I jerk my head around, sure I misheard him among the cacophony from the crowd. “Thewhat?”
“You remember. Worwick had one, too. Maybe it’s the same one, since Worwick’s escaped during—”
I grab his arm. “You havescravershere?”
He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Well—just the one. We get a lot of men who like to try their luck with it in the arena. It’s good silver if you can last. But I told Talan they’ve got to be sober. We had a man nearly get torn apart last spring.” He shudders. “We keep it on a chain now—”
“You keep him on achain?” I feel like we must be talking about two different things … but then I remember how I first met Iisak. Worwick kept him in a cage. Iisak never spoke, never gave any indication he could understand a word that was said to him. He was vicious with his claws, too, if anyone got too close. It wasn’t until later, once he escaped, that he befriended me and Grey and became somewhat trusting of humans. I remember the night we were all hiding in the woods, desperate and starving and exhausted, how Iisak brought us food and, later, how he taught the king to find his magic.
A cheer goes up in the crowd, and hooves thunder into the arena. The festivities must be starting. “I need to get into the stands,” Journ says.
I follow him. “Can I see him?”
“Who?”
“The scraver.”
Journ offers me a smile as we climb the steps. “Care to give it a try? Scratch up that pretty armor?”
He thinks I mean in the arena. I inhale to tell himno, that no scraver should be kept on a chain or in a cage, that they’re magical and wise, not terrifying and ignorant.
But I’m thinking of Iisak, as ifheis the scraver who could be at theend of that chain. As if I’d walk up to his cage, he’d say, “Ah! Well met, young Tycho,” and I’d turn him free.
A man nearly got torn apart last spring.
This can’t be Iisak. This can’t be my friend.
But I remember the night Iisak died, and I know of one other scraver who was in Emberfall—one who definitely wasn’t anyone’s friend.
I fish in my purse for silver. “How much?”
Journ loses the smile. “Tycho—it’s a monster. I’ve seen it slice through armor—”
“Howmuch?”
“Five silvers,” he says. “Odds are four to one if you can last five minutes.” He pauses. “Twenty to one if you can last ten.”
“How many people last ten?”
He laughs, but it’s a little strained. “No one yet.”
I nod. “Put me on the list.”
CHAPTER 13
TYCHO
When I first learned to fight, my early lessons were always about making a decision instantly and carrying it out. No hesitation. Taking any opportunity available. I spent hours in Worwick’s dusty arena learning footwork, memorizing all the different paths a blade could travel. Learning how to parry, how to dodge, how to attack. How to defend myself—and, ultimately, how to kill. I was young, and small for my age, but I was quick. Grey taught me how to use that. “When you’re afraid, thinking takes longer,” he said. “You have to teach your body to act without thought.”
Now I’m waiting at the edge of this arena, glad for my years of training, because my thoughts are spinning. I’ve had to sit through hours of mounted games and sword fights, and nervous energy has my hand twitching toward my weapons.
Journ put me up first, which I suspect was done as a favor to me. But it also means I haven’t yet seen the scraver, so I’m not sure what I’m up against. It’s been four years since I last saw one, when Iisak’s sonhad taken an arrow through his wing. When I tried to help Nakiis, his claws sliced right through the buckles on my bracer.
The crowd is impatient, feet stomping on the wooden floorboards. Metal bars are being erected and chained together to form a massive cage, the first part of this that’s given me pause.
“Does the scraver try to escape?” I say to the steward at my back.
“Nah,” he says, his voice bored. “That thing’s on a chain. It’s mostly the men who try to run.” He coughs and hitches his pants up as he nods at the bars. “Those keep it out of the crowd.”
