over the fireplace. It was a beautiful thing, with a long, straight blade and a bronze hilt decorated with griffins. He had used it in battle several times; the blade was notched and worn, and the grip was dark with ingrained dirt and sweat. Kaelyn kept telling him to have it cleaned, but he never seemed to get around to it. Besides, it looked better this way. More honest. Cleaning it would only conceal the fact that it had been used and that it had taken lives.
Shoa stirred beside him. “You will not have to use it again,” she said. “Not for many years.”
“I prefer not to be too confident too soon,” said Rannagon. “Life is always unexpected.”
“But planning and foresight can change that,” said Shoa. “You know that, Rannagon.”
“Yes.”
“You did what was right,” said Shoa. “For the greater good. One day they will say you prevented the rise of a tyrant.”
“Do you expect me to be proud?” Rannagon said sharply.
“I do not see why you should not be,” said Shoa.
Rannagon’s grip on his armrest tightened. “No,” he said. “I’m not proud, and I never will be. I’m ashamed.”
“Then you are weak,” said Shoa. “Man or griffin should always take pride in doing justice.”
“It wasn’t justice, Shoa,” said Rannagon. “Murder is murder, and lies are lies. What we did was unspeakable.”
“The way of a griffiner is hard,” said Shoa. “I told you that when you were young and you did not want to go to war. You listened to me, and you became a great warrior.”
“That’s different,” said Rannagon. “Warfare is different. I looked those men in the eye as I killed them—but this time? I wasn’t even there. No-one even knows I did it.”
“The boy was only a blackrobe,” said Shoa. “Why sully your hands with his blood? And he brought it on himself. We did not ask him to steal a chick.”
“No.” Rannagon sighed. “I should have had him killed. Proper assassination. It would have been quieter. He deserved better. By the end, it was probably a mercy that he died as he did. What did he even have left to live for?”
“Revenge,” a voice whispered.
Rannagon froze. “Shoa?”
The yellow griffin stood up and turned around. There was nothing unusual to be seen in the study, but she began to hiss. “I smell something,” she said.
Rannagon got up and snatched his sword down from the wall. “Come out and show yourself!” he commanded. “Now!”
Silence, and stillness.
Shoa hissed again, raising her wings. “I smell you,” she said. “You cannot hide. If I must hunt you down, I shall kill you.”
“Murderer,” the voice whispered. It was speaking griffish, and before it had even faded away, Arren stepped out of the shadows to confront them.
Rannagon’s mouth fell open. “Arren Cardockson?”
Shoa faltered. She drew back, suddenly losing all her aggressive confidence. “No!” she cried. “No, this cannot be!”
Arren smiled horribly. “When I make a promise, I keep it. I promised I would have revenge on you, and now I will.”
“No,” Rannagon whispered. “No, this isn’t possible! Shoa, what have you done?”
“My curse could not have done this,” said Shoa. “The boy cannot be alive.” She moved forward slightly, sniffing at him. “And you are not,” she whispered to Arren. “You are not alive . . . Kraeai kran ae.”
Arren drew his sword. “What does that mean?”
“Okaree smelt it on you,” said Shoa, almost dispassionately. “A silver griffin always can. You are cursed, Arren Cardockson. I wove my magic around you and cursed you to die.”
“What’s going on here?” Rannagon demanded. “How did this happen?”
“I did not do this,” said Shoa. “This was another griffin’s magic. Dark magic. Evil.”
Arren pointed his sword at Rannagon. “You murdered me, Rannagon,” he said. “You killed Eluna. You turned me into this.”
Fear showed in Rannagon’s face, but he started forward, sword raised. “Stay away from me!”
Shoa shoved him aside. “Do not go near him,” she commanded. “He is not human any more.”
Arren stopped suddenly. “Can I change back?” he asked.
“No,” said Shoa. “No, you cannot, Cursed One.”
The cold hatred in Arren’s eyes faded for a moment, and both of them could see the pure fear and horror behind it. “I have no heartbeat,” he said. “I’m dead. You killed me.”
“Arren, please,” said Rannagon. “It wasn’t supposed to happen!”
The look vanished as quickly as it had come, and Arren started to laugh, a broken, discordant sound that had more agony in it than a scream. “You think I care? What difference does that make to me? It’s your fault