Illegal, it was, because none in the Hinterlands were allowed to carry weapons. Otherwise, we might rise up, defend ourselves from the king’s stinking soldiers. All of which I would’ve said, but then they would know I was a woman, and likely cut my tongue out before selling me to a brothel. Silence was certainly the preferable option.
But what was the prince doing in the Hinterlands? Prince Jori was the only child of King Umbert and heir to the throne, and the only one likely, for the king was a perpetual widower, having lost four wives to fever, with all but one of the marriages ending childless. None in the Hinterlands had ever seen the prince. He was born after the wall was put up around the city.
A draignoch, Phantombronze, and the prince all in one day? I would consider myself lucky—if I wasn’t about to lose my head.
“I see,” the prince said. “Tell me, why exactly did he stab you?”
“Because I caught him near the draignoch’s cage. When I told him to halt, he ran. Thought he could outrun me.” Moldark chuckled. Some of the men joined in. “I tossed him to the ground and stepped on him like the worthless bug he is, just like Sir Raleigh is right now.”
The boot holding me down shifted. “And yet he managed to retrieve his knife and stab you through your boot,” Sir Raleigh said. His accent was different from the others’. Lilting and muffled, as if speaking in a hurry. I only ever heard that kind of accent once before, from a boy I met who came down from the North. The one place Xavier and I had yet to travel.
“Deserves a pat on the back for that,” Raleigh added.
The men all laughed.
“He slashed a king’s soldier. Law commands his striking hand forfeit,” Moldark hissed.
My heart hammered against my chest. What would Xavier do with a one-handed assistant? If I survived at all. This was what I got for being impulsive. I’d had to see the draignoch.
And yet, as I pondered my demise, there was no regret. My encounter with the beast was . . . right.
The boot relaxed. A strong pair of hands slid into my armpits and hauled me off the ground like I weighed nothing. Simultaneously, two more grabbed my arms. Keeping my head down, I struggled, twisting and turning my wrists to get loose, to no avail.
Sir Raleigh came to stand before me. Unlike the others, who wore red, Sir Raleigh’s leather armor was black. Dark circles underlined his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in years. The remnant brown hair ringing his balding head was dusted with gray, while his tangled beard was snow white.
“Moldark is right, sire,” Raleigh replied as if he were giving permission to feed me cake, rather than cut off my hand. “Idle hands make for mischief. Should be working rather than looking at things he shouldn’t be looking at.”
“Teach him to go back to the farm and stay there,” another said, adding to my fate.
The prince said nothing.
“The king calls for swift justice,” Raleigh pressed.
My eyes lifted to his hand that gripped the pommel of his sword.
“Is that so?” Prince Jori answered, sounding unconvinced.
Did I dare hope that he would let me go? Xavier always said I was a foolish girl. Curious beyond all measure. And it was hard not to look at the prince, but I couldn’t risk it.
I stared instead at his impossibly clean fingernails resting on his sword belt.
“Before we cut off his hand, perhaps we should hear from him. Ask him what happened,” Prince Jori said. “What do you say?”
I shook my head.
“Come now.” His hand appeared beneath my chin, tilting my head up, forcing me to look at him. His soft brown eyes surveyed mine. His long fair hair was pulled back. Not a single scar marred his handsome face. He wore smooth red leather trousers, a red knee-length cloak outlined in silver medallions, all of which were branded with the letter U like the soldiers’ tunics. His belt carried a scabbard that housed a sword with a polished brass five-lobed pommel. A very expensive weapon.
He leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I cannot defend you unless you tell me your side of it.”
The prince’s tone took me by surprise. Asking where he should be demanding. Was he unsure of himself? Afraid of his own men? Or was it compassion? I almost laughed at the ludicrous thought. No matter. I ripped my chin from his hand, shaking my head no.
A crease formed between the prince’s brow as he continued to study my face for far too long. He let out a resigned sigh that Sir Raleigh took as a signal to go ahead.
“Hold him still.” Sir Raleigh slid his sword out and raised it over his head.
The soldiers stretched my arms so wide it felt as if they were being ripped from the sockets.
