by Jordan Rivet
In the midst of all the excitement, Queen Tirra returned from Trure. It was strange, perhaps, but Siv was often surprised to see his mother. She spent so much time away from Vertigon that it was as if she didn’t live in the castle at all. When present, she floated through the halls, wraithlike, unless the king was around to anchor her to the ground.
But she sought out her son the very day she arrived on the mountain. Siv had escaped a council meeting to visit Rumy the cur-dragon. Selivia had informed him breathlessly that the hatchlings had begun sneezing out their first bursts of flame, and he didn’t want to miss it.
He was sitting on the floor of the cur-dragon’s cave waving a fern leaf in front of little Rumy’s snout and coaxing him to set it on fire when his mother arrived.
She moved silently as mist and had placed her hand on Siv’s shoulder before he even realized she was in the cave.
“Burning Firelord!” he leapt to his feet.
“Hello, Sivarrion.”
“Mother! When did you arrive?” He hugged her, feeling the bones of her shoulders in his embrace. Queen Tirra was a wisp of a woman, tall and thin and pale.
“A short while ago. I learned of the attack from a courier when I was still traveling the Fissure. Are you well?”
“I’m fine. It’s old news. How was your journey?”
Siv’s mother looked tired, her mousy-brown hair falling out of the long scarf around her head. She bore little resemblance to her three dark-haired children. Sora had inherited their mother’s lighter Truren eyes, but otherwise, the siblings were Amintelles through and through.
“It was lovely,” Queen Tirra said. “Your grandfather sends his regards. He’d love for you to visit him again soon. He wishes to arrange a marriage match for you.”
“Did Father talk to you about that?” Siv said suspiciously.
“He’s in a council meeting. I will go to him soon.”
“Well, don’t worry about the match. I’ve got a Vertigonian noblewoman in mind.” Siv hadn’t thought of Lady Tull in days. There’d be no chance to get out to a parlor again until the excitement over his death-defying adventure subsided. He hoped she would be amenable to the match even if he didn’t have quite as much time to woo her. He supposed he could invite her up to the castle, but then he was a very busy prince.
Dara’s intense eyes rose before him, but he brushed away the vision.
“I’m not sure that’s wise.” The queen was frowning. “There’s restlessness in Trure, rumblings from Soole and Pendark. Our alliance with my father’s kingdom may be more important than ever.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to talk about it,” Siv said. “But you should rest. You’ve had a long trip.”
“I will rest soon enough. Who is this handsome creature?” Queen Tirra slid gracefully to the floor and folded her long legs beneath her. She still wore a traveling cloak, and little Rumy immediately stuck his nose in its soft folds.
“This is Rumy.” Siv flopped down onto the floor and tugged the cur-dragon out of his mother’s cloak by his spiny hide. Rumy bared his empty gums and snapped at Siv’s fingers.
“How old is he?”
“Nearly six weeks.”
“He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.” The queen reached out to the little dragon, and he flipped onto his back so she could stroke his belly.
“I know. I’m going to train him up to be a guard dragon as soon as he’s grown.”
“Like you trained that velgon bear when you were thirteen?”
“Uhh . . . This’ll be different. I’ll delegate some of the responsibility.” Siv remembered the pet in question. He hadn’t disciplined the beast strictly and consistently enough. It grew too wild to approach by the time it was full-size. They had released it on the slopes beyond Square to live as a free bear.
But Rumy would be different. Siv could already tell he was going to be a smart, strapping creature.
“Where are the girls?” his mother asked.
“Sora is having her lesson with Zage, and Selivia went up to the library. She’s still trying to think up names for the rest of the cur-dragon litter. She’s looking for ideas.”
“I’ll go say hello, then.” The queen stood and brushed off her skirts. Her personal guard, a grim warrior from Trure, snapped to attention at the cave entrance.
“Let me walk you,” Siv said. He lifted Rumy up to return him to the dragon keeper. As he held the creature around the middle, Rumy burped, and a tiny flame puffed out of his mouth.
“There it is! Well done, Rumy! I knew you had it in you!”
Rumy snapped his gums triumphantly and swished his tail back and forth like a cat.
When Siv and his mother returned to the castle, a servant awaited them at the entrance to the cur-dragon tunnel.
“Prince Sivarrion, a letter was delivered for you a few moments ago.”
“Thank you.”
Siv plucked the parchment from the servant’s hand and examined the plain wax seal. He only knew of one person who would write to him without impressing a noble house crest into the seal. He cracked it open and checked the signature. Dara. Oh, he was good. He was damn good. He couldn’t keep a grin from creeping onto his face as he read.
Prince Siv,
Thank you for your letter. I hope the meetings aren’t too bad and that you’ll be able to return to practice soon. If you get too out of shape I’m afraid I’ll have to decline our next duel for fear of hurting you. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.
I visited Vine as you requested. She has agreed to the rivalry. We made arrangements to stage a public duel to drum up attention. It will begin in Thunderbird Square and range onto Fell Bridge. Hopefully there will be a lot of people around to see it.
The duel will take place in the afternoon this coming Turnday. If you are free to train again the following week, I’ll tell you how it goes. Unless it goes poorly, in which case we will never speak of it again.
