just have to hope that next time you do win,” said Emogen.
“But I—”
“The fight was inconclusive,” Emogen said in formal, almost faraway tones. “Neither one of you truly won—though since you collapsed and Darkheart didn’t, that would in theory make him the winner. A truce—I suppose you can call it that—a truce is not a victory. Your agreement will not be fulfilled until one of you is dead.”
“Cheer up,” Orome advised. “No matter what happens after this, you’re going to go down in history for what happened today. Even griffins are talking about it.”
“I don’t want to go down in history!” Arren shouted. “I want to go home, godsdamnit!”
Orome gave him a dispassionate look. “Well, that’s not my problem. Even if you did somehow manage to make Darkheart lose his senses, you’re still a criminal, and as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have any worth to anyone except as entertainment. So I’d advise you to be a bit less uppity, Arren Cardockson.”
“But it’s not fair!”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you stole that chick,” said Orome. “See you tomorrow.”
With that he turned and left, and Emogen went with him. Sefer lingered a moment to peer curiously at him, and then jumped almost lazily off the edge of the platform, making the entire thing shake. Arren, turning instinctively to watch, saw the red griffin’s wings open and watched him soar away over the landscape. Vertigo instantly made the ground lurch beneath him, and he fell over sideways, grabbing at the bars to save himself from falling. He hit the bars of the cage awkwardly and, for what felt like the hundredth time, the collar tore into his neck. He let out a maddened snarl of both pain and rage, one which turned into a string of swearwords. It didn’t make him feel even slightly better. He lurched upright and staggered toward the door and began to wrench at the bars, trying with all his might to make them break. They shook and creaked against their bindings, and splinters stabbed into his palms, but they would not give. Each one was as thick as his forearm and held in place with metal rivets. The door itself was sealed with a chain, and none of it had an inch of give in it anywhere. Maddened by fear, he tried to squeeze through one of the gaps between the bars. It was far too narrow for his head to fit through, but he persisted anyway, until one of the guards wandered over and shoved him away. He fell onto his back and lay still, breathing heavily, then suddenly grabbed hold of the collar and tried yet again to pull it off. Still it would not come off. Still it weighed him down. Still it hurt. He realised then that it never would come off. He was going to wear it for the rest of his life.
21
Freedom
Night drew in over the city. In his cage behind the Arena, Darkheart dozed. And in his own cage not very far away, Arren slept restlessly; his hands curled into fists, and his legs twitched as if he was trying to run somewhere. His face, too, moved, the forehead creasing as he mumbled in his sleep.
“. . . help me, I’m falling, help me . . . falling . . . help me . . .”
Then he was walking along the street toward his home, with Eluna beside him, and Gern there, too, chattering about the latest fight at the Arena. Arren pretended to listen, to humour him. Gern was always hurt if someone complained or looked bored.
Look at that, Gern kept saying. Look, sir.
They had reached the door of his home, and the key was in his hand. He put it into the lock and turned it, but the instant the door swung open, flames billowed out and he realised the house was on fire. He backed away, but Eluna pushed past him and ran ahead, straight into the heart of the flames. Eluna! Come back!
He ran forward, trying to get to her, but he could not. The door would not come any closer. It was just ahead of him, so close but always out of reach.
Gern was still there. Sir, look, he said again.
Arren turned to him. Gern, help me.
Sir, said Gern. Look. You’re falling.
And then he was falling. The ground beneath him vanished and there was nothing but darkness, pulling him down. High above, the black griffin circled, his screech echoing in the