The Color of Dragons

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Last month it was Desiree, the month before that, Duncan’s daughter. What was her name? Vivien? Infatuations. He lives for them. But Lady Esmera has arrived,” Griffin said. “If that worried look is for the negotiations with the North—”

  “The prince has his own mind, Griffin. Nothing is ever settled until the bitter end.” He laughed—why, Griffin didn’t know. Why was everyone acting so strangely? Was this marriage not the plan all along?

  Raleigh jerked his chin toward Cornwall. “Better take your place, champion, before the brat pisses, marking the spot.”

  Griffin had never seen Sir Raleigh so intense. He did as he asked, walking with determination toward Cornwall, who flinched at the sight of him and stepped back, relinquishing his place without argument.

  The drums banged. The doors opened. The crowd stood.

  King Umbert was at the far end of the hall. He raised his cup. “Hail our champion, and all who would try to defeat him.”

  Griffin led them through the Great Hall. The vast room held upward of a hundred, but with so many from the Top of the Walled City invited, it was stretched way beyond capacity. Challengers peeled off to sit with their families. Oak sat with his mother and little sister. At the table beside the king’s was Silas’s family, including Zac, and his father, Ragnas, and mother, Aofrea. That left Cornwall and Malcolm, who were still with Griffin, heading for the king’s table. As if one meal with them wasn’t punishment enough.

  Two soldiers, who looked as tired as Sir Raleigh, carted in a table, trunk, and screen, setting them in the center, which had been left empty for the entertainment.

  Flutes and lyres plucked lively tunes while chatter picked up where it had left off before the king’s interruption. By the time Griffin reached the head table, Laird Egrid and the king were regaling the assembly with tales of the draignoch war. Egrid shoved his sleeve up and ran a crooked finger over a long scar.

  “Biggest one I ever saw in the wild. I thrust my blade deep in the beast’s neck; it should have died at once. But no, not this bastard. It thrashed and cut me from elbow to wrist with its eye tooth.”

  “Thrust your blade,” King Umbert chortled. “We were taking a piss, and the thing came round the tree. You shit your britches and got your nasty slog water all over my boots.” His laughter grew until he was forced to suck a sharp breath, holding his side from hysterics. “I stabbed the draignoch. You were cut by the fang when it fell.”

  “That’s not the way I remember it.” Egrid grimaced at King Umbert. Then laughed heartily too.

  Behind them, on an added table, guards stood over Buffont, the bald, fat cooker, as he and several of his staff were forced to taste platters of food and swig every pitcher of ale. Bradyn was there too, frowning with worry as he watched his father from the side entrance.

  Jori caught up to Griffin. “She’s something, isn’t she?” He didn’t stop to hear Griffin’s response. The prince sat down beside Lady Esmera. He lifted her hand to his lips. “You look lovely this evening.”

  “Why thank you, Prince Jori.” The yellow dress with black beading she wore reminded Griffin of a hornet. She wrinkled her nose at him as he sank into the seat between her and Sybil. “That seat is for our brother.”

  Griffin poured a glass of wine and took a long sip before setting it down before him. “Malcolm is seated next to your father.”

  Cornwall came to stand behind Griffin. He crossed his arms and hummed, “Move.”

  Griffin reached over Esmera’s plate to the cheese platter and took the largest slice he could find. “I like this seat.” He dropped the cheese on the plate before him. “Lady Sybil, would you kindly get me some apple slices?”

  Sybil shook her head at him, smirking, as she grabbed two large pieces.

  “Jori, my brother shall sit beside me,” Esmera griped.

  “My brother already is.” Jori waved at one of the servants standing against the wall. Another chair landed with a thud at the end of the table. “Sir Cornwall, that chair is for you,” the prince exclaimed. “A fine chair, finer than even mine, for it has arms. Does that please you?”

  Cornwall scowled at him and started to speak but was cut off by the high-pitched squeaks from Sybil pulling the new seat beside her out for him. “Sit, Cornwall. Tell me what it was like to stand in the arena today.”

  Griffin ate, then drank to soothe the ache in his face that flared as he chewed. Cornwall spoke little of the arena. Instead, he boasted about new armor his father had made for him for the tournament. “New hauberk, much thicker than my other. With a layer of thinner beneath. It’s ingenious.”

