The Color of Dragons

by R. A. Salvatore, Erika Lewis

Genres: YA Epic Fantasy; YA Romance

Synopsis

Powerhouse adult fantasy author R. A. Salvatore and Erika Lewis deliver a sweeping, action-packed, romantic pre-Arthurian tale of the origins of magic (and Merlin), perfect for fans of Falling Kingdoms and Seraphina.

Magic needs a spark.

And Maggie’s powers are especially fickle. With no one to help her learn to control her magic, the life debt that she owes stretches eternally over her head, with no way to repay it.

Until she meets Griffin, the king’s champion, infamous for hunting down the draignochs that plague their kingdom.

Neither has any idea of the destiny that they both carry, or that their meeting will set off a chain of events that will alter every aspect of the life they know—and all of history thereafter.

This epic, romantic tale will enchant readers and draw them into a thrilling world of star-crossed lovers, magic, destiny, and the paths we choose.

Release date: October 19, 2021

Publisher: HarperTeen

Print pages: 416

Sample

 

A Brief History

The lands were divided, not by name, which was common, but by a wall. Unlike the ramparts of this time, which were mostly made of wood, this wall was made of stone. Hailed a wonder of the world, it rose forty feet into the air. Nothing could penetrate or scale it.

King Umbert ordered the building of this wall. He was once considered a valiant king, the warrior who beat back deadly monsters, known as draignochs, all to save the people. Large beasts twice the size of the tallest man, with daggers for fangs and serpent tails decorated with deadly spikes, the draignochs terrorized the four lands. It took brutal strength to stop them. It took Umbert the Conqueror, a warrior known for honor and valor.

But that was before the wall.

When the war was over, the people crowned him king, and King Umbert built a glorious castle on the highest hill, a hill so tall it could be seen from every part of the land. Around the castle a great city grew, filled with those closest to the king, and those close to those closest to the king, and so on and so forth, until the city bustled and there was room for no more. The wall came next, and it was praised by all living in the city, for it offered them safety they had never before known. But shortly thereafter, the king and those who lived within the walls changed.

They forgot where the food they ate and the water they drank came from, as if it just magically appeared behind the wall or grew from the rocks they had planted rather than trees. And yet, the food and water still came, as did the thread for their fine linen clothes, leather for their armor, steel for their swords, wool for their blankets, and on and on, because a luxurious castle in a luxurious city needed such things to keep them in comfort.

No one asked where anything came from because it was always there. And it was always there because it was stolen—in the name of taxes for the king and his walled-off city—from those living outside, in the Hinterlands, where people slaved over fields, dug deep in the mines, and wrangled cattle and sheep, only to have their just rewards taken from them.

And as much as those in the walled city had forgotten, those outside talked of nothing else, every hour of every minute of every second of every day.

Anger spread throughout the lands. King Umbert’s legend was forgotten. His infamy grew.

Unrest roiled in the hearts of all who lived outside. All they needed to bring change was a spark to ignite the rebellion.

 

One
Maggie

“Did you feel that, lass?” The bones tied in Xavier’s silver hair clacked in the wind as his haunted gaze fell on the empty road behind us.

The drumbeat of cantering horses meant only one thing in the Hinterlands.

King Umbert’s soldiers.

They came down from the Walled City without warning. Always dressed in the finest smoothed leather tunics stained red for their king, always heavily armed, and always hungry. The soldiers raided, taking anything and everything in the name of the crown. Livestock and harvest bounty from the South. Steel, precious gems, silver and gold mined in the East. Timber from the West. And women from all.

“I feel it.”

He thwacked our old mare, Dorn, but she was no match for them even if she wasn’t pulling our wagon.

“There’s no other road,” I said, knowing what would come next.

Xavier grimaced. “Hide yourself until nightfall, then meet me at the village tavern. Take the back way. Some of this lot may wind up there.” At least he didn’t sound nervous.

“Understood.” I knew what was expected. This happened at least once a month.

I checked my dagger was in my boot.

“Whatever you do, Maggie—”

“Don’t be late. Performance starts just after sundown. I know.”

The road bent.

“Have I ever let you down?” I gave him my best cheeky grin.

“There’s always a first time.” Xavier shoved me out of the wagon.

I rolled down the short hill into a shady glen, scooting behind a thick tree with low-hanging branches I could easily climb. It had the benefit of colorful fall leaves that refused to bow to burgeoning winter, giving good cover. Once perched above sightline, I heard Xavier’s singing. He did that to keep the soldiers on his trail.

Xavier was a strange old man, putting himself at risk for me. I was nothing to him. No relation at all. A barely whelped foundling who wandered out of the woods, lost. I hadn’t been old enough to speak or remember how to get home.

Xavier lived a gypsy life, traveling here and there, performing magic tricks for handouts. He had no reason to take on a tiny child. To hear him tell the tale, he fed me that night, and like a stray dog, I followed him forever after. That was it. He was stuck with me. Softhearted sucker. And I would never let him down. My job was simple, really. As soon as I was old enough to hold things without dropping them, I became his magician’s assistant, helping with props and passing the collection pot. Tonight was a big night for us.

