Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  “Duel!”

  Dara was barely ready. Taly hit her mask directly between the eyes and let out another victory yell. She had a right to shout. She shouldn’t be ahead of Dara this late in the bout. Dara’s ears rang from the impact.

  “Duel!”

  Taly scored a touch to the knee. It was a cheap shot, but Dara wasn’t ready for it. The score was eight to six, and Dara was losing. Berg was nowhere to be seen. She had to calm down, to focus.

  “Vine! Vine! Vine!” the crowds were chanting now. It was happening too fast. Dara couldn’t think. Vine darted in and scored on her opponent’s toe across the room. Wora Wenden was clapping.

  “Point! Nine to six. Taly Selwun is in the lead.”

  No.

  “Duel!”

  Dara tried to shut out the chants. The cheers.

  “Vine! Vine! Vine!”

  “Point! That’s the bout. Ten, six to Taly.”

  Dara looked down at her blade arm, at the neat round charcoal circle where Taly had just scored the winning hit. Dara had lost. She was out. She wouldn’t even fight in the championship bout. She would be third or fourth place. She stared dumbly at the spot on her jacket.

  “Duelist? Salute please,” the official barked.

  “Oh, sorry. Good bout, Taly. Thank you, sir.” Dara saluted her opponent and the official. Her head seemed to be filling with smoke.

  The crowds cheered across the stadium.

  “Vine! Vine! Vine Silltine!” The other bout had ended. Vine was the victor. She danced and waved at her admirers. She would compete in the gold medal match on the center strip against Taly Selwun, the woman who had just beaten Dara.

  Dara couldn’t move as she watched Vine celebrate. She danced over to the barrier, and Wora leaned over it to kiss her on the cheek. She whispered something in his ear, and he grinned widely. Vine’s entourage had somehow ended up seated in the third row. They handed out glittering golden tokens to the crowds. People climbed over each other in their haste to get their hands on one of Vine’s tokens.

  Dara forced herself to look at Siv, expecting to see him gazing at Vine along with everyone else. But he was staring at Dara. When she met his eyes, he shrugged and gave a half smile then mouthed something she couldn’t make out. She felt heat rising in her cheeks. He had seen her lose after all her talk, after all of Berg’s praise. She couldn’t bring herself to go over and speak to him.

  “Dara! What is happening?” Berg had finally appeared. He charged up to her, filling her vision like a big, square mountain.

  “Where were you?” Dara said hollowly.

  “Oatin was in a tie with Bilzar Ten on the far strip. I could not leave him. What is the result?”

  “I lost.”

  Berg blinked. “You . . . you are doing what?”

  “I lost to Taly Selwun.”

  “Taly Selwun?” Berg’s face reddened rapidly, and he looked as if his head might explode. “You are not losing to Taly Selwun.” He wheeled around and started toward the tourney official.

  “No, Coach.” Dara stopped him before he accosted the official. “It was a fair bout. I choked. I’m sorry.”

  Berg studied her for a moment and puffed out his cheeks. “We will talk later, young Dara.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  Feeling numb, Dara gathered her spare blades and headed toward the trunk room. It was over. She was out. Vine would win the gold. Taly Selwun didn’t stand a chance against her. She shouldn’t have stood a chance against Dara either.

  Shame boiled in Dara’s stomach like rotten mountain root. She had lost. And she had lost to an inferior opponent with a dozen potential sponsors watching. With Prince Siv watching. There was no way she would get a sponsorship now. She had failed.

  10.

  Plots and Plans

  SIV felt a rather unpleasant sinking sensation in his stomach as Dara trudged toward the trunk room without looking at him. Her golden braid swung against her back like a sad pendulum. She hadn’t come over to say hello. She had barely glanced his way during the entire competition. Was he a fool for being here?

