City of Wind (Steel and Fire Book 4)

by Jordan Rivet

  When her vision cleared, purple spots still dancing at the edges, the spiral of Fire and the braid of Watermight were gone.

  “What was that?” Dara asked.

  “That,” Wyla said, “is my problem. Fire and Watermight are incompatible. They consume each other in a flash. This would be useful if the burst of pressure could knock people to the ground or send armies to their knees, but I haven’t managed to harness the energy in that way. It’s gone like nothing more than a gust of wind.”

  “Did you think it would be different with me just now?” Dara asked. She still held the extra Fire, burning beneath her skin. As the shockwave passed, it had felt as if the power within her contracted, retreating into her bones to protect itself from the Watermight.

  “I wanted you to see what we’re working with first,” Wyla said. “You see there’s a lot of light and a bit of pressure. Nothing too dangerous.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Good. Then you see you’ll be in no danger if you take Fire and Watermight into your body at the same time.”

  “But I can’t wield Watermight.”

  “I’m not so certain that’s true,” Wyla said.

  “I—really?”

  Dara had assumed when Wyla enlisted her as a research assistant that they would be producing Works together, each controlling their own unique power to figure out how they could be connected. But this?

  “You want me to try using Watermight myself?”

  Wyla didn’t respond, busy scribbling notes once more.

  “Wyla?” Dara didn’t want to irritate the woman, but her brain was turning like a Firespindle as she considered the possibilities. Was such a thing actually possible?

  At last, Wyla looked up. “My theory is that the inherent ability to Work the magical substances of this land is the same in all people with the gift. We in Pendark and you in Vertigon learn only one substance. The scarcity of the other in each dominion means no one discovers they are both a Waterworker and a Fireworker at the same time.”

  Dara shook her head as she tried to take this in.

  “Are you saying you can Work the Fire?”

  “Not me,” Wyla said impatiently. “And neither can the other Watermight practitioners in Pendark. That is the problem. I learned the Watermight Arts in my youth. My body is trained to take in that substance alone. The two powers behave differently, you see. Once you become accustomed to one, your body is no longer compatible with the other.”

  Wyla stood and plucked another Firebulb from the basket. She held it flat in her palm and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, a faint sizzling sound filled the air. She dropped the Firebulb, and it clinked on the floor and rolled away. Wyla showed Dara the faint red outline of a burn on her palm. Dara seized her hand for a closer look. Wyla snorted disapprovingly, but Dara barely noticed. Firebulbs were safe for anyone to use. Wyla must have pulled some of the Fire out to get it to burn. It couldn’t be possible.

  “My theory,” Wyla said, pulling her hand delicately out of Dara’s grip, “is that someone with the Spark could learn to Wield both powers. I’ve tried it with children before and made some progress, but it is very difficult for them to achieve the level of control it takes to Wield both powers at once. It has proved too much for them.”

  Dara went cold at the thought. Wyla had been experimenting with young Firesparked—or Watertouched—children. She must have forced them to draw on incompatible powers, forced them to control the wild rush of substances that even lifelong wielders didn’t fully understand.

  But Dara wasn’t a child. She met Wyla’s eyes. “You think I’ll have more control than your other . . . research assistants?”

  “You are old enough and disciplined enough to have a great deal of control over your body,” Wyla said. “Your history as an athlete only confirms this. You progressed very quickly when you began to learn the Work. However, you are still early enough in your training that I believe you could learn to hold both Fire and Watermight within you at the same time without allowing them to combust.” Wyla took a step closer to Dara and seized her hand, exactly as Dara had done before. She turned her palm over, tracing the lines in Dara’s skin. “That could be the key to getting the powers to cooperate at last.”

  Dara pulled her hand out of Wyla’s grasp. “And what exactly do you want me to do with the power if I can use it like you suggest?”

  “You could confirm my theories, first of all,” Wyla said. “I also hope you can articulate your process clearly enough that I could attempt it myself under the right conditions.”

