by Jordan Rivet
When the king entered, Siv was nearly asleep, his half-eaten plum in danger of dropping out of his hand and rolling across the wide Firegold rug. King Sevren wore chamber slippers and carried a stack of papers, which he dumped onto the couch beside Siv. His thick gray hair stood up in all directions, the surest sign that the queen had been away for too long. His eyeglasses hung slightly askew.
“Sivarrion, have some fruit,” the king said, reaching out to help himself.
“Already did,” Siv said. “I’m beat. What’s this about?”
“Have you tried the West Gorge blue plums? They’re excellent this year.”
“Yeah. Delicious.” Siv popped the rest of his plum into his mouth and sucked on the pit.
“Do you know which orchard was the first to produce blue plums?” King Sevren asked.
“West Gorge?” Siv said around the pit.
“Wrong! Second Slope. It was during the reign of my grandfather.”
“Fascinating.”
“And do you know why it’s important to know this?”
“Parlor quiz?”
“The Ferrington family, which owns Second Slope, also controls one of our primary export hubs.” The king continued to bustle around his table, but Siv knew where this was going. He was in for a lecture all right. The first clue should have been that his sisters hadn’t been invited to lunch. “The Ferringtons could cut access to the entire citadel if they were so inclined. Or if they felt offended because people”—here the king tipped his eyeglass toward his son—“don’t have a proper appreciation for the work they’ve done to cultivate the blue plums.”
“I’m glad you appreciate them, then. Can I go now?”
“Son.” The king’s tone barely changed, but Siv sat back in his chair. No point pushing it. “Warden Lorrid informed me that you skipped the second half of your lesson yesterday. You told him I asked to see you.”
“Uh . . .”
“Now, I know I didn’t ask to see you, because I was enjoying a meal with the blue plum family at their orchard estate.” The king held up one of the luminous fruits. How was he able to sound so pleasant and still make Siv feel as if he was in trouble? The man was skilled, no doubt about it. “I would have been happy for you to join me,” the king continued, “except that I know your relationship with the Fireworkers is even more important. That’s why you were supposed to be with the Warden.”
“Sorry, sir,” Siv said.
The king took a seat beside his son on the cushions, a plate piled high with orchard fruits perched on his lap. “You’ve avoided too many of your lessons, Sivarrion. This has been going on for some time.”
“Zage drones on and on about the history of Pendark. I read Merlin Mavril’s account last year, and he makes it a lot more interesting than Zage.”
“Zage understands the nuances of how Pendark relates to Vertigon—and how they make use of our Fire exports. Mavril is propaganda written for an adoring Pendarkan audience. Zage himself spent time in Pendark during his youth studying with the Watermight practitioners. You must listen to him.”
“I’ll work on it.” Siv started to stand, but his father stopped him with a word.
“Sivarrion.”
Siv sighed. “I know. Responsibility. Duty to the kingdom. Studies. I understand it’s important, but I have plenty of time.”
“You may think you do, but you need more experience, son. I want you to take a larger role in governance.”
“The kingdom is doing fine without me,” Siv said. “I know what I have to do eventually. Rule. Reproduce. Be wise and good and responsible. But it’ll be years yet before it matters.” The last thing he wanted to do was spend even more time studying matters of state. He read a lot. That should be enough for the next few years.
“Becoming wise takes longer than you think,” the king said. He popped a small plum into his mouth.
“Sure it does.” Siv reached for an apple from his father’s plate. “But I’ve got the perfect model. I’ll just become you when I’m old.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you out of every scenario, you know.” His face softened. “You’ll find your own way, son. Every ruler does. I don’t rule like my father, and you won’t rule like yours.”
Siv didn’t think it would be bad at all to rule like his father. Sevren led Vertigon with an easy hand. He relied on people who were good at their jobs, like Zage the Fire Warden, Pavvoran the General, and his buddy Bandobar, the Captain of the Castle Guard. It was all about delegating tasks. There should be plenty of time left for dueling practice and sleeping in.
