More silence. Then Arren stopped again, automatically putting a hand to his neck to hold the collar in place. “Roland?”
“Yes, lad?”
“What are you supposed to do when someone hurts you?” said Arren.
“How d’you mean, Arren?”
“When they’re cruel to you. If they lie to you or hurt you. What’s the right thing to do?”
“Well, I’m not sure how I would be expected to know,” said Roland. “Why do you ask?”
“You know about the gods,” said Arren. “What do they want us to do?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m the right person to ask. The only god I know is Gryphus. And Gryphus is . . . well, he’s . . .”
“Not my god,” Arren said shortly.
“Why do you ask, Arren?” said Roland.
“I was just curious. That’s all.”
Roland paused, and then put the griffin chick he was holding back into its pen. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” he said, coming closer. “Something’s troubling you. What is it, Arren?”
As Arren moved away, the broom fell out of his hands. He bent to pick it up, and the collar moved. He cried out without meaning to, and his hand went to his neck.
Roland stopped. “Arren, what’s wrong with your neck? You’re—oh my gods, you’re bleeding!”
Arren tried to pull away, but Roland was too quick for him. He grabbed the strip of blanket and pulled it off, revealing the collar underneath. Blood was crusted on the skin above and below it, which was red and swollen, and a thin trickle of fresh blood was slowly weaving its way over Arren’s collarbone.
Roland went pale. “No!”
Arren tried to grab the strip of blanket, but Roland tossed it aside and grabbed him by the shoulder. “How long have you been like this?”
“I . . . ”
“Answer me! How long have you had this on?”
“Three months,” Arren almost whispered.
Roland’s expression was horrified. “Arren, who did this?”
“I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean?”
Arren’s shoulders slumped. “They broke into my house. I came home and they were waiting. They beat me up and put the collar on me. I can’t get it off.”
“Is that why you didn’t come to work for so long?”
“Yes.”
“Arren, why didn’t you tell me? For gods’ sakes, why did you just—you’ve been wearing that thing for three months and you never told anyone? You could have died!”
“I didn’t know what to do,” said Arren. “I was afraid.”
“Yes, but not stupid. This is—well, this is an outrage! The whole city should be up in arms!”
“Why?” Arren said sharply. “Why should they care?”
“Care? Arren, you’re a griffiner! You’re not a slave. Yes, I know you don’t have a griffin any more, but you still deserve respect! If Riona knew about this she’d be furious. Lord Rannagon would—”
“I can’t tell anyone, Roland,” said Arren.
“Balderdash!” Roland snapped, in a voice such as Arren had never heard him use. “Come with me right now; we’re going to go and see Lord Rannagon this instant.”
“No!”
Roland stopped. “What?”
Open fear showed in Arren’s face. “No, please, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“I can’t go to Rannagon. I can’t tell people about it. I can’t let them find out . . .”
“Find out what?” Roland was looking at him with concern. “Arren, what are you afraid of?”
“I—I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“No.” Roland seized him by the shoulders and forced Arren to look him in the eye. “I am not going to stand idly by and let this happen. You’re going to tell me what’s going on, right now, or I’ll take you to Lord Rannagon anyway.”
Arren glanced toward the doors. There was no-one there, but . . .
Roland noticed. “Come with me,” he said, and hustled Arren into the back room. His home consisted of a solitary but large and very comfortable-looking room, and most of the furniture was well made and expensive, as befitted a griffiner. Roland sat him down at the table and poured some wine into a cup. “Here, drink this.”
Arren drank deeply. It was strong and richly flavoured, and he relaxed a little.
Roland closed and locked the door and then came back. “All right,” he said firmly. “Tell me what’s going on. Start from the beginning.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Arren stopped, and then suddenly felt his resistance cave in. “I’ve been told that if I tell anyone, they’ll be killed, and so will I. One of—a friend of mine, I told him I’d been threatened, and . . . he died a few days later. They said it was an accident, but—”
“Who was this?” said Roland.
“Gern. You know, the tailor’s son. Bran told me he died