do that to you? Did they do it while you were in prison? Was it torture?”
“What? No! I paid to have it done, and it was very expensive, too.”
“You . . . paid . . . someone to hurt you?” said Skade, very slowly.
“Yes. No. Look,” said Arren. “You don’t pay to have it done because it hurts; you pay to have it done so you can have the tattoo afterward. The pain is the nasty part, but it doesn’t kill you. Tattoos are important. They’re stories. Signs. They tell other people things about you.”
Skade was giving him a long, slow look. “And what story does that tell?”
“The wolf’s head is a symbol,” said Arren. “It means—did I ever tell you my proper name?”
“What? What proper name?”
“Arren is—well, it’s a nickname. You see, I grew up among Southerners and I wanted to fit in. ‘Cardockson’ just means ‘son of Cardock’—Southerners give themselves second names after their mothers or fathers. If I called myself Arren Cardockson, it meant people wouldn’t know I was a Northerner just from hearing my name.” He sighed. “My father didn’t like that. He always refused to call me Arren. Said I should go by my proper name, out of pride. But I don’t take any pride in being what I am, and I never have.”
“I did not think your name sounded Northern,” said Skade. “So what is it?”
“It’s Arenadd,” said Arren. “Arenadd Taranisäii.”
Skade frowned. “How do you say it?”
“A-ren-ath Tah-ran-is-eye,” said Arren, sounding it out for her. “I always thought it was a stupid-sounding name myself.”
“Arenadd Taranisäii. It sounds Northern enough,” said Skade. “It suits you,” she added.
“Huh,” Arren scowled. “Maybe I should start calling myself that. Arren Cardockson’s probably too dull a name for a murderer to have.”
“Perhaps, but what does it have to do with the drawing on your arm?” said Skade.
“Oh. ‘Taranisäii’ means ‘of the blood of Taranis.’ My family descends from the Northern tribe known as the Wolf Tribe. The wolf’s head holding the moon is the symbol of the clan. It’s a sign of my ancestors.”
Skade nodded slowly. “I think I understand. It is like a form of plumage.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And yet,” said Skade, “you said you take no pride in being a Northerner.”
“Yes,” said Arren, “I had some silly ideas back then. My father was always trying to fill my head with nonsense about how the Northerners are an ancient and noble race and so on and so forth, and I agreed with him for a while.”
“You don’t believe they are?” said Skade.
“Look,” said Arren, more sharply than he needed to, “as far as I’m concerned, any race stupid enough to try and invade the South and try and fight griffiners, for gods’ sakes, can’t be as wise and cunning as they like to think. My father can be romantic about it if he wants to, but most Northerners are slaves, and the rest of them are uneducated peasants who can’t even govern themselves, and I’m damned if that’s anything to be proud of. I spent most of my life trying to cut myself off from them and show people I could be more than that. I even changed my name. I never spoke the Northern tongue, never worshipped the moon, never. I never acted like them. I acted like a Southerner. I was a Southerner. I could read and write, I could administrate—I was Master of Trade, for gods’ sakes. I didn’t even spend much time with my parents. All my friends were Southerners, and yet”—his voice was getting louder and louder, suddenly impassioned—“it wasn’t enough! Nothing was ever enough! Nothing I ever did could convince them that I should be treated like one of them. And why? Because of this!” He pulled at his hair and beard and waved a hand over his face, indicating his black eyes and sharp features. “All this! It wasn’t anything I did; it was all about how I looked! As if that was my fault! Even when I was a griffiner, people called me ‘blackrobe’ behind my back. And the moment Eluna was gone and people knew about it, they stopped pretending to respect me and took away everything I had. My job, my home, my dignity—d’you know how I got this?” He was pointing at the scar on his throat now. “D’you know how I got this, Skade?”
Skade was staring at him, shocked. “Yes, you told me. Calm down—”
“Some people put a slave collar on me,” Arren snarled. He couldn’t calm down now; red-hot rage was filling him, taking away his self-control. “They put it on me! Not because I’d done anything, but just because they wanted to humiliate me. What did I do to deserve it? Nothing. I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to be like this, Skade, I don’t want it. I can’t stand it. I don’t want to be a blackrobe. If I could tear all this away, I would. I’d hurt myself to do it. I didn’t want to kill Rannagon, but after what happened, I couldn’t—it’s the madness. We’re all mad inside, we blackrobes. Something just breaks inside us and all we can think of is fighting and killing. I wanted revenge. I thought that if I went back there and killed him it would all be over. I could rest; I could . . .” His words ran out at last, choked with sobs.
Skandar was staring at him in confusion, not knowing what was wrong with him. Skade, too, was staring, but after a moment’s hesitation she moved closer to him—not reaching out, but edging nearer. Arren turned and put his arms around her, holding her to him, and she finally embraced him in return, holding him awkwardly as he cried.
“It is not your fault,” she said. “Arren, please. Don’t do this.”
Arren tried to control himself, tried to speak. “Skade, I’m—I’m not—I don’t—”
“Be still,” said Skade. “Breathe deeply.”
Arren did, and his sobs started to die down. But he could not stop himself from saying what he said next. “Skade, I’m dead.”
She let go of him.“What?”
Arren shuddered. He’d said it. It was too late to take it back. He took Skade’s hand and lifted it. “Touch my neck,” he said softly. “Touch the side.”
She did, her expression bewildered. “Arren, what—?”
Arren carefully let go of her hand. “What do you feel?” he said.
Skade was silent for a time, and then she shook her head. “Nothing.”
He looked her in the eye. “You feel nothing.”
Skade took her hand away. “Arren, what is this?” she said impatiently. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Don’t you understand?” Arren hissed. “You touched my neck and you didn’t feel anything.”
“Yes, but—”
“You felt nothing!” he repeated. “Nothing! No heartbeat!”
Skade froze. “What?”
“I have no heartbeat,” said Arren. “I’m dead, Skade. I’ve been dead for months.”
She was staring at him, utterly lost. “What? But how can that be?”
He looked away. “I don’t know. But my heart hasn’t made a sound since what happened. I don’t know why I’m still here. All I know is that I died . . . and then I came back.”
“But how?”
“I fell,” said Arren. “From the edge of the city. Eagleholm is built on the top of a mountain. There are platforms—they expanded the mount
ain top to make room for new houses. I lived on the edge, but I was always afraid of heights. After I escaped from prison, after I came back and set Skandar free, guards saw me and I ran from them. I was trying to escape. They chased me to the edge of the city, and I surrendered. There was nowhere left to run.” He looked up at her. “And they shot me,” he said simply. “Hit me with arrows. Here.” He touched the scar over his heart. “And I fell from the edge, fell hundreds of feet. No-one could have survived it, and I didn’t.”
“But you must have.”
“I didn’t,” Arren said sharply. “I died. I landed on hard rocks. I felt every bone in my body break.” He glanced at Skandar. “He found me. Skandar. Came looking for me. The last thing I saw was him. Him, and the moon behind him. And then I died.”
“You fainted,” said Skade. “That is all. From the pain.”
Arren shook his head vaguely. “I don’t know what happened after that. I was in darkness. And then I felt something, as if I were on fire. Like something had taken hold of me and wouldn’t let go. Something hit me. Hit me all over. And then I woke up and it was morning, and Skandar was there watching me. There was nothing, no pain. I could stand and walk without any trouble, even though there were still two arrows stuck in me. And everything felt . . . different. For a while I couldn’t remember my own name. I thought it was a miracle. I’d survived. I’d come back. But when I tried to check my pulse—nothing.”
