The Color of Dragons

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I am, Sir Griffin.” Sybil jabbed, forcing him back. Then thrust.

  He blocked and locked their swords. With a hard spin, he whipped it out of her hand.

  Sybil clapped. “Even one-handed, you’re still a champion.”

  “Maggie, want a go? Or are you too fragile now that you’ve been made over as a lady?” Griffin teased. He kicked a weapon in her direction.

  She picked it up. “I’ve never been fragile, Sir Griffin.” Maggie swung, twirling her weapon as if it were part of her hand. “I’ve not played with wooden sticks in a long time, I think.”

  “I’ll go easy on you.” Griffin smiled.

  He attacked. She blocked without hesitation. As he’d suspected, she knew exactly how to handle the sword. He advanced and attacked again. She ducked, and before he knew what was happening a sharp pain spread like fire in his injured hand. He clutched it to his chest.

  “That was for last night,” Maggie hissed.

  “My turn,” Sybil said, attacking.

  When he’d disarmed her and looked back, Maggie was taking on Silas and Oak. Two at once, and she was winning—albeit with a few dirty tricks. She kicked as much as thrust, landing blows on Oak’s shins and Silas’s privates, leaving him bent over.

  She caught Griffin staring and shrugged.

  Griffin laughed. She was funny, if not a little scary. Her eyes darkened to an inky blue color, and she smiled. It was the second time he’d seen that smile. First in the tunnel, laughing at his clumsiness, and now when she was being admired for her ingenuity. His pulse raced at the sight of it. That smile was her most dangerous weapon.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Griffin asked.

  Maggie’s brow creased. “Out of necessity.” She padded over and spoke in hushed tones. “Will you really help me?”

  The question caught Griffin completely off guard. “Help you what?”

  “See the new draignoch. She came in from the Hinterlands.”

  “She? Draignochs are neither male nor female. They’re eggs born fertile.”

  “Oh, but this one is certainly female. I need to see her.”

  Griffin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She wanted to visit the Oughtnoch? He did too, of course, but for entirely different reasons. “They’re not beautiful, Maggie. They’re dangerous. Just look at the scars on my face. Damage done by their fangs and claws, and I’ve been trained to kill them.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Jori called.

  “Sir Griffin was saying he thought Xavier’s magic truly false. It seems he still doesn’t believe,” Maggie lied. She smirked and whacked Griffin’s chest with her wooden sword, harder than necessary.

  “More likely attempting to argue back his dagger, which is now mine.” Jori rested his hand on the pommel at his waist. “Xavier is a real sorcerer, Griffin. He is the one and only Ambrosius,” he exclaimed loudly, as if he were preaching to the whole practice field. “But now, I’m bored. A new contest. The Northman against Sir Griffin and me.” He jostled his wooden sword back and forth. “For all the bragging rights.”

  Griffin raised his wooden sword at Malcolm, leaving Cornwall to Jori. Maggie and Sybil walked to the end of the field, and the others circled, all wanting to see the two kingdoms go at it.

  Griffin attacked first. Malcolm deflected and thrust. Griffin sidestepped, blocking, and swept his leg, knocking Malcolm off his feet.

  Griffin reached to help him up. Malcolm latched on, laughing, and yanked, flipping Griffin over him. The two scrambled to their feet, ready for more.

  Jori and Cornwall danced through them, parrying across as if neither had the courage to overtake the other—until the end of the green—at the edge, where the Top fell down to the Middle.

  A fence protected any from falling, except in a spot where a board had loosened during practice the day before. Griffin knew it because he was there when the horse reared, striking it. But Jori didn’t know, and neither did Cornwall.

  Cornwall pushed on, and on. Jori grabbed the loose board, his eyes widening as it fell out from beneath him, taking his balance with it. Jori’s heel slid, and Cornwall lunged.

  His heart pounding, Griffin barreled into Cornwall, sending him careening into the grass, while grabbing Jori’s flailing arm. Palm to wrist, Griffin pulled him to steady feet.

  “I’ve got you,” Griffin said.

  He never saw Malcolm coming.