The past six months the earnings pot had barely made enough to feed Dorn. Drought devastated the southern farms. There was little food to be had, and what was to be had was expensive. We’d eaten nothing but what we could scavenge from places that had already been raked over. Berries, watercress, fish, and the occasional windfall of a squirrel.

The last four alehouses were mostly empty. But this night would be different. Ships had pulled in only last night, so the marauders’ pockets would be heavy, and they would be drinking their fill at the Lazy Storm, the only tavern in the western seaside village. The sots would be drunk, happy to be on land, and lulled into a dream state with full bellies. If they didn’t shill a bit of pirated silver for the performance, it would be easy to take it.

As expected, within seconds, horse hooves and wagon wheels exited the road, moving into the field on the other side of the glen. Wagon wheels rolled. I saw a team of twelve horses harnessed to an enormous mandarin-colored metal cage grind to a halt on the other side of the glen. I was too high to see what was inside.

Footsteps approached, growing louder by the second. I held my breath as a beefy soldier removed his helmet, throwing it at the cage. Blood trickled down the back of his neck. “I’m going to cut off every one of that rat’s claws!”

He pulled his sword.

A sniveling skinny boy about my age limped past the tree and around the soldier, standing in his way. Fresh blood stuck his scraggly brown hair to his forehead, his gray linen clothes shredded as if he’d been attacked by a wild dog. “No. You won’t. You will stay away from it, Moldark!”

Moldark slid his sword up against the boy’s throat, backing him up. “Why don’t you try and stop me, Perig, ya pissant?” His words whistled as though he was missing a front tooth.

The soldier shoved Perig through thorny bushes that stood between them and the metal cage, rousing squeaky helpless yelps, then followed him with determination, disappearing from view as well.

This was my chance to get away. I climbed down as silently as possible, relieved when my feet softly touched solid ground. The road looked clear. Directly across was the footpath that would lead me to the back of the village. Soldiers never used it. It took longer.

A sharp cry rang out. High-pitched, tinged with frustration and sadness more than anger. My heart seized. My feet froze. I had never heard anything like it.

Another cry. Then another.

The fourth time, a scuffle broke out.

“Get off me, Perig!”

An oomph and a cry for help left me believing that Perig was losing the battle with Moldark.

A loud thwap pinged the metal cage. “Do you see that wagon piled high with bodies killed by this wretched beast? A little punishment goes a long way to—”

“This draignoch belongs to the king!” Perig griped.

A draignoch? Impossible.

All had been killed or captured long ago, or so Xavier told me. Once upon a time, the beasts ravaged the lands. Xavier’s home, with his family inside, was trampled by the monsters. He was the sole survivor. Hinterfolk spoke of draignochs only in whispers, as if saying the name would unleash the monsters again. I hid behind the trunk, tempted. I had never seen one before.

It cried out for a fifth time.

I should leave. As it was, I was too close to the soldiers, but I found it impossible to resist a peek.

I crawled to the hedges. Kneeling, I slid my hands into the prickly branches, parting enough space for me to glimpse Moldark stab a spear through the bars.

The draignoch let out a strangled cry.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Moldark wasn’t just beefy. He was a mountain of a man. His face pocked, his hair greasy black. He growled at the draignoch, showing off the few teeth he had left in his head.

I couldn’t see the draignoch clearly in the shadows of the cage, but I could hear it. It knocked into the side, nearly toppling it over.

“Moldark!” Perig flailed his hands at the huge man. “Be reasonable! If this falls over . . . if it escapes . . .” His fearful gasps stopped.

“It can’t escape a Phantombronze cage, Perig.” Moldark rattled the bars with his spear.

Another first. I’d always thought Phantombronze was made up by bards who ran out of stories to tell. They sang of it being the strongest metal ever found. Unbreakable even. They said if the deep mines under the Walled City didn’t kill you, the poisonous fumes from smithing it would.

“Stop it!” Perig screeched, his pitch so high it hurt my ears. “The king will have your head cut off if he hears word of this behavior.”

Moldark aimed the spear at Perig’s heart. “If you mention my name to the king, ever, I’ll kill you before he kills me. That’s a promise.”

Perig backed up. “Just get away from it. I fed it a very powerful sleep dram. If you just stop riling it, it’ll take effect.”

“Moldark! Perig!” another soldier cried from some distance away.

Perig patted Moldark on the shoulder, delivering a pleading grin. “Sir Raleigh calls. Cannot keep him waiting.”

“Hands off,” Toothless growled, then immediately spun around, storming away with Perig right behind him.

This was my chance. I had to see it. I couldn’t wait to tell Xavier. Bring him back something to prove it too. Perhaps the beast would be so kind as to shed a feather or scale, or drop a turd, any unnecessary random bit that Xavier could spin into a story of magic.

A quick glance to be sure the path was clear, and I slid through the bushes. Crouching beside one of the large wheels, I laid a tentative hand on the Phantombronze. It felt smooth and frigid like river ice in winter.

The creature rumbled as if succumbing to the sleep dram.

