The Color of Dragons

by R. A. Salvatore

  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.

  Esmera laughed at Maggie. “Most people don’t go to the privy and come back looking like they were chased by wild boars. Did you fall in?”

  Sybil stifled a laugh, but then sobered when she saw Maggie’s hands covered in blood. “Are you hurt?”

  “Maggie! What happened?” Jori, who had been in deep conversation with Esmera, turned so fast he knocked over a full water pitcher on the small, intricately carved table between them. The water cascaded into Esmera’s lap. She hopped up, screeching.

  “Jori!”

  He ignored her. Servants rushed over to help.

  “Did you cut yourself?” Jori flipped Maggie’s hands over and back again, not finding the source.

  “I’m fine. I slipped in the mud is all.”

  “What’s this?” Xavier roared. He set his staff down, vacating his seat beside the king to check on his supposed daughter. His face was stained pink on the cheekbones and eyelids; the bones in his hair clapped like wind chimes in a storm as he rushed to see what the fuss with Maggie was about. His face fell at first, then transformed into a beaming smile at the sight of Jori holding Maggie’s hands.

  Maggie took her hands back. “It’s not my blood.”

  A crease formed between Jori’s brow. “Whose is it?”

  Maggie rolled her eyes at him. “I’m sure Sir Raleigh will fill you in.”

  Jori’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Maggie, the protection is for your own good. The Walled City can be dangerous.”

  “You’ve mentioned that, and yet the only danger I’ve seen so far has been from your soldiers, guards, and your . . . competitors in this disgusting arena,” Maggie snapped, catching the attention of the king.

  Jori shrank from her.

  Griffin bit his lip to keep from laughing as Maggie’s honesty drove Jori all the way to the chair beside Esmera. His betrothed whispered something in his ear that eased the ticking muscle along the prince’s jawline.

  Malcolm and Cornwall came through the door. Esmera and Sybil took turns hugging Cornwall, congratulating him while Malcolm went to attend his father.

  Griffin had procrastinated as long as he could. Maggie gave him a worried glance as he walked by on his way to the king.

  “You wish to see me, sire?” Griffin bowed.

  King Umbert drank from his tankard and belched. A sound that echoed, drawing attention to Griffin’s humiliation. The crowd’s mumblings dissolved, all wanting to hear what was being said.

  “That’s what I thought of that performance, Sir Griffin.”

  “Pathetic sight, if you ask me.” Laird Egrid slurped his cup. His cracked tongue lapped wine dribbling down the fur collar on his cloak.

  “It was an accident,” Prince Jori offered, coming to stand behind his father.

  “It was no accident,” Malcolm interjected.

  “Any fool could see the shaft was cracked on purpose,” Cornwall added, surprising Griffin.

  “And this fool should’ve seen it too!” the king bellowed. “I give you a chance for redemption and you throw it in my face. Who do you think you are, Griffin of Nowhere?”

  Mumbling gossip spread like wildfire through the stands.

  “I’m sorry, sire” was all Griffin could think to say.

  “You are sorry. You sit in for Prince Jori one time, and suddenly you’re as incompetent as he is.”

  “Father!” Jori exclaimed.

  “Shut up!” he yelled at the prince, then returned to spitting all over Griffin. “You have a single task, and from what I’ve seen, you’re going to fail!” King Umbert smacked the high table next to Griffin, sending a dirty plate toppling to the ground. Pheasant carcass flew in all directions.

  Servants rushed to help. Maggie too.

  “No!” the king snarled at them, his fists and belly shaking with anger.

  Lady Sybil took Maggie’s hand, pulling her aside.

  King Umbert snatched another bird leg from Xavier’s plate. He ate the meat off in three bites and threw the bone at Griffin’s bowed head. “Griffin will pick it up. All of it. He’ll need another job when he loses his title. A Bottom feeder who will return to the Bottom, and to cleaning the ducts.”

  Griffin could never forget those days—sitting in the refuse up to his eyeballs with a rake and scrub brush, breaking up clogs, which happened on a daily basis. Griffin had spent his first year in the ducts. Came down with fever three times. His stomach soured at the memory. He would rather die in the arena than ever step foot inside those ducts again.

  King Umbert rose out of his chair, signaling the marshal that it was time for the main event.

  Maggie remained a worried fixture in his sight all the while he cleaned. By the time he finished and could move away from the king, Xavier had Maggie sitting by his side. She tried to rise, but he pinned her in place with a glare.

  As Duncan announced Silas’s match, Griffin thought of how he may have misjudged him this past year. The two hardly spoke when they saw one another in the palace for meals or on the practice greens. Griffin saw him as Zac’s older, arrogant brother. Where Zac was warm and gracious, Silas was cold and brooding. Griffin believed Silas proud, a true Topper, the first son of a rich honored chieftain, but for all Jori’s claims of friendship to Griffin, he wasn’t the one in the tunnel putting pressure on the boy’s wound, and he could have been.

