The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  The inside of the house looked a lot better now; the back windows and door were open, and sunlight was shining in, though Arren winced when it touched his face.

  “Sit down,” he mumbled. “I’ll just—I’ll be back in a bit.”

  He retreated into the stable and returned carrying an empty crate, which he put down next to the table and sat on. Flell noticed that, though he wasn’t lurching now, he moved with a slight limp.

  “Are you feeling better now?” she asked kindly.

  Arren rubbed his face. He hadn’t shaved off the beard, though he’d obviously done his best to neaten it up, and he’d made an attempt at combing his hair. He was still pale, though, and his eyes were bloodshot. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a cart,” he said.

  “So, would that be an improvement?” said Flell, setting Thrain down so she could wander off as she chose.

  “A bit, yeah. Look, I’m sorry about last night. You didn’t deserve to see me like that.”

  Flell put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, I understand. But you need to look after yourself, Arren. I care about what happens to you, and so do the others. You’re not alone.”

  He reached up and put his hand on hers. “I know,” he said. “I know. I just—I just miss her so much, Flell. I couldn’t stand it. I mean—I thought there was something wrong with me. The whole way back here from Rivermeet I just . . . didn’t feel anything. Like nothing was really real. And then when I got back home, it was like—like it all just hit me at once. I kept turning around and expecting to see her there, and when she wasn’t, I felt lost. I still feel lost. Like there’s something that used to be inside me and now it’s gone, but I can still feel where it used to be.”

  “You should have come to see me,” said Flell. “Or Bran, or Gern. We were worried about you.”

  “How could I?” said Arren, looking up at last. “I couldn’t face you any more, not like this. The whole city knows I’m in disgrace. I kept expecting someone to come and arrest me, and then when no-one did I realised it was because no-one even cared. I’m not a griffiner any more, Flell. I’m nobody.”

  Flell laughed softly. “Oh, Arren, listen to yourself. Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t care about whether you’re a griffiner or not; we care about you. You’re our friend, aren’t you? And to me—” She lifted his chin with her other hand so that their eyes met. “I love you, Arren. You do know that, don’t you? And I’ll go on loving you no matter what you do or what happens to you.”

  His face softened. “I know. I’ve always known. But what can I do now, Flell? Where can I go? I’ve looked for other jobs, but no-one will give me one. I’m too skinny to be a guard or a lift-loader, and I don’t know anything about carpentry or metal or making bread. I mean, I know how to make boots, but what good does that do me? There’s already five bootmakers working in the marketplace and none of them needs an assistant. I’m not good enough to do it on my own, and besides, I wouldn’t have the money to pay for my own stall.”

  “Don’t be silly; there has to be a job for you somewhere,” said Flell. “You can read and write, can’t you? There must be dozens of people out there who’d give anything to employ someone with your education.”

  “Oh yes?” said Arren. He slumped. “Flell, look at me. What do you see?”

  She paused. “I see Arren Cardockson, who’s grown a beard and looks miserable. Why, what did you expect me to see?”

  Arren ran his fingers through his hair. “You can see this, can’t you? And these?” He pointed at his eyes. “And these.” He flexed his long fingers. “Well, so can everyone else, Flell. They see a Northerner.”

  “Well, you’re not one,” Flell snapped. “You’re as Southern as I am.”

  He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t be a Southerner by pretending. My father keeps telling me that. Maybe I don’t wear a robe or have spirals on my face, and maybe I’m not a slave, but I’m still a blackrobe, and everyone knows it as soon as they see me. I’m not just Arren Cardockson. I’m Arren Cardockson, the Northerner. And nothing can change that.”

  “So what?” said Flell. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You didn’t have any choice about what you were born as, any more than I did. Why should anyone care? You’re still human.”

  “You’re sheltered,” Arren said bluntly. “I’m sorry, but you are. You don’t live among ordinary people like I do. And I’m telling you, it matters. It’s always mattered. Ever since I first came here people have said things. Treated me differently. They didn’t dare make it too obvious, not while Eluna was there. But I could tell that nearly everyone who turned me away for a job was thinking: why employ a Northerner? It’d only make the customers nervous, and besides, there’s plenty of other young people looking for work. Ones with proper brown hair and everything.” He said this quite matter-of-factly; the bitterness was in the words rather than the tone.

  “You’re just being paranoid, Arren,” said Flell.

  He was silent for a time. “You know—do you remember how I fell off that roof when I was twelve?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” Arren said in a low voice. “Someone pushed me off.”

  Flell started. “What? Who? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I did. They didn’t believe me, and anyway, I didn’t see who did it. I was on an errand to fetch something, but someone grabbed my bag. I ran after them and they threw it on the roof of a building. I went and picked it up, and then someone shoved me from behind. Eluna was flying overhead, and she swooped down and put herself in the way, so I hit her instead of the ground. I probably would have died or been crippled if she hadn’t. But I was knocked unconscious, and a while later Bran came along and found me lying there and carried me back home. That was how we got to be friends.”

  “Arren, that’s—but why would anyone do that?”

  “Because I was a Northerner,” said Arren. “Other children were always picking on me when Eluna wasn’t there. In the end she started staying with me all the time, and they left me alone then. But I knew they still hated me. And now Eluna can’t protect me any more.”

  Flell stiffened. “Arren, you don’t think—you’re not in danger, are you?”

  “No, no. I’m all right. They aren’t going to kill me. But they can still make trouble for me. At this rate they won’t need to push me off another roof; they can just wait for me to starve to death.”

  Flell paused. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

  He shook his head. “Too sick.”

  The parcels of food were still on the table. Flell found a plate and started opening them. “You’ve got to eat,” she said, pulling out a loaf of bread. “Go on, Bran and Gern went out especially to get all this for you.”

  Arren accepted the plate of food she offered him and started to eat, chewing listlessly. “I don’t deserve this,” he said.

  “Nonsense. Eat up, you’ve got a big day ahead of you.”

  He gave her a cynical look. “Oh? Why, what’s happening today?”

  “We’re going to get you a job,” said Flell. “And possibly something else, too.”

  Arren swallowed. “You’re not going to ask your father to help, are you? Because I really don’t think—”

  “No. How’s your chest, by the way?”

  He let her open his tunic and carefully peel away the bandages to inspect the wounds. They looked much better, though it was difficult to tell yet whether they would begin healing. At least none of them looked as if they were filling up again.

  “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 wa
ter 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 gest
ured 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.