Maggie gaped at him.
Bradyn seized. He gasped, trying to catch air into his lungs, then went into a stiff trembling, bounding off the cot like a fish out of water.
“Molly!” Buffont called helplessly.
“Move!” Maggie yelled, shoving the big servant out of her way.
Griffin pulled Buffont so Maggie could get around him too. She clasped her hands, threading her fingers, then cradled Bradyn’s head, covering the wound, but he was moving so much it was impossible.
“Griffin! Hold him down!”
“What she’s doing?” Buffont asked.
“Saving his life.” Griffin sat on Bradyn. He grabbed his hands and held them by his sides.
Buffont leaned on Griffin, trying to push him off. “You’re hurting him more!”
A guttural growl exploded from Maggie, shutting him up.
His head in her hands, Maggie took a deep breath of cool air from the open window above the cot.
“Look at her eyes,” said Buffont with awe.
The deep blue glowed in the dim cove. Once again, Griffin found himself asking the same question. What is she? She gasped, her eyes slamming shut, then she let go. “It’s done,” she said, breathless.
Bradyn remained unconscious.
“Bradyn . . . ,” she coaxed, tears brimming. “Please wake up.”
Griffin shook his legs. “Bradyn. Wake up!”
Bradyn gasped as if freshly born.
His father knelt beside him, hugging him, crying harder than Griffin had ever seen a man cry before. “I thought we’d lost you for sure, lad.” Buffont smiled through his tears at Maggie. His hand patted hers, which was coated in a fine layer of his son’s drying blood. “You did that? You healed him?” Buffont opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He squeezed Bradyn to him.
“You’re crushing me, Da.”
“I cannot believe you’re alive,” Buffont exclaimed. “Thank you,” he said to Maggie.
“I don’t deserve your thanks.”
“She nearly killed me,” Bradyn said, without malice. From the looks of his wide eyes and big grin at Maggie, he didn’t mind in the least. “It was brilliant.” He smacked his father in the arm. “It was like—boom! Knocked me clean across the room with a brilliant blast of light!”
Buffont frowned at Maggie.
Griffin’s mouth fell open. If Maggie could do that . . .
“He hit his head. He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Maggie said, laughing. “It was Xavier, remember, Bradyn?”
“We’re here!” Molly burst into the kitchen through the alley door. Sander wasn’t in the hall. Molly had roused him from bed. He was in a yellow sleeping gown. His silver hair was pointing in every direction, and he was barefoot.
When Molly saw Bradyn standing, she scolded him. “Were you playing a trick on me? What is wrong with you, boy? I thought you were dead!” She reached for his head to check it.
“I’m fine, Ma.” Bradyn swatted her hands, trying to ward her off, but she kept coming. She twisted and turned his head. “Gah! Woman, can you not do that.”
“No. You were lying there. Your hair is still matted with blood. Let the physician have a look at you.”
“Listen to your mother,” Sander said, shaking his head. “Had her so worried, she wouldn’t let me get my shoes on.”
Bradyn opened this mouth, about to give Maggie away, but stopped when he saw her sternly shaking her head. He gulped.
Buffont exchanged a confused stare with Griffin, pushing Bradyn at Molly. “Not in the kitchen. Take him home, Molly.”
“I don’t need to go home,” Bradyn griped.
“Move . . . ,” his mother insisted.
Once they were gone, Buffont brought Maggie a bucket and rag so she could wash the blood off her hands. She sat down on the cot, dipping and scrubbing. Griffin sat down beside her, close enough that he could feel his leg against hers. The proximity set off a jolt that was both comforting and disquieting at the same time. He scooted farther away.
“Please don’t tell anyone what happened here,” Maggie asked Buffont.
He chuckled. “I’m not sure anyone would believe me.”
“Walk me back to my room?” she asked Griffin with a look of determination.
She wanted an explanation. “Of course.”