  Jori would’ve seen Griffin bring the
boy up the lift. He would have known Griffin needed an ally. Even if there was no way to save the boy, a true friend would have been there to meet him. He glanced at the prince, who stood behind Esmera with a hand on her shoulder and eyes on Maggie. The prince only cared about one thing: himself.

  Silas carried a spear with him as he took a knee before the king. His helmet had a face mask with thinly shaved eyes, and a long hooked nose that came to a sharp point. Seemed rather comical, and completely useless, but perhaps it would ward off a draignoch like it would the plague.

  “Does he intend to peck the draignoch to death?” Cornwall asked, laughing.

  “He wants to give the audience a good show,” Griffin answered, then padded to the other end of the balcony, as far away from the king as possible.

  On the other side of the balcony, King Umbert raised a fist to Silas. He bellowed to the stands, “This man deserves your utmost respect! The eldest son of Sir Ragnas.”

  Griffin felt Maggie’s gaze on him. Her expression was understanding; his fear of losing the king’s favor was happening right before her eyes.

  Griffin looked beyond the dais. Silas’s family, his younger brother, Zac, along with their esteemed father, Ragnas, and mother, Aofrea, claimed the most prestigious seats beside the king’s balcony. Ragnas was fit for an old man. His long gray hair was braided at the temples, the rest smoothed and tied off at the base of his neck. He wore a red tunic with gold stitching, a nod to Umbert, but a reminder of his own wealth.

  Aofrea’s hair was still fair. She wore sapphire combs in the sides of her hair. The lines on her face were the only clues to her age. Her dress was also red. Zac too had dressed up for his brother’s match. His red tunic was even branded with a U to show his loyalty, and destiny. He was to join the king’s armies in the Hinterlands come spring for his first tour of duty.

  The king lifted his glass, toasting the match and the former laird of the East. “A noble by birth. A former soldier in my armies. A guard on your watches, and a true and valiant knight.”

  The entire Top row rang bells and stamped feet, chanting, “Silas. Silas. Silas.” The Middlers joined in too, but for the Bottom’s attendants, the wind shifted. Unlike in the past, when they would follow the others’ leads, they stayed quiet, showing their disapproval. For all the harm Griffin had inflicted on one of his own, the Bottom was still with him. He choked on gratitude.

  Griffin stepped forward, lifted his arm, placing it on his chest, his fist over his heart, and bowed to them.

  “Careful,” Jori said to him.

  Griffin set a hand on his shoulder, showing his loyalty for the prince. “That’s exactly what I’m being, sire.”

  Mostly drizzle and mist now, the ground looked like a pigsty. Silas stomped in a circle, his boots leaving a trail of punctures. He had strapped cleats to the soles. The throngs cheered their approval.

  Malcolm came to stand with Griffin and Jori. His red hair was so wet from the rain it looked brown. He crossed his arms, leaning on the balcony railing, closely watching the gate. “Think it’s the new one he’ll face?” he asked Griffin.

  “Don’t know.” Griffin looked at Maggie, who was also fixated on the gate.

  It finally rolled up.

  Griffin was relieved for Maggie, for it most definitely wasn’t Rendicryss, although he wasn’t sure Silas would fare much better with this bastard.

  The purple draignoch had nearly taken Griffin’s head off last year. The creature still bore the scars from the match on its abdomen and was missing the top of its wing.

  Taller than most, and fiercely fast, it sprinted from the keep, snarling and frothing, and was on Silas in seconds.

  Silas spun but wasn’t fast enough to get out from underneath its lowering jaw. A fang cut across the top of his helmet, then stabbed, ripping it off, taking it with it as it circled the arena, stretching as far as the massive leg irons would allow, banging into the walls, shaking the stands. The audience enjoyed the show the beast was putting on for them. Squealing with delight as it passed, jumping startled with every jolt it gave.

  Unlike Griffin, they hadn’t yet seen the blood dripping down the side of Silas’s face. He shuddered. The pain from the venom left behind was likely driving Silas mad.

  The knight stumbled.

  The crowd gasped in unison.

  The draignoch sprinted toward Silas. He yanked out a white cloth from inside his tunic, pressed it over the tip of the spear, and threw it. The draignoch’s attention followed the white flag, as it always did.

  “See that?” Cornwall said to Malcolm. “That’s what I was telling you about. They’re attracted to white.”

  Silas pulled his sword and staggered after the monster, trying to sneak up on it from its hindquarters. The draignoch’s tail swung, hitting Silas in the chest, knocking him off his feet. He landed hard on his back. His sword flew across the arena, far out of reach.

  The bottom fell out of Griffin’s stomach. He gripped the banister with both hands.

  “You planning on leaping down there to help him?” Jori asked. His subsequent laughter stung.

