Rannagon dabbed at the bruise forming on his chin. “Arren, I really am sorry,” he said. “More than I can say. You’re like a son to me, and I never intended for anything like this to happen. Yes, perhaps I led you on without meaning to, and for that I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do to take away your loss, but if there is ever anything I can do for you, just ask and I will do everything in my power to see it done.”
Riona looked slightly mollified. “Good. However”—she looked at Arren, who had stopped struggling and was staring at Rannagon—“my brother cannot take all the blame for this. You are ultimately responsible for your own actions, and Eluna’s death is your own fault. I was wrong to think you were trustworthy enough to be promoted so young. I will choose a new Master of Trade. You are banned from the Eyrie. You are not a griffiner any more, and you have no place among us now.”
“But I—” Arren began.
Riona nodded to the guards. “Please show him out.”
Arren didn’t resist. He walked between the guards as they led him out of the building, unable to say a word. They took him to the front door and ushered him through it.
“Off you go,” said one, giving him a slight push.
Arren said nothing. He walked away without looking back.
It seemed to take a long time to get home. The bloody patches on his tunic stuck to his skin. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in over a year. The ground lurched beneath him, and he staggered and nearly fell, but managed to stay upright. He reached his own door at last and half-collapsed against it. Recovering, he fished the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door and entered.
His house was cold and musty, and full of shadows. He shut the door behind him and pulled the bar into place.
Everything was exactly how he’d left it, though there was a coating of dust and cobwebs over the furniture. The blanket was still draped over the hammock, and the pillow was on the floor underneath. His porridge bowl was on the table, and the water in it had a coating of mould on the surface.
He dropped his belongings on the floor by the door and wandered into Eluna’s nest. The hay had gone musty, and there was a little mound of dry dung in one corner.
Arren walked forward as if in a dream. He picked up a loose feather and clutched it to his chest. It was soft and downy, white as snow, the edges tinged with silvery grey.
He held it in one hand and lay down in the hollow left by Eluna’s body. Her scent still lingered in the hay, strong and musky and fierce. It was so powerful that when he looked up, he half-expected to see her there, glaring at him for taking her spot.
The sun began to go down. Darkness slowly gathered, and torches were lit in the city streets. The moon rose, bright and full, silvery-white against the black sky. The day was over, and people returned to their homes or went to the taverns, to drink and relax and talk to their friends. But Arren stayed where he was, staring at nothing, and did not move at all.
Aloud thump woke him up. He sat up sharply, his heart pounding. There was another thump. Someone was in his home.
Arren got up and made for the door leading out of the stable. Someone had lit the lamp in the next room. They were there, waiting for him.
It was Rannagon.
The griffiner was sitting at the table, holding something in his hands. He was clad in his usual fine clothes, yellow-brown to match Shoa, who was crouched in the corner, preening her wings.
Arren stood in the doorway, frozen in astonishment. “Rannagon?”
Rannagon stood up. “Ah, Arren, there you are. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” His voice was as cordial as always, and his look friendly.
“What are you doing here?”
Rannagon held out something toward him. “You left this behind at the Eyrie.”
It was the bag of money Orome had given him. He took it, weighing it in his hand. “Did you take the money I owed you?”
Rannagon shook his head. “No, I paid the compensation myself. You don’t need to pay me back.”
Arren stuffed the bag into his pocket. “I don’t need your charity.”
“It wasn’t charity,” said Rannagon. “Consider it a favour.