To the lowborn, he couldn’t lose. To the highborn, he couldn’t win.
Griffin could only focus on one difficult challenge at time. He just wanted to get through this night without thoroughly embarrassing himself.
Bradyn headed for a set of double doors. Griffin’s stomach twisted with nervous knots.
“Any advice, Bradyn?”
Bradyn hummed. “Don’t use your sleeve as a napkin.”
“I was hoping for something less obvious.”
The guards nodded in greeting to Griffin as they stepped aside to allow him entry.
Griffin’s mouth fell open at the sight of King Umbert’s famed overlook windows. The king had a bird’s-eye view of everything and everyone in the Walled City, and beyond. From the fortress courtyard to the large homes with plush greens in the Top, the joined cottages on the roads that wound down through the Middle, to the very slums Griffin grew up in in the Bottom.
A fire burned in the fireplace. Lit candelabras lined the small dining table that had been set for the special occasion. Plates overflowed with roasted meats and vegetables. There were five loaves of bread, two set beside the high-back chair placed for the king.
Four chairs were placed for the laird’s family, and two for the king’s. Four chairs—Laird Egrid’s entire family was coming. Griffin groaned. The mere thought was enough to cause him to lose his appetite.
The fire popped. Beside it, Griffin saw a stone parked in the corner. Almost as tall as he was, yet not wider than his forearm, a series of short horizontal marks sectioned in clumps cut the edge of the stone. As he inched closer to get a better look at it, growling greyhounds exited the king’s bedchambers, heading for him.
Griffin reached for the dagger in his boot that wasn’t there. He had left it in his room, as Jori requested. No weapons allowed in the king’s chambers. Griffin tossed them a piece of bread to shut them up.
“Stupid rats! Silence!” King Umbert lumbered into the room from his chambers beyond the fireplace. The dogs cowered at his sharp tone. He waved and they trotted into the other room, the doors closing behind them.
Bradyn’s cousins, Halig and Capp, hurried after him. Not much older than Griffin, the brothers had spent the past two years traveling with Raleigh collecting taxes in the Hinterlands before rising to this grand assignment.
Halig pushed a crown over King Umbert’s bald bulbous head, and received a slap. “Not so hard!” Much too tight; skin bulged over the sides. Capp walked backward, tying the laces on the front of the king’s red linen shirt that hung like a dress over his swollen form.
The stalwart, hulking king who had led a great army, who had stopped the draignochs’ onslaught, saving the disjointed lands from demolition and the people from certain death, had grown enormously fat in the more leisurely years since.
“Sire, what is this carved into the stone?” Griffin asked.
“Remarkable thing, isn’t it?”
Remarkable wasn’t the word that came to mind. In fact, it looked rather unremarkable. The art childish . . . if it was art.
“Do you know what it says?” the king asked, adjusting his crown.
“Says? Does it speak?”
King Umbert laughed. “No. At least not for me.” He sounded disappointed. He cast a narrowed eye on Halig, then at the stone. Halig draped a silky red cloth over it. “Enough of that. Come here.”
Griffin padded beside him, bowing his head.
“Sir Griffin, you put on a clean shirt,” the king observed with an approving grin. “And one of my royal color, I see.”
“Your son’s doing, Your Majesty. A futile attempt to make me a suitable stand-in for him tonight.” Griffin bowed.
“You’ll excel as you always do, young man. Prince Jori has found a loyal friend in you. Know that it hasn’t gone unnoticed.” He spied the wine and jerked his chin. Halig read his cryptic gesture, pouring two chalices, handing the first to the king and the other to Griffin, before slipping back into the shadows on the other side of the fireplace.
King Umbert cradled his cup. “Jori’s going to need you by his side in the coming weeks, Sir Griffin, as am I.”
“Is that why you wished to speak to me before Laird Egrid arrived?”
King Umbert nodded and swirled the wine, not spilling a single drop. “The wolves are entering our house as we speak, and he will be thirsty for blood.”
The wolves. Laird Egrid and his family. The reason for poor Jori’s wedding. The prince had explained the last time his betrothed came to the Walled City. The old man ruled the North, the last of the territories not under the king’s control. Egrid’s armies were many in number, and the severe terrain in the North was said to be impossible to fight on unless you intimately understood its mountains, moors, bogs, and forests. Not to mention its weather. When Prince Jori was born, King Umbert decided on a marriage to unite the lands, rather than war.
If the king was worried about a threat to Jori’s throne, it wasn’t from Egrid. He was ancient and feebleminded, and could no longer command his own people, let alone attempt to rule all the lands. His youngest son, Cornwall, was barely fifteen and still untested in the arena or on the battlefield. The people didn’t know him and would never follow him. But then there was Malcolm, Egrid’s eldest son, and Griffin’s biggest rival in the last tournament. He had been tested, in battle—on foreign soil and in the arena. He was accustomed to victory. The sole exception being when he went against Griffin.
“By he you speak of Malcolm,” Griffin said to the king.
“You are exceedingly bright, Sir Griffin.” King Umbert raised his glass and finally sipped. Griffin gulped his down, hoping it would help calm his nerves, but instead he felt his heart pounding harder against his chest.
The king wiped his dripping chin with his sleeve. “Yes. Even with his sister Esmera marrying Jori, I worry Malcolm won’t be satisfied with a knighthood. And then there’s the rest of Egrid’s children to deal with. . . .”
“Her sister, Lady Sybil, is warmhearted enough. I suspect she will come along with her sister and live here in the castle?” Griffin refilled his glass.
“Mmm,” the king grunted. “She might even make a good wife for you.”
Griffin choked on his wine, spitting it out all over the floor.
The king’s laugh filled the room. He patted Griffin on the shoulder. “Marriage isn’t that bad, Sir Griffin. And to marry into the royal family . . .”
“I’m flattered, sire. Truly.” His words placated the king, but not Griffin’s tense stomach. The last thing he ever wanted to be was married. “There is also the younger brother, Cornwall,” he said, deftly changing the subject. “He won the melee last year.”
“He did. But he’s an imbecile.”
“What exactly would you like me to do, sire? Something specific or—”
“Informants tell me that northern assassins have entered the city. Malcolm plans to kill me and make a play for the throne.”
Griffin remembered how he’d come to be regarded by the king. He had saved Jori’s life from such an assassin. He swallowed, but anger left a bitter taste that lingered. This past year the king and Jori had become like family to him. “Shouldn’t Sir Raleigh be here, sire?”