The Color of Dragons Page 8

  “And I’m telling you, Griff. Xavier is the Ambrosius. This man will change your mind.” Jori threw a heavy arm over Griffin’s sore shoulders. “And he has the most”—the prince paused to choose his words carefully—“intriguing assistant. I don’t know what it is about her, but I am very glad she is soon to be within our walls.”

  Griffin paused at the wet linen hanging just inside the exit of the tunnel and wiped the blood off his sword. “I wouldn’t let Lady Esmera hear you say that.”

  “Lady Esmera only cares about her wedding. Which she will have soon enough. I had been hoping you, as my friend, would have found a way to delay that a little for me?” Jori griped. “Perhaps given her the poison meant for my father?”

  “If I only had known, I would have switched the glasses.”

  Griffin laughed, but Jori didn’t.

  “Sire!” Perig called, stealing the prince’s attention.

  “Excellent! It’s here.” Jori clapped his hands and jogged toward the gamekeeper.

  Griffin hurried after him. “What’s here?”

  Jori walked backward, speaking to him. “I found a present for you in the Hinterlands.”

  Perig was the third gamekeeper in the last year. He and his predecessors were all called Perig, a title coined because the king only remembered the name of his first gamekeeper, who had been dead for a decade. His head bandaged, his clothing covered in dried blood, his limp more pronounced than usual, he looked as if he’d gone into battle and barely escaped with his life.

  “From the looks of Perig, I’m not sure I want it. What is it?”

  “A very special draignoch.”

  Griffin slowed. “Are you telling me this beast was caught in the wild?”

  “Oh yes. First in a very long time. But this one . . .” Perig sounded almost giddy. “This one is different. Bigger. Stronger. Smarter!” He grew more animated with each boast, waving his three-fingered hand.

  “Smarter,” Griffin laughed. “If it’s so smart, how did it end up trapped?”

  “Because it stopped fighting,” Perig explained.

  Griffin shook his head in disbelief. “Draignochs don’t stop fighting until they’re dead.”

  “This one did,” Jori added. “Bested half a regiment. And then suddenly just stopped.”

  “You witnessed this?” Griffin asked.

  “I did,” Jori affirmed.

  Griffin shook his head. It was impossible to believe.

  “Maybe it decided it wanted to see the Walled City.” Perig laughed at his own jest in a way that made Griffin wonder if the boy had gone mad like his predecessor.

  “I must go with Perig. Make sure all goes well with its transfer into its cage in the Oughtnoch,” Jori said to Griffin.

  “I’ll come.” If this creature was to be his next match, and was so changed from the typical draignoch, Griffin needed to see it.

  “No, no. King’s orders. He told me not thirty minutes ago that no one is to see this draignoch until its first match.” His brown eyes and his grin filled with mirth. “Besides, your cheek needs attending. See the physician.”

  Griffin’s jaw set at Jori ordering him around. “My cheek will wait. I need to see that draignoch, Jori.”

  Jori started walking across the bridge toward a soldier holding two saddled horses, shaking his head.

  “You heard the prince, Sir Griffin!” Perig cackled. “But rest assured, we have finally found you a worthy challenge.”

  Five

  Maggie

  The next morning, the soldiers packed up quickly, in a hurry to get home. After three long days in the wagon, I considered walking, but the last part of the journey was entirely uphill.

  Xavier’s demeanor changed overnight. He exuded confidence instead of panic, giving me hope that we would pass through the gates of the Walled City without another incident.

  “Tonight, I will perform before King Umbert. When he sees my power, do you know what that will mean for me? I will remain in the Walled City. And you with me. No more eating scraps and sleeping in the woods. We will have everything we ever wanted for the rest of our lives!”

  I was conflicted. Tales of the luxurious Walled City reached far and wide. Its entertainments, its opportunities, its delights. Yet, from the outside, the Walled City looked like a prison.

