“By he you speak of Malcolm,” Griffin said to the king.
“You are exceedingly bright, Sir Griffin.” King Umbert raised his glass and finally sipped. Griffin gulped his down, hoping it would help calm his nerves, but instead he felt his heart pounding harder against his chest.
The king wiped his dripping chin with his sleeve. “Yes. Even with his sister Esmera marrying Jori, I worry Malcolm won’t be satisfied with a knighthood. And then there’s the rest of Egrid’s children to deal with. . . .”
“Her sister, Lady Sybil, is warmhearted enough. I suspect she will come along with her sister and live here in the castle?” Griffin refilled his glass.
“Mmm,” the king grunted. “She might even make a good wife for you.”
Griffin choked on his wine, spitting it out all over the floor.
The king’s laugh filled the room. He patted Griffin on the shoulder. “Marriage isn’t that bad, Sir Griffin. And to marry into the royal family . . .”
“I’m flattered, sire. Truly.” His words placated the king, but not Griffin’s tense stomach. The last thing he ever wanted to be was married. “There is also the younger brother, Cornwall,” he said, deftly changing the subject. “He won the melee last year.”
“He did. But he’s an imbecile.”
“What exactly would you like me to do, sire? Something specific or—”
“Informants tell me that northern assassins have entered the city. Malcolm plans to kill me and make a play for the throne.”
Griffin remembered how he’d come to be regarded by the king. He had saved Jori’s life from such an assassin. He swallowed, but anger left a bitter taste that lingered. This past year the king and Jori had become like family to him. “Shouldn’t Sir Raleigh be here, sire?”
“Nah. He’s gone soft. He’s no longer fit to oversee my armies. He’s right where he belongs, collecting taxes in the Hinterlands. And if I’m being honest, I’m not sure he ever forgave me for choosing you as champion last year.” King Umbert plopped a finger into his glass, then lifted it to his mouth.
A life on the roads through the Hinterlands, collecting taxes, sounded a fate much worse than death in the arena. Raleigh had taught him everything he knew about fighting, about draignochs. Hearing the king toss him aside, and for Griffin, left his stomach riddled with guilt. “Yes, sire.”
“This bothers you.”
“No,” Griffin lied, for it would’ve been seen as a weakness. “It’s only that it’s my first time defending my title. It feels very different than going into it with fresh eyes.” It felt strange speaking to the king as if he were Jori or Sir Raleigh. They were the only two he trusted in the palace with conversations that left him feeling vulnerable.
King Umbert nodded. “It is different now. You have to want it more. Sir Griffin, there’s always someone coming for your title. It’s a lot like being king. When you rule, there is always someone who wants your crown, who believes they can do it better.”
“What can I do for you, sire? With regards to the Northmen?”
He patted Griffin’s sore shoulder, leaving his heavy hand. “Keep sharp eyes and keen ears. You see or hear anything from any of them that hints of betrayal, I want to know.”
“Yes, sire.”
King Umbert released him and picked up his glass. “You must win this tournament, Sir Griffin. There is no room for error. Malcolm cannot be seen as superior to you at anything. Understand?”
Griffin nodded as the king repeated what he had already figured out. “Yes, sire. I understand.”
“Do you?” He slammed his chalice on the table, spilling his wine on a white linen napkin, turning it bloodred. He nodded to Capp, who hustled from the shadows, pouring another glass. Griffin was startled; he had nearly forgotten Capp, Halig, and Bradyn were still in the room.
“Are you loyal to me, Sir Griffin?”
“Of course, sire. Have I given you reason to doubt me?”
“No. And I don’t want there ever to be reason, so I ask . . .” King Umbert’s stare on Griffin narrowed. “Swear it. An oath of loyalty to me on your life.”
Griffin’s heart fell into his boots. King Umbert had done so much for him. He had no reason to fear an oath. He took as much when they knighted him, but somehow this felt different. Weightier. More than he was ready for, and yet he gave the king what he wanted. “I swear it on my life.” As the promise came out of his mouth, he had the nagging feeling that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
“Good.” King Umbert gave him a small relieved smile. “Good. That is good.”