Moldark licked his split lips. “I get to feed his hand to the beast.”
Not today. My plan was simple and stupid. Kick the ankle bones of the soldiers holding me and run like hell. But I didn’t have to.
The draignoch roared. She threw a fit so loud the banging could be heard a hundred yards away. The whiny tilt followed by the earth-rattling crash was unmistakable. The cage had fallen over.
“Help!” Perig screeched.
The soldiers’ grips loosened. I jerked, then kicked one soldier in the back of the knee. He fell forward, landing on Moldark.
I tore my knife from his hand and slashed the soldier holding on to my other wrist.
The soldier cursed, letting go.
And then I ran, as fast as I could.
Sprinting through the trees, I glanced over my shoulder every few seconds to see if they were following, but no one came, not at first anyway. They were too busy with the draignoch. Her distraction had saved me.
I wished her a silent thanks as the sun inched downward in the western sky. The village was still miles ahead. Xavier wasn’t going to be pleased that I was covered in muck, and even less pleased at me being late.
I ran and ran. The whole time the scar on my arm tingled still, a reminder of what I had left behind. I would never see the creature again. She was headed to the Walled City, a place no one could enter, not without permission from the king.
Two
Griffin
Griffin had never been so nervous in his life. He pulled on the too-tight collar of the shirt Jori insisted he wear as he padded through the short corridor he thought led to the king’s private chambers. He smoothed his unruly hair, then yanked on his vest, flattening any last wrinkles.
“It’s just one dinner. To greet Laird Egrid when he arrives from the North,” the prince had said. “My father asked for you specifically.”
An honor, to be sure, for there were many other knights he could’ve asked. Knights of noble birth, from families at the Top of the Walled City. Griffin was a nobody from nowhere—a boy who’d snuck past the guards and into the city through a pipe like a rat. He had no breeding. No etiquette. Slaying draignochs, that he could do. Eating a meal without spilling food down his new shirt was something else altogether. He was going to make a fool of himself and never hear the end of it.
After two wrong turns, Griffin found he was back where he’d started. Having only moved into the sprawling castle last year, getting lost had become a way of life. “Hello?”
He groaned at the lack of response. A lack of guards meant he was most definitely in the wrong place.
“Sir Griffin!”
Griffin looked back, finding Bradyn running at a frenzied pace up the hallway. “Wait! Wait for me! I’m . . . escorting you.” He wheezed, catching his breath when he reached him.
Barely twelve, Bradyn only came up to Griffin’s elbows. What he lacked in height he more than made up for in smarts—an attribute Griffin appreciated, especially at court. If there was one thing Griffin found intolerable, it was stupid people, and there were many of those wandering the halls of King Umbert’s home.
All of Bradyn’s family worked in positions in the castle. His father ran the kitchens. His cousins served the king in his personal chambers. His mother worked in the infirmary. Bradyn’s job in the castle was to do whate
ver his father told him to do. For the past twelve months, that had included serving Griffin. He knew where every passage went, both the known and secret ones, something Griffin had used to his advantage when the palace became too confining.
Griffin swatted him on the back. “Piss-poor job of escorting you’ve done so far, Bradyn. I mean, you have gotten us well and truly lost.”
“You’re blaming me for your pitiful sense of direction?”
“I am indeed. As I will blame you if we’re late to the king’s chambers.”
“It’s your fault. Not mine. Thoma and Dres were at the guard gate, causing a stink.”
Griffin rolled his eyes. Thoma and Dres were Griffin’s best mates, but he rarely saw them all year, a point they brought up whenever the opportunity presented itself. Lately, they would turn up without invitation, drunk, harassing the guards. “Did you tell them I had dinner with the king?”
“I did. Dres hurled his drink at the gate.” Bradyn shook his head and started walking quickly the same way Griffin had gone. “Guards didn’t take very kindly to that. Thoma dragged him off before he ended up pummeled and in chains again.”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Oh no. You have more important things you should be worried about. Tournament starts in three days!”
“Really? Hadn’t heard,” Griffin said with sarcasm.