I peeked through the bars. The cage was so layered in shadows all I could see was what the afternoon sun spotlighted, the creature’s back where bloody stab wounds marred its iridescent black skin. With every breath the beast took, its body shifted across the beams, its skin casting subtle, secret colors. It was beautiful.

Above me, its steely blue eye blinked open.

I cringed, expecting it to roar and give me away, but instead, it whispered in chuffs and clicks. Its head rose a few inches but was forced to stop when it hit the ceiling. It was much too big for the cell.

A claw scraped the metal floor of the cage, sliding between the bars, clasping the edge. The draignoch chuffed again. Slightly louder this time, pumping its claw, like a beckoning finger.

This was a trap. If I got too close, that claw would skewer me—its next meal on a spit. But the beast was right there, only inches away. It lowered its head so that I could feel its breath on my neck.

Chills.

I gave in to foolishness, brushing my fingers across the claw. It was hard as stone and cold as ice. As I drew back, an invisible force seemed to press my hand down. Holding it to the talon.

The draignoch rolled a purr, like a cat settling in for a long comfortable sleep—with my hand stuck to it.

No! I panicked, yanking my wrist. But it wouldn’t move. The sounds of soldiers’ footsteps padding through the tall grasses, conversations of feeding and watering horses—all of this happening on the other side of the cage. Focused on the draignoch, I had forgotten that I was standing on the edge of a lion’s den.

Voices came closer. I recognized skinny Perig’s. Him I could take, but Moldark would be an issue.

I twisted and turned, but the force was too strong. Then all at once, beneath my palm, I felt a pulse beating a simple rhythm.

The draignoch whimpered. My heart ached with familiarity, as if this creature and I had somehow happened upon each other before. But that was impossible—or was it?

I had been found wandering out of a forest. Could this beast be the reason I had no family? The reason I ended up alone?

A flash of white erupted in the middle of the red in its visible eye. The burn grew larger and larger until it was the shape of a full moon. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was terrifying, mesmerizing, and likely an indication it was about to kill me.

Not it. It wasn’t an it. It was a her. I felt that with certainty.

Heat shot through me. The full moon in her eye spread until it consumed half the red. My forearm stung. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out.

I ripped my sleeve back. The scar from my childhood was blistering and red. Three long, deep scratches. The two on the sides tilted in opposite directions, pointing toward the center. A tiny pinprick topped each one. I had no idea what had caused it. Xavier thought maybe a wild cat of some kind. But now I wondered. Was it given to me by this creature? By her?

I tried to free my hand again. With each pull, fresh fire shot through my arm. It burned, and I hissed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Perig yelled, startling me.

The draignoch groaned as if annoyed, pulling her claw back inside the cage. My hand fell away, freed. I gasped with relief, but as I turned to run, panic was replaced by a sudden deep sense of loss. For some insane and possibly suicidal reason, I didn’t want to leave her.

Perig made a mad grab with a three-fingered hand, missing the hood of my cloak by several important inches. I split the thorny bushes with my arms, feeling the raw burn on my mark fresh with every poke and stick.

“Get back here!” Moldark rushed at me from the other side, pulling his sword. The tip burrowed into my back before I could get away. I raised my hands. Caught.

“Back up! Slowly . . .”

The draignoch roared. She threw her head from side to side, shaking the cage so hard it threatened to fall over.

Moldark made the mistake of looking back. I dove into the bushes, coming out the other side. Toothless yelled, “Halt!”

As if . . .

I ran as fast as I could through the grove and across the road, Moldark huffing after me. I hurdled a stream, then started down a muddy hill. A hard boot kicked me in the back, sending me careening into the cool slippery muck.

Laughing, Moldark stepped on my back, holding me there. The tip of his blade pressed against my shoulder, stabbing through my cloak. Another push and it would break skin.

“When King Umbert’s soldier tells you to halt, you halt, boy.”

Dressed in trousers with my hair stuffed under Xavier’s old cloak, I looked like a skinny young boy rather than a girl of seventeen. But the sound of my voice would give me away at the first word, so I held my tongue.

He replaced his boot with a knee. He grabbed the back of my head with his free hand, forcing it to the side so he could get a look at my face.

His matted hair fell into his eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

That your breath smells like you licked a pig’s ass, I thought, but I refrained. When I remained mute, he shoved my face into the mud, making it impossible for me to breathe. I thrashed, but he pushed harder.

“That’ll teach you . . .”

Somehow, my hand found the dagger in my boot.

He shifted, his foot moving forward to maintain balance. Before he knew what hit him, I stabbed right through his boot, feeling the blade grind down until it broke through the hard leather sole.

“Ah! Ya little bastard!” He fell backward, dropping his sword to yank the knife out with two hands.

I scrambled to get up, but my hands and knees slipped in the muck. Then another soldier stepped on my back, pinning me again. More soldiers circled, making escape difficult. At least I could breathe.

“What is this ruckus about?” someone said from behind me. “Moldark, I gave you specific instructions. That draignoch must be taken to the Walled City. Now. You don’t have time for . . . whatever this is.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Moldark wave my knife. “This urchin stabbed me in the foot with an illegal blade, Prince Jori.”

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 whatever 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. ...