by Jordan Rivet
The chatter of the spectators pattered around the hall like rain. A handful of well-known retired duelists were in the stands, each with a small knot of fans surrounding them. A particularly broad old swordsman named Drimmez had a cackling laugh that carried over his crowd of admirers. Many of the fans had brought old dueling banners to get signatures from their idols. Some athletes would have helpers selling more of the banners outside the dueling hall. The spectators called out to their friends over the din and leaned on the barriers in hopes of getting a good look at their favorite athletes warming up. Dara did her best to ignore them all, willing the noise to fade into the background. The sponsors were all that mattered today.
“Hi Dara! I hear you’re going to win today.” Luci Belling fell in beside Dara as she did footwork up and down the hall. Dara had competed with Luci often in the youth category but hadn’t seen her much since joining the adult division. Luci still had six months before she’d age out, but there was always a youth competition at the Eventide Open.
“Thanks, Luci,” Dara said. She kept moving, but she glanced over at her friend as she advanced and retreated alongside her. Luci had cut her bronze hair short, as many duelists did. Dara had considered it a dozen times but could never bring herself to make the chop. “How’s training?”
“Coach Surri is the same as always.” Luci sighed, dropping into a lunge. “I never work hard enough for her.”
“Ever think about training with Berg?” Dara asked.
“Doban? I’m terrified of him.”
“He’s nicer than he looks.”
“Wish I could say the same for Surri,” Luci said. “She looks and acts mean.”
“We owe her for opening the sport up for women.” Dara looked over at a tall, muscular woman with a pair of long scars across one side of her face. Surri was deep in conversation with a tournament official. She had been one of the first female duelists to compete in the Vertigon Cup, and her name was still legendary.
“You’d think she’d be happier about women having our own division now,” Luci said, dropping into a lunge. “But I don’t think she actually likes training girls.”
“I’m sure Berg would love to have you at his school.” Dara searched for her coach among the athletes and coaches milling around the competition floor, but he was nowhere to be seen. That wasn’t like him. He often insisted on last-minute lessons before tournaments.
“I don’t think I could afford Berg’s fees anyway, unless I get a patron,” Luci said.
Dara looked down at her feet and corrected her form. Luci’s family wasn’t as well off as Dara’s. Luci’s father, a bridge carpenter, often took extra shifts so Luci could keep training with Surri. Luci was a decent duelist, but Dara wasn’t sure she’d ever be good enough to land a patron. Luci would end up working in a shop, or perhaps marrying a baker or a bridgeworker like her father. But at least her father came to watch her competitions. His booming voice was always recognizable at tournaments. Dara couldn’t even remember the last time her own parents had watched her duel.
The stands were almost full now. Children crowded down into the first row and leaned over the barrier, waving at their favorite duelists and calling for tokens or signatures. Energy surged through the hall. It would be time to start soon.
Dara spotted Kel shaking hands with a ring of adolescent girls—and some older women—who had gathered to giggle and stare at him. He handed out tokens from a cloth bag at his side. Tokens were made of wood or stone, and each bore the markings of a duelist. Kel’s, for example, were carved with a laughing mountain goat. Dueling enthusiasts collected the tokens from their favorite athletes. It was one of the many tools athletes used to increase their popularity and stay in the minds of their audiences when they weren’t on the strip.
Dara had a bag of tokens too, but she had left it in the trunk room. Handing them out took time away from warming up. Also, her tokens bore an image of a Fire Lantern. She didn’t like reminding people who her father was. They’d either wonder why she was trying to be a duelist instead of following in his footsteps or think she was using his influence to curry favor. She wanted people to know her for her skills and nothing else.
Luci veered off to put on her gear for the youth competition, which would begin before the adult divisions. Dara headed for one more lap around the competition floor. She was halfway around the hall when a commotion broke out near the eastern spectators’ entrance. Trumpets blared, and drums pounded. Spectators pointed and chattered excitedly. A whirl of color, green and gold, swirled through the doorway.
It was Vine Silltine.
Great. Just what she needed. Dara didn’t know Vine had entered this competition. She had been too busy over the past few days to swing by the sign-up posting.
A crowd grew around Vine as she floated through the stands. People squealed and reached for her tokens. Dara ran an extra lap, pretending not to notice Vine’s grand entrance. Why can’t she come through the back like the rest of us?
Vine reached the ground level and waltzed across the competition floor. Her lustrous black hair flowed loosely around her shoulders, and she wore a green dress made of a floating, shimmery silk. Veins of Firegold ran through the dress, gleaming in the light from the Firebulbs. She wore a dreamy, benevolent expression as she waved to the crowd. An entourage of companions followed, carrying her green velvet gear bag and blowing those ridiculous trumpets.
At the entrance to the trunk room on the far side of the hall, Vine whirled around, her dress and hair flying, and curtsied deeply to the crowd. Then she smiled beatifically and disappeared into the trunk room. The cheers continued even after she was gone.
“You look like someone broke your favorite blade.”