  Siv lost interest in the tournament after Dara was knocked out. He liked watching the duels, and today he had seen some new competitors, real up-and-comers. But it was less exciting now that his dueling companion was out and he had to deal with all the people trying to curry favor with their young prince. His arrival had created a stir. As they waited for the championship bouts to begin, a steady stream of businessmen and minor nobles paraded before his seat, offering him greetings and favors and making not-so-subtle requests for favors in return. He’d end up having to explain this visit to his father, and he still wasn’t entirely sure why he had come.

  Siv fiddled with a handful of athlete tokens that had been shoved into his hands, tossing them in the air and catching as many as possible at once. He didn’t bother to chase after the ones that got away from him. Maybe he could tell his father he had wanted to meet with common Vertigonians here on Square Peak. That could work, even though the actual commoners seemed more interested in fawning over the duelists than over their heir-prince.

  “My prince,” Pool said. “Will you be so benevolent as to bestow an answer upon this supplicant?”

  “Huh?”

  For Pool, that was the equivalent of a nudge in the ribs. Siv realized a young man stood in front of his seat, waiting for him to respond to something. He didn’t recall the man’s name, but he was dressed like a nobleman with a rich, Firegold-embroidered coat.

  “Your Highness,” the man said. “I wish to offer the compliments of House Zurren. We would be honored if you would allow us to hold an exhibition match in your honor. We represent the duelist Murv ‘The Monster’ Mibben.” He gestured toward a large man with tattoos completely covering his bald head. “He is currently a top-four duelist in the rankings, and we are certain he would put on an entertaining bout for Your Highness. We have a number of candidates in mind for his opponent. Perhaps Lord Rollendar would allow Kelad Korran to participate, for example.”

  Siv rubbed a hand across his chin. He had taken the time to shave this morning, so the usual scratchiness was missing.

  “Hmm, entertaining, you say?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The young nobleman twirled his hands. “Murv the Monster strikes fear in the hearts of his opponents and wonder in the eyes of his beholders. We believe Your Highness would not be bored. May I suggest a Turnday evening before First Snow for the exhibition?”

  “You may be onto something,” Siv said. A thought was starting to form in his mind. He was fairly certain it was a brilliant one.

  “Your Highness?”

  “Yes, Lord Zurren, I think an entertaining match might be just the ticket.”

  “Ticket? Of course, if you wish to have a larger match with ticket sales that could be arranged, but we had pictured a more intimate display for—Your Highness?”

  Siv was busy studying the duelists drawing the most attention from the spectators as they milled around during the break. One man’s hair was dyed a brilliant Fire Potion red, and he wore clothes that matched. Another had shrieked every single time he scored a hit and was now mumbling like a madman at the fans gathered eagerly around him (at a safe distance). Murv the Monster, with his tattoo-covered head and impressive stature, was glowering spectacularly at another macho-looking competitor across the hall. Lady Silltine’s supporters were still handing out tokens and playing their ridiculous trumpets. And there was Kelad Korran chatting with his admirers in the first row, a few doe-eyed noblewomen among them, despite the fact that he too had been knocked out of the competition in the semifinals.

  Ideas churned through Siv’s mind like threads through a Firegold spindle. He was pretty sure he knew what Dara Ruminor needed.

  Siv snatched up the blue coat he had dropped over his chair. “Let’s go, Pool.”

  “Don’t you wish to view the remaining duels, my prince?” Pool said.

  “I have work to do.”

  The y
oung nobleman was staring at Siv with an open mouth, but he didn’t care.

  “Enquire with Lord Bolden Rollendar about the match with Monster Murv, Lord Zurren. I’ll show up. To the castle, Pool!”

  “Yes, my prince.”

  Siv sauntered toward the entrance with a backward glance at the trunk room entrance. Dara hadn’t reemerged, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t be coming back out to watch the final duel anyway. He had work to do before their next meeting.

  A few hours later, Siv scribbled ideas at the table in his chambers. Technically, he was supposed to be visiting greathouses to extend Eventide greetings to the nobility, but this was far more interesting. Eventide involved endless rounds of small talk with jittery old ladies who still upheld the old-fashioned visiting tradition. Most young people would celebrate Eventide by getting roaring drunk later in the evening, but he ought to be able to accomplish a lot before then. Crumpled papers littered the floor around him. He was turning out to be a master strategist, if he did say so himself.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  “My prince, Sword Master Berg Doban requests an audience,” Pool said as he cracked open the door. “Do you wish me to admit him to your royal presence?”

