and he nocked an arrow and pointed it at the black griffin’s head, ready to loose it the instant the creature showed any sign of using magic. But the black griffin only glared at him and then dragged itself toward the trough. It poked its beak through the bars and drank awkwardly, throwing back its head to swallow. Once it had satisfied its thirst it laid its head down and sighed. It looked exhausted, and no wonder, but Arren glanced at Deanne before he relaxed the bowstring.
Deanne scratched her griffin’s neck. “It should have taken enough. Watch; it’s working already.”
Sure enough, the black griffin’s eyes were closing. It yawned and clumsily folded its legs under its belly, and a few moments later its tail ceased its twitching.
“There,” said Deanne. “It’ll sleep for the rest of the day, most likely, and when it wakes up it’ll still be weak and confused. Even if you did get close enough for it to attack you, it won’t be able to see properly. That doesn’t mean you should tempt fate, though.”
Arren shook his head. “I’m not stupid.”
“Good. We’ll give it something to eat in the morning. Everything it eats or drinks from now on will be drugged. We can’t risk it being properly awake. You just stay here and don’t leave unless you have to.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Arren, suddenly remembering his manners.
“You don’t have to call me that,” Deanne said kindly. She glanced around at the barn’s interior. “It may get a bit boring in here on your own—d’you want something to read? I brought a book with me.”
Arren nodded. Why not?
“All right. I’ll bring it along, and some food as well.”
She came back with a bowl of hot stew in her hand and a book tucked under one arm.
“Here you go,” she said, giving him the stew. “That should warm you up.” She placed the book on the hay bale beside him. “It’s not a bad read at all, quite interesting. It was a present from my son.” The title was A History of the Peoples of Cymria.
Arren took the spoon out of the bowl of stew. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem. I’ll come back later and visit you.”
Deanne left with her griffin beside her, the two of them moving together, almost as if they were one being. Never completely alone.
Arren ate the stew. It was mostly vegetables, with some low-grade meat mixed in, but it tasted fine and was hot. He paused between spoonfuls to check on the black griffin. It was still asleep, perhaps lulled by the rain drumming on the roof. Arren was glad about that. He didn’t want to see those silver eyes staring at him again.
He finished the stew and put the bowl aside. Now that he was alone and had nothing to distract him, there was nothing to stop him thinking. Nothing to keep him from starting to realise the enormity of what had happened.
Eluna was dead.
Arren stared and stared at the black griffin. It had killed her. It had taken away his partner, his protector, his friend. It had taken Eluna. An image of her danced behind his eyes, like lightning in darkness: the wound in her chest, like a massive eye weeping blood. He saw the black griffin’s talons descending on him and heard its screech in his ears. His hands ached for his sword. He imagined bringing the blade down on the black griffin’s neck or driving it into the creature’s flank.
Arren started to reach for his bow. All he had to do was hit it once, in the eye, or maybe the chest. He could say it had woken up and tried to break out. He could say it had lunged at him and that he’d panicked. He could say all sorts of things.
They wouldn’t believe him.
He picked up the bow and took an arrow from the quiver. It was right there, right in front of him, completely helpless. He could kill it in an instant. What did it matter if he got in trouble? He had captured the griffin. It belonged to him now. The owners of the Arena couldn’t complain if he chose not to sell it to them.
Arren stood up and walked slowly toward the cage, drawing the bowstring back tight. He pointed the arrow through the bars, aiming the point at the black griffin’s eye. He couldn’t possibly miss. Just let go, his inner voice whispered. Just let go.
“Arren?”
Arren turned sharply. Deanne, standing in the doorway, flung up a