Dara
PS. Please tell Princess Selivia I will be wearing the face paint.
Siv continued to grin at the paper after he finished reading. The writing was dark and cramped, as if Dara had leaned into her pen and focused on the words with as much intensity as she employed in the duels. And the plan! It was such a good one that Siv started to think he had come up with it himself. He couldn’t wait to see how it played out.
“A letter from your Vertigonian lady?” Queen Tirra said. Siv jumped. He had forgotten his mother was there.
“No. It’s just my dueling partner.” He rolled up the letter and tucked it into his pocket before his mother could take it from him.
But she was studying his face. Siv hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, trying to keep his stance casual, but he found himself wanting to touch the letter in his pocket. What had his mother read in his expression while he read Dara’s letter?
“I’ve heard about this dueling partner,” she said after a moment. “Am I to understand she saved your life?”
Siv nodded. “She’s a fine swordswoman.”
“You think of her as more. I can see it in your eyes, son.”
“She’s a Fireworker’s daughter,” Siv said shortly. “She’s not the match I had in mind.”
“But you care for her.” A swift stroke of sadness crossed the queen’s face. It made Siv’s throat constrict.
“I know my duties, Mother,” he said. “You don’t need to remind me.”
“I don’t want to deny you happiness, son.”
“Dara is my friend, nothing more.” Siv turned and started walking toward the library. The queen glided along beside him.
“I wish you joy in your marriage,” she said. “Even if a match is not meant to be, perhaps you can find other ways to include this Fireworker’s daughter in your life.”
Siv stumbled over an uneven floor tile. His mother couldn’t be suggesting that he take a mistress. His mother?
“I’ve compromised in my own ways throughout my marriage,” the queen said.
<
br /> No, no, no. They were not having this conversation. He did not want to know.
“You may find solace in ways that are separate from your wi—”
“Mother!” Siv finally got out a strangled cry. “You’re not saying that you . . . that you . . .”
“Goodness, Sivarrion,” the queen said. “Don’t look so scandalized. You know very well that I have compromised by spending much of my time in my beloved Trure with my family even though I live with your father. Perhaps your friend can have a role in your life beyond that of a dueling partner. As a guard, perhaps. What did you think I was suggesting?”
“I thought . . . I didn’t think you were . . . I’m sure Selivia is still in the library, but I have to take care of . . . something. I shall see you at dinner, Mother.” Siv bowed to hide the redness in his cheeks. Of course his mother wasn’t advising him to take Dara as his lover! He pretended to be very interested in a sconce in the wall so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes.
The queen smiled gently and continued on to the library. She did look tired. Siv always had the sense that mountain air was heavier for her than for others. He watched her until she disappeared from view.
No, Siv couldn’t give his future wife the halfway marriage his mother had given his father. She called it a compromise, but Siv didn’t think it had been fair to his father or to him and his sisters that her allegiance was to Trure and not to their family. When the time came, Siv would be as devoted to his partner as he was to Vertigon itself. Even if that partner had to be Lady Tull.
But the idea of making Dara a more permanent presence in the castle lingered. He wasn’t ready to give her up just yet.
Of course, she would be far too busy being a champion duelist to have time for guard duty. After her showdown with Vine, she would be more popular than the king himself. The duel was going to set Vertigon on fire for Dara Nightfall Ruminor. Siv only wished he could be there to see it.
20.
Duel on the Bridge
IT was uncommonly sunny on the Turnday Dara and Vine had selected for their duel. Summer was drawing to a close, and they wagered people would want to take advantage of one of the last truly warm days. They’d be strolling through Lower King’s and the Village in large numbers, and people on both slopes would have a great view of Fell Bridge.
Dara waited on the porch outside her parents’ home for the moment to arrive. Her father was hard at work, even though it was a rest day. Her mother was meeting a foreign distributor over on Square, so there was a good chance Dara could get through the day without her parents stopping her from making a spectacle of herself. They’d find out after the fact, but by then it would be too late.
Dara was dressed in one of the all-black outfits Princess Selivia had put together for her. The trousers were too tight, but Dara could still move. That was the important thing. The swirls of black face paint were absolutely ridiculous, but the overall effect wasn’t too bad. The hood of her cloak would hide the paint until the big reveal anyway. She’d even braided a few black ribbons in her hair.
She had enlisted Kel and Oat to help with her scheme. They should be getting into position now. She tapped her feet on the porch steps, watching the slant of the shadows over the peaks, waiting for the right moment to head to the bridge. She would show the world she could be more than a good duelist. The mountain would have to pay attention to her. The people would know her by her own name, not her parents’.
If the reports of her dueling friends were any indication, people were already talking. Word had gotten out that Dara was with the prince the night of the attack. Some of the gossips even declared that she had saved his life. This could only help her cause with the people. Well, all of the people except her parents.
Dara’s mother had been strangely cold toward her lately. Dara had expected a fiery lecture at the very least. Instead, Lima had been formal and polite. The only evidence of anger had been when she vigorously cleaned and polished Renna’s chair, jostling Dara roughly while she ate breakfast.