  “Doban is here?” Siv wondered for a second if he had missed a lesson before remembering that his coach had been at the tournament at East Square earlier that day. “Let him in.”

  “Yes, my prince.”

  Berg strode into Siv’s antechamber. He wore street clothes rather than his usual loose-fitting coaching attire, and he carried a crumpled felt hat in his hands. Siv had never seen him away from a dueling hall before. He towered beside the table, looking oversized in the cozy space.

  “This is a surprise, Coach.” Siv leaned back in his chair.

  “My prince,” Berg said gruffly. “I must speak to you about a danger you face.”

  “You mean Dara?”

  Berg’s jaw dropped. “Dara, my prince? You know—?”

  “That she’s going to kill me for watching her lose? Don’t worry. I plan to head her off like a Truren stallion at Kurn Pass.”

  “A what?”

  Siv grinned. “I want to help Dara get a patron, Doban, and I am a burning genius.”

  “My prince, this is not the danger I speak of. Not Dara.”

  Siv waved his eagle feather pen at him. “What’s this about? I’m very busy.”

  “My prince, there is a plot,” Berg growled. “Dangers on foot for you.”

  “You mean ‘afoot?’ You sound like Zage Lorrid.”

  “The Fire Warden? My prince, the Fire—”

  “Yeah, he’s always talking about dangers. He’s got my back.” Siv continued to scribble on his paper. He was on a roll. He couldn’t let his ideas slip away while Berg talked to him about yet another nefarious and insubstantial threat he faced as the royal heir. He wondered whether he could get his hands on a Firetorch. Zage had never let him have one as a child, but now he might be able to make a case for it. He’d claim it was for educational purposes only.

  “My prince, you must be careful,” Berg said. “The city is not as safe for you and your family as it should be. It was a risk going to Square Peak alone. Someone there was . . . You cannot trust everyone you think you can trust.”

  “Doban.” Siv looked up from his papers and met Berg’s eyes steadily. “I understand you’re trying to look out for me. Do you have any names? Any solid information to offer me about these plots? If so, I will listen.”

  Berg frowned, glancing around the antechamber as if he expected an assassin to leap out from behind the couch. Siv gave him what he felt was long enough and then bent back over his papers.

  “It’s okay, Coach. I know you’re worried, but I have good people around me. Pool takes care of me. The Hurling twins take care of my sisters. Captain Bandobar, the Guard, and the whole damn army take care of my father. We even hired a whole company of new Castle Guards recently.”

  “These new Guards were chosen by Bandobar?” Berg asked.

  “Yeah.” Siv didn’t know that for a fact, but who else would have chosen them? He barreled on. “I’m not an idiot. If you know something, I’ll listen, but if you want me to stop living my life for fear of some unknown danger, then save your breath.”

  “Bandobar is a good man,” Berg said after a while. “If he trusts these new men . . . I have no certain knowledge.”

  “And Dara isn’t going to run me through for watching her lose?”

  “No, my prince. I do not believe Dara will hurt you.”

  “Good.”

  “In fact,” Berg said slowly, “maybe you would be wise to keep her close.”

  Siv studied his paper carefully. “Keep her close?” Berg couldn’t have seen something between them, could he? Not when Siv wasn’t sure it was there himself.

  “Dara is good, my prince.”

  “Damn right. She’s way better than that Taly girl.”

  “I mean she is good.”

  “Right. She’ll make me a better duelist so I can defend myself against the dangers afoot.” Siv was beginning to tire of this particular refrain. Next thing he knew Berg would be trying to send him off to Trure too. But the man was studying him, his expression thoughtful.

  “Yes, my prince,” he said. “Maybe she should train with you every day now.”

  “Yeah? What does she think about that?”