They walked through torchlit hallways in silence, the only sound coming from their visible breath. Temperatures plummeted, skating through fall, plunging into winter with a vengeance.
Griffin glanced over his shoulder several times.
“What’s wrong?”
“Checking to see if we’re being followed,” he whispered.
“And?”
Griffin shook his head but was still grateful when he turned down a familiar corridor. Not a single guard was posted in the passageway leading to her door.
Maggie closed the door behind them and locked it. Then she checked behind the screen. “No Petal either.”
They were alone, for now.
“Strange to find no soldiers,” Griffin mused. “Raleigh has barely left your side since you arrived. He knows the truth, Maggie.”
She frowned slightly. “I may have tipped my hand on accident in the Hinterlands with him, the same way I did with Buffont just now, only I wasn’t entirely sure he saw.”
“You never said.”
“What would that have changed?”
She was right. Griffin bit his lip, contemplating. “If Raleigh knows, then so do the prince and the king.”
She shook her head. “Not the king. He called Raleigh an old cur. He threw him out of his chambers in the tower, refusing to let him stay for the performance.”
“That explains why Raleigh punched the door. Then struck me.”
“Why?” Maggie tried to look at Griffin’s cheek, but he moved her hand away.
“It was coming for a long while.” Griffin stepped away from her. “But he knows we went to see Rendicryss.”
“What? How?” She sounded accusatory.
“I certainly didn’t confess to it! Could be Perig got caught taking bribes or Raleigh had you followed. Or Jori. He’s certainly obsessed with you.”
The fire snapped, putting an end to the argument, but not the tension. Minty-sweet eucalyptus burned, killing the cloying rose oil scent. A short reprieve, but appreciated. If Griffin never smelled another rose, it would be too soon.
Maggie shoved a chair closer to the heat and sat down. She picked at the blood marring her orange dress. “You should go. I’ll only bring you more trouble. Especially after what happened tonight.”
Griffin had no doubt Maggie could take care of herself. His gaze lifted to the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. No matter how much his head told him to run, his heart refused.
Griffin poured wine, handing Maggie a glass, and took the other seat. He greedily drank it down. The numbness it brought was welcome.
She leaned forward, cradling her glass. “Explain this to me, then. Who is Raleigh?”
“When I met him, he was the king’s most trusted adviser. Had been since the city was built. A soldier who fought with King Umbert and the old lairds against the draignochs. That’s how he came to have so much experience with killing the beasts. The tournaments were his idea, according to him. He was highly respected by the king. But after I won his title from him last year, the king sent him into the Hinterlands, put him in charge of collecting taxes.”
“Like an old horse put out to pasture.”
Griffin nodded.
“But then, why is he remaining in the city? Shouldn’t he be out pillaging?” Maggie stood up, intrigued by the mystery. “And since he’s not, then one must ask oneself, if the king has no use for Raleigh, who does?”
“You speak of the plot to kill the king. He wouldn’t have any part of that. He’s worked too hard to put these lands together. He’s a constant at Jori’s side these days. Raleigh is still loyal to the crown.” Griffin took another sip of wine, trying to wash away the seed
s of doubt.
“Then why not tell the king about me?”
Griffin was asking himself the same question. “I don’t know.”
“I do. Because he told the prince. I don’t trust him.”
“He’s the heir. What would he have to gain by killing his father? The title falls to him.”
“Maybe it’s not falling fast enough for his liking. He’s pretty awful to Jori, from what I saw.” She sat down again, abruptly asking, “Why were you on the bridge?”
“I was waiting . . . for you,” he admitted.
That earned him a smile.
“Oh, I have something for you.” He had completely forgotten the delivery from Dres. He pulled out a folded bit of parchment from his tunic and handed it to her. “It’s from the boy I injured at the arena. The one you helped. His father gave this to Dres and asked that it be given to you. The boy drew it, as a thank-you I suppose.”