“So what was more important than both blue plums and Fireworkers?” the king asked.
Siv knew there was no point in lying now that he’d been caught. “I was playing cards with Bolden Rollendar.”
“Ah. Another important family. You must be wary of your friendship with him. The Rollendar family doesn’t always have the interests of the city at heart.”
“I know. Better to keep him close, don’t you think?” There was a chance Siv could still spin this his way.
“Perhaps.” The king frowned. “But be wary. And don’t skip lessons. You know how Zage gets when he’s offended.” The king and the Fire Warden had worked together since before Siv could walk. He was pretty sure his father would always take Zage’s side if the Fire Warden said he wasn’t studying hard enough.
“It won’t happen again,” Siv said.
“Excellent.” The king folded his arms. “And another thing: you still smell of liquor. That and sweat.”
Siv rolled his eyes. “Now you sound like Mother. It’s all part of the game. You don’t want me to stop drinking, do you?”
“Goodness, no. But you must be careful of leaving yourself vulnerable. A king can’t be seen to be out of control at any time.”
“I’m not out of control,” Siv said. “In fact, I’ve already had a healthy training session this morning.” He glanced at his father. “And I’m not a king.”
“The people’s memory of you will remain.”
“You’ll be king for another thirty years.” Siv knew he’d have to be responsible one day. And he would be. He loved Vertigon, the heady mountain slopes, the crisp lines of the bridges, the mist and magic of it. He’d take care of it. Eventually.
The king shook his head. “You know the saying: the people of Vertigon have memories as long as the mountain is tall. They can’t see you as an irresponsible young man.”
“I am a young man,” Siv said. He stood, planning to pace around the room, until his head gave a warning throb. He settled for leaning against the table. “I’ll have plenty of time to meet with plum farmers and Fireworkers. I want to enjoy my youth while I have it.”
“You have duties, Siv.”
“As you and the tutors remind me every day . . .”
The king sighed and adjusted his eyeglasses. “Perhaps you should pay a visit to your mother’s people in Trure. Your grandfather will put you to rights. It may be time for you to begin seeking a wife there as well. Certainly settled me down.”
“I’ve barely turned twenty,” Siv said. “That’s years away yet. More importantly, I don’t think I should take a Truren wife when the time comes. It worked out well enough for you, but I’m sure our people would prefer a Vertigonian lady for their next queen. It’d be a chance to make extra special friends with a powerful noble family too.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “You’ve thought it through.”
“Believe it or not,” Siv said, leaning conspiratorially toward his father. “I keep my wits about me when drinking with Bolden. I might have met a promising candidate or two in his company.”
“I’m listening.”
“Don’t want to show all my cards just yet.” Siv took a plum from the table and tossed into the air. “But I have an alliance in mind that could pan out.” He caught the plum with a grin. “Trust me.”
“I want to trust you, son, but in the meantime I need to see you taking some
responsibility.” The king stood and put a weighty hand on his son’s shoulder. He always made Siv feel safe, firmly planted in the soil of the mountain. Siv really did want to please him. Eventually.
“I’ll work on it.”
“Good. Now, that goat stew is getting cold. Have a bowl.”
5.
Practice
WHEN Dara stopped by the Ruminor dwelling after leaving the castle, her mother had still been deep in conversation with Farr, Master Corren’s apprentice. They were chatting away about Firesmiths and access restrictions, so Dara avoided any questions about where she had been. She managed to get out of the house again with plenty of time left to meet up with Kel and Oat for a bite to eat before practice.
She found her friends in Stone Market near Furlingbird Bridge, which connected Village and Square Peaks. They were easy to spot in the bustling market because Oat—who was already exceptionally tall—had climbed onto a barrel outside a tavern. He waved his long arms over his head to get Dara’s attention.