  Dara glanced at Wyla’s hand, thinking of the angry burn marking her palm. She was skeptical about Wyla’s theory. And if she somehow managed to combine the powers thanks to her unique circumstances, Wyla would want a whole lot more from her. She doubted she could just walk away.

  But what if she really got this to work? What if she could harness the energy in that shockwave and turn it into real power? She hardly dared to admit the way her heart raced at the thought.

  She met Wyla’s eyes and recognized the challenge in them, the chance to compete. “Shouldn’t we see if I can actually do anything with Watermight before we get too excited?”

  Wyla smiled. “I hoped you’d be intrigued. Come. Let me show you my power.”

  Wyla led the way out of her study and down to the ground floor of the manor. She took out a large silver key ring and opened a small door Dara had assumed led to a broom closet, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

  “A light, if you please.”

  Dara hesitated, nervous at the idea of bringing Fire into contact with Wyla’s stash of Watermight. The Waterworker tapped her foot impatiently and motioned toward the stairs.

  Dara drew the last of the Fire from the Firebulbs out of her body and spun a temporary light above her palm. She couldn’t help forming it into the shape of a lantern. She lifted the conjured light aloft and entered the bowels of the manor, Wyla following closely behind her.

  The air grew cold and damp as they descended. Dara estimated they walked at least forty feet into the swampy ground beneath the waterline. They entered a dank room at the bottom, whose stone walls were sealed and reinforced with silver mortar. Watermight couldn’t be solidified like Fire, so Dara wasn’t sure what this substance was. Some strange hybrid Wyla was keeping away from prying eyes?

  They didn’t need the light from Dara’s Fire once they entered the room. There was more than enough illumination coming from Wyla’s personal Watermight supply.

  A vast whirlpool was set in the floor of the dungeon-like room. Silvery Watermight swirled in an endless tornado of power. White light glittered from the surface. If diamonds could become liquid and swirl around like wine in a goblet, it might look a little like this.

  “You must not speak of this,” Wyla said. “I assume you know that already.”

  “Who would I talk to?” Wyla had kept her too occupied to leave the manor over the past few days. She hadn’t seen Siv since their swimming lesson.

  “I know you and Vine discuss the Work,” Wyla said. “She has spent a lot of time out in the city of late. I don’t want her carrying tales to any other practitioners.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Vine,” Dara said. “I trust her.”

  Wyla snorted softly. “You should trust no one.”

  “Do the other Waterworkers keep their power underneath their manor houses like this?”

  “Some. We are protective of our methods. This whirlpool containment system is my own invention.” Wyla sounded genuinely proud as she stood at the edge of the pool, the light flickering on her steel-toed boots. “I found it much simpler to build my home over my primary power source than to guard it in another location, as others do. Some are forced to guard their supplies from boats in the Gulf itself.”

  “They can’t just move it?”

  “One of the great weaknesses of the Watermight is the difficulty of transporting and holding it, but Watermight is at its most powe
rful when it can be drawn from the sea and wielded in concert with true water.”

  Dara studied Wyla’s whirlpool. Yes, there was ordinary water mixed in with the silvery magical substance. It came from a spout in the stone wall, perhaps originating from the small stream that ran through the courtyard garden. She guessed Wyla stored the power by keeping it in motion. She must constantly have her senses tuned to this room to prevent it from slipping away. That must take an incredible amount of focus—not to mention strength.

  Dara walked around the thin lip of stone surrounding the silver pool. The sight of the swirling power was utterly mesmerizing. She could feel it too. The power. The intensity.

  She lifted her lantern of Fire over the pool. The light from the Watermight seemed to fight against the Firelight. She didn’t need the illumination now, but she was afraid to draw the power back into her body. She could only imagine what would happen if she accidentally slipped into the pool with Fire in her blood.

  “Where does the power come from?” she asked. “Is this a spring?”