  Malcolm shouldered Griffin, crushing his injured hand. White-hot pain spread through his palm. He knew instantly the center bone had snapped. He fell on top of Cornwall, shoving his hand underneath his arm to protect any further damage. But it was too late. His hand was broken. With only a few days before he would have to fight another draignoch, his hand would never be healed.

  Griffin rolled off Cornwall to laughing applause, Malcolm’s chortle the loudest.

  “Brother, whose side are you on?” Cornwall steamed. He got up and stormed off like the spoiled child he was.

  As he padded with Jori back to Maggie and Sybil, Griffin did his best to hide the pain. Never let them see you hurt. Raleigh had told him that the first time he laid him flat on this very field. And it was true.

  But by the looks in the women’s eyes, they saw right through it.

  “Do you want to see the physician?” Sybil asked.

  “It’s nothing.” Griffin shifted his hands behind his back.

  Maggie leaned over to get a better look, but he pivoted. He felt it swelling. He wasn’t sure it would fit in his gauntlet.

  Raleigh came up behind him. “Malcolm and Cornwall did that on purpose. You played right into their game.”

  “No. All in good fun. I’ll be fine,” Griffin said, bristling. But the old man was right. For the first time in his life he thought his next draignoch fight could be his last. Nerves choked Griffin.

  “You should make them pay now, while you have the chance,” Raleigh argued.

  Griffin couldn’t take the chance on damaging his hand more. He shook his head and looked away.

  A soldier jogged down the hill, calling, “Prince Jori! Your father needs you in council.”

  “Duty calls. Let’s all head back together,” Jori said, and started walking.

  “I’m going to stay. Work on my throws for tomorrow.” Malcolm pulled a knife from the scabbard on his belt.

  Jori arched an offended brow at him, then let it fall. “After losing to Griffin with spears, extra time on the practice green would be a suitable afternoon pursuit.”

  Barely drawing back, Malcolm threw the dagger at the target, striking dead center in the bull’s-eye. “I just like to throw knives.”

  “I’ll stay too,” Maggie added.

  “No. You’ll return to the castle, Maggie.” Raleigh stepped toward her.

  “I can escort her back,” Griffin volunteered, surprising himself.

  Jori shook his head. “I promised her father to see her safely back, and that I must do.” He extended an elbow to Maggie.

  She didn’t take it. “Don’t you trust him?” she asked Jori, nodding to Griffin.

  “Of course.” Jori didn’t look happy, with good reason. A prince had offered his arm, and she’d dismissed it like it was nothing. Jori and rejection had never before met. He was lost at what to do. Griffin pressed his lips together, painfully so, to keep from laughing. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to go back on my word to Xavier,” he added.

  Jori’s eyes crinkled the way they always did when he was lying. He wanted Maggie to leave with him no matter the circumstances of how it happened. The chase for him was a game he wanted to win.

  As Griffin turned to go, he saw Maggie’s expression dip into a deep frown. Her eyes fell on Raleigh, then the prince. She didn’t like being watched every second, and she wanted to see the draignoch. He wanted to see it too.

  Griffin hesitated at the stupidity of what he was about to do. But the truth was, even if he told her where the draignochs were kept, she would never be able to
get there. Not without his help.

  “Wait, Maggie,” Griffin blurted. “Can you please take a look at my hand?”

  Jori looked put out. “We have a physician for that, Griffin.”

  “A quick glance . . . ,” Maggie said to him, but didn’t wait for permission.

  Griffin put his back to the others, and slowly, carefully, pulled back a corner of the bandage. Maggie padded around him.

  “Can’t see much of anything unless you take that off.” Maggie fingered the wrap.

  “Just pretend to look.” Griffin faked a wince at Jori. “You really want to go to the keep?”

  Maggie scrutinized his fingers, nodding.

  “Midnight. I’ll get you from your room.”

  “But Raleigh—”

  “I know.” He watched, but Griffin had a way around that. He tucked the bandage. He held his hand up. “Better already.”

  Sybil hooked Maggie’s arm with one hand, and Jori’s with her other. “I do love walking in parties of three.”

  Griffin stared at where Maggie had stood long after she had gone. Getting her out of the castle was going to be difficult. Getting her into the Oughtnoch impossible. But he too wanted to see this new draignoch, because if she—as Maggie called the beast—could take down twenty men, then Griffin might as well slather himself in butter and lie down in the middle of the arena. He hoped he’d make a tasty meal.

