The raucous cries caused my heart to skip a beat. The stadium shook. The cheering deafened. Prince Jori ran to the balcony rail to exchange a fisted salute with Griffin.
The people called out the prince’s name along with Griffin’s, sharing their accolades with him, although I didn’t see him do anything to earn it.
Griffin dashed into the lift without gloating. The others followed, as if it was always their place to walk behind the champion.
Minutes later, the cheering quieted as Griffin and the others exited the lift, disappearing into the tunnel. Breathless, Prince Jori sat back down. “I need a drink. Bradyn!”
A dark-haired boy padded toward him, carrying a tankard. Griffin burst through the balcony’s door, knocking the mead out of Bradyn’s hands and all over the prince.
“What’s the rush, Griffin?” Jori yelled, wiping off.
Though he was calm on the outside, Griffin’s eyes told another story. He looked spooked. Griffin pulled Bradyn to the door. “Go back to the castle. Your father needs you in the kitchens.”
“I can’t leave, Sir Griffin. The prince asked me for mead and you just spilled it all over him.” Bradyn started away from Griffin, only to get dragged back. “What is it? Is my father hurt?”
All of us were watching Griffin now. He turned to Prince Jori, and then King Umbert, and said, “Buffont requires the boy in the kitchens.”
The king gave a half-hearted wave.
“Good.” Griffin pushed Bradyn through the door. “Go. Now. And don’t come back today! Heed me, boy!”
Bradyn took off running.
Griffin shut the door.
Something bad was about to happen. I could feel it. And I wasn’t alone. Sybil got up and walked toward Griffin.
A guard passed him and went immediately to the king to deliver a message. It was easy to read his lips. He said, “They’re ready.”
King Umbert walked to the railing and raised his hand. “Traitors!” he cried.
The throngs silenced.
“Delay the fight, for another has come! Traitors!” He spat the last word.
The crowd hushed.
“Two nights ago, a pair of fools thought to kill your king.” He lifted his mug, sloshing liquid over the edge. “But they failed. As all will who try to take me from my people.”
Guards pushed two men onto the lift and descended into the arena. Once there, they ripped cloth off their covered heads.
Gasps spread like pox through the seating. Two men, not much older than I, or the prince for that matter. Hands bound behind their backs. Feet chained. Faces bruised. Eyes so swollen they had to be led into the middle of the ring.
A woman wailed. I found her in the middle of the rows, arms flailing, screaming, “My sons!” then, “No. Please!”
A man beside her grabbed her, shuttling her up the stairs to an exit, but the guards refused to let them go.
“No one may leave,” King Umbert declared.
All were to witness King Umbert’s brutality. Did they expect less from this monster?
“Wait. I’ve met them. Haven’t I?” Esmera asked as if she was asking after a long-lost cousin.
“The first night we got here,” Sybil explained.
Prince Jori nodded solemnly. “Halig and Capp. My father’s chamber servants. They confessed. They were responsible for poisoning the mead that almost killed your brother.”
Griffin frowned at Jori, looking less than convinced by the prince’s explanation, but he said nothing to stop the proceedings.
King Umbert raised his cup again. “Yes. Traitors! In our midst. My hounds gave their lives to protect mine, and so their brothers and sisters will be allowed to take their revenge.”
The king nodded and a trapdoor near Halig and Capp slid back. Greyhounds rushed from the pit, tethered by ropes that gave plenty of lead for the dogs to reach them.
Sybil and Esmera hid their faces. Even Griffin, champion beast slayer, master spear thrower, turned his eyes to the ground, unable to watch.
Not me. I’d seen punishment in the name of the king. It was a rite of passage in the Hinterlands—to bear witness. An old man told me right before they strung him up that he was being punished for eating an apple from his own orchard. An apple meant for the king’s taxes.
And so, I watched. I watched that old man. I watched every time. Out of respect for those at the wrong end of the king’s wrath.
It went on for a long time, too long, until finally the boys’ screams ceased and they stopped writhing. All around me, the upper decks were littered with raised fists and claims of justice.
