A tie would be a dull ending, but a boy, even younger than Griffin when he won last year, a true underdog, if he could win, they would recount the tale tonight in the pubs and over the supper table. They would ask his name and remember it, watching for him especially when he fought his first draignoch.
The people stood up and quieted.
Smooth lift. Confident release. Cornwall’s form was perfect, and so was his throw.
The axe struck dead center with a definitive thwack.
A bull’s-eye.
Rocking fists, surprised laughter, and unbridled cheering erupted. Cornwall jogged the rim of the arena, milking out every last bit of applause, soaking up every bit of fame he could muster.
After, the knights entered the lift. Griffin paced, worrying about Maggie and the boy. Where was she?
The lift returned with the other competitors. Cornwall made the mistake of sauntering up to Griffin, beaming with pride. “Fickle bunch, aren’t they? Fair-weather fans. No real respect for their champion at all.”
Griffin backed him up to the wall, pressing his forearm against his neck, feeling the pissant’s fragile pulse beat beneath his wrist. “You’ve won nothing. It was you, wasn’t it? You split the wood on the handle of that axe? You paid to have it brought to me? You arrogant bastard! That boy is likely dead because of what you did!”
“What are you saying?” Malcolm tried to pull Griffin off, to no avail.
Cornwall gagged. He beat Griffin’s arm, trying to get free, but didn’t stand a chance. His eyes bulged past normal. With a hard jerk, Griffin could snap his scrawny neck as easy as a chicken’s.
“Griffin, stop!” Malcolm insisted.
“He’s a liar!” he spat at Malcolm. “Nothing but a no-good cheat!” Griffin snarled in Cornwall’s ear.
Cornwall coughed, trying to shake his head.
Malcolm yanked on Griffin’s wrist, giving Cornwall a small measure of relief. “He was with me all night last night, and this morning. Believe me! He didn’t tamper with your axe.”
“Then who did?” Griffin eased off.
Cornwall slipped far enough away to pull his sword. He aimed it in Griffin’s direction.
“Go on then! Let’s finish this if that’s what you want!”
Silas laughed at him. “Put that away before Griffin kills you, worthless, and then we have to kill your less-than-worthless brother for defending you.”
“Glad to know I’m less than worthless,” Malcolm added.
Scrambling footsteps behind them stole their attentions. Griffin heard her before he saw her.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” Maggie yelled.
Twisting and turning, she grappled with Raleigh and Moldark, the two struggling to lift her by the arms. Her dark curls had fallen out of the elegant braided bun. The hem of her red dress whipped, tossing muck from the damp road. But it was her hands that drew Griffin’s attention. They were covered in blood.
Blood.
Griffin pulled his sword. “What did you do?” He shoved Moldark off Maggie.
Moldark bounced off the wall, stumbling over his own foot, crashing onto his back, barely missing Griffin’s stretched blade.
“Stop!” Maggie exclaimed. “It’s not mine. It was the boy’s.” She gave a sad, resigned sigh. “Alas, I was right about you, Sir Griffin. You’re a terrible shot. Beneath all that fabric was a scrape.”
“A scrape?” Silas asked incredulously.
“The boy’s arm was nearly severed, wasn’t it?” Oak said.
“Where is he?” Griffin asked Maggie.
“I ran into your friend. The one with the eyebrows so thick they deserve names of their own.”
“Dres.”
“That’s the one. He promised to return him to his father. He knows the way to the Bottom,” Maggie explained.
“Because Dres belongs in the Bottom, and has no business sitting with the Top,” Raleigh said for Griffin’s benefit.
“Why not? All the seats look the same to me.” Maggie smiled.
Griffin could kiss her. That was, if either of them wanted anything like that.
One of the guards whispered in Raleigh’s ear.
Raleigh, still holding on to Maggie’s arm, spat on the ground in front of Griffin. “The king wants a word.”
“Yes, I was informed.” Griffin plastered a smile on his face, trying to cover the stabbing daggers in his stomach. “If the king wants a word, then he shall of course have it.” He held an arm out to Maggie. “The stairs are steep.”
Raleigh arched a brow at Griffin but let go of Maggie.
She held on to Griffin, gracing him with a tired grin. “This has been a never-ending day, hasn’t it?”
And it wasn’t over.
In the darkness of the stairwell, Griffin laid his hand over Maggie’s resting on his elbow. Ahead of them, Raleigh’s footsteps moved much faster than theirs.
“The king wanted you to throw another axe,” Maggie whispered.
“I didn’t deserve another chance.”
“Will he be angry?”
Griffin squeezed her hand in answer.
“Are you scared?”
“A little,” Griffin admitted so quietly he wasn’t sure she heard.
“Me too. For you.”
“Don’t worry about me. Worry about the prince.”
“The prince?”
“You’re all muddy. The dress he gave you ruined.” Griffin sounded bitter even to his own ears.
“Are you jealous?” Maggie asked, sounding amused.
Griffin refused to answer that but squeezed her hand so hard she yelped.
The end of the stairs loomed.
Maggie let go of his arm. She rubbed her finger through soft mud flaking off her sleeve, then wiped a streak down the back of Griffin’s neck, sending chills down his spine. Her touch was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. “For luck,” she whispered.
Griffin took a ragged breath.
As they took the last three steps, the space between them felt much more than the mere inches it was, the air increasingly magnetic. Griffin wanted to say something brilliant, but her sweet almond scent overwhelmed him. He looked down at her, not seeing much of her in the dimness, hoping something would come to him.
But then she kissed him.
Soft and quick on his lips.
Too quick, because Raleigh yanked the door open and daylight poured in.
Maggie went first.
Griffin let out the breath he was holding before following. As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold, the rain lightened to barely a drizzle.
The revered balcony.
From this place, the king loomed over events like a god watching his creations, deciding who to bless. To be asked to join them was the greatest reward a knight could hope for. After the first match in last year’s tournament, when Griffin had killed a draignoch in a record five precise moves, King Umbert had invited him to the balcony. On that day his arrival was met with pats on the back as throngs cheered his name from every part of the arena.
This time, things were very different.
With the delay in the tournament, the crowd focused on the king. Fingers pointed. Mumbling grew until it sounded like swarming by flies. Everyone on the balcony turned to look at Griffin, and immediately stopped talking. Or eating. Or drinking. Or serving.