“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 mountain 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.”
“Let me try,” said Skade, coming closer.
Arren did not resist as she touched his neck. He closed his eyes, hoping against hope that she would find something, anything. Maybe he had been missing it all along, maybe he’d made a mistake—
Skade withdrew her hand abruptly. Arren opened his eyes and saw her looking at him, an expression of utter horror on her face. “No,” she whispered. “No. This cannot—this is impossible!”
Arren bowed his head. “I thought it was a dream, a nightmare. Or that I really was dead and this was the afterlife.” He turned to stare at Skandar. Skandar stared back. “It was him,” Arren half-whispered. “It was Skandar. He made it happen. He used magic on me, to bring me back. He can’t tell me how he did it, but—”
Skade stood up and approached the black griffin. “Did you?” she said. “Skandar?”
Skandar stirred nervously. “I see him die,” he said at last. “And then I scream.”
“Was there light?” said Skade. “Did you see something come out of your beak, some kind of light?”
“Something come,” said Skandar. “Like fire. The scream, I see it.”
“Magic,” Skade breathed. “It was your fault.”
Arren stood, too. “Skade, I’m sorry. I should have—but how
could
I have told you? How could I tell anyone that I’m a walking dead man?”
She turned to face him. “That is why you want to go to the cave. You believe the spirits can heal you.”
“I have to try,” said Arren. “I can’t bear it. I feel dead inside. It makes me terrified to know my heart doesn’t beat. It makes me an abomination.”
She came closer. “It is not your fault. You did not make it happen; the fault lies with your partner.”
“It’s not Skandar’s fault,” said Arren. “He’d never used magic before and hasn’t since. He doesn’t understand it any better than I do. I don’t know, maybe I should thank him. But”—he came toward her, holding out his hands in supplication—“that’s why I killed Rannagon. Do you understand now? Every story I’d ever heard where the dead came back to life, it was always because they had something, some great purpose, something left unfinished. I thought that if I avenged my own death and Eluna’s, then it would all be over. I could go to my rest and be buried as I should. But it didn’t work. All that happened was that I became a murderer and destroyed all those lives. Nothing changed except for the worse, and
I don’t know what to do
.”
Skade touched him on the arm. “Hush. Do not despair. There is still hope. For you and for me.”
Arren gave her a wretched look. “Do you really think the spirits can help me, Skade?”
“I believe they can,” she replied, almost gently. “And I believe they will.”
9
The Spirit Cave
A
rren slept very little that night. Skade showed no interest in coupling after they had eaten, but she nestled beside him when he lay down to sleep against Skandar’s flank, sheltering under his wing. The feeling of her warm body against his helped to comfort him, but he lay awake for ages anyway, too miserable and upset to sleep. He felt ashamed of his tirade and of his tears as well. What right did he have to cry?
And yet …
And yet Skade had not turned away from him. She had been shocked and frightened and upset, but she had not become angry or disgusted, and she had not abandoned him. And, as Arren lay awake brooding, he dared to hope that maybe she would accept him even with his curse. Maybe it would be all right, and she’d help him.
Even so, he did not fall asleep until well after midnight.
S
kade shook him awake. “Come,” she said softly. “We must eat before we leave.”
Arren sat up, yawning.
It was dawn, and Skandar was stirring, too. Skade had gone over to the remains of the fire and was picking up the last of the apples.
Arren got to his feet and stretched. He was stiff and sore and chilled to the bone, and he had that light-headed bewildered feeling that indicated that he wasn’t ready to be up yet. He ignored it and wandered over to Skade, who silently passed him an apple.
Skandar had stood up and was busily preening and stretching his wings. Birds were calling everywhere, but the griffin hadn’t added his voice to theirs. In fact, now that Arren thought about it, he hadn’t done it in quite some time. He wondered about it briefly, but his brain wasn’t in the mood for any hard work just then, and he forgot about it fairly quickly and started on his breakfast. He was tempted to sit down but made himself pace around the campsite instead. If he stopped moving, he’d probably start wanting to go back to sleep.
No-one was talking. Skade was busy chewing on an apple and wasn’t looking at him. Skandar looked irritable and kept twitching his tail. Arren felt uncomfortable in their presence. The camp was full of quiet tension, and he couldn’t help but believe it was his fault. The previous night’s talk kept running around in his mind, and it almost made him afraid, or angry with himself. He looked at Skade, wanting to talk to her, but no words felt adequate.
Skade, however, paid almost no attention to him. She finished eating and walked off to the stream to drink, and Arren watched her go, feeling anxious and depressed.