The king nibbled on a chicken leg as they dragged what was left of the bodies into the pits with the dogs, clearing the ring. He dropped the bone on his plate, wiped his hands on a towel, and stood up once more, waving, the signal to begin the tournament again.
The marshal appeared at the end of the tunnel, stepping onto the lift, using it as a balcony. “People of the Walled City, Sir Malcolm.”
The lift descended with Sir Malcolm aboard. Sporadic applause was all the people could muster for the Northman.
“Is that why you asked the boy to leave?” I asked Griffin. “So that he didn’t see that.”
He couldn’t or wouldn’t look at me. “They were his cousins.”
He shifted, his soft, mournful eyes finding mine. His look was haunted—as though this was not the first time he’d seen people he cared about die brutally.
“I’m sure that was upsetting, Maggie. Come, sit beside me,” Prince Jori called.
It didn’t sound like I had a choice.
Griffin stood off to the side, leaning on the railing, his focus never leaving Malcolm.
A spear in hand, a sword hanging from his belt, Malcolm waited near the metal gate that inched upward. He wore a steel chest plate, and gauntlets to cover his hands and forearms, but no helmet.
With each creaking pull, more of the draignoch became visible. I leaned over, trying to get a better glimpse of it, my stomach flipping at the thought it might be her. From the feet I knew it wasn’t. She had black skin, and this creature was sparkling yellow. Halfway up, other differences were apparent too. In size and proportions. Both were reptilian, but she was elegant, lean and muscular, where this beast was . . . clunky.
Yet still fierce. One look at Malcolm, and it rammed its head into the gate until it could finally break free.
The throngs rose to their feet once again, yelling at Malcolm, who rolled out of reach of snapping jaws and stabbing claws, finding a good position. His spear struck beneath its limb, in an armpit.
The animal reared.
Malcolm yanked the spear out and spun behind it, then stabbed again. The draignoch screamed. Huffing and panting, it backed away from Malcolm.
All I could think was, what if it had been her? “This is barbaric.”
“These animals destroyed our lands once upon a time,” Prince Jori said.
“Well, that’s not what’s destroying it now!” I snapped at him, catching Griffin’s curious stare.
I saw Malcolm drop his spear and pull his sword.
The creature returned for another pass, but Malcolm was ready. With a running start, he jumped higher than I had ever seen anyone jump before, landing on the middle of its back, startling the crowd and me. The draignoch reared, trying to throw Malcolm off, but he held on, somehow even climbing. Then he stabbed the poor animal in the neck.
The sight sickened me. Unlike the men who’d tried to kill the king, this animal’s only treachery was that it had been bred within the city’s wall for public slaughter. Ice, frigid and blistering, drove through my veins. My hands were so cold, I clenched them into fists. Was this the effect of the moon or my anger? Or both? I wanted to look at my palms but was afraid the light might be there and someone, even with daylight, would see.
Jori set his hand on one of mine, then grimaced. “Poor thing. Your hands are freezing.” He added his other hand to my other fist. “Don’t fret. It’s almost over.�
�
I could feel Esmera glaring daggers at me and slid my hands out.
Sybil yelled for her brother, cheering him on.
Malcolm delivered another blow. This time to its side. The draignoch fell over. He stopped suddenly and padded to the other side of the arena, looking up at King Umbert.
The people jumped up, clapping and cheering Malcolm’s name, calling for the draignoch’s death.
King Umbert held out his fist and dropped his thumb.
“What?” Sybil gasped.
Laird Egrid pounded his crutch in anger. “Did you not see that jump Malcolm made? Not even Griffin could have done it! And you insult him?”
“Are you questioning me?” King Umbert hissed. Guards padded toward him.
“No. Never,” Laird Egrid sniveled. “I am ever your humble servant, and so are my children, Umbert. But this feels wrong.”
“It’s done. Get over it.” King Umbert belched.
It was over, for the draignoch. The king stopped Malcolm from finishing it off, but there was no way it would survive. Not with those wounds.
