Maggie still hadn’t said a word. Her regard ventured past him. She craned her neck, trying to see beyond Griffin, beyond the other competitors, beyond the tunnel. She was looking for Rendicryss, worrying it was her turn in the arena, but there was no way to know until the gate rolled up.
Malcolm and his brother stared at Jori, their expressions dimming by the second.
“Where’s my sister?” Cornwall barked.
“My dear brother. She’s on the dais. As is Lady Sybil,” Jori responded with extreme politeness that turned Cornwall beet red. The prince turned to Griffin. “Come up when you’re finished so we can toast another win.” He extended an elbow to Maggie. “Shall we?”
“Good luck, Sir Griffin,” Maggie said, meeting his gaze. From her tone, she could’ve been cursing at him.
After they were gone, Griffin tested the weight of his axe. He tossed it from one hand to the other but was plagued by the image of Jori kissing Maggie’s hand. He fumbled the handle, and the axe rattled to the floor. He scrambled to pick it up, mortified.
“She makes you nervous,” Silas said, chuckling. He tucked his long blond mane into the back of his tunic.
“I understand, Griffin. She is . . . disarming,” Malcolm admitted.
“You’re a fool, Malcolm,” Cornwall growled at his brother. “She’s a trollop. Her father’s probably put a spell on Jori, all so she can swive a prince and bring a bastard into the world. A claimant for the throne.”
Griffin heard enough. He threw Cornwall up against the wall. “Maggie is no trollop. And her father wouldn’t know a spell if his life depended on it.”
He let go but glared at Cornwall as he slid down the wall and slunk away, rubbing his arm.
“You defended her, rather than your prince,” Malcolm said, coming away from the exchange knowing more than Griffin should have allowed.
The skies were blanket gray, with darker, more threatening clouds rolling beneath. What’s more, Griffin’s knee ached along the cap. It was going to rain, and soon. The arena’s roof only sheltered the spectators. The center was open to the elements. When it rained, the dirt turned to slippery mud, giving draignochs an advantage because of their weight. Griffin was glad he wasn’t fighting today.
A horn declared the axe competition, and Marshal Duncan called the knights. Sleep deprived, on the ride down into the ring on the lift, Griffin’s body felt like it was at the end of a very long day rather than the beginning. Not even the people chanting his name energized him.
A drizzling rain started. He lifted the axe with his healed hand, wincing. Then he shook his hand out, grimacing. He set the axe down between his feet and cracked his knuckles.
“Is he all right?” he heard someone call from the stands.
Griffin picked up the axe, tossed it in the air, caught it, and was rewarded with whistles and cheers. He lifted it above his head.
“He is! Sir Griffin’s hand is healed!”
They hooted, clapping their hands.
The king raised a glass at him, calling, “The champion is ready.”
As Griffin lowered his arm, he felt a strange jerk in the handle of the axe that sent his pulse racing.
While Silas threw first, Griffin examined the wood, finding a split that would leave his throw unbalanced.
“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asked.
Griffin ground his teeth. “Handle’s split.”
“The champion, Sir Griffin, didn’t check his weapon?” Cornwall sniggered.
“Shut up, Cornwall.” Malcolm shoved his brother. “Go change it out, Griffin.”
“There’ll be none of that,” Duncan declared. “Rules are rules. You’ll have to throw with it.”
“That’s ridiculous, and dangerous,” Malcolm exclaimed. “When I beat him, it will be fairly.”
“But that’s exactly the point, Sir Malcolm—fairness. Sir Griffin does not get to alter the rules. He will have to throw with this axe, or bow out,” Duncan spat.
Bowing out, he could never do. Griffin was afraid to test the axe much more in fear of making it worse.
A cheer went up from the crowd. After two perfect rotations, Silas’s axe struck the far left of the target.
“Next, Sir Griffin,” Duncan called. He took several steps back, giving Griffin a wide berth.
Griffin raised a finger. The wind had shifted with the drizzling rain. The ground had become slick, the top layer a muddy stew that stuck to Griffin’s boots as he stepped to the throwing line.
King Umbert and the prince both stood at the balcony railing, waiting for Griffin to raise a fist in their honor.
Time slowed.
His stomach churned like he’d eaten broken glass. Griffin held his breath, his chest warming with fear. He stepped forward, swinging downward, then raised the axe over his head and threw, releasing as his arm paralleled the ground.
Griffin heard the crack when it left his hand. He watched in horror as the head came off with so much momentum carrying upward, it spiraled out of control toward the stands filled with people. Shocked screams sailed with it, turning to shrieks when the blade struck a boy in the first row of the stands. In the Bottom’s rows. His shirt was instantly soaked in blood.
Griffin blinked. Did that really happen?
The horn blew, halting the event.
Griffin’s knees wanted to buckle, but he refused to let them. He didn’t care about the boos that followed him as he sprinted across the arena. He deserved them all. Stupid. Careless. Irresponsible. How could he let this happen?
He slipped twice in the mud, skidding the last five feet, and looked up the twenty-foot smooth wall that was impossible to climb. His father cradled the boy as he wailed and gasped in turn while another man coaxed the axe out of his shoulder. Tiny, he couldn’t have been more than three.
“Got it!”
The axe head fell over the wall, nearly hitting Griffin on the head.
Thoma had somehow worked his way over to help. He stood beside them, leaning over the rail.
“He’s bleeding bad, Griff.”
From the concern in Thoma’s voice, Griffin worried he didn’t have long. There were only two physicians in the Walled City, none of them accessible to people in the Bottom. No one would help him, unless . . .
Maggie!
The wall was too high, but if he could get the boy to the lift, and ride him up to the Top section . . .
“Can you lower him to me?” Griffin asked, gesturing frantically. “Use your cloaks! Hurry!”
His father gaped as Thoma took him from his arms. “Are you mad?”
“I know someone who can help!” Griffin insisted. “Please! Let me try!”
Within seconds, Thoma lowered the boy in a makeshift cradle into Griffin’s waiting arms. The boy had gone quiet. He was still breathing, but barely.
“What the hell is he doing, Jori?” King Umbert’s furious bellow echoed in the ring.
Griffin didn’t care about the king’s anger either. He had the boy, and now all he needed was Maggie. Racing back, he passed his gawking competition, only adding to his anxiety. He lunged into the lift. The other competitors joined him; why? He didn’t know, but their weight would make it impossible to move quickly.
“Get out!” he barked.
All did except Silas. “I’ve already thrown.”