The guards at the entrance stomped their feet, announcing Laird Egrid and his family’s arrival. Bradyn helped Egrid, who crutched into the room ahead of the others. His thighbones had been broken fighting the draignochs when they stampeded through the North. Never set properly, his legs were permanently crooked. His gray hair was smoothed with so much rosemary oil he smelled like a roasting chicken. His bones were so thin and frail, his brown tunic and trousers hung much too loosely. Death loomed, likely only a long winter away.
Malcolm was behind his father. A little older and thicker than Griffin, he wore all black, setting off his ginger hair, with a green-and-blue tartan sash—the colors of the North.
The king bid a welcome to Laird Egrid.
Griffin extended a hand to Malcolm. “Welcome back to the Walled City.”
Malcolm arched a brow at him but shook it. “Where is the little prince?”
“Prince Jori is in the Hinterlands with Sir Raleigh,” Griffin said.
Lady Esmera made a grand entrance, dropping into a deep curtsy in front of the king. “Your Majesty.”
Her long blonde hair was curled into ringlets. She wore a crown of white lace and purple gems, as if she were already queen.
“Seems ill-mannered for Prince Jori not to be here to receive me,” Esmera commented to Laird Egrid.
“Sir Griffin is here to greet us,” Lady Sybil said as she entered the room wearing a warm smile. She too curtsied for the king, then held her hand out for Griffin to kiss, which he did. A quick peck, hoping it was neither too long nor too short.
“He’s a poor substitute,” Esmera sniffed.
King Umbert sat down in his seat, indicating the rest to join him. Griffin held out a seat across from his for Sybil. She graciously took it. Capp motioned for Esmera to sit beside Griffin, but she yanked out the chair next to Sybil and glided into it. Griffin took it as a sign that luck was in his favor tonight. He smiled, knowing she would be forced to gaze upon his scarred face the entire meal.
Esmera and Sybil couldn’t be more opposite. Esmera’s hands were delicately folded in her lap. Her back was stick straight. Her blonde hair neatly swept over her shoulder. She was the picture of poise.
Sybil wore purple, like her sister, but without ornamentation. Her red hair hung in a loose, haphazard braid that looked like it had been threaded on the way to dinner. Her hands fisted on the table beside her plate as if she was ready to fight her food—or perhaps fight for it.
Her hazel eyes lingered on Griffin’s face longer than necessary, making Griffin wonder if his lip was stained red from the wine. He didn’t dare lick it off if that was the case, did he? It would be lewd, wouldn’t it? This was going to be a very long night. Griffin wiped his mouth with his napkin—just in case.
Sybil gave a tired sigh, raising her glass to her lips. “It is good to see you, Sir Griffin.”
“You as well, Lady Sybil. You must be weary from your long journey.”
“Starved, actually. I suppose we have to wait for the king?” She glanced down at Umbert and her father, who were in an animated but seemingly humorous conversation, as they were both smiling and laughing.
“Get out of my way!” Cornwall tried to enter but the guards stopped him at the door. The fool was armed with two swords.
“Weapons are not allowed in the king’s chambers,” a guard said. “You’ll have to return them to your chambers.”
“
I’ll do nothing of the sort.” He tried to push his way in, but the guards tossed him back.
“Cornwall, give the men your sword belt now!” Egrid snapped.
Cornwall’s mop of brown hair bounced with every curse word he threw at the guards as he removed his belt. He passed it off. “My sword had better be in my room when I return or—”
“Or what?” King Umbert growled.
“Cornwall, enough. Get in here and apologize,” Egrid snapped.
Cornwall grumbled until he stopped beside the king. “Apologize? For what? The king’s guards accosted me.” In a polished brown leather tunic, draped with a green-and-blue tartan sash like his brother’s, he stood with his hands behind his back, showing off his indignation. No bow, not even a head nod, a slight Griffin saw register on the king’s face.