  “I will tell her tomorrow,” Berg said. “But she must not make excuses. Is okay for you?”

  “If Dara comes here every day?” Siv did his best to fight down the tiny flutter of hope in his chest, like the wings of a moth. He shrugged, keeping his voice casual. “Sure, why not?”

  “I have business in the mornings, my prince. I cannot come every day, but Dara will train with you.”

  Siv raised an eyebrow. “You’re skipping out on our lessons now, Coach? Just like that?”

  “Only until I discover more,” Berg grunted. “You will be okay with Dara, my prince.”

  “Sure I will.”

  “I take my leave,” Berg said. He jammed his felt hat down on his head. “Be careful, my prince. Do not go to Square alone as you did today. Vertigon is not so safe anymore.”

  “I wasn’t alone.” Siv frowned. There were limits. He was the heir-prince of Vertigon, and he didn’t take orders from anyone but his father. And maybe Pool when he was extra insistent. He lowered his voice, knowing full well it still wouldn’t sound as gravelly or intimidating as Berg’s. “Is there anything else you feel you can order me to do or not do, Doban?”

  Berg sighed. “No, my prince. You must be careful. As we say in my homeland: beware of the shadow as well as the fire.”

  Siv nodded, but he was already deeply engrossed in his plans by the time Berg left the chamber. He hoped the man would have a relaxing Eventide eve and calm himself down.

  The light from the Fire Gate flickered across the pages spread across Siv’s table. Yes, he was a genius. This would work. He would make Dara Ruminor a champion.

  11.

  Partners

  DARA was sorely tempted to skip her training the day after the competition. She hadn’t lost that badly in years. Ten, six to Taly Selwun? The numbers cycled around and around in her mind. She couldn’t sleep. She could barely eat. She felt hot and feverish whenever she thought about what had happened. She wanted to scream into the wind whipping across Furlingbird Bridge as she jogged over to the dueling school on Square.

  She stretched with her friends, feeling stiff despite her warm-up run. Oat and Kel knew better than to talk to her about the bout with Taly, but they couldn’t help regaling her with their own stories of victory. Oat had won the men’s division, managing to defeat both Bilzar Ten and Rawl, Kel’s biggest rival. It was Oat’s best finish ever. Kel had placed fourth, but his patron had taken him out carousing in Lower King’s afterwards, and he’d scored a few victories of his own there.

  Berg skipped the lecture she deserved when
it was time for their usual lesson. He simply said, “You are losing focus. You know this.”

  It was worse than being yelled at.

  After the lesson, Dara sparred with the other duelists for hours. Her muscles strained, burning and cramping, but she embraced the pain instead of thinking about her loss. She felt heat in her blood and channeled it into every hit. She could not fail again. She had to be perfect. She had to win.

  She dueled until everyone at the school refused to give her another match.

  “You’ve had enough for tonight, Dar,” Oat said when she demanded he join her for just one more bout.

  “I need to keep—”

  “It’s already dark,” Oat said. “It’s time to go.”

  Only then did Dara realize her limbs were shaking and her jacket was soaked through with sweat. She pulled it off and found a collection of new bruises patterning her arm. She trudged over to her trunk, avoiding the concern in Oat’s eyes. Most of the other students had already left.

  Berg approached as she knelt beside her trunk and slowly gathered up her gear to pack into her bag. She felt as though she were moving through molasses. Kel and Oat lingered at the door, waiting for her.

  “Dara,” Berg said.

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “This will not happen again, young Dara.”

  “No, sir.”

  Berg studied her from beneath lowered brows. “You must continue training with the prince.”

  “Please, no, Coach,” Dara said, sitting back on her heels. “It’s a distraction. If he hadn’t been there in the crowd—”

  “Stop!” Berg said. “You will not make these excuses.”

  Dara swallowed her retort. She had lost concentration during the tourney because of Vine drawing the adoration of the crowd and the prince disrupting her focus. She needed to get back to her normal routine if she had any hope for the Vertigon Cup now. With Farr proving so helpful to her mother, she had to make the most of the extra time to train.