by Jordan Rivet
Despite her desire to poke Farr in the toe with a sword so he’d move out of her way, she couldn’t offend Corren.
“Any idea what they’re talking about in there?” she asked politely.
“Master Corren is going to ask Master Ruminor if I can learn some latticework from him,” Farr said, his words coming out in a rush. “I keep breaking the threads, and he wants me to try out something heavier.”
“Hmm.” Dara doubted her father would agree to that. Like Dara, he hated anything that broke his focus. And he hadn’t taken an apprentice since Renna died. He would much rather keep the business in the family.
“So . . . you don’t Work the Fire?” Farr asked.
“I’m sure Corren mentioned that,” Dara said. Corren had undoubtedly filled Farr in on exactly how valuable the Ruminor name would be to an up-and-coming Fireworker. Even though she was over her disappointment at not having the Spark, she didn’t like being reminded of it every time she turned around. “I help my mother with the orders, and the rest of the time I duel.”
“Really? I’ve never been to a dueling show before,” Farr said.
“Competition.”
“Huh?”
“You mean dueling competition. It’s not a show.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Farr went back to shuffling his feet and cracking his knuckles. Dara held back another sigh. This fellow wasn’t promising. She wondered if he liked paperwork. Maybe Lima should be the one taking on a part-time apprentice.
Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea.
Dara looked up at Farr as he took a deep breath and blurted out: “I think you’re pretty!”
“Uh, thank you,” Dara said. “I need to talk to my mother about something. Will you excuse me?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she squeezed past him in the tunnel.
“Will I see you at the next Guild meeting?” Farr sounded a little panicked, and words tumbled out of him again. “The discussions have been quite interesting lately. Lots of developments that could alter the future of our business.”
“I’m sure it’s fascinating,” Dara said. “I don’t go to the meetings unless I have to. Good luck with the spinning.” Dara started up the corridor then took pity on the poor assistant. She turned around. “Look, Corren can be a bit forceful, but you don’t have to try to woo me.”
There was enough light to reveal the blush in Farr’s cheeks.
“Sorry I messed up. He said I should . . . Never mind. I do think you’re pretty, though.”
“Thank you. Look, if you’re really interested in the Fire Guild, I could ask my mother to talk to you about it. She’s been keeping the Guild minutes for a decade.”
“I’d like that,” Farr said.
“Great.” Dara grinned. “In fact, I’ll see if she’s free tomorrow morning.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Farr said, grinning back. He had a nice, unassuming smile, and it softened his bony features. “I hope I’ll see you again.”
Dara jogged back up the tunnel to the shop. She should be able to get away for her duel with the prince if her mother was occupied with Farr. For her part, she was tired of suitors and guilds and paperwork. She was tired of trying to replace her sister when she didn’t have the same ability. She had to find some way to ensure that she wouldn’t be totally dependent on the Fireworking business for the rest of her life. She needed a patron—and a replacement of her own—soon. In the meantime, her mother and Farr would get along grandly. And she had a royal duel to win.
3.
The Prince
DARA leapt out of bed before the sun rose on the day she had arranged to meet Berg. She had almost been too excited to sleep last night. The familiar buzz she got whenever a competition approached hummed through her stomach as she peered out her window. Mist hung thick over the slopes of the mountain. A few lights burned over on Square Peak, but the castle at the top of King’s Peak was still dark.
A low rumble came from deep within the cave as Dara dressed in her usual practice gear of soft gray trousers, training boots, and a darker gray blouse. The cut was more masculine than her mother liked her to wear outside of the dueling hall, but it moved easily and hid the sweat. Dara twisted back her long golden hair and put on a deep-blue cloak. It was too hot for the cloak inside, but the farther she got from her father’s workshop, the more she would need it. It may be summer, but it was always cold on the mountain.
