by Jordan Rivet
“I . . . wasn’t as alert as I could have been tonight.” He didn’t mention the drinking but figured it was implied. “I should have listened to your advice.”
His father didn’t answer at first. They rounded the spiral staircase, footsteps whispering on the stone.
After a moment he said, “Thank you, son. Your willingness to admit that does you credit. If anything had happened to you tonight . . .” The king didn’t complete the thought, and they finished the climb to his chambers in silence. They waited on the landing while his men scoured the room for intruders.
“These next hours and days will be crucial in gathering information,” the king said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Why don’t you stay here tonight? You’ll be the first to hear any news and . . . well . . . I’d like to keep you close.” The king cleared his throat gruffly.
“Yes, sir,” Siv said. “Thank you.” He hadn’t really wanted to go back to his own chambers in the western tower of the castle tonight. In truth, he was shaken by what had happened. He’d never admit it out loud, of course. The king patted him on the shoulder with a warm hand.
When the guards were satisfied that the room was safe, the king called down to the kitchens for a midnight snack, and they settled in the antechamber to discuss what had happened. They spent the next few hours going over the incident in exhaustive detail, including the names and possible complaints of every single person Siv had encountered that night. When the guards finally left it was nearly dawn. Siv stretched out on the couch in his father’s antechamber, knowing he’d sleep like a cur-dragon hatchling. He was safe in the hall of the king.
Climbers searched the Gorge for days for the body of the attacker, hoping it might yield some hint as to why the man had attacked the prince. In the meantime, Captain Bandobar made good use of the new company of Castle Guards, dispatching them to patrol the castle more frequently than ever before. Siv couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into one of the men, their uniforms still freshly creased, their expressions keen at the chance to protect the royal family from real danger.
The king made Siv attend every meeting with the men investigating the attack, and he found excuses to keep Siv and his sisters close. He even insisted that Siv attend all the royal council meetings, which used to be optional. Well, Siv used to think of them as optional. He was starting to think his father was overreacting to the threat to his life. It had been a single assailant, probably some crazy man who blamed the royal family for his lot in life. Yes, it had been scary at the time, but in the light of day, surrounded by the Castle Guard, it was hard to believe he was still in any danger.
Worse, the council meetings took place in the mornings when Dara was supposed to come to the castle, and he had to cancel a few of their dueling practices. He wanted to see her again, but he was being swept up in his royal duties, which apparently became more extensive after someone tried to kill you. He hoped everything would calm down in a few days so he and Dara could get back to work. Of course, that meant Siv’s courtship of Lady Tull would have to resume as well, but he tried not to dwell on that.
Siv scribbled a letter for Dara on a spare bit of parchment to leave with the guards at the front gate. He felt bad about disrupting her training routine. And they were going to get behind on the Nightfall project unless she continued to work on it herself. He needed to nudge her a bit to make sure she proceeded according to plan. If only he weren’t so busy reassuring his father that he wasn’t going to be assassinated! At least, he hoped he wasn’t.
Siv doodled ideas for the project on parchment during the interminable meetings, his thoughts drawn back to Dara like an arrow in Cindral Forest. He couldn’t forget the intensity in her eyes that night, the way her body had warmed in his arms as he held her close. She had looked surprised, but she hadn’t pulled away from him. Or at least, she hadn’t pulled away until she’d shoved him to the cobblestones and saved his life. That meant something, right?
He knew he should never have held her like that at all, should never have even begun to imagine what her lips might feel like. He definitely shouldn’t be wondering whether she’d close those intense eyes if he kissed her.
Vertigon was his duty. He reminded himself of that fact every time his thoughts strayed back to Dara. He would take whatever steps were necessary to guide it well one day, even if that meant steps side by side with the most strategically advantageous noblewoman he could find. Tull was the right match for the kingdom, no matter how he felt about it. But he still wanted to find some way to repay Dara for what she had done for him. And he wanted to see her again.
17.
House Silltine
DARA could hardly wait for her next practice with Siv. She didn’t go over to King’s Peak the next day, assuming the prince would have more than enough to do in the aftermath of the attack, but she was dying to know what had happened after the two Castle Guards escorted her home.
She still felt shaken by the incident, but she fended off the lingering fear by analyzing what had happened as if it were a tournament match. Who had the attacker been? Or more importantly, who had hired him? There would be an investigation; surely they would realize that Zage Lorrid had been the last person to see Siv before they headed out into the night. He must have sent the assailant down to Thunderbird Square as soon as they left the parlor.
Dara was certain the king’s men would get to the bottom of the plot. In the meantime, she and Siv needed to train harder than ever. Berg was right: he couldn’t be caught unawares again. She was already thinking about which defensive parries they should work on next time.
Of course, Siv might have been more alert if he hadn’t been looking at her quite so intently before the attack. If he hadn’t put his arm around her and . . . Dara still didn’t know what to think about that. They were training partners and—she thought—friends, but that was as far as it could ever go. He was the heir-prince of Vertigon, after all.
Still, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment when Siv put his hand on her waist and leaned in, couldn’t steel herself against the feelings that arose each time she remembered how his body had felt against hers. It had left her almost as breathless as the attack.
