The Dark Griffin by K. J. Taylor Page B

weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, you know, a griffiner who makes boots.”
    “Well, it’s a skill, isn’t it?” said Arren. “My dad always said we ought to value our skills above our status. ‘Maybe Lady Riona is Mistress of the Eyrie, but she can’t make boots, can she?’”
    Gern snickered. “He really said that?”
    “Yeah. He gets some funny ideas every now and then.”
    “I saw him in the marketplace the other day,” said Flell. “I thought about saying hello, but I decided not to. It’s amazing how much you look like him, you know.”
    Arren frowned. “What was he doing there?”
    “Trying to buy something, probably,” said Flell. “I almost wish I had spoken to him. Maybe I could have got him to tell me what your real name is.”
    Arren had another drink. “A stupid one,” he said, swallowing. “Trust me on this.”
    “But if you were gonna change your name, why change it to something so plain?” said Gern. “If my name were up to me to pick, I’d go with . . . I dunno, something dramatic. Vercingtorix, maybe.”
    “Well, Gern,” said Arren, once the laughter had died down, “you know why I chose something plain instead of something, uh, dramatic? Because there’s a reason why people have plain names.”
    “Maybe it’s ’cause they’re plain people,” Gern muttered.
    “Balderdash. You can be as colourful as you want to be and you can do it without having a name no-one can pronounce—actually, that’s not quite true. About me choosing a plain name, I mean. I didn’t really choose anything. Arren’s just what I called myself when I was three because I couldn’t pronounce my real name.”
    “Ah, so it starts with an A, does it?” said Flell.
    “Arthen?” Bran suggested. “Arenthius? Arinu? Arnren?”
    “No, no, no and no,” said Arren. Beside him, Eluna pecked at the dish of herb-flavoured water she’d been given.
    “Arentho?” said Flell.
    “Areninan?” said Gern.
    Arren threw up his hands. “Good gods, all right, all right, I take it back. There’s no way my real name is that stupid.”
    “Well, what is it then?” said Flell.
    Arren finished off his beer. “Fine,” he said. “But you’ll only tease me about it for the rest of my life. It’s Arenadd Taranisäii.”
    Silence.
    “ ‘Arenadd’?” Flell repeated. “That’s—”
    “Stupid, I know.”
    “Actually, I was going to say it sounds elegant,” said Flell. “What does it mean?”
    “Oh, it’s the name of some old sage from a Northern legend,” said Arren. “My dad reckons I’m being pretentious by refusing to use it. Says I ought to be proud of my inheritance, or something.”
    “Well, yeh should be, mate,” said Bran. “Everyone should be, right? An’ I don’t reckon Arenadd is that bad of a name. Sounds all right to me.”
    Arren scratched his neck. “Slave scars aren’t a proud heritage, and I really wish my father would get that into his head. Arren is fine.”
    “What was that surname, sir?” said Gern. “Taranisi?”
    “Taranisäii,” Arren corrected. “It just means ‘of the blood of Taranis.’”
    “Was that the name of your tribe?” said Gern.
    Arren rolled his eyes. “Gern, I don’t have a tribe. I’m not from the North. I was born in Idun, damn it.”
    “So, who was Taranis?” said Gern.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Yes you do,” said Flell. “Come on, Arren. You told me about it before. Taranis the Wolf, son of Tynadd Traeganni.”
    “It’s just an old story,” Arren muttered.
    She looked at him kindly. “And you say you aren’t ashamed. Go on, show them your tattoo. I’m sure they’d like to see it.”
    “Depends on where it is,” said Bran, grinning.
    Arren gave up. He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and turned to let them see the bare skin of his shoulder. There was a tattoo there of a blue wolf’s head holding a white globe in its jaws. Inside the globe was a symbol of three spirals joined together.
    “That’s amazing, sir!” said