Dara slung her gear bag over her shoulder, slipped out of the house, and hurried down the stairs from their porch. Only the howl of the wind and the thud of her boots disrupted the silence. A dozen of her father’s lanterns lit the boardwalk, which soon met a winding pathway leading down through the Village and all the way to Fell Bridge. The darker it was, the brighter the Fire Lanterns glowed. The city was often shrouded in mist, and they needed the lanterns during the daytime as much as the night.
Vertigon was built on a grand mountain topped by three steep peaks: King’s Peak, Square Peak, and Village Peak. Dara’s family lived on Village Peak. It was divided from King’s Peak by a gorge lined with orchard terraces. The tallest buildings in the Village were just level with the base of the castle on top of King’s Peak. Square Peak was the shortest and widest of the three, located across a much deeper gorge called the Fissure. All three peaks were connected by dozens of bridges spanning the Fissure and Orchard Gorge. Wooden staircases and stone steps cut into the slopes connected the homes and shops built around the three peaks.
The narrow canyon leading out of the Fissure was the only true access to the city high up the mountain. The precipitous cliffs surrounding the rest of the peaks made the city remarkably easy to defend. It had been no simple task for the Founders to build their mountaintop citadel, but once it was established no one was foolish enough to attack it. They had to import any supplies and food not found on the mountain, but the Lands Below were desperate for its primary export—the Fireworks—and they were willing to pay handsomely for the magical objects.
The Village stirred fitfully at this early hour. The clop-clop of mountain goats and the rustle of pigeon hatcheries arose as Dara descended from the rocky heights where the Ruminor dwelling was located. A few miners crossed her path on their way to work, and sleepy bridge guards headed the other way, home to their beds in the humble wood and stone houses scattered up and down the slopes of Village Peak. The smell of roasting pigeon, berry pies, and fresh-baked bread drifted from the market, located a bit lower on the slope between the entrances to Fell Bridge and Furlingbird Bridge. Smoke wafted out of the Fireshops, which dotted the Village like glowing goals.
Dara waited for Berg by the bridge, jumping up and down to warm her muscles. Fell was the widest of the bridges across Orchard Gorge connecting the Village to King’s Peak. Berg would have to cross from Square Peak first. He lived near his school, which, like many of the dueling schools, had been built on Square because it had more level space than the other two peaks. It was also home to the king’s army and a motley patchwork of orchards, cave dwellings, and breeding farms for goats and mountain ponies.
Dara was nervous about her sparring match with the prince. She had never met Sivarrion Amintelle. When she had seen him standing with his two younger sisters, Selivia and Soraline, beside their father, King Sevren, at official festivals, he usually looked bored. She hadn’t even known he could duel. She remembered what her mother had said about his reputation for drinking in the parlors in Lower King’s, worrying this excursion would end up being a waste of time.
Sivarrion’s father, King Sevren, was the Third Good King. His family had presided uncontested over the mountain for a hundred years. The Lands Below had seen succession battles, rebellions, and civil wars in that time, but Vertigon had remained stable in the hands of the Amintelle family. As the oldest child and only son, Prince Sivarrion would have a smooth transition when he succeeded his father one day. It was unlikely to happen for many years, though. King Sevren was fifty years old, and by all accounts he was
as hale and hearty as ever.
Dara worked her ankles in slow circles and scanned the narrow road through the Village eagerly. She was more than ready to see what this prince could do.
Berg finally approached through the mist, wrapped in a cloak made from the long black fur of a mountain bear. He grunted a greeting and started across the bridge.
“Good morning, Coach!” Dara said. “What’s the prince’s style like? Can you give me any—?”
“We talk later,” Berg grumbled. “Is too early.”
“But I want to know if—”
“Later.” Berg pulled his cloak closer around his body.
Dara fell silent. As their boots pounded on the wooden slats of Fell Bridge, she wanted to ask more details about the upcoming bout. She had never gone into a tournament on such short notice before. She couldn’t help but think of it as a competition. Berg had taught her well.
