I
t was a four-day journey to Herbstitt, and by the end of the second day Arren had long since realised that there was no hope of escape. He was forced to walk behind Russ’ horse all day, with only a few short breaks, and at night he was tied to a tree in the same manner as before. His hands were kept chained together at all times, and he was never left unguarded. His captors were obviously experienced and must have been expecting him to try and escape. They kept their distance from him most of the time in case he tried to attack, and searched the ground around him for sharp objects. Every morning and evening they patted him down and turned out his pockets to make sure he had nothing hidden on him he could use to escape.
Other than that, they generally ignored him, speaking to him only to give him orders and showing little interest in his wellbeing, although they did give him plenty to eat. The food mostly consisted of dried travel rations, but it was far superior to what he’d survived on for the last few months, and he ate it very gratefully. He needed all he could get. It had been a long time since he’d walked any great distance, and by the end of the first day he could barely stand upright. The second day was nightmarish. He forgot any notion of escaping and focused all his efforts on simply keeping up as the day stretched out into an endless slow pounding of hooves and his own boots dragging on the ground. He was so exhausted that he collapsed the instant the rope was untied and had to be dragged over to the tree where he would spend the night.
His captors, aware that he couldn’t keep on going like this, left a little later the next day and took more breaks. He was able to cope with that. By the middle of the third day they were back in inhabited country, riding through large stretches of farmland toward the river. That night they took shelter in the home of a farmer, who let them sleep in his barn for a handful of silver oblong. Arren was locked up in a small storeroom under the floor, but at least he could lie down now, and they provided him with a heap of straw.
The day after that was easier. There was a decent road following the river, and it was far easier to travel along it than through damp forest. There were other people using it, too: farm carts and mounted travellers and even a few boats on the river, which was wide and looked to be very deep. One or two of their fellow travellers paused briefly to greet Arren’s captors, and it was from one of those encounters that he finally learnt something useful.
“Heading straight for Canran,” said the traveller, a roughly clad man on a horse. “Seems they’re preparing themselves for a fight. As for me, I’m keeping well out of it. Got better things to do than worry about what the griffiners are up to.”
“Well, Lord Holm’s not a fool,” one of Arren’s guards replied. “I doubt the Eagleholm lot are gonna put up much of a fight. Most of ’em would’ve flown off by now anyway.”
Arren’s heart leapt. Lord Holm! That was a name he knew: Lord Holm was Eyrie Master at Canran, and that meant Arren was out of Eagleholm’s lands and in those of Canran. He and Skandar had flown further than he had realised.
The conversation ended after that, as the rider went on his way, and Arren trudged on. The truth was that he had no idea what Lord Holm would do with him. Once he would have assumed that he’d be handed over to Lady Riona at Eagleholm, for a price. But now that she was gone, what then? If the Canran griffiners were going to invade Eagleholm’s lands—something he’d gleaned from listening to the talk around him—then they were hardly likely to be interested in doing them any favours. Even so, he couldn’t expect mercy from Lord Holm. He was still a Northerner, and he had still killed griffiners, which made him an enemy to every griffiner in Cymria. There was no doubt whatsoever that they would kill him. The only question was when, how and who would do it.
Arren brooded obsessively on it as the day wore on, trying to imagine what was going to happen to him. The traitor’s death, perhaps. That was the punishment meted out to anyone whose crimes went beyond mere ordinary murder; it was done only rarely, but always in public, when the griffiners wanted to make an example. Arren had witnessed a few executions in his life, but the traitor’s death was something else. Mere hanging or beheading was one thing; they were unpleasant, but quick and clean enough. The traitor’s death, though …
He’d read accounts of it in books. The condemned would be hanged until he was nearly dead, and then cut down and manacled to a rack. Then he would be torn open and disembowelled, forced to watch as his own intestines came out of his body. After that, he would be finished off by being hacked into four crude pieces, and his heart would be taken out and shown to the crowd. The vilest death the griffiners had ever devised.
Arren felt sick when he thought of it. It didn’t matter that he was already dead; he could still feel pain. And he would not survive that punishment.
He thought of Skandar. The griffin must be looking for him; maybe he would come and try to rescue him. But Skandar could have no way of knowing where he was by now. Again and again he had wanted to call for him, but it would be suicide. If these men knew anything about griffiners then they would know what he was doing if he started calling. They had bows. If he called and Skandar did come, they would be forewarned. They could shoot him down the instant he flew within range. Arren watched the sky surreptitiously, always on the lookout for a pair of dark wings, but he never saw anything. He hoped Skandar was safe. And Skade—he thought of her, too. He wondered where she was now and whether the spirits had granted
her
request. Was she back in her old shape now, or was she still out there somewhere, trapped in human form? Arren didn’t like to think of her, but he couldn’t help it. As the journey continued, he relived their last exchange over and over in his mind, and nursed his hurt. He felt like an idiot. But though he was angry with her as well as himself, he still wanted to know if she was safe.
Herbstitt came into sight shortly before sunset, and Arren’s suspicions were confirmed the instant he saw the dome of the temple rising over the rooftops: it was the same town he had spotted from Skandar’s back.
There was a large wall around the city, or at least part of one. The stones were crumbling and the gates missing, but there were signs that they were being rebuilt; scaffolds had been set up around them, and there were heaps of newly cut blocks stacked just beyond the nonexistent gates. The workers must have retired for the night; the sun was sinking, and he could see people in the streets heading for home.
Herbstitt was bigger than he had thought. There was a mill built on the riverbank and a small dock where a number of boats were moored. The houses looked old but well kept, and there was a good-sized marketplace. The temple was near the centre of town, and not far away from it was a great stone tower. Arren recognised the design immediately: the wide balconies without railings and the flat top. A griffiner tower. This would be the place where the town’s administration took place. And the place where prisoners were kept.
