Lost in a maze of changing directions and connected buildings, I heard her.
The draignoch.
Her voice floated on the gentle breeze, fanning the roadside flames.
The draignoch had made it to the Walled City, and so had I.
And she was close.
I smiled. I wanted to jump out, to race to her. But I knew I wouldn’t get very far without knowing which way to go.
Raleigh noticed my head flipping back and forth. “The tournament opened today.”
“The draignochs,” I wondered aloud. “Where do they keep them?”
The corners of Sir Raleigh’s mouth hinted at a smile. “You do ask a great many questions. Doesn’t matter, not to you.” He kicked his horse, pulling ahead, my frustration growing with every step his horse took.
It did matter. It was the only thing that mattered.
Frustrated beyond measure as I was, there was only one thing to do.
As we crossed another road, I shifted in my seat to slide out, hoping the heavy shade from the setting sun would mask my escape.
More soldiers folded in behind us, Moldark leading the pack.
Xavier grabbed my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”
There was no possible escape route. “Nowhere. I’m just tired of sitting.” I turned around quickly before Moldark could get a good look at me.
As we left the Bottom, the road leveled, smoothed by the introduction of shaved cobblestones. There were no signs of nature in the Bottom, no trees or grass, only muck and stench. But as we rose out of the depths, patches of green emerged between the cobblestones. Torches lit the road, giving the passage a romantic glow. People were on the streets here too. Children squealed, playing chase around drunk revelers, who scooted out of the way while toasting their silver mugs at our procession.
The road rose sharply, then leveled again, entering a place the likes of which I had never seen before. The Top. Manicured greens outlined in neatly trimmed bushes greeted us at each enormous dwelling we passed. Intricately carved stone sconces and bronze knockers decorated iron doors.
A vacant space gave an open view of another part of the Top, just beneath the homes, where the king’s soldiers sparred and rode in sprawling fields. Spectators watched from the sidelines, cheering them on. Children wearing fine linens and fur cloaks ran into the street, waving wooden swords. I thought maybe Xavier’s reputation had preceded him, but they moved past our wagon, not seeing us at all. They were here for the soldiers.
In the Walled City, King Umbert’s soldiers were heroes. And why not? These children saw them as providers, carting back food and livestock, clothing and silver. They were doing their duty, serving their king, taking their share from the Hinterlands and giving it to them. These children never saw the wake of destruction their heroes left behind, but one day, they would. The day that giant wall came tumbling down.
Six
Griffin
Griffin woke to pounding on his door. He rolled toward the window and was disappointed to see darkness.
The opening day banquet.
His aching cheek would make it impossible to eat and drink without misery. The physician had cleaned and stitched the wound shut, but there was little to be done with his hand. The numbness now completely worn off, it throbbed incessantly.
Sleep was much more appealing than food.
“Start without me.” He covered his head with a pillow.
The door opened so hard it slammed into the wall. “Are you still sleeping?” Jori bounded into the room as if his father had given him the keys to the kingdom.
Griffin flopped onto his back. “No. I’m thinking with my eyes closed.”
“My father has called for the ceremonial entrance of the champion and challengers. You are to lead it. Or shall we give that honor to Cornwall since he’s already standing in your place?” Jori ripped the soft linen sheets off him. “You do look a mess. Come! Up! Up!” he sang.
“The draignoch used me like a pincushion today, if you didn’t notice.” Griffin cringed. His face felt tight and the pain still raw. “And what’s the matter with you? You’re positively perky. After an evening spent with your betrothed, I would’ve expected griping, pouting, loss of appetite, severe depression.” Griffin combed his hair with his fingers, then padded to the wardrobe. “Although, I suppose, why gripe. She’ll be all yours in mere days. Permanently.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He winked.
Griffin stopped searching and looked back at him. “Malcolm isn’t playing games, Jori. He told me at dinner and again today that he’s not happy with the idea of the North being under your father’s rule. He’s coming for the throne.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? That’s all you have to say?” Griffin grabbed the first blue linen shirt he could find and slipped it over his head.
Jori smirked, waggling his eyebrows. “The sorcerer I told you about, Xavier, arrives momentarily.”
“Yes. Call them sorcerers when not a single one has ever had a lick of magic.”
“Xavier is different. He has something that is real. He is a sorcerer.” Jori’s eyes darkened. “He will be what saves me from marrying Lady Esmera. With magic at my father’s side, and mine, the North will come to heel without this ridiculous marriage.”
“So that is why. All this time, all the searching . . .” Griffin strapped on his belt. “The magic wasn’t an amusement. You’ve been searching for—”
“A weapon.” Jori nodded. Griffin had never seen him quite so grave.
He turned to face the prince. “A bet, then. Over Xavier’s powers.”
Jori’s laugh started slow and sinister. “A bet. Are you sure?”
“Are you?” Griffin challenged him.
“Your knife, then.” Jori scooped it up from the table, sliding it from its holster. He held it up and examined the sharpness. The candlelight reflected off the inset rubies on the cross guard, but not so much the blade. It absorbed the light, making it stronger. Years working at a smith shop, Griffin never truly understood all the secrets of Phantombronze. Jori turned the grip, reflecting the ground, rendering the blade invisible. It was a very useful weapon, one Griffin would rather not lose. But he would not lose it—because magic wasn’t real.
“My knife, against a view of the new draignoch.”
“My father would kill me.” Jori slid the knife back in its holster.
“Oh, he would not. You’re his only heir.”
His jaw shifted from side to side, mulling it over. “Very well.” He held his hand out for them to shake on it.
Griffin didn’t take it, not yet. “A caveat.”
“Are bets with you always this complicated?” Jori held on to the blade as if he had won already.
“I have your permission and your protection from the king’s wrath to put the supposed sorcerer to a sincere test,” Griffin added, reaching his hand out.
“You always put them to the test. My father, the noble families, we all live for your jibes at the poor pathetic souls.”
Griffin crossed his arms. “If my knife is at stake, I mean to be a right bastard.” He held his hand out to Jori.
The prince laughed. “I will make sure to explain to my father if he gets upset in any way.” Jori shook it and handed Griffin his knife. “Bring it with you. I’ll expect payment as soon as the performance is over.”