Tiny sooty fingerprints were pressed into the fabric as if it had been folded in a hurry. Her breath caught at what she saw inside. Griffin’s had too. He had drawn the scar on her arm—three lines—three dots—in rough coal.
“Perhaps you should burn it.”
She surprised him by tucking the fabric inside her sleeve.
“Is that yet another new dress from Jori?” Griffin set his wine down, trying to hide his irritation. “You look beautiful in it.”
“Thank you.” She flushed, unable to meet his eyes. “I told him to stop, but he’s persistent. I keep ruining them anyway. I suppose he thinks I should try to look presentable.” She played with the folds of the skirt.
“Not an easy task.” Griffin smirked.
“So rude.” She smiled. “What do you think of the prince?”
“You clearly don’t trust him.”
“I don’t trust anyone in this place,” she admitted.
Griffin’s mood plummeted. “He’s been a good friend.”
“Not to you. He tried to stop me from leaving the balcony and helping that boy. Helping you. If Raleigh knew that I could heal, then why did the prince order him to stop me from leaving?”
“The king—”
“Wants rid of me all the time. He would not have noticed me gone.”
Griffin’s stomach soured. “I can only imagine he doesn’t know the truth, then.”
“You’re lying to yourself, Sir Griffin.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not willing to concede the point. For all we know it’s Malcolm Raleigh serves now. He could’ve easily gone North during the last year and no one would know.”
Maggie cradled her glass. Maybe she didn’t really want Griffin to leave. “You trust Jori that much?”
Griffin chose his words carefully. “No trust can be blind. The foundling hordes taught me that. After nights with them in the Bottom, I fell asleep and woke up alone with my only pair of shoes gone.”
“Teaching you to sleep with your shoes on. That’s what I do . . . did . . . in the Hinterlands.”
Griffin smiled. “Thanks to Jori and the king, I have more than one pair.”
“But you worry they’ll take them away from you. Take all of this . . .” She gestured around the grand room.
Griffin felt naked, exposed. She made him question everything, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “After this day, the thought of returning to my old room in the Wilted Rose and sleeping with my shoes on isn’t altogether displeasing.” He drank down his glass of wine.
“You miss it? Your life with Thoma and Dres? You’re much more at ease around them. Thoma especially. You hardly speak around Jori. Probably afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
“Unlike you, who always says whatever pops into your mind. And to your point, I miss many things. But then I’m not sure I would be welcomed back in the same way. You saw how Dres acted. Everything has changed. I have changed. And then I would be letting them down too. I would be letting down everyone who has supported me. The people of the Bottom; what would they think? Even after my axe struck one of their own, our own, they still cheered for me. I in no way deserved it.”
“Of course you deserved it. You cared nothing for yourself or your position when it happened. You ran straightaway to help him. Their loyalty to you is beyond reproach because you give it back in equal measure. I think they would understand completely wanting to leave a dreadful place like this, where you never know who your friends are. A place where you can’t be yourself but have to put on a show . . . all the time.”
Griffin deftly changed the subject. “What about you? You must have friends all over the Hinterlands. Suitors . . .”
Her brow furrowed, her stare floating to the ceiling. “Not really. A night here. Day there. Many days alone, waiting for Xavier to return from scouting. It takes time to travel with the wagon. We never stay anywhere long enough for me to make real friends.” Her blue gaze glossed over. “The memories I saw with Rendicryss were remarkable. The connection so real between her and me.” She hissed a laugh. “The only real friend I have in this world is a monster locked in a cage, who I can’t even remember.”
“You have me.” It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“I’m not looking for pity, Sir Griffin.” She patted his hand that was nervously clasped to his knee.
Griffin caught it, keeping her from escaping. His thumb skating over her palm. The memory of her soft lips touching his in the stairwell returned. Her delicate scent surrounded him. He never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life. “No. I don’t expect you ever would.”