She pushed her way through the crowd, enjoying the enticing smell of soldarberry pies and fresh-baked bread. A handful of vendors hawked their wares from baskets strapped to their backs, but most had set up permanent stalls along the two levels of the market.
Stone Market was built across two terraces near the bridge entrance, with steps connecting them on either end. A rocky outcropping separated the two levels, and since it was summer people were perched on the stones, enjoying their lunches in the rare sunshine. The steps were extra crowded today. Dara clambered across the rocks to get to the upper level, where Kel and Oat waited.
“It’s about time!” Kel said. “The salt cakes are going to run out.”
“Sorry,” Dara said. “I had to take care of something at home.”
“You’re always taking care of things.”
“My parents need me.”
“We need you,” Kel said. “I don’t have any coins. Can you spot me lunch?”
Dara dug into her pocket with a sigh. “You’d better pay me back,” she said. “You’re the one with the patron.”
“I know, but Lord Bolden does love to gamble,” Kel said. “I’ve got to keep up with him.”
“I’m sure that’s why,” Dara said. “You’d never, ever go out to the parlors, otherwise.”
“Indeed,” Kel said sagely. “I’d be a regular workhorse if it weren’t for my liege.”
Oat hopped off the barrel beside them. “Where are we eating?”
“Tollia’s?” Dara said.
“Better not,” Kel said. “One of the serving women is a dueling fan. Last time I was there I couldn’t finish my goat pie with her lurking around and staring at me.”
“Sounds like she’s a Kelad Korran fan, not an actual dueling fan,” Dara said. Kel had a rather mysterious effect on spectators—female ones in particular—but Dara had spent a bit too much time sweating it out with him in the dueling school to see the appeal. He had a wiry strength, but he was also a full head shorter than her.
“That’s my favorite kind of fan,” Kel said, “just not when I’m trying to eat in peace.”
“Rordin’s, then?” Oat suggested.
“Rordin’s it is.”
They made their way through the crowds toward the little pie stall at the far end of the market. The shops displayed fresh-cooked foods, garments, imported wares from the Lands Below, and Fireworks of all kinds. The more established Workers kept their own shops, like the Ruminors, so most of the Fireworks on display in the market stalls were the cheaper kind: Everlights, slim Firesticks for warming hands and beverages, simple Firebulbs, Heatstones, and even small Fireblossoms, which exploded into beautiful, ephemeral flowers to decorate special occasions. There were also metalworks in a hundred varieties. These had been forged using the Fire, like most dueling rapiers, but they didn’t continue to burn once completed unless they were Fire-infused.
Dara slowed when they passed Morn Brothers Dueling Supply Shop three quarters of the way down the market. A new line of dueling gloves was on display in the window, each intricately embroidered with a different design. The windows were bedecked in the colors of Bilzar Ten, an accomplished duelist sponsored by the Morn brothers. A painting of Bilzar hung on the wall inside the shop, clad head to toe in his sponsor’s gear.
Oat stopped beside her. “I need to get myself some fans,” he said. “And one of those equipment deals. Bilzar gets all his gear for free.”
“They probably don’t make jackets long enough for those gangly arms of yours,” Kel said.
Oat sighed, shoulders slumping. “I know. But custom gear is expensive.”
“You have fans,” Dara said. “What about those three brothers who always wait for you after tourneys?”
“That’s true,” Oat said, brightening a bit. “They think I’m the greatest thing since spiced salt cakes.”
“Speaking of which,” Kel said. “Can we move along here? Rordin’s cakes go fast.”
They purchased goat pies and salt cakes and found a free spot on the rocks to eat. A few people recognized them from competitions, but they were nowhere near as well known as some of the older duelists in the city. Bilzar Ten was just one of the athletes who had managed to parlay their fame into lucrative sponsorship deals with local businesses and noblemen. Kel’s patron, Lord Bolden Rollendar, was the son of one of the more powerful nobles in Vertigon. These arrangements were many times more valuable than the prize purses at any given competition. They were essential if you didn’t want to work another job in addition to training. Dara had her eye on one patron in particular who signed a female duelist every season.
