by Jordan Rivet
After a few minutes Siv turned around so that he was jogging backward. He seemed to know the shape of the hall well, because he turned the corners without looking behind him, still studying Dara.
“Sel’s been asking around about your stats,” he said. “Sounds like you’re already an accomplished duelist. Berg could have warned me.”
“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of the lesson?”
“He didn’t even mention that you won the Square Tourney last season. Won it outright.”
“This is the season that matters,” Dara said.
“I guess. I usually only follow the male duelists, though. I’d never heard of you.”
“Charming.”
“That’s me!” Siv turned around again to face forward while they jogged. “So what do you do when you’re not dueling?”
“I help my parents with their business.”
Dara had slipped out after her father went to the workshop that morning. Her mother had a meeting at the Fire Guild, so she would never know that Dara wasn’t in the lantern showroom for the whole morning. She’d need to come up with a better excuse if she was going to keep doing these morning training sessions with the prince. If.
“I meant for fun,” Siv said.
“Dueling is fun.”
“Well, yeah, but you take it super seriously. It’s just a sport.”
“Maybe to you. Okay, shall we stretch and start some drills?” Dara returned to her corner and began her warm-up routine. Siv kept looking over at her. He seemed to find her amusing somehow. She avoided his gaze as she completed her usual set of exercises. She couldn’t let him disrupt her focus.
They met in the middle of the hall to begin the drills. Berg had taught Siv the same form sequences he used with Dara and the others. They took turns going through the movements. Siv was more alert than he had been last time, but he tended to get lazy and drop his guard between the forms. Dara found herself getting frustrated. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She could only work with the prince if it meant training every bit as hard as she normally did. And now her coach wasn’t even here.
“Shall we bout?” she said finally.
“Easy there. Let’s have a water break first.”
“I can’t stay for long. And aren’t you supposed to be ready at any moment? What if you’re attacked?”
Siv tucked his mask under his arm. “Do you honestly think that will happen? In Vertigon?”
“I . . .”
“Look, I appreciate what Berg’s trying to do, but if I’m going to be assassinated, it will probably be a poisoned goblet or something. I just like to duel.”
“You never know,” Dara said, remembering what her father had said about the Fire Warden’s growing sway over the kingdom. “You should really be ready for anything. There could be dangers you don’t know about.”
“Sure, sure. Dangers abound,” Siv said. He poured water into a goblet from a silver pitcher by the washbasin. “What about you? You’re training again this afternoon. Can’t you have an easier morning session?”
“I have the Eventide Open in just over two weeks,” Dara said. Siv hadn’t offered her any water, but she didn’t think she should help herself. This was the palace, after all. She’d have to bring her own water skin next time. If there was a next time. “Eventide is one of the last competitions before the Vertigon Cup. I need a strong finish so the patrons will pay attention to me at the Cup.”
“Oh right, you need a patron. What’s the big deal with them anyway? They just choose the best duelists?” Siv picked a blade from the weapon rack and began rubbing a brick of charcoal on the tip.
“Generally, yes,” Dara said. “They also pay attention to who’s most popular with the crowds. They want to know who will draw high ticket sales, both for standard tourneys and for exhibition matches.”
“So they like big personalities. Tough luck for you, then.” Siv grinned and headed for the dueling strip.
“They like winners,” Dara said. “All the posturing is a waste of time. I’m going to be the best, and they won’t be able to turn me down.”
“Sounds like it’s about more than winning,” Siv said. “You’ve got to play the game.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Dara said.
“Hey, think about my father. He’s a likable man, and it helps him keep the peace.”
“Vertigon would be peaceful no matter who the ruler is,” Dara said.
“Not true at all. We Amintelles rule with an easy hand. Squeeze people too tight, and they want to squeeze back. My father knows what he’s doing.” Despite his casual air, pride and affection crept into Siv’s voice when he mentioned his father.
“The duels are different,” Dara said. “You don’t need to be that likable if you’re good enough.”
“Let’s see how good you are, then,” Siv said. “I’m feeling like a human being today. Ten firestones say I can beat you by three points.”
“I don’t have ten firestones.”
“It’s an expression. Sheesh, no wonder the fans love you. Duel!”
Dara and Siv dueled. They didn’t keep score out loud, but Dara kept a running tally in her head. She suspected Siv was doing the same. She had to work hard to keep the points even. Siv had been right: he was better than he had demonstrated last time. He used his relaxed air as a weapon, which made him a frustrating opponent. Nearly every time Dara thought he had lost focus, he answered her attacks with lightning-fast ripostes and counterattacks.
She always liked facing opponents with different styles. She had trained against the same sparring partners at Berg’s school every day for years. Siv used some of Berg’s signature moves, but he also threw in unique attacks that Dara hadn’t seen in competition before. This would be good practice for her upcoming tournament. There were a few strong women in her division—and more would travel from the Lands Below for the Cup. She had to be versatile. She had to show the patrons she deserved a sponsorship more than the others.
