Dramatics? She could read them if she wished? She couldn’t allow him to dismiss her like that. She forced herself to stop pacing and take a deep breath. She straightened her sleeves and smoothed out her maroon skirts. She’d need to deal with Rafe Ruminor in a way that was both strategic and dignified. Anger may make her brave, but she had to be smart too.
She thought back over their conversation. Something he had said stuck with her. His firstborn daughter had died—implying that Dara still lived. And Dara had vowed to give her life for Sora’s brother. Sora was pretty sure she had been in love with him too—enough to protect him against her own father. If Dara had survived, maybe she could help Sora escape the Lantern Maker’s clutches.
Was Dara still on the mountain? The last time Sora had seen her was when she escorted her from the Great Hall and assigned Denn and Luci to guard her door. Sora had wanted to stay behind. She had helped to calm a frightened crowd of young noblewomen when the Fire first encircled Square Peak. She could have supported her brother as he decided what to do next. But Dara had insisted that she retreat to the safety of her chambers while they dealt with the crisis. Dara hadn’t been able to protect Siv in the end, but maybe she could still help Sora.
She filed away the possibility for when she was finally allowed to communicate with the outside world again. In the meantime, she had work to do. She went to the table and unrolled the Lantern Maker’s edicts. The crown sat beside her, just out of reach. The Firejewels glowed like watching eyes as she settled in to read about what the Lantern Maker planned to do with her family’s kingdom. Her eyebrows rose higher with each word. By the time she finished, she was pretty sure the Lantern Maker didn’t just want to create a new Vertigon. He intended to change the world.
5.
The Plains of Trure
SIV woke with Dara in his arms. He felt disoriented at first and wondered if he was dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamed about holding her. She smelled like snow and smoke, and her warmth was the only thing assuring him they were really here.
The fire had burned low, and the cabin was toasty and dry. He had a feeling they had slept for a long time. He knew his wounds would start hurting again as soon as he moved. He’d also probably pulled a few muscles in their frantic run, row, and swim of the night before. Or two days before. Who knew how much time had passed? If he moved, he’d feel every ache.
Besides, if he moved, he’d have to let go of Dara. She was sound asleep, her breathing steady and peaceful, cheek pressed against his chest. Her golden hair had escaped from its usual braid and cascaded over his arm in a tangled wave. If he moved, he’d have to remember that she had kept secrets from him for months. He’d have to acknowledge that her parents had killed his father and his sister and taken over his kingdom. If he moved, she’d once again be Dara Ruminor, Castle Guard, Fireworker, and Lantern Maker’s daughter, and he’d be Sivarrion Amintelle, former King of Vertigon.
He stayed still for a moment longer. This. This was what he wanted. He was just Siv, and she was just Dara, sleeping, warm and perfect, in his arms.
Then with a heavy sigh, he moved. And misery hit him like a charging cullmoran.
He eased out of the bed and staggered to the chair where his trousers hung to dry. He pulled them on, his movements wooden, and began the slow, painful process of loosening his stiff muscles. He focused on simple tasks: stretching, putting on his boots, relieving himself, and filling the washbasin with snow from outside. A clean mantle of pure white surrounded the cabin. The quiet rush of the Oakwind River and the distant trilling of crundlebirds were the only sounds. They were safe for the moment.
Siv returned to the cabin and lowered himself down to sit by the fire. He tossed a few more logs onto it and began to melt the snow in the basin. As he worked, the weight of everything that had happened settled over him. He had been so focused on survival during their journey down the mountain that it hadn’t all sunk in yet. But now that his body was rested, it was time for his mind and emotions to take a beating too.
He jabbed at the fire with his rapier. One of the logs broke apart with a soft thump, sending sparks across the floor. Dara sat up, a muffled groan escaping her lips. She must feel as bad as he did right now. She rubbed her eyes blearily as Siv tapped Rumy’s scaly hide to wake him too.
“We’d better move soon,” he said. “In case anyone sees the smoke.”
“What time is it?”
“Late afternoon as far as I can tell. We needed that sleep.”
