The old griffin had wandered over to the table to inspect them. She sniffed at Arren. “You smell of sickness,” she commented.
Arren ducked his head slightly. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been well.”
“Death is a poison, to the living,” Keth remarked enigmatically. She yawned and went to Roland, who scratched her under the beak.
“Are you well, Keth?” said Arren, privately thinking that her words were the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all day.
“I am well.” The answer was courteous enough, but there was something about the way she looked at him that suggested she didn’t think he was. And not just because he was hungover.
Roland took another swallow of tea. “You know,” he said, “I doubt this will be any comfort to you, but do you know I used to be a griffiner, too?”
“You still are,” Arren pointed out.
“Oh, I suppose so,” said Roland. “In a way. But no, what I mean is that when I was younger a griffin chose me. Just a little chick. His name was Rakee.” He smiled, his old face creasing. “He was a wonderful griffin. So tiny, but so full of life. He was yellow. Had golden eyes, as I recall.”
“What happened?” said Flell.
Roland put down his mug. “He died,” he said briefly. “Sickness. Egg-scour. There was an epidemic. It killed dozens of young griffins, and my Rakee was one of them. I had to give up my job as Rannagon’s assistant and come to work at the hatchery. Luckily my father owned it, so I was put in charge of it. And after my father died, Keth attached herself to me. Not the most likely of pairings, but we work together well enough.”
Arren listened, with a sad little chill. Imagine having your dreams snatched away from you just like that, so suddenly and so senselessly, he thought, and then realised, miserably, that he didn’t have to imagine what that would be like.
“Anyway,” said Roland, “if you’ve finished your tea, we may as well get on.”
Arren swallowed the last of it and put down his mug. He stood up, heart pounding. “I’m ready.”
Flell abandoned the rest of her own tea and followed them as they went to the nearest pen. Roland opened the gate at the front of it and gestured at Arren to go in.
There was a griffin chick in there, about the same age as Thrain, curled up in the straw and watching him warily.
Arren crouched and held a hand out toward it, keeping his movements slow and careful. “Hello, little one,” he said, speaking griffish.
The chick got up and sniffed his hand. “Food?”
“My name’s Arren,” said Arren. “What’s yours?”
It peered up at him for a while, realised he wasn’t offering it any food, and lay down again. It yawned dismissively and closed its eyes.
Arren got up and left the pen, and Roland closed the gate behind him. “Not to worry,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll try the next.”
The next chick was awake and immediately tried to charge out of the pen when the gate was opened. Roland gently nudged it back with his foot, and Arren slipped through.
When he reached toward the chick it bit his fingers. “Food! Food!”
Arren forced himself not to flinch. “I’m Arren,” he said.
It paused and peered at him, and then flicked its wings and walked past him, toward the gate. Arren turned awkwardly and watched as it tried to climb out. “You can’t get out that way,” he told it.
The chick paid absolutely no attention. It stood up on its hind legs, looking up at Roland. “Food! Food!”
Roland gave it some dried meat, and Arren vaulted over the gate and landed beside him. “It’s no good,” he said. “They’re not interested.”
“It’s a tad early to be saying things like that, lad,” said Roland. “Go on, move on. Never say die—well, until you’re actually about to die, I suppose,” he added, half to himself.
The next chick was equally dismissive, and so was the next. There were literally dozens of them in the hatchery, and Arren spent what felt like half a day going from pen to pen, trying to coax the chicks into speaking to him. Some bit him, some ignored him, others cheekily called out curse words they’d picked up, and one tried to use him as a ladder to get out of its pen.
By the end of it Arren was grubby and exhausted, and both his hands were covered in scratches. Leaden depression had settled into his chest. “I told—” he began, and then stopped and shook