Arren had visited the Eyrie many times, mostly on official business; he had to deliver completed paperwork there and report anything important that happened in his sector.
The Eyrie was a tall stone building, but it wasn’t quite a tower. It had a squat shape to it, and its walls were festooned with large balconies. Each one was attached to the room of a senior griffiner, and there were indeed griffins perched on many of the balconies, haughtily watching Arren’s approach. Others were flying overhead.
There were two guards in front of the gate in the stone wall surrounding the Eyrie. These weren’t ordinary guards, though, like Bran and his comrades. Each had a griffin beside him and wore a heavy, polished steel breastplate.
Arren nodded formally to them. “Good morning. Arren Cardockson, Master of Trade. I’m here to see Lord Rannagon.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“He should be, yes.”
The guards stood aside. “Go in, then,” said one. “Lord Rannagon should be in his office.”
“Thank you,” said Arren.
The Eyrie was grandly decorated inside. Fans of dyed griffin feathers hung from the walls, along with fine wooden carvings and painted shields. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, made from glass tinted red and yellow. The corridors were wide, to allow easy passage for a griffin, and the doors, too, were big. Arren and Eluna passed through them without any trouble. They met a few other people along the way, nearly all griffiners accompanied by their griffins; most of them recognised Arren and greeted him pleasantly.
Rannagon’s office was on the other side of the building, and the quickest route was to go through the huge chamber at the centre of the Eyrie. It dominated the structure, taking up two storeys. Arren was happy to pass through it. It was almost certainly the grandest room anywhere in the Eyrie, and definitely the grandest in the city: the grand council chamber, where Lady Riona and the elders she led met to discuss affairs of state and diplomacy, and make important decisions. Once these meetings had been open to the public, but not any more. Even junior griffiners, such as Arren, weren’t allowed to attend unless it was for a purpose. Arren had often wished to see the chamber when the councillors were in it. As it was, he stopped to admire the lofty ceiling with its painted frieze of stars and flying griffins, and the brightly coloured banners that hung from the gallery. The Mistress’ seat was right in the centre.
Today, there was someone in the chamber already.
Arren paused in the doorway. The stranger was sitting on a couch set up next to the Mistress’ carved chair, eating a bunch of grapes and looking very much at his ease. There was a griffin crouched beside him.
The stranger looked up. “Hello,” he said. “Have you come to bring me a message?”
Arren came toward him. Eluna went ahead of him to size up the man’s griffin, clicking her beak diplomatically. The griffin was larger than her, though not enormously, and had dark-brown feathers and fur. It was female, and its neck was an extraordinary red colour, unlike anything Arren had ever seen before. She stood up and sniffed cautiously at Eluna, who bowed her head and chirped.
Arren, meanwhile, was looking at the man. He was tall and thin, like himself, and his skin was a rich brown colour. His hair was black and rough, and he had a neat moustache, sprinkled with grey. He eyed Arren through a pair of intelligent dark eyes. “Good morning.” He had an accent unlike anything Arren had ever heard before, quick and slightly nasal.
Arren bowed. “Good morning, my lord. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. I’m Arren Cardockson.”
The man looked at him with renewed interest. “So, you are the Northerner I have heard about.” He stood up. “My name is Vander Xantho, and this is Ymazu. I am pleased to meet you.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before, Lord Vander,” said Arren. “May I ask where you’re from?”
“You may. I have come from Amoran to speak with the Mistress of the Eyrie.”
“You’re a diplomat?”
“Yes.”
Arren thought quickly. “Amoran, that’s in the East, right?”
Vander nodded. “So it is.” He was looking at Arren, taking in his sharp features and black eyes. “Forgive me. I have never seen a Northerner who was not—”
“In chains?” Arren interrupted, more sharply than he had intended.
“I am sorry,” said Vander. “I did not intend to offend you.”
“It’s all right, my lord,” said Arren. “My father was set free when he was