“For being an idiot, and bringing weapons into the king’s private chambers,” Laird Egrid explained as if he were speaking to a toddler.
“He can apologize for bringing a weapon, Egrid, but we would be remiss in asking him to apologize for who he is by nature.” King Umbert chortled.
Malcolm rolled his eyes and shook his head but said nothing. He set his cup beside Griffin and slid into the seat between him and Egrid.
Cornwall’s face fell into a deep scowl.
“Oh, come here, Cornwall,” Sybil called, patting the seat next to her.
He skulked off, taking the seat beside Esmera instead, where he proceeded to pout and whisper in her ear all the way through the abysmal meal.
No one other than the two old men spoke, making every overzealous chew, every hard swallow, every utensil scrape magnified in volume, and Griffin’s lack of manners that much more obvious. Esmera, it seemed, would rather stare than eat. If not for his training’s effect on his appetite, Griffin might have been too embarrassed to finish off the platter of meat all by himself.
An hour later, Halig finally cleared the food. Capp brought a pitcher of ale and set it before the king. Bradyn’s cousin looked particularly grim, casting a wary glance at Griffin before retreating.
The king, still sucking food from his teeth, poured ale into his chalice and held it out. “To new beginnings and a unified land.”
“How can I toast my new beginning if Prince Jori isn’t here?” Esmera thumped her glass down, spilling it. “I have no wedding date. And I have to say his absence is rather suspect. Maybe there is to be no wedding after all.”
“What Esmera means to say is that maybe we have been lured into a trap,” Cornwall hissed. “Malcolm was right. One of us should’ve remained in the North.”
Malcolm spun his glass, adding nothing to explain away what Cornwall had said.
“A trap? How dare you?” It was Egrid and not King Umbert, as Griffin would’ve expected, who got angry over their comments. Egrid leaned hard on his crutch to stand, then pounded the table with his fist. “King Umbert is my closest friend and greatest ally. Do not think to slight him this way.”
“Not to worry, Egrid,” King Umbert said, laughing. “As I recall, your wife, Admerena, was in no less a hurry to wed you. Such a shame she had to die giving birth to Cornwall.” King Umbert stood up with his glass in hand. “Lady Esmera, my son will be at your side by morning. As to your wedding day . . . how does the same day as the tournament’s finale sound? A celebration all around.”
“A whole week?” Esmera whined.
“Why not tomorrow, if he will truly be back then?” Cornwall snipped.
“Yes. I brought the dress. Tomorrow is perfect.”
Griffin laughed in horror. “Prince Jori deserves a little advance notice, doesn’t he?”
“Warning, you mean.” Sybil smirked at him.
Esmera kicked her under the table so hard Griffin heard her boot hit bone.
“Ow!”
“This will be the most important wedding to ever happen in the Walled City. A week is little time to prepare as it is,” King Umbert said, “but I’m sure Lady Esmera has a vision of what she wants.”
Egrid nodded to his daughter, who was trying to hide her aggravation over the delay with a wide smile. “You give us nothing but grace, Your Majesty.”
King Umbert nodded. “It will be the grandest occasion my people have ever witnessed. They shall pass stories about it through generations.”
Esmera’s vanity seemed to trump her pride. She flushed at the excitement of being at the center of such an occasion. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
“Then it’s settled,” King Umbert declared. He raised his cup to drink but stopped short. “Oh, but then there is the issue of the northern soldiers. I’m told near a hundred are setting up tents outside the western side of the wall. What are they doing here?”
“Protection for our journey.” The lie rolled easily off Malcolm’s tongue.
The king half grumbled, half chuckled. “Protection. Insurance is more like it.”
Malcolm leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table, clasping his hands. “Our meager force is hardly an issue with a giant impenetrable wall standing between them and the city.”
King Umbert’s eyes narrowed on Malcolm. “Your meager force?”
“That—that is what Malcolm said,” Egrid answered, sounding baffled, but Griffin knew exactly what King Umbert meant.