  “Mail isn’t useful against the draignochs,” Griffin said. “Too heavy.”

  Cornwall pounded the table with his tiny fist. “The fangs carry venom and—”

  “The claws too.” Griffin held up his injured hand. “Felt the sting this morning, but if you think layers of mail, thinly linked or wide, would stop the pinprick point of a draignoch’s claw or fang, let me tell you, you’re very wrong. My advice, save your ingenious hauberk for battle. It’ll only slow you down in the ring.”

  “Sir Griffin has a point, Cornwall,” Sybil said.

  “A sharp point of his own, and one wishing me defeated. I can think for myself, thank you very much.” Cornwall got up, taking his cup with him, and padded to the other end of the hall, near Oak.

  “He’s . . . impertinent,” Sybil quipped.

  “If you say so.” Griffin had other choice words to describe Cornwall, which he kept to himself. He broke off a piece of bread and held it out to Sybil.

  She took it and picked at the crust.

  She wore another matching dress to her sister’s, yellow, without decoration, but she didn’t need it. She was more like her brother Malcolm than her sister, with an earthy quality. She had a warmth, though, unexpected, considering the rest of her family.

  “I was speaking with Esmera.” Sybil nibbled on the bread. “Since her marriage to the prince is to take place so soon, and our families will be joined, I have been informed that I will be remaining in the Walled City.”

  Griffin was surprised by her crisp wording and disappointed tone. “That displeases you?”

  She set the bread down and said so only he could hear, “The thought of being locked up with Esmera in a fortress for the rest of my life makes me want to vomit. At home, at least, I can escape on my horse, but here . . .”

  “Understandable,” Griffin said. “Yet here we are. About to share the same burden.”

  “Yes. Forced friends, I suppose.” She smiled. “It would be nice to see more of the city, if you have time to show me.”

  Griffin’s stomach tensed. King Umbert’s words returned to him. Had he already told Sybil’s father that Griffin should marry her? “I’ll be busy with the tournament, I’m afraid. But I’m sure one of the guards could escort you.”

  The corners of her mouth curled into a secret smile. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I don’t want to marry you, Sir Griffin.”

  Griffin swallowed hard.

  “But I would like for us to be friends. I don’t know anyone here other than my siblings, who are all busy with . . . their own pursuits.” Sybil picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, her eyes glossing over, staring at the throngs stuffing themselves at the tables before them.

  Griffin knew he was turning red. “Yes. Of course . . . I’m . . .” He couldn’t formulate any way of coming out of this with his dignity intact. She had completely disarmed him. “Friends. I’d like that too.”

  “Good.”

  The lute and lyre plucking a lively tune faded. It was time for the great Xavier Ambrosius. Time for Griffin to unravel his routine . . . and win a peek at that new draignoch.

  Griffin pushed his plate out of the way and moved his cup too. He wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a single move the supposed sorcerer made.

  The entertainment entered. Xavier first, arms akimbo, his head turning here and there, bones clackety-clacking in his hair with each
pass. His grin creeping wide, his eyes bulging, he looked every bit the part of the mad sorcerer.

  In the West, as a small child, Griffin saw many magic-worshippers like Xavier. His parents’ farm was near a dense forest. The woods were rumored to be haunted by demons. Some believed the draignochs came from there. Gypsies camped close to them, but never entered. They strung beads and tied bones in their hair. Threw stones to predict futures, telling all what they wanted to hear for the price of a coin.

  Xavier’s assistant, Maggie, followed him, walking at a steady pace with her hands fisted at her sides.

  The guests fell into a familiar pattern of exchanging smirks and whispers as yet another supposed sorcerer made their way to the middle of the tables, where the props had been placed.

  The assistant stepped behind the small screen. Her gaze fell on the royal table. Then she gave a hint of a smile.

  Griffin returned it, flattered she’d seen fit to steal another glance at him. But then she gave a nod, and he realized that her smile wasn’t meant for him. Her gaze was fixed on Jori. And his on hers. Griffin wasn’t the only one who noticed. Esmera’s lip curled. She cast her hand across the table, spilling her wine.