After they had each landed fifty hits, Dara stopped keeping score. She focused on the rhythm of Siv’s steps and the angles of her blade. The only sounds were the tap of their boots and the thud of their hits. Sweat seeped through both of their thick jackets. Dara threw everything she had at the prince—and he answered. They fought back and forth across the hall, and Dara lost herself in the thrust and pulse of the duel.
Finally, Siv raised a hand. “Enough, enough! You’re in better shape than me.” He pulled off his mask and flopped down onto the floor.
Dara hesitated for a second then sat cross-legged across from the prince. Her weapon arm shook a bit, and sweat dripped down her forehead.
“That was a good bout,” she said. “You’re better than you look.”
“Damn right.” Siv grinned, running a hand through his dark hair. “So, are you coming back?”
Dara rubbed the surface of her guard. The morning sun was strong now, slanting through the windows of the prince’s gorgeous dueling hall. It had been a good bout. If she gave her mother a few extra hours of work in the afternoon and stayed later at the dueling school, she could probably get away with training here a few mornings a week. She could tell her mother that Berg had switched her lesson schedule around.
“Only if you give me a bout like that every time.”
“Deal.” Siv stretched out a gloved hand, and Dara shook it, meeting his eyes for a moment and then looking away.
A bell chimed. It was almost high noon. Dara had lost track of time. She packed up her gear quickly.
“I have to get over to the school on Square,” she said.
“Can’t believe you’re planning to train more,” Siv said. He still sat on the dueling floor, breathing hard.
“I have to be ready.”
“Well, I’m going to sleep the afternoon away.”
Dara remembered what her mother had said about the prince being a lout. But he had worked hard during the duel. Siv’s instincts were good, and he had fast reflexes
. He could be a good training partner. And she was curious about whether there was any merit to Berg’s suspicions. At the very least, she could practice with him until the Eventide Open.
Siv lay on his back and pulled his knees up toward his chest one at a time to stretch, groaning as he stretched out his muscles.
“Maybe you should do more exercise before our next bout,” Dara said, “so you can keep up with me.”
Siv glanced up from the floor, one foot high in the air. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell the prince of your citadel what to do. Especially when it involves exercise.”
Dara’s cheeks warmed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean—”
“I’m kidding.” Siv chuckled. “Relax. You look like a red-handed cullmoran.”
Dara bowed stiffly and reached for her gear bag, biting back the urge to respond.
“Prince.”
“Until next time, swordswoman.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder and left the dueling hall. A guard patrolled the hallway outside the door, but otherwise the palace was quiet. She headed down the corridor, its straight lines like a giant’s dueling strip. It was longer even than Berg’s school and flatter than most of the spaces on the mountain outside of Square Peak.
Dara glanced back at the guard, but he was staring at the opposite wall as if it might come to life. She picked up her pace, jogging down the cavernous corridor. There was so much space! She ran faster. It was exhilarating, better than running the bridges because she didn’t have to worry about rotting boards and foot traffic. A few servants glanced at her as she passed, but they didn’t stop her. The weariness in her legs didn’t slow her as she embraced the feeling of running down the long, flat space. Despite herself, she grinned. She could get used to this.
Then she rounded a corner and bumped straight into Zage Lorrid.
Dara recoiled, and her gear bag slipped off her shoulder. The blades inside rattled, the sound echoing around the castle entrance hall.
“I’m sorry, sir!” she gasped. “I didn’t see you.”
Fire Warden Lorrid was a slight man who seemed to disappear into the shadows in the entryway. He wore a black cloak with a silver clasp shaped like a leaf. He pulled the cloak close around him, studying Dara.
“And what is the daughter of Rafe Ruminor doing in the royal castle, may I ask?”
Dara started. She had only seen the Fire Warden from a distance. His name had been a curse in their house since Renna died, but she was surprised he knew who she was.
“I was dueling with Siv—with the prince. I train with his coach.” Dara wished she could disappear too. What had she been thinking, running down the palace corridors?
The Fire Warden frowned, his egg-white forehead creasing. “Is that so? Interesting. I wouldn’t expect Rafe Ruminor to want his daughter keeping company with the Amintelles.”
“Sir?”
The Fire Warden twisted his fingers in his black cloak, suddenly seeming to loom like a great black dragon. Dara resisted the urge to take a step back. She was surprised the Warden had the nerve to speak of any daughter of Rafe Ruminor after what he had let happen to Renna. Her sister’s face rose before Dara for an instant, wide and strong like their mother’s. Dara pictured the molten Fire sliding over Renna’s fingers like oil as she learned to bend it to her will. Dara had watched her early lessons, sitting on a stone table in the workshop, her legs swinging, as Renna practiced the Work. But she hadn’t been there the day it had happened.
“Tell me, Miss Ruminor, do you also Work the Fires?” Zage whispered. “Or perhaps you carry a Fire Blade to your duels.”
“No, sir,” Dara said. “I’m not a Fireworker. I train with steel.”
“Hmmm.” The sound was drawn out, as if Zage were humming. “See that it stays that way.”
“Yes, sir. I really should be going.”
Zage waved a hand. He had a large silver ring set with glittering obsidian on his middle finger. “Be careful what you bring to the castle, Miss Ruminor. Farewell.”
