“As will I,” Griffin said.
Jori threw open the doors. Six guards folded in behind them as the prince set a fast pace through a drafty corridor that led to the stairs, that then led to another hallway and another flight of stairs. Damn castle. It was a maze.
He could hear the music and chatter from the party below as they descended the stairs, and see the other competitors lined up beside the closed doors to the Great Hall. Griffin cradled his injured hand as they reached the reception area.
Jori paced toward a man who looked . . . the only word for it was insane. Bones tied in his silver hair, his dark eyes shaded with kohl, his robe so long it swept the floor. Standing beside him was a young woman no older than Griffin. She wore a wool dress made from an old blanket, tied with rope along the waist to give it some kind of shape on her thin frame. Her dark hair fell down her back in long delicate curls. Her eyes roamed the room, stopping first on the stuffed cheetah, then the crocodile.
As Jori and the man spoke, she padded slowly across, to the cheetah. Her delicate hand swept the stiff spotted fur on its back.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching Griffin staring. He’d never seen such beautiful eyes before. To call them simply blue would be insulting. They sparkled in the torchlight, like sapphires. Her attention returning to the animal, her brow knit.
Griffin moved next to her. “A cheetah,” he said, answering her unasked question. “And that”—he nodded to the long-tailed reptile—“is a crocodile. Gifts brought to King Umbert from far-off lands. He hunted them for sport and then had them stuffed and placed here for all to admire.”
Her lip curled in disgust. “I would’ve preferred to admire them alive.” Her hands swept the back of the cheetah once more. “So graceful. I can imagine how it moves.”
Her gaze fell on his scarred face. Griffin’s chest tightened. He should introduce himself, but for the first time in his life he felt . . . shaken.
She smelled like the woods after a long rain. “Me too.”
Jori walked over to her, claiming her elbow. “Sir Griffin, I see you’ve met Maggie.”
Griffin glanced back at Malcolm and Cornwall, both of whom were staring at Jori’s hand on Maggie. Cornwall was standing in Griffin’s place in the procession. “I have now, sire. Excuse me. I believe I’m being usurped by a sniveling moron.”
“I believe you are,” Jori laughed, then led Maggie toward the strange-looking old man. This was the assistant, then, and that odd man, Xavier, the supposed sorcerer.
“Jori.” Griffin sighed his friend’s name as he walked away.
“My sentiments exactly.” Sir Raleigh appeared beside him. The old soldier’s shoulders sat back, and his neck was cocked in such a way that Griffin could tell he had been riding for a long time. “Shouldn’t you be over there, whelp?”
“Your favorite whelp, am I not?”
Raleigh didn’t rise to the occasion as he usually did. Perhaps nostalgia for last year made him melancholy. His stern expression shifted to Xavier, Jori, and Maggie.
“Last month it was Desiree, the month before that, Duncan’s daughter. What was her name? Vivien? Infatuations. He lives for them. But Lady Esmera has arrived,” Griffin said. “If that worried look is for the negotiations with the North—”
“The prince has his own mind, Griffin. Nothing is ever settled until the bitter end.” He laughed—why, Griffin didn’t know. Why was everyone acting so strangely? Was this marriage not the plan all along?
Raleigh jerked his chin toward Cornwall. “Better take your place, champion, before the brat pisses, marking the spot.”
Griffin had never seen Sir Raleigh so intense. He did as he asked, walking with determination toward Cornwall, who flinched at the sight of him and stepped back, relinquishing his place without argument.
The drums banged. The doors opened. The crowd stood.
King Umbert was at the far end of the hall. He raised his cup. “Hail our champion, and all who would try to defeat him.”
Griffin led them through the Great Hall. The vast room held upward of a hundred, but with so many from the Top of the Walled City invited, it was stretched way beyond capacity. Challengers peeled off to sit with their families. Oak sat with his mother and little sister. At the table beside the king’s was Silas’s family, including Zac, and his father, Ragnas, and mother, Aofrea. That left Cornwall and Malcolm, who were still with Griffin, heading for the king’s table. As if one meal with them wasn’t punishment enough.
Two soldiers, who looked as tired as Sir Raleigh, carted in a table, trunk, and screen, setting them in the center, which had been left empty for the entertainment.
Flutes and lyres plucked lively tunes while chatter picked up where it had left off before the king’s interruption. By the time Griffin reached the head table, Laird Egrid and the king were regaling the assembly with tales of the draignoch war. Egrid shoved his sleeve up and ran a crooked finger over a long scar.
“Biggest one I ever saw in the wild. I thrust my blade deep in the beast’s neck; it should have died at once. But no, not this bastard. It thrashed and cut me from elbow to wrist with its eye tooth.”
“Thrust your blade,” King Umbert chortled. “We were taking a piss, and the thing came round the tree. You shit your britches and got your nasty slog water all over my boots.” His laughter grew until he was forced to suck a sharp breath, holding his side from hysterics. “I stabbed the draignoch. You were cut by the fang when it fell.”
“That’s not the way I remember it.” Egrid grimaced at King Umbert. Then laughed heartily too.
Behind them, on an added table, guards stood over Buffont, the bald, fat cooker, as he and several of his staff were forced to taste platters of food and swig every pitcher of ale. Bradyn was there too, frowning with worry as he watched his father from the side entrance.
Jori caught up to Griffin. “She’s something, isn’t she?” He didn’t stop to hear Griffin’s response. The prince sat down beside Lady Esmera. He lifted her hand to his lips. “You look lovely this evening.”
“Why thank you, Prince Jori.” The yellow dress with black beading she wore reminded Griffin of a hornet. She wrinkled her nose at him as he sank into the seat between her and Sybil. “That seat is for our brother.”
Griffin poured a glass of wine and took a long sip before setting it down before him. “Malcolm is seated next to your father.”
Cornwall came to stand behind Griffin. He crossed his arms and hummed, “Move.”
Griffin reached over Esmera’s plate to the cheese platter and took the largest slice he could find. “I like this seat.” He dropped the cheese on the plate before him. “Lady Sybil, would you kindly get me some apple slices?”
Sybil shook her head at him, smirking, as she grabbed two large pieces.
“Jori, my brother shall sit beside me,” Esmera griped.
“My brother already is.” Jori waved at one of the servants standing against the wall. Another chair landed with a thud at the end of the table. “Sir Cornwall, that chair is for you,” the prince exclaimed. “A fine chair, finer than even mine, for it has arms. Does that please you?”
Cornwall scowled at him and started to speak but was cut off by the high-pitched squeaks from Sybil pulling the new seat beside her out for him. “Sit, Cornwall. Tell me what it was like to stand in the arena today.”