  “Oh my!” She hopped up, but most of it spilled on Jori, soaking his white shirt in red.

  Servants rushed to clean up the mess. Jori barely looked put out. He stood, wiped it off, and sat back down, all the while eyeing the assistant.

  She, though, had turned around, her attention now on the audience, her face hidden from them.

  “Who is that?” Sybil asked Griffin.

  “Her name is Maggie,” Jori answered for him. “Daughter of Xavier, the Ambrosius.”

  “You say his name as if it should mean something?” Malcolm asked, taking Cornwall’s vacant seat.

  “It will mean something,” Jori enthused. “Just watch.”

  Maggie’s focus shifted to the windows, passing by each as if looking for something. She stopped on the fourth and closed her eyes. She must’ve found what she was looking for, but Griffin could see nothing but the waxing moon.

  Jori stood. The crowd silenced. “Guests of the Draignoch Tournament and Festival feast . . . I give you Xavier Ambrosius.”

  “Noble families! Good people of King Umbert’s court,” Xavier cried so loud it hurt Griffin’s ears. “It is an extreme honor to be welcomed in the Walled City, and to be able to perform for you all, and our illustrious king.” He bowed to King Umbert, who tilted his head in acknowledgment, then picked his teeth with a chicken bone.

  Griffin laughed, catching Xavier off guard. This was too easy. Jori should’ve known better.

  Xavier scowled at him. His lip twitched, then he spun, giving his painful grin to the room. Maggie was looking at Griffin too, a crease forming between her brows. There was a strange weight to her glare, like a boulder sitting on his chest.

  Xavier started again. “To all those nonbelievers in the room, I will surely change your mind by the time I’m through, and prove to you once and for all that—”

  “Oh, will you get on with it,” Griffin groaned for all to hear.

  “He’s at it again,” Oak called out from across the room.

  Laughter spread like wildfire. Jori would normally join in with Griffin. But not this time. He coveted Griffin’s dagger as much as Griffin wanted to see the draignoch.

  “Yes, yes . . . let us get right to it . . .” Xavier bumped into the props table. The stacked-up bowls teetered on the edge, threatening to spill over, but landed back on the table. He took a long deep breath, color returning to his face. Perhaps he was finally ready to begin.

  Griffin sat back as the magician did simple sleight-of-hand tricks. He made a coin disappear, then two coins, then ten. All the while the audience remained in a state of stoic, unimpressed silence.

  After a bit involving color-changing sticks failed to rouse a single clap, Esmera gave a prolonged yawn. The audience went back to eating and drinking, loudly clanking their glasses down on the tables, gaveling the end of Xavier Ambrosius.

  But the sorcerer plowed ahead. This time with upside-down cups and a vanishing rock.

  Griffin hissed laughter. The lutes added insult with a playful tune that plunged octaves the very second Xavier showed off the empty cup.

  “Come now, give him time,” Egrid said. “He’s quite fun.”

  “Laird Egrid, you speak of eternity. None of us are given that kind of time on this earth,” Griffin answered.

  “King Umbert, you should feed him to the draignochs for lack of originality,” Silas yelled.

  Maggie glared at Griffin as if it were he who’d said to feed her father to the beasts. Griffin frowned, pointing at Silas, then laughed, turning Maggie furiously red.

  Esmera laughed along.

  Sybil didn’t. She leaned back in her chair, watching Xavier’s every move.

  Jori looked crestfallen as Xavier dropped a small crate and accidentally kicked the prop table. A crow flew out from underneath, soaring through the open door. “Oh dear . . .” He paled and fell backward on the table.

  Bowls toppled.

  Sand spilled.

  He was a disaster.

  The room erupted in laughter.

  The king’s uttered words were barely audible, so he raised his voice. “I said enough! Guards, get him out of my sight.”

  Griffin’s foot tapped in excitement. The prize was in his sights.

  Prince Jori hopped up. “Father, wait.” He held his hand out to Raleigh, who repeated the gesture to the armed guards stationed around the room.

  Griffin couldn’t fathom why Jori would speak up for this charlatan.

  “All we’ve been doing is waiting,” Malcolm bellowed.