  The wall itself was forty feet tall. Forged with stone and steel. Impenetrable. Unclimbable, and I couldn’t see a single gate in or out. The city was completely hidden behind it, except for the crown where King Umbert’s fortress was perched, built on the flat rocks that sealed an ancient volcano. People said that King Umbert wanted the Hinterlands to know he was watching them, like a god from above. Others believed he built his keep on high so that no one could attack the city without him seeing them well before they reached it. Either way, it was an imposing sight.

  I could smell the place too, long before we reached it. The putrid odor wafted from a wide moat of still water swarmed by flies. Parts overflowed, running down the hill we had climbed, poisoning everything in its path. All that should have been green was lifeless and brown. Neither Raleigh nor any of the other men gave notice. Xavier pinched his nose. I gagged and coughed, trying not to vomit.

  “This way,” the lead rider called, changing course, following the curve of the giant wall.

  We rode for another hour, circling the solid base until we came upon a field littered with northern soldiers. I’d seen them before, when Xavier and I had performed in a small village close to the moors. I recognized their green-and-blue tartan sashes worn over their heavy fur-lined cloaks. Many fires burned. Spits spun, roasting meats while men drank from large tapped kegs with plenty more to spare stacked in a pyramid. Strange. They were Northmen, and they planned to be here awhile.

  A few minutes later we finally came to an entrance, a metal portcullis so heavy it felt like it took a lifetime for cranking pulleys to raise it. A foreboding wind escaped with a fierce whistle. Dorn hesitated. I didn’t blame her. I thwacked her, getting her moving. Her reluctant rattling snort did not stop until we were on the other side and there was no turning back. The entrance was only large enough for a single wagon to pass through at a time. As soon as the last soldier came through, the gate fell with a loud bang, sealing us inside.

  “Is that gate the only one?” I asked Sir Raleigh.

  He slowed his horse to ride beside us. “Yes.”

  “And is it always closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. What if I wanted to leave?”

  Xavier grumbled beside me. “Leave? Impertinent every step of the way! I would tell Sir Raleigh to ignore your foolish questions, but I’m sure he’s learned to do just that.”

  “Not at all. Best to set expectations. You simply ask, Maggie.” He smiled as if that was somehow a comfort.

  “And if the answer is no? I’m trapped in here? All these people are trapped inside that monstrous wall?”

  He laughed and changed the subject.

  Raleigh explained that crags and cliffs separated the Bottom from the Middle, and the Middle from the Top. But that wasn’t all I noticed separating them.

  In the Bottom, tiny shacks made from scrap wood served as shelters for so many they spilled out and into the road. Many of the dwellings stood in a thick layer of filthy runoff from above. The ducts carrying refuse to the moat outside the wall overflowed here too. Children slid through mud for sport on their way to answer the call of barking masters. Most looked gaunt, but not so starved as those in the South.

  A blanket of black soot hovered above a large section, the bitter air from ovens heating metal. There was clanking and banging too. It was the largest smithy I’d ever seen.

  Lost in a maze of changing directions and connected buildings, I heard her.

  The draignoch.

  Her voice floated on the gentle breeze, fanning the roadside flames.

  The draignoch had made it to the Walled City, and so had I.

  And she was close.

 
I smiled. I wanted to jump out, to race to her. But I knew I wouldn’t get very far without knowing which way to go.

  Raleigh noticed my head flipping back and forth. “The tournament opened today.”

  “The draignochs,” I wondered aloud. “Where do they keep them?”

  The corners of Sir Raleigh’s mouth hinted at a smile. “You do ask a great many questions. Doesn’t matter, not to you.” He kicked his horse, pulling ahead, my frustration growing with every step his horse took.

  It did matter. It was the only thing that mattered.

  Frustrated beyond measure as I was, there was only one thing to do.

  As we crossed another road, I shifted in my seat to slide out, hoping the heavy shade from the setting sun would mask my escape.

  More soldiers folded in behind us, Moldark leading the pack.

  Xavier grabbed my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  There was no possible escape route. “Nowhere. I’m just tired of sitting.” I turned around quickly before Moldark could get a good look at me.