Dara doubted Prince Sivarrion would ever engage in a real duel with sharpened blades. Berg was likely getting paranoid as he aged. But she was curious to see if the prince was really as good as Berg said. She studied all the best duelists in the city, and she found it hard to believe he could be that talented. The pros trained five or six days a week and went to tournaments on most Turndays at the end of the week. There was no way the heir-prince of Vertigon had that much time on his hands.
The castle loomed above them on the crown of King’s Peak. At the top, three towers mirroring the three peaks of the mountain rose behind a high wall. The wall didn’t seem necessary given the castle’s position, but the effect was impressive. Built from the same dark stone as the mountain, the castle looked as if it were growing out of the rock. The walls had been Fire-formed, one of the last great Works using the full power of the Well to mold the stone. Works on that scale were impossible unless the Fire was diverted from every shop in the peaks through a single wielder. It had been decades since such a Work had been performed.
Beneath the castle, the district known as Lower King’s Peak covered the slopes with elegant greathouses where the city’s noble families and wealthiest residents lived. As Dara and Berg crossed Orchard Gorge and drew nearer to the foot of the peak, tall marble buildings obscured their view of the castle. At the end of the bridge, they descended a few stone steps and nodded at the guard, a sleepy-looking man wearing a thick cloak. The bridge guards were mostly there to make sure no one fell off while drunkenly walking the rails. They didn’t need to defend the residents of the peaks. The steep slopes of the mountain did that well enough.
Dara and her coach crossed the broad expanse of Thunderbird Square by the bridge and climbed the quiet streets of Lower King’s. At this hour most of the buildings were dark, but at one corner, light and slurred voices spilled out of a greathouse parlor. A young man stumbled out of the door with his arm around a buxom woman. He laughed and shouted back at someone inside the house. The woman glanced at Dara’s gear bag and trousers, giggling into the mug in her hand. Dara hoisted her bag farther up on her shoulder and tugged her cloak close. She had never been to a parlor to participate in the revels. She was old enough now at eighteen, but she had seen Kel and Oat try to bout with hangovers, and that had been warning enough. Everything she did was geared toward staying in prime shape for her competitions.
“Keep up,” Berg grumbled. He was nearly to a staircase at the end of a steep, winding pathway.
“Sorry.” Dara jogged after him, leaving the warm lights of the parlor behind.
“You must make me proud today,” Berg said.
“I’ll do my best.”
“He is fast. Remember this.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“He has good reach. And don’t let the fact that he is a prince intimidate you. If you get a chance to whip him, you take it.”
“Yes, Coach.” Despite herself, Dara had begun to feel nervous. She wasn’t sure how a simple Fireworker’s daughter was expected to act around the heir-prince of the mountain. Fireworkers were important figures in Vertigon, but they were not members of the royal court like the favored landowners. Even so, Dara was determined to win. She couldn’t let some noble defeat her, no matter how high up he was. Not if she wanted to call herself a real duelist.
The castle entrance was over a hundred steps above the next highest building, making it an easily defensible position. Dara and Berg ascended the final stairway and arrived at the wide stone slab in front of the castle gates. Dara slung her gear bag to the ground for a moment and rolled her shoulders to work out the kinks. She’d better not get injured today or Berg would really owe her. Nothing was worth messing with her chances to win the Cup, not even a dueling prince.
Berg rapped on a small sally port beside the main gates. A guard wearing the Amintelle sigil on his chest opened the door and let them in immediately. Beyond the walls, the ground sloped upward across an uneven courtyard, all rock until it reached the base of the three-towered castle. A delicate vein of Fire-infused metal ran along the lower wall. In the half-light of the dawn, the castle appeared to be floating on the vein. The castle door was a solid piece of steel wrought with designs every bit as intricate as the ones Dara’s father used on his lanterns. Dara caught a glimpse of a crowned figure etched atop a fiery mountain as the doors swung open to admit them.
The entrance hall was tall and bare, with Fire Lanterns hanging from the walls. A handful of servants darted around on soft-slippered feet, polishing the floors and opening the shutters on the high, narrow windows to let in the morning sunlight. They barely glanced at Berg, despite his imposing presence. The guard nodded at them and returned to his post, closing the doors behind him. Berg led the way deeper into the castle.
