I walked around him, adjusting the jewels on his hands, moving the bones in his hair, as if any of it mattered. Ridiculous; if I could, I would’ve laughed. I yanked a bone harder than necessary.
“Ow! Maggie!”
“Ah. Several of these have come loose. That could be the issue. Have you removed any?”
“Yes!” He pulled one from his pocket. “It fell off.” He pressed it into my palm.
“Kneel down.” I glanced into the dark skies.
He did, and I retied the bones, securing them. Clouds rolled over a thumbnail moon. It was waxing and would be easier to see in the coming days. Perhaps that would help in the Walled City.
“Up. Let’s do this exactly as we did that night. Your back was to me. And you, uh, had your eyes closed the whole time.”
“Ah! Yes! I did.” Xavier turned, lifting the staff. He slammed his eyes shut, then began singing his mystical words.
I held my hand up. A crescent-shaped moonbeam landed on the center of my palm. An intense warmth ran through me. My breath turned frosty and visible. My ears buzzed with a monotone hum.
This was it, the way I felt in the tavern, only stronger. More powerful, and it felt good.
I stifled a laugh. “Louder, Xavier. You were much louder!”
As his voice grew in volume and pitch, I fell on my knees, setting one hand on the bottom of Xavier’s cloak’s train and the other over the rabbit’s wound. My heart hammered a thunderous beat, terrified that any minute the soldiers would come to find us.
I closed my eyes for the briefest of seconds. The wound sliced deep but was already knitting together. When I looked, the rabbit hopped up, scooting beside my feet. I traced his fur with my fingers, the moonlight gilding his outline.
“Are you seeing this, Maggie?” Xavier’s eyes were open. He stared at the brilliant light cascading over his shoulder, then at the rabbit, alive and well at our feet.
“Yes! You did it, Xavier!” I stood, moving my hand to his arm. Light shifted, skating down his arm, up the staff, hitting the gem. The facets broke the beam, as they did in the tavern. Blue droplets landed on trees bristling in the breeze. “So beautiful. This is what the audience will cheer for, Xavier. You don’t need to sacrifice our animals this way. Draw the moonlight and put on a glorious show of light.”
He hummed, intrigued.
Twigs cracked. Our rabbit spooked, scurrying into the woods, getting away.
“Xavier! They’re coming!”
Raleigh and several other soldiers hurried into the glen, carrying torches.
“Look at that!” one cried.
Sliding farther behind Xavier, I peeked in their direction, worrying about having to find our stupid rabbit before morning. I could suddenly feel his fur beneath my fingers.
The soldiers stared at Xavier, mouths open.
“What is that?” one of them asked.
“It’s a rabbit!” another said, pointing at Xavier’s shoulder, where my hand happened to be.
I looked up. My breath caught. A glistening rabbit drawn in moon threads stared down at me from atop my hand on Xavier’s shoulder. Xavier’s head jerked, his eyes finding the ghostly aura. He squeaked in surprise.
“I don’t remember giving either of you permission to leave camp!” Raleigh barked.
I glared at him. The sparkling rabbit jumped off Xavier, following my gaze, launching in Raleigh’s direction. Before it reached him, on instinct, I closed my hand, breaking the connection with the light. Darkness fell like a closing curtain. The delicious scent of fresh snow lingered in its wake.
“Was that a ghost?” one of them asked in the hushed silence.
“Nah. It was magic,” another said. The awe in his voice unmistakable. It was there in their stares at Xavier too.
“See?” I whispered to Xavier. “This is what the king will want to see. When he meets you, he will truly believe in magic.”
Wind rustled the leaves.
“Get back to camp. I’ll escort them,” Raleigh ordered, taking a torch from the soldier beside him. His gaze firmly on me, he padded toward us. “Don’t know what sorts live in these parts, but I’m sure they’re not used to whatever that was. Time for sleep. Been enough rehearsing the past two nights. If you’re not ready now, Xavier the Ambrosius, you never will be.”
Four
Griffin
Griffin couldn’t sleep. He went to the practice fields beside the armory before dawn, strapped on his leather breastplate, gauntlet cuffs, and shin guards, and started running. It had been three long days since the attempt on the king’s life. Three long days since Jori had left. And three long days since Halig and Capp had been taken by the guards to be interrogated.
Bradyn was inconsolable.
With Jori gone, Griffin had no one to turn to for help. For the first time in his life, he felt useless, and didn’t like it.
According to the physician, for the mushrooms to work that fast, a full cup, dried and ground, had to have been mixed into the ale. And Bradyn claimed that the king’s food and drink were tasted in the kitchens before being brought to him.
It was brought to the table already poisoned by someone between the buttery and the chamber.
An assassin. King Umbert had been right. His life was in danger, but not from Malcolm. The Northman had willingly poured his own drink from the pitcher. If the dogs hadn’t drunk the poison first, he would be dead now too. Wouldn’t he? Or had he done that for show, believing the king would drink it when he returned?
Griffin had seen the surprise in Malcolm’s face. He hadn’t done it, but then who had?
Griffin rolled his wrist, swinging his sword downward, stabbing the ground. It was opening day of the tournament. He had to set all that aside. He needed to put on a good show, win over the crowd as the king asked, and for that he had to be focused on the task at hand only. That’s what he had told Bradyn about the melee. Now he had to heed his own advice.
“Focus on what you can control.”
The cold fall air stiffened his limbs. The only remedy was to put them to task so that he was ready for the monster to come. He ran harder, faster, until he could no longer feel resistance in his legs or lungs. He used a rough rock to toughen his calluses to keep his sword’s grip from slipping. Then he took practice swings, thrusting upward in different angles until his arms no long protested the awkward position.
Two hours later, Griffin made his way over the bridge and into the performers’ tunnel, ready for day one in the arena. The melee had started. The field was carved into small squares for matches. He stood at the end for a few minutes, staring down at the event. Bradyn was down there in the midst of the cracking wooden swords, somewhere, as was every boy from ten to sixteen who wanted to show off burgeoning skills, or reveal the lack thereof. Victors moved square to square, sparring to disarm each other until the champion was the last man standing in the center.
Griffin tried to watch to the end, but the tunnel flooded with actors for the play that followed. He was forced to back up into a horde of guards blocking the stairs that led to the dais, and the king. Griffin wondered if Jori was up there now. High time he had made it back.
Rousing applause and a horn let Griffin know a winner had taken the circle. The actors shifted, making room for the boys to exit the lift swiftly so they could enter. It would take several trips.