  “Nice of you to help the cause, Sir Malcolm,” Griffin said, waggling his eyebrows at Jori.

  Malcolm slapped him on the back, as if they were sudden friends.

  Sybil elbowed her brother and Griffin in turn, trying to shush their laughing. “Bullies. Both of you.”

  “Your Majesty,” Xavier said with a quivering voice. “I, um, I’m sorry. My assistant missed her entrance. Clean those things up, Maggie lass. The real magic is about to begin. I promise.” He closed his eyes, whispering words Griffin couldn’t understand, rubbing his thumbs over the stones on the backs of his hands.

  With a look of serious determination, Maggie picked up the bowls and slammed them on the table, one after another, so loudly it silenced the laughter and snide comments. With the last bowl still on the floor, she scooped the sand into it and turned so that Griffin was in full view.

  “I believe you’ve upset the assistant,” Esmera sniggered. “Look at her. Seething like a wild animal.”

  Xavier’s fingers stretched over the top of the bowl, clasping it tightly. Another hand cupped the bottom. “Maggie, let go.”

  She did.

  The bowl and its contents hit Griffin. Expecting sand, he gasped as cold water drenched him.

  Esmera screamed and jumped out of her chair.

  “Sister, be calm. It is only water,” Sybil called.

  Griffin couldn’t hide his surprise. He shot up to examine the floor.

  So did Malcolm. “Where did the sand go?”

  “Where did the sand go?” Jori smiled at Griffin.

  Griffin shook his head at the prince. “Into a hatch at the bottom of the bowl.”

  Xavier spun round to address the others, who were now, at Griffin’s expense, paying much more attention. Even the king. “Yes, fair people of the Walled City, sand to water.”

  The rebecs and lutes wound together into a triumphant yet irritating series of chords that stretched until Xavier picked up a wooden box. The sorcerer’s confidence might’ve returned, but so did his simple tricks, all ones Griffin had seen before. Using trapdoors and hidden compartments, making silver spoons vanish, and changing a raven to a bunny that hopped up on the table and nibbled on glazed carrots, to the audience’s delight.

  Griffin leaned over to whisper in Jori
’s ear. “Jori, I say we go to the Oughtnoch as soon as this is over.”

  Jori appeared unfazed. He arched a censoring brow. “It isn’t over yet.”

  “Is this ever going to end?” King Umbert growled.

  Xavier’s face paled. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Majesty. We have saved the very best for last.”

  Maggie handed him his staff.

  “Keep your eyes on the gem,” Xavier said, touching the top of the staff. His eyes slammed shut. His hands trembled, shaking the staff as he mumbled an unintelligible enchantment.

  Maggie placed her hands beneath his, gripping so hard her knuckles turned white. Xavier called out more incomprehensible words, while Maggie’s eyes closed.

  A moonbeam shot through the loop, striking a jewel in the top of the staff.

  Gasps and screeches echoed off the high ceilings.

  Blue light flashed, blinding Griffin.

  Xavier squealed with delight.

  When Griffin’s vision cleared, a glistening white cheetah bared its long, sharp teeth at him. But unlike the stuffed creature outside the Great Hall, this one seemed very much alive. Or was it? It appeared to be drawn from moonlight.

  “Are you seeing this?” the king cried.

  “Is that real?” Sybil gasped.

  The room filled with screams. Chairs clattered, falling as everyone jumped out of their seats and backed up. The animal leaped onto the head table, stalking toward Griffin, its paws brushing forks and knives, the mere contact sending them flying in all directions.

  “That’s not possible . . . ,” Griffin uttered in horror as he stood. What was this thing?

  The cat jumped off the table, nearly landing on top of Sybil. Malcolm grabbed her, pulling her out of the way just in time.

  The cheetah paused only inches from Griffin, its head tilting, its eyes narrowing, ready to pounce. Griffin leaped over the table, but the animal followed.

  He heard Jori cackling. “Run, Sir Griffin! Run!”

  Griffin did. Out of the room, hoping the bloody thing would stop to eat someone else on the way out. What was he thinking? It wasn’t real, was it? It was an illusion, made of light.

  Then again . . . maybe it was . . .