  “A vent. Most of the power comes from vents on the seafloor, not unlike smaller versions of your Well.” Wyla stretched out a hand and called a stream of Watermight to her. It moved differently than the Fire, more sinuous and smooth, but also more ethereal. Fire and Watermight were both liquids, but where Fire was denser than water, the Watermight seemed lighter, as if it was almost at the point of becoming a gas.

  “The power spews forth and mixes with the seawater,” Wyla explained. “The practitioners must gather it up. If they control a vent, it’s easier to capture the power before it slips away.”

  “How many vents are in the Black Gulf?”

  “A dozen are active at any given time,” Wyla said. “Many Workers employ less powerful practitioners to keep watch for new ones. But they may try to capture the power from the newly opened vent and use it to claim more territory, so it’s a dangerous arrangement. If too many strong practitioners join the contest, it can get ugly. Most of the periods of conflict in our history began with a new vent discovery.”

  “Do the vents ever run out?”

  “Eventually.”

  “So there’s not enough power available for everyone with the ability?”

  “There is never enough.”

  Dara remembered when Zage Lorrid had explained how the Waterworkers of Pendark warred for dominance. His experiences in this city had been why he felt so strongly that the Fire needed to be carefully regulated and distributed amongst many Workers in Vertigon. Dara’s father had set out to change that. How soon would the Fireworkers fight amongst themselves now that the regulations had been eliminated? At least the Well produced a consistent amount of Fire. She couldn’t imagine what would happen if more power was somehow injected into the mountain.

  She shook her head. The Fire was far away in Vertigon. She had more immediate concerns.

  “Have the Waterworkers ever tried to use their power to conquer other lands?”

  Wyla pursed her lips, the expression reminding Dara suddenly and forcibly of her mother. “The difficulty of solidifying and storing the power has largely kept it within the bounds of Pendark.”

  “So Watermight can’t be used anywhere else? At all?” That was a flaw in Dara’s plan to somehow use Waterworks—or an alliance with a Watermight Artist—to neutralize her father.

  “With the proper training, you can travel some distance carrying Watermight, but it drains away within a week,” Wyla said. “When practitioners have tried to use their power to expand too far, it has only led to defeat and humiliation.”

  “Hmm.” Dara paced along the edge of the pool. A week was far too short. “What about Soole?” She turned to face Wyla. “It’s on the sea too.”

  “I’ve heard claims of Watermight vents opening off the coast of Soole, but they have never been substantiated. Watermight belongs to Pendark alone.”

  Dara frowned at the silvery depths of the whirlpool, feeling frustrated. What good was all this, then? What did it matter that she might be able to Work the Watermight if she never got anywhere near her father with it? There had to be something Wyla wasn’t telling her.

  “How did you get your vent?” she asked.

  Wyla smiled, and the flickering light of the Watermight made her teeth glow. “I won’t teach you all of my secrets just yet.”

  Dara studied the older woman as if she were a dueling opponent. It wouldn’t be any easy match. The constant struggle over this ephemeral power hadn’t made Wyla particularly trusting. But at least she thought Dara could learn a thing or two from her.

  “Are you sure you have enough Watermight for me to experiment?”

  “For a time.”

  “I might not be able to do it. I hope it won’t be wasted.”

  “Oh, I expect to make back my investment in you,” Wyla said. “Shall we begin?”

  7.

  Vine

  DARA was exhausted by the time she finished her daily session with Wyla and returned to the room she shared with Vine Silltine on the top floor of the manor house. The spacious guestroom had a pair of beds, matching washstands, and tall mirrors on each wall. A wardrobe separated two windows overlooking the front courtyard. Staying here was much nicer than sleeping on the cold ground, as they’d had to do too often while they searched for Siv, but she couldn’t rest yet.