  Nine

  Maggie

  Late afternoon dullness swept the castle. A time between festivities. Xavier drank too much in the morning, so it wasn’t surprising he didn’t go to lunch, and I didn’t go to dinner. It was strange, not seeing him for a full day. That hadn’t ever happened that I could remember.

  I had been too nervous to leave my room. If I’d seen Sir Griffin, I would not have been able to keep myself from asking him how he planned to get me out. And then we would likely have gotten caught by the prince.

  When I told Sir Raleigh I wanted to eat in my chamber, that I worried the prince would be hounded by Lady Esmera if I sat with them at dinner, that I wanted to save the kind prince from torment, he smiled with something like relief. Like I was making his life easier and he appreciated it.

  Petal brought me a tray of mouton and bread. She set it before the fire and left me to eat alone. Afterward, it was hard to keep my eyes open. The fire smoldered, casting a hazy warmth. The chair was so soft, I sank into the cushions.

  A stiff, annoying finger poked my shoulder. Then a strong hand shook it. Dreaming the rabbit had gotten out of its cage, I reached to swat it, too late waking to the reality that rabbits didn’t have hands. My slap was met with an unbunnylike hiss. When I opened my eyes, Griffin was bent over, his hand under his other arm, writhing in silent pain.

  I jumped out of the chair. “Oh, I’m—”

  He slapped a hand over my mouth and nodded to a sleeping form on a mat on the floor beside the changing screen.

  Petal. Curled into a ball with her back to us. I vaguely remembered her coming in to take the tray of food, but it seemed she never left. Raleigh had her sleeping in my room. What exactly did the man think I was going to steal? A linen towel? A silver mirror? That torturous comb?

  Griffin’s hand lingered over my mouth longer than necessary. I nearly bit him in protest. He lifted it off a finger at a time, as if he didn’t trust me to stay quiet. But I knew what was at stake.

  He lowered his arm, his good hand then taking hold of mine, leading me toward the small space between the wall and the bed. Then he let go and fell on all fours, then to flat on the ground. Barefoot, he inched forward, slipping underneath the bed.

  I did the same, seeing him disappear through a hole in the wall.

  A secret exit. This was too good to be true. On the other side was a small tunnel. A lantern flickered at Griffin’s feet. The space was only tall enough to sit. He reached around me and, very slowly to remain quiet, moved a piece of stone over the hole.

  “Do these passages run all over the castle?” I asked in a whisper.

  Griffin sat back on his heels, squinting at thin charcoal lines crisscrossing his hand.

  “Is that a map?”

  He raised a reproachful finger to his lips, then slipped on a pair of black boots he must’ve left to enter my room so silently. He waved, beckoning me to follow.

  Stopping twice to refer to the map, a few minutes later, Griffin pushed open a grate barely big enough for his square shoulders to fit through. The exit left us in a dead-end hallway.

  Griffin picked something up from the corner, hurling it to me. A long black cloak.

  “Put it on. Pull up the hood. Cover your face,” he whispered.

  It was much too long for me. Anyone with a good eye would know it wasn’t mine, but I did as he asked. “I won’t let you get in trouble. If I’m recognized, run.”

  “As if the guards wouldn’t recognize me?” He tucked my hair and assessed my appearance. “It’ll do.”

  “I need to see the draignoch.”

  “You mentioned that. And so, I’m taking you.” Griffin’s fingers slipped through mine, sending an unexpected jolt through me. I told myself it was the thrill of the adventure rather than his hand itself causing my heart to skip a beat. I hated Sir Griffin, didn’t I?

  “Keep your head down and don’t let go,” he added.

  With my eyes on the ground, all I saw were stone floors and steps until we reached fresh air. The moon shone, drawing a line through the courtyard and out the gates.

  “Where you going, Sir Griffin?” a guard called in a haughty voice.

  “Wherever this lass leads, sir. She is most insistent that I follow her.”