“What were you and Berg whispering about the other day, Dara?” Kel asked as he licked pie juice off his fingers. “He was looking mighty grim.”
“Berg is always serious,” Dara said.
“Yeah, but he’s been acting suspicious lately too. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Suspicious how?” Oat asked.
“I’ve seen him around on King’s,” Kel said. “Last time, he pretended he didn’t see me and snuck away down an alley by the Fire Guild.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dara said. Berg had asked her not to mention her duel with the prince. But he had left her before she crossed the bridge after the duel that morning. What other business did he have on King’s Peak?
“Maybe he’s thinking about setting up a King’s Peak branch of his school,” Oat said.
“Or maybe,” Kel said, “he’s spying on one of the schools that’s already there. I wouldn’t mind finding out which moves Rawl has been working on. I’ll probably have to face him at the Eventide Open.”
“Doesn’t your friend Yuri train with Rawl?”
“Yeah, but he’s no snitch,” Kel said. “Even when he’s drunk. I’ve already tried to pump him for information.”
“So what could Berg be up to, then?” Oat asked.
Dara kept her attention on her salt cake and didn’t answer. She had a feeling she was in the best position out of the three of them to find out. She wondered if Berg’s strange behavior was connected to his sudden desire to take the prince’s training to the next level. She couldn’t help feeling curious about what her coach might be up to. She knew very little of what his life was like outside of the dueling school. He had lived on the mountain for longer than she could remember, but he was from the Lands Below. It was strange that he should be so worried about the future ruler of Vertigon. Perhaps she should give training with the heir-prince another try after all.
“All I know is Berg will make us do extra squat lunges if we don’t head over soon,” Kel said, stuffing the last of his cake into his mouth and standing. “Let’s get moving.” He glanced across the market nervously, and Dara spotted an eager maiden shoving through the crowd toward them. Her feet slipped on the stones, but that didn’t slow her down.
“Isn’t that Tollia’s serv—?”
“No idea. Race you to the bridge.” Kel took off before Dara could finish t
he question, demonstrating his impressive agility as he leapt down the rocky outcropping. Oat offered Dara a hand and pulled her to her feet. They set off after Kel as the blushing serving maid scrambled across the laps of five picnicking bridgeworkers to reach them. By the time Dara and Oat made it to Furlingbird Bridge, Kel was halfway across the Fissure.
A few days later, Dara arrived at the castle to find Prince Siv stretched out on the rug in his dueling hall.
“The swordswoman has returned!” The prince looked more rested than the last time she’d seen him. His brown eyes were a little brighter, and he no longer had bags under them, though he still hadn’t bothered to shave. He bent the corner of a page in his book and tossed it aside.
Dara set her gear bag beside the weapon rack, staying near the door.
“Where’s Coach Berg?” she asked.
“He’s got a cold. He sent a courier this morning. You changed your mind, eh?”
“A few sessions can’t hurt,” Dara said. She shifted her feet, feeling awkward without Berg there. He was the whole reason she had decided to come back here. The room seemed bigger and grander with only her and the prince inside. She looked up at the balcony, but it was empty too.
“My sisters are out with the cur-dragons this morning,” Siv said. “They’ll be sorry they missed you. Selivia’s your biggest fan.”
“Oh. I guess we should start, then. What’s your warm-up routine?”
“You’re looking at it,” Siv said. He reached for his toes half-heartedly.
“It’s better to jog or something first. Your muscles are probably still cold.”
“If you insist.”
Siv hauled himself to his feet and started jogging in a wide circle around the dueling hall. After a moment’s hesitation, Dara joined him. He was just another training partner, she told herself. It was just like running with Kel and Oat. She tried to forget the fact that they were in the royal castle.