Dara fled. She didn’t stop running until she reached the bottom of the staircase leading away from the castle. She told herself it was just because she was late, but she couldn’t get away fast enough. She shivered, grateful for the sunshine warming the mountainside when she reached Lower King’s.
She had spoken to Zage Lorrid. The man who controlled the system regulating the flow of Fire through the mountain. The man who had lost control of the system that fateful day ten years ago, allowing the power to surge through every channel in the mountain and burst from every access point like a hundred geysers. Most of the Workers had been able to handle the surge, but not Renna. She was just an apprentice. A child. She had still been learning to control the Fire, managing the careful balance between drawing it into her veins and manipulating it outside her body. Workers spent years achieving that balance before they could create anything meaningful out of the Fire. Renna had been too young, and the surge had been too much.
And Zage Lorrid had been responsible. The king had pardoned him for the Surge, calling it an accident, but that wasn’t enough for Dara’s parents. They had warned against restraining the Fire. They knew that holding back the power was too dangerous. The Surge proved their fears were well founded, but their daughter had been the one to pay the cost. Thanks to Zage.
Dara looked back at the castle standing proud on the mountaintop. Zage had maintained his position after all these years. Whatever relationship he had with the king, he hadn’t been punished. Somehow his power had only grown. What if he wanted more now? Berg was worried about a danger to the king’s family. What if that danger came from the man the king had pardoned years ago, keeping him in his employ like a viper in a cave?
Now that Dara had seen him in person, seen his glittering eyes and felt his lurking presence, she was inclined to think Berg was right. And if anyone in Vertigon was dangerous, it was Zage Lorrid.
6.
The Fire Warden
SIV had his head in the washbasin when the Fire Warden entered the dueling hall. He shook the water out of his hair and smiled at Zage Lorrid. He felt energized after his duel with Dara. She was a tough opponent who made him work for every point. It had been a long time since he’d sparred against someone as good as her.
It didn’t hurt that she wasn’t bad to look at either. Even better, it was fun to tease her. She was so serious and intense.
Speaking of intense people, Zage sat in the chair beside the gear wardrobe and folded his hands.
“My prince.”
“Warden. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Siv reached for a towel and leaned against the washbasin.
“We have our lesson at this hour, my prince. I believed I would find you here.”
“Right. Of course. Good thinking.” Siv blushed. He really had meant to be better about attending his lessons after talking with his father a few days ago. “Uh, let’s go to the table in my antechamber.”
“Of course, my prince.”
Siv led the way through the door beneath the balcony, which went directly to his rooms. He used to have much bigger chambers, but when he’d convinced his father to let him turn the quiet portico outside his room into the dueling hall, he’d had to give up most of his antechamber to make enough space. Now there was only room for a simple table, a low set of couches, an armchair, and a large Fire Gate, which drew a thin stream of Fire from the veins beneath the castle to circulate and warm his rooms before diverting to one of the workshops.
As usual, Zage went straight to the Gate and placed his hand on the ornate mantle above it. He leaned into it for a moment, fixing his eyes on the Fire flowing through it until it dimmed to a tiny molten thread. Zage hated being too warm, though it meant Siv would have to call for one of the Fireworkers on the castle’s staff to turn the Fire up again later. It may be summer, but the stone castle was the highest, coldest point on the mountain.
Siv dragged his cushioned armchair over to the table with a screech and dropped into
it. Zage sat across from him in one of the carved wooden chairs and pulled a sheaf of parchment from his robe.
“Shall we begin? I believe we should discuss how the unique magic properties of the Lands Below, Pendarkan Watermight in particular, influence the acceptance of some of our less specialized Works of . . .”
Siv did his best to listen politely. Zage was a quiet man with a penchant for sweeping about the castle in his dark robes and giving lectures in his raspy, papery voice. Despite his unfortunate lack of charisma, he had been the king’s friend for decades. Siv had been afraid of him as a child, but as he grew older he had realized that Zage was actually quite shy. He was meticulous in his stewardship of the Fire of Vertigon, and he was earnest, almost fanatical, in his desire to give Siv a proper education in the nuances of Fireworking politics.
But today, Siv was distracted. Dara Ruminor had his attention. He went over their lengthy duel in his head step by step, looking for her weaknesses. She didn’t have many. She was a precision instrument. They had stopped keeping score, but he was fairly certain he had lost the bout by a point or two—not that he’d ever admit that to her.
“My prince.”
“Huh?”
Zage sighed, hissing like a furlingbird in deep winter.
“I said that when you are in Trure you must be sure to visit the palace of the Earl of Eastfell to ask his opinion on—”
“I’m not going to Trure anytime soon.”
“Pardon me, my prince, but your royal father informed me you had discussed a visit to the home of your grandfather.”
“He mentioned it in passing,” Siv said, “but nothing has been decided.”
Zage frowned. “I understood from my meeting with the king this morning that your journey is to commence before First Snow.”
“First Snow! He wants me to spend the whole winter there?” Siv stood and paced in front of the Fire Gate. Or more accurately, he hobbled. He really was out of shape, and his muscles had seized up after sitting in the chair for hours. Well, maybe it had only been twenty minutes.