“They are my soldiers now that the date is set.” Umbert smirked at Egrid, who looked as if he had swallowed a sour pill. “Come to think of it, having them nearby saved them another long ride. I should be thanking you, Malcolm.”
“Thank me after the wedding,” Malcolm volleyed. “For they belong to the North until that day, do they not, Father?”
Laird Egrid cleared his throat and coughed, avoiding an answer.
King Umbert glanced at Griffin. Griffin wasn’t sure if the king was looking for counsel or not but felt strange remaining silent. “Either way, I have a feeling the men, having journeyed so far, would appreciate Your Majesty’s generous hospitality. Especially if it came in the form of wine or mead barrels, running freely?”
Drunken, they would be useless to fight. A thought Griffin saw register on Malcolm’s face.
King Umbert nodded. “Yes. An excellent idea. Bradyn, let that be done. Speak to your father.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Bradyn ran out of the room to see to the king’s orders.
There it was, a brittle peace hanging on the affable Jori marrying the spoiled Esmera. Griffin had never admired Jori for his position, but until now, he had never felt sorry for him either. This had been the most painful meal he’d ever had to endure, and it would be Jori’s every meal from his wedding day forward.
“Enough now. Let’s walk, Egrid,” King Umbert insisted.
His hands shaking, Egrid set his crutches under his arms and set off with the king. Esmera left, dragging Sybil with her. Cornwall followed, worrying after his swords at the guards on his way out. That left Griffin alone with Malcolm.
The pitcher of ale Capp had brought sat untouched in the middle of the table. Malcolm filled a glass to the top. “Ready for a dramatic fall from grace, Griffin?”
Griffin laughed. “Is this your game? Silent and brooding. A cutting line when you can think one up? You brought your father’s men—”
“My men. My father hasn’t been the true laird for some time.”
The king was right. Malcolm did mean to challenge Jori. “Your men. His men. They’re the king’s men. We all are. And intimidation is futile, Malcolm. I’ve already beaten you. Beaten every draignoch presented. I won’t fail in the arena tomorrow. Or ever in this tournament. How on earth do you think you will cause my fall from grace?”
Malcolm sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth, still weighing his glass. “So long as you stand beside a man like Umbert or his disloyal, lying son, you’re an easy target.”
Griffin suddenly felt like he’d aged ten years. Every word had to be chosen carefully or Malcolm could twist them against him. “You speak of disloyalty, but it’s obvious to all that you mean to keep yo
ur sister from becoming a queen. And I stand behind the king and his son, and I’m all the better for it.”
“You are the better for it, because they need you. Mark my words: one slip and the wind will shift direction.”
The king’s greyhounds bounded through the door and leaped up on the table. The pitcher fell over. Snarling and snapping, they fought for the last bits of ale spilling out, lapping it up.
“Get down, beasts!” Bradyn ran into the room.
One yelped. The other snorted, short of breath. Froth bubbled along their gums.
Malcolm’s glass wove a melancholy path toward his mouth.
“Malcolm! No!” Griffin knocked the glass out of his hand and into the fireplace. Fire burst, then immediately quelled.
Malcolm’s horrified gaze fell on Griffin as guards barreled into the room.
“What the bloody hell is going on in here?” one barked.
The dogs fell off the table, limbs twitching.
Gasps rang out. Someone cried, “Do something,” but what was there to do?
Their eyes rolled up into the backs of their heads.
A second later, they stopped moving altogether.
Bradyn picked up the pitcher and sniffed. “Death cap mushroom. And this . . . this is the king’s ale. Someone has tried to murder the king!”
Three
Maggie
My stomach ached with worry all the way to the tavern. I was late. Very late. But more than that, I was shaken. The draignoch. The soldiers. Moldark. I dunked my blade in the stable’s trough, trying to get his infuriating blood off. After it was clean, I sheathed it into my boot, worried I would need it soon. There’d been no sign of the soldiers or the prince, but I had a bad feeling I would be seeing them again soon.
The Color of Dragons Page 3