The crowd groaned in disappointment. Malcolm was furious. He threw his sword on the ground beneath the dais and stormed out of the ring.
The gate rolled up. Chains pulled, and the draignoch was forced to crawl with what little strength it had left out of the arena.
Thankfully, the morning events were over. I took a deep breath, feeling my chilled blood warm—a little.
People started to file out.
I got up too. If I could get into the tunnel quickly, I could sneak through that gate before it shut.
But Sir Raleigh blocked the door. “We will leave after the crowd.”
“I’d like to go for a walk.”
“No.” Raleigh took a menacing step forward.
I stepped backward, bumping into Prince Jori. “What’s the matter?”
“I wanted to go for a walk, find where these majestic creatures are kept. Seems Sir Raleigh isn’t keen on letting me leave.”
“Leave for the Oughtnoch? I can’t say I blame him, Maggie. It’s far too dangerous.” His endearing grin only added to the sting of him saying no. “Besides, if you leave before the rest of us, I will be denied the pleasure of your company. Which I greatly enjoy.”
I glanced over at Esmera, who was watching us, as was Griffin, and Xavier, and everyone else on the balcony.
“That’s nice of you to say, Prince Jori. But if you’ll excuse me, my father wishes to speak to me,” I lied. Anything to get these prying eyes off me.
I padded to the end of the balcony, smoothing my dress as I saw Esmera do when she stood up. Once beside Xavier, I hoped that would be the end of the prince’s advances.
“Prince Jori is smitten,” Xavier whispered. “That’s good. That’s very good.” He patted my arm as if I’d done something right for the first time.
There was nothing good about the prince’s advances. If he wouldn’t let me go to this Oughtnoch place, which I surmised was the name of the pound where they kept the poor creatures, then what good was he to me? Smitten, he would only get in my way.
As the gate rolled down, cutting off my access, my heart sank. There had to be a way, and I needed to find it soon.
Eight
Griffin
Griffin went straight for the practice field, hoping Bradyn would be there. He hadn’t been in the kitchens or at his home. When he didn’t find him, he stayed to spar with Mutter and Wilson, two of the boys who worked in the armory. After what had happened in the arena, even with his sore hand, it was much more appealing to practice than returning to the castle and being forced to make polite conversation about the tournament with Jori or the king.
Public executions weren’t abnormal, especially when offenses were egregious. If Halig and Capp were responsible for the poison, then Griffin understood the reason for showing no mercy. But to do it that way—at the festival, in the arena with every family there, including the boys’ own—was wrong.
Griffin thrust at Mutter’s huge head. Mutter raised his shield, blocking it, leaving him blind. Griffin kicked, sending him crashing to the ground, then pivoted, catching Wilson’s lunge with his crossbar. With a hard twist, Griffin disarmed him.
“Mutter, deflect with your shield.”
“I was blocking, Sir Griffin.”
“You were hiding behind it like it’s a tree. Deflect and attack.” Griffin hit Mutter’s wooden sword with his own shield, knocking it out of his hand, then thrust, stopping a thumbnail before his throat.
He tossed Wilson his sword. “You walk like a fat old horse, giving away what direction you’re coming from.”
“I can’t help that,” Wilson whined.
“Sure you can. Get faster.” Griffin raised the practice sword over his head and stabbed. Wilson rolled, squealing like a fool, as if the wooden weapon was made of steel.
Beside them, all training ceased. Sparring stopped. Silas, throwing knives, held his dagger, then drew up stiffly and fell into a bow. It could only mean one thing.
“Here he is,” Jori called.
Griffin glanced over his shoulder, finding Jori, Malcolm, Cornwall, Esmera, Sybil, and Maggie all strolling toward him. Jori made quite the spectacle at the festival, fawning all over Maggie, when he should’ve been attentive to Esmera. Why was she invited with them again? Could he not go anywhere without her?
Three soldiers traveled with them, Raleigh included. Raleigh had only ever been seen before at the king’s side. It was quite the entourage for the prince.
