as hard as he could. Having ripped a large chunk of wood out, he began to tear at the gap he had made, levering out great shards of wood with his beak and talons. Growing impatient, he resumed his stamping, bringing his full weight down on it. And then, quite suddenly, it shattered. His front legs punched straight through the wood up to the joints, and then he was struggling to free himself, screeching. His legs came free, and when he looked down he could see the big hole they had left. Cold air blew up through it and onto his face, and joy rose inside him. “Free,” he whispered. “Free.”
He stuck his beak through the hole. It was too small for him to fit through yet, but he dug the point of his beak into the edge and pulled upward. After a few moments’ struggle there was a deafening crack and a huge piece of wood broke off, so suddenly that he staggered backward, wings fluttering, the shattered plank still impaled on his beak. He wrenched it off with his talons and returned to the hole. It had nearly doubled in size. He could see the open space through it, and he spread his wings wide over his head and screamed.
“Darkheart! Darkheart!”
The other griffins rose up in their cages, screaming their own names. Some, though, screamed his.
Darkheart glanced back at Aeya. She returned his gaze. “Go, Darkheart,” she said. “Fly free.”
For a moment he stood there, not moving, and then he went back toward her. He reached through the bars with his beak and touched it lightly against hers. She cheeped softly, like a chick, and then sat down on her haunches. “Go,” she said again.
Darkheart stayed there for a time, just watching her. “Aeya,” he said at last, and then turned away. He went back to the hole and poked his head through. It fitted, and he thrust his forelegs after it, folding his wings backward to pull himself through. For a moment he became stuck partway, but he dug his talons into the underside of the platform and strained with all his might, until his wings were freed. His haunches and hind legs slid after them, and he fell from the hole.
But not far. His wings opened wide to catch him, and he flew, gliding away from the mountain and on, over the village of Idun. He could see the lake below him, glittering in the moonlight. Above him the stars shone brightly, and among them was the moon, staring down at him. He soared up toward it, not feeling the ache in his body that the chains and the manacles had left.
He was free.
Darkheart circled, his feathered tail turning to balance him, and felt his spirit rise up inside him, hot and vital and alive, like the richest meat and the sweetest water. He could feel the wind in his wings, caressing his face, touching his fur and his feathers. There was the ground below and the sky above, and no chains or humans or cages. He was free.
He flew higher and called out his name as he had never called it before, letting it travel out over the land like a bird. “Darkheart! Darkheart! Darkheart!”
He screamed it until he was hoarse, and then flew low over the city, chasing the wind, watching the city’s edge rush below him.
And then he heard Arren’s last scream rise up from below him.
Darkheart slowed, his wings fluttering to stop him. The scream echoed from the city, like a griffin’s call but higher and weaker, and he recognised it. It was the same sound he had heard in the pit that day, when the dark human had rushed at him, clutching a piece of metal in its hand. The same sound it had made when he had chased it and knocked it down.
The name rose up in his head. Arren.
Promise me, Arren Cardockson.
Darkheart circled for a time, confused. He remembered how the human had opened the cage and taken away the chains. He remembered the look on its face when they had met in the pit, when he had pinned it down and it had told him to kill it. Darkheart had not understood. Why would it want to die? Why would anything want to die? He remembered how the human had faced him in the field at Rivermeet, how it had shouted out a challenge to him, how it had stayed beside him on the journey to the cages,