Across the entrance hall and halfway down a narrower corridor, Berg stopped at an oak door with an ornate iron handle. He looked down at Dara and said, “Give him hell.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Then he opened the door, and they walked into the most beautiful room Dara had ever seen.
It was a perfectly formed dueling hall. Four windows facing southward allowed the morning light to cut evenly across the dueling strip. The floor was stone with the ideal level of polish, neither too slippery nor rough enough to wear down good dueling boots. A padded stretching rug was positioned beside an elegant wardrobe, with a partially open door revealing a jumble of jackets, gloves, and masks. Two chairs and a stone washbasin sat beside the wardrobe. At the far end of the room stood a row of practice dummies in different positions. Dara couldn’t count the number of times she had cursed her own practice dummy as she tried to reposition its heavy wooden arm for a new drill. In this room she could move rapidly down the line and start over again.
The ceilings were high, and a balcony jutted out above the stretching rug directly across from the windows. Dara guessed there were seats up there. Spectators would have a perfect view of the action on the strip.
A rack on the wall by the door displayed one of the most impressive weapon collections Dara had ever seen. There was a sword from each of the major smiths, evidenced by the unique designs of their guards. There were different hilts and pommel types and even two experimental light broadswords. The dueling officials had discussed adding broadswords to select tourneys, but the move hadn’t been as popular as hoped. The traditional dueling rapier reigned supreme.
On a separate rack were three blades that looked different from the rest. Dara knew instantly that they were Fire Blades. Contrary to popular belief, true Fire-infused blades didn’t glow, but she could tell these ones still had Fire cores. A Fire core could make a blade faster and its tip more accurate, but use of a Fire Blade was strictly forbidden in competitions. And unlike the dueling weapons on the other rack, these blades were sharpened and deadly. Dara had an almost overwhelming urge to pick one up, to feel the bend of the steel and the heft of it in her hand.
“The young fool cannot be on time,” Berg grumbled. He had settled into a chair near the wardrobe and stretched his legs out in front of him.
A door be
side the stone washbasin flew open.
“Which young fool?” said a jovial voice. The prince had arrived.
He was taller than Dara had expected, nearly as tall as Oatin, and he was built like a swordsman, lean and strong. With his dark hair and high cheekbones, he was handsome, but there were bags under his eyes, his cheeks were unshaven, and his shirt was only halfway tucked into his trousers.
“Prince Sivarrion.” Berg stood, but he didn’t bow or give any sign that he was worried the prince had heard himself being called a young fool. “I brought a new sparring partner.”
“Was that today? I don’t know, Doban. I had a rough night. Not much time for sleep.” The prince rubbed his eyes and grinned at Berg. He still hadn’t looked at Dara.
“You cannot reschedule an attack,” Berg said, a vein pulsing in his thick neck. “I am trying to teach you. Why you are wasting my time?”
“Calm down, man. I can still duel.” The prince stretched his long arms above his head. “Where is this guy anyway?”
Berg nodded toward Dara stiffly, looking as if he wanted to slap the prince.
“My student, Dara,” he said. “You will duel today.”
Dara stepped forward, away from the weapon rack in the corner. She inclined her head but followed Berg’s lead and did not bow. The prince looked her up and down, eyebrows raised. Finally he laughed.
“Okay, Doban, you made your point. Don’t get too cocky or you’ll only be fit to fight women. Lesson learned. I think I’ll head to bed now. Truth is I haven’t slept, and I’ve got the makings of a powerful hangover.”
He turned to go, but Berg flung up a hand. “Stop. The lesson has not yet begun. You will duel now.”
The prince sighed. “Do we have to? I’m sure she’s great, but—”
“Yeah, Coach,” Dara said, not caring that she was interrupting the future ruler of Vertigon. She didn’t have to stand for this. “I have better things to do. Why don’t you let me get back to training?”