Bradyn shook his head. He turned left, pushed through a door to a stairwell. He climbed two steps at a time.
“I hope the king understands that you need your sleep. But if not, my cousin Halig knows to remind him. And I asked my father to bring you another supper tonight just in case you don’t feel like eating. Lady Esmera is joining her father tonight. I know what she can do to a person’s appetite.” Bradyn shivered in disgust.
Griffin hissed a laugh, remembering Jori’s betrothed’s visit last year for the tournament. Esmera had no use for Griffin. And yet, there he had sat at Jori’s insistence, eating from the same platter of mutton she had—as he would tonight.
Her words had a peculiar effect on Jori. After her visit, the prince had refused to go anywhere without Griffin. And after he won the championship over Esmera’s brother Malcolm, Jori asked King Umbert to move Griffin into the fortress, to a room not far from Jori’s. He called Griffin “his protection.”
Sadly, for Jori, after the nuptials, there would be nothing to protect him from his bride again.
“As I recall, she told Jori my scarred face was painful to look at. Let’s be sure she sits across from me, Bradyn, and then this whole ordeal will end, maybe before it begins.”
Bradyn laughed, coming out of the stairwell, starting down another hallway. “Did you see me at your practice today? I was there, getting ready for the melee.”
“I didn’t. Sorry. You nervous? First time I entered, I nearly pissed myself.”
“You did not. You won your first time.”
Bradyn eyed him with the same heroic worship many did, a look Griffin never felt he deserved. He fought to live, nothing more.
Griffin nudged him. “You’ll be fine so long as you don’t let the crowd spook you.”
“Thanks.” The smile returned to Bradyn’s face. “I’ll remember that. I saw you on the field. How many barrel lifts did you do? I lost count.”
“Too many.” Griffin winced, rolling his sore shoulders.
“Silas says you have to be fast when fighting the draignochs. But then I see you always train hard with heavy stones? Is that something Sir Raleigh taught you?”
“When I was your age, he told me that beating a draignoch requires two things: precision and strength. Sage advice I took to heart. Get in close, and make it count.” Griffin lunged at him.
Bradyn laughed. “No one ever beat a draignoch running away from them.”
Griffin tapped his head.
“You will be champion again. I’ve bet my life savings on it. My whole family is pulling for you.”
Griffin frowned. Bradyn’s family weren’t the only ones pulling for him. Every man, woman, and child from the Bottom, it seemed, had pinned their hopes on him. He was their stand-in. Their avatar. Proof that their lives had worth when every day they were ground down under the heel of the rich and influential.
Since Griffin won the championship last year, the people of the Walled City, especially those in the Bottom, were counting on him to repeat his performance. But as champion, he was also the one to beat. Raleigh reminded him of that every time they trained, and Raleigh would know. He had held the title since the tournaments began more than a decade ago . . . until Griffin beat him last year in a scandalous upset.
Back then he had nothing to lose.
The residents of the Upper City were incensed. He could feel the weight of their stares grow as the date of the tournament approached. His spectacular defeat was not just anticipated; it was required to restore balance and order as they knew it. His reign as champion must be proven a lark.
To the lowborn, he couldn’t lose. To the highborn, he couldn’t win.
Griffin could only focus on one difficult challenge at time. He just wanted to get through this night without thoroughly embarrassing himself.
Bradyn headed for a set of double doors. Griffin’s stomach twisted with nervous knots.
“Any advice, Bradyn?”
Bradyn hummed. “Don’t use your sleeve as a napkin.”
“I was hoping for something less obvious.”
The guards nodded in greeting to Griffin as they stepped aside to allow him entry.
Griffin’s mouth fell open at the sight of King Umbert’s famed overlook windows. The king had a bird’s-eye view of everything and everyone in the Walled City, and beyond. From the fortress courtyard to the large homes with plush greens in the Top, the joined cottages on the roads that wound down through the Middle, to the very slums Griffin grew up in in the Bottom.
