“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 match.”
Malcolm shrugged the compliment off.
Cornwall slapped Malcolm on the back. “The king saw it differently.”