He was led through the streets, directly to the tower, and he felt his insides crumble. This was it. Soon he would be in the tower’s dungeons, ready to be interrogated.
He looked away. The streets here were cobbled, but there was a layer of dirt over the stones. He examined them closely, trying to think of anything except the tower and the dungeons. There were plants, he noticed. Plants growing in the cracks between the cobbles, and in the gutters and along the walls of the buildings they passed. Some of them had flowers. He started trying to identify each one he saw, concentrating almost fiercely. There was soap-bush, mint, spleenwort, blood-root and catweed. Arren trod on a clump of spiny griffin-tail, and the sharp smell of it filled his nose. Herbs. They were growing everywhere. Quite suddenly, he found himself biting back a snigger. Herbstitt, the Healer’s Home. The place where herbs grew.
A tug on the rope brought him back to reality. They had come to a halt in the yard in front of the tower, and Russ and his men were dismounting. Russ untied the rope from the back of his horse and yanked on it, and Arren stumbled toward him. Guards were already emerging from the tower to come and meet them, and Arren’s captors held him by the shoulders as Russ untied the rope, leaving only the manacles.
“G’day,” Russ said, nodding to one of the guards. “How’s things?”
“Not bad,” said the guard. He and his companion took up station on either side of Arren, grabbing him by the elbows. “We’ll take charge of him now.”
“Right,” said Russ. He nodded to his friends. “Go on. I’ll stay with him and meet you later with the money, all right?”
Jono nodded briefly in return. “Come on,” he said to his fellows, and the group of them left, leading their horses and leaving Russ behind.
Russ tethered his horse to a ring set into the wall and entered the tower. The guards followed, with Arren walking between them. No-one seemed particularly interested.
“So, where’d you catch him?” one guard asked.
“Near the Northgates,” Russ answered briefly.
“Bastard got his collar off,” said the other guard.
Russ shrugged. “Some of ’em figure out how to do it. There’s a trick to it.”
Somewhere in the midst of the terror constricting his throat, Arren felt a hint of confusion.
“I take it the others haven’t shown up?” said Russ.
“Not a sign,” said the guard.
“Well, it’s not my problem,” said Russ. He reached the end of the corridor and knocked on a large door. It was opened by another guard, and Arren was taken through and into a big stone room with a table in it. There was a fireplace with a good fire burning in it, and a large dog curled up on the rug in front of it looked up as the door opened.
There was a man sitting at the table, but Arren knew instantly that he wasn’t a griffiner. He was too plainly clad, for one thing, and there was no sign of a griffin. The interior of the tower had been built specifically to allow a griffin inside, and if this man had one it would certainly be with him.
Russ strode over to the table. “Evening, sir.”
The man stood up. “I was expecting you back days ago.”
Russ shrugged. “We stay out as long as the job takes.” He gestured at the guards to bring Arren forward. “Anyway, we got him, sir.”
The man looked Arren up and down, and then blinked in a puzzled kind of way. “Where did you find him?”
“Near the Northgates. No sign of the other group, though. My guess is they’re lost somewhere. Anyway, it’s no concern of ours. We’re just here to hand the blackrobe over and get our pay.”
The man looked at Arren again. “It’s not him.”
Russ paused. “What, sir?”
“You heard me,” said the man. “That’s not him. You’ve got the wrong man.”
“Are you sure, sir?” said Russ. He sounded surprised.
“Yes. I know what he looks like, and this isn’t him. He’s too young. The runner doesn’t have a scar on his face, either.”
Russ looked at Arren. “Oh.”
The man leant over the table. “Show me your hand, blackrobe.”
Before he could obey, one of the guards grabbed Arren’s forearm and yanked it forward. The man examined the back of Arren’s hand. “No brand. Where is his brand?” He looked up at Arren: “Where’s your brand, blackrobe?”
Arren gaped at him, too bewildered to speak.
The man made a sound of irritation and let go. “This is wonderful. Instead of bringing back that cursed runner, you’ve brought me this idiot.”
“Well, I’m sorry,
sir
,” Russ snapped. “How was I supposed to know? A blackrobe on his own with collar scars on his neck—what else could I have done?”
“You
could
have checked his hand,” the man said acidly.
“Look, sir,” said Russ, calming down, “we were out near the mountains, it was freezing cold and pissing with rain, and we were running out of supplies. I figure one blackrobe’s pretty much like another. Now are you going to pay me, or should I take him somewhere else?”
The man paused to think it over. “You,” he said to Arren, “can you talk, blackrobe?”
Arren swallowed. “Uh, yes. Sir.”
“Thank gods for that. Where did you run away from?”
Arren’s mind raced. “I—uh—W-Withypool, sir.”
“You’re not local, that’s obvious,” said the man, in an oddly satisfied tone. “Don’t they brand slaves over there?”
“Uh—no, sir,” said Arren.
“Why wouldn’t they?” said Russ.
The man, though, waved him into silence. “It’s this new system: some people just mark the collars. Makes no difference to me. What’s your name, blackrobe?”
“Er—Taranis, sir,” said Arren.
“And what are your skills?”
Arren looked at him blankly.
“What can you do, blackrobe?” the man said impatiently. “What sort of work did you do in Withypool?”
“Oh. I—uh—” Arren pulled himself together. “I know some carpentry, sir. And I can—” He was about to say that he could read and write, but decided against it. “I know how to cook,” he said lamely.
The man snorted. “Educated, are you? Do you know anything about building, then?”