And then there was the way heat had flashed through her fingers when she held the prince’s blade. The way it had seemed to leak from the sword into the stones at her feet afterwards. She barely dared to think about that. It was probably the fear. The adrenaline. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t have been . . .
She shook off the thought before it formed, resolving to focus on dueling and on finding out whatever she could about the prince’s enemies. She was a duelist. Nothing more.
But when Dara arrived at the castle for training on the second day after the attack, the guard at the sally port refused to admit her.
“Extra security.”
“But I come for practice every day,” Dara said.
“You’re not on the approved list,” the guard said. He was a barrel-chested man with an iron-gray beard. Dara was quite certain she had met him before. Yeltin was his name. There had been new Castle Guards around of late, but this one should know who she was.
“I duel with the—”
“I am aware of that, my lady, but the prince is busy. The king requires his attention to important matters of state today. The prince left a letter for you.”
“A letter?”
Yeltin held out a piece of parchment sealed with wax. Dara took it, feeling the rich texture of the paper beneath her fingers, and read:
Dara Nightfall,
I am trapped in a meeting with stuffy nobles and not nearly enough sharp, pointy objects. They don’t even have good refreshments. Any chance you can rescue me?
In all seriousness, thank you for what you did. I’m glad you were with me. I owe you one.
Fortunately, because I have the cunning of a thunderbird, I know how to repay you! We are going to make Nightfall the most feared and admired name on the mountain. I don’t know when I’ll
be free, so you have to keep working on our scheme. Time is running out before the Vertigon Cup. The next step is Vine. Can I entreat you to go see her about your rivalry?
We also need to come up with a way to introduce the New You to the masses. It has to be big. Any ideas? I’d do it myself, but I fear I will be stuck in this meeting until my hair turns gray. Think you’ll still want to duel me then? I hope so.
See you next time, swordswoman. And be nice to Vine, at least until you declare your everlasting hatred of her in front of the citadel.
Yours in training,
Siv
Dara smiled at the paper. The prince’s handwriting was surprisingly elegant, much nicer than her own cramped style. But his requests were more challenging than he realized. He was supposed to be the one with the Nightfall ideas. And she did not want to go ask Vine for help with anything.
She looked up at Yeltin the guard. “Could I speak to Sel—Princess Selivia, by any chance?”
“I can only allow pre-arranged appointments. Perhaps you can return in a few days.”
Dara sighed. “Okay.”
“My lady,” Yeltin said as she started to turn away.
“Yes?”
“On behalf of the Castle Guard, I want to thank you for what you did two nights past. You have the respect of our ranks, my lady.”
Dara blinked. “Thank you. But I’m not a lady.”
“You are a friend to the Amintelles. That means something among the Castle Guard, my lady.”
Dara inclined her head, not sure what else to say. She had acted on instinct. She couldn’t imagine doing anything else. The old guard went back to scanning the mountain for possible threats, the Amintelle sigil prominent on the breast of his uniform. She was glad to see that men like him were protecting her friends.
As Dara descended the steps leading away from the castle, it occurred to her that if all the Castle Guards knew she had been with the prince that night, word would spread through King’s Peak and eventually reach the Village—and her parents. They would find out she was training with the prince. Now that she thought about it, Farr had given her an odd look when he passed her on the way to the lantern shop that morning. Maybe the news had spread faster than she thought. He would almost certainly mention the rumors to her mother while they worked together. Dara grimaced, wondering if she could sleep at the dueling school tonight.
She retraced her steps to Thunderbird Square, not needing to hurry for once. She hadn’t anticipated being turned away at the gates. Her mother wouldn’t expect her back at the lantern shop for hours, and she was keen to delay the inevitable conversation for as long as possible.
Fell Bridge looked different in the daylight, not as chilled and spooky as it had the night of the attack. If it hadn’t been so dark, there would have been a good view of the bridge from many of the balconies and terraces bordering Thunderbird Square. Help would have come much sooner. She might not have had to stab that man in the arm. But she had a feeling nothing would have stopped him from throwing himself into the mist and silence beyond the bridge when he failed to carry out the assassination.
Dara tried to shake off the memory. It was a bright, safe morning, and she and Siv were both fine. She took out the prince’s letter and read it through again, tracing the elegant script with her fingers. He wanted her to come up with a way to introduce Nightfall to the masses. Something big.
Dara studied the porticos and balconies overlooking the broad expanse of Thunderbird Square in front of the bridge. Yes, there really was a good view of it from most of those houses. And many prominent families lived in this part of Lower King’s. It gave her an idea. It would require her to swallow a bit of pride, but she had a feeling Siv was going to be impressed. He wanted something big, and she knew just the thing.
The Silltine greathouse was located off a quiet thoroughfare near Pen Bridge, which connected the eastern outskirts of Lower King’s to Square Peak. Dara had asked in a few shops and taverns to find it. Despite being a nobleman’s dwelling, it wasn’t large. Dara had the sense that it was quite old, perhaps built during the reign of the First or Second Good King, but the family hadn’t expanded it. They hadn’t even added marble trim when it became popular several years ago, leaving it a house of gray stone. A wide terrace on the second level stretched most of its length, and rows of large windows looked out on the Fissure.