The others went back to work.
“Prince Jori was just giving us a tour,” Sybil explained.
Griffin nodded, remembering she had asked him to do that. He walked to the prince to greet him, trying, all the while, to keep his eyes off Maggie, but failing miserably. She turned her back sharply, staring out over the city, searching for something.
Griffin approached cautiously. “Can I help?”
“Help with . . .” Maggie still hadn’t turned to look at him, which he took as a bad sign.
“Finding whatever you’re looking for?” Griffin asked.
Maggie didn’t respond. She padded toward the end of the grass, where there was a good view of the north side of the city. Griffin wanted to apologize for how he’d treated her in the Great Hall, but she would never give him the chance. She wouldn’t even look at him.
Raleigh inched closer to her. Two soldiers with him folded in around her as well. What is this? Why were they treating her like a prisoner when she was an invited guest?
“Sir Raleigh, no business in the Hinterlands this week? The king—”
“No, Griffin. I am posted here within the city for the present. I have new responsibilities,” Raleigh said, bristling.
Responsibilities that included Maggie? The prince needed a soldier with Sir Raleigh’s skill to keep track of a young woman from the Hinterlands?
Jori picked up a practice sword from the rack, swinging it around, showing off, then padded into the center of the field.
The sparring stopped. The men waited for the prince’s orders.
“Griffin! Come! Attack me!” He waved him over.
This again, Griffin thought. He held up his injured hand. “I’m afraid I cannot possibly take any more damage, sire.”
Jori tossed the wooden sword to his other hand. “Wise man. Oak, how about you?”
Oak jogged over as if this was a privilege. Griffin supposed it was—for him. Poor Oak would be flying high right up until the moment the prince made a mistake. Which he would, because he always did. He had no instinct. No second sight. Hugo, the blacksmith, always spoke of it. Either a fighter had it or he didn’t. It couldn’t be taught. No amount of hunger or anger could bring it out.
The heartbeat of indecision would come. Oak could capitalize on it, humiliate the prince—and then the prince would make Oak pay.
Griffin knew the game far too well.
He padded over to Malcolm. “You had a brilliant m
atch.”
Malcolm shrugged the compliment off.
Cornwall slapped Malcolm on the back. “The king saw it differently.”
“We can all see the king’s motives,” Malcolm said.
“Better not do that to me when I fight, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Cornwall?” Esmera hissed a small laugh. “You’ll blame your poor performance on the king like Malcolm?”
Maggie snorted. “Poor performance? Did you not see your brother leap on the back of the draignoch?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“At least he didn’t have to kill the beautiful creature,” Maggie added.
Griffin stared at her in disbelief. “Beautiful?”
Jori growled, begging for attention, ending the conversation. He advanced on Oak like an arrogant dog let off his leash. Oak parried his every move, then made the obvious mistake of attacking with a weak grip. A returned swat and Oak’s sword flew out of his hand, fast and hard—and into Maggie’s.
Esmera flinched as if it had hit her, because it should’ve. No one could’ve caught that sword, not even Griffin.
“How did she do that?” Cornwall asked Malcolm. “I didn’t see it coming.”
Malcolm shrugged, dumbfounded.
Sybil laughed. “Perhaps it should be Maggie in the arena rather than you, then.”
Malcolm popped Cornwall on the back of the head. “Sybil has a point.”
“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” Cornwall goaded. He walked backward, arms out, taunting Malcolm. “Come on then, brother, put me on my ass.”
Malcolm grabbed the longest wooden sword and tossed it at Cornwall, picking another for himself. It was the first time Griffin saw them act like brothers who liked each other.
“I’ve seen enough fighting for one afternoon,” Esmera declared. With a last long look at Maggie, she left.
Sybil picked a practice sword from the rack. “Is this game for all?” She swung at Griffin.
He easily blocked it, but she kept coming.
“You’re quite practiced at sword skills, Lady Sybil.”
The Color of Dragons Page 12
