“Nah. He’s gone soft. He’s no longer fit to oversee my armies. He’s right where he belongs, collecting taxes in the Hinterlands. And if I’m being honest, I’m not sure he ever forgave me for choosing you as champion last year.” King Umbert plopped a finger into his glass, then lifted it to his mouth.
A life on the roads through the Hinterlands, collecting taxes, sounded a fate much worse than death in the arena. Raleigh had taught him everything he knew about fighting, about draignochs. Hearing the king toss him aside, and for Griffin, left his stomach riddled with guilt. “Yes, sire.”
“This bothers you.”
“No,” Griffin lied, for it would’ve been seen as a weakness. “It’s only that it’s my first time defending my title. It feels very different than going into it with fresh eyes.” It felt strange speaking to the king as if he were Jori or Sir Raleigh. They were the only two he trusted in the palace with conversations that left him feeling vulnerable.
King Umbert nodded. “It is different now. You have to want it more. Sir Griffin, there’s always someone coming for your title. It’s a lot like being king. When you rule, there is always someone who wants your crown, who believes they can do it better.”
“What can I do for you, sire? With regards to the Northmen?”
He patted Griffin’s sore shoulder, leaving his heavy hand. “Keep sharp eyes and keen ears. You see or hear anything from any of them that hints of betrayal, I want to know.”
“Yes, sire.”
King Umbert released him and picked up his glass. “You must win this tournament, Sir Griffin. There is no room for error. Malcolm cannot be seen as superior to you at anything. Understand?”
Griffin nodded as the king repeated what he had already figured out. “Yes, sire. I understand.”
“Do you?” He slammed his chalice on the table, spilling his wine on a white linen napkin, turning it bloodred. He nodded to Capp, who hustled from the shadows, pouring another glass. Griffin was startled; he had nearly forgotten Capp, Halig, and Bradyn were still in the room.
“Are you loyal to me, Sir Griffin?”
“Of course, sire. Have I given you reason to doubt me?”
“No. And I don’t want there ever to be reason, so I ask . . .” King Umbert’s stare on Griffin narrowed. “Swear it. An oath of loyalty to me on your life.”
Griffin’s heart fell into his boots. King Umbert had done so much for him. He had no reason to fear an oath. He took as much when they knighted him, but somehow this felt different. Weightier. More than he was ready for, and yet he gave the king what he wanted. “I swear it on my life.” As the promise came out of his mouth, he had the nagging feeling that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
“Good.” King Umbert gave him a small relieved smile. “Good. That is good.”
The guards at the entrance stomped their feet, announcing Laird Egrid and his family’s arrival. Bradyn helped Egrid, who crutched into the room ahead of the others. His thighbones had been broken fighting the draignochs when they stampeded through the North. Never set properly, his legs were permanently crooked. His gray hair was smoothed with so much rosemary oil he smelled like a roasting chicken. His bones were so thin and frail, his brown tunic and trousers hung much too loosely. Death loomed, likely only a long winter away.
Malcolm was behind his father. A little older and thicker than Griffin, he wore all black, setting off his ginger hair, with a green-and-blue tartan sash—the colors of the North.
The king bid a welcome to Laird Egrid.
Griffin extended a hand to Malcolm. “Welcome back to the Walled City.”
Malcolm arched a brow at him but shook it. “Where is the little prince?”
“Prince Jori is in the Hinterlands with Sir Raleigh,” Griffin said.
Lady Esmera made a grand entrance, dropping into a deep curtsy in front of the king. “Your Majesty.”
Her long blonde hair was curled into ringlets. She wore a crown of white lace and purple gems, as if she were already queen.
“Seems ill-mannered for Prince Jori not to be here to receive me,” Esmera commented to Laird Egrid.
“Sir Griffin is here to greet us,” Lady Sybil said as she entered the room wearing a warm smile. She too curtsied for the king, then held her hand out for Griffin to kiss, which he did. A quick peck, hoping it was neither too long nor too short.
“He’s a poor substitute,” Esmera sniffed.
King Umbert sat down in his seat, indicating the rest to join him. Griffin held out a seat across from his for Sybil. She graciously took it. Capp motioned for Esmera to sit beside Griffin, but she yanked out the chair next to Sybil and glided into it. Griffin took it as a sign that luck was in his favor tonight. He smiled, knowing she would be forced to gaze upon his scarred face the entire meal.
Esmera and Sybil couldn’t be more opposite. Esmera’s hands were delicately folded in her lap. Her back was stick straight. Her blonde hair neatly swept over her shoulder. She was the picture of poise.
Sybil wore purple, like her sister, but without ornamentation. Her red hair hung in a loose, haphazard braid that looked like it had been threaded on the way to dinner. Her hands fisted on the table beside her plate as if she was ready to fight her food—or perhaps fight for it.
Her hazel eyes lingered on Griffin’s face longer than necessary, making Griffin wonder if his lip was stained red from the wine. He didn’t dare lick it off if that was the case, did he? It would be lewd, wouldn’t it? This was going to be a very long night. Griffin wiped his mouth with his napkin—just in case.
Sybil gave a tired sigh, raising her glass to her lips. “It is good to see you, Sir Griffin.”
“You as well, Lady Sybil. You must be weary from your long journey.”
“Starved, actually. I suppose we have to wait for the king?” She glanced down at Umbert and her father, who were in an animated but seemingly humorous conversation, as they were both smiling and laughing.
“Get out of my way!” Cornwall tried to enter but the guards stopped him at the door. The fool was armed with two swords.
“Weapons are not allowed in the king’s chambers,” a guard said. “You’ll have to return them to your chambers.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” He tried to push his way in, but the guards tossed him back.
“Cornwall, give the men your sword belt now!” Egrid snapped.
Cornwall’s mop of brown hair bounced with every curse word he threw at the guards as he removed his belt. He passed it off. “My sword had better be in my room when I return or—”
“Or what?” King Umbert growled.
“Cornwall, enough. Get in here and apologize,” Egrid snapped.
Cornwall grumbled until he stopped beside the king. “Apologize? For what? The king’s guards accosted me.” In a polished brown leather tunic, draped with a green-and-blue tartan sash like his brother’s, he stood with his hands behind his back, showing off his indignation. No bow, not even a head nod, a slight Griffin saw register on the king’s face.
“For being an idiot, and bringing weapons into the king’s private chambers,” Laird Egrid explained as if he were speaking to a toddler.
“He can apologize for bringing a weapon, Egrid, but we would be remiss in asking him to apologize for who he is by nature.” King Umbert chortled.