“What? Oh, hey Kel.” Dara had completed another circuit around the hall without realizing it. Her friend was waiting for her as she slowed to a walk. He had given away the last of his tokens, and there was a smudge of lip stain on his cheek.
“I see your archnemesis has arrived,” Kel said.
Dara frowned. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. I heard she was saving her energy for the Cup.”
“You’ve never lost to her,” Kel said. “I don’t get what you have against her.” He and Dara headed toward the entrance to the trunk room to retrieve their gear. He slung the empty token bag over his shoulder like a cape.
“She’s just annoying,” Dara said.
Vine Silltine was a relative newcomer to the duels. She was a minor nobleman’s daughter from Lower King’s Peak. House Silltine owned a scraggly peach orchard, a greathouse, and not much else. Dara wasn’t sure what had possessed Vine to start competing in the opens, but she was rising quickly through the ranks. Worse, the fans seemed to love her.
Kel put a hand over his heart. “You mean you don’t like talking about energy meditations, or whatever airy-fairy powers she claims help her focus? I always thought meditation would do you good.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Dara grinned. “I’m going to win today.”
“That’s right. Now, I must depart to the other side of the screen.” Kel gave a rather impressive imitation of Vine’s curtsy before heading to his side of the trunk room.
The long, narrow space lined with trunks served as temporary lockers during competitions. There was a washbasin and latrine crammed at the end. A wrinkled serving woman supplied towels, drinking water, and dried fruits to the athletes. It was crowded in these final moments before the competition, the air crackling with nerves and adrenaline. They could hear the boasting and banter from the men’s side of the trunk room. Someone crashed against the screen, causing it to teeter. Roars of laughter followed.
On the women’s side, the other competitors gathered around Vine Silltine. She had removed her floating green gown and put on a tight pair of breeches embroidered with gold and green vines. She hadn’t put on her blouse yet, showing off her impressive figure in a tight undergarment. The other women passed around Vine’s glittering tokens and fawned over her.
“Is that Dara? Dara Ruminor?”
Mother of a cur-dragon. “Hello Vine.”
Vine swept her arms wide, clearing a path through the other women, and danced over to Dara’s trunk.
“When I heard you were entered in the Eventide, Dara, I just had to sign up,” Vine said. She had a trilling voice and always seemed on the verge of singing.
“It’s an open competition.”
“I wanted to feel your aura before the Vertigon Cup. I’ve had a bout with each of the primary contenders in the past month, but you’re the last one. I’m working on a new sensory technique that helps center my energy.”
“Is that right?” Dara gave her a tight smile, working to disentangle the straps of her chest plate from her spare glove as quickly as possible.
“It involves the higher orders of Air Sense, and I think it’s improving my accuracy immensely.” Vine smiled serenely.
“Hmm.”
“Do you mind if I sense your energy, Dara?”
“What?”
“May I place my hands on your temples and sense the—”
“No!” Dara ducked as Vine stretched out her jeweled hands and tried to place them on either side of her face. “Look, Vine, I’m glad you’ve got a new air strategy or whatever, but I need to focus on the competition.”
“But this is all about focus, Dara. My energy coach says—”
“I’m sure that’s great,” Dara said quickly. “I’ll see you out there, okay?”
Dara slung the rest of her gear over her arm and dashed out of the trunk room. As she left, Vine was saying, “Hmm, I’m sensing a very stubborn aura, with . . .”
Dara stopped outside the trunk room to finish putting on her jacket. She wasn’t sure why Vine annoyed her so much. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been competing for long, and she was already doing very well. Dara felt wrong-footed. Focus. She needed focus. She had to win today. Nothing would get Vine Silltine out of her head like beating her in a match to ten.
The stands were packed now. The youth event was underway, and cheers and screams filled the cavernous hall. There were a total of twelve dueling strips laid out for the competition, leaving enough space to run some of the divisions simultaneously. Blades rang, metal on metal, and coaches shouted instructions to their athletes. The smell of sweat and charcoal hung over everything.
Dara checked the list of matches posted on the wall and made her way over to the strip where she’d have her first bout. Two teenage boys were dueling there now, with much flailing and bluster. She scanned the crowd, especially the front row, assessing which patrons would have a good view of her bout.
Some key patrons were there in the audience, mostly noblemen and business owners. Dara knew them all by sight. There were also a few retired dueling champions who had used their winnings to establish themselves in Lower King’s. Patrons sponsored athletes both as a matter of a pride and as a way of growing their own businesses. Of course, Dara’s parents would never employ such a practice, but other business owners were more practical. Sponsored athletes would use their products in public places or appear at special events in their parlors, shops, and greathouses. Sponsors often arranged exhibition matches between popular duelists and took home a portion of the ticket sales from these private events.
Dara had her eye on one patron in particular who selected a female duelist every season. Wora Wenden made a name for himself as a duelist nearly thirty years ago, right at the beginning of King Sevren’s reign. He’d used the prize money he accumulated throughout his career to start a highly successful garment business. Now his athletes wore his coats and dresses as a form of advertisement in return for his patronage. Master Corren was one of his primary textile suppliers. Corren was probably in the audience somewhere too, though he didn’t sponsor any duelists.