A fire burned in the fireplace. Lit candelabras lined the small dining table that had been set for the special occasion. Plates overflowed with roasted meats and vegetables. There were five loaves of bread, two set beside the high-back chair placed for the king.
Four chairs were placed for the laird’s family, and two for the king’s. Four chairs—Laird Egrid’s entire family was coming. Griffin groaned. The mere thought was enough to cause him to lose his appetite.
The fire popped. Beside it, Griffin saw a stone parked in the corner. Almost as tall as he was, yet not wider than his forearm, a series of short horizontal marks sectioned in clumps cut the edge of the stone. As he inched closer to get a better look at it, growling greyhounds exited the king’s bedchambers, heading for him.
Griffin reached for the dagger in his boot that wasn’t there. He had left it in his room, as Jori requested. No weapons allowed in the king’s chambers. Griffin tossed them a piece of bread to shut them up.
“Stupid rats! Silence!” King Umbert lumbered into the room from his chambers beyond the fireplace. The dogs cowered at his sharp tone. He waved and they trotted into the other room, the doors closing behind them.
Bradyn’s cousins, Halig and Capp, hurried after him. Not much older than Griffin, the brothers had spent the past two years traveling with Raleigh collecting taxes in the Hinterlands before rising to this grand assignment.
Halig pushed a crown over King Umbert’s bald bulbous head, and received a slap. “Not so hard!” Much too tight; skin bulged over the sides. Capp walked backward, tying the laces on the front of the king’s red linen shirt that hung like a dress over his swollen form.
The stalwart, hulking king who had led a great army, who had stopped the draignochs’ onslaught, saving the disjointed lands from demolition and the people from certain death, had grown enormously fat in the more leisurely years since.
“Sire, what is this carved into the stone?” Griffin asked.
“Remarkable thing, isn’t it?”
Remarkable wasn’t the word that came to mind. In fact, it looked rather unremarkable. The art childish . . . if it was a
rt.
“Do you know what it says?” the king asked, adjusting his crown.
“Says? Does it speak?”
King Umbert laughed. “No. At least not for me.” He sounded disappointed. He cast a narrowed eye on Halig, then at the stone. Halig draped a silky red cloth over it. “Enough of that. Come here.”
Griffin padded beside him, bowing his head.
“Sir Griffin, you put on a clean shirt,” the king observed with an approving grin. “And one of my royal color, I see.”
“Your son’s doing, Your Majesty. A futile attempt to make me a suitable stand-in for him tonight.” Griffin bowed.
“You’ll excel as you always do, young man. Prince Jori has found a loyal friend in you. Know that it hasn’t gone unnoticed.” He spied the wine and jerked his chin. Halig read his cryptic gesture, pouring two chalices, handing the first to the king and the other to Griffin, before slipping back into the shadows on the other side of the fireplace.
King Umbert cradled his cup. “Jori’s going to need you by his side in the coming weeks, Sir Griffin, as am I.”
“Is that why you wished to speak to me before Laird Egrid arrived?”
King Umbert nodded and swirled the wine, not spilling a single drop. “The wolves are entering our house as we speak, and he will be thirsty for blood.”
The wolves. Laird Egrid and his family. The reason for poor Jori’s wedding. The prince had explained the last time his betrothed came to the Walled City. The old man ruled the North, the last of the territories not under the king’s control. Egrid’s armies were many in number, and the severe terrain in the North was said to be impossible to fight on unless you intimately understood its mountains, moors, bogs, and forests. Not to mention its weather. When Prince Jori was born, King Umbert decided on a marriage to unite the lands, rather than war.
If the king was worried about a threat to Jori’s throne, it wasn’t from Egrid. He was ancient and feebleminded, and could no longer command his own people, let alone attempt to rule all the lands. His youngest son, Cornwall, was barely fifteen and still untested in the arena or on the battlefield. The people didn’t know him and would never follow him. But then there was Malcolm, Egrid’s eldest son, and Griffin’s biggest rival in the last tournament. He had been tested, in battle—on foreign soil and in the arena. He was accustomed to victory. The sole exception being when he went against Griffin.
The Color of Dragons Page 2