  Dara drew her sword and did footwork in the narrow space between the two beds. Advance. Retreat. Advance. Lunge. She slashed the air in familiar patterns, refusing to neglect her dueling training despite her fatigue. The Savven hummed with warmth. Siv had given her the fine black blade made by Drade Savven, the best sword smith of his generation. It had somehow transformed into a Fire Blade during her confrontation with her father back in Vertigon. She still hadn’t fully delved the mysteries of its creation.

  Her boots thudded on the wood floor as the Savven flashed before her, unnaturally swift and strong. When she created the Fire Blade, she’d been desperate to save Siv and devastated by the encounter with her father. Wyla believed there was a link between emotions and the Work. Could her pain and heightened emotions have caused the transformation of the Savven? All Dara knew was they were connected now, she and the blade. After Vex Rollendar’s men stole it from her, she’d been drawn back to it by the faint impression of a spark in her chest.

  Dara’s skirts flared as she executed a neat advance lunge. She wore one of the dresses Wyla had supplied in the same poison-green shade as her flags. Dara couldn’t help thinking of it as a uniform. Wyla owned her for the next three months, and she had much higher hopes for her than Dara had anticipated. Was it really possible she could wield Watermight? And if she did, would Wyla ever let her go?

  Dara lunged, sinking the tip of her blade deep into the wardrobe door. The thud echoed through the room. Despite her worries, she couldn’t help being excited about the possibilities. If she could use her Fire along with the fabled Watermight, there might be no limit to what she could do.

  She yanked her blade from the door, tossed it on her bed, and sat down to stretch, adjusting her many-layered skirt. She was still getting used to the shorter length, but it kept her hem out of the mud—and away from her feet if she ever had to fight or run in the thing. Besides—not that she’d admit it to anyone—the poison-green looked good against her golden hair.

  The door opened, and Vine waltzed into the room. She too wore a Pendarkan dress from Wyla, pale-blue in an equally fine material.

  “You’re back early today,” Dara said.

  “I promised Rid I’d dine with him this evening,” Vine said. “I’ve been busy of late, and he’s looking forlorn. It was so much easier when I had my own network of informants.”

  Vine had appointed herself information gatherer and rumor interpreter when it became clear she wouldn’t be included in Wyla and Dara’s conversations about the Work. For some reason, Wyla wasn’t interested in Vine’s faculty for Sensing the Air, the magical substance most commonly found on the plains of
Trure. Perhaps Wyla had worked with enough Air Sensors before, or perhaps she didn’t value the talent. Dara’s father had been equally unimpressed by the Air, but Dara wasn’t willing to be as dismissive.

  “Did you hear anything new about Rallion City?”

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Vine said, shedding her shawl and her own assortment of weapons. “What do you know?”

  “Just what those kids told us a few days ago,” Dara said.

  “Well, the rumors do seem to be true. Commander Brach assaulted the city walls and captured the palace. The latest news is that he’s holding King Atrin in his own dungeon.”

  “He must be grumpy about that.”

  “I would imagine so,” Vine said. “He does have a vitriolic streak.”

  Dara snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” King Atrin had locked her in those very dungeons in a rage after Siv was kidnapped, delaying her search until Vine came for her. But he was still Siv’s grandfather, and she didn’t want any harm to come to him.

  Vine sat on her bed and eased off her shoes. “No one has seen Lady Tirra or Princess Selivia in the city since before the siege began. My sources believe they were sent to one of the plains estates as a precaution. They should be safe.”

  “That’s good news,” Dara said. Selivia was her friend as well as Siv’s sister. “Any word on what Commander Brach will do next?”

  “I’m afraid that’s where the rumors devolve into pure speculation.” Vine frowned and looked toward the window, which faced the inky waters of the Black Gulf in the distance. “I wish I could communicate directly with my friends in Trure. The Air sometimes consents to carry voices on the wind, but it has been silent of late.”

  “You can speak to people with the Air? Even as far away as Rallion City?”

  “If the Air wills it.” Vine sighed. “As I said, it has been quiet these past weeks.”

  Vine fell silent, and Dara feared she’d lapse into one of her meditative trances again.