you’re going or why. If I can, I’ll meet you there, but I can’t make any promises. People are going to be after me, and I won’t lead them to you.”
“But Arren, why?” said Cardock. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. If you leave now, no-one will ever chase you.”
Arren picked up the sword. “But they will,” he said. “By tomorrow, everyone will be after me.”
“Why?” said Annir.
“Because tomorrow I will be a murderer,” said Arren.
24
The Cursed One
Flell’s house was dark and cold when she entered it. Her servants had gone home for the night, but they’d left a lamp lit for her. She picked it up and used it to light her way toward the study, where there should be a fire still burning.
In the corridor, Thrain suddenly stopped. Flell looked back at her and saw that the little griffin had pulled back and was hunched uncertainly against the wall, tail lashing.
“What is it?”
Thrain looked up sharply, then stared in the direction of the study door, which was slightly ajar. The light of the fire behind it flickered around the edges, but there was no sound or sign of anything.
“Thrain?” said Flell. “Is something wrong?”
Thrain hissed, but said nothing.
“Come on,” said Flell. She moved on and pushed the door open, and Thrain followed her warily, still hissing.
There was nothing unusual in the study. The fire was burning cheerily in the grate, well stocked with fuel, and a flask of wine and two cups were on the table. Flell frowned when she saw the second cup. She’d given Thrain some in the past, but it was a bad idea, and the extra cup would only give her ideas. She made a mental note to tell her housekeeper not to do that again.
As she set the lamp down on the table, she saw the flame flicker a little and realised there was a cold breeze in the room. She shivered slightly and reached for the wine.
Thrain gave a sharp shriek from behind her. Flell turned in time to see the little griffin streak past her and dive under the table, where she cowered against one of its legs, quivering.
“Thrain? What’s wrong with you?”
The breeze blew on her face. She looked up, and then she saw the broken window and went cold. Without looking around, she reached to her waist and drew her dagger. The feel of the metal hilt against her skin gave her courage, and she turned slowly, every sense alert for danger.
There was no-one there.
“Thrain,” Flell called, still scanning the room for any sign of movement. “Is there someone else in here?”
Thrain hissed again. “Fear,” she said suddenly. “Fear. Blood. I smell blood. I smell death.”
Holding the dagger tightly in one hand, Flell stepped toward the fireplace. Someone could be hiding behind one of the chairs.
“Flell,” said a voice.
Flell almost screamed. She whirled around, dagger raised, and saw a shadow detach itself from the wall and come toward her. It was human, tall and thin, utterly silent when it moved, like a piece of living night.
“Stop there!” Flell shouted.
“Flell,” the voice said again. “It’s me.”
The shape came forward into the light.
A young man, tall and sinewy, most of his body concealed by a long black robe. His face was pale, gaunt and angular, marred by a long cut just under his right eye. He had black curly hair and a pointed black beard. His eyes were black, and they were cold and glittering in the darkness.
Flell froze. “Who are you?” she demanded.
The man held out his hands; they were elegant and long-fingered. “Flell, it’s me,” he said again. “It’s Arren. Don’t you recognise me?”
And, at last, she recognised his voice. The dagger dropped out of her hand and she staggered away from him. “No!”
“Flell, please, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to see you again.”
“But you’re dead,” Flell whispered. “You’re dead!”
“Flell.”
Arren came toward her, his boots making no sound on the floor. She did not move away. She could hear him breathing now; she could see him clearly, see he was real.
He reached out and brushed her face lightly with his fingertips. His touch was cold.
Flell started to shrink away, but then she reached out to him and touched him, feeling his hair and his skin. All real. All still there. “Arren.”
He stood there a moment and then pulled her to him, hugging her tightly. She hugged him back; the feeling of his thin body in her arms was so familiar—and yet so strange.
They parted,