  Ah, so this was my way out. I was to be one of the women pining for a kiss from the big, brave champion. I thought of the women I’d seen in the Great Hall. Giggling fools who wielded shy glimpses like pitchforks. I laughed, but it came out more of a chortle. Griffin crushed two of my fingers together. His way of telling me to quiet, but it hurt. I fought the urge to kick him.

  “Is that the redhead?” one of them called.

  “Good night,” Griffin yelled back, tossing them coins. They slid the bar, unlocking the gate, and pulled it ajar enough for us to get out.

  As soon as the metal clanked behind us, I breathed a heavy sigh. Being champion had its privileges, it seemed.

  We walked swiftly through empty streets with little light, other than the moon. I took stock, bathing in its cool glow, and in the freedom from Raleigh and his goons.

  The feeling of victory didn’t last. The draignoch’s whimper traveled through the night to brush my ear, raising the hair on the back of my neck.

  It was several long minutes before I realized Griffin’s hand was still tightly clasped on mine.

  “Oh, sorry.” He let go. His narrowed gaze shifted from dwelling to alley and back again.

  He kept his injured hand tucked against his chest, his other hand on the pommel of his sword, the way Raleigh always did. I didn’t get the feeling he was afraid of imminent attack but rather that he walked through life every day prepared for it. In that, I thought, we were alike.

  The view was spectacular. The skies clear. Stars brilliant. The city lay out before us, in a descending display of tightly connected rooftops and thinning roads, but it all ended at the wall. Nothing beyond was visible. It was too high. A visual testament that freedom in the Walled City had its limits.

  Griffin kept a quick pace. It was difficult to keep up with him without jogging. His legs were twice as long as mine. We passed several bigger estates, careened around a bend, then continued along another path, all the while heading downhill.

  Around the next corner, I smelled horses. Padding down stone steps built into the hillside, we came to a paddock. A boy held on to the leads of two saddled horses.

  “Nicely done.” Griffin waved his hand with the map on it at him, smiling.

  “Impressed you could follow it,” the boy whispered, smirking.

  Griffin mounted.


  The boy offered a leg up to me, and I took it.

  He looked up at Griffin. “Leave the saddles on the wooden horses. That’s where I found them.”

  “Good man, Bradyn. Now go home quickly. Don’t let anyone see you,” Griffin told him. “After what happened today with Halig and Capp, I couldn’t live with getting you in trouble with the guards.”

  “You’re the boy who was on the dais? Is that right?” I asked.

  Bradyn nodded solemnly.

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Bradyn.”

  He smiled half-heartedly. “Nice of you to say, my lady.”

  Griffin waited until the boy was out of sight to start moving.

  “How long will it take to get there?” I asked.

  “We will have to move slowly, so as not to raise suspicion. Could be as long as an hour. Maybe more. The Oughtnoch’s entrance is all the way in the Bottom.”

  That sounded far. “Can’t we walk through the arena somehow?”

  “No. Arena’s locked and heavily guarded. The gate to the chute that leads to the creature’s pound is bolted from within.” He brought his horse closer to mine. “We should ride side by side. And if we happen upon the guard patrols, smile. Act like you belong. And it wouldn’t hurt if you could try and pretend as if you like me.” He swallowed that last sentence.

  I grinned and batted my eyes. “Like this?”

  He laughed. “Maybe not quite that hard.” He kicked his horse.

  I followed suit, getting mine moving. “It shouldn’t be too hard to pretend. I do like you. I think.”

  He laughed again.

  I suppose it was a funny thing to say. “But I guess it depends which is the real you. The person who sent that boy, Bradyn, out of the arena to keep him from watching his cousins torn to shreds, the one I sparred with on the practice field today, or the bastard from last night?”

  “I’m sorry. I was extreme. But if it makes you feel better, your stellar performance cost me a Phantombronze dagger.”

  My jaw dropped. “Phantombronze?”

  “A gift from the king. I bet the prince that Xavier’s magic wasn’t real. All the sorcerers that he’s brought to the castle to perform have been pathetic tricksters. Obvious in their lack of any real magic. Not that I believe what Xavier did was magic either, but when I couldn’t explain the illusory cheetah, I was forced to relinquish the knife.” He grinned at me. “Want to tell me how he did that so I can get it back from Jori? I am doing you a very big favor right now.”