Yesterday Dara had finally cornered Farr the apprentice to ask for hints about what her mother might be thinking.
“She asked me not to talk to you,” Farr had said, cracking his bony knuckles.
“At all?”
“Well, about business stuff.”
“She said that?”
“I think she’s worried you might report back since . . . well . . . I guess you’re friends with the prince now.”
Dara frowned. “The prince doesn’t have much to do with the Fireworking business. He knows the Fire Warden, but I doubt he tells him everything.”
“Maybe.” Farr had clammed up after that and told her not to worry. He had said her parents knew what they were doing.
Dara had barely seen her father, and she avoided going down to the workshop at all costs. She figured it was only fair that they cut her off from talking about their work after she had hidden the truth from them. They must think she was fraternizing with their enemy, even though the Fire Warden was the one they truly hated, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him. Even so, she was sad to see her hopes of a partnership between her and her parents evaporating. It was ironic that they had finally stopped demanding she get more involved with the business the very week she discovered she could Work after all.
She’d agonized about telling her parents the truth, but she knew they’d make her give up dueling to study the Work. She would have to abandon the rush of competition for the hot confines of the workshop and plant her feet beside her father’s for hours on end. She would have to say good-bye to the fast action of the duel, to her friends and her coach. To Siv. Once, the ability to Work the Fire had been all she ever wanted. Now, she was no longer sure.
She had to see her plans through, at least until the big competition. She would be able to make the right decision after she found out whether or not she was going to be offered a patronage. With any luck, the duel today would launch her into the public eye so definitively that the sponsors couldn’t possibly ignore her. She’d patch things up with her parents after the Vertigon Cup.
Dara glanced up at the Ruminor Lantern hanging above the porch. Her father’s Work. Solid. Magic. It hovered there, singing with power and heat.
No one was around. The Fire burning in the core of the lantern called to her. The shadows around it were faint, almost nonexistent in the sunlight, but the Fire pulsed, matching the beat of Dara’s heart.
The temptation was unbearable. Dara looked around once more. The pathway beside the house was empty. Farr didn’t come to the lantern shop on Turndays. Her mother was still on Square. Her father was deep inside the mountain, consumed with his own work. No one would see.
Dara reached up and touched the metal lattice of the lantern, concentrating on the Fire core within it. Almost immediately, warmth sprang into her fingers. Heat spread up her arm and down through her stomach, her legs, her feet, finding root in the mountain. The lantern dimmed as Dara drew the Fire out of its core and through her fingers. It was easier this time, a slower burn. And it was magnificent. Dara’s body became a conduit for the Fire between the lantern and the mountain itself. As the Fire passed through it, the metal lacework of the lantern melted and twisted. Dara pulled out more Fire and kneaded the metal with the tips of her fingers. It curled and formed beneath her hands.
Stop.
Dara released the Fire. Her head whirled with dizziness, gone in the space of a few breaths. The metal lace of the lantern stilled. She checked to make sure the walkway beneath the porch was still empty. She couldn’t let anyone see her touch the Fire, not when she was so close to making a name for herself. She turned the lantern so the panel she had touched and altered couldn’t be seen from the porch.
Dara glanced at the sky. It was time. She hoisted her gear on her back, pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, and started down to Fell Bridge. She slipped into doorways whenever anyone passed her. She was about to reveal herself to the mountain, but it would be embarrassi
ng if someone spotted her in costume beforehand. Besides, she was supposed to be stealthy and mysterious.
Dara crossed Fell Bridge at a jog. They had agreed to start the duel in Lower King’s Peak to draw the attention of the “right people,” but the contest would range across the bridge if all went well. With luck, people from Village Peak would gather to watch the fight from the other bridges too.
Thunderbird Square was as crowded as she and Vine had hoped it would be. Palanquins and mountain ponies eased their way through crowds. Servants scurried by with packages, and tradesmen sold their wares to the throng. Children darted underfoot, racing each other across the cobblestones. Ladies strolled, brightly colored skirts swirling, and guardsmen drank with casual abandon in the shade of a tavern. Dara wound through the mob, keeping her head down. She approached the elegant greathouses looking out over the square. Nerves played in her stomach. This was a performance, not a competition. She wasn’t used to this.
The fine weather had brought the nobility out onto the terraces and rooftops of their greathouses. The clink of glasses and peals of laughter drifted out over the mountainside. Dara scanned the greathouses until she located a head of lustrous dark hair. Vine Silltine stood on the balcony of a particularly fine house. She wore an elaborate green dress woven with Firegold. Her thick black hair hung loose around her shoulders, lifting and swirling in the breeze. She did not look ready for a duel.
Dara took up a position in the shadows near the greathouse so she could hear what was being said above her. Dozens of people crowded the balcony with Vine. It sounded as if they were having quite a big party. Dara fervently hoped Vine wasn’t planning to humiliate her.
She spotted Kel leaning on the terrace beside her rival. Good. He had insisted he would have no problem getting an invite to the terrace party. The greathouse belonged to a Lord Zurren, who was a big dueling fan. As soon as Kel spotted Dara waiting in the shadows, he touched Vine’s arm. She glanced down and winked at Dara.