“His own—?”
“Yes,”
she rasped. “You hear me: his father killed him. He came to the nest with some of his friends; he was in a violent rage and shouted at Welyn, told him he had endangered all their lives and if he did not abandon me, Welyn would see the Northerners all killed in the end. The gods did not will our partnership, he said. But Welyn was bold now he had me; he told his father it was his choice and mine and that he would become a griffiner and use his power to make the city great.”
Skade hissed. “The man was a fool. He killed Welyn in front of me, hit him so hard that he fell against the wall and broke his neck. I rushed to try and stop it, but I was too late. My talons hit Welyn’s father, tore him open. He died there on the floor, and the others fled. I should have let them go, but I had gone mad. I killed them. All of them. Hunted them through the city, every last one, and I killed anyone who tried to stop me. When the city guard came to capture me, I attacked them and killed some before they snared me. After that I was brought before the council of griffins, who were quick to condemn me as mad and beyond saving. Arakae wielded his power to trap me in human form, and after that there was nothing but anger and misery. I had nowhere to run to, and I did not care, because Welyn was dead.”
Arren laughed, a flat, bitter laugh that had no humour in it whatsoever. “And after all that you decided to throw your lot in with another Northerner. Haven’t you learnt your lesson by now?”
Skade hissed at him. “Do not mock me!”
Guilt hit him instantly. “Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just—I just didn’t know what to say.” He reached out and took Skade by the hand.
She made no effort to pull away. “That is why I decided to trust you, and why I came to look on you as worthy of being more than a friend. We are of a kind, you and I. The gods willed us to meet; that our stories are so alike is a sign.”
“The gods!” Arren snorted. “Hah. The way I see it is that the gods piss on your head and then condemn you for being wet. They never let me in the temple back at Eagleholm, but I never really wanted to go in there anyway. Gryphus and Scathach can lick my boots for all I care.”
“But you are a Northerner,” said Skade, surprised. “Your god is the moon.”
“The moon,” Arren spat. “The moon never did anything to help me. I prayed to it to save me when I was in prison, and it was the last thing I saw before I—”
“Before you what?” said Skade.
Before I died
. “Nothing,” said Arren. “It’s nothing. Sorry.” He glanced at the sky. The moon was up now, its white light outshining the stars. “But you’re right,” he added more quietly. “You and I are of a kind, Skade. You and I together. We can do anything.”
She was watching him carefully. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Anything.”
T
heir journey resumed the following day, and it was one of the happiest times of Arren’s life. Part of the reason was Skandar’s return, and another was the knowledge that they would soon reach the spirit cave and the healing it offered. But the biggest part of it was Skade. The silver-haired woman had recovered her strength and every evening helped him make camp and forage for food. She was taciturn a lot of the time, even unemotional, but her looks toward him were warm and her affections aggressive, almost violent. It was not in her nature to be gentle, not in anything, but Arren didn’t mind. He loved her. He loved her as he had never loved anyone before, more than he had loved Flell. He didn’t care that her eyes were gold or that her fingernails were sharp claws. He did not care that she had been born as a griffin. Nor could he make himself think about what might happen when they reached the spirit cave. For now, all that mattered was … now.
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?”