Her voice traveled on a different plane. They couldn’t hear it, because if they did, they too would want nothing but to find her. She was so close, but at the moment I found myself utterly surrounded. There was no way to get to her.
I moved to the balcony rail to try to pinpoint exactly where her voice was coming from. The scar on my arm burned. I winced, pressing down on it.
Sybil padded over. “Are you all right?” She reached for my arm, but I put it behind my back.
“Yes. Clumsy. Banged my arm on the banister. Another bruise,” I prattled.
She pushed back her sleeve. There were several fading purple-and-black spots. “Sparring. A favorite pastime in the North. We use short staffs to keep from killing each other.” She smiled and waved at Malcolm and Cornwall below.
“Esmera spars?” I couldn’t hide my shock.
Sybil guffawed. “No. She stitches Father’s treasure troves to her dresses these days. But my sister is of the North. We all know how to fight. It is our way.”
“I really would like to visit someday,” I mused.
“You asked about the draignochs.” She pointed out a huge metal gate. “They come out there, so I imagine the keep is connected to the tunnel.”
“Yes.” All I had to do was make my way through too many guards, through the tunnel, into the arena—while the door was open. The plan was both impractical and implausible. I would have to find another way.
Three servants sipped from a single tankard before passing it to the king. Tasters. King Umbert was ruthless, but poison was a coward’s act. Hinterfolk would never stoop to such pathetic ways of killing him. After all he’d taken from them, they’d want to feel the blade enter his chest.
It was probably someone inside the city. Maybe even someone he knew. I glanced around the balcony, catching Prince Jori’s stare. He smiled.
The prince and his betrothed, Lady Esmera, were seated together. He in a long red cloak matching his father’s, and she in a lavender dress like her sister’s, only hers was trimmed with blue teardrop-shaped gems. They looked the absolute picture of a future ruling family.
Sybil took the empty chair beside her sister, leaving only one left on the other side of the prince.
As I sat down, he said, “You look much more at ease than you did last night.”
It was a strange thing to say. “Was that a compliment?” I wondered aloud.
He laughed, his dimples cratering, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I meant it as such.”
Esmera’s legs were slanted to one side, her heels were crossed at her ankles, and her hands folded in her lap. I tried to mimic her, but it took too much work to keep my legs fashioned that way.
“Well, the bed was very comfortable. Too comfortable, if you ask me.”
“Especially if you’re used to sleeping in pigsties.” Esmera wrinkled her nose.
I sniffed my arm and held it out to Esmera. “I smell like roses. Go on. Take a whiff.”
She shoved my hand out of her face. Her expression so repulsed that Sybil and I laughed.
“Everything in this place smells like rose. Why is that?” Sybil asked Jori.
“My father has an affinity for them,” the prince answered, sounding as if he didn’t share his father’s taste.
The king raised his hand.
Horns blew.
The throngs silenced.
“Finally. Here we go,” Jori declared.
The five knights stretched across the back edge of the oval-shaped arena. The marshal marked a throw line ten feet in front of them, which gave them little space to run before release.
“Let the spear contest begin!” King Umbert bellowed.
Malcolm went first, wasting no time. Three sprinting steps and he released. The spear sailed over a hundred yards.
The audience was impressed, applauding, whistling, and yelling, “Northman!”
Silas was next. He came closer but didn’t beat Malcolm’s throw. Oak, the youngest of them, barely made it half the distance. Cornwall was up next.
“He’ll top Malcolm,” Esmera said smugly. “Has all year, hasn’t he, Sybil?”
“Malcolm is always full of surprises.”
“No. He’s not,” Jori scoffed. “Predictable by nature, and why he’ll never be champion. He’ll never beat Griffin. Neither will Cornwall.”
I didn’t care. I only wanted to get this over with so I could find the draignoch’s keep.
Cornwall tested the weight of his spear until the crowd grew impatient.
“Throw it already!”
“Nerves got you, boy?”
Laughter spread. Griping too.
“Get on with it!”
Cornwall drew back, ran toward the line, tripping, and had to start over at the last possible second.
“Like his mother was, that one. Takes a year to figure anything out,” Laird Egrid croaked. “Just throw it, boy!”
Cornwall did. A good throw too. It stabbed the earth right beside Malcolm’s. He bumped into Griffin, into his injured hand carrying the spear as he walked back to the line.
Gasps rang out.
“Knocked him on purpose!”
“Get away from our champion!” a boy yelled from far below.
“Cheater!” another called.
Griffin leaned the spear against his shoulder and pumped his injured fist. The crowd mumbled, several voicing concerns about his injury. Did their lives depend on Griffin’s performance? They literally hung on his every move.
Griffin glanced around, looking at the people. He gripped the spear tightly in his injured hand and was rewarded with steady clapping for support. But then he tossed the spear to his other hand. He was going to use his left?
I could see his conceited grin all the way up on the balcony.
The crowd jumped, laughing, relishing this game. Heavy anticipation forced a silence. A short run, a serious heave, and the spear sailed in a low arc, striking the ground a yard beyond Malcolm’s and Cornwall’s.
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.”