There was a pleasant breeze blowing over King’s Peak. It swept from the distant ranges of the Burnt Mountains beyond Vertigon, carrying hints of the colder weather to come. They weren’t far from the drop-off that descended behind the castle, making it a quieter area than most of King’s. It would be a nice place to have a home.
When Dara knocked on the door and asked to see Lady Vine, a slim butler led her up an old-fashioned staircase to the second floor and out onto the terrace. The open-air space was set up like a dueling hall, with a standard tournament strip marked across its length. A practice dummy guarded one end of the terrace, and there was a gear trunk and a set of weights beside the door.
Vine Silltine herself sat cross-legged on a luxurious carpet facing out toward the Fissure. Her long hands rested palm-upward on her knees, and she was humming softly.
“My lady?” the butler said. “Dara Ruminor is here to see you.”
“Dara, Dara! I sensed something different in the air today.” Vine rose gracefully to her feet. She wore flowing trousers and a tight top that left her shoulders and midriff bare. Her long, dark hair was twisted up in a practical bun.
“Hello Vine. Sorry to disturb your . . . whatever you were doing.”
“Meditations. It is part of my training,” Vine said. “I must learn to calm my mind and sense the Air. It helps my performance in the duels.”
“Uh, right,” Dara said. “Well, it seems to be working.”
“You are referring to the Eventide Open?” Vine laughed gaily. “Yes, I believe my mind is becoming ever more in tune with my body and with my opponents. It allows me to claim the points better than ever. But what can I do for you?”
Dara gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to turn and walk away. “Oh, well, I was just thinking . . . I had this idea that maybe we could have a match before the Vertigon Cup.”
Vine’s gaze dropped to the gear bag slung over Dara’s shoulder.
“I’m afraid I can’t duel any true opponents in my training space.” She swept her arms wide to indicate the terrace. “It is sacred, and I don’t wish for any insecurities to invade the aura—”
“Not right now,” Dara said. “I mean a public bout. It could drum up some attention for both of us before the Cup. And, well, I think the crowds would like it.”
“Interesting.” Vine studied her, head tilted like a bird’s. “I can’t say I expected this from you, Dara. What did you have in mind for this public duel?”
“I thought it could be a surprise. One of us could, you know, call the other out when there’s a crowd around.” Dara hoped she wouldn’t have to say more. Siv had seemed to think Vine would be in favor of the idea. If he was wrong, and she had come here for nothing . . .
But Vine clapped her hands. “A rivalry! I see what you’re saying. Yes, we must build the anticipation among the people before the main event. It will be like Shoven and Jur the Jurl!”
“I was thinking we could have a bout on Fell Bridge,” Dara said. “That way lots of people could see us. A duel on a bridge would be pretty dramatic.”
“Brilliant!” Vine said. “Oh, you have made me so happy this morning. Let’s coordinate the details, but leave the outcome up to skill and fate.”
“Right. I don’t want a fake duel.” The last thing Dara wanted was to purposely lose a bout to Vine in front of everyone. Or know that Vine was purposely losing to her.
Vine smiled and touched her nose. “Of course. Oh, Dara, I’ve always wanted a rival. This is a great gift to me. From now on we must ever be at odds. This is a wonderful strategy.”
“I hope so.” Dara sighed. There was no
stopping it now. “Shall we get started?”
Vine insisted on calling for tea and cakes. Her butler, whose name was Toff, set up a table in the far corner of the terrace looking out over Square Peak and the Fissure. Dara and Vine drank their tea and discussed Dara’s ideas for the public duel. Vine’s suggestions for spicing it up would have made Siv proud. Dara was finally coming around to the idea that this might be kind of fun.
After the main details had been decided, Vine leaned in, clasping her hands around her delicate celadon teacup.
“Now that’s out of the way, you must tell me everything about your encounter with Prince Siv the other night.”
“My what?” Dara looked up sharply. The memory of the warmth of Siv’s arms, the brightness in his eyes as he leaned toward her crashed down, leaving her breathless.
“You saved his life!” Vine said. Dara covered her relief by taking a long sip of her tea. Of course Vine meant the fight, not the almost-kiss.
“It’s the talk of Lower King’s,” Vine said, “but I want the real story. I always get the real story.”
If people were talking about it already, Dara’s parents were sure to find out. Great.
Vine waited eagerly, so Dara outlined the basics of the encounter, right up to when the attacker threw his knife at Siv. She saw the flash of steel in the moonlight, felt the surge of speed in her arm as she reacted without thought. The spark of steel on steel. She had been ready to finish him off.
“I was scared, to be honest,” she said, looking up at Vine. “I’ve never tried to hurt anyone before, but I would have killed that man before I let him stab the prince.”
“Magnificent!” Vine didn’t seem to understand that it was her absolute willingness to kill the attacker that had scared Dara so much. “Oh, I love this story. I must admit I thought you would be a great public friend after this and had planned to seek you out. I’m even happier to have you as a public enemy.” Vine sipped her tea, and Dara wondered if she might be a bit mad. “So how did it all end?”