Wora sat in the front row, near the strip where all the championship bouts would be fought. The strip for Dara’s first bout wasn’t too far away from his seat. She hoped he would notice her. But she couldn’t think about that right now. She had to concentrate on the competition.
The last of the youth bouts ended, and the booming voice of the head dueling referee rang across the hall. It was time. The remaining adult competitors filed out of the trunk rooms, a parade of white jackets and flashing silver blades. The crowd cheered. This is what they had really come here to see. Soon, the clash of swords and thud of boots resumed, escalating the cacophony in the hall. Dara readied herself for her first bout, saluting her opponent and slamming her mask down on her head. She assumed her guard stance, awaiting the call of the referee. And she dueled.
Once the competition began, Dara felt more relaxed. She lost herself in the movement of her feet and the precise lines of her blade. She marked her opponents with charcoal, bound to the rhythm of the duel. This was what she was born to do. She couldn’t Work Fire, but she could wield a blade with her own kind of spark.
Dara’s standing in the rankings meant that her first few elimination bouts were relatively easy. She won them without difficulty, hardly needing any coaching. Berg had finally arrived, and he roved amongst the strips where his athletes competed. He had three youth duelists and seven adults in the tournament today, including Dara, Kel, and Oat. Competitions usually put him in a bad mood, but his growls of advice and admonishment were all part of the routine.
“Hold your weapon soft, but firmly, like baby’s hand.”
“Yes, quick reflexes! Keep awake.”
“No! Is a sword, not a club!”
“If you want it more, you will be the winner. Want, students! Want!”
After winning her fourth bout, Dara took a break and looked over at Wora Wenden. Her stomach lurched when she spotted a familiar head of lustrous black hair in front of the old patron. Vine Silltine was leaning over the barrier, her hair cascading around her shoulders, and talking with Wora. Vine must have said something funny, because he threw back his head and laughed. Dara scowled, twisting her hands around the hilt of her favorite competition blade. If Wora chose Vine as his female duelist this year . . . No. Don’t think like that.
Wora liked winners. It didn’t matter how much Vine made him laugh. Dara would defeat her, and Wora would choose Dara for his patronage. She would be a true professional duelist, and she would be free of the lantern business forever.
Dara turned away from the pair, scanning the other patrons in the front row. Wora wasn’t her only option. There was Lord Nanning. Gen Ribson. Bern and Tern Morn . . .
And there was Prince Sivarrion, sitting four seats away from Wora and looking right at her.
Dara’s mask dropped to the floor. What was he doing here? The royal family never came to tourneys on Square Peak.
She bent down to retrieve her mask, schooling her expression to neutral, and looked again. Yes, that was definitely Siv. He wore a midnight-blue coat and a billowing white shirt, open at the neck. He grinned and waved at her. People in the crowd turned to see which duelist had attracted the heir-prince’s attention. Dara’s cheeks burned, and a flash of heat rose upward through her feet. More people were looking. The prince must have drawn quite a bit of attention when he arrived, but Dara had been too absorbed in her bouts to notice. How long had he been watching her?
Vine Silltine spun around then and winked at Dara. She didn’t look surprised to see that Dara was the one Prince Siv was waving at. What did that mean? Flustered, Dara jammed her mask on her head and marched across the hall to where her semifinal bout would take place.
Wora. Siv. Vine. She had to focus. An uncomfortable heat wormed through Dara’s belly and out toward her fingertips. The official was saying something to her. Her opponent was ready. It was a lanky redhead named Ta
ly Selwun. She was okay, but she had a reckless, unpolished style that was easy to counter. Dara shook her head and assumed her guard position. Why was Siv watching the tourney? Was Wora watching her too?
The official raised his arms.
“Duel!”
Dara dueled, but her rhythm was off. She dropped the first point, and her opponent shrieked in victory. It’s just one touch. You can do this.
“Taly, one. Dara, zero. Ready? Duel!”
Dara made the next few touches. Her hits weren’t elegant, but she wasn’t going to lose to some nobody.
Taly scored with a wild parry and a lunge to Dara’s inner arm. She ripped off her mask and screeched out another victory call. Amateur.
Dara raised her blade.
“Duel!”
Back and forth they fought. The calls came fast. Taly’s blade flashed in the light of the Firebulbs. Boots thudded. Shouts. Hits. Dara’s muscles strained. The sting of metal connected with her body.
The score was now six to five, with Dara in the lead. Four more. You just need four more. Where was Berg? He was usually at her side during semifinals matches.
The crowd across the hall cheered. Something was drawing their attention. No one was even watching Dara’s bout. Taly’s next touch landed on her shoulder.
“Six to six!”
Dara retreated back to her starting line, chancing a glance across the hall. People were standing up, leaning over each other and the barriers to watch one of the central strips. Vine Silltine was dueling, her hair flying loose around her mask. She had improved since the last time Dara watched her. She was doing something unusual, a dancing floating lunge of some kind. She landed the touch, and the crowd went wild.