Dara started to stand and then seemed to remember that she had undressed the night before. Her cheeks reddened, and she retreated back under the covers like a morrinvole. Siv tossed her dry clothes over so she could dress and turned his back like a gentleman, only stealing one glimpse at her long legs and the smooth curve of her back. Okay, maybe two glimpses. Before she noticed him looking, he returned his attention to the slowly melting snow.
“Do you know how much farther it is to the Truren capital?” Dara asked. She sat beside him on the floor of the cabin and began to stretch, looking as stiff as he felt.
“When the Fissure Road leaves the mountain, it becomes the High Road, which cuts all the way through the Truren Horseplains. Rallion City is a two-day ride from there. It’ll take us longer on foot.”
“We’d better stay off the road as much as possible.”
“Agreed.”
“Will we need to sneak into the city?” Dara asked. She shifted into a shallow lunge, grimacing at the pain. “Do you have any enemies there who’d stop you from reaching your grandfather?”
“You ought to know that better than me,” Siv said sullenly.
“Why?”
“You’re better acquainted with my enemies.”
Dara looked up, startled. “I told you I’ve never been privy to my father’s plans.”
“He’s your father.” Once he started on the topic, Siv couldn’t quite stop himself. He couldn’t ignore the heaviness of everything that had happened any longer. He definitely shouldn’t have moved. “You must understand him a little bit, Dara. I knew my father very well.”
Dara’s face fell, as if he’d shattered something small and fragile within her.
Siv slumped, avoiding her gaze. “We should get going.”
“Clearly you have something you want to say,” she said. “You think I’m your enemy now?”
“Forget it.”
“It’s too late for that.” Dara stood and put her hands on her hips. He half expected her to drop into her dueling stance. “We can’t keep ignoring what happened. We’ve gotten some rest. We’re out of danger for the moment. Let’s talk.”
“Your father killed half my family, Dara.” Siv’s breathing grew rough. He stuck a hand in the washbasin to see if the water had warmed yet, but it was still icy to the touch. “Talking won’t change that.”
Dara opened her mouth to answer and then closed it again. Her eyes were bright and intense, full of almost as much misery as Siv felt. Her arms dropped to her sides.
“We should clean your wounds. You need fresh bandages,” she said.
“Oh yeah, change the subject,” Siv muttered. “That will help things.”
“You just said you don’t want to talk,” Dara snapped.
“Fine. Great. Don’t talk, then.”
“Fine. I don’t want to talk either.”
“Glad we agree.”
Dara glared at him for a minute then stalked to the other side of the cabin and rummaged in the cupboard. She pulled out a loaf of rock-hard, moldy bread and a mismatched selection of tin cups before finding an abandoned tunic and ripping it into strips for bandages. Siv watched her, feeling miserable.
He wished he could turn back time. He wanted it to be this summer, when Dara had snapped at him for nothing worse than his failure to take dueling practice seriously. When they’d moved in sync across the dueling floor. But remembering the summer brought back images of Sora’s gentle teasing, of his father’s grip on his shoulde
r after the attack in Thunderbird Square. He couldn’t look at Dara without thinking of them. So where did they go from here?
Perhaps sensing the mood, Rumy shuffled outside to explore as Dara brought over the makeshift bandages and one of the tin cups. She leaned in and started unwrapping the bandages Vine Silltine had given him. Had that only been three days ago?
Siv winced as the bloodstained cloths pulled away from his wounds. Dara dipped the cup into the water basin and held it close to the fire for a minute to warm it. She held it much closer than Siv ever could, practically sticking her fingers into the coals. Siv looked away from this reminder of who she was.
Dara wet a cloth in the steaming water and began the delicate task of cleaning his cuts. Her hands moved gently over his skin. They didn’t speak, and he gritted his teeth against the pain, his breathing shallow. The coppery smell of blood disguised Dara’s smoky, snowy scent. He hated being this close to her. Hated and loved it at the same time.
