Chapter 6: The Pens at Night

I didn't go to Bran, or the Watch, or the barracks.

I went straight to the Pens, because I knew where Cassian would take her.

It was nearly midnight.

The big hall was lit with lanterns, and the entrants who were still alive had gathered at the far end for the nightly feeding.

Nineteen of the thirty had gone home, or into the ground.

Eleven of us were left, with our beasts.

Cassian stood on a feed box in the middle of them with Moth in one hand.

He was holding her by the scruff, and she was hanging limp with her tail curled under her.

"Look at this," he called, cheerful. "The famous Anwen Ashdown and her fire rat. Is it true she can talk to wolves?"

A few of the nobles tittered.

Bran stood at the edge of the circle with his jaw tight and his hound pressed against his legs.

"Give her back," I said.

The tittering stopped.

Cassian looked down at me with the false, bright kindness of someone who has been drinking.

"Oh, I will. After my father gets his bell."

"Your father can ask me himself."

"He did. You threw wine at him."

"I drank it."

"Same thing." He dangled Moth higher. "Hand it over, bare girl, and I'll let the rat go. Don't, and I'll feed her to my gryphon."

His gryphon was crouched at the foot of the box.

It was a beautiful animal, lion-bodied, eagle-headed, with feathers the color of dark honey.

The collar on its neck had left a raw ring.

The gryphon didn't look at the fox.

It was staring at the floor, flinching every time Cassian's boot shifted.

I knew what I was going to do.

I only hoped it would work.

I walked up to the gryphon, slowly, my hands open, and I knelt on the stone in front of it.

"Hello," I said softly. "I'm Anwen."

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