When her deep blue eyes met Griffin’s, her lips parted slightly. Did she want to kiss him too? He swallowed the urge, forcing himself up to pour another glass of wine, although he wasn’t thirsty. “Will you tell me what happened in the king’s chambers?”
“The king told us a story.” She set her glass down and launched into it without hesitation—from a strange beginning to an unbelievable end. The young king murdering his brother in anger, being chased by the draignoch into the enchanted woods, finding a seer woman who spoke of prophecies, of the birth of magic in these lands, and how his rule depended on finding it.
“That’s why the king and Jori have searched for magic all these years? Because she told him he would be king?”
“It’s all come to pass, Griffin.”
He couldn’t deny that was true. “She was speaking of you, then.”
“The king firmly believes it was Xavier she spoke of because he proved himself tonight. Or I did, nearly killing poor Bradyn.”
“How exactly did you do that?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve never done it before. Not even in Rendicryss’s memories that I saw. It happened so fast.” She thrust her arm out, palm up. “Then . . . boom.”
“Do it again.”
She stood up, intrigued. “Here? What if someone sees or hears? Bradyn was blasted across the room. It was all very . . . loud.”
“Really?” Griffin jogged to the door, peeking out, and returned unable to hold back his grin. “Come on. There’s no one in the hallway. Besides, if it draws attention, we’ll come up with a good explanation.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Take advantage now. Show me. . . .”
“I don’t know if I can.” She held her hand out, aiming it at him.
“I have enough scars.” Griffin scooted out of the way. He pressed her elbow, shifting her outstretched hand to face the changing screen. “You won’t miss that.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes on the target. A crease formed between her brows, as if she were concentrating hard, trying to will it to happen. Seconds later, she was still standing in the same position, as was the screen. “It’s not working.”
“You should close your eyes.” The room was stuffy. Griffin paced to the loop, opening the window, allowing fresh air in.
She glanced back, taking a deep breath, and Griffin swore he saw the moon pulse like a star.
Griffin moved behind her. He turned her hips, straddling her stance. “For balance.” He picked up
her other arm. “Open your hand. Can you feel the moon outside the window?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
He drew upon his own training. What he was taught when he first began. Understand the weapon’s particulars first. “Let’s think of it this way. The energy is the arrow, and you are the bow. Draw back, taking it with you, then let it travel through you, out your other hand.”
Her eyes flew open. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
He leaned on her, whispering in her ear, “You’ll never know unless you try.”
She reached back, pressing her fingers on his face, pushing him away. Her fingers were bitter cold, as if dipped in a brook in winter. It hurt. “I have a better idea,” she proclaimed, stretching farther. She made a mad scooping grab, and suddenly light emanated through the cracks of her clenched fist.
“Maggie . . . look . . .”
She opened her eyes, squealed, and threw it at the screen. But the shock-white light had another target in mind. It arced at an angle, instead hitting a table, sending it crashing into the door.
Maggie cringed. “Oops.”
“It was brilliant! You did it!” Griffin could only imagine what it would be like to have that kind of power at your beck and call.
“Pathetically. I cannot aim it.”
Griffin padded to the other side of the room, beside the head of the bed, and held two fingers up. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.” She scooped the light, pitching it at him. He flinched, but the light bent, smashing into the changing screen. “I can see perfectly well, Griffin.”
He laughed. “And you can shoot moonlight.” He picked up a smoking shard from the broken table, regretting the decision. His fingers burned before he could drop it. “It’s frigid.” He shook them out.
“The moon looks like it would be very cold, doesn’t it?” Maggie clapped. “What if this . . . this power could break Rendicryss’s chains?” Her eyes went wide with excitement. She went to the wardrobe, retrieving Sybil’s cloak, as if she were leaving to find out right now.
“You can’t do that.”
“How will I know unless I try?”
“What will you do if it works? You’ll just let her loose on the city?” Terrifying images flashed through his mind. That dragon crashing through the city’s buildings, stampeding the many, many people who called this place home.
The Color of Dragons Page 21