  Before Silas could get up, the draignoch pivoted. Its claws stabbed the U in the center of Silas’s chest plate. The crack of punctured metal echoing in the stunned silence was broken by Aofrea’s screams.

  Griffin’s breath caught. Cornwall backed away in shock. Malcolm let out a long deep sigh, knowing as Griffin did that this match was long since over.

  Griffin cast a wary eye on Silas’s family. Ragnas wrestled with Zac, likely trying to keep him from running down into the ring. Silas’s mother bent over, reaching for her son, screaming his name.

  Maggie wrestled away from Xavier. She stormed at the prince. “Why doesn’t the king stop this?”

  “Maggie, deaths are upsetting,” Jori said with a placating tone, “but you don’t understand—”

  “Oh, I understand all right.” She glared at the king, then hurried to the railing in time to see the draignoch pull its claws out and stab again.

  “Griffin . . . ,” Maggie gasped. She was shaking with distress, with ire.

  He laid a hand on hers on the banister. “Do you still believe they’re not dangerous?”

  She tore her hand away from him. “I understand. They killed many.” Her jaw set defiantly. “But the draignoch didn’t ask to be tossed into the arena. You can’t blame it for defending itself.”

  As a knight, he too had been thrown into the ring for price and sport. “No. I suppose I can’t.”

  Their eyes met as she looked away from the horror.

  Boos. Hisses. Cursing. All manner of hate poured down on Silas as he took his last breath. The Bottom, out of loyalty to Griffin, was the loudest. They started chanting his name—“Griffin! Griffin!”—over and over.

  They wanted him to exact revenge. Against the draignoch, against the king, against every aspect of the wretched lives that had been forced upon them. They needed him to.

  Maggie stepped away from the rail. His heart sank, worrying she didn’t want to be seen with him. That her kiss meant nothing. That it was simply a kind gesture. Compassion. But that she preferred the company of the prince. Less scarred by life, coffers filled with riches he hung around her neck. It was an obvious choice. But then, he knew Maggie well enough to know she was a great many things, but obvious was not one of them.

  King Umbert sucked air through his teeth so loudly Griffin could hear it. He stood up and threw his glass of wine into the ring.

  “Worthless. Leave his body. Let the beast feast on it,” the king shouted.

  “What?” Griffin blurted. “Sire, Silas is from a noble family!”

  “He has dishonored that family in defeat!” the king bellowed. “Now he will pay the price.”

  “No!” Ragnas called.

  “It is for your sake that I command this, Ragnas, so that your family may be free of this stain! As I say, so shall it be!”

  Jori looked as if he’d eaten something sour.

  Malcolm
hissed a dark laugh. “You expected less?”

  Silas’s family rushed for the exit. Others in the Top followed, refusing to watch. Griffin wished he could go with them, but he had already insulted the king today.

  The king sat down and sighed. “Lucky day for you, Sir Griffin. Silas was one of your chief competitors. Now he is lunch.”

  “Yes, sire,” Griffin answered back, feeling anything but lucky.

  Exhausted from his all-night outing with Maggie to the Bottom, his brain fogged. For the first time in his life, he started to question himself. Why was he fighting? Who was he fighting for?

  His parents had been avenged many times over. He had achieved the highest honors, but what had it truly gotten him? A room in the castle? A place beside the prince at the dinner table? Where he used to only count on his own wits and hard work to survive, he now was forced to worry over every word he spoke and every action he took, all for the love of a king who would see him massacred on a whim. Defiled for his own amusement.

  The revelation left him looking for Maggie, but she wasn’t there. Neither was Xavier.

  Griffin leaned on the rail. The draignoch’s chains chinked as it was allowed to gorge on Silas’s corpse. The sounds of ripping flesh and crunching bones were more than Griffin could take. He turned away.

  “I . . . don’t want to be eaten,” Cornwall said.

  Griffin met his worried stare. “Neither do I.”

  Eleven

  Maggie

  “Let us go rehearse,” Xavier ordered.

  I could nearly read his thoughts as we tore our eyes from the bloody spectacle below. Silas’s family were members of the court. We were nobody. If we performed poorly—that would be our fate, too.

  The return to the castle took us over the gilded bridge and through the Top. All the while, we passed by grieving nobles. Frightened and confused by the king’s wrath.

  I laughed at the hypocrisy. The entire kingdom had suffered under his reign. It was high time they felt the sting of his cruelty. As I climbed another hill, it occurred to me that living on their divine perch, far away from the filth and stench of the Bottom, nothing dirty touched their cared-for existence. If Xavier wouldn’t have told Raleigh to muzzle me, I would’ve yelled, “Allow me to introduce you to the turd you call king. The man who hangs an old man from an apple tree for eating from his own orchards. A man who burned down an entire village for two pieces of silver. A man whose men are told to take and take, pillaging the poorest in his kingdom to feed and clothe you and yours!”