  As we left the Bottom, the road leveled, smoothed by the introduction of shaved cobblestones. There were no signs of nature in the Bottom, no trees or grass, only muck and stench. But as we rose out of the depths, patches of green emerged between the cobblestones. Torches lit the road, giving the passage a romantic glow. People were on the streets here too. Children squealed, playing chase around drunk revelers, who scooted out of the way while toasting their silver mugs at our procession.

  The road rose sharply, then leveled again, entering a place the likes of which I had never seen before. The Top. Manicured greens outlined in neatly trimmed bushes greeted us at each enormous dwelling we passed. Intricately carved stone sconces and bronze knockers decorated iron doors.

  A vacant space gave an open view of another part of the Top, just beneath the homes, where the king’s soldiers sparred and rode in sprawling fields. Spectators watched from the sidelines, cheering them on. Children wearing fine linens and fur cloaks ran into the street, waving wooden swords. I thought maybe Xavier’s reputation had preceded him, but they moved past our wagon, not seeing us at all. They were here for the soldiers.

  In the Walled City, King Umbert’s soldiers were heroes. And why not? These children saw them as providers, carting back food and livestock, clothing and silver. They were doing their duty, serving their king, taking their share from the Hinterlands and giving it to them. These children never saw the wake of destruction their heroes left behind, but one day, they would. The day that giant wall came tumbling down.

  Six

  Griffin

  Griffin woke to pounding on his door. He rolled toward the window and was disappointed to see darkness.

  The opening day banquet.

  His aching cheek would make it impossible to eat and drink without misery. The physician had cleaned and stitched the wound shut, but there was little to be done with his hand. The numbness now completely worn off, it throbbed incessantly.

  Sleep was much more appealing than food.

  “Start without me.” He covered his head with a pillow.

  The door opened so hard it slammed into the wall. “Are you still sleeping?” Jori bounded into the room as if his father had given him the keys to the kingdom.

  Griffin flopped onto his back. “No. I’m thinking with my eyes closed.”

  “My father has called for the ceremonial entrance of the champion and challengers. You are to lead it. Or shall we give that honor to Cornwall since he’s already standing in your place?” Jori ripped the soft linen sheets off him. “You do look a mess. Come! Up! Up!” he sang.

  “The draignoch used me like a pincushion today, if you didn’t notice.” Griffin cringed. His face felt tight and the pain still raw. “And what’s the matter with you? You’re positively perky. After an evening spent with your betrothed, I would’ve expected griping, pouting, loss of appetite, severe depression.” Griffin combed his hair with his fingers, then padded to the wardrobe. “Although, I suppose, why gripe. She’ll be all yours in mere days. Permanently.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He winked.

  Griffin stopped searching and looked back at him. “Malcolm isn’t playing games, Jori. He told me at dinner and again today that he’s not happy with the idea of the North being under your father’s rule. He’s coming for the throne.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? That’s all you have to say?” Griffin grabbed the first blue linen shirt he could find and slipped it over his head.

  Jori smirked, waggling his eyebrows. “The sorcerer I told you about, Xavier, arrives momentarily.”

  “Yes. Call them sorcerers when not a single one has ever had a lick of magic.”

  “Xavier is different. He has something that is real. He is a sorcerer.” Jori’s eyes darkened. “He will be what saves me from marrying Lady Esmera. With magic at my father’s side, and mine, the North will come to heel without this ridiculous marriage.”

  “So that is why. All this time, all the searching . . .” Griffin strapped on his belt. “The magic wasn’t an amusement. You’ve been searching for—”

  “A weapon.” Jori nodded. Griffin had never seen him quite so grave.

  He turned to face the prince. “A bet, then. Over Xavier’s powers.”

  Jori’s laugh started slow and sinister. “A bet. Are you sure?”

  “Are you?” Griffin challenged him.

  “Your knife, then.” Jori scooped it up from the table, sliding it from its holster. He held it up and examined the sharpness. The candlelight reflected off the inset rubies on the cross guard, but not so much the blade. It absorbed the light, making it stronger. Years working at a smith shop, Griffin never truly understood all the secrets of Phantombronze. Jori turned the grip, reflecting the ground, rendering the blade invisible. It was a very useful weapon, one Griffin would rather not lose. But he would not lose it—because magic wasn’t real.