He had once been sure that he and Dara could never be together regardless of how he felt about her. Now that he might not be king, he had a better chance of being with her than ever before. But could he love her for who she was and how she made him feel and hate what she represented at the same time? Why couldn’t she have just told him the truth from the beginning?
“I’m done. You can stop scowling at me,” Dara said as she tied the last bandage around his sword arm.
Siv nodded, avoiding her gaze. “Let’s go, then.”
They ate more jerky and a bit of the now-soggy flatbread as they left the cabin and walked through the woods, listening for any hint of the men who had pursued them down the Final Stair. They heard nothing but the rustle of leaves, the crunch of their own footsteps, and the occasional call of winter birds. The river had carried them beyond the reach of their enemies—for now.
Siv could picture the map of the region in his head, but he wasn’t confident he could find the way to Rallion City without the High Road to guide him. He was no woodsman. They agreed it would be wisest to find the road and travel out of sight beside it until they reached the city gates.
They spoke infrequently and only about practical things. Dara slipped back into Castle Guard mode, the formal way of speaking she had adopted after his engagement to the treacherous Lady Tull. She was a guard without a castle, and he was a king without a crown. What a pair they made. A sullen mood settled on Siv like frost.
Rumy was the only one who seemed to be enjoying the journey. The long night’s sleep had done him good. He disappeared into the woods to find a meal and returned ten minutes later with a morrinvole clutched in his teeth and a triumphant expression on his face. His usual snuffing was almost a purr after he filled his belly. Siv scratched his scaly head. At least Rumy was on his side.
Just before dark, they reached the pass where the High Road met the Fissure and descended into the lowlands. They waited in the shadows, scanning the twilight for signs of trouble. Nothing moved on the plains. The road snaking back into the Fissure appeared empty. Siv thought he heard a whisper of voices on the wind, soon silenced. He shivered. It was damn creepy, but at least the road seemed safe.
This was the border between Vertigon and Trure. The Mountain and the Horseplains. The two lands had been allies for years, and there was no need for guards to patrol the border. The emptiness was eerie, but then Siv had never been through here in winter before. Maybe this was normal. Travel between Trure and Vertigon was uncommon at this time of year, and the recent blizzard made it even less likely that many people would be making the journey.
After a few minutes, Siv and Dara exchanged glances and began the slow trek downward through the snow-dusted trees, leaving Vertigon behind.
Eventually it grew too dark to see the trees in front of them. After acquiring an impressive collection of bumps and scratches between them, they agreed to leave the woods and walk on the road. They kept their ears perked, ready to dive for cover at the first hint of footsteps behind them.
Around midnight they passed the last clump of trees and entered the broad expanse of the plains. Trure was a rolling, grassy land, and in the darkness it appeared even flatter than it actually was. All they could see was the fuzzy gray line dividing land and sky.
The air grew warmer as they got farther from the mountain. It was a relief to leave the snow behind. Winter in Trure was a blustery, windswept affair, but at least they didn’t need to trudge through snowdrifts. Siv had had enough of that to last him a lifetime. And no snow meant no tracks pointing their enemies straight to them. He still jumped every time he heard a sound, but they hadn’t been caught yet.
They stole a few hours of rest, huddling on either side of Rumy in a sheltered dip in the plain, and were on the road again before first light. They walked in silence most of the time. Weariness stayed with them as they got farther into the plains. The rhythm of their boots on the path pounded into Siv’s brain. He felt as if he’d been walking for half his life.
Rumy alternated between flying and trotting alongside them like an overgrown dog. He seemed to catch their brooding mood after a while. Siv wanted to say something to break the tension, but the longer he waited, the harder it became. Something had fractured between him and Dara, possibly something irreparable. He missed the easy companionship they’d enjoyed back in the dueling hall. He missed his friend. But he missed his father and sister too.
Scattered farms dotted the landscape, but they didn’t encounter another soul until the afternoon of their second day on the road. Rumy heard it first. He raised his head, listening intently, and snorted a warning. A second later, the beat of hooves on the packed earth reached them. Hunters! They’d been found! They hurried off the road, hiding in the brush alongside it seconds before three riders on horseback topped the ridge in front of them.
