always watching. He remembered the sound it had made when it had held on to the white griffin’s body. That sound no griffin could make.
Arren Cardockson.
Dark human. Dark griffin.
The strange feeling began to burn in his throat again.
Arren Cardockson.
Not knowing what he was doing, Darkheart flew lower, all thought of flying back to his valley forgotten.
He could see the city, all light and shadow, but he did not want to go there. There were cages there, and humans who would trap him again, and other griffins who would attack. It was not a place for a wild griffin to be. He flew lower, searching the ground at the base of the mountain. There were trees there, all tall and strong. Their smell reminded him of home, and he flew toward them and began to circle, staring straight downward at the ground beneath them. Searching.
He found Arren in the end. The wind carried his scent up to him, and he flew still lower, following it. It led him to a clear spot among the trees, by a heap of tumbled rocks. He landed almost silently on the earth and walked forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the dark shape sprawled not far away.
Arren lay on his back among the rocks, unmoving. The collar around his neck was bent and twisted from the impact, and blood was slowly running down his face from just below his eye, like tears. His eyes were wide open, staring at the moon above, and one leg was twisted beneath him.
Darkheart moved closer and sniffed at him. Arren did not move, and he nudged him gently with his beak. He rolled partly onto his side and then slumped back, but then, as Darkheart watched, he stirred and moaned. He was alive.
The black griffin could see his face moving. One hand twitched, and the eyes blinked, just once, turning toward him. He looked down on the human, and a strange terror entered into his heart. He crouched beside him, so close they were almost touching.
“Arren Cardockson,” he said softly.
Arren’s mouth moved. He was trying to speak. Darkheart brought his head down closer to listen, and heard him say a word. A strange word. Not one he knew.
“Eluna.”
Arren’s hand stopped twitching, and his head became still, his face slackening. His shattered chest moved frantically up and down, but then it slowed and weakened until it was barely moving at all.
“Arren,” Darkheart whispered.
Arren’s eyes turned toward him, and then looked up at the moon, whose light shone down on his face and turned it black and silver. Then they, too, stilled. One moment they were looking at the moon, and the next something behind them, some light that lived on the other side, had gone out.
Quietly, mourned by no-one, watched over by the moon and by the looming shape of the dark griffin, Arren Cardockson died.
23
Risen Moon
Darkheart stayed by the human’s body for a long time, unable or unwilling to move. From time to time he shifted slightly, his tail twitching, but then he sighed and settled down again, his great shoulders hunched. His wings and legs hurt, and his neck, but he ignored them. He nibbled at his forelegs, where the manacles had rubbed the scales away and left deep scars behind. There was a bald patch on his neck, too, from the collar.
He looked up at the moon, so bright and cold, shaped like an eye, and felt a deep despair fill him. Suddenly, all his energy had left him, along with his joy in being free. He could fly back to his valley—but he didn’t care about it any more. He couldn’t even remember it properly, and he did not know the way back. He was lost here, in this place he did not know, with no-one who could show him the way.
He lay down, his head on his talons, and looked at the dead human who had been his only link to home. The one who knew how to open cages, who could appear out of nowhere like a shadow come to life. The one he had known when he was home. The one who wore a collar so much like his own, and who fought like a wild griffin.
“Arren,” he whispered.
He pushed at the human’s shoulder with his beak, trying to make him wake up, but he had gone stiff and cold and was not like himself any more.