  “My knife, against a view of the new draignoch.”

  “My father would kill me.” Jori slid the knife back in its holster.

  “Oh, he would not. You’re his only heir.”

  His jaw shifted from side to side, mulling it over. “Very well.” He held his hand out for them to shake on it.

  Griffin didn’t take it, not yet. “A caveat.”

  “Are bets with you always this complicated?” Jori held on to the blade as if he had won already.

  “I have your permission and your protection from the king’s wrath to put the supposed sorcerer to a sincere test,” Griffin added, reaching his hand out.

  “You always put them to the test. My father, the noble families, we all live for your jibes at the poor pathetic souls.”

  Griffin crossed his arms. “If my knife is at stake, I mean to be a right bastard.” He held his hand out to Jori.

  The prince laughed. “I will make sure to explain to my father if he gets upset in any way.” Jori shook it and handed Griffin his knife. “Bring it with you. I’ll expect payment as soon as the performance is over.”

  “As will I,” Griffin said.

  Jori threw open the doors. Six guards folded in behind them as the prince set a fast pace through a drafty corridor that led to the stairs, that then led to another hallway and another flight of stairs. Damn castle. It was a maze.

  He could hear the music and chatter from the party below as they descended the stairs, and see the other competitors lined up beside the closed doors to the Great Hall. Griffin cradled his injured hand as they reached the reception area.

  Jori paced toward a man who looked . . . the only word for it was insane. Bones tied in his silver hair, his dark eyes shaded with kohl, his robe so long it swept the floor. Standing beside him was a young woman no older than Griffin. She wore a wool dress made from an old blanket, tied with rope along the waist to give it some kind of shape on her thin frame. Her dark hair fell down her back in long delicate curls. Her eyes roamed the room, stopping first on the stuffed cheet
ah, then the crocodile.

  As Jori and the man spoke, she padded slowly across, to the cheetah. Her delicate hand swept the stiff spotted fur on its back.

  She glanced over her shoulder, catching Griffin staring. He’d never seen such beautiful eyes before. To call them simply blue would be insulting. They sparkled in the torchlight, like sapphires. Her attention returning to the animal, her brow knit.

  Griffin moved next to her. “A cheetah,” he said, answering her unasked question. “And that”—he nodded to the long-tailed reptile—“is a crocodile. Gifts brought to King Umbert from far-off lands. He hunted them for sport and then had them stuffed and placed here for all to admire.”

  Her lip curled in disgust. “I would’ve preferred to admire them alive.” Her hands swept the back of the cheetah once more. “So graceful. I can imagine how it moves.”

  Her gaze fell on his scarred face. Griffin’s chest tightened. He should introduce himself, but for the first time in his life he felt . . . shaken.

  She smelled like the woods after a long rain. “Me too.”

  Jori walked over to her, claiming her elbow. “Sir Griffin, I see you’ve met Maggie.”

  Griffin glanced back at Malcolm and Cornwall, both of whom were staring at Jori’s hand on Maggie. Cornwall was standing in Griffin’s place in the procession. “I have now, sire. Excuse me. I believe I’m being usurped by a sniveling moron.”

  “I believe you are,” Jori laughed, then led Maggie toward the strange-looking old man. This was the assistant, then, and that odd man, Xavier, the supposed sorcerer.

  “Jori.” Griffin sighed his friend’s name as he walked away.

  “My sentiments exactly.” Sir Raleigh appeared beside him. The old soldier’s shoulders sat back, and his neck was cocked in such a way that Griffin could tell he had been riding for a long time. “Shouldn’t you be over there, whelp?”

  “Your favorite whelp, am I not?”

  Raleigh didn’t rise to the occasion as he usually did. Perhaps nostalgia for last year made him melancholy. His stern expression shifted to Xavier, Jori, and Maggie.