The riders didn’t just cross the ridge. They raced as though all the marrkrats of hell were after them. The earth shuddered with the hoof beats, and dust billowed in the cold afternoon sunlight. The horses neared, their powerful legs eating up the distance. One of the riders whooped as his mount stretched out its neck and took the lead. Horse and rider each wore a flowing yellow crest. Siv cocked his head. There was something familiar about the leader . . .
At the last second, he charged out from their hiding place, waving his arms over his head. Dara called after him in surprise, but he was too busy jumping up and down by the side of the road to get the racers’ attention to explain.
He feared the riders wouldn’t see him. He waved frantically, wondering if he should dart into the road. Then the leader pulled up his horse and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust.
“Ho there!” he called. “You’d best have a good reason for stopping us. I was about to win that race.”
“We have a mile to go yet,” one of the others shouted indignantly. “It was still any man’s game.”
“What’s your business?” asked the rider with the yellow crest, ignoring his companion. He was a tall rapier of a man with a rich voice and sunburnt cheeks. His hair was longer and grayer than the last time Siv had seen him, but there was no mistaking him, especially sporting that particularly garish shade of yellow.
“You don’t recognize your favorite nephew?” Siv said.
The man leaned closer, pale, piercing eyes studying him. Then he burst out laughing.
“Well, if it isn’t young Siv! It has been a few years, my boy. You’re taller and more bearded than you used to be.”
“It’s good to see you, Uncle Tem.” Siv scratched at the five-day growth on his chin, already feeling some of the tension draining from his shoulders. They were saved.
“My lords,” Uncle Tem called to his companions. “May I introduce my sister Tirra’s eldest son, Sivarrion Amintelle? Now then, you didn’t run away again, did you?” He chuckled richly. “I’ll never forget the day I intercepted you trying to sneak out of the palace gates as a boy. You said you aimed to walk all the way back to Vertigon by nightfall.”
“
Beg pardon, Tem,” said one of the riders, a younger, thicker man wearing vibrant green. “Isn’t Sivarrion Amintelle now the King of Vertigon?”
“Well, stab me with a pitchfork, I forgot all about that.” Uncle Tem turned back to Siv and squinted at him suspiciously. “What are you doing out on the road?”
“There has been trouble on the mountain, I’m afraid,” Siv said. Uncle Tem opened his mouth, but Siv raised a hand to forestall him. “I’d rather not discuss it until we reach my mother and grandfather.” Siv wasn’t looking forward to that conversation at all. He would have to tell his mother that his sister had been killed—and he hadn’t stopped it. He didn’t feel like repeating the story to Uncle Tem now.
“Can you provide us with a ride?” he asked.
“Of course, my boy,” Uncle Tem said, furrowing his brow. “We have spare horses in a village not far from here. We’d planned a racing holiday, but we can return to the city straightaway.”
“Thank you, Uncle Tem.” Siv inclined his head, trying not to slump in relief. He was burning tired of walking. And they needed this stroke of luck. “Oh, and this is Dara, my . . . bodyguard.”
The third man snorted. Dara stared at him levelly until he ducked his head and fiddled with the bronze buttons on his purple coat. She looked rather intimidating, with her tattered Guard uniform, her shadowed eyes, and the black Savven blade at her waist.
“I’m terribly curious to hear your story,” Tem said. He looked between Siv and Dara for a moment, lost in speculation. One of his companion’s horses huffed impatiently, and he started, his attention returning to the group on the road. “Oh, this is Lord Firnum.” He indicated the grumpy-looking man in purple. “And Lord Bale.” The younger, heavier man in green bowed low from his saddle. Both had the light eyes characteristic of their countrymen.
“Your lady bodyguard can ride with me to the village, Sire,” Lord Bale said. “Old Fence here can carry us both. He was going to beat Tem and his fancy charger if you hadn’t happened by.”
“You have my gratitude, Lord Bale,” Siv said, hiding a snicker. Fence? Who names their horse Fence?
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